The Circle Game Read online

  Two

  1968

  The air was sticky with plums, their sweet scent intoxicating and heady. Fat Betty’s, a road-stop tavern, was surrounded by an orchard of Santa Rosa plums, a niche carved out among rows of overgrown fruit trees hungry for picking. Neglected branches were propped up on wooden stakes like crutches; the abandoned fruit was soft and rotting on the ground, rank with sweetness. Occasionally, a stray breeze would deliver the musty odor of the Tule River that flowed nearby to mask the fermenting spoil, but the men lingering outside the old dive bar, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, didn’t care about things like soft breezes, picking plums, or a forgotten harvest.

  A row of menacing choppers lined the edge of the dusty parking lot that stretched out to the empty road. The bikes were mostly customized from modified stock, some with ape hangers, others with extended forks, machined metal tubes screwed onto the forks. Their overheated engines were finally quiet and cool after a long day of endless streaming down the 99 corridor and winding mountain roads. Loud and fast, their riders were fierce, and their bond was tighter than blood. The Vipers owned the road as they weaved fearlessly in and out of traffic, passing on curves, daring cars to get in their way. They rode until the sun disappeared behind the Sequoia skyline, ending the day at the small bar surrounded by plum trees.

  Fat Betty’s was a favorite stop for the night. No one ever hassled them out there next to nowhere. They would swap road stories, drink buckets of beer, brag and tell lies, smoke a little dope, and, if this night was like most Saturday nights, there would be plenty of girls hanging around. But this night was different. On this night, one particular girl was being offered up for their pleasure. And it wasn’t just some young thing picked up along the road. This one was someone they knew, one of their own. It was Juicy, Freddie’s old lady, off limits to the other guys until now. She had been accused of taking club money and that was unforgivable. She had to pay.

  “She’s all yours,” Freddie had yelled to the bar. “She owes us, brothers, so get your money’s worth.”

  It didn’t take long for the steady trek out back to begin. Some would simply linger outside, never setting foot inside the trailer, but plenty would take advantage of the opportunity to do Freddie’s girl then make their way back to the bar for more beer, bragging about their time with Juicy. And then there were the three men who ventured in together, looking for something rougher than just a turn with a pretty girl. All the men ever saw in the small trailer was Juicy, all yellow and spooked, naked in the single bed. None of them noticed her baby who slept peacefully under the small drop-down kitchen table.

  The baby was as far away from her mother as possible, buried beneath a pink and yellow cotton quilt Juicy had stitched together by hand during the months when her belly grew too large for sitting on the back of Freddie’s Harley. The edge of a faded, red vinyl tablecloth hung low, nearly hiding the sleeping child from view. Only her frightened mother would look across the small space to see the bottom of the basket, making sure it remained untouched. Hopefully, the little bit of Jack she’d mixed in Ginny’s milk bottle would knock her out for the whole night. She had guessed that two or three tablespoons would do the trick, reasoning that booze was really just like cough syrup. She hoped she was right. The last thing she needed now was a crying baby. Just stay asleep, she silently prayed. Sleep.

  During those brief moments when she was able to move around, Juicy would quickly peak under the table cloth, stroke her baby’s cheek softly, then return to the bed and resume her living nightmare. Even with the roughest of them, she never refused any command. She knew better, so she tried not to think about the sweating pig on top of her or the dirty hands holding her down, wrenching her wrists. To survive, she slipped right out of her skin and while one man after another grabbed her; she focused on her jail cell, the small trailer with grimy walls and cheap furniture, imagining it at an earlier time. Imagining it as a happy place. Before, before, became her mantra of hope. Think of before.

  The dingy aluminum hut was brand new once, she told herself, someone’s little home. Surely, she fantasized, some man and woman had eaten supper right there at that little table, maybe pot roast surrounded by tender carrots picked from their garden or maybe it was a tuna casserole, even though the woman hated fish. Right at the edge of an orchard of plums, two people might have feasted on ears of corn and the sweet air and soft breeze of a summer evening, happy to be there with each other in this room. They probably made love on this bed, sweet and gentle, then slept peacefully in each other’s arms.

