State’s Evidence Read online

  They kept at it for almost an hour, increasing their speed and their nonchalance with each approach. They never once crashed and they never once laughed; they were afraid only of fear and they were as silent as snails. Twice they disappeared briefly, then returned with more bricks. When they finally gave it up, it was because the stunt was mastered.

  The taller boy grunted something, then swung off his bike and went into the house I was parked beside. The smaller boy yelled a fraternal curse and rode slowly down the street, coasting with the wind. I started the car and followed him. When he dropped his bike to the ground in front of the Quilk house, I stopped the car and honked my horn.

  He gave me a convict’s look. I got out of the car and walked to the curb side and leaned against the fender. “My name’s Tanner,” I said. “I’m from San Francisco. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  The boy spit, the brown, pulsing glob landing a foot from my shoe. “About what?”

  “About your aunt.”

  “What aunt?”

  “Teresa. Mrs. Blair.”

  The boy spit again. “So I’ve got an aunt. So what? Do I win a prize?” He’d worked real hard on his sarcasm. Hard enough to make it real.

  “No prizes for that,” I said, “but it might be worth some money if you talk to me. What’s your name, first of all.”

  “Maybe that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Oh, I’d find out, son. That’s my business, finding out.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Nope.”

  “You from the school?”

  “Nope.”

  “You going to talk to Ted and Mary after you talk to me?”

  “Not if you tell me what I want to know. Then it stays with us.”

  “What kind of money?”

  “Twenty bucks.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “The truth.”

  “Yeah, well, I know all kinds of truth. The truth is, I been hassled by guys like you ever since I could walk.”

  “No hassle, son. Just tell me about the night of June ninth.”

  His grimy brow wrinkled. He stripped off his gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket to give himself some time. The rag around his head, his slight build, his oily, yellowed flesh, his active eyes, all recalled pictures of Viet Cong sappers taken captive inside the perimeter, expecting to be tortured to a distant death. When he looked at me again, his head was tilted and a scheme was brewing behind his eyes. “What’s the big deal about June ninth?”

  “If you were where I think you were, you know that already.”

  The kid had played the angles every day of his life and he was playing them now. “My memory ain’t worth shit, you know? I think it’s going to take more than twenty to fix it.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty?” It wasn’t a demand and it wasn’t non-negotiable. The kid had a lot to learn.

  “No chance for fifty, son. And you won’t get a nickel unless you tell me your name.”

  “Gus. The name’s Gus.”

  “Short for what?”

  “Augustus.”

  “Nice name.”

  “For a fag, maybe,” he sneered. His eyes swept the block and something down the street caught his eye. I turned and saw a girl, his age or a little older, riding a ten-speed down the middle of the street. When she saw Gus, she pedaled faster. “Hey, Grace,” Gus yelled. “Come here a minute.”

  The girl kept riding, head down, clearly fleeing. “Blow me, bitch,” Gus called after her, then turned back to me. “What about the bread?”

  I put my hand in my pocket to keep from slapping him.

  “Thirty,” I said. “And you tell me exactly what you saw that night.”

  “Hand it over.” The paw he thrust at me was as filthy as his vocabulary.

  “First you talk.”

  He gave it some thought. I took out my wallet and pulled out three tens. Gus was doing so much thinking I knew whatever I got from him wasn’t going to be exact, but I decided to go ahead. Gus looked at me with false candor. “I saw a guy get run over,” he said flippantly. “What’s the big deal? Happens every night on the tube.”

  “This wasn’t the tube, Gus. This was for real.”

  He shrugged. “What’s the difference? Real life, the tube—down here it’s all fucking unbelievable, man.”

  “Tell me what else you saw that night,” I prompted.

  “Just two old guys. They were pissed at each other.”

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “I guess. Sort of.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  He gave me a twisted smile. “I might. Then again, I might not.”

  “You ever see either of the men before?”

  He paused. “Nope.”

  “You ever see the man who drove the car since that day?”

  “Nope.”

