I'll Let You Go

CHAPTER 37. Twin Towers

Here is the tale Louis Trotter disgorged.

He explained how, at their reconciliatory dinner with the Weiners, they had been graced with Bluey’s presence and how they partook of “sweetmeats arranged upon a tray given her six decades ago by the redoubtable Peggy Guggenheim herself.” The offerings were delicious, but what had truly captivated, to the extent of rendering Ruth Weiner strangely mute, were certain thumbprint cookies smeared with pomegranate jam. At first they had thought she was choking, but when Mrs. Weiner recovered she took another bite and then another, rolling crumbs and syrup on her palate until she literally slapped the table.

“It’s Marcus!” she cried. When asked what on earth she meant, Ruth averred that those cookies were aptly named, for whoever made them could be identified with the same precision a fingerprint afforded — there being now no question in her mind that her son, Marcus Weiner, had cooked this jam and the buttery indentations wherein each dollop rested; after a somber retasting, her husband, Harry, with as much resolve but less volubility, concurred.

At the moment of epiphany, it so happened that Trinnie was in the powder room and Toulouse was checking on Pullman, who was mistakenly thought to have cried out in pain (it was only Winter’s television). It is to Louis Trotter’s credit that the Redlands woman was so quickly heeded — with alacrity, he told them the secret must be kept from Trinnie and the boy (and anyone else); in the morning he would take immediate steps to find the delicacy’s maker. The impromptu pact helped soften the bedeviling shock of Ruth’s discovery, so that when Trinnie returned from the loo, she couldn’t put enough of a finger or thumb on what was amiss to dare wonder out loud, instead ascribing any residual awkwardness to the Weiners’ valiant efforts to be gracious after so many years of snubbing and callous disregard — in other words, true to Bluey’s admonition, Trinnie put it all on herself. Louis feared his wife might blurt something out, but she was an absolute dream, ingenuously engaging the in-laws in conversation that allowed them to forget, or at least cover over, the bizarre revelation. Perhaps she never fully absorbed the implications of Ruth’s outburst; and even if Bluey had said something, it would have sounded “off” enough to be easily quashed and ignored.

The old man had not been sleeping well since Bluey’s travails and, keeping to form, fared poorly that night. He was completely dressed by six o’clock Sunday morning and took his coffee on the terrace. The top button of his shirt — part of a $35,000 set of Lagerfeld-designed diamond-encrusted camellias — remained irksomely undone. He would have a word or two with the ladies at Brown’s, the dry cleaners, because he was having trouble closing his top buttons, especially on the last batch of shirts sent over.

When patience no longer held, Epitacio drove him to Le Marmiton, where they sat in the Silver Seraph for a full hour awaiting the doors of the bakery to open. When they did, Mr. Trotter examined the cases, but there were no thumbprints to be seen. He smiled gnomishly — a grin that frightened children but merely put adults off, at least until they know who they were dealing with — telling the girl behind the counter that he’d recently sampled a marvelous cookie which he was positive had been bought from this very establishment, smeared with the unforgettable jelly of an ancient fruit, et cetera, et cetera. She was only a part-time worker, she said. She disappeared, and voices were heard from a back room. The girl returned with a shrug, and just when the old man was about to imperiously reclaim his just desserts or go down trying, a youngish Mediterranean, with deep black tendrils and the annoyed look of someone awakened several hours before he had a right to be, entered — no, filled—the small main room.

“We cannot get any more,” he said, sounding very French.

“Really!” The old man’s blood was up; he was on the scent. “And tell me why is that?”

“The person now doesn’t make. We have tried—but we cannot.”

“Then do you know where I might find him?”

“I have many things to do this morning—” He smiled in such a way to indicate that the old man had already seen the best of him by far.

With a thuggish toss of his head, our would-be customer beckoned the Frenchman to come out of earshot of the girl.

“If you tell me where I can find this man, I will give you a thousand dollars in cash. Now.”

To prove his point, he reached into his pocket and pulled out just that — nothing more, nothing less.

