O'Hara said.
“He knows, but does it anyway,” Hanson added. She was like the smarty in school who dumps extra on the kids who get sent to the principal's office.
“What?” Steve said. “It was just a request.”
“I know what you're doing,” O'Hara said.
“Representing my client?”
“If this is representation, I'm Britney Spears. You're taking shortcuts. Well, you're not going to get away with it. Not here. And you don't want to tempt me. Another disciplinary strike and you're out.”
That was true. Steve had been out of rehab for a year after dealing with a coke addiction and losing his job with the DA's office. Now that he was trying to establish a private practice, no easy task, he did not need the State Bar on his back again. They wouldn't be so forgiving this time.
“And what's that load about this illumination thing?” O'Hara asked. “You better have a foundation for asking that.”
“I can find a scientist to back it up.”
“You can find a scientist to back up anything,” Hanson said.
“I won't allow it,” O'Hara said. “I think you're just whistling in the dark, so to speak.”
“Representing my client, Your Honor.”
“Call me Britney. Go on. But watch every step you take, sir.”
Steve didn't have to. He'd gotten what he could out of the witness. All he needed was one juror to think that maybe this officer didn't see what he thought he saw. One juror to hang the thing, and then maybe Moira Hanson would call her boss and say it's not worth a retrial. Let the guy walk.
Sure. And Santa Claus sips Cuba Libres at the North Pole.
Steve's cross of Officer Siebel was the last order of business on a hot August Friday. Monday they'd all come back for closing arguments, giving Steve a whole weekend to come up with some verbal gold. Which he knew he had to spin to get Carlos Mendez a fair shake.
It would also give him time, he hoped, to get some sleep.
Steve pointed his Ark toward his Canoga Park office. The Ark was what he called his vintage Cadillac, and by vintage he meant
has seen better days.
It dated from the Reagan administration and had been overhauled and repainted and taped together many times over. Steve scored it at a police auction five years earlier. The main advantage was it was big. He could sleep in it if he needed to. Even back then, as he was sucking blow up his snout like a Hoover, Steve suspected he might be homeless someday.
Hadn't happened yet. And with the help of the State Bar's Lawyer Assistance Program, maybe it wouldn't. The LAP was supposed to help lawyers with substance-abuse problems. Steve had managed to keep the monkey off his back for a year. Not that he wasn't close to falling, especially on those nights when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Steve took Sherman Way into Canoga Park, an LA burg in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. It was a venerable town that had hit its stride in 1955, when Rocketdyne, a division of North American Aviation, made its home there. The aerospace industry brought a boomlet of people to the area, and American dreams were born and realized. Rocketdyne engines were used to help put men on the moon in 1969, and sent NASA space shuttles on their appointed rounds.
At its peak during the space race with the Soviets, Rocketdyne employed twenty-two thousand people, and Canoga Park was a great place to live, shop, and open a business. But the realities of economy and urban decline were as inevitable and poisonous as wild oleander.
The aerospace industry dried up. The blocks of apartments that once housed Rocketdyne line workers became homes for Latino immigrants. The Rocketdyne building itself, a dinosaur of 1950s architecture, was used sparingly now, surrounded by fast-food restaurants and big-box electronics stores.
But Canoga Park was going through a rebirth of sorts, with its famous shopping mall on Topanga undergoing a major refurbish. High-end boutiques and a Nordstrom were cornerstones of the new place. Things were looking up, economically speaking.
Steve wanted to see it as a hopeful metaphor of his own career. Once promising, then a descent into the absolute toilet, now ready for a comeback. If he could just land a well-heeled client or two. Maybe a big white-collar CEO type. Right. They always came to the small-time solo operator like him.
The building that housed Steve's office came into view. A two-story corner job, it wasn't on the best part of the main drag. Across the street was a notorious strip mall that drew a lot of Steve's future clients â young thugs. They'd hang out at night in front of the coin laundry, under the red glow of the Chinese restaurant sign.
Pick Up or Dine In,
the sign said. Steve thought they should add a line â
Hang Out.
Because that's all people did over there â mostly unemployed, mostly Latino.
Mostly tired, Steve turned into the outdoor parking lot of his office building.
And almost ran over a chair. What was that all about? True, this wasn't the toniest address in town, but they didn't need junk all over the place. Maybe some of the homeless had â
Steve recognized the chair. One of his own. A secretarial chair with rollers that was rarely used, the main reason being he had no secretary.
At the far end of the lot was a collection of more furniture. Piled up in the corner of the gray cinderblock wall. And all of it from his office.
The jerk had evicted him.
Trembling with rage, Steve braked the Ark, jumped out, and stared at his desk, chairs, credenza, filing cabinets, bookcases. It wasn't everything, but enough for his Serbian landlord to make his point.
He saw himself grabbing a tire iron from the Ark's trunk and breaking some of the building's windows. Street justice. Maybe smash a door or two. Then he saw the tatters of his reputation and called Ashley.
His soon-to-be ex-wife â they had a month left on the mandatory wait â was the only one who might help him. She'd been there in the past. But he also knew that the thin thread that held them together was close to snapping.
“What's wrong, Steve?” That was the first thing out of her mouth.
“Why do you always assume something's wrong?”
“You only call when something's wrong.”
“Not so.”
“Then what is it?”
“Something's wrong,” Steve said.
“Not funny.”
“Not trying to be. He evicted me.”
“Your apartment?”
“Office.”
“Why?”
“Non-payment of rent, of course. But he didn't have to do it this way. I mean, the stuff is all over the parking lot.”
“Steve, I'm sorry.”
“I was wondering if I could borrow a little.”
The pause on the other end was heavy, like a water-soaked blanket.
“Ashley?”
