The time has come to see the Judge. It's been a long while since we've exchanged a word. My only sight of him has been through the lens of my telescope. As far as I know, he has not seen me.
I receive the summons midmorning. The phone rings, I pick it up, hear his voice. No secretary or clerk on first to announce the call, just that voice flowing from the receiver like rich warm honey. Hearing it, I feel my heart speed up.
"I've missed you, Kay."
It's the composed, rational, mellifluous voice that becalms all passion, melts all rage. A touch of cheer in it too. Today he's at his best, not judicial, stentorian or pompous. I hear the voice of the man I loved, the man who loved me, then betrayed me without even understanding how he had.
"I need your wisdom," he says. "I'd like to see you, tomorrow evening if possible. But if you don't feel up to it, or would rather postpone . . . of course I understand."
He wants my wisdom! Sweet Jesus!
He was always good at this, making me feel special, singled out from the multitude. To tell me I am among those few to whom he would turn for counsel is to make me feel exalted.
We make a date. I will come to his home at six tomorrow for a drink. He would make it for tonight if it weren't for the County Trial Attorneys Roast or some such affair.
"Justice, remember, Kay, is also politics," he reminds me.
"Yes, I remember," I tell him . . . and think: You taught me so much.
I have trouble concentrating on Sasha when he comes—for this is the night I am to tie him up. Rope trick, rope trick—the words keep flashing through my brain. I seem to be getting things mixed up: my sex life, bondage, trickery, David deGeoffroy and his magic show. Am I so confused I feel tied in knots? Or am I merely haunted by the image of a shower of dismembered limbs?
Thankfully I recover my concentration. Then Sasha and I start having fun. Wanting my bindings to be symbolic, I toss the ropes away.
"I'm not going to tie you," I tell him. "Tonight your shackles shall be composed of will."
He loves the discipline of the exercise, revels in it, thrashing and squirming as I gnaw. When he can't stand it anymore, dares to remove his wrists from the headboard, I admonish him ("Naughty, naughty!"), place his hands back where they belong and recommence the torturous raptures I'm inflicting upon his dusky flesh.
"You're terrible, Kay. Wicked!"
How can I not adore a man who calls me that?
"Yes, a love witch!"
I lap at the precise spot where he relishes it most and can endure it least.
"Lord Vishnu, save me!"
It's an act, but such a delightful one. We finally break down into giggles.
Normally I care nothing about clothes, but here I am before the mirror nervously trying on combinations. Should I go as funky urban artist? The Judge used to like that look. How about stylish fashion photographer? That's how I was dressed the first time we met. Ingenue, the kid he fell for? I can probably put together a schoolgirl's outfit if I try.
I'm disgusted with myself for being so indecisive, though I know this is how people behave when they're dressing to meet an old lover for a drink. We want to make ourselves as attractive as possible in the hope that he/she will feel a twinge of regret. Could the Judge be worrying about his wardrobe too? No, not him; he's too confident and mature.
I finally decide on my "fine dining" outfit: black silk pants and blouse, black pumps, concha belt, silver earrings plus my liquid silver necklace from Santa Fe. I look good, I think, checking myself out before I leave. Actually it's hard for me to dress badly, since everything I own now is black, white or gray. Something I learned the hard way after years of making a fool of myself choosing clashing colors and wearing mismatched socks.
Darkness comes early these late-autumn days. I take a Union Street bus up to Grant. When I get off it's just six o'clock. Thinking it better not to arrive on time, I kill five minutes in an antique store, then meander north via Lombard toward his building on Telegraph Hill, catching the aroma of wild fennel and resin from the conifers and Monterey cypresses that surround Coit Tower.
The Judge's condo comprises the fourth floor and penthouse of a gray stone building, its facade broken by finely detailed bays.
Ascending, I notice lush new carpeting on the stairs. My pulse, I note, is steady. Pausing at the third-floor landing, I take the measure of my sangfroid. No gloss on my forehead, no trembling in my limbs. Excellent! Even though I feel vulnerable (this being one of those few occasions when I've chosen to go out without my camera), I also feel strong.
