Who Needs Justice? Read online

  Lindie hung out in the back yard for a while with Frankie and some kids she knew from Novato. When she went looking for Meghan, she found her stretched out on the couch in the family room. A couple of people were watching TV.

  At first Lindie thought Meghan was just asleep, but then when she got scared and tried to wake her up, Meghan barely moved.

  +++

  Of all the students that had passed through Joyce’s English classes, Meghan was one of her favorites. Some of her essays were so personal and heartfelt that Joyce was convinced she was reaching out.

  A few times she asked Meghan if everything was okay in her life, if there was anything she wanted to talk about, and Meghan had said it was all good, until one night she showed up at Joyce’s house in tears. Her mom had a revolving door of boyfriends and wasn’t around half the time. There was no dad.

  Joyce fixed her some hot chocolate and listened. She prayed that Meghan would make it into a four-year college, as far away as possible. This was one of the special ones, a bright light, and after Meghan hugged her tight when she left that night, Joyce couldn’t sleep.

  This was three weeks before the party at Benji Romano’s.

  Christian taught social studies that year, and he had Meghan and Lindie in his U.S. History class. He liked to go to the baseball games and watch Donny pitch, and he'd see the two of them in the stands with their group, a couple of all-American kids having fun, ostensibly not a care in the world.

  They took Meghan off life-support after five days. There was a police investigation, and Donny Shelhorne got arrested. He was locked up for six hours, then he was out on bail and the lawyers took over. A plea arrangement was reached. Donny got probation and community service.

  He accepted a full ride to Ripperton University to play baseball, and he made the starting rotation as a freshman. It would be a successful four years for him there, plenty of good times and a couple of awards. The Terra Linda Herald would occasionally chronicle his accomplishments.

  Christian saw Donny once when he was back from college for summer vacation. It was at lunchtime, in Macci’s Deli, not more than a mile from Benji Romano’s house, and Christian was in line. Donny came in with his girlfriend, both of them laughing, Donny talking loud like he owned the place, acting like nothing had ever happened.

  7 – Southbound

  On Saturday, Christian and Joyce had a late breakfast at Sam’s Grill in Tiburon, and he dropped her off. He figured he’d try the San Rafael library. He was thinking everything you did on your own computer could somehow be tracked, but hopefully using one at the library avoided that.

  He tried a White Pages search and there was one match, but in Illinois. He googled Donny Shelhorne plus “baseball”, and there were dozens of haphazard results. The kid made a name for himself, you had to give him that.

  On the third screen there was a newspaper article from September, out of the Marin County Independent Eagle, titled, Former Pratt Valley Pitcher Tries Hand At Culinary Endeavor, which began:

  Following a successful Division I collegiate baseball career at Ripperton University in San Diego, ex Terra Linda Pratt High School star Donny Shelhorne is back in the north bay, partnering in a restaurant/gourmet foods start-up in Santa Rosa.

  And it went on . . . farm-to-table, everything sustainable, a physical restaurant but also with an event center and market, all backed by Judson Vineyards of Healdsburg.

  Quotes from Donny and his two partners. A photo of all three of them in aprons, giving the photographer a thumbs-up.

  How about that.

  Christian preferred old-fashioned hard copies of stuff, so he went to the website they gave you in the article, and spent the thirty-five cents required to print out the home page, which included directions, on the library printer.

  +++

  Watching the operation for a few minutes, it was clear that Donny was a good business manager. He had the workers' respect, the type of boss who likely kept it loose and didn’t talk down to people, and Chris noticed a couple times where an employee would smile and laugh about something, and Donny would laugh right along with them.

  It was Monday afternoon, and Christian had driven up to get a feel for the situation. He figured Donny probably wouldn’t recognize him, since it had been a good five years since they would have crossed paths at Pratt, and that’s all it would have been, since he never had him in a class.

  That time in Macci’s Deli, if the kid had placed him at all, you wouldn’t have known it. And it wouldn’t really matter, would it, if today in the snazzy new million-dollar restaurant operation he did recognize him and said Hey, how you doing, Mr. Seely?

  Still, why screw around tempting that stuff, so Chris went with a cap and big sweatshirt and sat at the corner of the little bar they had and kept a low profile and worked on a white wine, Donny on the other side of the room, supervising the various food counters.

  The food emporium closed at 6 on weekdays and the restaurant part stayed open late, and it was close to 6 now and Chris figured Donny’d be here for a while.

  He finished his drink and took one more look at the operation, thinking was there any particular angle but couldn’t come up with one, and he got in the car.

  There were a few messages to deal with which kept him there for twenty minutes or so, and lo and behold here comes Donny out into the parking lot, in shorts and a t-shirt, looking like he’s done for the day.

  Christian tried to figure out which vehicle would be Donny’s. His guess was the newer looking black F-150, but Donny passed that one and opened the door of a beat up, pale green Chevy Tahoe. He didn’t get in, he grabbed a windbreaker from the truck and took off on what looked like a jog.

  Interesting.

  Christian got out of his car and began jogging as well—it was fortunate he had some old running shoes on—staying way back, but keeping Donny in sight.

