He was now in his late thirties, still round-faced, with his dark hair slicked back in a style Walker hadn’t seen since the early 1960s. He’d been a merit scholar and graduated from Santa Teresa High third in his class. Walker had heard he’d graduated from Princeton and had then gone on to Harvard Law. He’d passed the bar the first time around. His specialty was criminal defense. Walker had seen his full-page ad in the yellow pages—murder, domestic violence, DUI, and drug offenses. It seemed like a sleazy way to make a living, but he must have done well at it because Walker’d seen his house in Montebello and the guy lived well. He’d become better-looking with age, and the traits that were deficits in his teens now stood him in good stead. He was reputed to be a ruthless competitor at anything he undertook—golf, tennis, bridge. “Cutthroat” was the word they used. He played hard, he played to win, and no one got in his way.
Herschel seemed startled at the sight of him. “Jesus, you look like shit.”
Walker said, “Herschel Rhodes, of all people. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Hello, Walker. Carolyn asked me to stop by.”
“As an attorney or a friend?”
Herschel’s expression was bland. “We’re hardly friends.”
“Nicely put. If you must know, I’m in the doghouse with her, piece of shit that I am. I can’t believe she’s taking pity on me.”
Herschel smiled slightly. “She figured it was in her best interests. You go down, she goes down with you. None of us wants to see that.”
“Oh, god no,” Walker said. “Have a seat.”
“This is fine. I can’t stay long. I hope you know the kind of trouble you’re in.”
“Why don’t you spell it out for me? I’m not sure if anyone’s mentioned it, but the past four or five days are completely blank as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not surprising. You came into the ER with a blood alcohol of 0.24—three times the legal limit.”
“Says who?”
“They drew blood.”
“I had a concussion. I was out.”
Herschel shrugged.
“They drew blood when I was out? What horseshit. Can they do that?”
“Sure, under the implied consent law. When you apply for and receive a driver’s license, you consent to a chemical test on request. Even if you’d been conscious, you wouldn’t have had much choice. If you’d refused, or tried to, you’d have been charged with a refusal and they’d have taken the blood anyway pursuant to Schmerber Versus California—a U.S. Supreme Court case about the need to preserve evidence that’s dissipating.”
“Shit. I love it. Schmerber Versus California. Is that all? Give me the rest of it. You’re bound to have more.”
“You’ll be charged with Penal Code 191.5—gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated. That carries four, six, or ten years, unless you have a prior, in which case it’s fifteen years to life.”
“Fuck.”
“When did you get a DUI?”
“Two years ago. Look it up. The date escapes me.”
“You’ll also be charged with VC-20001, subsection C—felony hit-and-run after a fatal DUI accident—”
“What are you talking about? What hit-and-run?”
“Yours. You left the scene. The cops found you half a mile away, trudging down the pass all by your lonesome. One shoe off and one shoe on. Remember the nursery rhyme? ‘Diddle diddle dumplin’, my son John, went to bed with his trousers on; one shoe off and the other shoe on . . .’ ”
Walker said, “Quit already. I know the one you mean.” He would have denied it, but he suffered a quick flash of himself stepping on a rock. He’d cussed and hopped on one foot, laughing at the pain.
Herschel continued in the same mild tone, his gaze fixed on Walker’s. Walker wondered if it was malevolence he was seeing in his eyes, Herschel Rhodes’s long-awaited and oh-so-delicious revenge for past slights.
“You’ll also be charged with VC-23153 A and B—DUI causing injury. If you’ve been convicted of a DUI within the past ten years, you could be charged with second-degree murder under the Watson case—”
“Shit on you, Herschel. I just got done telling you I have a fucking prior so why don’t you stick VC-23153 up your ass?”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?”
“Just you and my wife. Believe me, that’s more than enough.”
Herschel leaned closer. “Because I have one piece of advice for you, pal: Keep your mouth shut. Don’t discuss this with anyone. If the subject comes up, you button your lip. You’re a deaf-mute. You no speaka da language. Are you hearing me?”