FOURTEEN

High Power’s attorney conference room was in use, so the sheriffs cleared the barber shop just outside the unit, handcuffed Theo to the barber chair, and left us to it. Theo took in his surroundings with a grin, spun in the chair and pointed to a jar of blue liquid on the counter.

“Barbicide,” he said. “Is that what barbers drink to kill themselves?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s disinfectant. How are you holding up?”

The grin became a tentative smile. “Uh, I’m actually . . . fine.”

His jailhouse pallor was unmistakable, but his eyes were clear and beneath the jumpsuit he looked remarkably fit.

When I commented on that, he continued, “I exercise when I’m bored. Sit-ups, push-ups, isometrics. I only eat half the crap they serve us, so I won’t get fat. My mom comes to see me almost every day. I get a lot of mail from gay guys who think I’m some kind of hero. I’m completely clean for the first time in my life. I’m reading and doing some writing, too. Telling my story. Maybe if I tell it, it will help some closeted kid make better decisions than I did. Anyway, except for the being locked-up part, I’m really okay, Henry.”

His account was unusual, but not unheard of. I’d had a few other clients whose lives on the outside had been so chaotic and desperate that the regimentation of life in custody had given them structure and with it a certain measure of serenity and even purpose. Of course, it was early days for Theo. He might not feel so positive if he got handed a life sentence without possibility of parole. Or death.

“How’s your health? Any changes?”

He shook his head. “Not so far.”

“Good. I have some news for you, Theo. Freddy Saavedra is an undercover cop named Alfredo Sumaya.”

“What!”

I gave him the complete story and showed him the photographs of Saavedra that Bruce Lindell had taken at the airport.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, looking at the pictures. “A cop.” He handed them back to me. “Is this good for me?”

“It is,” I said, and laid out the entrapment defense, though cautioning him that it was, by no means, a slam dunk. “The thing is,” I concluded, “if this is our defense, you’ll have to testify because you are the only one who can tell the jury how Saavedra induced you to participate in the bombing.”

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“Once I put you on the stand, the DA gets a crack at you. He’ll go for broke. He’ll try to bring out everything he can about your past to discredit you.”

“Like that I was a drug addict? That I did porn and escorted?”

“Yes,” I said. “All that. If you really had a jury of your peers made up of other gay people, none of those things would be particularly shocking to them or discrediting to you, but we’re going to be dealing with straight people. We can try to minimize the impact by bringing that stuff out on direct and relating it to how you were thrown out of your family as a teenager and had to make your own way.”

“What about me being HIV positive?”

“I won’t ask about that if you don’t want me to.”

“No,” he said. “You have to. I want the jury to know because it was after I found out that my life fell apart. When I really starting drinking and using, when I got so angry and ashamed and scared. Freddy used that against me.”

“All right, maybe the jury should hear about your status.” I paused. “I know they’ll want to hear remorse.”

“That I’m sorry for killing that man? I am sorry. I am.” He sighed. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I don’t even know what he looked like.”

I dug through the photographs and found an image of Daniel Herron talking to a couple of older men on the steps of the church. I handed it to Theo. “He’s the man on the right.”

Theo held the photograph up. “He’s a nice-looking man. Was he married? Did he have kids?”

“Married,” I said. “He and his wife didn’t have children.”

Theo didn’t need to know about Herron’s other family; even the dead are entitled to their privacy.

With a quizzical expression, Theo continued to examine the photograph.

“That’s the guy,” he said, finally.

“What guy?”

“The old guy on the left? That’s the guy who was with the security guard who busted me and Freddy when we went to scout the church the Sunday before we planted the bombs. Who is he?”

I took the photograph and looked at the tall, thin, craggy-faced, white-haired man listening to Herron with a sour expression.

“No idea,” I said, slipping the photograph back into my folder, “but I’ll have Freeman track him down to testify he saw Freddy at the church that day.”

••••

When I got back to the office from the jail, Emma handed me three message slips that she’d paper-clipped together.

