Obstruction of Justice Page 17

  At Camp Richardson he made a right and drove down through the forest past the occasional rustic cabin to the small marina on the lake. The hostess led him through the restaurant bar area to the outside deck and he sat down in a corner. Most of the tables were empty.

  In front of him, across the narrow beach of dark sand, a small pier jutted out to a circle of white and yellow sailboats at their moorings. Except for them, the view was all blue, the lake dark blue on shimmering sapphire, the rim of mountains green-blue on the horizon, the sky pale and glowing. A breeze had come up, clearing the air of the smoke from the latest fire in the nearby national forest, so he could see all around the lake in exquisite detail.

  Off to the right, the distant casinos were painted a rustic brown amid the trees, the town otherwise hidden. Farther north along the Nevada side he saw Cave Rock and Sand Harbor. To the left, on the west side, his eyes found the thick ponderosa pine forest rising toward the granite flanks of Tallac.

  No sign of Mrs. Lauria. His call had caught her at home, and she’d agreed to his lunch invitation. He wasn’t sure what she could contribute anyway, so he didn’t worry about it, just let his eyes graze on the beauty surrounding him. The breeze blew steadily, cooling the air and ruffling the lake into wavelets. Up higher, above the eastern mountains, flat-bottomed clouds shaped like saucers glided toward the lake like stately UFOs. Several handsome wild geese waddled up to the deck, their heads dipping in hungry greeting. "Later," he told them.

  The waiter was a blond dude with a thick yellow mustache, perfectly tanned like a displaced character from a Jimmy Buffett song and shivering in his shorts on this cool autumnlike day. Paul asked for a chicken quesadilla and sank back into his reverie. After lunch he would take a walk along the beach under the firs and sink his toes into the sand. He thought about Kim and how much she would like this, and half rose to his feet to call her, but then he saw a young Hispanic woman with two children in tow coming across the deck toward him.

  "Mr. van Wagoner?"

  "Yes. Mrs. Lauria?"

  "Sorry it took me so long. I had to stop and pick up the children from day care. This is Agosto, and this is Lourdes."

  "How do you do," Paul said. The little boy and girl gazed shyly at him. They all sat down, and Mrs. Lauria ordered sandwiches and drinks for all of them, while Paul rearranged his thoughts.

  Mrs. Lauria seemed extraordinarily young, nineteen or twenty. She wore pressed slacks and a sweatshirt and carried a backpack. Her face was fresh and pretty and her glossy hair fell in a neat braid most of the way down her back.

  "Excuse me for staring," Paul said. "But I was expecting someone a little different."

  She smiled and said, "I married Ruben in our hometown in Mexico when I was fifteen. I’m twenty-one now." Then, earnestly, "I don’t understand why the police want to talk to me again. It’s been so long."

  "I’m not exactly the police."

  "Who are you?"

  "When Ruben died, he was on probation, as I understand it. Well, I’m working for his probation officer’s husband. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver the same day your husband died."

  "Oh, yes. Mrs. Meade. I heard about it. That was so sad, wasn’t it? But I had my own problems that day.... I don’t know what I can tell you except that Ruben had nothing to do with that lady getting hit. He died that afternoon, hours before she did."

  Milk arrived for the kids, and coffee for the girl. She was looking around, as Paul had done. She said, "This scenery makes it all worthwhile, the snow and ice, the job problems, the family so far away. I hope I stay here forever."

  "When did you come to Tahoe?"

  "Four years ago. Ruben’s parents and cousin lived here at the time. We got green cards without any trouble. But then his parents went home, and Ruben lost his job. I couldn’t help much. We had some hard times. Ruben got very discouraged. He couldn’t stand to see the babies crying because we had no milk. He stole." She spoke nonjudgmentally, as if she had made peace with this period of her life long ago.

  "And he got caught."

  "He was no good at it. He had been in trouble before. This time, he knocked a lady down stealing her purse. He got three months and almost got deported but Mrs. Meade helped him."

