Try Fear - By James Scott Bell Page 0,17

suppressed. Do the People wish to proceed?”

A stunned Kimberly Pincus slowly stood up. “In view of the court’s holding, we have no evidence with which to proceed.”

“Then the complaint is dismissed,” Judge Solomon said. “In time for lunch,” she added, winking at me.

24

CARL RICHESS THREW his arms around me and squeezed. I was a mouse to his python.

“Drinks are on me,” Carl said.

I pushed him away. “Don’t go there, Carl. You dodged a bullet. You need to get to AA.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Mom, what’ve you been saying?”

“Honey,” Kate said, wiping away tears, “we just want you to get better.”

“I’m fine.”

“Brother,” Eric said, “you got a disease.”

“Will you all just shut up?” Carl put on his Dodgers cap, turned for the door, and stormed out, leaving a comet tail of denial behind him.

When he was out the door, Eric said, “That didn’t go so well.”

Kate was still crying, though for a different reason now. I put my hand on her shoulder. “One step at a time,” I said. “He’ll realize he’s been given another chance. I’ll call him in a couple of days and talk to him.”

“Thank you,” Kate said. Eric took her arm and led her out the door.

I turned around and saw Kimberly Pincus. She walked over to me. Her eyes were electric.

“Don’t Tase me, bro,” I said.

She put her hands on her hips. “I guess you’re pleased with yourself.”

“Like a diva with a divorce settlement,” I said.

“I cannot believe Judge Solomon went for it.”

“It’s the law, Ms. Pincus.”

“That was one of the most outrageous arguments I’ve ever heard in a court of law.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you really enjoy putting drunks back on the street?” She gave me the steel gaze.

I gave her the same right back. “Is this going to be one of those criminal-defense-lawyers-get-criminals-off-on-technicalities conversations?”

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“The legislature makes laws. You and the cops have to follow. So follow.”

“But seat belt? That’s the very definition of technicality.”

“If you ignore what the law actually says, pretty soon doors get kicked in. You want to change things, go to the legislature. But in court, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“You know what?” she said. “I can respect that, believe it or not.”

“It’s such a pleasant day, Ms. Pincus, how about I believe it?” She smiled. “Done. Let’s have a drink.”

25

YOU DON’T ARGUE with Kimberly Pincus without a judge on the bench.

We met at the Snortin’ Boar, a Hollywood reclamation project. It had been one of the hot places in the forties, a nightclub that was a favorite of directors and stars. The Andrews Sisters sang here. Lawrence Tierney got in a famous fight with Dana Andrews in 1955. Both were so drunk they couldn’t remember it the next day.

The place went under in 1964 and was, for a time in the seventies, a head shop. In 1995 it was an independent pizza place that almost burned down.

A couple of film-fan businessmen bought the place and restored it a few years ago. They brought back the vaulted ceiling and dark wood interior, and dim lighting. And comfortable booths, which is where I sat with the deputy city attorney.

A waiter came by and Kimberly ordered a Grey Goose martini, dirty. I opted for a beer.

“And so,” she said, “where do you come from?”

“Grew up in Florida. You?”

“New Jersey.”

“Law school?”

“Harvard.”

“I knew it,” I said.

“What do you mean, you knew it?”

“You give off a Harvard vibe.”

“What kind of vibe do you give off?”

“UCLA. Of the people.”

She laughed. “Uh-huh. Or maybe you’re just as ruthless as the rest of us.”

“Me?”

“You’ll do anything to win.”

“Well, I won’t kill baby seals.”

“Do you think I would?” she said.

“I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me,” I said.

She put her chin in her hand and leaned on the table. “You fascinate me. What are you doing taking on misdemeanor deuces? You were with—who was it?”

“Gunther, McDonough.”

“Right. You’re a fortieth-floor guy. What’s this all about?”

“The law is the law. Even for people like Carl Richess.”

“But life’s so hard for a solo.”

“Yes, but I have all the fruitcake I can eat.”

“Excuse me?”

“St. Monica’s is known for its fruitcake. Not that I’d recommend it.”

“What is St. Monica’s?”

“It’s where I’m living right now. It’s a Benedictine community. It’s a long story.”

“You’re Catholic?” she said.

“No, cynic.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That makes you a cynic, too.”

Our drinks arrived. Kimberly lifted her glass. “Let’s drink to a healthy dose of cynicism, enough to keep us sane.” We clinked and drank.

“So what was it like?” she said.

“What was what like?”

“Being on the