“What’s this?”

“Someone who wants to talk to you very, very badly,” she replied.

I looked at the name. Marc Unger.

••••

The New York Company was a gay bar and restaurant close to the rambling Spanish Mission house Marc shared with his lover, a corporate lawyer named Jacob Miranda, at the crest of a hilly street above the Silverlake reservoir. I’d been to their house for a couple of dinners and while I liked them, they and their crowd were seriously committed drinkers, so I’d politely declined further invitations. Marc was at a corner table exchanging an empty glass for a full one from the handsome, hovering waiter. The waiter’s face and the back of Marc’s head were reflected in the smoked mirror wall that, along with the tiny pink-lensed follow spots, gave the place a theatrical appearance.

“Marc.” I pulled out the barstool and joined him.

He looked up, his eyes heavy-lidded, the smell of expensive booze coming off his breath. He was still wearing his suit, a gray chalk stripe, but he’d loosened the burgundy tie and unbuttoned his top collar button to reveal a tuft of graying chest hair. “You want a drink?”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, right, you don’t drink,” he remembered. He touched his glass. “This won’t bother you?”

“My problem is my drinking, not yours. You wanted to talk to me about the Latour case. What’s the city’s interest in a criminal case?”

“The same as always,” he said, wearily. “Saving the department’s bacon. The DA passed along your discovery request for Officer Sumaya. The department is not inclined to give you the information you want.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not going to fly with Judge Mayeda. Is the department prepared to defy a court order?”

“I’m here to avoid a standoff.” He tasted his drink. “What kind of plea are you looking for?”

“Wait,” I said, startled. “You’re the city attorney, not the district attorney. You don’t have any authority to deal a criminal case.”

He rolled his eyes. “Remember what I did with that case in Santa Monica that you were on? I have the authority to do whatever I need to do on behalf of the department to make this go away.”

“That was a misdemeanor prosecution,” I reminded him. “This is a capital murder case.”

“What do you want,” he asked irritably, “a note from my mom? You want a deal or not?”

“The fact that you’re even offering me one is an admission that Sumaya infiltrated QUEER as an agent provocateur and goaded my client into participating in the bombing.”

“It’s not an admission of anything,” he said, flatly. “There will be no admission of any wrongdoing by the department. That’s the price of your deal.”

He looked tired and half-drunk. I had a feeling this wasn’t an easy assignment for him.

“This bothers you, doesn’t it?” I asked. “It should. Your client stage-managed a violent attack on a church to swing votes to pass the quarantine initiative by painting gay people as terrorists.”

He emptied his drink, held up the glass. The waiter materialized, and Marc grunted, “Same.” When he left, Marc said, “The last time I looked the initiative was running behind by three points. Anyway, the sooner your case is resolved, the faster it drops off the public’s radar.”

“Answer me one question: Did Sumaya know Daniel Herron was going to be at the church when he blew it up?”

“I’m not here to answer any questions. I’m here to settle the case. What do you want?”

The waiter returned, depositing Marc’s drink, and looked at me. I shook my head. He left.

“He’ll plead to voluntary manslaughter. All the other charges are dismissed.”

He stared at me disbelievingly. “Voluntary manslaughter? Three to eleven years for what he did? Are you crazy?”

“What he was entrapped to do.”

“That’s his story,” Marc snapped. “Maybe we’ll let Sumaya testify and tell a different story. Who do you think the jury will believe?”

“Let’s see, an undercover cop with a background in explosives who was assigned to infiltrate a nonviolent organization and foment violence and who planned and participated in a church bombing that killed an innocent man. That story? The one I’ll force out of him on what I promise will be a long, tough cross-examination.”

Marc grumbled, “I can’t sell manslaughter. He has to plead to murder.”

“I’m listening.”

“Second-degree murder, fifteen to life. He’d be eligible for parole in as little as five years.”

