“Am I officially on the clock?”
He looked at his watch. “Go.”
“The usual rates?”
“Sure. Unless you want to work for free. Of course, it’s always possible Jack won’t hire me.”
“Don’t be silly. The man’s desperate,” I said. I caught Lonnie’s look and amended my claim. “Well, you know what I mean. He’s not hiring you because he’s desperate-”
“Get out of here,” Lonnie said, smiling.
Briefcase in hand, I hiked back over to the public parking lot, where I retrieved my car. My attitude toward Jack Malek had already undergone a shift. Whether Jack was guilty or innocent, Lonnie would hustle up every shred of exculpatory evidence and plot, plan, maneuver, and strategize to establish his defense. I was no particular fan of Jack’s, but working for Lonnie Kingman I’d be kept in the loop.
As I approached the Maleks’, I was relieved to see that the roadway on either side of the estate was virtually deserted. The shoulder was churned with tire prints, the ground strewn with cigarette stubs, empty cups, crumpled paper napkins, and fast-food containers. The area outside the gate had the look of abandonment, as if a traveling circus had packed up and crept away at first light. The press had all but disappeared, following the patrol car taking Jack to County Jail. For Jack, it was the beginning of a process in which he’d be photographed, frisked, booked, fingerprinted,, and placed in a holding cell. I’d been through the process myself about a year ago and the sense of contamination was still vivid. The facility itself is clean and freshly painted, but institutional nonetheless; no-frills linoleum and government-issue furniture built to endure hard wear. In my brush with them, the jail officers were civil, pleasant, and businesslike, but I’d felt diminished by every aspect of the procedure, from the surrender of my personal possessions to the subsequent confinement in the drunk tank. I can still remember the musky smell in the air, mixing with the odors of stale mattresses, dirty armpits, and bourbon fumes being exhaled. As far as I knew, Jack had never been arrested and I suspected he’d feel as demoralized as I had.
As I drove the VW up to the gate, a hired security guard stepped forward, blocking my progress until I identified myself. He waved me on and I eased up the driveway into the cobblestone courtyard. The house was bathed in sunlight, the grounds dappled with shade. The old, sprawling oak trees stretched away on all sides, creating a hazy landscape as if done in watercolors. Tones of green and gray seemed to bleed into one another with the occasional spare sapling providing sharp contrast. I could see two gardeners at work; one with a leaf blower, one with a rake. The sounds of machinery suggested that branches were being trimmed somewhere out of sight. The air smelled of mulch and eucalyptus. There was no sign of the search team and no uniformed officer posted at the front door. To all intents and purposes, life had reverted to normal.
Christie must have been watching, perhaps hoping for Donovan. Before I was even out of the car, she’d come onto the porch and down the steps, walking in my direction. She wore a white T-shirt and dark blue wraparound skirt, her arms folded in front of her as though for comfort. The sheen in her dark hair had faded to a dull patina, like cheap floor wax on hardwood. Her face showed little of her emotions except for a thin crease, like a hairline crack, that had appeared between her eyes. “I heard the car on the drive and thought it might be Bennet or Donovan. Lord, I’m glad to see you. I’ve been going crazy here by myself.”
“You still haven’t gotten through to Donovan?”
“I left word at the office, saying it was urgent. I didn’t want to blab all our business to his secretary. I’ve been waiting by the phone, but so far I haven’t heard a word from him. Who knows where Bennet is? What about Lonnie Kingman? Did you talk to him?”
I filled her in on Lonnie’s intentions. “Have the police unsealed the bedroom?”
“Not yet. I meant to ask about that when they showed up this morning. I thought they came to do something up there. Take photographs or measure or move the furniture. I never imagined they were here to arrest anyone. I wish you could have seen Jack. He was scared to death.”
“I’m not surprised. What about you? How are you holding up?”
“I’m antsy. And feel my fingers. They’re as cold as ice. I catch myself pacing, half the time jabbering away. This is all so unreal. We may have problems, but we don’t kill one another. It’s ridiculous. I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything was fine and now this.” She seemed to shudder, not from cold, but from tension and anxiety. In the wake of Jack’s arrest, she’d clearly erased all her earlier complaints.
I followed her around the front and into the house. The foyer felt chilly and again I was struck by the shabbiness. A wall sconce hung awry. In the hanging chandelier, several flame shaped bulbs were missing and some were tilted like crooked teeth. The tapestries along the wall were genuine, faded and worn, depicting acts of debauchery and cruelty picked out in thread. I felt my gaze pulled irresistibly toward the stairs, but the landing above was empty and there was no unusual sound to set my teeth on edge. The house was curiously quiet, given events of the past few days. These people didn’t seem to have friends rushing in with offers of help. I wasn’t aware of anyone bringing food or calling to ask if there was anything to be done. Maybe the Maleks were the sort who didn’t invite such familiarities. Whatever the reason, it looked like they were coping without the comfort of friends.
Christie was still chatting, processing Jack’s arrest. I’ve noticed that people tend to drone on and on when they’re unnerved. “When I saw Detective Robb on the doorstep, I honestly thought they were coming with information and then they asked if Jack was in and I still didn’t think anything about it. I don’t even know what’s supposed to happen next.”
We moved into the library, where I sank into a club chair and Christie paced the floor. I said, “I guess it depends on what he’s charged with and if bail’s been set. Once he’s booked in, the DA has twenty-four hours to file his case. Jack has to be arraigned within forty-eight hours, excluding Sundays and holidays, of course. So this is what, Thursday? They’ll probably take him before a magistrate today or tomorrow.”
“What’s arraignment? What does that mean? I don’t know the first thing. I’ve never known anyone who’s been arrested, let alone charged with murder.”
“Arraignment’s the process by which he’s formally charged. They’ll take him into court and identify him as the person named in the warrant. He’ll be told the nature of the charges against him and he’ll be asked to plead guilty, not guilty, or no contest.”
“And then what?”
“That’s up to Lonnie. If he thinks the evidence is weak, he’ll demand a preliminary hearing without waiving time. That means within ten court days-two weeks-they’ll have to have him in there for a prelim. For that, the prosecuting attorney’s present, the defendant and his counsel, the clerk, and the investigating officer, blah, blah, blah. Witnesses are sworn in and testimony’s taken. At the end of it, if it appears either that no public offense has been committed or that there’s not sufficient cause to believe the defendant’s guilty, then he’s discharged. On the other hand, if there’s sufficient evidence to show the offense has been committed and sufficient cause to believe the defendant’s guilty, then he’s held to answer. An information’s filed that’s a formal, written accusation-in Superior Court, he enters a plea, and the matter’s set for trial. There’s usually a lot of bullshit thrown in, but that’s essentially what happens.”
She paused in her pacing and turned to stare at me, aghast. “And Jack’s in jail all this time?”
“He’s not allowed to post bail on a homicide.”
“Oh my God.”
“Christie, I’ve been in jail myself. It’s not the end of the world. The company’s not that great and the food’s off the charts when it comes to fat content-hey, no wonder I liked it,” I added in an aside.
“It isn’t funny.”
“Who’s being funny? It’s the truth,” I said. “There are worse things in life. Jack might not like it, but he’ll survive.”
She reached out and placed a hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“You better have a seat.”
She did as I suggested, perching on the edge of the chair next to mine. “You must have come for some reason. I never even asked what it was.”