  “What were you doing down there?”

  “I was with Aunt Teresa, Einstein. I thought you knew all about it.”

  “Why were you there?”

  He frowned. “We were riding around. Me and Aunt Teresa ride around lots.”

  “Where had you been before you got to Oswego Street?”

  “I forget.”

  “Was there anyone else there?”

  “Maybe. I forget.” His smile became a laugh. He enjoyed what he thought was happening. I was just going through the motions.

  “You ever hear the name Tony Fluto?”

  His face darkened. “That’s all I got to say. I don’t know nothing else, so hand over the bread.”

  “Why didn’t you talk to the police about what you saw?” I asked.

  “I didn’t talk to them because they didn’t talk to me.”

  “Why didn’t Mrs. Blair tell the police you were with her that night?”

  “Hey. Am I a fucking mind reader? I’m just a kid. Maybe she wanted to protect my innocence.”

  His grin was as innocent as Manson’s. I could have taken it further, and I probably should have since Gus knew more about the incident than he let on, but I’d had more than enough of Gus. I stuck the tens in my pocket. “Ever been to the Cash Country shopping mall, Gus?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Know the bookstore there? The Book Bag, I think it is.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So you go down there tomorrow and tell the woman behind the counter who you are. She’ll point to some racks of books. You can pick any one you want, up to thirty bucks’ worth.”

  “Hey, you shit. Cash is what I want.”

  “Books is what you’ll get.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Someone’s going to teach you the art of conversation some day, Gus. I hope I’m around to see the lesson.”

  “Yeah?” he snarled. “Why don’t you try to teach me something, old man?”

  “Someone might charge me with child abuse,” I said, “although I can’t imagine who.”

  Just then the door to the house slammed and I looked to see who it was. Ted Quilk was standing on the front porch, his arms folded across his chest, his tattoo rippling as he clenched his fists. “You the guy was here the other day?” he called to me.

  I nodded.

  “You give Teresa my message?”

  I nodded again.

  “Hey, Ted,” Gus broke in. “This fucker took money off me. Thirty bucks. Come on down and let’s take it back.”

  “If he took money off you, it’s because you stole it off him in the first place. Now get your bony ass in the house and wash for dinner.”

  “Aw, get fucked,” Gus muttered.

  “What’d you say, boy?” Ted Quilk screamed. “You get in here right now, before I get out the horse whip, you goddamned punk. Now move.”

  Gus scowled at me then trudged toward the house, head down, momentarily subdued by a cruelty greater than his own. I looked at Ted Quilk. He seemed to be considering whether to come down to wh
ere I was. I decided not to give him the chance.

  18

  The woman at the Book Bag thought I was nuts. And Ray Tolson thought I was lying when I called and told him I’d found his child witness, and thought I was subversive when I told him I’d driven off and left the kid unattended by anyone but his brutal father. I ignored all this, reminded Tolson of our deal and asked if he knew where Teresa Blair might be. He claimed he didn’t. Then he claimed I’d jeopardized his case by not bringing in Gus Quilk on my own. Then he claimed I’d hear from him real soon if the Quilk boy wasn’t where I said he was. I hung up and unplugged the phone. I wanted to paint the windows black and sleep for a week. Instead, I woke up at five.

  The world is not at its best at five. Neither are scrambled eggs, nor milk, nor burnt toast. Coffee, however, is at that hour as essential to life as oxygen and a forced-air furnace. After scraping the sleep and stubble off my face I tuned my radio to a station in Modesto and listened to the farm market reports while I waited for the Chronicle to arrive. When it bounced off the door downstairs I retrieved it. What with Herb Caen and the radio and the crusty paraphernalia in the sink I managed to find something to do until almost eight. For the next five minutes I watched Jane Pauley. I try to glimpse Jane Pauley every day. She makes me feel better. At eight I got in my car and drove south, toward the vaulted chambers of the El Gordo City Hall.

