“I’m going to do laundry and review some things for Monday morning’s presentation. I figure I can take the 1:00 back to San Francisco tomorrow and then return home Monday night.
At times like this, Ridge was glad they lived only a few minutes from LAX. “No problemo. Done deal. Should we get breakfast near the Manhattan Beach Pier beforehand?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
As Jayne went to start her laundry, Ridge started developing another plan. Ever since she discovered the license plate’s Goleta address, it was burning in his mind. Sunday afternoon Jayne would be back in San Francisco. Terry would be down in San Diego, finishing another stake-out with his associate. He wouldn’t be back until Monday morning. Why waste a perfectly good Sunday afternoon? Why not fly away? Solo. Just to look around. A little reconnaissance, seemed like a perfect way to spend the day.
CHAPTER 16
Terry picked Ridge up at 6:30 p.m. as planned. Jayne kissed him goodbye and assured him she’d spend the evening curled up with Mister and Pistol and would probably go to bed early. Less than 40 minutes later, they arrived at Rolling Hills Cemetery, located on the lower bluffs of Palos Verdes Peninsula.
After passing through the gates, Terry and Ridge joined a long line of cars waiting near the Spanish Chapel where the family had set up a reception to celebrate Judge Millsberg’s life. The cemetery grounds were park-like with flat-to-earth headstones, green everywhere and black winding roads, grassy slopes, tall trees, and harbor views. Peaceful. Beautiful, really.
Once parked, they were directed to a large but charming hacienda-type building with a central courtyard just to the left of the Chapel. Inside, the main room had café tables with white tablecloths and chairs all around. Wine and cheese bars were set up in two corners, and tables of hors d’oeuvres were placed throughout the room. In the background, on low setting, they played the judge’s favorite songs. Ridge immediately recognized “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha, “I Dreamed A Dream” from Les Mis, and “Memories.” from Cats.
With a drink in hand, he studied those around him. Most notable was a group of judges from Orange County. Actually two groups: Four in long black robes, and the others in dark suits, much like the ones Terry and Ridge wore. Ridge knew all the judges, either directly or by reputation. The four in robes were the royal core of the Orange County Courthouse, led by Chief Judge Christian Gimuldin. The others in suits, standing separately, were the ones Ridge hoped would get assigned to his cases. They ranged from Millsberg-like to merely conservative in their judicial demeanor and attitudes. No agendas. No decisions based on prejudices rather than facts and evidence. Agenda justice is no justice, he thought.
He turned and focused on the four black robes. Watching them, anyone could conclude two things: All were closely bonded, like brothers, and three responded quickly to the call of the fourth, Judge Gimuldin, who was standing center in his trademark bow tie and black robe. In fact, rumor had it Gimuldin even showered in a black robe. He seemingly wore robes at all times, in his office, in the hallway, everywhere, even when rules didn’t allow it. The related rumor was he used the robes to hide his stacked heels. Allegedly, the judge sported a much shorter and fatter body under those robes and masked it with two-to-three-inch heels and the flowing gown. Right or wrong, one thing was certain: When he robed up for an event, so did his three brethren. Lock step. All the time.
Now, they headed toward a table of food. In their long robes, they seemed to slide in unison across the room, like penguins without the waddle. In an opposite corner, a large flat screen TV was on, surrounded by three sofas. Ridge headed that way.
The TV, hooked to a DVD player, cycled through photographs of the judge’s life—high school, college, the Army, her time as a lawyer, and her many years as a judge. The presentation included photos of family vacations, social events, and the judge’s hobbies—fishing and bicycling. Ridge sat on a sofa watching the show, while Terry talked with another investigator nearby. Then a long-time lawyer friend sat down next to Ridge, Elliot Green.
“Eric, it’s been awhile. How goes it?” Elliot was a trim man in his late 40’s, who stood 5-feet 8-inches and had dark Mediterranean features. “Sad thing about Judge Millsberg, huh? Everybody’s stunned—especially after Judge Flynn’s recent death in San Diego.”
“Judge Flynn? I didn’t know him, unfortunately, or about his death. But losing Judge Millsberg has been shock enough. By the way, how are your fights for rights going?”
Elliot Green had been a civil-rights lawyer for twenty-five years. One of the best in L.A. and an activist for the LGBTQ community. He basically lived in court, especially the federal and state courts in downtown L.A., and the Santa Ana division of federal court in Orange County. Most of his cases involved civil rights, disability laws, and the like. He was also something of an expert on the personalities of judges in and around California.
“So what’s with the dark shades? And are those stitches? What happened?”
As Ridge gave him his stock reply and lowered his sunglasses, Elliot’s eyes widened.
“I hope the other guy looks worse,” said Elliot.
