The small woman stepped forward and handed a card to Marlon.
“My name is Ruth Mayer. I am an attorney representing Suzanne Jones. Is she under arrest?”
“No, ma’am, she isn’t,” said Marlon. “We just had some simple questions for her and we were trying to get some simple answers. As a courtesy, we didn’t want to bring her downtown.”
“Suzanne will not speak to you now. I can be reached twenty-four hours a day at the number on that card and I will answer any and all questions on her behalf. If you choose to arrest her, we would appreciate a call twelve hours in advance. Suzanne promises not to leave the state of California for the next thirty days, except in the case of a family emergency. My client is an award-winning primary school teacher, and school starts next week-correct, Suzanne?”
“Yep.”
“You should know that my client is an excellent teacher. My niece had her for eighth-grade history.”
The young man held open the door.
“Good night, gentlemen,” said Mayer. “Suzie, come with me. Jason, the door.”
But Marlon stepped ahead of them and asked Jason to move his hands away from the door. When he let go, Marlon kicked it shut with a slam and turned back to the room.
“Okay, we’ll do it your way. Ms. Jones is under arrest for grand theft auto unless she can explain that STS downstairs. The valet at the Ivy surrendered the keys to it at gunpoint this afternoon. To Allison Murrieta.”
“Don’t say anything, Suzie,” snapped the lawyer. “Not one word.”
Marlon Mirandized her, and one of the uniforms cuffed her wrists behind her back.
Suzanne looked through Hood.
The lawyer told her she’d be free by late Monday morning.
37
At nine Monday morning Ernest delivers ten grand cash to a bondsman for a hundred-thousand-dollar bail bond. The judge accepts Ruth’s argument that as a mother and a teacher with no criminal record I pose little flight risk, but she points out that allegedly there was a gun involved. I’ve been in jail fifty-six hours and my clothes are wrinkled, my hair smells of weak shampoo and my attitude is bad. But the hole in the top of my scalp itches, healing up nicely.
At eleven-fifteen Ruth and Jason the hunk and I walk out of the jail into the hot Los Angeles morning. There are more cameras and reporters than I’ve seen since O.J. Ruth’s office has called every reporter she knows, and many that she doesn’t. I’m beginning to understand how celebrities feel and I like it.
Bradley and Jordan walk beside me, Ernest trails, and I carry baby Kenny, who smiles and bubbles and grunts.
Ruth has given Fox News the privilege of hosting me in return for their airing her full statement, so we make our way through the booms and mikes and the cables and the cameras and the shouted questions bouncing off us like hailstones. There’s a Fox uplink van with a podium and microphone set up directly in front of the Fox News logo.
Ruth steps onto the plastic milk case that Jason has set behind the podium. Ruth is five feet tall, in shoes. She angles the mike and waits for the reporters to quiet down.
“When I first visited the Franklin middle school classroom of Suzanne Jones two years ago, I didn’t imagine that I’d be defending her from the most egregious, false criminal charges that I, in thirty years of practicing law in this city, have ever seen. Now I have that dubious honor. Last night L.A. Sheriff’s deputies arrested Suzanne on suspicion of stealing, at gunpoint yesterday evening, a car from Ivy restaurant. There were two witnesses to this theft. Both witnesses recognized and identified the armed robber as Allison Murrieta. Allison Murrieta, as you know, is a colorful local criminal to whom Suzanne bears little resemblance. In the Sheriff’s Department’s haste to arrest Allison Murrieta, they’ve spun their wheel of fortune and the needle has landed on Suzanne Jones-mother of three, award-winning schoolteacher in L.A. Unified, a former teacher of the year. I’ve seen bad arrests, but this is the first-place winner. I’m sure the district attorney won’t file on this, but if he does, we look very forward to our day in court. But why should you believe me? Use your own eyes and explain to me why the L.A. Sheriff’s can’t tell a brunette from a blonde, or a dangerous felon from a fine and decent citizen. Suzanne, come up here.”
I step over to the mike still holding Kenny. My arms are getting tired and I realize I’m out of shape for holding him, and what a poor mother I’ve been the last few weeks. I’ve always loved lugging around my children.
I keep my head high and look out at the crowd. “This is all a big misunderstanding but thanks for being interested and coming out. Jail is a rotten place, so don’t get falsely arrested on a Friday night ’cause they won’t let you out until Monday. I can’t talk about the case because Ruth will kill me but I’m sure they’ll just drop it when they learn the facts. I’m so relieved that I can go back to my family and my job. I don’t have to run anymore. These last few weeks have been a nightmare for me and my family. I never knew how richly blessed my life was until it was almost taken away.”
I manage a tired smile as I hold up Kenny for a moment, then step away from the podium.
Ruth hops back onto the milk crate for questions.
After lunch we go to Ruth’s office in Century City. We’re twelve stories up, receiving steaming triple espres sos produced by an elaborate copper machine in Ruth’s suite and served by one of her secretaries. The suite is cream-colored everything, except her desk, which looks like Honduran mahogany, and the art on the wall, which are silk screens from Warhol’s animal series and some very nice Hockney lithographs. There’s a glass table with magazines on it and on top is this week’s People with Allison’s masked face on the cover.
When the secretary leaves, Ruth sighs deeply, punches a remote control to open a window and takes a pack of cigarettes from her desk. She offers me one but I decline.
She sits behind the desk, looking hard at me. She’s still looking hard at me as she lights her smoke with one of those long windproof fireplace lighters that is basically a flamethrower. She sets the lighter on the desk, slides a yellow notepad over and takes a pencil from a thick glass holder. Beside the pencils is a small box that looks like a speaker, and she turns it on. The smoke drifts into the box.
“Talk to me, Suzanne.”
“Where do I start?”
“With why you drove a stolen car to a Merle Haggard show.”
“Fastest way to get there?”
“Suzanne.”
“Ruth-relax. This is all simpler than it looks.”
I sit back in my chair and watch her smoke rise and dip. I look her straight in the eyes.
“About two weeks ago I got a call from a woman claiming to be Allison Murrieta. I have no idea how she got my number. It was the day after the Sheriffs plastered my face all over the TV, telling everyone that Lupercio Maygar was after me. She had seen all that and she said she wasn’t going to, and I quote, let that vicious thug kill you. I told her I could handle my own problems and she laughed. She asked me if I needed anything-a car, some cash for living on the run, maybe a good gun. I said I didn’t need anything, though I did make a crack about a Cadillac STS being the car I’d most like. I’m a car girl.”
Ruth exhales hugely, more smoke than you’d think a small woman could get inside her. The smoke lingers upward then changes its mind and hurries down into the box. She steadies the yellow pad with her cigarette hand, writes something with the other, fixes me again with her clear brown eyes.