Chapter 1

July 22, 1996

Monday

Happiness is an untrustworthy emotion. There is always the fear that you'll go to sleep one night only to wake up and find happiness has packed its bags and fled. Leaving you bereft, hollowed out, desperately alone. But while happiness shines on you, life is glorious, the days more beautiful, strangers kinder, laughter easy to come by. It"s almost enough to make you forget the fear. Almost.

The Freedom Agenda was just a few blocks from Long Beach's struggling downtown area. It sat in a short row of stores, between an art supply store and a record shop. I always wondered how those businesses survived. I'd never seen anyone walk into them. It was a short drive from the house my lover, my partner, Ronnie and I owned on 2nd Street.

I was early. Not an uncommon occurrence since I'd stopped bartending at The Hawk, one of the gay bars over on Broadway in a section called the stroll. My boss, Lydia Gonsalez, Esquire, was giving me more hours to make up for the change, but it wasn't necessary. I was comfortable. My boyfriend made a decent living and I'd just inherited a chunk of money which we used to buy a co-op. The third piece of real estate Ronnie and I owned together. If he kept up this pace, in a few years I wouldn't have to do much more than pick up rent checks. I didn't hate that idea.

As I said, I got to work early that day. The door was unlocked, which meant Lydia was already there. I paused in the lobby after I shut the door. I did that a lot. I'd shot a man in just that spot a few months before. There's always guilt when you kill someone, no matter how right that choice. I was happy enough to only think about it for a moment.

When I walked past Lydia's office, she said, "Dom, can you come in, we've a lot to talk about."

"One sec, let me grab my project list."

"I bought you a coffee."

"Thanks," I said, as I rushed to the large open space in the back where I kept my ‘desk'. I wasn't wearing a coat; it was summer and already close to eighty. I kept my keys and wallet in my Dockers. A few moments later, I was sitting across from Lydia with my project list. I took a sip of the latte she'd bought me.

Lydia was about ten years younger than I am, putting her around thirty-seven, thirty-eight. Her hair was coal black and had a tendency to fall over one of her eyes. She had a sexiness that she fought to hide. A battle she rarely won.

"We're deposing Anne Michaels on Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I just got the call from her attorney."

"Awfully early for calls."

"Yes, I think he was hoping to get the answering machine. He'd leave an innocuous message, then I'd call back and he wouldn't be available. He'd try again during lunch. Then he'd be unavailable when I called back…"

"Phone tag."

"Exactly."

"But you answered the phone, so you won."

"I did win," she said with a small, satisfied smile.

Anne Michaels, née Whittemore, had been a witness in the trial of Larry Wilkes for murdering his boyfriend, Pete Michaels, in 1976. Anne perjured herself by claiming to be Pete's fiancé. She'd done so at Larry's suggestion. She'd later married the victim's brother—a story just like a movie Ronnie and I had recently watched on video, While You Were Sleeping. Only this was more like, While You Were Dead.

Anyway, she'd recently agreed to recant her testimony.

"I do have some bad news," Lydia said. "Well, not-good news. I've been doing research and the admission of artwork as evidence is challenging. It's very likely it won't be admissible."

She'd agreed to take the case based on artwork by a deceased witness which impeached his testimony. He'd done page after page of drawings, almost like one of those new graphic novel things, that showed him procuring the gun and then giving it to someone not Larry Wilkes.

"What does that mean?"

"I think we need to get a new trial without it. If I try to use it to get the new trial and a judge rejects it, then I'd have trouble trying to get it in if we got a new trial another way."

"Okay, what's the issue?" Not being a lawyer, it wasn't obviously apparent to me.

"Artwork may or may not be true. Without the artist there to testify, there's no certainty. It's possible I might be able to get it in at trial since it does support reasonable doubt. But as you know, the standard is different for a habeas corpus petition."

"Absolute certainty."

"Basically."

The artist, Andy Showalter, had killed himself several years after the trial. He'd testified that he'd bought a gun in Compton at Larry's request. The gun used to kill Pete Michaels. There were holes in Showalter's story, but the defense hadn't pointed them out.

Raymond Harris was the public defender. To date, he'd provided only a very thin file on the case. A file that should have included discovery from the AD's office but didn't. He was prominent on my project list.

"When will we have Raymond Harris in for a chat?" I asked.

"He's scheduled for Friday morning. He promises he'll bring the rest of Larry's files at that time. He's just got to find them."

Her tone was bitter. It was hard for her to respect lawyers who lost files.

"What do I need to do to prepare?"