  The happy couple fantasy never lasted long. The stench of sweat, stale beer, and sour breath would drag her out of her sweet dream and wrench her back to reality, to the pressure and weight of yet another man on top of her, his dirty fingers wrapped in her tangled hair. Eventually, they all left, the last one laughing at her painful groans as he let the cheap screen door bounce and slap behind him.

  Three

  2005

  When the doorbell rang, Bernie was busy returning three days’ worth of phone calls, her bare feet propped on her desk, a strand of hair twisted in her mouth. While she punched telephone buttons and talked on the handset, she watched the still leaves just outside the window, willing them to flicker or drift with any hint of a breeze; anything would do. The heat had returned for a final performance and no amount of air conditioning or shade could cool the old house to a comfortable level. She dropped her feet to the floor when she heard the door open and watched him walk across the reception area to Crystal’s desk. That can’t be him, she thought, and turned to the next message. He must be some kind of salesman or something, not her economist.

  “Hi, I’m Don Fielding.” His voice drifted across the reception area, light, yet filled with confidence. “I have an appointment with Ms. Sheridan.”

  Bernie listened in disbelief. No way, she thought. He’s Don Fielding? He looks like a college kid, too young to be an expert witness. Most economists were older, more experienced, like Lance Parker. And, she noticed, he’s Asian. That intrigued her more than his youth; Lance Parker was white.

  “Oh, hi, I’m Crystal. I spoke with you on the phone. Ms. Sheridan will be right out.” Bernie could see Crystal stand and offer her perfectly manicured hand in a professional and yet personal welcome. “Why don’t you have a seat in the conference room?” She pointed him to the large mahogany table across from her desk where she already had the Luna files laid out neatly, along with a fresh legal pad, blue gel pen, mechanical pencil, and various-sized post-it notes. All of Bernie’s potential needs were, as always, ready for her in advance. Crystal hurried to Bernie’s office door, her heels clicking and scuffing on the oak floor. She tapped lightly on the wall just inside the door and pointed toward the conference room to make sure she saw him come in. “He’s here,” she said softly.

  Bernie motioned for her to come in and close the door while she finished leaving a telephone message. “This is Bernadette Sheridan again. I guess we’re playing phone tag. I’m going into a meeting right now, but you can call me after four. Thank you.” She hung up the phone. “He’s the economist? Lance’s nephew?” she whispered, her index finger pointing to the other room.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “He doesn’t look like Lance, for one thing, and he’s awfully young, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know how old he is.” Crystal shrugged her shoulders, pursed her lips, not thinking like her boss, already worried how a jury might feel about an expert who looks like he’s twelve. “Maybe they’re related by marriage.”

  “I just hope he’s good,” Bernie said, searching her desk, shuffling the same papers and red file jackets that had been there for three days. “Where’s the file?” she asked. No matter how many times Crystal prepared the conference room for her, she would still ask where the file was, almost as if it was a ritual.

  “It’s all in there, ready to go.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She slipped her bare feet into a pair of well-worn Birkens
tocks, combed her hair as best she could with only her fingers, letting the side strands fall loose around her face to camouflage her cursed ears, then hurried to meet the man that waited for her in the conference room.

  “Mr. Fielding,” she said as she passed through the double doorway, chin lifted, shoulders back, her right hand extended before her, ready to give a good strong handshake. “Hi. I’m Bernadette Sheridan. Nice to meet you.”

  He stood as soon as she entered the room and readily met her outstretched hand with a single grip and a quick release, no repetitive shaking; it was as if the hands gave a simple hug and retreated. “Nice to meet you,” he said, grinning and nodding his head eagerly with each word. “Please, call me Don.” He waited for her to sit before returning to his seat.