“I am not a whore,” said the waiter with a smile, “but today, you make me one!” To emphasize that he meant business, Mr. Trotter palmed the notes into the Frenchman’s hand. “He is a very gifted man, who lives at a shelter — a place for the homeless people. It sounds I know to be quite bizarre. But he is a very great pâtissier.”

“But where—”

“They call the habitation SeaShelter — it is one word. Olympic Boulevard, near where are the big Blue Buses.”

“Do you know his name?”

“It is William. I do not know more.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Anytime! Au revoir!”

Things didn’t go as easily at “the habitation” as at the bakery. Mr. Trotter did cut strange enough a figure to warrant immediate attention; the weird visitor had to be reckoned with. The presence of the Rolls and its liveried driver elicited stares from staff and resident alike, and cluckings that weren’t all that far afield from the old man’s chuffs.

He stood in SeaShelter by the seashore’s shiny aluminum shell, prepared to shellac a SeaStaffer. A frowning African American informed him that the gentleman to whom he referred was no longer in residence and that his whereabouts were unknown and confidential (which struck the old man as contradictory). The interviewees were naturally cynical and suspicious, and this morning even more so, not being a happy group after having been told that the body of Jane Scull had been found in a squat with its throat slashed. They didn’t know what to make of this old freak, and their patience grew thin as the layers of one of William’s mille-feuilles; Mr. Trotter was making inquiries about cookies and jam and whatnot, the entire subject of which they were still mildly paranoid. The digger’s instincts told him that an offer of moneys would not go down well, and he retreated to the leather wings of the Seraph to plot his next move.

Slowly, the car wheeled away from the tiny receiving area. A quarter of a block later, his driver remarked that a gesticulating bum was flagging them down. They turned the corner and Mr. Trotter opened his window; Epitacio cautioned him to be wary.

“You tryin’ to find William?” He looked sixty years old but was probably closer to forty, with washed-out Dust Bowl features. His pants were cinched by rope, like a dancer in an Agnes de Mille ballet.

“William? Why — yes!”

“They arrested him. Took him away. Police took him away.” Before the last few words were out of his mouth, the indigent had accepted a one-hundred-dollar bill, pre-folded with the artistry of origami and slipped so silkily into the weathered hand that the old man knew enough to apply some pressure (unnecessary for, say, a doorman) so its recipient would at least know that a bill had been passed.

Not half an hour later, he was inside the Santa Monica police station—

At this point, he interrupted himself and apologized to Samson for not having called him straightaway. He waved at the barkeep for another drink. It was the speed at which things were happening that took him by surprise, he said, and filled him with a treasure hunter’s euphoria. The detective, who had been struggling to suppress his own shockingly pertinent “intelligences,” fleetingly wondered how Mr. Trotter would have gained access to the prisoner, who was no longer even in SMPD custody. Clarification was swift in coming. It seemed that a captain of the latter precinct knew the famed philanthropist from his profligate donations to various policemen’s balls, leagues and benefits (his grandchildren did after all attend school in that beachside city); some years back, Mr. Trotter had offered to build a gymnasium for the officers — a kingly gesture declined for legal reasons but the generosity of which was never forgotten by the thin blue line. After a family friend (then Patrolman Dowling) was shot in the line of duty, the paterfamilias let it be known that anonymous funds would be available through the Trotter Family Foundation in cases of pediatric emergency or catastrophic family illness, in perpetuity. More than a few of the fraternity had availed themselves. When the reason for his presence at the precinct was told, one can imagine the eagerness with which its soldiers volunteered their aid. The aforementioned captain made some inquiries and quickly ascertained an “aka William”—arrested at the SeaShelter hangar in the early-morning hours — had already been transferred to Twin Towers on the charge of murder. When Mr. Trotter relayed his “extreme interest” in the fate of the suspect, the captain took it upon himself to escort the dapper figure downtown, as his shift was anyways ending. There, in the desolate landscape behind Union Station, on the seventh floor of an off-pink edifice, Louis caught a glimpse — for that is all he said he wanted — of the man who had once been (and was still) his son-in-law. He knew immediately it was him; that was the digger’s gift. He had a sixth sense for bodies and the same for the ground in which those bodies would one day lie.