"I'll be reading through the entire trial from beginning to end. The main focus of the meeting will be asking about the questions Harris didn't ask. There will be things you'll need to follow up on. We have a half an hour conference call with Larry on Friday afternoon."

"New cases?"

"Not until we file the habeas corpus petition. The court has sixty days to rule. We'll have several weeks to focus on other cases once we file."

"Got it."

Thinking we were finished, I stood up.

"One more thing," she said.

"Okay."

"Edwin wants to have lunch with us today."

Edwin Karpinski was an attorney affiliated with The Freedom Agenda enough to have an office with us, but not so affiliated as to actually use it. He had other offices downtown, which we sometimes borrowed. He wasn't someone I really liked.

"Us? Do I really need to be there?"

"Actually, I'm the one who doesn't need to be there. He asked that I arrange a lunch with you. I had to insist I was invited too."

"Do you know what he wants?"

"He wouldn't say over the phone. But he's driving down and we're having lunch at La Bohème at one o'clock. He wants a favor from you, obviously. I'd say it was a big one given the price of La Bohème and the fact that he hates driving down here."

"If he wants me to investigate something, I'm not sure I'm interested."

Beyond The Freedom Agenda, the kind of law Edwin practiced was mostly civil litigation, and that was mostly corporations suing some part of the government. One group of awful people suing another group of awful people; really not my thing.

"That's why I want to come along. I want to make sure you're comfortable saying no."

"I'm a big boy, Lydia."

"Even big boys need a lawyer now and then."

The rest of the morning was quiet. I spent most of it reading over Anne Michael's testimony and my notes on the things she'd said to me. I also began laying out questions I thought she should be asked. Lydia would be doing that too. I did mine mainly to make sure she didn't miss anything. She rarely did.

Karen, Lydia's assistant, came in and the phone began ringing. Since I killed Stu Whatley, Karen had been wary, distant even. I imagine she would have told the police the truth if it weren't for her respect for Lydia. The only thing she'd ever said to me about any of it was, once at the coffeemaker, "It's never a good thing when White people start lying."

Honestly, I couldn't disagree with her.

Lydia and I left around quarter of one. She drove. On the way we talked about our partners. She was married to a man named Dwayne who was in development at one of the studios. Apparently, a film he'd worked on was premiering soon and they were going to walk the red carpet.

"I don't want to spend a lot. I'm probably going to go to a consignment shop I heard of where the stars sell off their gowns. I mean, I don't expect anyone to take our picture, but I still need to look nice."

"This is one of those moments I'm glad I'm not a woman."

"You wouldn't say that if you lived with Dwayne. He's buying a tuxedo. He's sure he'll need to wear one more often. Of course, I know better. He'll wear it twice then want a new one."

We found a place to park and then walked a block and a half to La Bohème. The building was about eight stories, yellow brick, with a few neo-classical flourishes. The restaurant was on the first floor, next to a jewelry store. The floors above seemed to be offices. We walked up two marble steps into the restaurant.

La Bohème served excellent nuevo Italian food, featuring a well-designed dining room with cloth-covered tables and lovely flatware. Each table had a tiny vase with inexpensive flowers purchased that morning.

On the far side of the room, in front of the window on the Pine Avenue side, sat two men. One of them was Edwin Karpinski. He was in his mid-thirties but looked quite boyish with blond hair, blue eyes and a well-trained body. His suit was gray, his shirt a gentle sky blue, and his tie bold with navy and purple stripes.

Across from him sat his older brother, who was clearly in his mid-forties, had started losing his wheat-colored hair, and spent less time in a gym. Despite the differences, it was easy to see the family resemblance.

Edwin stood up and made the introductions. "This is my brother John."

"Jan," his brother corrected, pronouncing it in the Polish way. Karpinski, of course they were Polish. At least on their father's side.

Nobody offered to shake hands, so we sat down. Before we could say much of anything, the waiter was there asking if we'd like cocktails. Jan ordered a Tanqueray martini with extra olives, I asked for an Arnold Palmer, while Lydia and Edwin stuck with water.

Edwin looked at me and began, "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you?—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, can't you wait until my drink gets here?" Jan said, leading us into an uncomfortable silence.

Lydia broke it by talking about the Wilkes case. As soon as she mentioned that Larry was gay and was accused of killing his lover, Jan interrupted.

"Why would you take a case like that?"

"Because I think the man is innocent."

"He may not have killed anyone, but he's certainly not innocent."

"I have the feeling if I restricted myself to clients you approved of I wouldn't be very busy at all," Lydia said. A very polite way to call him a bigot.

