The Gods of Guilt(30)

I sat on a large rock I had pulled up from the ground and positioned on a previous visit to the spot. After a while I let the binoculars hang around my neck and I just watched with my elbows on my knees, face in my hands. She was denying everything until one shot with a perfect shape to it got by her, hit the cross bar, and then was put in on the rebound. The bottom line was that she looked like she was having fun and the concentration of the position likely crowded out all other thoughts. I wished that I could do that. Just forget about Sandy and Katie Patterson and everything else for a while. Especially at night when I closed my eyes to sleep.

I could’ve gone to court to force the issue with my daughter, make a judge order visitation and compel her to stay with me every other weekend and every other Wednesday, like it used to be. But I knew that would only make things worse. You do that to a sixteen-year-old and you could lose her forever. So I let her go and began a waiting game. Waiting and watching from afar. I had to have faith that Hayley would eventually come to realize that the world was not black and white. That it was gray and the gray area was where her father dwelled.

It was easy for me to keep that faith because there was no other choice. But it was not so easy to face the larger question that floated above that faith like a storm cloud. The question of how you can hope and expect someone to forgive you when deep down you don’t forgive yourself.

My phone buzzed and I took a call from Bullocks, who had just left the courthouse downtown.

“How did it go?”

“I think good. Shelly Albert wasn’t happy about it, but the judge pressed her on the cooperation component of the disposition and she finally caved. So we have a deal if we can sell it to Deirdre.”

As it was a status conference in camera, Ramsey hadn’t been required to be there. We would have to visit the jail and present the new terms of the offer from the DA.

“Good. How long do we have?”

“Basically forty-eight hours. She’s giving us till close of shop Friday. And the judge wants to hear from us on Monday.”

“Okay, then we go see her tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to her and you sell her on it.”

“Sounds good. Where are you? I hear yelling.”

“I’m at soccer practice.”

“Really? You and Hayley have patched things up? That’s fan—”

“Not exactly. I’m just watching. So what’s your next move?”

“I guess I go back to the law library and hit those files. I think it’s probably too late to go out to Pasadena to pull transcripts”

“All right, well, I’ll let you get back to it. Thanks for taking Ramsey for me.”

“Happy to. I really liked it, Mickey. I want more criminal.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Oh, one other thing. You got another second?”

“Sure. What?”

“I sat to the judge’s left like you said, and you know, I think it worked. He patiently listened to me every time I spoke, and he kept cutting Shelly off every time she responded.”

I could have mentioned that the judge’s attentiveness might have had something to do with Jennifer Aronson’s being an attractive, energetic, and idealistic twenty-six-year-old and Shelly Albert’s being a lifer in the DA’s Office who seemed to carry the burden of proof in her slumped shoulders and permanent frown.

“See, I told you,” I said instead.

“Thanks for the tip,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

After I put the phone away I used the binoculars again to watch my daughter. The coach called the practice at four and the girls were leaving the field. Because Hayley was a transfer, she was treated like a rookie, and she had to gather all the balls and put them in a net bag. During the practice she had been in a goal that faced my position. So I didn’t see her back until she started gathering up the balls. My heart lifted when I saw she still had the number 7 on the back of her green jersey. Her lucky number. My lucky number. Mickey Mantle’s number. She hadn’t changed it and that was at least one connection to me she hadn’t changed. I took that as a sign that not everything between us was lost and that I should continue to keep the faith.





Part 2


MR. LUCKY

TUESDAY, APRIL 2





11





There is never just one case. There are always many. I liken the practice of law to the craft of some of the premier buskers seen working the crowds on the Venice boardwalk. There’s the man who spins plates on sticks, keeping a forest of china spinning with momentum and aloft at the same time. And there’s the man who juggles gas-powered chain saws, spinning them in the air in a precise manner so that he never shakes hands with the business end of the blades.