The cocktail party for Jim’s defense fund was being held in Bel Air. I heard Larry pull into the driveway at a quarter of six, straightened the knot in my tie, put on my jacket and went downstairs to meet him. He was just entering the house as I came down.
He looked up at me and smiled. “You sure you don’t mind this?”
“What, the party?”
He nodded and tossed a bundle of mail on a coffee table. He looked tired.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked as he dropped into a chair.
“No, not really,” he replied. He rubbed his temples and shut his eyes. His breath was shallow and strained. I switched on a lamp and sat down on the sofa across from him.
“I could go alone,” I said.
Without opening his eyes, he smiled. “It’s asking a bit much for the lamb to lead itself to slaughter,” he replied.
“It can’t be that bad. Who’s going to be there?”
He opened his eyes. “Just the L.A. chapter of Homlntern.”
“Homlntern?”
“Homosexual International,” he replied and yawned. “I told a few of my friends about Jim’s case and a couple of them volunteered to kick in money to help pay the legal costs. One thing led to another and the next I knew Elliot Fein was calling and offering his house for a fundraiser.”
“Elliot Fein, the ex-judge?” I asked, impressed. Fein was a retired court of appeals judge and a member of a wealthy family whose patriarch had made his money in movies.
“The same,” Larry said, kicking off his huge penny-loafers. He put his long, narrow feet on the table. “I could hardly refuse. Really all they want to do is get a look at you,” he added. “See what they’re getting for their money.”
“You think they’ll be satisfied?”
He gave me the once-over. “I guarantee it. How was your day?”
I told him about my meeting with Freeman Vidor. “You know what’s beginning to bother me?” I said. “The fact that everybody — including his ex-lawyer, his shrink, and now Vidor
— is so quick to write Jim’s chances off.”
Larry’s smile was fat with satisfaction. “I knew I’d hired the right man for this job.”
“Well,” I said defensively, “the presumption of innocence has to mean something.”
The smile faded. “Oh, he’s an innocent, all right,” Larry said, and drew out a cigarette from his pocket.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much.”
“Please.” He lit the cigarette with his gold lighter.
“Obviously he killed Brian,” I said, picking up the thread of my earlier thought, “but killing is not necessarily murder.”
Larry put his shoes on. “And that’s what you’re here to prove. We better get going.”
“You’re sure you want to go?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The sun had already set but, as we headed west on Sunset, there was still a dreamy light at the edge of the horizon and above it the first faint stars. We passed UCLA. Larry signaled a turn and we entered the west gate of Bel Air, up Bellagio. We passed tall white walls as we ascended the narrow, twisting road. From my window I watched the widening landscape of the city below and the breathless glitter of its lights. As with most cities, Los Angeles was at its most elegant when seen from the aeries of the rich.
At the top of the hill, Larry began a left turn past immense wrought iron gates opened to reveal a driveway paved with cobblestones. A moment later a house came into view. It seemed to consist of a single towering box though, as we slowed, I could see there were two small wings, one on either side. A boy in black slacks, a white shirt and a lavender tie directed us to stop. Another boy, similarly dressed, opened my door.
“Good evening, sir, how are you?” he asked as I stepped out of the Jaguar.
“Fine, thanks, and you?”
“Oh, fine, sir.” He seemed startled that I’d bothered to reply.
Larry came around to me and said, “Ready, counsel?”
“Let’s go.”
The first thing I noticed when we stepped into the house was the size of the room we had entered. Its walls were roughly the dimensions of football fields and to say that the space they enclosed was vast exhausted the possibilities of the word. The second thing I noticed was that the far wall, except for a fireplace that could easily have accommodated the burghers of Calais, was glass. The city trembled below.
“Where do the airplanes land?” I whispered to Larry as we entered the room. Little clumps of people, mostly men, were scattered amid the white furnishings.
“None of that,” he replied. “Here comes our host.”
I expected the owner of the house to be dwarfed by it, but Elliot Fein didn’t even put up a fight. He was a shade over five feet and his most distinctive feature was his glasses. They were perfectly round and bright red. His skin was the color of dark wood, his hair was glossy black and his face was conspicuously unlined. I guessed, from his effort to conceal it, he must be nearing seventy.