I hadn’t expected Marc to agree to manslaughter. Given the publicity surrounding the crime, I figured the DA would need to cover himself by being able to throw around the words “murder” and “life sentence” when, inevitably, people questioned why the case had pled out. He’d have to hope most people didn’t look too closely at what he had given up— not only the death penalty or LWOP but even a first-degree murder conviction, which would have carried a minimum sentence of twenty-five years. It was a good deal, the best deal I could have expected. Marc wouldn’t be offering it unless whoever he was answering to believed there was a real possibility of an acquittal if I got their cop on the stand.

And that was my dilemma. If I went to trial, maybe I could get an acquittal, but juries are notoriously unpredictable. I’d met Freddy Saavedra, but not Officer Alfredo Sumaya. As Sumaya, he might clean up nicely and present well to the jury. Also, I only had Theo’s side of the story, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that all criminal defendants lie to their lawyers about something. I didn’t know if Sumaya would reveal details of his relationship with Theo that Theo had lied to me about that would complicate the entrapment defense.

Then there was the near certainty that some jurors, no matter what they said on voir dire, would be biased against gays. Finally, the fact remained that a man had been killed— and a clergyman at that. It was only natural that the jurors would want to see someone punished, particularly if the DA brought it as a capital case and emphasized the atrocity of the killing. I’d seen the photos of what was left of Daniel Herron’s body and could imagine the DA passing them around to the jurors as the medical examiner testified in full and disturbing detail to the manner and cause of death.

“He has to serve his sentence in Vacaville.”

“The prison hospital?” Marc asked, puzzled.

“He’s HIV-positive, Marc.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You know placement’s up to the Department of Corrections.”

“If the judge recommends confinement at Vacaville and the DA concurs because of Freddy’s status Corrections won’t fight it,” I said. “It’s in the department’s interests to have HIV-positive inmates in one place where they can be cared for and monitored.”

He smirked. “You mean they should be quarantined?”

“They’re already confined, Marc. It’s not the same thing at all. Right now, those inmates are scattered through a system that doesn’t even provide condoms—”

“Because butt sex is strictly prohibited in prison,” he interjected.

“—much less appropriate medical care,” I concluded.

“Write a letter to the editor. Do we have a deal?”

“I need to sell it to my client.”

“It’s a fucking gift and you know it,” he growled.

“I don’t imagine he’ll object.”

He nodded. “How did you figure out Sumaya was undercover?”

“That’s privileged. How long before the bombing did you know he was working undercover in QUEER?”

“Privileged.”

“Have the cops infiltrated other gay organizations?”

“Also privileged.”

“So that’s a yes. You’re all right with this, Marc? The cops going into our community and trying to discredit the organizations fighting AIDS when no one else gives a shit? You’re good with that?”

“Fuck you, Henry. Would you rather have me keeping an eye on the cops or some straight guy who’d sign off on whatever shit they wanted to pull?’

I had to give him that. Marc wasn’t closeted or self-loathing or reactionary; he was an out gay man, active in the community and politically progressive. He might not be much of a watchdog on the cops but better any kind of watchdog than a lapdog.

“Point taken,” I said.

He sighed. “I really wish you drank so we could get drunk together.”

I smiled. “You’re doing fine without me. You need a lift home?”

“Jacob can come and pour me into his car.”

“Give him my regards.”

“He wants you to come to dinner. He has a doctor he wants to set you up with. A brain surgeon, no less.”

“I’m dating someone,” I said.

Marc’s eyes widened. “What? You’ve been holding out on me.”

“We just dealt a capital case. My love life didn’t seem relevant.”

“I have to meet the guy who took you away from me. Come to dinner anyway and bring him. Jacob will call.”

“Sure. Good-night, Marc.”

I stopped at the entrance, glanced back, and saw him order another drink.

••••

“It’s a good deal,” I said to Theo and his mother.

“But,” she said, “my boy didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

The three of us sat in the attorney conference room. I’d received special permission to include her in the meeting. It was remarkable how cooperative everyone had become after my conversation with Marc Unger.