  Lunch arrived, and they dug right in. The quesadilla was melting with Monterey Jack cheese and mild green chilies and chunks of grilled chicken. Mrs. Lauria was a woman after his own heart, enjoying every bite of her meal. The kids jumped down and hit the sand, staying within twenty feet as though tethered to an invisible leash.

  "What are you doing now?" Paul asked when the plates had been cleared away and they were both drinking coffee.

  "I go to the community college. I’m studying early childhood education. I’m going to teach in a preschool."

  "You like kids."

  "I love them. At night I work at El Vaquero, the restaurant down in the basement at Harvey’s. I’m a cook. I make good wages now."

  "How do you... I mean, the children?"

  "How do I take care of them? Ruben’s cousin takes care of them at night."

  "Ah. That must help a lot."

  "Yes. He does help. We’re getting married in December." She smiled again, a spirited and optimistic smile that made Paul realize those days would never come for him again. "We’re going to be fine now."

  "Good for you." Another nod and happy smile. She exuded youth and health.

  "About Ruben," Paul said. "How did he get along with Mrs. Meade?"

  "Very well. She came to our apartment twice trying to help us. She helped Ruben find a job but it was minimum wage and winter was coming. We needed warm clothes and some wood and a car. Even though she promised she could get us a car, he got low again. And when he was low, he drank."

  "And when he drank?"

  "He got into fights. He couldn’t hold down a job."

  "He ever hit you?"

  "Never. He just burned off steam. That one guy he killed when he was a kid, that was really an accident. Ruben bragged about it to his friends, made himself look like a real criminal. But he wasn’t really."

  Mrs. Lauria’s memories had hit the golden haze stage. Lauria was a thief, a drinker, and a brawler, but she found an excuse for everything. Paul said, "Tell me about how he died."

  "That morning I could tell Ruben was sick with worry about us, how we were going to pay the rent. I was upset that he didn’t go to work, and he was upset that I didn’t trust him. He told me if I would only trust him, he would get the money we needed. He was talking big again. I guess he just wanted to make me feel better. But when I saw him like that, all excited and crazy, it made me feel worse. I took the kids to the park."

  "Excited and crazy?"

  "Scared-excited. He got that way sometimes right before he stole or got drunk or did something else he shouldn’t do. He was basically an honest man. I think that was why he was so bad at crime. He only did the bad things because of his worry for us." She looked out at the shore where her children were playing. "I don’t know why you want to know about this."

  "I’m checking Mrs. Meade’s clients, just to see if anyone knows anything at all. It’s routine. How did you find out... about your husband?"

  "The police. An officer called me. They had found him at Zephyr Cove. He was... he was hanging from a tree. He’d been drinking. He didn’t know what he was doing."

  "I’m sorry."

  "Don’t be. Ruben wasn’t right for this hard world. Now he’s at peace."

  "And you?"

  "Me? I am very tough, Mr. van Wagoner. I am going to make it. I am going to be happy. So will my children."

  Paul paid the tab and they walked out together to the parking lot. Next to his van stood an aged Hyundai, the paint entirely gone to gray, the seats torn.

  "About Mrs. Meade?" Mrs. Lauria said as she put the kids into their car seats in back. "Why did her husband hire you?"

  "He still wants to know who hit his wife with the car. He wants to know if it was intentional, or just an
accident. It might make him feel better, just to know why she died. If there was a reason."

  She nodded her tidy little head. "Her husband’s doing the right thing. You can’t just accept the bad things, you have to keep up the struggle. I would never give up either. He ought to find that driver and fttt." A fingernail flashed across her neck.

  "He’s a prosecutor, a very upright citizen. He’ll be calling the police if I learn anything."

  "Ah. Well, where I come from, if you want justice, that’s not the place you go. Trouble falls from the sky, or it comes in a letter from the government. It’s like rain; it just comes, you don’t have to deserve it. And you handle it yourself because the system is set up for the system, not for you."

  "I’ve heard about the police in Mexico."

  "Very corrupt. They commit more bank robberies than the regular criminals. You know, if you have no money for bribes, no position, no importance, you get no justice. You think it’s better here?"

  "It’s better."