“Larry,” he said in a wheezy voice. They exchanged polite kisses.
“This is Henry Rios,” Larry said.
“Why haven’t I met you before?” Fein asked by way of greeting.
I couldn’t think of any reason except the absence of twenty or thirty million dollars on my part. This didn’t seem to be the tactful answer so I said, “I don’t know, but it’s a pleasure, Justice Fein.”
He took my extended hand and held it. “Elliot to my friends. We’re all so glad you agreed to take the boy’s case.”
“Thank you.” I attempted to regain possession of my hand but he wasn’t through with it yet.
“You know,” he said confidentially, “I sat in the criminal division of superior court for years before I was elevated. From what I know about Jim Pears’s case, it’s going to be rough sledding.”
“An unusual metaphor for Los Angeles,” I observed.
He looked puzzled, then dropped my hand. “Comments like that go right over a jury’s head,” he said with a faked smile.
I made a noise that could be interpreted as assent.
“Who’s the judge?” he asked.
“Patricia Ryan.”
“Good. Very good,” he replied judiciously. “I’ll call her for lunch next week.” He beamed at us. “I’m neglecting my duties. Let me get you a drink.”
“Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I said.
His eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Oh, that’s right. Perrier, then?”
“Nothing, thank you,” I replied. I felt a flash of irritation at Larry who had obviously told Fein I was an alcoholic.
“What about you, Larry?” Fein asked.
“Not just yet. I think I should take Henry around.”
“Of course,” Fein said, and stepped aside. “I’ll talk to you later.”
We started across the hall and Larry said, in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking but I didn’t tell him.”
“Then how did he know?”
“He’s like God, only richer. So I’d watch the wisecracks if I were you.”
For the next hour we worked the room. The crowd consisted of well-dressed, expensively scented men and a few women all of whom, like Fein, had found ways to slow time’s passage. Larry and I fell into a routine. He would introduce me. Someone would inevitably ask what I thought of Jim’s chances. I would launch into a lengthy explanation of the concept of presumption of innocence. At some point — before a member of the audience actually fell asleep — Larry would break in to make a pitch for money. As we moved away from one group, I heard a man stage whisper, “She’s pretty but someone should tell her to lighten up.”
I turned to Larry, who had also heard, and said, “I need a break.”
“I’ll come and find you.”
When he left I found myself near the center of the room. A short, stocky man stood a few feet away staring up at the ceiling. I followed his gaze to the chandelier. It was a sleek metallic thing lit with dozens of silvery candles. The man and I exchanged looks. He smiled.
“At first,” he said, “I wondered why Elliot couldn’t afford electricity. Then I realized the candles must be much more expensive.”
There were faint traces of an English accent in his voice. His face was square and fleshy and showed its age. His was the first truly human visage I’d seen all night.
“It’s less conspicuous than burning hundred-dollar bills, I guess.”
He laughed. “I heard you introduced, Mr. Rios. My name is Harvey Miller.”
“Henry to my friends,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Are you part of this crowd?”
“Am I rich? No. I work at the Gay and Lesbian Center on Highland. Elliot’s on the board. Do you know about the Center?”
“Sure,” I said. “You do good work.”
“So do you, I hear.” He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
I shrugged. “It’s my Catholic upbringing. The world’s troubles weigh on my heart. Mea culpa.”
He sipped from the glass and lowered it. “You seem a bit brittle, Henry.”
“This isn’t my natural habitat. I was going outside for some air. Join me?”
“I’d like that.”
We made our way through the clumps of oversized furnishings and past the squadrons of rented waiters carrying trays of food and drink, to a door that let us out onto an immense patio. We walked to its edge and looked out over the city. Streams of light marked the major boulevards which were crammed with the tail end of rush-hour traffic. The spires of downtown probed the ashen sky. Lights of every color — red, blue, silver, gold — twinkled in the darkness as if the city were an enormous Christmas tree.
I made this comparison to Harvey.
“It is like a Christmas tree,” he replied, “but most of the boxes beneath it are empty. For a lot of gay people, anyway.”
I looked at him as he finished off the contents of his glass. “What exactly do you do at the Center?”