  The regulars must have predicted Ray Tolson’s ultimate defeat, because none of them had shown up for the second day of the trial. Another attraction had doubtless captured them, another melodrama of anguish, treachery, and debauch.

  I was still the only person in the courtroom when Ray Tolson poked his head in the door and looked around, his once-ruddy face now twisted in the clutch of anxiety. When he saw me he came over and sat beside me. “What brings you back here?” he asked wearily.

  “Thought I’d catch the last act,” I said. “Also, I thought you might need reminding of the deal we made.”

  “My word’s good, Tanner,” he said. “The charges against Mrs. Blair will be dropped by noon.”

  “Have you seen her?” I asked. “I can’t reach her at home. Not her husband, either.”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Tolson answered, “and I haven’t seen Grinder, either. He hasn’t been in here, has he?”

  I shook my head. “You going to have a case to put on this morning?”

  Tolson sighed. “The kid’ll get us to the jury, I think. If he decides to talk. And if I decide to let him live. He spent all night playing games, trying to cut a deal. Christ. Only fourteen and already he’s as savvy as a three-time loser. Which is what he’ll be by the time he’s twenty-two. And then the old man got into the act.”

  “Ted?”

  Tolson nodded. “Real sweetheart. Between him and his kid this office will have to expand.”

  “What did Ted want?” I asked.

  “Seems he got busted in a gambling sweep last month. A Lo-Ball parlor that didn’t stick to Lo-Ball. Ted wants the case dismissed and his stake money back.”

  “How much money?”

  “A grand and a half, so he claims.”

  “Quilk hasn’t worked in weeks. Where’d he get that kind of money?”

  Tolson shrugged. “Maybe he hit the Exacta. Maybe somebody paid him to move out of the neighborhood. Maybe he got a part in a Coors commercial. Anyway, that’s not my problem. My problem is, where the hell is Grinder? He was supposed to have the kid here at eight.”

  “Maybe young Gus took off.”

  “We had someone in the room with him all night. No chance.”

  “That’s what you thought about Teresa Blair.”

  “Fuck you, Tanner.”

  I laughed. “He probably mugged Grinder and stole the squad car.”

  “With anyone but Grinder I’d say it was a definite possibility. But Grinder would just as soon shoot him as look at him. How’d you find the kid, anyway?”

  “Just a guess. He wasn’t the first one I tried, either, just so you’ll know I wasn’t holding out on you. How’d you get him to talk?”

  “Oh, I let him think he was conning me, telling me bits and pieces but not enough to be of any use. Then when I was sure he’d really been down there that night, I scared him a little. He’s tough but he’s young. You can scare them till they’re sixteen or so. After that, you can send them to jail or turn them loose. Anything in between is a waste of time.”

  “He may change his mind about testifying when he gets here and sees Fluto staring at him with those musket balls he uses for eyes.”

  Tolson smiled. “I think I got that covered. The kid’s worried, who wouldn’t be, but he’s also looking forward to being a big shot for once in his life. I alerted some newspaper people to be here when he arrives.”

  “You’re a bastard, Tolson,” I said.

  “That’s what it takes, so that’s what I am. I figure Gus won’t have the guts to clam up when he sees all the attention he’s getting and what it’ll imply if he chickens out. You’ve got to be a lot older than Gus before you’re brave enough to tell the media types to get fucked.”

  “Lots of people never get that old,” I said.

  “You got that right.” Tolson looked back at the door once again and shook his head. “Christ. To think my career depends on convincing a jury to believe a wino and a delinquent. They didn’t tell me it was going to be like this in law school, I’ll tell you that.”

  I nodded. “In law school they pretend every judge is Learned Hand and every client is Mahatma Gandhi and every lawyer is Daniel Webster.”

  “I think I’ll invite some of those profs down here some time.” Tolson’s laugh curled around the words. “They’d go into the aluminum siding business in a week. You know,” he went on, “your friend Mrs. Blair neglected to mention that her nephew Gus was with her down on Oswego Street that night. I’m not sure that little omission is covered by our deal, Tanner.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” I said. “I’ve been in El Gordo for a week and I haven’t heard anyone tell the truth yet. Including you, Tolson. You pull out and I’ll go to the papers with how your key witness got found and who found him.”