As the detective began his side of the serpentine tale — how he was the officer who happened to have been assigned months ago to the very case in which the arrestee now prominently figured, and how the arrestee was a suspect in the murder of a woman who happened to be the mother of the same girl who’d been harbored by his own grandchildren — well, as Samson began to unwrap and exhibit these astonishments, the old man listened with a preternatural interest that turned preternaturally painful; clutching his throat, he collapsed. He rallied in time to greet the paramedics, declining their offer to ferry him to St. John’s. (The world was filled with St. John’ses.) Epitacio, he said, would take him to Cedars. Within minutes, the chauffeur had alerted the emergency room to their imminent arrival; Mr. Trotter’s internist was on his way; VIP liaisons were dispatched and a deluxe room prepared. Samson wished to accompany him in the Rolls, but the old man insisted that he follow, which of course he did, though not before quietly advising Epitacio to take the quickest route to UCLA if so much as the shade of a need grew apparent.

Mr. Trotter, never one for hospitals, even those with wings graced by his name, refused to be admitted. He had no fever. His throat was sore, and gave him some trouble swallowing; he was routinely cultured for strep. Bedford Drive’s pre-eminent ENT man was enlisted to examine the tycoon, and palpated the mass (the thing that had been giving his topmost buttons their workout), declaring it to be something more than a swollen gland, though how much more he couldn’t say. It was not “pulsatile,” yet it didn’t feel like a tumor, and that was odd; they would have to rule one out. The medics weren’t happy with the headstrong patient taking his leave, but wangled a promise that he would return later in the week for an outpatient biopsy.

On Monday, the digger burrowed into “the case.” Powerhouse attorneys were hired to represent the captive, who naturally proclaimed innocence in all matters relating to the grotesque assault and death — and subsequent rape — of a prostitute and drug addict called Millicent “Geri” Kornfeld. Per Detective Dowling’s instructions, the Adirondack Park sheriffs of Essex County, New York, had already been contacted, and while those lawmen were able to dredge up a record of his detention, the defendant’s fingerprints proved more elusive; they had some more rummaging to do. As far as anyone knew, Marcus Weiner had never been enlisted in the military, so the detective’s fears might indeed be realized — there was the chance that an official identification would never be made. He remembered seeing a French movie about a man who returned to a village claiming to be someone he wasn’t; by the end no one, not even family and old lovers, knew truth from fiction.

Now that aka William had “lawyered up,” Samson Dowling received a call from said legal counsel, telling him to have no further contact with the defendant. Even though it was a “friendly” notice — they knew of his special connection to the case — Samson got depressed. But he gladly told them all he knew: of his informant, whose whereabouts were unknown, and how the victim’s daughter, AWOL from MacLaren at this time, had some months ago identified the telltale ascot as having belonged to the suspect.

A meeting with his son-in-law could easily have been arranged, but the benefactor felt his place for now was behind the scenes. At his prompting, a medical team examined the prisoner; the psychopharmacologist who looked after Dodd was enlisted to provide one or two cutting-edge prescriptions cropped from the latest harvest of smartbomb antipsychotics. The old man didn’t wish the story leaked to press, so made sure that the more celebrated attorneys on the team avoided the arraignment. (He himself chose not to come.) Eulogio embarked for Redlands to pick up Harry and Ruth, who Mr. Trotter felt should be present.

Tuesday morning, the defense met with judge in chambers. They informed him the suspect had been I.D.’d by his father-in-law, who had in fact engaged their services on the defendant’s behalf; no further details relating to their unusual employer were discussed. (The judge listened with a glacial reserve broken only at the mention of the famous surname, when an eyebrow rose involuntarily with near comic effect.) Mr. Weiner, they added, had been diagnosed as schizophrenic, but a full psychiatric evaluation was not yet complete. One of the lawyers then remarked that the parents of aka William Marcus aka Marcus Weiner would be in attendance this morning and would provide definitive witness to his identity, though it had been roughly fourteen years since they’d seen their son last.