“I’m a psychologist,” he replied, smiling at the city.
“Well,” I said, “for a few gay people some boxes, like this house, are crammed full.”
“No, not really.” He set the glass down on the ledge of the wall. “It’s not easy for anyone in this society to be gay.”
“I wouldn’t waste much sympathy on the rich,” I said. “Even compassion has its limits.”
He moved a step nearer. “Are you always the life of the party?”
I smiled. “Sorry. Yesterday I was sitting in a filthy little room trying to pry some truth out of Jim Pears and tonight I’m at Valhalla meeting the gay junior league. When the altitude changes this fast I get motion sick.”
“Why do you have such a low opinion of us?”
“I don’t. It’s just that it’s not my profession.”
“What?”
“Homosexuality.”
“No,” he said, feigning a smile. “You’re a lawyer, right? Never mind that the law oppresses us.”
“I thought we were going to be friends, Harvey.”
“You can’t isolate yourself in your work.”
“I’m not trying to,” I said. “But Jim Pears is a client, not a cause. If I can save his life, I’ve done my job.”
“And if not?” he asked, leaning against the wall. “Have you still done your job?”
“By my lights,” I replied.
He picked up his glass. “I’m disappointed that your lights have such a narrow focus.”
I shrugged. ‘‘In my work, someone is usually disappointed.”
‘‘Good luck,” he said and went back inside.
When I went back in, the party was breaking up. I spotted Larry standing with a fat man in a shiny suit. Not an old suit. A shiny one. Larry signaled me to join them. The fat man’s face shone like a waxed apple. A fringe of dyed hair was combed low over his forehead. He fidgeted a smile, revealing perfect teeth.
“Henry, this is Sandy Blenheim,” Larry said.
I shook Blenheim’s hand. It was soft and moist but he compensated with a grip that nearly broke my thumb. Before I could say anything, Blenheim started talking.
“Look, Henry, I’m running a little late.” He jabbed his hand into the air, as if to ward off time’s passage. “So if we could just get down to business.”
“What business is that?”
“I’m an agent. I have a client who’s interested in buying the rights to the trial.”
“Jim’s trial?” I asked.
Blenheim gave three rapid nods.
“Why?”
“To make a movie,” Larry interjected.
I looked at Blenheim. “A movie?”
“It’s great. The whole set-up. Gay kid exposed. We could take it to the networks and sell it like that.” He snapped his pudgy fingers. “We tried talking to the kid’s parents but they won’t deal. The kid won’t even talk to me. So you’re our last hope.”
“I really don’t understand,” I said.
Blenheim spread his hands. “We buy your rights, see, and if you can bring the kid and his folks around, that just sweetens the deal. What about it?”
“It’s a bit premature, don’t you think?” I said. “There hasn’t actually been a trial.”
“But there will be,” Blenheim insisted. “We can give you twenty,” he continued. “Plus, we hire you as the legal consultant. You could clean up.”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “but this conversation is not-”
“Okay,” Blenheim said, affably. “I’ve been around lawyers. You guys are cagey. Tell you what, Henry. Think on it and call me in a couple of weeks. Larry’s got my number. See you later.”
He turned, waved at someone across the room, and walked away. I looked at Larry. “Have I just been hit by a truck?”
“No, but you might check your wallet.”
“What was that all about?”
“Just what the man said,” Larry replied. “He wants to make a movie.”
“About Jim? That’s a little ghoulish, isn’t it?”
Larry shrugged. “He gave me a check for five hundred dollars for Jim’s defense,” he said. “I figured that was worth at least a couple of minutes of your time.”
“Okay, he got his two minutes.” I looked at Larry; he was pale and seemed tired. “I think we should get you home.”
“Fein’s invited us for dinner,” he replied. “There’s no tactful way out.”
“Then let’s not be tactful,” I said.
He began to speak, but then simply nodded. “I am tired,” he said.
Fein accepted my excuses with a fixed smile and later when I said good-night he looked at me seemingly without recognition. But the boy who had parked our car remembered me.
“Enjoy yourself?” he asked, opening the car door for me.
Thinking of Fein and Harvey Miller and the fat agent, I said, “It wasn’t that kind of party.”