He's waiting for me in his doorway. Sparkling eyes, cleft chin, sleek combed-back hair. His neck is perhaps a bit more leathery than before, but that's appropriate for an ex-marine. The gray zone in his hair has expanded up his temples, but that only adds to the clubman appeal. He wears a dark blazer, chevron tie, striped shirt with pure white collar. Perfectly creased slacks, glowing shoes—he's the very image of a Man of Distinction stepping out of a Scotch whiskey ad.
"Kay!
He gently pulls me to him, kisses me lightly on the lips.
"Been too long. So great to see you." He stands back. "You're looking great too!"
Dare I blush!
We take the spiral staircase up to the penthouse. The large Japanese plum blossom screen still adorns one wall, the Khmer bronze stands safe in its niche. The Judge, a collector of Far Eastern antiquities, heads the accession committee at the Asian Art Museum
He uncorks a bottle of Napa Valley Cabernet, pours us each a glass, then slides open the terrace doors. I step out, go immediately to the railing. He follows, stands beside me. The sky is black, the air clear, horizon broken by the elegant outline of the Golden Gate Bridge, its traffic flowing like a distant molten river in the night.
We stand in silence. I search Russian Hill, find my building, then the window through which I regularly aim my telescope. In his living room I noticed a small spotting scope on a tripod. I wonder: Does he ever use it to snoop on me?
"The view hasn't changed," I say. "The air here's sweet as ever."
"Have you?" he asks. I turn to him. "Changed?"
"I hope so." I peer at him. "How about you?"
He gives the matter judicial consideration. "I hope so too." Then gently: "Do you have a lover, Kay?" A little taken aback, I admit that I do. He nods wistfully. "Lucky guy."
"What are you telling me?" I ask.
"What I told you on the phone—that I've missed you. I loved you dearly, Kay. I'm sure I always will."
Not knowing how to respond, I merely nod. "Do you ever look over at my place?" I ask. "I look over here all the time."
He smiles, shakes his head. "I try not to indulge myself. Better to steer clear of might-have-beens." He smiles again. "But if occasionally my eyes do fall upon your windows, I always tip my hat . . . even when I'm not wearing one." He raises his hand to eye level to show me how he does it.
We go back inside. I sit down. He refills my glass, takes a seat on the opposing couch.
"Tell me what you've been up to?" he asks, in a manner so sweet and avuncular I let down my guard.
I tell him about my investigations into the old T case, my worries about Dad, that he may have been involved in something illegal. The Judge listens intently as I speak. At one point he gets up to turn on the exquisite Japanese lanterns that line the room.
I lean forward. "If it turns out there was obstruction of justice and Dad was involved . . . I guess what I'm asking is—can what I'm doing get him in trouble?"
Manicured fingers stroke the square cleft chin. "You're asking a legal question, Kay. I'm not your lawyer. I'm a federal judge."
"But surely you can tell me the law."
"I can . . . but should I? Is that really what you need from me tonight?" He pauses. "I think you need another kind of counsel. You want to know whether you should go ahead no matter the risk. Not the legal risk, but the risk to your integrity. Personal integrity's very important to you— I remember that."
"I was brought up to believe it's the most important thing about a person."
"Which is why I—" He smiles. "But I already told you."
Which is why I loved you. Is that what he doesn't want to say again?
"Nearly every lesson Dad taught had to do with truth and honor. There was one. . ." I tell the Judge the story, a bedside tale from my youth:
A man was sent out on a treasure hunt, the kind where you find a note that gives clues to the position of the next note, and so on, until finally you locate the treasure. In Dad's story the hunt takes up most of the hero's life. He is told that when he finds the treasure he will discover "the most valuable thing in all the world."
The man travels the globe, works out the clues, finds note after note, and after twenty years ends up less than a mile from where he started out. The last clue takes him to a rock beneath which, he's been promised, he'll finally find the treasure.
He lifts the rock, digs beneath it, down five feet, ten, fifteen, but finds nothing. Feeling he's been tricked, he flings himself upon the ground. Then he notices that something's been carved on the bottom of the rock. Excited, he adjusts it to catch the light. There are five letters inscribed: T-R-U-T-H. Truly "the most valuable thing in all the world."
The Judge laughs. "Your dad's great. That's a terrific story. And I think in it you may find your answer too. You were taught that seeking the truth is a lifetime's work. I think you must pursue it now no matter how the chips may fall."