  “Okay, Don.” She looked at him closely, noticed he looked directly into her eyes, no quick look up and down or over the shoulder. She liked that. It was one of the first things she looked for in a person, certain she could detect liars and phonies in an instant, though she’d been proven wrong many times. But she instantly liked his smile. It wasn’t just a movement of the mouth or nod of the head; when Don Fielding smiled, his whole face smiled, and his dark eyes seemed to twinkle. A jury would like that. “Can I get you a coffee, tea, glass of water?”

  “Water would be nice.”

  “I’ll get it,” Crystal said. “Would you like some, too?” she asked Bernie.

  “Yes, thank you, Crystal. And could you put some ice in it?” The two women exchanged brief, knowing smiles at Bernie’s request for ice water, finally taking Crystal’s unwanted advice for her flushed face.

  Bernie sat directly across the table from Don, at the place where the files and supplies had been laid out for her. “So, tell me about yourself,” she began, “where do you come from? Crystal says you recently moved to Fresno.” What she really needed to know was if he had the experience to stand against the attacks of Stuart Riley. That guy loved nothing more than pummeling an expert witness.

  “Well, I recently moved here from Seattle. I brought a copy of my CV,” he said and reached down and grabbed his leather satchel, a soft-sided case with a fold-over top and tarnished brass closure. The leather looked soft and worn, like an old catcher’s mitt. His initials were burned along the edge, DAF. He pulled the snap open as he set the bag on the table in front of him, reached in, pulled out a forest green folder, and handed it to her. “That has everything, CV, business card, letters of reference, and fee schedule.”

  “Very nice,” she said, examining the professional portfolio, admiring the embossed logo, his name in block letters, square and strong. “Why on earth would you leave Seattle for Fresno where we’re still running the air conditioner in October?”

  The sliding pocket doors rumbled open and Crystal slipped in with two tall glasses of ice water, carried on a black, lacquered tray. “Thank you, Crystal.”

  Crystal simply nodded in response, leaving the tray and the room without saying a word, closing the doors behind her.

  “I actually grew up around here, so when Lance called and asked if I’d like to come and help him out, it seemed like a good thing to do. Most of my family still lives here, and,” he paused to grin, his eyes nearly closing in happiness at the thought, “to tell you the truth, last summer, when I was on vacation with my family at their cabin, I bought a little cabin of my own.”

  “Nice,” Bernie interrupted. She had always dreamed of having a cabin, a place to escape from work, phones, life, everything.

  “Yes,” he continued. “Up near Huntington, in Camp Sierra. I’ve been working on it every chance I get, and I really love it, so I decided to move closer so I could actually spend more than a couple of weeks a year there. I’m sort of going back and forth right now, still tying up some loose ends in Seattle. I have a couple of cases still going on there that I need to finish up.”

  “Huntington Lake. It’s gorgeous, but gee, I haven’t been up there in a couple of years, I guess. I’m not sure I even know where Camp Sierra is.”

  “Well, you’ll have to drive up and visit, see what I’ve done. Maybe spend an afternoon on the water. I have a little boat.”

  “Sailboat?”

  “Of course.” He dipped his head a bit, as if it were the end of his sentence, a physical period. A lock of his dark hair fell over his face and he gently lifted his thin fingers to comb it back into place. “It’s just a little daysailer.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Do you fish?”

  “No, not since I was a kid.” Bernie flashed back to a forgotten day on the Kings River, sitting in tall grass with her dad, their poles held loose in their hands. How old was she? Seven? Eight?

  His dark eyes scanned the conference room walls, the molded ceiling and cool green walls. “This is a great office,” he said. “I love these old houses.”

  “Thank you. I do too.” She looked around at the familiar room, still gratified that her choice to open her own practice downtown was the right thing to do, no matter the risk.

  Bernie opened the folder and studied the long list of qualifications and accomplishments. “I see you went to UCLA.”