The drinks arrived. The waiter set Jan's down first, and he drank almost half of it in one gulp. Lydia said to the waiter, "You know, I've changed my mind. I'll have a glass of wine, red, Pinot if you have it."

The waiter left and Edwin tried again. "Well, the reason I've asked you?—"

"What exactly are your qualifications?" Jan asked me.

Before I could say anything, Edwin said, "John, I asked you to be open to this process."

"I am open. Why would I ask a question like that if I wasn't open?"

"You know, I can make this easier," I said. "The answer is no."

"What do you mean the answer is no?" Jan said. "We haven't offered you a job yet."

"I have a job. I don't want another one."

"Well, now that that's settled," Lydia said, looking down at her menu. "The calamari is excellent."

"Nothing's settled. I asked your man a question and he didn't answer it. What are his qualifications?"

"His work for us at The Freedom Agenda has been exemplary," Edwin said. "I recommend him, Lydia recommends him. That should be enough for you."

"You know I'd rather go with Harmon and Coyne."

"Because you're friendly with Buddy Coyne who has the biggest mouth on the Westside."

"He wouldn't say a word, he's very discreet."

"John, you know that's not true."

"None of this matters. I've already said no," I pointed out.

"You don't get to say no to us," Jan said. "We say no. You don't."

"Actually, he does get to say no," Lydia pointed out.

At that point, Edwin and Jan slipped into Polish. I have a little Polish. My grandparents spoke it at home and forced both my parents to. I can follow simple conversations. Mostly, I know when I'm being cursed at. I let them go on for a minute or two, then said, "G?upi dupek," which means something like stupid asshole. I didn't know how to make it plural.

The stared at me.

"Reilly is an Irish name. Why do you know Polish?" Jan asked.

"I grew up in a Polish neighborhood in Detroit."

I prayed that Detroit had a Polish neighborhood and that neither of them knew anything about it. Like for instance what it was called.

The waiter returned with Lydia's wine and my iced tea, and told us the specials, one of which filet mignon. It sounded like the most expensive thing on the menu, so I decided I'd get that. We didn't order just then. He left us to decide.

"The specials sound very good," Lydia said.

"Go ahead, tell him," Jan said.

"Finally," Edwin said under his breath. He calmed himself then began, "We have an uncle named Patrick Gill. Our mother's brother. He's just turned eighty. He lives in a nursing home in Beverly Hills. He's been diagnosed with dementia. When he was young, he was engaged to a woman named Vera Korenko. The engagement was broken off and he never married."

"Our mother finds this all very romantic," Jan inserted.

"Now he's saying that he killed Vera. Which is upsetting our mother."

"Was this woman murdered?"

"Yes. She was found in an arroyo near Pasadena."

"When was this?"

"1949."

"No one's ever been charged?"

"No."

"So, he could have killed her."

"Our mother doesn't think so," Edwin said. "She thinks he walks on water. He's much older than she is."

"How would finding out who killed this woman help your situation?" I asked. "Why don't you just tell your mother he didn't do it and forget about it?"

The brothers glanced at each other, then Jan said, "Our mother requires some kind of proof. Our father was a lawyer, we're lawyers, a lot has rubbed off on her."

"In other words, she doesn't trust you as far as she can throw you," I said. That earned me a couple of frowns. "Look, it's a case that's nearly fifty years old. It wasn't solved then, it's even less likely to get solved now. I can take your money, but I can't promise you'll get anything for it."

"Speaking of money," Lydia said. "He gets twenty-five an hour."

"Come on, Lydia," Edwin said. "I know you pay him less than that."

"You're not a not-for-profit, though."

I was tempted to say no again. I didn't need the money. Except, I was thinking I kind of did. I liked to keep a stash of cash, around ten thousand, a gun, and alternate identification in case I needed to leave suddenly. Ronnie had found my last stash and put it into the bank. Now that I didn't get tips, it was going to be a lot harder to squirrel money away.

"I'd need to be paid in cash," I said.

"Hiding it from Uncle Sam?" Jan guessed. For a moment, he seemed to like me better.

"Something like that."

The waiter came back asking if we'd like to order. Jan tried to send him away, but Lydia said, "I do, but I have to get back to the office. I have to work this afternoon."

After that we ordered. Lydia asked for the Caesar salad with shrimp, Edwin the cod, Jan chose lobster ravioli and I stuck with the filet—I mean, why not? When the waiter left, I said, "I'm going to need to speak to your mother and your uncle."

"Of course," Jan said. "But you'll have to promise not to upset Mother."

"You know I can't promise that."

Jan looked like he had indigestion, and the food hadn't arrived yet.