Injustice (30 page)

No,
not
Alcatraz: the Galápagos.

I wake up again when our wheels hit the tarmac.

T
he conference badge has my name and city in letters too big to be missed, so I keep it in my shirt pocket and show it only when needed. It turns out I need it a lot, because a six-day growth of beard has me looking like nobody's image of a federal prosecutor.
Sorry, sir, attendees only in this area
.

I skip the afternoon keynote and the evening reception. I go to my room, change into dirty jeans, a stained T-shirt, and an ancient fatigue jacket. I take a cab to a section outside the Tenderloin District.

I saw Tony Smeltzer in court once, but it was over seven years ago, and I was sitting back in the gallery. The likelihood of his recognizing me is nil, but for good measure, I take an eye patch from my pocket and put it on. Then I walk into Fog City Tap.

It isn't what I expected. I had in mind a place like the Elfin Grot back home, where I've gone a few times to connect with a guy who was connected into the underworld. But where Elfin Grot is dark and reeks of spilled beer, cigarette smoke, and the body odor of nighttime drinkers who pack its narrow, low-ceilinged space, Fog City is bright and open and smells of charbroiled burgers. It is on the second floor, above a plumbing supply store. The altitude gives a view of the bay and the city lights through big windows. There are two pool tables.

I take a stool where the bar bends around the corner, so I can see the door and most of the room. My damn eye patch throws me off, though. I keep moving my head around to compensate. The bartender puts a cardboard coaster down in front of me. “Drinking?”

“What's on tap?”

“Right there.” He points to a chalkboard on the wall behind the
bar. It's a long list of microbrews. Some names are familiar, most aren't. I pick one: “Wet Snout Stout.”

“My favorite, too,” he says.

It isn't that I don't trust the Bureau and the local agent who sussed out Tony Smeltzer and deemed him a nonissue. It's just that things don't seem to be tumbling into place quite right. I don't doubt that Henry killed Kyle Runion, so I don't doubt that he could have killed Lydia, too. But the fact that they haven't nailed Henry for Lydia's murder leaves the possibility, however tiny, that someone else killed Lydia. Tina is my wife and I love her. Since I'm a law enforcement professional (albeit the white-collar kind) and I know a few things about how these people think and work, and since the FLSPC was meeting in San Fran this winter, and since Gregory Nations wants me as far away as possible, I decided to fly out here to this barstool and decide for myself whether or not Tony Smeltzer is, as the local FBI agent claimed, a feckless and sickly, washed-up ex-con who is letting bygones be bygones.

Unfortunately, whatever Smeltzer's intentions, they don't include a drink at Fog City tonight. After three beers in three hours, I drop some bills on the bar and head for the door.

“See you again, buddy,” the bartender says.

I sleep late and get to the conference about nine in the morning. I attend a seminar on social networking for prosecutors, a yearly update on SCOTUS rulings, a discussion on prosecuting elder abuse, and another on injuries in infants and children. I browse the exhibitors' booths. I'm not interested in any of this right now. What I am interested in is anonymity (because how do I explain to anyone why I've shown up without shaving for the past week?) and in not getting worn down by too much listening and talking, because I need to be sharp and alert for my evening of barstool sitting.

Fog City again. I sit on the same barstool, and my friendly bartender slides the coaster in front of me and says, “Wet Snout Stout?”

“Please.”

I feel good here. He brings me my beer. “Anything to eat, buddy?”

“Yeah, a burger?”

“How?”

“Medium.”

“Fries?”

“Definitely.” I sip my beer. A little later, a waitress comes over with the burger and fries. Later, when the bartender brings my second beer, I reach across the bar and offer my hand. “Nick,” I say.

He shakes. “Malcolm.”

We exchange snippets of conversation for two hours. After a third beer, I put some bills on the bar—the tip is generous—and I leave.

In the morning I sleep late again, then attend two seminars (“Identifying, Recovering from, and Preventing Burnout in Emotional and High-stress Jobs” and “Reaching Out to Your Public”).

I get to Fog City earlier this time. I sit on the same stool. Malcolm points at the tap. I nod. He draws the beer and brings it over with a coaster. “How was your day, Nick?”

“Unremarkable. Yours?”

“Awesome. I surfed all morning.”

