“Car or bike?” I said.
“Both.” He gave a tired smile and I knew he was thinking, All that time spent on another stupid one?
Now he said, “I'm gonna get you a lawyer, Darrell, whether you ask for one or not.”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
Ballitser crumpled the paper cup and threw it on the floor.
“Is there any particular lawyer you want me to call?”
“Fuck.”
Milo started to get up.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck, yes, or fuck, no?”
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck no to a lawyer?”
“Fuck yeah.” Ballitser touched his jaw.
“Aspirin didn't kick in, yet, huh?”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
“Fuck.”
Angela Boatwright stretched. “Talk about your one-note solo.”
Milo got up and entered the observation room. “How many public defenders do you have on call?”
“All the PD's are tied up,” said Boatwright. “We've been into the private list for a while, compassionate Wilshire Boulevard guys doing pro bono. I'll go find someone.”
Two more Mountain Dews, a hamburger and fries, and two bathroom breaks later, an unhappy-looking attorney named Leonard Kasanjian showed up with an ostrich-skin briefcase too small to hold much. He had long black hair brushed straight back, a five-day beard, and minuscule pewter-framed eyeglasses over resigned, dark eyes. He wore a tailored olive gabardine suit, tan-check snap-collar shirt, hand-painted brown-and-gold tie, brown suede loafers.
As he approached, Boatwright smiled and whispered, “Pulled him out of Le Dome.”
“Hey, Angela,” he said, brightening. “You in charge, tonight? How's it-”
“Evening, Mr. Kasanjian,” she said in a hard tone, and the lawyer's smile died. She said, “Let me tell you about your client,” and did.
He listened, said, “Sounds pretty clear.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Mr. Ballitser,” said Kasanjian, putting his briefcase on the table.
The boy's free hand shot out, fisted, knocking the case to the floor.
Kasanjian picked it up and flicked lint from his lapel. Smiling, but his eyes were furious.
“Mr. Ballit-”
“Fuck you!”
Milo said, “Okay, we'll transfer him downtown, pull warrants on his room.”
Kasanjian looked down at the booking slip. “Hear that… Darrell?”
Ballitser rocked and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“They're taking you to the county jail, Darrell. I'll come by to see you tomorrow morning. Don't talk to anyone til then.”
Nothing.
Then, “Fuck.”
Kasanjian shook his head and stood. He and Milo headed for the door.
Ballitser said, “Spade!”
Both men turned.
“What's that, son?” said Kasanjian.
Silence.
“Spade?” said Kasanjian. “A black guy?”
“Fuck!” said the boy, spraying saliva and kicking wildly.
“Easy, Darrell,” said Kasanjian.
Ballitser slammed his fist on the table.
His eyes shifted to the door, his torso quivered and tightened, every muscle defined beneath the damaged skin, like a frayed anatomical diagram.
“Fu-u-uck Spa-a-ade!”
Kasanjian said, “Spa-”
“Spa-a-a-a-de! Sp-a-a-a-a-de! That's fucking why! That's fucking why!”
Kasanjian looked shaken. “Try to calm down, Darrell.”
He turned to Milo. “He's obviously in need of psychiatric attention, Detective. I'm making a formal request that you provide immedia-”
“Spa-a-a-a-a-de! Spa-a-a-a-a-de!”
Ballitser twisted his body, punched his own chest, kicking at the chair, pounding the bolted table, over and over.
“Spade is “why'?” said Milo.
“Fucking why!”
“Why you don't like Dr. Cruvic?”
“Fucking-A!”
“Spade.”
“Fucking-A! He fucking did it!” The boy began crying, then curled his free hand and ripped at his cheeks. Milo pulled him off, held him still. Darrell's blemished face was contorted in agony.
“Cruvic did it,” said Milo, gently.
“Ye-e-e-s!”
“He fucking did it, Darrell.”
“Y-e-e-e-s!”
“To Chenise.”
“Y-e-e-s! Spa-a-a-a-de! Like a fucking dog. Woof-fucking-woof!”
Ballitser clawed the table, panted.
“Chenise,” said Milo.
Ballitser flopped his neck hard enough to sprain it. He raised his free hand prayerfully. Nothing aggressive in the gesture.
Milo came closer. “Tell me, son.”
Tears spurted from the boy's eyes.
“It's okay, tell me, son.”
Darrell's stick-body shook.
“What'd he do, son?”
Darrell shot a hand into the air. Waved it. His eyes danced wildly.
“He fucking spayed my lady!”
23
Twenty minutes later, after conferring with his client, Kasanjian came out smiling. “Well, there's my extenuating circumstance.”
Angela Boatwright was coming back from the squad room with a cup of coffee.
“Hey, Angie,” he told her, “thanks for the referral. I especially liked walking out on my date.”
“Always glad to help.”
They shot smile-arrows at each other.
Milo said, “Where's Chenise?”
“Down the hall.”
“Any sign of her mother?”
“Not yet,” said Boatwright, “and still no answer at home.”
I said, “If her mother had something to do with the operation she could be scared for her own safety.”
“What operation?” said Boatwright. “What's going on?”
“Your doctor hero's into involuntary sterilization,” said Kasanjian.
“What?”
“Seven months ago, Dr. Cruvic aborted a child Ms. Chenise Farney was carrying. My client's child. But my client had no prior knowledge of the procedure, nor was he consulted, despite the fact that Ms. Farney is a minor, leaving my client as the sole adult parent.”
“Adult? You've got to be kidding,” said Boatwright.
“To make matters worse,” said Kasanjian, “Dr. Cruvic wasn't satisfied with a termination: He sterilized the girl without telling her. Tied her tubes. A minor, no valid consent. And guess what, folks: Mr. Ballitser has informed me that Dr. Devane counseled Chenise but never told her she was going to be sterilized. So there was obviously a conspiracy. Meaning your hero is no Boy Scout and his unprofessional conduct is obviously a significant factor in what occurred tonight. Now, in terms of your even assuming Mr. Ballitser had anything to do with Dr. Devane's murder, I must insist that you present evidence immediately or relea-”
Milo cut him off with a wave and turned to Boatwright. “Let's talk to the girl.”
“Yes, let's,” said Kasanjian.
“Sorry,” said Milo. “Just us cop folk.”
Kasanjian's mouth worked. He buttoned his suit jacket. “Detective, if she's a potential-”
“Not tonight, Len,” said Boatwright, pushing hair out of her face. It sounded like something she'd said before.
She cocked a hip and clicked her tongue. The attorney gripped his briefcase. “Have it your way, police-people. But if you choose to indict Ballitser, even for a rinky-dink misdemeanor like attempted battery, we'll get to her soon enough.”
As he left, Boatwright said, “You're actually staying with the case?”
“Why not?”
Boatwright shrugged. “Nice to see you finally commit.”
After ten minutes with Chenise, Milo was saying, “I'm still not sure, hon. Did you know what Dr. Cruvic was going to do or not?”
The girl shook her head miserably. She wore tight black jeans, a lacy red midriff blouse, heavy bubble-toed black boots with red soles, a red bandanna for a belt. Her makeup was thick and chalky, just like the time I'd seen her in the waiting room, but the pink highlights in her hair had been replaced by a broad black streak down the middle that turned her coif into a photo-negative skunk. A dazed look, none of the coquettishness I'd seen in the clinic waiting room. She'd spent most of the time weeping, limiting her speech to mumbles and two-word sentences.