foster dad, the lieutenant, on the other. They guided him into a waiting car. Sergeant Marge Dunn was behind the wheel.
She maneuvered the silent group through the streets of the San Fernando Valley—a suburb of L.A.—until they reached the driveway of the Decker house. Once inside, Gabe collapsed on the living room couch, took off his glasses, and closed his eyes.
Rina took off her tam, liberating a sheet of black, shoulder-length hair, and regarded the boy. He was nearly bald—courtesy of an indie film he had starred in—and his complexion was pale and pasty. Little red bumps covered his forehead.
She said, “I’m going to change and get dinner ready.” At the sound of her voice, Gabe opened his eyes. “You must be starving.”
“Actually I feel queasy.” He rubbed his green orbs and put his specs back on. “Once I start eating, I’m sure I’ll be okay.”
Decker and Marge came in a moment later, chatting about business. The lieutenant loosened his tie, and then took a seat next to the boy. The poor kid was constantly jockeying back and forth between the teen and adult worlds. For the last year, his foster son had been at Juilliard, finishing almost two years in one. Decker threw his arm around the kid’s shoulder and kissed the top of his peach fuzz head. Gabe wasn’t totally bald, but what was growing in was blondish.
Gabe asked, “How’d I do?”
“Phenomenal,” Decker said. “I wish every witness I had was half as good as you.”
Marge sat opposite the boys. “You were a dream for the prosecution: completely credible, plainspoken, and damn cute.” When Gabe smiled, she said, “Plus being a movie star doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh jeez. It was barely above a student film on a shoestring budget. It’ll never go anywhere.”
Decker smiled. “You never know.”
“Believe me, I know. Did I ever tell you about my breakdown scene? I’m running down this long hallway of the sanitarium buck naked with my hair flying in back as attendants in white coats try to catch me. When they catch me, they start to shave my head and I’m screaming, ‘Not my hair, not my hair.’ I haven’t seen the movie, so I’ll have to take the director’s word that it was a great scene.”
“You haven’t watched your own movie?” Marge asked.
“No. Too embarrassed. Not at me being naked, but I’m pretty sure I’m a dreadful actor.”
Marge smiled, stood up, and picked a piece of pilled wool off of her beige sweater. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve got to go back to the station house. I left a pile of paperwork on my desk.”
“Not to mention everything that I dropped in your lap,” Decker said. “Thanks for picking up the slack.”
Rina walked in. She had donned a long-sleeved black T-shirt, a jean skirt, and slippers. “You’re not staying for dinner, Marge?”
“Can’t. Too much work to do.”
Decker looked at his watch. “I’ll come join you in about an hour if you’re still around. I’ll bring you a care package from tonight’s dinner.”
“In that case, I’ll make sure I’m around.” Marge waved and left.
Decker said to his wife, “You need any help?”
“I’m fine. It’s been a long day and a little quiet is okay with me.” She disappeared into the kitchen.
Gabe said, “I should shower. I smell pretty bad. I was sweating a lot.”
“Normal.”
“I suppose this is only a warm-up for tomorrow. Defense is going to have a field day with me.”
“You’ll be fine. Just stick to who you are and tell the truth.”
“That I’m the son of a hit man?”
“Gabe—”
“I mean who are we kidding? You know they’re gonna bring him up.”
“Probably. And if they do, your lawyer will object, because Christopher Donatti is irrelevant.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“He is, but you aren’t.”
“He runs whorehouses.”
“Whorehouses are legal in Nevada.”
“He cut up Dylan Lashay and turned him into a mass of jelly.”
“Now you’re speculating.” Decker looked at the boy. “Okay. I’m the defense and cross direct, okay.” He cleared his throat and tried to act like a lawyer. “Have you ever participated in anything criminal? And be careful what you answer.”
Gabe thought a moment. “I smoked weed.”
“Ever take pills?”
“Prescription medication.”
“Such as.”
“Paxil, Xanax, Zoloft, Prozac … a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. My doctors rotate around to see what’s affective. And the answer to that is—nothing.”
“It is sufficient to just list the medications, Gabriel.”
“I know.”
“Are you anxious now?”
“I’m very anxious.”
“Good answer,” Decker said. “Who wouldn’t be anxious during this process? The prosecution has presented you today as a gifted teen that has gone through a very traumatic experience. On cross, defense will try to trip you up. They’ll ask you about your dad, they’ll ask you about me. Always pause before you answer to give the prosecution time to object. And whatever you do, don’t speculate. On redirect, the lawyers will make sure that the jury knows that you are not your father’s son.”
Gabe said, “I don’t really care about myself. I’m worried about Yasmine. It kills me to picture her being hammered at by some jerk lawyer.”
“She’s sixteen, sheltered, an A student, and physically, she’s small and delicate. She’ll probably cry. Everyone will go lightly on her. What they’ll do is ask her to repeat verbatim what Dylan and the others said to her and argue about the meaning of their statements. I’m sure the defense will say something like they were just kidding around. Bad taste, but no serious intent.”
“Dylan was going to rape her.”
“He might have even killed her if you didn’t step in.” Decker paused. “It could be she won’t make it to the witness-box. After your testimony, they may try again for a plea bargain.”
“Dylan’s physically messed up. Why didn’t they plea bargain in the first place?”
“The Lashays wouldn’t agree to jail time. We offered them a prison hospital,
