Schickman laced his fingers in his lap, as if to belt himself in the chair.
“Maybe you can help us understand the costs,” I said.
“Set aside, for the moment, the toll on Mr. Triplett, which may be significant,” she said. “There’s also a significant cost to me, and by extension to the men and women who are wrongly incarcerated, at this very moment. While we sit here chatting, their lives are slipping away. If I agree to take on Mr. Triplett’s case, I’m depriving those people of our clinic’s time, money, and resources. Does that seem fair to you?”
“He deserves to be able to hold his head up,” I said.
“Can’t he do that already?”
I said, “Could you?”
Berkowitz smiled again, a touch more appreciatively. “You must forgive my skepticism. As I said, I’ve never been approached by law enforcement.”
“We’re here now,” Schickman said. “That counts for something.”
“It does. Although, at the risk of being cynical, I could point out that, if Mr. Triplett were to be granted a pardon, the police officers who stand to be embarrassed are not presently employed by either of your departments. Whereas I have a roomful of pending cases that do create problems for active officers, some of whom are in your departments.”
“We’re not running cover,” Schickman said.
“I believe that your intentions are sincere,” she said. “But let’s be honest with each other, shall we? I’ve known Chief Ames a long time. Don’t tell me he isn’t happy to score a few points.”
Schickman smiled neutrally. “Our duty is to the public, ma’am.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“But, look,” he said, “you don’t want it, we respect that.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want it,” she said. “Other aspects of the case make it attractive, vis-à-vis precedent. The juvenile angle. Mental health. There’s value in revisiting it. It’s more a question of timing. And I’d like to emphasize that I meant what I said, about the cost to Mr. Triplett. It’s not a quick process. It could take years. He’ll be forced to revisit a traumatic experience. Even with your superiors on board there will be pushback, I guarantee.”
I elected not to mention the fact that my superior wasn’t on board. If he knew I was sitting here, he’d hit the roof.
“Pushback from the prosecutor,” Schickman said.
“Certainly,” Berkowitz said. “The victim’s family, too.”
“We’re bringing them the real killer.”
She shook her head. “They won’t look at it that way. I’ve seen it happen, in cases far stronger than this. To them, we are ripping off a scab. Nor can I control how people react toward Mr. Triplett once the information becomes public.”
She turned to me. “When we first spoke on the phone, you described him as shy.”
“He is,” I said.
“Well, yes, I should say so. I spoke to his sister, as you suggested, but so far he hasn’t returned my calls. So I’d ask you to consider carefully whether he’s equipped, emotionally, to handle the backlash. People will rush to reconvict him. In the press. On social media. They won’t show thoughtful restraint. He needs to be made aware of the risks.”
“I’ll talk to him again,” I said.
“Please do. And have him call me.”
“Say we do move,” Schickman said. “Can you ballpark our chance of success?”
She yawed her head. “I try not to make predictions.”
“With respect, Professor,” I said, “this is a two-way street. He is shy, and if he senses that you don’t believe him, or that you’re not invested, or that you expect to fail, how are we supposed to win him over?”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’m going to say ‘possible.’ ”
“Better than impossible,” Schickman said.
She chuckled, took a pen and a pad from her desk drawer. “These are the names of two individuals in the clinic who I feel would be best suited to handle the case. It might make more sense for them to speak with Mr. Triplett, rather than me.”
She tore the page off and held it out it for Schickman.
“Thanks,” he said.
She nodded. Back to me: “I remember you. From your playing days.”
Schickman raised his eyebrows. I guess he’d never bothered googling me.
“My husband is a basketball maniac,” she said. “He was in the crowd the night you got hurt.”
“I’m sorry he had to see that,” I said.
“I’m sorry it happened,” she said.
“Don’t be,” I said, rising. “I’m not.”
Chapter 43
When Marlborough Ming heard what I had to say about the death of Nicholas Linstad, he responded, “Ah, screw you.”
I told him I’d take that as a compliment.
The following Tuesday we convened at 2338 Le Conte Avenue, the four-story multi-unit adjacent to Linstad’s former duplex. Joining us was the superintendent, a lanky, easygoing Albanian. He led us to the base of the giant redwood that dominated the building’s backyard. He’d gone to the trouble of hauling up from the basement a thirty-six-foot extension ladder — in turn saving me the trouble of renting one, along with a truck to transport it. He’d also brought his toolbox. Ming had brought his mouth and a bulging bag of pastries.
We propped the ladder against the tree and the manager racked it out to thirty feet. I paused, one sneaker on the lowest rung. The top looked ridiculously far away.
“Okay there, buddy?” the super asked.
“You should make him sign a waiver,” Ming said.
I started up before the super could see the wisdom in this advice.
The bark of a California redwood is thick, spongy, hairy, and furrowed, to the touch more like fur than plant matter. Entire ecosystems occupy its crevices; its mass creates a microclimate. Within a few short feet I had entered an unknown dimension, hidden in plain sight, just beyond the tip of my nose. Hectic insects. Spiky leaves tickling my face and neck.
About two-thirds of the way up, I twisted around. I was standing a bit below the duplex’s second-story exterior landing.
I glanced down.
The super, securing the base of the ladder, gave me a thumbs-up.
“Don’t fall, stupid,” Ming called.
My search zone was a band of bark six to eight feet high, that portion of the tree in line with the landing. Starting at the bottom, I moved from left to right, examining one square foot at a time, using my penlight to investigate the hollows, inserting the tip of a screwdriver, feeling for variations in the surface of the wood. When I got to the rightmost edge of the band, I shuttled back like a typewriter carriage, climbed a rung, and began again.
It was tedious, uncomfortable work. Gnats swarmed my eyes, ears, upper lip, forearms, neck. Although I did my best to avoid damaging the tree, inevitably bits and pieces flaked off, red threads that found their way into my sinuses. Pouring sweat, fighting vertigo, I rubbed my face against my shoulder. I really did not want to sneeze, mostly due to the potential for humiliation. I imagined Zaragoza and Shupfer struggling to keep a straight face as they explained to my parents how I’d come to lose balance and break my neck. I imagined Moffett typing up the intake report, unable to stop giggling. Where on the form did you check the box for “dumbass”? Just thinking about it prompted a nervous burst of laughter.
The ladder rocked.
I clung to the rails, held still.
“I think he gonna piss himself,” Ming said.
After half an hour, the super went inside to handle some tasks. Seizing on the chance for a break, I descended. My back ached, my throat was parched, and my knee felt like tissue paper. I accepted a cranberry-orange scone from Ming and uncapped a bottle of water.