  “Relax,” Tolson said, then rolled his eyes and went out in the hall. A few seconds later Fluto and his retinue rolled in, the same boiling, roiling menace. Then Tolson’s assistant entered, towing behind her the pickled, listing form of Colin Lufkin. She deposited Lufkin in the front row, gave him what looked like a temperance lecture, than took her seat at the prosecution table. No one paid any attention to her and she seemed relieved.

  A few minutes later Tolson came back, looking glum and wretched. He seemed to have shrunk even further since I saw him moments before, the sinew and muscle somehow missing from his physique. If Grinder and Gus Quilk had arrived, they were somewhere in the wings, awaiting their cue. Neither Teresa Blair nor her husband was visible. The regulars were still in another theater.

  The gavel banged and the judge took her seat. “Shall I bring up the jury, Mr. Tolson?” she asked brightly, indicating she was prepared to begin afresh, to ignore the previous day’s fiasco.

  Tolson whispered to his assistant and she got up and hurried out of the room. Then Tolson stood. “We have been able to locate an important additional witness, Your Honor. An eyewitness to the murder of Phillip Vincent. He is now on his way to the courtroom. I’m therefore happy to say that the State is ready to proceed.”

  Loggins stood up, feigning exhausted patience, a frown slicing like a scar across his forehead. “If the prosecution has a surprise witness to trot out, a witness not listed in response to our previous discovery requests, we would, of course, raise strenuous objection, Your Honor. Apparently the farce continues.”

  The judge copied Loggins’s frown. “What is the name of your witness, Mr. Tolson?”

  “Augustus Quilk.”

  “And has his name been previously given to the defense?”

  Tolson nodded. “My assistant called Mr. Loggins’s office l
ast night, Your Honor, only minutes after we first located Mr. Quilk ourselves.”

  “Last night?” The expression of the judge’s face was rueful.

  “This is preposterous, Your Honor,” Loggins pronounced. “Defense moves for dismissal.”

  The judge smiled wearily. “Is this Mr. Quilk essential to your case, Mr. Tolson?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On his way.”

  “I don’t want a song and dance, Mr. Tolson. My calendar is full. Is your witness in the building?”

  “I’m not sure. My assistant is looking for him now. Detective Grinder of the El Gordo police is bringing in the young man.”

  The judge’s eyebrow rose. “Oh? A child?”

  “I … not quite a child, not quite a man, Your Honor.” Tolson dredged up a smile. “If you know what I mean.”

  The judge smiled back. “I believe I do, Mr. Tolson. I have one of those at home myself.”

  “Your Honor,” Loggins intoned. “The production staged by the prosecution grows more absurd by the minute. There are constitutional rights being trammeled here. I insist upon dismissal.”

  “Relax, Mr. Loggins,” the judge snapped. “Your client’s rights are uppermost in my mind.”

  And suddenly there was silence in the room, as thick and tangible as a drape. The principals eyed each other brazenly, the bailiff closed his eyes, the clerk tugged his tie, the judge hummed what sounded like a lullaby. What Tolson had planned as his coup was fast approaching his funeral, and he was as jangled and disarrayed as the alcoholic witness who fidgeted quietly in the front row. But Loggins wasn’t as confident as he made out, either. He had doubtless assured Fluto that the State would have to dismiss, and it was still too early to tell, so Loggins was examining everything in the room except the frozen countenance of his client. It was a script from Beckett, a set from Fellini. No one wanted to be where they were except me. I was working to keep from laughing.

  The silence vanished with the sound of the rear door opening. All eyes but the bailiff’s turned toward it. Tolson’s assistant hurried to her boss and whispered in his ear. Fluto and Loggins watched with leery interest. Then Tolson’s curse displaced everything else in the room.