  “Yes, for grad school. I actually did my undergraduate work here at Fresno State. As you can see, I have an MS and PhD in Economics. My bachelor’s is in Psychology, a little bit of a shift from Econ, but helpful in forensics work.”

  “Impressive . . . Dr. Fielding.” She nodded approvingly as she continued to scan the long list of professional papers he had authored, and the longer list of legal cases where he served as an expert witness. “You don’t seem old enough to have done so much. You’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, and thank you.” He paused for a moment before going on with his history, allowing Bernie more time to peruse his information. “Why don’t I give you the brief version? For the past ten years I’ve been working in Seattle, consulting in legal matters and teaching part time at the university.” He paused again to grin, amused at his own life, at least the part he was about to reveal. “And, in my free time, I was playing bass guitar in a local band there, well—it’s a club band. We play mostly originals, but a few covers.”

  She laid the folder down, intrigued, and leaned a bit closer to make sure she caught every word he shared, truly interested. “Let’s see, you’re a sailor, forensic economist, professor, and a musician? That’s quite a mixed bag of skills there. How do you have time for all of that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you just make time for things you want to do.” His palms rolled slowly upward, as if there could be no other way imaginable for him to live. “And, just give up the rest.” For the first time since he’d walked in the door, and for just a moment, he wasn’t smiling. “Don’t ask me what’s on television because I don’t know.”

  Bernie measured her words carefully, knowing her next question could come off as offensive or too personal, but she was curious, and asking sensitive questions was what she did. She knew that if she had a question, probably someone else did, too, so it was better if she knew the answer up front. “At the risk of seeming politically incorrect, actually, knowing it is politically incorrect, you don’t look like Lance.”

  “No, I don’t.” He shook his head slightly, but never shifted his gaze from her face.

  Bernie offered a warm smile. “I’m just curious,” she said, “and I decided a long time ago to just ask my witnesses and clients about anything. It’s better to be direct than leave a meeting with any questions in my head.”

  “Actually, I don’t look like any of the Parkers or the Fieldings. Most people hear my name and expect to see a fat, bald guy in a cheap suit smoking a Cuban cigar, not a skinny Asian guy, though they are never surprised that I’m pretty good at math.” His face lit up when Bernie smiled freely and genuinely at his humorous jab at racial stereotypes and himself.

  “Oh dear,” she said, grimacing.

  “I’m not sure if it’s much a story, but my name was given to me when I was adopted. I am, by birth, Vietn
amese. I was one of those children taken out of Vietnam at the end of the war and brought to America for adoption.”

  “Really? You were adopted?” This captured her interest even more than his CV, musical skills, or mountain cabin. The minute she’d seen him, she’d wondered if he was adopted. “How old were you when you came here?”

  He blinked slowly, smiled slightly, and seemed pleased to share his life story with her, even though they had just met. “I was just five when I came to America. I don’t really remember much about Vietnam, bits and pieces of faces, smells, and a small house, but most of it is just a blur. I remember flies for some reason, a lot of flies, but I’m not sure if that was Vietnam or Fresno; my folks live out in the country and there are still a lot of flies, so I don’t know where the flies come in. I wish I remembered the language, but I don’t, not a word. I do remember sitting in school, struggling to understand English, never quite sure what the teacher was saying, but I had a good tutor so I caught up.”

  “What about your parents, your real ones; don’t you remember them? I remember things from when I was five. And your name? You must have had a different name.” Her questions ran into each other, leaving no time for him to answer. That was not her style, at least not the one she used in depositions, but this was not a deposition. This was different.

  “You really are direct. I’m not sure what any of this has to do with your case, but I’m used to these types of questions. Most people just aren’t as, as you say, direct.” He paused for a sip of water then continued. “Believe it or not, my name was Danh, almost Don, just more nasal. I don’t have any real sense of hearing it that way, it’s been so long, and I don’t really remember my birth mother and father, just flashes of faces, teeth, smells, snippets of sounds, if that makes sense.”