The Forgotten

“Of course.”

“Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.”

Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.”

“There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.”

“Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more … genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.”

The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“That can be arranged.”

They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly.

Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about.

Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted.

The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private.

His request was granted.

The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense.

When they came back into Headmaster Williams’s CEO office, Ernesto looked upset, but Melrose was unreadable. He said, “Can you tell me the basis for this detainment?”

Decker said, “Your client has a stolen cup in his possession—”

“Have we determined that the cup was stolen?” Melrose asked innocently. “My client claims that the cup was an heirloom.”

Decker said, “Counselor, the cup belonged to the synagogue, Beit Yosef, that was vandalized this morning—”

“That’s impossible!” Jill broke in.

“Impossible that the synagogue was vandalized, or impossible that your son could have some involvement in the crime—”

“Don’t answer that!” Melrose interrupted.

“Ernesto, what is going on?” Carter asked.

“I wish I knew, Dad.” Ernesto tapped his toe and made eye contact with the floor.

A good bluff, but not a great one. Decker said, “The cup was taken from Ernesto’s backpack. That’s a fact. Dr. Dahl was there as a witness.”

“Did he give you permission to search his backpack?”

“Absolutely not,” Ernesto stated.

“It’s irrelevant whether or not you gave him permission!” Carter Golding spoke out. “I’d like to know what it’s doing in your possession.”

“So you’re saying it’s not a family heirloom?” Decker remarked.

“Carter, please!” Melrose said. “He’s not saying anything. He’s not the subject of this inquiry. What I’m hearing is that no one was granted permission to check Ernesto’s backpack!”

Dr. Williams came alive. “The school’s bylaws state that faculty can search lockers and personal property of any student at any given time to hunt out contraband or unlawful substances. Mr. Golding is aware of the bylaws. He has signed an honor code, acknowledging such rules with a promise to abide by them. So have Mr. and Mrs. Golding. It is a requirement of attending the school.”

“Lieutenant Decker is not faculty.”

“Dr. Dahl is faculty,” Decker countered. “She was the one who ordered Ernesto to open his knapsack.”

A few seconds of silence before Melrose turned his curious eyes on Jaime Dahl. “If you do routine searches for contraband, I’m assuming you have a list as to what constitutes contraband?”

“Of course.”

“And does it say specifically what items are contraband?”

“Stolen items are contraband,” Williams interjected.

“So a cup is not illegal.”

“The stolen cup is illegal,” Decker said.

“According to you, Lieutenant, a silver cup was reported stolen from a synagogue,” Melrose pointed out. “How do you know for certain that this is the cup in question? There may be hundreds like it.”

“Do you want proof that the cup belongs to the synagogue? That can be arranged. I can probably even dig up the original sales receipt. But I’ll tell you one thing for your own benefit, in case your client wants to change his story. That cup isn’t an heirloom. We bought it a year ago when the synagogue began having regular kiddushes after services.”

“What’s a kiddushes?” Jaime Dahl asked.

“Hors d’oeuvres after the Sabbath prayers. Before you eat, you need to make a benediction using wine. Hence, the silver cup.” Decker just realized that suddenly he was the resident Jewish expert. A position usually reserved for Rina, he felt strange occupying it now.

Melrose said, “You know a lot about this particular synagogue. May I ask if you’re a member?”

“You may ask, and I’ll even answer it, Counselor. Yes, I am a member.”

“So you’re hardly an unbiased party in this investigation.”

“That may be. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I can identify this cup as stolen.”

Melrose bluffed it out. “None of this will hold up in court. It’s an illegal search and seizure done under false pretenses. You told the students that this was a routine contraband check.”

Carter stood up. “Aren’t we missing the main issue? What were you doing with a cup from a vandalized synagogue, Ernesto?”

“It isn’t the right time to talk about this,” Melrose said.

Jill said, “This is all a mistake. Our son would never have anything to do—”

“Are you going to arrest the boy?” Melrose asked. “Yes or no?”

Decker sat back. He addressed his comments to Ernesto. “Mr. Golding, this isn’t going to go away. I am going to find out what happened, and if you’re involved, it’s going to come out. You can be in the catbird seat, or one of your cohorts can bring you down. Take your pick!”

“Ernie, what’s going on?” his mother asked.

“Nothing, Mom,” Ernesto answered. His breathing suddenly became audible. “He’s trying to psych you out. He’s a part of an organization of brutality. Police lie all the time. They’re never to be trusted. How many times have you told me that?”

Decker saw Jill Golding’s cheeks turn pink. “Ernesto,” he said, “you talk to me, I can ask a judge for leniency. Most you’ll do is some community service. More important, if you cooperate, I can try to get your records sealed even though you’re almost eighteen. The Ivies would never have to hear about it.”

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Ernesto answered. “Cops are pathological liars.”

Decker raised his eyebrows. “Fine, son. Have it your way. I’ll recommend that you’re tried as an adult.”

Ernesto stood up. “You can’t bully me into submission! I’ve had way worse nightmares!” He stomped out, slamming the door as he left. Mom was the next one out the door. Dad waited a beat, swore under his breath, and then took off as well. The quiet ticked away for a few moments.

Decker said, “You want to bring him down, Mr. Melrose, or do I take out the handcuffs?”

“I’ll get him.” Melrose left.

Again the room fell silent. Jaime Dahl broke it. “I can’t believe it! Almost anyone but him!” She regarded Decker. “You still have a few boys left to search. Would you like me to do that?”

“I’ll do it when I’m done with Ernesto. I’ll need a list of his friends—”

“I don’t think I can do that, Lieutenant,” Jaime answered. “Finking is not part of the contract.”

“Finking?”

“It’s one thing to catch a student with stolen goods, it’s quite another to have a boy rat another out.”

