White sister

Chapter 51

Pryce Patterson looked like his name. All that was missing was the tennis racket and the Alpaca sweater tied around his neck. His suit was a custom Brioni, and he had one of those ninety-day wonder attitudes that allowed him to look through rimless glasses and down his nose at the world. Not exactly my kind of guy. I wondered why a street guy like Lionel Wright would hire such a vanilla pastry.

"I'm not a criminal attorney," he intoned needlessly. "My specialty is estate planning and wills." Answering that question. When it came to managing money, a vibrant personality is not a prerequisite.

We were standing in the bond clerk's cluttered office on the first floor of the courthouse. It was a little after nine a. M. Gunner Gustafson appeared with the release papers and as soon as he showed up, Pryce Patterson began casting glances at my legal assassin, wondering, no doubt, how this bellicose midget had ever managed to pass the bar. Like a French poodle that suddenly finds a coyote in his backyard, he was unsettled and slightly appalled.

I signed the bail slip. Because Lionel Wright had posted the entire million, I didn't need to involve a bondsman. I was notified that when I showed up for my October twelfth scheduled court appearance, the bond would be returned, minus a few hundred dollars for processing.

Patterson handed me a business card with a phone number written on the back and said, "Mr. Wright requests that you give him a call once you have a chance." All very polite, as if we were buying art instead of freedom.

We all walked out of the courthouse at nine-fifteen, right into the teeth of ten reporters, all of them pissed because they'd been juked by the half-hour time change, causing them to miss the colorful news event in Division Thirty. There were lots of shouted questions.

"Detective Scully! Any comment on your arrest for murder?"

Yeah, right. Good luck on that one.

Tucking my tail, I again ran from those jackals like the media fugitive I had recently become. All I wanted to do was get over to UCLA. Gunner offered me a ride back to the El Rey Theatre to pick up Chooch's Jeep, which I prayed hadn't been towed. I desperately needed his laptop. If I hustled and the Jeep was there, I could still make it to the hospital in time. It was a miracle that I had pulled this off.

We got into Gunner's new gray Mercedes S-55, which was the last car I would have expected him to own. He seemed more like a Ford truck type of guy. He put the expensive car in gear and powered away while TV crews raced to the sidewalk to photograph our exit.

"Don't talk to those guys," Gunner said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the scrambling pack of reporters. "Contact with the media will only fuck us in the ass."

I love a plain-talking lawyer.

"We need to set up a meeting," he went on, "I'll start filing my discovery motions this afternoon. We'll see how much real ammo the D. A. has. Then sometime in the next two days we have to sit down and go through it."

"Good. That's fine." I waved a vague hand at him, not paying much attention.

"Are you even listening to me?" he said, picking up on my distraction.

"No." I looked over at him. His fighter's chin was pointed defiantly out the window at the morning traffic. "I'm sorry. With my wife going into surgery, I can't focus on this right now, but I will call you."

When we pulled around behind the El Rey, wonder of wonders, the Cherokee was still in the alley. Gunner dug into his wallet and handed me a cheap card that looked like it had been printed at Kinko's. I thanked him for all he'd done on such short notice. Then I headed to the car and took off.

At ten-fifteen I finally arrived back at UCLA. There were several news crews holding down this location as well. I noticed that a stage had been built in the parking lot for a press conference. Crews were setting up a sound system. A banner declared: black justice. blind faith.

My beautiful wife could be dying while politicians and activists were getting set to dance on her grave. At least I didn't have to hide anymore. I was out on bail. I could go where I wanted.

As I made my way up to Neurosurgery, I was stopped twice by hospital security and had to show an ID that corresponded to a patient's name to get in. When I finally got there, I found Chooch sitting alone in the small waiting room. As I came through the door he jumped to his feet and embraced me.

"Dad… Dad… thank God you got here," he said, holding on to me as if afraid to let go.

"It's okay, son," I said, trying to calm us both, but having no effect.

"You got arrested. I knew you wouldn't want me to leave Mom. I tried calling the jail, but they wouldn't put me through."

I didn't tell him about the fire at MCJ and being held and questioned all night. Then he was focusing on my burned hair.

"It's okay," I said. "Little accident. Here's my parental tip for the day. Never play with fire." I smiled. He didn't. "No real damage. Once it grows out, it'll be fine."

"Thank God you're here," he said. "It was such a madhouse; Luther finally made the hospital throw the press out. It's been horrible."

We sat together in the empty room. Then Chooch said, "Luther says it's gonna be hours till we know anything. If you want, we could get some coffee."

"I want to stay here. You don't know how hard it was for me just to make it in the first place."

So we sat in the small lounge and waited. Around eleven a newspaper guy and his photographer found a way past security and came through the door asking questions and snapping pictures. I got up and advanced on them, not sure if I was in complete control of myself, but I'd had it. I snatched the camera out of the photographer's hand. It was a digital and I can never figure those things out. I wanted to rip out a roll of film and theatrically expose it, like some hero in a '40s movie. But after battling with the camera for a few seconds, I pitched it over to Chooch, who removed the memory card and tossed the camera back to the man.

"You can't do that," the reporter protested.

"Get the hell out of here, asshole." I got right in his face and he took a frightened step back. It felt good to finally take charge of at least one moment in my life. He took two more hesitant steps, and then he and the photographer turned and quickly left.

We sat and again waited. Time ticked off the clock in slow motion. Five minutes seemed like an hour. The only sounds were the hushed voices of the hospital staff behind the glass enclosure. No cops showed up to support Alexa. She had been pilloried in the press, tried, and found guilty. At the Glass House, careers were in jeopardy. The rank and file knew when things were too hot to touch. It's an instinct that develops quickly in political environments.

Then I smelled the musty odor of unwashed clothes and sweat. When I looked up, Jonathan Bodine was standing in the doorway ten feet away. His chopped-off hair was almost as ridiculous as mine. He was still wearing Chooch's bloodstained sweatshirt, but it was now covered with a layer of grime.

John nodded at me and said, "Howdy do, half-stepper."

"What are you doing here, John?"

I was surprised and quite touched to see him. Of all the people in Los Angeles, the only one who came to support us was this half-crazy homeless person. But then he ruined the moment when he said:

"Ain't ate in almost a day. You're the only muthafucka I can ever get ta feed me."