“Then doesn’t it make sense to get all these things before one person?”
“Counsel is asking the court to put the remaining matters over to March,” said a third attorney.
“You’re not answering the question,” the judge said testily. He looked over his eyeglasses. “I repeat: doesn’t it make sense to get all of these things before one person?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said one of them.
“We are simply asking that 070441 be consolidated into 070584,” said another.
The judge said to a fourth, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, Your Honor.”
He returned to his paper sifting. “Then 070441 will be consolidated into 070584. This looks like it’s ready for mediation. Let’s clear the notes. When would you like your hearing date, with the understanding it will not be continued again?”
“We’d like ninety days, Your Honor,” said the first.
“All right. How about the week of April the twenty-eighth?”
“Your Honor, I have a three-day trial on the thirtieth,” said another.
“How about the second week of May — May seventeenth?”
A third said, “Your Honor, I have a five-day trial on that date.”
“June the fifteenth.”
A fourth said, “Your Honor, I have a three-day trial on the sixteenth.”
There was some laughter from the spectators though not from Mr. Lightfoot.
Or the judge. “Whichever trial comes first takes precedence! There’s a lot of money involved in this case — I should think that would act as an incentive. See you on the fifteenth!”
• • •
AFTERWARD, THE CORRIDOR was choked with lawyers, marshals, pregnant women, and tattooed men.
Team Lightfoot stiffened slightly as Burke approached. “I thought you were petitioning to unfreeze the assets.”
“Court won’t do it, Burke. We’ve been through that.”
“They don’t seem to have a problem disbursing legal funds, Lou,” said Burke, sardonically. “For y’all. And what’s this shit about mediation?”
“We’re gonna give it a shot, Burke. Frankly, I think we’re better off settling than taking this to trial.”
“Jerry’s right,” said a cohort. “We’ll have a much better shot.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold out, boys!”
“We can’t advance you more monies, Burke.”
“What are we talkin’ about, guys?” said Burke, livid. “We’re sittin on sixty million dollars, kids, ten of that more or less liquid. And you’re tellin me the court won’t toss me a SAG royalties bone? Lou, I got expenses. I got a full-time freakin bodyguard.”
“He’s paid out of the estate, Burke.”
“Not the food he eats, gentlemen! Fill that loophole, will ya? I should have stock in fuckin Koo Koo Roo.”
“Nothing compels you to buy him dinner, Burke.”
“Right. Nothin but doin the right thing. Remember that? What a concept. Listen, Tula is the thin blue line between my boy and a very hostile fuckin world. I should have five Tulas but I cain’t afford it.” He took his foot off the pedal. “I should say fat blue line, cause he sure knows how to eat! Eats more than Dick Cheney.”
“Keep your receipts,” said the counsel. “And submit.”
“Keep a log of every expense.”
“Have you arranged for the tutor?” asked a cocounsel.
“I’m settin it up.”
“Don’t drag your feet on that,” said the other. “If we do wind up going to trial, it has to look good in terms of provision of care.”
“If anyone thinks they can do a better job then I have, they’re welcome to try. I can’t believe this is even up for grabs! I’m his daddy. It’s a slam fucking dunk! Listen, kids: it’s a hardship.” He could see how his personality grated on them, but what could he do? He would rim their greedy assholes if that’d help loosen up some funds. “And I know that you know that. And you guys are doin a helluva job. So don’t think I’m not grateful. I know it’s all going to work out in the end. At least I sure fucking hope so. Cause I am sure as hell not going to stand by and watch my son’s money handed over to the state. Or Mr. William Morris or whomever. But you gotta know that once we’re past the established five-block radius, we are fair fucking media game. The police do a pretty good job and the neighbors have been great — though who knows how long that’s gonna last — but I’m tellin ya, it’s like living in a serious cocksucking fishbowl over there! Hell, I can’t even conduct a romantic life! Fellas! C’mon! What good does Viagra do if you don’t have the opportunity for usage? The paparazzi, by the way — in case you didn’t know — are now flying choppers over my motherloving airspace! And that’s illegal. So put yourself in my Nikes and see how long you’d last. Kit’s barely been out of house—as his guardian, I can’t risk having a telephoto of him not looking his GQ best ending up in some tabloid.” He paused, inhaling martyrdom. “I’m tellin you, kids, I am really in the trenches here. Is the court aware of that?”
“Gotta tough it out, Burke,” said the attorney, beginning a slow retreat down the hall. “There’s light at the end of the tunnel.”
“At the end of my asshole maybe.”
Counsel fled, en masse.
“But not at the end of yours,” said Burke to himself. “Fuck it. We’ll make do until the ship comes in.” He called after them: “My son’s in great shape — he’s fit and he’s feisty and he’s got a daddy who loves him. Tell that to the fucking mediator!”
Transference
THERE WEREN’T ANY guards at the Benedict Canyon estate. The gate was flung open to a cadre of indifferent gardeners, who came and went, wrestling with hoses and foliage. Lisanne strode in, businesslike. No one paid attention.
She shivered again with the same feeling she’d had at the Riverside house — that somehow she belonged — except this time, she felt the chill of his absence. The place seemed frozen in time, like an obscure, well-funded theosophical foundation or museum of atrocities committed in past or even future centuries — or the temple where a mythic hero, wounded in battle, had returned to die. Even now, within sight of the flat obsidian column of infinity pool and dark wood cope of the famous zendo in its grove of eucalyptuses, there was blood, there was blood, bone, and death, it hung in the air like gas, oppressively colorless and odorless, and if one could properly read the signs, one might have translated all the terrible things that had manifested: miscarriages and mayhem, and the messy, fragrant anarchy of impermanence.
She stared through the windows, hoping to see the Sotheby’s Buddha, imagining Kit home again, in a beautiful robe of Thai silk, having bargained her life away for such an impossibility, brokering a deal with Tara (born of tears shed over the sufferings of sentient beings) for his health and sanctity to be returned — the provisions of the contract being that he would never know of Lisanne’s sacrifice, would never even have a thought of her again (which she anyway assumed he hadn’t, not a proper thought anyway, since the day they met in the trailer), because she had argued nobly, selflessly for the monstrous event to be forever expunged from history and memory, and her wish had been granted, the assault had never occurred, this was the agreement that Tara, daughter of Avalokiteshvara, had consented to and so decreed. All that Lisanne had asked was that she be allowed to see him one last time in his habitat, vital and free from worry, restored to grace before Tara — whose face gathers one hundred autumn full moons, who blazes with the sparkling light of a thousand stars, who dwells amid garlands and completely delights her entourage — carried Lisanne off to the Realm of Hungry Ghosts.