“The synagogue was a horrible mess,” Decker said. “Pictures of dead Jews were thrown all over the place. He didn’t do it alone. I want names!”

Williams was about to offer some words, but the discussion was cut short. The door opened, and Ernesto tromped in. Still short of breath, he gasped out, “I want to talk to you.”

Decker pointed to his chest. “Are you talking to me, Mr. Golding?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you … sir.”

“I like the ‘sir’ part,” Decker said. “It shows civility.”

The parents and Melrose materialized. Carter Golding was red-faced and furious. “I am the boy’s father. I demand to know what’s going on!”

“I’m trying to get that done, Dad,” Ernesto said with anger. “Can you just … like lay off for a few moments—”

“You’ve been accused of vandalizing a house of worship, and you want me to lay off?”

“Carter, I know you’re upset, but please, let’s deal with one issue at a time,” Melrose said.

Ernesto said, “I’ll tell this cop what’s going on, but first you’ve got to guarantee me what you just said … about it being sealed.”

Melrose said, “Ernesto, the man is a police lieutenant. If you want someone to do you favors, start acting appropriately humble.” He looked at Decker. “What can you do?”

“I could probably get his part pled down to malicious mischief, which will require some explaining since it’s a hate crime. But if it turns out he’s jiving me, all bets are off.”

“What is malicious mischief?” Jill asked. “What does it mean?”

“It means it’s a misdemeanor,” Melrose stated flatly. “I’m still not sure this is the best way.”

“Why the change of heart?” Decker asked Ernesto.

“I have my reasons,” the teen answered. “If you want to know about them, give me a guarantee.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” Decker said.

“Not good enough,” Ernesto stated.

Decker stood and took out the cuffs. “Fair enough. You’re under arrest—”

“Wait a damn minute!” Carter broke in. “Ernesto, once this man arrests you, you can’t be unarrested! Are you aware of that?”

Ernesto was quiet.

“It won’t hold up, Carter,” Melrose assured him. “He doesn’t have any rights here.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

No one spoke.

“This is the situation, Ernesto,” Decker said. “You talk, I listen. If I like what I hear, I go to bat for you. If I don’t, you’re no worse off. I’ll still arrest you. But what you told me will be inadmissible because you spoke without a lawyer.”

“No, no, no!” Melrose broke in. “Who said anything about his talking without representation?”

“Counselor, if you’re there, then it’s official. I have to read him his rights. Then, as we all know, I can use his statements in a trial. If you’re not there, I can’t use anything.”

“So what happens if you like what you hear?” Carter wanted to know.

“He writes it all down in a witnessed confession statement. We seal it. Then I take it to the D.A. and probably he’ll plead him down to a simple wrist slap—”

“Probably?”

“Yes, probably. I can’t say for sure. This is the best I can do—”

“I’ll take it,” Ernesto said.

“Ernesto, you’re seventeen. You don’t have the final word. Do you understand that?”

“And you’re fired, Mr. Melrose. Do you understand that?”

“Ernie, what in the world is wrong with you?” Jill screamed. “Apologize!”

“This is precisely why I can’t trust him without representation,” Melrose said.

Ernesto tightened his fists. “This is my life here, Mr. Melrose. Not yours, not my mom’s, not Dad’s … my life.” He looked at Decker. “I can speak for myself.”

Melrose said, “Carter, you can’t let him do this!”

“Yes, he can,” Ernesto said. “My parents raised me with independence. Now they’re going to put their money where their mouths are and trust me to do the right thing!”

And what could the Goldings say to that? Decker couldn’t have scripted it better. He broke in. “Where do you want to talk, Mr. Golding?” A pause. “Is there a vacant classroom somewhere?”

“You can have the faculty lounge annex,” Williams stated.

Ernesto said, “I have a calculus test last period. That’s in an hour. Can we wrap it up by then?”

“That depends on what you have to tell me,” Decker said.

“I’m not gonna miss my test,” Ernesto insisted. “I studied two hours for that sucker.”

“Ernesto, calculus should not be foremost on your mind!” Jill barged in.

“Calculus isn’t foremost on my mind, Ma, only getting an A in calculus. If I don’t get an A in calculus, I can kiss off the Ivies.” To Decker, he said, “You said the records would be sealed?”

“If I like what I hear, I’ll make that recommendation.”

“So I wouldn’t have to put anything on my college applications?”

“Not if they’re sealed.”

“So the universities wouldn’t know—”

“Forget about college right now!” Carter snapped.

“How can I forget about college, Dad!” Ernesto exploded. “Other than sex, college is all I ever think about. Because it’s all you and Mom ever think about!”

7

The prep school supplied lots of perks, among them the faculty lounge. It was set up like a café in a bookstore with tables, chairs, a few comfy sofas, and several computer stations, allowing teachers to go on-line and check their E-mail. Plenty of reading material—novels, nonfiction, magazines, and papers—sat on the built-in shelves that lined the walls. A few excellent pieces of student artwork were displayed. The biggest benefit, in Decker’s mind, was the in-house laundry service. When Dr. Dahl saw him gaping at the counter, she explained that the faculty worked long hours. It was the least they could do.

Decker had to strain to hear her because, as they walked, Ernesto was sandwiched between them. He followed the administrator through the area, ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?”

The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.”

An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?”

She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?”

“Once upon a time.”

“You actually passed the bar?”

“Now you’re getting insulting.”

She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said.

Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.”

The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers.

Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.”

Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them.

Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”

“How about some water for the both of us?”

Ernesto said, “I’m fine.”

“I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left.

“Where do I sit?”

“Anywhere you want,” Decker answered.

The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook.

Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once … about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies … that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.”

Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?”

Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.”

“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. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”

“You like your parents.”

“Yeah … yeah, I do. I … admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.”