I was about to explain to her the felony-murder rule when Theo said, “It’s okay, Ma. Henry’s right. I planted the bombs at the church, even if I didn’t know anyone was there. I didn’t make sure the place was empty. I deserve to be punished for that, and fifteen to life is better than death.”

“He’d be eligible for parole in as little as five years,” I said.

She reached for her son’s hand. “I’m the one who should be punished for not standing up for you.”

“You’re here now,” he said.

“You forgive me?” she asked, tearily.

“You know I do. You forgive me for all the worry I caused you?”

“Oh, Theo . . .” She pressed his hand.

He turned to me. “I’ll take the deal.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” I said. “Trials are crapshoots. Now at least you know you’ll have a future.”

“Unless AIDS gets me first.”

His mother said, “Don’t say that, Theo.”

“You’ll be at the medical facility,” I reminded him, “and your mom and I are both going to be keeping an eye on you.”

He nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“We’ll be back in court next Monday to take your plea. Mrs. Phillips, we need to go.”

She grasped his hand in both of hers. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too, Ma. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

••••

That weekend QUEER threw a fundraiser barbecue for Theo’s legal defense fund at Laura Acosta’s bungalow in Atwood Village. By the time Josh and I arrived, the nearest street parking was two blocks away. A rainbow of balloons attached to Laura’s mailbox marked her house, but the blaring disco music and kids passing joints on the veranda made the same point. We passed through small crowded rooms to the unexpectedly capacious back yard where I caught sight of Kim Phillips.

Theo’s mother was clutching a drink with a dazed expression. I tried to imagine the scene through her eyes— the shirtless boys making out on the lawn, bodies twisted together like origami; the spiky-haired, nose-pierced boy in cut-off jeans and a Keith Haring T-shirt; the slender young woman in a sundress patterned with sunflowers, wearing combat boots and with bright pink and purple hair; and Laura Acosta, a striped apron covering her pink guayabera shirt and khakis, standing at an enormous grill, prodding meat with a long fork with one hand and chugging a beer with the other. The warm, still air reeked of grilled beef, beer, and pheromones.

“Kim,” I said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Theo told me about it,” she replied. “This is really something.”

“It’s a party,” I replied. “These people are here to help your son and to have fun while they’re doing it. This is my boyfriend, Josh.”

“Hi,” Josh said, extending a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been friends with Theo for a long time.”

She took his hand. “You’re the one who took him off the streets and let him stay with you.”

Josh nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope he didn’t get you into too much trouble.”

“All that matters now is helping him.”

She pressed his hand and released it. To me, she said, “I wanted to thank the person in charge.”

I smiled. “If you find that person, let me know.”

“What?” she replied, confused.

“Never mind. Let me introduce you to our host.”

We made our way to Laura.

“Hombre!” she shouted when she saw me. “You made it!”

I squeezed through the throng to reach her. “This is quite a turnout.”

“I just hope we have enough food. Tacos for the meat eaters, veggie burgers for the vegetarians plus all kinds of salads, rice, and beans. Yeah, it’s a big crowd, and half the people I’ve never seen before, not at our meetings anyway.”

“Laura, this is Kim Phillips, Theo’s mom. She wanted to thank you for throwing the fundraiser.”

Laura handed me the fork and her beer and embraced the older woman. “I’m glad you’re here, Kim.”

Nonplussed, Kim murmured, “Um, thank you. I’m glad I’m here, too.”

In the same commanding voice she used to quiet the babble at QUEER meetings, Laura shouted, “Hey, everyone, settle down for a minute. I want to introduce you to two important people. This is Henry Rios, Theo’s lawyer, and this is Kim, Theo’s mom.”

Her announcement was greeted by finger snaps and cheers.

“Let me take you around and introduce you to Theo’s friends,” Laura said. “Rios, mind the grill.”

“I really don’t know how to cook,” I said.