Once in court, the ascot was presented as damning evidence and a trial date was set. DNA had been collected from the victim shortly after her death; a sample from the defendant was ordered for comparison. In spite of eloquent pleas and the unusual circumstances surrounding the detainee, owing to the nature of the crime and aka William Marcus aka Marcus Weiner’s alleged flight from the facility in upstate New York, bail was firmly denied.

After the prisoner was led away, the judge asked if Ruth and Harry Weiner — their names had been written down for him at the preliminary meeting — were in court. They eagerly stood, or it should be said that Ruth eagerly stood, followed by her less spry mate. The judge asked if they knew the accused.

“He is my son,” said Ruth, voice quavering. An expensive attorney on each side held her steady. She cleared her throat and said again, “Your Honor, he is my son!”

That afternoon, Epitacio drove them to Twin Towers. Visitors waited to see loved ones, but it had been so arranged that the elderly couple would be spared the queue. Harry peered through the tinted glass of the Silver Seraph at the men with tattooed foreheads loitering across the street from jail, and remarked how they looked like prisoners themselves. He puzzled over them while Ruth remained silent. The skin of her chest was stretched so taut she feared it might split open at any moment, like papyrus — with each inhalation, her caged lungs shook as if invaded by moths.

Neither remembered much of the half hour or so that passed from the time they stepped from car to visitors’ room.

There was a metal grille between them, and he was shackled.

He sat down and they all blinked at each other.

Harry was the first to speak. “Son?”

Sitting opposite the enormous stranger, the retired baker had a momentary doubt; but then the roots of his boy, so to speak, grew toward him as in time-lapse photography — tiny green buds rapidly bloomed, stems thickened and curled themselves about the elder’s ankles, tugging him closer.

“Marcus …” said Ruth, hand rushing to mouth, unable to conceal her emotions. She was certain as only a mother could be. “Do you know who we are?”

He nodded solemnly.

Ruth suppressed another outburst.

Most of the men on the seventh floor were sedated and Marcus was no exception. But thanks to his remarkable constitution and the intervention of private shrinks, he’d managed to elude the zombified look worn by most of his cell mates.

“You,” he said, rather diffidently, “are the people from the Red Lands.”

“Redlands?” said Harry, with great enthusiasm. “Redlands, yes! Still the same house! Though the bakery’s gone — we sold it.”

“Harry!” chastised Ruth, not wishing her son to be overrun by extraneous detail — particularly that of loss, in any way, shape or form. “We ate some of your jam … you made the jam, didn’t you? The pomegranates—”

He looked them in the eye and smiled — the seed-stained smile of their precocious boy, who at Toulouse’s age could play the cello with thick, agile fingers; who took the bus to the Vagabond near MacArthur Park to see the entire oeuvre of Buñuel; who dragged them to the Huntington’s Japanese moon bridge — and exhibitions of branchy intricacies perpetrated by William Morris & Company.

“Yes!” he said, and laughed, not the laugh of a madman but of a man come home. “Yes, I made the jam. Didja like it?”

“Oh yes!” they said in chorus. It was marvelous! Better than they’d ever had! Much better than your mother’s! Always had been—

They laughed some more, and then his tremendous body undulated as he sobbed.

Not being able to reach out to him was for Ruth a fine torment. “We’re here now, Marcus!” she said. “We’re here!”

“She’s right — listen to her. You’re home now, son!”

Marcus dried his eyes, having calmed a bit after a look from one of the guards. “I don’t know you — or, suffer me, barely do — or much of what has happened for such a long time … I know that you are from the Red Lands—”

“Redlands,” corrected Harry enthusiastically, until Ruth kicked his foot.

“—that you are from the Redlands, and have been kind enough to see me … I do remember you — but there are so many memories that I don’t know what’s real and what’s conjured. I was at Oxford, no?” he asked, with faint English affectation. “But at another time than Rossetti and my friends?”

“Yes! Yes! You were at Oxford!” cried Ruth.

“You see? Things are coming back!” exulted Harry.

“The medicine will help you.”

“The medicine!” said Harry.

The keeper indicated that their time together had ended.

“We’ll see you through,” said his father.