“I just can't.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“Oh what, you're going to bring up that enablement stuff?”
“It's not
stuff
. It's for your own good. The counselor even â ”
“Don't bring up the counselor, please. I don't exactly have feelings for the guy who is the reason you filed.”
“I filed because it was the only thing left for me. For us.”
“I'm clean, Ashley. Over a year.”
“I'm glad.”
“Glad enough to stop this thing and try again?”
Another pause, heavier than the first.
“Ashley?”
“It's not going to happen, Steve. The sooner you accept that, the better it's going to be all around.”
“Can't we at least just talk and â ”
“No. Is there anything else? I've got a client I have to see.”
The finality in her voice was like a hook, deep in fish guts, being ripped out. It almost took Steve's breath away.
He saw a young woman emerge from the back of the office building. She appeared to be looking for someone. He turned his back on her.
“I'm sitting here with half my office out on the street!” Steve said. “I need to get a trailer, get this stuff moved, get some money so I can convince the guy to let me back in. I'm maxed out on the cards, nothing in the bank. Nothing. I haven't even been paid by my client yet, and I'm almost through with the trial.”
“Steve â ”
“I'm a mess, Ashley, and you're the only one I ever had in my whole life who could put up with me. Can't we just â ”
“
We're
a mess,” she said. “We're not good for each other.”
“I'm just asking” â he looked behind and saw the woman staring at him. She was early twenties, wore her copper-colored hair tightly back. Her black glasses and gray suit gave off a definite professional air. So why was she looking at him? â “for a loan, basically. And one dinner together. Just to talk. No pressure â ”
“I can't do it, Steve. I can't forget what it was like. I tried that once and it bit me.”
The time he stole a hundred dollars from her purse for a fix. He remembered that clearly. Bad, real bad. “Please â ”
“Don't call me again, Steve. We've managed to settle amicably, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Ashley, don't â ”
She clicked off. Steve dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head. Eyes closed, he tried to make his brain find a file marked
It'll Be Okay.
But it was gone. Snatched and tossed into the fire pit of lost hopes.
The woman in the parking lot said, “You're not Steve Conroy, are you?”
He whipped around and faced her. “Who are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me what you want and why you know my name. And make it fast, because I've got â ”
She held up a sheet of paper. “Sienna Ciccone.”
“Ciccone?” It sounded familiar. “Ciccone . . .”
“Like Madonna.”
“Madonna?”
“That was her original last name.”
“You a singer?”
“Law student.”
Steve shook his head.
“You requested a clerk through DeWitt,” she said. “We were supposed to meet?”
Steve held the bridge of his nose. Tried to form a place where all his thoughts could come to rest and keep his head from exploding. “I made a request through DeWitt?”
“It was on the computer. Could have been there from a long time ago.”
It very well could have been a long time, and he very well could have forgotten. His memory was Swiss cheese then.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I've got a few things I'm dealing with here.”
She nodded and looked at the corner of the parking lot where his office stuff was.
“Yours?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Tell you the truth, I was sort of hoping for a cubicle.”
“Look, Ms. Ciccone, I â ”
“Sienna. Call me Sienna.”
“Things have sort of changed since I put out that request.”
“I gathered that.”
“I've had a little misunderstanding with my landlord.”
“Then we better straighten it out.”
“We?”
“Did your landlord give you a three-day notice?”
“Uh, no, but I am behind â ”
“Let's get your stuff back inside. What's your landlord's number?” She took a cell phone from her hip, flicked it open with her thumb. Steve didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Didn't know if she was full of confidence or just attitude. All he knew for sure was he couldn't pay her.
“I can't hire anybody right now,” Steve said.
“I didn't ask to be hired. I asked what your landlord's number was.”
“But I â ”
A car horn blared. Steve turned, saw he was blocking a Mercedes trying to get in.
“You move your car,” Sienna Ciccone said, “while I call the landlord. Number?”
Steve gave it to her, then moved his car. When he got back to Sienna, she was pacing the parking lot, negotiating with a former Serbian policeman, firmly explaining American law to him â “Have you not heard of unlawful detainer, sir?” â and how it would be worth his while to let Steve put his office back together rather than become a respondent â “It's called forcible entry, sir.” She also pledged a deposit of rent before Steve could stop her. Not that he would have at that point.
He had no idea what to do. His stuff all over the lot and somebody advocating, actually arguing his case for him. When was the last time anybody had done that? He couldn't recall.
A few minutes later, the building manager unlocked Steve's office door, giving him the evil eye as he did. “We change locks,” he said. He was a hairy one. Steve thought he probably had a five o'clock shadow when he was born.
“No worries,” Sienna told the manager. “Just give us the key and the authorities won't have to get involved.”
The ape handed Sienna the key. Then she helped Steve move the furniture back into his office. All under his admiring eye. She had some muscle on that small frame. Looked like she could pack a punch if she got behind it. There was a little dance in her hazel eyes, but a seriousness too. Like she'd seen plenty of the hard side of life.
It took half an hour to get everything back inside. In the office, sitting with bottles of water â at least the Mad Serb had left Steve's small refrigerator plugged in â he said to Sienna, “Why'd you do all this?”
“You looked like you needed some help,” she answered.
“I'll pay you back for the deposit.”
“I know.”
“But . . .”
“Go ahead,” she said. “We know each other pretty well now.”
“I can't pay you for legal work. I'm sorry. I'd like to be able to pay a clerk for some projects, but that's just not possible right now. You've got pretty eyes.”
She blinked. “Whoa. Random.”
“I meant it. I wasn't hitting on you.” Then what
was
he doing?
Slow down
, he told himself.
You're reacting against Ashley. Don't be
a complete idiot.
“So you're at DeWitt?”