He's good tonight, the Judge is. I always thought he'd have made a great teacher. Now that he's shown me my answer lies within my query, I'm reminded of something similar Maddy once said: "We take pictures to discover what we can't see, the truth invisible to our naked eyes."
"You make it sound so simple," I tell him.
He smiles. "Most solutions are. Still I think you should consult a lawyer. I can give you several names. There may be some way of handling this whereby, depending on the outcome, the damage won't be too great."
I thank him. We fall into silence. I'm waiting for him to tell me why he called. When he doesn't, I ask: "That business about needing my wisdom—you were joking, of course."
He smiles again. "Perhaps wisdom wasn't the right word. Compassion—that's closer to what I meant."
More silence.
"I don't understand."
He looks slightly nervous now. "You're involved in something, Kay—something you may have misunderstood."
I tighten. "If this is about—"
"Please!" He raises his hand. "No names. We can only speak of this if we don't use names. Agreed?"
I stare at him. "If that's how you want it." I take a deep breath. "What have I misunderstood?"
"It's not so simple. . . ."
"Most solutions are," I remind him.
He looks grim. I think: This may be the only time I've seen him at a loss for words.
"Sometimes people engage in acts," he says, "acts that may strike others as wrong, immoral, but which are not as they appear. I mean, who among us has the right—" He smiles. "Pretty funny, I guess, coming from a judge. What I'm getting at, Kay, is . . . well, suppose someone takes a benign interest in a class of deprived young people who are living in a way we can't even imagine . . ."
"Benign?"
"You're smirking. Have I said something wrong?"
"I don't mean to smirk, but what you're saying is absurd."
"Look, I know what you think, but believe me, you've got it wrong. It's a matter of preferences, nothing more."
"Just preferences? Are you sure?"
"People like that, prominent people, don't relish having their private lives spread out for all to see. So, sometimes, they'll act in a self-protective manner, which, if you look at it from their point of view, makes perfect sense."
"Just self-protective—is that really what you think?"
"Wait a minute, please."
"No, you wait." I stand. "I can't believe this, can't believe it. We're not talking about the same people. We can't be. If you'd only come out straight and say their names."
He shakes his head.
"Right. . . ." I move to the bronze Khmer figure, stare into its expressionless face. "You're the one's got it wrong." I wheel, face him. "I've been beaten! My life's been threatened! Do you know that? Did they tell you that?"
He stares at me. "If that's true—"
"It is."
"Then my advice is go to the D.A.'s people, tell them your story, leave it in their hands."
"I can't do that yet. I've got no proof."
A thin smile. Now he must feel he has the upper hand. "That could mean there's nothing to be proven."
"There's plenty."
"Then let the justice system take its course. For your own safety, Kay, stop playing Private Eye."
I nod, walk over to the plum blossom screen; note the austere elegance of the design.
"I guess I don't really like that advice," I tell him.
He's surprised. "It's good counsel."
"'Playing Private Eye'—for me this isn't a game."
"I didn't mean to diminish—"
"I'm a photojournalist. A terrible crime's been committed. I'm investigating it. It's the subject of my book." I turn to him. "In your eyes I guess I'm still the pretty little art student with the too-big camera around her neck."
"I didn't mean to make you angry."
"Who says I am? Though I admit the last time we met I was."
"Because I had a meaningless fling with someone who meant nothing to me?"
"Because you made me feel meaningless. You still don't understand."
"You left me. I got my punishment."
"I got mine too . . . because I missed you more than I like to say."
"Look, Kay, I never claimed to be a paragon." He shakes his head. "I'm human, flesh and blood, with frailties like everyone else. You held me to a standard I couldn't meet. That was your verdict. Painful as it was, I had to accept it."
"Which is why I forgave you," I tell him, though his comments remind me so strongly of Sarah Lashaw's mea culpa I feel sick. "The person you showed me wasn't the person I wanted to be with, so for me it had to end. And, admit it—you were starting to get tired of me anyway. I wasn't getting younger. Yet you gave me so much that for all my anger I still treasured you in my heart."
God! I didn't come here to say all this. What kind of damn hole am I digging for myself?