She grinned. “And you call yourself a maricón.” She peered through the bodies, spotted who she was looking for, and called, “Patty, come over here!”

The pink and purple-haired woman in the sunflower dress cut through the crowd.

“Henry, Kim, mi novia, Patty. Patty, el abogado y la madre. Listen, will you take charge of the grill for a minute so I can take Kim around?”

Patty rolled her eyes and said, “You know I’m a vegetarian.”

“M’ija, no one’s asking you to eat the meat; just make sure it doesn’t burn.”

I handed the fork to Patty and followed Laura and Kim into the crowd. A firm hand on my shoulder stopped me. I turned. Two men stood before me, the taller of the two still grasping my shoulder. He was a six-foot-something, middle-aged, pink-faced man with thinning, cornstalk blond hair, blue eyes, and decisive features, wearing khakis and a blue Lacoste polo shirt over a religiously exercised body. His companion was a little shorter and at least ten years younger, a handsome, leanly muscular African-American guy with sculpted features and warm eyes in a pink Lacoste polo and carefully pressed white walking shorts. They looked prosperous and out of place in the ragamuffin QUEER crowd; I would have pegged them as Log Cabin Republicans.

“Mr. Rios,” the older man said, dropping his hand. “I’m Ed Madden, and this is my partner, Tom Lucas. We wanted to thank you for taking Theo’s case. Can you talk about the kind of defense you’re planning?”

“Well, actually, I can’t. Attorney-client privilege.”

“He did it in self-defense,” Tom Lucas said abruptly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Killing those bigots is self-defense,” he continued. “I only wish he’d thrown the bomb during a church service and taken out more of them.”

I glanced at Madden, expecting to see censure but he was nodding. When he saw my dismay, he said, “This initiative makes it pretty clear it’s us or them.”

“We’ll defeat them at the ballot, not by blowing up their churches,” I said. “Violence doesn’t change minds; it only leads to revenge.”

“You think if we win that’s the end of it?” the younger man demanded. “They’re going to keep coming back, year after year, with some new scheme to shove us back into the closet.”

“And we’ll keep fighting them,” I replied.

Lucas said, “Keep fighting them? No one should have to live like that. Just once, Mr. Rios, I’d like to wake up in the morning and not already be furious.”

His lover embraced him from behind, arms crossed around the younger man’s chest. “We’re both HIV positive,” Madden said. “Fighting the virus and these bigots— that’s asking a lot.”

“I know it is.”

“My friends die lying in their own shit,” Lucas said, in a fury. “Blind, in terrible pain. And these Christians want to lock us up? Hell, yeah, we should kill them. Let them see what it feels like to lose people you love.”

His eyes were furious, daring me to contradict him. I didn’t know what else to say. Fortunately, Josh grabbed my hand and said to the men, “Will you excuse us? Come on, Henry, you need to eat something.”

He dragged me away before I could protest, pulled me beneath an awning that shaded a corner of the patio, and pushed me into a plastic lawn chair.

“Sit,” he said, “and don’t talk to anyone else.”

A moment later, he returned with a plate of food and a glass of iced tea. “Here.”

“What’s all this? Did you think I needed rescuing?” I asked, balancing the plastic plate on my lap.

“Yes,” he said. He pulled up another chair and sat. “Sometimes when you come home from work, you have this look, like you’re carrying too many secrets and they’re all disturbing. You had that look just now talking to those guys. You can’t carry the weight for everyone.”

“That’s the job,” I muttered.

“This isn’t work. Relax. Eat. Enjoy the sun.”

“You should eat, too.”

“I’ll get a plate in a minute.” His eyes followed Laura and Mrs. Phillips working the crowd. “It’s nice that Theo’s mom is here.”

“They’ve reconciled.” I put down the forkful of beef I’d been about the eat. “You haven’t said anything about your family lately.”

“I’ve been talking to my sisters. They’ve both been working on my dad, but he still won’t see me.”

“What about your mom?”