  The edge of the restaurant/event center property butted up against a creek, and there was a trail you could get on that paralleled it.

  It was dark by now, but there were enough nearby streetlights, and some staggered lighting on the trail as well, that you could see what you were doing.

  The trail looked to continue quite a ways south, no end in sight . . . or, as he was discovering following Donny, after about fifteen minutes you could hang a left and leave it, and there was a feed store with some old stables behind it, a remnant of the way the whole area probably used to be, and if you cut across behind all that there was an opening in a fence.

  This took you onto a community college campus, Redwood County JC, and past a small cluster of classroom buildings and onto the main loop. What Donny did then was branch off to the right onto another dirt trail that began at a big decorative fountain. It was peaceful back there, fairly wooded, plenty of blackberry overgrowth, and you could hear the birds settling in for the night.

  The college trail approached what looked like a performing arts center, tucked back at the far end of campus, and then it reconnected with the main loop, which zig-zagged south through the central quad before bringing you back to that opening in the fence, and you got back on the creek trail going north and retraced your steps.

  Christian put the whole drill at about four miles . . . a mile and a half each way from Donny’s culinary deal to the community college, and a mile loop around the campus.

  Tuesday Chris came up to Santa Rosa again. Same basic routine for the guy, it seemed like, nothing fancy, no surprises . . . the guy knocking off work about 6:15 and unwinding with—and you couldn’t be positive without following him again obviously—but very likely the identical run.

  Donny organized and methodical, which hopefully he’d be for one more day.

  Wednesday Donny didn’t show right away, and Chris was worried something was different on Wednesdays, or maybe it was his day off, and what could you do.

  But a few minutes later, not that bad actually, maybe 10 minutes off his normal routine, Donny came out of the side of the building, a
ll set to go this time, no need to stop in his truck and switch up any clothing.

  Christian waited a couple minutes and started the engine and drove over to the RCJC campus, parked, and got out.

  Forty-five minutes later there was Donny leaving the main loop behind the classroom buildings, coming toward him down the dirt trail. Christian had a bat, an old wooden one that’d he’d picked up years ago when he lived in Teaneck, New Jersey. Someone advised him that it was always good to have a degree of protection in your car when you traveled in the New York metropolitan area, that you never knew. He didn’t have any trouble in New York, and considered the bat good luck and kept it in the car ever since.

  He let Donny pass, stepped out of the brush, and caught up to him from behind. The first blow was off line, clipping Donny inside the right shoulder. Donny stumbled and turned, his eyes saying “What the Hell?”, and this time Christian caught him in the face. Donny fell, and Christian hit him again in the head until he knew he had crushed his skull.

  He was parked in the overflow lot for the performing arts center. There was only one other car there, no one around that he could see, likely no performance scheduled for tonight and no lights on in the complex. He held the bat at his side and walked fast. He felt like running, but it always seemed in the movies you should walk.

  He threw the bat in the trunk, made a few lefts and rights and had to deal with some stop signs but soon enough crossed under the freeway and headed east, no particular reason except his instinct told him to. He found Brookwood Avenue and from there made a right onto Yolanda and a few minutes later was in rush hour traffic on 101 heading south. He kept checking his rear view mirror all the way to the city.

  When he got over the bridge he took the Park Presidio exit.

  There was a park with a lake off 11th Avenue that they'd go to sometimes as teenagers. On rare, hot San Francisco days, it was a swimming hole. Now it was dark and the fog had come in. Christian made sure he was alone, got out and walked to the lake and fired the bat overhand out toward the center. He thought it sunk but he wasn’t sure. Hopefully that wouldn’t matter. He took Geary to Divisidero, hung a left, gunned it over the hill, and home.

  8 – Espresso

  He slept fine, though he definitely felt off on his morning run. He was stiff and slow, and everything was sore, especially his forearms and hands from swinging the bat, but his legs too, probably from all the tension lactic acid build-up.

  Overall it hadn’t been that bad. He got a little lucky, of course, with Donny being organized and consistent. Very unlikely any of the others would play out as simple.

  He went back and showered and the phone rang. He checked the number and picked it up. It was Steiner, his doctor.

  “Damn it Chris,” Steiner said. “This is at least the fifth time I’ve tried to call you.”

  “The reason I don’t answer is because what are you going to tell me?” Christian said.

  “I just think you should come in, go over some things.”

  “I told your secretary, I’m sorry about the screw you comment. I wasn’t thinking clearly then.”

  “Forget that,” Steiner said. “Just come in. Will you?”

  Christian knew what was coming. Let’s not simply sit around here and do nothing and let this thing sweep you away without a fight. There are options. Christian knew it was bull, but he said okay, mostly because Steiner seemed hurt.

  The office was on California Street across from the old Children’s Hospital grounds. It was a sunny day and there were a considerable number of attractive females sprawled out eating lunch on the large front lawn, so at least that was something.

  Christian and Steiner were alone in the office. Steiner began his professional, due-diligence speech, and Christian held up a hand to cut him off.