"Listen," I tell him, "a few moments ago you shushed me. That hurt. I want to discuss this thing up front. I want to tell you my side of it. Then I want your advice."
He looks scared. "Don't!"
I stare at him. "You mean that?" When he nods, I nod back casually, my heart sinking inside.
He relaxes, smiles. We talk about our careers. I ask him if there's still a possibility he may move up to the appellate court.
"There's a chance I may move even higher," he says smoothly. "For obvious reasons I can't say more."
I nod. I'm satisfied. He has disappointed me, perhaps as I hoped he would. He has failed my integrity test, placed ambition above loyalty, making it possible for me to feel released. No longer need I long for him, wonder which pretty young woman he has lately seduced. And if he should manage to earn the high judicial appointment he seeks, I will hold close my knowledge that his rectitude's a sham.
"Have you ever been compromised?" I ask him boldly.
He stares at me as if I'm mad. "What kind of awful question is that?"
I meet his eyes. "Sorry. I just wondered, in view of what you've said. I mean, these people are your friends, you're in their circle. They're wealthy. They have political clout. Perhaps they checked around, found out we were once lovers, so they decided to approach you, persuade you to intervene."
"Act as a conciliator in a dispute between friends. Nothing wrong with that."
"No, except they lied to you, tried to use you. I'd think that'd make you mad. But it doesn't seem to have had any effect, which tells me you believe their phony story—whatever it is."
"I don't take sides, Kay."
"That's right, you're a judge. And Justice is also politics."
Choking back tears, I quickly descend the spiral stairs. He follows, but before he can reach me I let myself out, then rush down to the street.
Now there are things I must do. I order a taxi from a pay phone, tell the driver to take me to the Castro.
In the Safeway on Market, I buy a box of chalk, walk over to the mailbox on Collingwood and Eighteenth, leave the mark that will tell Hilly I seek a meeting at eight the following night. Exhilarated at having set things in motion, I drop into a burrito joint for dinner. Then I taxi home, change clothes, grab my camera and go out again on foot to stalk the Gulch.
The fog has suddenly rushed in from the ocean, causing particles of water to accumulate in window screens. But despite the mist, the Gulch tonight seems especially alive, hustlers posing awaiting clients—who appear to be in scant supply.
I spot Sho beside the Korean barbecue in a classic stance, one leg bent so his foot is pressed against the building wall. I sidle up to him, ask what's going on.
"Police sweep," he says. "Scared off the johns. Usually takes a couple days for things to settle down."
I take up a position beside him, position my foot the same way, breathe in the cooking smells, enjoy the feel of the concrete wall against my back. Checking out the parade emerging and disappearing into inky mist, I sense an abundance of energy, hunger, testosterone.
I turn to him. I'm fascinated by the triangular shape of his face and the way it's framed by his long center-parted hair.
"Tell me, Sho—did you ever go out with the bald guy, the one drives the Mercedes coupe?"
He squints, asks why I'm asking.
"Just curious," I tell him. "What's his scene about?"
Sho smiles; "Can't tell you that, Bug."
"Hustler's secret?"
"You'd probably—" He screws up his face.
"—throw up? You think I'm that naive?"
He shuffles awkwardly. "It's just—it's hard to explain to a woman."
"Believe me, there's nothing I haven't heard about and little I haven't seen."
He shuffles again. "Rain probably told you."
I don't reveal how pleased I am to receive this confirmation that Tim knew Crane.
"I hear he can be mean," Sho finally says. "Depends on his mood. Different strokes for different folks. Never messed with me. Probably knew if he did I'd bust his nose."
So much for a "benign interest."
I'm content to leave it at that, but there's more Sho has to say.
"Rumor is he bashed a couple kids. Pissed everybody off. Some of the guys got together, agreed they wouldn't go out with him anymore. But, you know, there's no way to enforce something like that out here. Anyway, I'm sure he still finds what he's looking for, young and sweet. What he likes to do with them—I couldn't say."
"Knob rents him his boys, doesn't he? Tommy and Boat?"
Sho is surprised I possess such sensitive information. "You're wired pretty good, Bug."
"Knob put you with him?"
Sho shuffles, shakes his head. "There're things I just can't say."
"Tim used to tell me stuff."
"Yeah . . . look what happened to him."