Ruth was without words, squinting at him as he stood because she could not bear to see her boy in chains.

He smiled as they led him away, turning at the last moment to shout, “Bon appétit!”

We chose to ignore a certain gentleman who attended the arraignment (a few rows behind the Weiners) because, well, parents take precedence.

That “silhouette” was none other than Gilles Mott, whom the reader already knows to be the current owner of an establishment once held in highest esteem by that grandest of dames, Bluey Twisselmann Trotter, an establishment now prominent on her shit list. For when the erstwhile Topsy abandoned ship so did the old woman, eventually finding succor at Montana Avenue’s Le Marmiton. Fortunately for Gilles, the two establishments were not in any direct competition.

The baker and his wife were contacted by Detective Dowling on the Sunday following Marcus’s arrest, the latter occurring scant days after the remarkable sighting of Amaryllis at Saint-Cloud. Without much embroidery, he informed them of the charges being brought; but the real purpose of the call was to apprise the couple of the girl’s dire straits. Lani told him she was already aware of the AWOL, having learned about it the hard way when arriving at MacLaren for a scheduled visit. And, no, Amaryllis hadn’t been in touch.

The detective and the Motts weren’t exactly strangers. After the MacLaren psychologist told her of his interview with Amaryllis, the feisty CASA had taken the liberty of dropping by Rampart unannounced to introduce herself (she had of course accompanied the child there once before; as far as Lani was concerned, she and the detective were practically colleagues). She told him all about her husband’s long-term relationship with the suspect, and naturally Samson wanted to hear more, for until then his only real character witness had been the execrable signboard beggar. So he took them to lunch at the Pantry. There, both husband and wife reiterated the peculiar history, including their last, rather strained encounter — how incensed the man had been that they’d “turned the girl over.” Lani was a little surprised that none of this information had been conveyed, because the Motts had dutifully spoken to a policeman after William’s tirade regarding the child. (Though her instincts told her he wasn’t a predator, her role as CASA still demanded that she let such developments be known through official channels; she was sworn to the court, and so legally bound.) The detective merely said that sometimes “things fall through the cracks.”

Now, starved for information, Lani and Gilles swamped him with questions about the imprisonment. Between the two of them, they felt oddly responsible for the woes that had befallen that unforgettable Victorian gent.

It may be recalled that after William had made a fuss about their handling of the girl, Lani had been overcome by remorse. She had, in her own mind, self-righteously passed the “social” buck — she, Lani Mott, who was capable of ruining a Sunday brunch with a strident serenade against the L.A. Times or the corruption of the MTA or the soul-killing hypocrisy of the child welfare system or what have you. Yet what did she have to show for her coffeehouse activism? She’d become a volunteer at children’s court (her friends never heard the end of it) but had spent a year saying no: no to advocating for this child and no to advocating for that … and then, as fate would have it, came her big chance — an orphan dropped at their very door, a discarded little being—and what had she done? Obediantly called the hotline, strictly by the CASA book … the useless right thing. She may as well have phoned the SPCA and had the child picked up in a perforated metal box. Lani Mott had barely gotten her hands dirty. And everything she had done for the girl since (none of which seemed enough) was to atone for that moment at Frenchie’s when William — crazy, stinky, delusional William — had delivered a moral coup d’état.

Husband Gilles had his own cross to bear, for he had been the one to have strong suspicions that William was a molester or child aggravator or whatever; and too, that day at the Pantry, had blindly accepted the detective’s assertion of the vagrant’s involvement in the murder of Ms. Kornfeld. When Samson called that Sunday after the arrest and Gilles broached the touchy subject of an “inappropriate relationship with the girl,” the detective tersely said that as a result of his interview with the child herself, “nothing like that was on the table.” (“I told you so,” interjected his wife.) He wouldn’t elaborate, but Gilles got the sense it wasn’t the type of situation — not that Gilles had claims of knowing anything about the machinations of the law or its enforcers — where the charges of rape and homicide eclipsed or took precedence over a middling one of, say, child-bothering, thus rendering the issue moot; instead, the baker inferred from Samson’s tone that such an accusation was bogus and insupportable and had no basis in fact. Suddenly, Gilles felt like a snitch — as if he had perversely betrayed his original instincts, and done a good man a great wrong.