  "Do you know when Ruben went in for ninety days just for purse snatching, the white guy in the next cell, who also stole a lady’s purse and then beat her up just for the hell of it, got out in thirty days?"

  Her brown eyes looked into his; then she held out a hand to shake, which he took. She held on, until the moment became awkward, and he looked down to where her small brown hand clung tenaciously to his large white one. Then she smiled, drawing her hand away slowly, in case he hadn’t noticed the contrast in color, the difference she meant for him to see. "For you, it may be better. For me, for Ruben, no." She gathered up her children.

  "Thanks for taking the time," said Paul, shutting the driver’s door behind her.

  "Thank you for lunch. Tell your client I am sorry. I understand. He’s not alone." Her car let out an unmuffled blast of engine noise as she drove off confidently into her future.

  Nina played a game of kick-yourself as she sat outside Milne’s chambers listening for her turn. Collier was supposed to be around the courthouse somewhere but she hadn’t been able to find him. So she had called Paul, who had turned her down flat, the troglodyte, with hardly a hesitation. He had no idea how to be friends with a woman and no interest in it, either. He couldn’t be bothered with a woman unless she was part of the great chase.

  She was just good old Nina now, always around if he happened to have a dull minute, and he hadn’t had any of those on this trip. She possessed that precious thing for a mother, a free Friday night, and nobody was interested. She felt distinctly unpopular, and this thought added to the general aggravation of being in court on a loser case on a Friday afternoon.

  Her client waited in the hallway, praying for a miracle.

  Nina entered Milne’s chambers with her opposing counsel, an offensive insurance lawyer so arrogant and so young that she knew this settlement conference was already a bust.

  Milne had moved away from his desk by the window and was sitting in his high-backed chair, facing the door, files on the coffee table in front of him. His blue bag of golf clubs topped with merry red pompoms leaned against the desk, close to his hands so that he could stroke them between settlement conferences. On the other side of the table two smaller chairs sat next to each other. He beckoned them in without a word, not a good augury. Gingerly, Nina took a seat and awaited the blast.

  "Ng versus Yellow Cab. How are you, Nina?"

  "Fine, Your Honor. And you?"

  "I’m waiting for a jury to come in with a verdict in a murder case. Been out a week. The bailiff says they’re close but that could mean eight o’clock tonight. Have a golf game at Edgewood starting at six. Celebrity Pro-Am tournament all weekend, first time I ever got asked, and I’m paired with Johnny Miller. Wonderful golfer. Kevin Costner and Tiger Woods are playing as a pair, first time since the AT&T Tournament, right in front of us."

  "If the jury’s close, they’ll want to get home early," Nina said comfortingly.

  "Two months I’ve been looking forward to this golf game. I should have stayed in private practice, where Friday afternoon is sacrosanct. Except for you people, who get to join me in my misery. All right. Mr., ah, Bailey, you’re from the insurance company for the taxi company?"

  "Yessir. Drove up from San Francisco."

  "How come you didn’t associate local counsel and save yourself a trip? This isn’t a big case, as I see it, anyway." Nina winced at this. Her client, a passenger in a cab that had rear-ended a bus on Lake Tahoe Boulevard the year before, thought it was a very big case.

  "That’s right, Your Honor. The damages are minimal, except her client’s got some ludicrous inflated figure in his head—"

  "Did you talk outside?"

  "We’ve offered five thousand plus the specials just for the nuisance value, and she’s rejected our offer. The only thing she’s been talking about is a trial in this Court, which would be a waste of the Court’s time. This is a small case that belongs in Municipal Court. Absurd—"

  Milne said, "Five thousand in hand, Nina. Your statement of damages shows mostly chiropractic fees. It’s a soft-tissue case. Nothing on the MRI. Lots of sound and fury ..."