"You think he got offed because he talked too much?"
Now it's Sho's turn to shrug. "You don't mess with Knob and make a living on the Gulch," he says.
I thank him, saunter off into the gloom, chewing on this new bit of information. So Knob is king here, rules with a merciless hand. Tim never told me that, but then he was a freelance, and, in Sho's words—look what happened to him.
I join the parade, searching for Knob, but don't spot him on the street. Perhaps he's in one of the bars, doing a deal in the back of someone's car, or, unpleasant thought, tracking me even as I seek him out. I stop a couple of times, turn abruptly in the hope of catching sight of him behind. But the gloom's so thick I doubt I'd see him even if he were trailing me at fifty feet.
I ask myself: What makes me so important to Knob? For all I know, he administers beatings twice a week. But then I'm the only one here who carries a camera, a device that can document meetings between people who would deny they ever met.
Back home, setting down my camera, I realize I didn't take a single shot. An odd event, but then it's been a strange evening all around.
Approaching my telescope, I swing the tube from its usual position, trained on the penthouse of the Judge. I don't even bother to check the viewfinder to see if he's standing outside brooding over our final words. Rather I pick the whole apparatus up and move it to the bay window of the dining room. The view from here is only a smidgen different, but the new position will remind me I'll be taking a new perspective from now on.
The phone rings. I pick up.
"I'm in a pay phone." It's Hilly. She doesn't identify herself. "Got your message. I'll be there." She clicks off.
I smile; I do enjoy this cloak and dagger stuff, so perhaps the Judge was right. In a sense I am playing Private Eye . . . but then it no longer matters what he thinks.
Ariane: I dream of her, this woman I have never seen. I may have lost Tim, but it gives me hope that his twin, whom I'm convinced I will one day find, still walks the earth.
In the morning I wait around until eleven, then set out for Clement Street. I want to arrive just after the baking and Dad's prime business hours, yet catch him before he goes out on errands.
He's standing outside City Stone Ground when I arrive, talking to one of his suppliers. I study him as I wait: a huge friendly bear of a man in a white apron with smears of flour on his forearms and cheeks.
The staff is friendly. Everyone greets me. "Hi ya, Kay!'' "Hi!''
Tamara brings me coffee and a slice of panettone. Peter stops to show me the new narrow crusty baguette. Kids, he tells me, love these long thin loaves; they pretend they're swords, fight duels with them.
Dad gives me a great hug. "Wanna have lunch?" he asks. "Chinese?"
I shake my head, suggest since it's a beautiful day, we pack a picnic and take it into the park.
He thinks that's a great idea, strips off his apron, goes to the refrigerator, extracts a half-bottle of rosé, packs two narrow baguettes into a canvas bag, then leads me down Clement two blocks to a Russian deli, where he purchases napkins, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, a little container of blackberry-and-green-coriander sauce, and a cold flattened Tabaka-style chicken which he orders cut up.
With these gastronomic treasures, we walk into the Presidio, find an empty picnic table overlooking the golf course and sit down to feast.
We make small talk for a while. He knows I've come for a reason, but for now we pretend we're on a pleasant father-daughter outing in the woods.
I ask after Phyllis. He tells me she's made a huge sale in Pacific Heights.
"Sold a floor of that fancy ocher building on Washington."
"Don't know it, Dad. Remember, I don't see colors." He winces. The moment the words escape my lips I'm angry at myself for sounding bitchy.
"Sorry," I tell him. "That wasn't necessary. I had no right. You, who helped me more than anyone . . ."
He places his hand on mine. "I'm a fool to have forgotten, darlin'." He smiles. "It's the building next to the big Spreckels house."
"Sure, I know it."
"Sold it for two million eight. She'll split six percent—net eighty-four thou. Not bad."
I can tell he's not really excited by this; he repeats it by rote, as if straight from Phyllis Sorenson's lips.
"Phyl says she wants to blow some of it on a Christmas trip. She's got Hawaii in mind. When I told her I always spend my holidays with you, she said she'll invite you and her daughters along."
I can imagine how much fun that's going to be—Christmas in some big beachfront hotel, beholden to a woman I can barely stand, along with her two college-age daughters whom, having met only once, I hoped never to see again.