“She won’t go against him. They’re their own little world; they’ve always been like that. Sam and Selma Mandel versus the universe.”

“You’re their only son.”

“My dad has very traditional ideas about the sexes. Men work and women raise the children. Daughters get married and make grandchildren. Sons get a good education, become professionals, start families of their own.”

“One of your sisters is a nurse,” I pointed out. “The other one is an elementary school principal.”

“Yeah, but they gave him grandkids. I was the disappointment and now I’m more than that. I’m tref.”

“What does that mean?”

“Literally, food that’s not kosher, but my dad uses it to describe anything he considers disgusting. Homosexuals? Definitely tref.”

“That’s appalling.”

“I’ve been giving you a one-sided picture of him,” he said. “Once, when I was three or four, we were at a restaurant and a baby started crying, just howling. I was always sensitive, and the baby made me sad and I started crying too. My dad took me outside, squatted down, dried my eyes with his handkerchief, and said, ‘Don’t cry, Joshie. The baby is not sad or hurt. Crying is how babies talk because they don’t have words yet.’ Then he kissed me and took me back inside and sat me on his lap for the rest of the meal and fed me from his plate. See, he can be that kind of dad, too.”

“I hope he can find it in himself to be that kind of dad again. For both your sakes.”

“My sisters will wear him down. Persistence is their secret power.”

“I love you, you know.”

He kissed me. “I love you, too. Henry, do you think this is all happening really fast? We’ve only known each other a couple of months but I’m basically living with you.”

“When you meet in the trenches, and the bullets are flying around you, things speed up. Judgments, decisions, plans. It’s life during wartime.”

“If things were different,” he began, tentatively, “not so crazy, or so scary, would you still want to be with me?”

I looked into his beautiful eyes and said, “I can’t imagine any world where I wouldn’t want to be with you.”

••••

On Sunday evening, I sat at the kitchen table watching Josh chop vegetables for a stir fry while the rice cooker steamed. Cooking, I had discovered, was his secret passion and he was very good at it. I’d never eaten so well. The sun had set but it was not yet night. Still, the room was gloomy, shadows creeping from the corners, the high ceiling fading into darkness. The kitchen was tiled in hand-painted Talavera tiles in green and blue, a big brass light fixture hanging above the island, copper pots and pans hanging from the walls. Ridiculously oversized, like the rest of the place, for two men. I’d been the legal owner of the house for nearly a year, since Larry’s death, but I still felt like a squatter. I mentioned this again as Josh sliced mushrooms.

“You could try to make it your place,” he suggested. “Buy different furniture, have it repainted?”

“Larry’s suits are still hanging in the closet in the master bedroom.”

“That’s not the bedroom we sleep in?”

“No,” I said. “We’re in the guest suite.” I sighed. “I can’t stay here. We can’t stay here. It will always be Larry’s house to me.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We could sell it.”

“We?” he asked, smiling.

“We could sell it and buy a place that would be ours.”

“You know I don’t have money for a house.”

“I don’t either.” I laughed. “But if we sold the place, we could get something smaller with the money. I’d like to stay in this neighborhood. I love it up here in the hills. It’s quiet.”

“I do too,” he said. He pointed his spatula at me. “Are you formally asking me to move in with you?”

I stood up, approached him, and embraced him from behind. “Will you move in with me, Josh?”

He tossed a handful of chopped garlic and ginger into the wok. The oil popped and sizzled.

“Stand back, Henry, and yes, I will.”

“That makes me really happy.”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the phone.

He frowned. “Are you going to answer that?”

Sunday evening calls were never good news.

“I have to. It’s probably a client in jail.” I picked up the receiver from the wall phone. “Hello . . . Yes, this is Henry Rios . . . Yes, he’s my client. . . . What? . . . When? . . . No, don’t move him. I’m on my way.”

I slammed down the phone.

Alarmed, Josh asked, “Henry? What—”

“Theo’s dead. He hanged himself in his cell.”