  "The medical bills are already sixty-five hundred and my client will be in chiropractic therapy for another few months at least," said Nina. "He lost his job when his sick leave ran out. What kind of offer is five thousand for seventeen months of pain and suffering? The cabdriver told my client he had been driving for fourteen hours without a break. He had his girlfriend in the front seat, which is a blatant violation of the cab company’s own rules, and was in the middle of a heated argument with her when he rear-ended the bus. His boss knew the driver rode around with this girl all day. We could up the ante and add in a count against the company for reckless endangerment, maybe start talking about punitive damages—"

  "Oh, get real!" huffed Bailey. "That’s imposs—"

  "Don’t interrupt me!" Nina interrupted.

  "The truth is, Judge, she sees the deep pockets. She’s on us like a wasp looking for bare skin to sting—"

  "Typical, isn’t it, Your Honor? Bog me down with paper and delays, make me try the case just to squeeze out a little help for a guy who has to live in a neck brace—"

  Milne said, "Come in," looking beseechingly at the door for deliverance. Deputy Kimura, who had been knocking, stuck his head in and said, "The jury’s back."

  "Glory be," Milne said, jumping up and adjusting his robes. "You folks go down to the clerk’s office before five and select a trial date together. Mr. Bailey, learn some manners before I see you again. Nina, if I were you I’d tell my client to adjust his expectations downward. I’d assess this case at this point at less than twenty-five thousand. You’re going to end up in Muni Court if you don’t settle it. You might even expose your client to payment of the insurance company’s court costs."

  "Twenty-five. Outrageous," announced her pompous young opponent.

  "And you, Mr. Bailey. Talk to someone in your office with some experience and sage advice before you come back. You annoy me."

  "I was just trying to—"

  "Now get out of here! Both of you!"

  Nina and Bailey wrangled the whole time they were waiting for the busy clerk to give them some trial dates. They finally settled on a date three months away, which would certainly be continued several times before any trial could actually take place. Bailey gave her a crocodile smile as he headed for the stairs.

  Young Bailey might well show those big sharp teeth. He had cold-bloodedly confounded yet another simple case by doing exactly the job the company paid him to do—namely, postponing, hassling, and complicating matters until her client ran out of money and forced her to settle low. Nina went back to relay the bad news.

  Her client’s bench was empty. He must have gone into the main courtroom, the one Milne had headed for earlier, drooling with anticipation of a settlement. As she slipped through the door, spotting her client in the audience, the jurors Milne had been waiting for were filing back into the jury box, their f
aces unreadable.

  With shock, Nina saw Collier sitting at one of the counsel tables, back rigorously straight, his face, what she could see of it in half-profile, dispassionate. His second chair, Barbara Banning, who had just transferred to Tahoe three months before, sat beside him, her usually wild dark hair twisted tightly into the sprayed French roll of a busy woman on a bad hair day.

  This must be the big case he had been working on for the past year. At the other table, several extra chairs had been pulled up for the three male defendants and their lawyers, including the odious Jeffrey Riesner.

  Nina whispered the bad news to her client. He listened, his eagerness fading, his face above the uncomfortable brace looking crestfallen. He had gotten his hopes up, even though she had warned him not to expect much.

  After he left, Nina stayed. She wanted to hear the verdict. In spite of Collier’s surface cool, he was sweating under the collar about this one, she knew. She could only imagine the all-nighters he’d pulled on this case. In addition to demonstrating his genuine sympathy for the family of the victim in this murder case, a win today would spiff up the invisible star he wore on his lapel, the star of a lawman. It might even win him the election for county district attorney.

  She was vexed with herself. No wonder he had been so hard to reach. His jury had been out. How could she have been so busy with her own concerns not to know it?

  He would get his convictions, as he usually did. Afterward, she would go up and congratulate him, and invite him out for a celebratory drink. The dark air that had hung around him since their hike would fly away and they would laugh and talk as they had before.... She bore the hardness of the wooden bench with a smile, thinking how much she wanted that.

  Milne rocketed through the preliminaries, scanning the verdict form handed to him with brusque efficiency. The bailiff handed the form to the clerk, who handed it back to the jury forewoman. Relatives of the defendants had come breathlessly in during this process, and Barbet Cain, the Tahoe Mirror reporter, sat in the back with her photographer, but otherwise the courtroom was empty. The lawyers and the defendants were standing.