J is for Judgement

can't get over it. I mean, I don't even know what that'd be like." He had a full mouth and dimples. I found it hard to imagine he could fake such ingenuousness.
    I said, "It must seem weird."
    "Hey, no lie. . . with all this stuff going down? I wouldn't want him to see me like this."
    I shrugged. "If he comes back to town, he'll probably be in trouble himself."
    "Yeah, that's what Mom said. She didn't seem all that happy. I guess I can't blame her after what she went through. Like, if he's been alive this whole time, it means he laid a bum deal on her."
    "You remember much about him?"
    "Not really. Michael does, my brother. Did you meet him?"
    "Briefly. At your mother's."
    "Did you see my nephew, Brendan? He's really cool. I miss him, little pea-head."
    Enough of this chitchat. I was getting restless. "Mind if I ask you about Mexicali?"
    He shifted uncomfortably. He ran a hand through his hair. "Man, that was bad. Makes me sick to think of it. I didn't have anything to do with killing anybody, I swear. It was Julio and Ricardo had the gun," he said.
    "What about the breakout? How did that come to pass?"
    "Uhm, hey, you know? Like, I don't think my attorney wants me to talk about that."
    "I just have a couple of questions. . . in strictest confidence. I'm trying to get a feel for what's going on here," I said. "Whatever you say goes no further."
    "I better not," he murmured.
    "Was it your idea?"
    "Heck no, not me. You probably think I'm a jerk. I was stupid to go along with it . . . I can see that now. . . but at the time I just wanted to get out. I was desperate. You ever been in juvie?"
    I shook my head. "You're lucky."
    I said, "Whose idea was it?"
    He gave me a direct look, his blue eyes as clear as a swimming pool. "It was Ernesto came up with it."
    "Were you pretty good friends?"
    "No way! I only knew 'em because we were all in the same cottage at Connaught. That guy, Julio, said he'd kill me if I didn't help. I wasn't going to do it. I mean, I didn't want to go along with it, but he was big . . . real big guy. . . and he said he'd mess me up bad."
    "He threatened you."
    "Yeah, he said him and Ricardo would turn me out."
    "Meaning sexual abuse."
    "The worst," he said.
    "Why you?"
    "Why me?"
    "Yeah. What made you so valuable to the enterprise? Why not another Hispanic if they were headed into Mexico?"
    He shrugged. "Those guys are twisted. Who knows how they think?"
    "What were you planning to do down in Mexico if you didn't speak the language?"
    "Bum around. Hide. Cross back into Texas. Mostly I just wanted to get out of California. Court system here is not exactly on my side."
    The jail officer knocked, indicating time was up. Something about Brian's smile had already caused me to disconnect. I'm a liar by nature, a modest talent of mine, but one I cultivate. I probably know more about bullshit than half the people on the planet. If this kid was telling the truth, I didn't think he'd sound nearly so sincere.
    14 ON THE WAY back to the office, I stopped off at the Hall of Records, which is located in one wing of the Santa Teresa Courthouse. The courthouse itself was reconstructed in the late 1920s after the 1925 earthquake destroyed the existing courthouse as well as a number of commercial buildings downtown. Hammered copper plates on the doors to the Hall of Records depict an allegorical history of the state of California. I pushed through the entrance doors into a large space, dissected by a counter. To the right, a small reception area was furnished by two heavy oak tables with matching leather chairs. The floors were tiled in polished dark red paving stones, the high ceilings painted with faded blue-and-gold designs. Thick beams bore the echo of the repetitive patterns. Graceful wooden columns were visible at intervals, topped with Ionic capitals, again painted in muted hues. The windows were arched, the leaded-glass panes pierced with rows of linked circles. The actual work of the department was accomplished with the aid of technology: action stations, telephones, computers, microfilm projectors. As a further concession to the present, sections of the walls had been paneled with the soundproofing equivalent of pegboard.
    I kept my mind blank, struggling with a curious resistance to the piece of digging I was about to do. There were several people at the counter, and for one brief moment I considered postponing the chore until some other day. Then another clerk appeared, a tall, lean fellow in slacks and a