A half hour later, Tony Smeltzer comes into the bar. I recognize him before I can see his face. He has that drooping shoulder and sideways walk. He joins some guys at a table. When I get a look at him from the front, I see his soft oval face and bulging eyes. I stare at him, willing him to turn and look at me, but he doesn't, so I call the waitress over. On a bar napkin, I write “Ellisville,” and I say, “Tell that guy over there I'm buying his next drink, whatever it is, and give him this.”

A few minutes later, Tony Smeltzer is on the stool beside me. “I don't recognize you,” he says.

“I was in transit,” I say, “coming out of Alder Creek on my
way to Leavenworth. I was only in Ellisville for, like, a month. I'm Nick.”

“Tony,” he says. “But I still don't remember you.”

I tap my eye patch. “I didn't have this. But I remember you. You got that shoulder thing.”

“You live here?” he asks.

“I guess I do now. I got a brother here.”

He is silent for a few moments, then says, “Well . . .” And he stands up.

“Wait,” I say, and in a quiet voice so nobody else can hear, “I'm, um, looking for something to get involved in. You got anything going on?”

“Shit,” he says.

“Or do you know of anything?”

“I'll tell you what I got going on,” he says. He lifts his shirt. There's a bag strapped to his stomach. “This is what I got going on. They pulled out half my plumbing, but not soon enough. Chemo is what I've got going on: puking, drinking Pepto, and shitting out a hole in my stomach is what I got going on.”

“Whoa. Sorry, man, I didn't mean to—”

“Soon as I got out of Ellisville. I'm not so old, you know? I could still do some things. I'm smart, you know? And career people always used to tell me: They'd say, ‘Tony, you got management potential.' ” He makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “So I could have done stuff. Had a family. Been in charge of something. But no. Before my feet even hit free ground, I could feel my insides going haywire. Fucking prison docs missed it back when it wasn't too late. You know?”

“Jesus, that sucks,” I say. “When did they, um, you know, operate?”

“When? It was last June, but that's not the point. The point is, to hell with them all: To hell with prison docs, COs, everyone. Hell with all that cold weather back there, hell with the rotten stinking economy back there, hell with the junk and the users and the suppliers. Hell with cops and lawyers and judges and inmates. Hell
with bitches who say they'll stick around but don't. You know? Hell with you. Hell with me.”

I say, “I know what you mean, brother.”

“No, you goddamn don't know what I mean. When you're like this”—he taps his stomach—“and like this”—he shows me bandages on both arms from IVs—“then you'll know what I mean. But I'll tell you this, man: If
you
find some action and you need a guy, come get me. I was going to try straight, I shit you not. Keep my ass out of trouble. But the hell with
that.
I'll do anything now. I don't care. It's not like I got anything to lose. I'll go in with barrels blazing and not think twice. Because if you ask me, it's better than a long walk on a short pier. You know? Go out with gusto. Am I right? Better than a walk on the Golden Gate. Right? Halfway across and all the way down. And I'll tell you this: It's sure as shit better than what's in store. Tubes sticking out every hole I got and a few extra besides. You know? So come find me if you hear of something and you need a guy. I don't care what the hell it is, I'm in.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I'll keep it in mind.”

“Do that,” he says. He gets up and goes back to his table.

“You ready for another?” Malcolm asks.

“No. I'm good. Do you know that guy?”

“Tony? He's here a lot. He's always venting. But he's not a bad guy. He buys rounds. He tips good.”

I toss the eye patch into a trash can outside Fog City. At the hotel, I take a shower and shave. Smeltzer didn't kill Lydia. The poor schmuck was just out of surgery for a colostomy, and he certainly wasn't dragging women off into the woods and shooting them. I'm not worried about him. I doubt Tina still holds a spot anywhere near the top of Tony's long list of hated people.

T
rial. News vans with telescoping microwave antennas park in front of the state court building. Judge Ballard has announced a ban on cameras in the courtroom, but reporters and cameramen populate the hallways looking for anyone to interview.

Yesterday was jury selection. Monica Brill tried to exclude anybody who had experienced a violent crime or sexual assault, either themselves or through a friend or relative. She excluded anybody who had recently lost a loved one or who had ever lost a child. She excluded anybody who watched horror movies and anybody who worked in child protection or law enforcement and anybody with young children at home. Gregory Nations excluded anybody who, either themselves or through a friend or relative, had experienced a disfiguring injury. The judge excluded anybody who had read about the case or who knew any of the lawyers, cops, or likely witnesses. And he excluded anybody with ethical objections to capital punishment.