That night, after each took long, reflective soaking baths, the baker and his wife split an Ambien and fell into troubled sleep.

Lest our chronicle lean too heavily upon the travails of a certain child of nail-bitten hand, a child who has already had her goodly share of sorrow, a quick and painless exegesis of that hapless girl’s travels will here be provided, though more painless for some than for others.

Needless to say, upon her fleeing the Boar’s Head attic, things didn’t go any better. Amaryllis, venerable and nearly Blessed, fell in with a coven of runaway skeevs who favored Promenade benches by day and the debris-strewn husk of a condemned mental-health center by night. Their style in clothing ran to Goth, but a strain neither Morris nor Ruskin would recognize. She spent two fun-filled nights in Skeevy Hollow before being chased down by policemen, one of whose legs was bitten so hard that she had to be concussed into releasing her jaws — and got a hairline fracture for her trouble. Convalescence occurred in the lockdown unit of a psychiatric hospital in Alhambra. Once she emerged from the torpor of head trauma, the fiercely combative girl was given enough meds to become a bona-fide member of Mrs. Woolery’s tribe; she peed and bled (for menses had come) with the best of them.

Inside of a week, news of her reappearance had in its own excruciatingly random, slipshod way devolved to the stalwart Lani Mott, she of the special-advocates’ office berthed just inside the lobby of children’s court. Mrs. Mott convened with her supervisor, and a stratagem was devised. It was agreed that a visit to the Alhambra hospital must be paid and the child’s physical and mental state assessed, in view to finding a suitable placement — if not a private home (which seemed an impossible goal), then, say, a ranch-like environment for wayward children — perhaps even one out of state. Lani put her boss to work, then got her briefcase in order.

She packed a blue wallet of special business cards with the CASA “heart” logo and made sure to carry a copy of the signed notice from the Superior Court of the State of California for the County of Los Angeles Juvenile Court identifying her as the child’s Guardian Ad Litem of record.

When she saw Amaryllis, she was sickened. The girl drooled and could barely keep her head up. There were deep scratches on the insides of her arms. “Did you make these?” asked Lani over and over. She couldn’t figure out whether the poor thing was nodding or shaking her head. “Amaryllis, do you know who I am?” Finally, Lani abandoned the interview and told a nurse that she wished to speak with the doctor.

After waiting more than forty minutes, she asked again and was confronted by a different attendant.

“What is it you want?”

“I’ve already told the woman.”

“What woman.”

“A nurse. I didn’t get her name.”

“Well I’m the one in charge. So you better talk to me.”

She took a breath, and girded herself for battle. “I would like to speak with the prescribing physician.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“He isn’t here. Who are you again?”

“I am an officer of the court.”

“An officer of—”

“Of the court. I would like to speak to Amaryllis Kornfeld’s psychiatrist and I would like to speak to him now. If he is in this building and you’re not telling me that, then you are potentially in a world of trouble.”

“Don’t you threaten me. May I see some I.D.?”

Lani handed her the court order and her driver’s license.

“Do you work with that detective?”

“What detective is that?” Lani asked.

“The one who came to see her. Well, obviously you don’t,” she said disdainfully, “because otherwise you would know what I’m talking about. Just wait here please.”

The nurse walked off with the documents, but Lani stopped her and said the driver’s license would have to stay.

Lani assumed the bitch had been talking about Detective Dowling, and tried not to get angry at him for having left her in the dark. Though someone might have at least phoned the CASA office; he was probably just overwhelmed, like everybody else. But these were matters of life or death, and it would have been nice to have gotten a call.

Some moments later, the nurse returned Lani’s papers and told her the doctor would see her, but only for a moment, as he was “about to lead group.”

The psychiatrist then appeared. He was around fifty and looked as if he’d been napping. He wore tennis shoes, Dockers and a faded madras sport shirt.

“I’m Dr. Fishman. What can I do for you?”