  “Billy, where would a guy be going to get dialysis these days?”

  Steiner didn’t answer.

  “No I’m serious. I got an old friend, I heard he's on it. I’m wondering if there’s a main place, or what?”

  “UC does the bulk of it,” Steiner said. “They have the newest system, and treatments don’t take quite as long.”

  “And if he’s a low income guy, on public assistance, that where he’d probably be going?”

  “Actually no, then. In that case it would be SF General . . . But why don’t you find him and ask him?”

  “Okay I will,” Christian said. “There’s no way someone could screw something up, is there, with the treatment? Filter his kidneys with the wrong stuff, or whatever, and kill him?”

  “God damn it!” Steiner said. “You always were such a stubborn bastard. Chris, this is your life we’re talking about, and you’re dancing around the subject like an idiot. I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say, but can you please give me a chance!”

  Christian shut up. Steiner went through the motions—where we stand right now, the recommended treatments, clinical trials showing promise, a referral to an excellent oncologist. It sounded rehearsed.

  “Billy, you got some patients I can talk to in my shoes, who went through those treatments and are still around a couple years later?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “How about one. One guy.”

  “I’ll try to put you in touch with someone. Let me work on it.”

  “You know what? My energy level is good. So far it’s been pretty much business as normal . . . You stick me on chemo, that’ll be the end.”

  “Granted, no treatment is perfect,” Steiner said. “But Chris? You try nothing, that will most certainly be the end.”

  “Fuck you again,” Christian said.

  He swung left out of the building, glad to get some fresh air, and there was Bethany the receptionist coming back to work from her lunch break. She was wearing running shoes and had on a small backpack which seemed to tighten her blouse. There was a projection and mass to her breasts that he hadn’t been aware of before.

  “You wear running shoes in the office?” Christian said, trying not to stare at the situation.

  “Oh no,” Bethany said. “I try to walk at lunch is all. It’s so beautiful out today, I went up California to 10th Avenue, and came back on Lake.”

  She didn’t seem in a big hurry to return to work. She looked around to make sure they had privacy.

  “Mr. Seely, I read your chart. All the way through. I was troubled by last time, and curious . . . I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Number one, it’s Chris . . . Two, sorry enough for that dinner tonight?”

  Bethany smiled. “Okay, Chris, I feel sorry enough for you to have dinner with you.”

  +++

  They tried New Joe’s in North Beach, which had recently opened. At one time there were five or six Joe’s around the city, but they slowly disappeared. You could come in at midnight, sit at the counter, watch the chef work right in front of you, big white hat, every pan flaming up. The guy next to you was usually a native San Franciscan.

  This place was trying to bring it all back, and Christian and Bethany agreed it wasn’t bad. A little too much glitz in the decor, the lighting a bit strong, but the booths were nice and they left you alone.

  “I live in the Marina,” Christian said, sipping his espresso.

  Bethany gave him a long look, serious. “Not tonight.”

  “Fine with me. Although I might not recommend waiting too long. If you know what I mean . . . That is, if you ever were considering stopping by.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know what I appreciate about you?”

  “What?”

  “You give things thought. Like tonight I can tell you decided not to ask me how I’m feeling.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty darn scared, if you want to know the truth.”

  9 - Like Liquor

  On Chestnut Street on the way home there was a rare spot right across the street from Weatherby’s, so Christian stopped in for a nightcap. This time the place was packed, a Friday n
ight, twenty-four-year-old kids, all of them so fit and upbeat, with everything ahead of them.

  “Hiya pardner,” Shep said, when he finally got to him. “What’s shaking?”

  “The energy in here,” Christian said. “It’s something else. It ever bother you?”

  “If you let it, it can, yeah. How you feeling?”

  “So far so good, I appreciate it.”

  “You start moving . . . on any of those loose ends at all?”

  “As a matter of fact yes, I asked an interesting woman out tonight. Warm, sincere, composed, with rosy cheeks. It was nice.”

  “But you didn’t bring her back?”

  “I tried, but it didn’t work.”

  “Anyhow, I mean the other loose ends. That you mentioned last time.”

  “Oh. I took care of one of them, yeah.”

  “No . . . fucking . . . shit.” Shep’s eyes were wide.

  Christian sipped his drink. The kids at a back table started singing a college song.

  “It hasn’t sunk in yet, I don’t think. I’m hoping it won’t.”

  Shep was trying to wrap his mind around it.

  “I give you credit then, brother, you got some man cojones,” he said. “Just don’t tell me about it, okay?”

  +++

  Christian's apartment was on Broderick between Bay and Northpoint. He had to share the garage with two other people, and the maneuvering could be a pain, but tonight it was empty and he pulled right in.

  Joyce was sitting on the bench in the entry alcove, wearing a big overcoat.

  “Well now, what a surprise,” Christian said. “Except you could have called first.”

  “You’re right, calling would have been a lot easier. But I was somewhat concerned about that.” She gave him a hug. “You smell like liquor. And perfume.”

  “I stopped at Weatherby’s. It’s a friendly place. Before that, I had dinner with my doctor’s secretary.”