"Actually, Dad, I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
He laughs. "That's what I told her. So it's off."
"How're the two of you getting along these days?"
"So-so," he says. "Actually, I think we're getting kind of tired of each other, wanna know the truth."
I nod respectfully, not sure I'm happy about that. Though I don't care for Phyllis, I hate to think of Dad companionless.
"We went to see them," I say.
He looks up; he's nibbling on a Russian pickle. "If you don't mind my asking, darlin'—just who is 'we' and who is 'them'?"
"We is me and Joel. Them is Ricky, Wainy, and Vasquez. Billy Hayes is dead."
He nods.
"You didn't mention that the other day."
"I didn't much feel like describing how it happened."
I nod to show him I understand. "Anyway, Vasquez refused to talk."
"Figures."
"Ricky and Wainy, on the other hand, they talked a lot."
Dad dips a piece of chicken into the blackberry sauce, places it in his mouth. He's so calm, so thoroughly at ease, I wonder if I'm onto something after all.
"They went off on riffs, the two of them. Lots of words but the underlying meaning wasn't clear." Again Dad smiles. "Still, thinking it over, I decoded some of it. You know, what they call the subtext."
"I believe I've heard that word, on public television I think."
"You're hilarious, Dad!"
He grins. "Humor, they say, can sometimes leaven the load."
I'm grateful he wants to lighten up. At least this time he isn't twisting his neck against his collar.
"What I got out of it is more like a theory. Because, you see, though they were drinking and talking crazy, they were also careful about what they said. Maybe they thought we were recording them." I pause. "In fact, I was."
"So, you got a theory, darlin', share it, why don't you?"
I lay it out for him, first Ricky's numerous references to each cop's propensity for violence.
"Billy Hayes's boxing skills, a hint that Vasquez might be cowardly. Wainy, he said, busted a few heads in his time. What he said about you is you could swing a nightstick good as anyone in Central Command."
"And himself?"
"He didn't say."
"Ricky knew how to be a brute."
"So that leaves us with a gang of five cops, four with tempers, capable of beating people up."
"That's good." Dad smiles. "I'm impressed. Go on."
"Ricky also made a point about how none of you were clumsy or dumb, none of you the type to bungle evidence. Yet somehow, by some mysterious process, you all seemed to become afflicted at the same time with this lose-the-evidence 'disease.'"
Dad laughs. "Disease—I like that. Kind of sums it up."
"What're you telling me?"
"Just listenin', darlin'. You're the one doing the tellin'."
I boil down Wainy's ravings. "First he boasted about how he and a fellow guard in Santa Cruz beat an amusement park intruder to a pulp a few nights before. Then he claimed to be harboring a secret about Sipple, which, if he told it, could hurt people including you." Dad doesn't blink. "Finally he admitted this secret concerned the location of what he referred to as 'that bag of ever-lovin' shit-eatin' fuck-all ev-eye-dense.'"
"So, darlin', what'd you make of all that?"
"That Wainy's still got a violent temper and that the Sipple evidence wasn't neglectfully lost, but stashed."
"Putting that together with what Ricky told you, you come up with a pretty grim picture, right?"
"Jesus, Dad! Do I have to spell it out?"
"Only if you want to, darlin'."
"You could put it together for me, couldn't you?"
"I could," he says. "Let me think about it a little first."
Suddenly I realize that what he's just said is about as far as I've been prepared to hear him go. Anything more and I'm not sure I can take it, anything less and I'll leave with the feeling he's a liar.
"That was a load of crap you handed me the other day," I tell him. "About the guy who tied up Sipple maybe not even being the T killer. Or—what was your other theory? That maybe the whole Sipple incident was a plant—whatever that was supposed to mean."
Dad stares at me, not blinking.
"Why?"
"Why what, darlin'?"
"Why'd you try and mislead me?"
"'If I did, you can be sure I had my reasons." He pauses. "Know something?" He smiles. "That I didn't succeed only makes me more prouder of you than ever!"
I study him. He's showing me the face of a parent whose kid has just won a trophy. I realize he actually is proud his deception failed,
I want to scream! What's going on? I turn to him. He's staring into my eyes.
"What," I ask him, "what the ever-loving hell did the five of you guys do?"