CHAPTER

6

I drove Margaret Sieff back to the jail, went home, and picked up messages. Rand Duchay’s P.D., a man named Lauritz Montez, had left two.

He didn’t bother with small talk. “You’re finished with my client, so can we finally talk?”

“Feel free to state any relevant facts, Mr. Montez.”

“Only one fact, Doctor, but it’s the crucial one. Randy’s obviously impaired. No way you couldn’t have found that. What’s the extent of it?”

No one called the kid Randy.

I said, “It’ll all be in my report.”

“Spare me,” said Montez. “This isn’t the stuff of forensic debate.”

I said, “You know how it goes. Judge Laskin sees everything first.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . so, what’d you think of that grandmother? You bought her lunch. See that as conflict of interest?”

“I’m pretty busy, Mr. Montez—”

“Easy, just kidding. So what do you think of her? Seriously.”

“At the risk of repeating myself—”

“Come on, Doctor. You can’t be harboring any serious doubt about competence. You might want to know that I’m having my own expert conduct a full psychometric battery. Herbert Davidson, endowed professor from Stanford, acknowledged authority in the field.”

“Read his textbook in grad school,” I said.

“Be a shame if your results run far afield from his.”

“Be a damn shame,” I said.

“So when do I get your report?”

“When Judge Laskin sends it to you.”

“Sure,” he said. “Following orders. God forbid anyone should think independently.”

Troy Turner was housed as far from Rand as possible, in a corner cell past a dark twist of corridor. The deputy who walked me over said, “You’re gonna love this one.”

He was an iron-pumper named Sherrill with a shaved head and a massive, straw-colored mustache. Usually, he projected the confidence of a strong man. Today he looked distracted.

“Tough kid?” I said.

He slowed his pace. “I got kids. Four of my own plus a stepkid. On top of that, I spent three years working juvey crime, so I understand kids. Unlike some of the other guys, I know punks can start off as victims. But this one . . .” he shook his head.

“He do something in here?” I said.

“Naw, it’s just the way he is.” He stopped. Behind us were empty cells. “Doc, if anything I’m telling you gets out, we’re never going to have any trust between us.”

“This is off the record.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m talking to you because word is you’re straight and you’re doing your best for Judge Laskin and we all respect Judge Laskin, ’cause he knows the way the real world is.”

I waited.

He looked over his shoulder, stopped again. Silence all around; only on High Power could a jail be this quiet. Up a few feet was an occupied cell and I could see the inmate checking us out. Well-groomed, gray-haired, middle-aged. Copy of Time magazine in one hand.

Sherrill drew me farther up the hall, muttering, “That one’s Russian Mafia, cut your throat as easy as smile at you.” When we were alone, he said, “I don’t talk much to prisoners, life’s too short, why fill your life with garbage. But this one, being a kid, I tried to be friendly. Turner reacts by shining me on. Completely. Making like I’m invisible. One time, I’d been off-shift, and when I got back he looked like he’d lost some weight. I brought him some breakfast, threw in some extra toast because he seemed pitiful. He snatched up a piece, gobbled like a hyena. I asked him if he understood why he was in here. This time, he doesn’t shine me on, he comes right out and says, ’ ‘Causa what I did.’ But not with any feeling. He could’ve been ordering fries and a Coke. Then he takes another piece of toast from the breakfast tray and looks me in the eye and starts chewing. Real slowly, real sloppy. Pieces are falling out of his mouth, and then he starts dribbling and drooling, rolling his eyes. Acting like an idiot, like it’s a big joke. I stand there and he keeps it up and then he spits it all out on the floor and says, ‘What?’ Like I’m annoying him. And I say you didn’t answer my question, dude. Why’re you in here? And he says, ‘I fucked that baby up is why.’ Then he grinds the toast into the floor with his foot and says, ‘This shit sucks, dude. Gimme some real food.’ ”

“Remorseful,” I said.

“Doc, God help me for saying it—if you repeat this I’ll totally deny it—but some sperm deserve to be drowned before they get a chance to swim.”