“Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?”
Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say, Leave us the hell alone.
Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”
“Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her.
“With Dr. Williams.”
“Is Mr. Melrose there, too?”
“Yes.”
Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.”
Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.”
No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.”
Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried … troubled.
“Actually, this is a good thing.”
“What is?” Decker asked.
“You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.”
“Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.”
“I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need …” Ernesto groped for the words.
“Explicit details?” Decker tried.
“Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.”
“You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”
“No one was hurt, you know.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“You think we can work something out?”
“I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”
“And if you can’t work something out?”
“Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”
He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels …”
Silence.
“But you’re bored,” Decker said.
“Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”
No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”
“No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this … obsession. I … had to do it.”
“You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”
“Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”
“My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”
Decker waited.
“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need … a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”
“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”
If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.
“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”
Decker nodded encouragement.
“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father … my paternal grandfather … was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down … Do you know what they do?”
“Golding Recycling.”
“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”
“Your parents are an entity.”
“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”
“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”
“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line.
