We did, in a little semicircle.
“Now all put your hands on top of mine.”
We did.
“Now, lads, say a little silent prayer for our clandestine operation.”
Breuning and Carlisle closed their eyes reverently. I did, too, for a brief moment. When I opened them I saw Dudley staring straight ahead past all of us to some distant termination point.
“Amen,” he said finally, and winked at me.
Lorna’s apartment was a block south of Wilshire near the Beverly Hills business district, and it was a perfect testament to her pride and competence; a neat, one-bedroom affair with subdued, expensive furnishings that reflected the things she held close–a sense of order and propriety, and a nonhysterical concern for the great unwashed. The place was a clearinghouse for her professional interests: the shelves were crammed with law texts and volumes and volumes of statute books for both California and the rest of the nation. There was a big cherry-wood desk placed diagonally into the corner of the living room that held her giant dictionary as well as scores of official-looking papers separated neatly into four piles.
The apartment was also a clearinghouse for wonder, and I tingled with pride as Lorna took me on a guided tour and gave me rundowns on the wonder-filled framed prints that hung on her walls. There was a Hieronymus Bosch painting that represented insanity–hysterical grotesque creatures in an undersea environment importuning God–or someone–for release from their madness. There was a Van Gogh job that featured flowery fields juxtaposed against brown grass and a somber sky. There was Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”–three lonely people sitting in an all-night diner, not talking. It was awesome and filled with lonely wonder.
I took Lorna’s hand and kissed it. “You know the wonder, Lorna,” I said.
“What’s the wonder?”
“I don’t know, just the wonderful elliptical, mysterious stuff that we’re never going to know completely.”
Lorna nodded. She knew. “And that’s why you’re a cop?”
“Exactly.”
“But I want justice. The wonder is for artists and writers and other creative people. Their vision gives us the compassion to face our own lives and treat other people decently, because we know how imperfect the world is. But I want justice. I want specifics. I want to be able to look at the people I send to court and say, ‘He’s guilty, let the will of the people reflect that guilt’ or ‘He’s guilty with mitigating circumstances, let the will of the people reflect the mercy I recommend’ or ‘He’s innocent, no grand jury trial for him.’ I want to be able to see the results, not wonder.”
We moved to a large, floral-print couch and sat down. Lorna stroked my hair tentatively. “Do you understand, Fred?”
“Yes, I do. Especially now. I want justice for Eddie Engels. He’ll get it. But the grand jury system is predicated on people, and people are imperfect and wonder-driven; so justice is no kind of absolute–it’s subservient to wonder.”
“Which is why I work so hard. Nothing is perfect, even the law.”
“Yeah, I know.” I paused and fished in my coat pocket for a large manila envelope. “We’re arresting Eddie Engels tomorrow, Lorna.” I handed her the sealed envelope. “This is my report as the arresting officer.”
She looked into my eyes and squeezed my hand. “You look worried,” she said.
“I’m not, really. But I need a favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t open that envelope until I call you. Just forget about this case until I call you. And when Dudley Smith files with you, know this: my report is the truth. If there are discrepancies, see me. _We’ll_ build the case for the grand jury. All right?”
Lorna hesitated. “All right. You’re putting yourself out on a big limb, Freddy.”
“I know.”
“And you want Engels more for your career than for justice.”
“Yes.” I said it almost apologetically.
“I don’t care. I care about you, and Engels is guilty. You see to your career and I’ll see to justice and we’ll both get what we want.”
I laughed nervously at the imperfect logic of it. Lorna took my hand. “And you’re afraid of Dudley Smith.”
“He’s out of his mind. He’s got no business being a policeman.”