“Dr. Fishman, I’m Lani Mott. I just met with one of your patients, Amaryllis Kornfeld—”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, I am not. And she looked like hell. What have you been giving her?”

The psychiatrist actually laughed in her face. She felt a mote of his spittle cool on her cheek but made no move to acknowledge it.

“That’s confidential information. If you’re not a relative, I can’t even talk to you.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right. That’s a state law.”

“Are you going to tell me about the law?”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but—”

“The nurse didn’t tell you?”

“If you’re not a relative, you’re wasting your time. Even if you were a relative, there is certain information I can’t even legally share with a parent.”

“Let me tell you something about the law, all right, Doctor? Are you listening? I am a Court Appointed Special Advocate! Do you think I’m playing a game here? You may be playing a game, but I’m too old for that. You’ve never run into someone like me, have you? Now, I’m not accusing you of anything, Doctor, but that girl could barely speak! She was drooling, OK? Now, I want to know what she’s on and the reason she’s on it, OK?”

“When she was admitted,” he said, like a child about to tear the wing off a bug, “she was dysphoric and circumlocutory. Do you know what that means, Miss—”

“It’s Mrs. And I’m not here for a DSM symposium. I need you to tell me some things, Doctor. You can tell me now or you can tell me in the morning, when a marshal comes down to make an official demand. The judge will want to know why you were uncooperative — do you really want to be under that kind of scrutiny? Maybe you’d like to read this.” She thrust the order at him while reciting from memory. “ ‘WIC section 106: Upon presentation of this order, the CASA shall be permitted to inspect and copy any records of any agency, hospital, school, organization, division or department of the state, physician and surgeon, nurse, other health care provider, psychologist, psychiatrist [italics hers], police department or mental health clinic relating to the child in the above matter without the consent of the child or the child’s parent.’ Do you think they could have made it any clearer, Dr. Fishbein?”

“Fishman,” he said with a dyspeptic grin, while giving the papers a cursory glance. “I’ll have to go find the records.”

“I’ll need a copy.”

“If I can find them, I’ll make you one.”

“We’ll do this however you’d like.”

“Is this 60 Minutes?” He smirked again, but less convincingly.

“Joke all you like, Doctor. But if I don’t leave with a copy of those records, it won’t be a joke, I assure you. I hope for your sake they reflect a full physical examination of that child before she was given whatever drugs you so ‘confidentially’ prescribed. I hope for your sake you didn’t phone those drugs in from a steakhouse. And I hope when I come back tomorrow, she’s in better shape than she’s in now.”

“I’ll need half an hour.”

“Good. Because half an hour’s all I’ve got.”

Twenty minutes later, back in the Volvo with records in hand, Lani’s body shook uncontrollably. She called Gilles on her purple Nokia and gave a mighty war whoop when he answered — then chattered like a fool all the way home. She told him she felt like Erin Brockovich.

They went to a neighborhood cucina to celebrate her empowerment. After a few drinks, she solemnly confessed her shame at having once abdicated her responsibilities to the girl, and how the jailed man, whom she considered the child’s real caretaker, had been correct in upbraiding her and that she had grown to admire and respect him immeasurably for that. There are consequences to our actions, she kept saying. There are repercussions … Emboldened by alcohol, she passionately suggested that William, for whatever reason, was being railroaded—and her husband was glad to see her back in good form and good rant, diatribing against injustices wrought upon innocents, spinning Chomskyesque conspiracies of politics and the media. He loved her more than ever.

Quiet and introspective until now, Gilles spoke up. Slowly swirling the wine in his glass, he said he had failed to give his friend the benefit of the doubt regarding any “untoward activities” with the girl — and for that, he felt bad. But something else was troubling him that he was compelled to share. Gilles said that after their Sunday call he had spoken with the detective again, who had told him that an ascot belonging to William — identified as such by Amaryllis herself — had been found stuffed in the victim’s throat. How to explain?

Lani swallowed her drink and closed her eyes like a mystic in mourning for the folly of the whole race of man. Smiling, she set the glass down and seamlessly uttered the words that finally vanquished all his remaining doubts:

“We are going to save that little girl.”