Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“Absurd,” I said. “Like you said, anyone who’d been at the trial or read the transcripts would have had enough information to copycat.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Logic has nothing to do with it. It’s a game. There’s a whole subspecies of sharpies makes a living filing death penalty appeals. They’ve got it down to a science, and we pay for it with our taxes.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“What does that say about our society, Alex? A piece of shit like Shwandt can cut up women and kids, gouge their eyes out, shit on them, and get himself a supporting case of legal beagles, access to a law library, three squares, TV, magazines, nutritious snacks. I mean, let’s cut through all the theology and ideology and tell me what reason can there possibly be to let someone like that live?”

“No argument from me.”

“Does that mean you’ve finally converted?”

“To what?”

“The Church of Abject Hostility.”

“Depends on what day you catch me.”

He laughed and started his engine.

I said, “Do you think there’s really any chance of a new trial?”

“Who the hell knows? The goddamn press corps loves the slimy fuck. He feeds them like trained seals.”

I wondered how Lucy would react to the legal circus. Would she see it as diminishing what she’d done in that jury box?

Right now that seemed the least of her problems.

I called Woodbridge Hospital and used my title to cadge information from a nurse.

The patient was still sleeping. Dr. Embrey had not come in yet.

I tried to reach Peter Lowell. No answer.

Phoning my service, I discovered Dr. Wendy Embrey had left a message. My callback got her voice mail. I said I’d be happy to speak to her and returned to the Seville.

I couldn’t rid myself of the thought that something had happened to Lucy that summer. Couldn’t erase the idea of a little girl and a paroled killer thrown together. Heading north on Westwood Boulevard, I drove to Vagabond Books, parked in the back, and entered the store.

The owner was playing his sax. He looked up as I approached, not missing a note. Then he recognized me and said, “Hey.”

The glass case of first editions fronting the register had something new in it, along with the books. Big silver automatic.

He saw me looking at it. “There’s a guy running around robbing used bookstores. Comes in just before closing time, pulls a gun, beats and sodomizes the clerk, and takes the cash. Kid over at Pepys Books is getting tested for AIDS.”

“God.”

He fingered his ponytail. “So what can I do for you?”

“Terrence Trafficant. From Hunger to Rage.”

He took the gun out, put it in his waistband, and stepped out from behind the counter. Ambling over to the rear of the store, he came back with a worn-looking paperback. Bright red cover, black title letters that resembled knife slashes.

Two cover blurbs:

“It stirs and jolts with all the cruel authority of the electric chair!”—Time

“Twisted, heroic, visionary, touched with genius, Trafficant holds us by the scruff and forces us to stare into our own nightmare. This may be one of the most important books of our century.”—Denton Mellors, The Manhattan Book Review

“Doing some kind of psychology research?” he said, ringing up the sale. “You couldn’t be reading for pleasure. It’s really a piece of crap.”

I opened the book. More raves from Newsweek, Vogue, The Washington Post, the Times on both coasts.

“The critics didn’t think so.”

“The critics are brainless sheep. Trust me, it’s crap.”

“Well,” I said, paying him, “you’ve got the gun.”

I got home at three, feeling antsy, yet tired. The ocean was green and silky. Putting the book on the coffee table, I went out, lay down on a lounge chair, caught a face full of ultraviolet, and fell asleep.

Robin kissed me awake.

“Someone on the phone for you.”

“What time is it?”

“Five-fifteen.”

“Must have dozed off.”

She wiped my forehead. “You’re really hot. Better watch that sun, honey.”

I took the call in the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and clearing my throat. “Dr. Delaware.”

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