Ridge shook his head and frowned. “Not really.” Then, they both smiled and began to share memories about Judge Millsberg.
“No matter what,” Elliot said, “Juliet Millsberg was always fair.” Then he pointed discreetly at Gimuldin and his three brethren, still sliding around the room as a unit in their long black robes. “Now that group is the exact opposite of Juliet Millsberg. Gimuldin is a piece of work. He rules the roost. Doesn’t even bother to show up on Mondays and most Fridays. which screws up trying a case in his courtroom. But he couldn’t care less. Too busy working on his deep tan—especially now that he’s between trophy wives.”
“What’s it like to try a case in his fiefdom?”
Elliot leaned toward Ridge. “Just finished another trial in front of him. Did you know, before his appointment to the bench, he had never tried a case as a lawyer? Never. Spent twenty-five years defending public utility companies in administrative hearings. But to hear him now, you’d think he invented trying cases in front of juries.”
“That bad?”
Elliot nodded. “By the way, have you ever been in his chambers?”
At that point, Ridge asked Elliot to step away from the couches. He was tired of whispering, and he didn’t want the wrong ears overhearing what was said. They each got a glass of wine and strolled out to the far end of the central courtyard. Ridge turned to Elliot. “OK. Tell me about his chambers.”
“Huge,” said Elliot. “When you walk in—an enormous desk in the far corner. But here’s the thing, the desk has a false front all the way to the floor. It hides the fact the desk and his chair are elevated on a platform. There’s also a ramp hidden behind the desk. He uses it to ascend subtly to his throne, I mean—chair. That way, when he directs lawyers to take the visitors’ seats in front of his desk, they feel like midgets, gazing up at judge on high. It’s one thing in a courtroom, where the judge sits higher than everyone else, that’s for decorum and safety. But in a private office—so he can look down on lawyers? That’s just sick.”
Ridge was going to agree, but Elliot, on a roll, continued, “I just hired an associate who spent two years as Gimuldin’s law clerk. Each summer Gimuldin selects two graduating law students as full-time researchers for two-year terms. Supplements his permanent research clerk who’s been with him for about ten years. All three are paid of course by taxpayers—a perk of the office.”
Ridge tipped his wine glass at Elliot to slow him down and said: “But that’s not unusual. Chief judges are assigned law clerks to help with research, drafting opinions and other duties.”
“True. But get this. My new associate tells me the permanent researcher is named Henri. Gimuldin hired him because, before law school, he was a sous-chef at a famous French restaurant in Napa Valley. Gimuldin even has a special deal with the manager of the court cafeteria. Henri works in a designated portion of the kitchen, preparing lunches for the judge and his guests.”
“Next to hospital food, court cafeteria food ranks worst in the world.”
“Not this food,” said Elliot. “Haute cuisine. Served through the back elevator, complete with large silver covers on trays to keep things hot. According to my associate, the judge’s two-year clerks do the serving. They get special training from Henri, even as to how to pull the silver covers off the main dishes in unison and, get this, announce “Voilà.” Tricky, too—it can require both hands for two covers, especially at the big table with multiple guests.”
“The big table?”
“Oh sure—that’s right, you’ve never been in his chambers. Look, as you enter, to the left is a massive 12-foot wooden table surrounded by a dozen high-back chairs. Each chair supposedly has the judge’s family crest carved at the top. During the day it’s all theoretically used as a research table, but at lunch—the black tablecloth and napkins come out. My associate tells me the black decor contrasts nicely with the crystal, silverware and silver serving dishes kept nearby in the wooden cabinets, beneath the bookshelves.”
Just then, as Ridge was trying to visualize the whole thing, Terry came over and politely interrupted them. “Boss, shouldn’t we think about leaving.”
Ridge introduced Terry to Elliot, and after handshakes said, “Terry’s right. Time to go. But thanks, Elliot, for bringing me behind closed doors. Always love to hear about my tax dollars at work. Later amigo.” Ridge and Terry then bid good night and thank you to Justin Millsberg and his aunts and headed to the car. As they got in, Terry said, “Next stop, 23rd Street Landing. Too bad Jayne’s not going to join us.”
“She said she was going to crash early, so we’re on our own.”
“Like old times.”
The Landing in San Pedro was one of Ridge’s favorite restaurants. Right on a wooden pier overlooking the commercial fishing boat slips. Talk about fresh. The Landing got its fish straight off the boats and its clam chowder was to die for. Not only that but its long dark wooden bar was the best in SoCal—no question. Everything from Anejo Tequila to the greatest Irish and Canadian whiskeys. It was already 10:30 when they arrived and headed straight to the bar where they drank, talked to other patrons, and popped peanuts and chips until 1 a.m. when they finally decided to order some food to soak up the drinks.
CHAPTER 17
