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  The waiter arrived to report their table was ready. They abandoned their bar stools and headed toward the front of the restaurant, the Judge casting one last look at the poor halved creature sizzling in the sauté pan, vowing to avoid the lobster.

  They were shown to a table set against the glass window which fronted the sidewalk and the street. Katy took over seat assignment, asserting her authority as the hosting party. The two women sat together, as did the men. The Judge was given the seat with his back to the side wall where he could watch the room and still look out the window, secure no one could sneak up from behind. Katy knew him well.

  The perpetual string of pedestrians wandering by eyed them with interest. Particularly Katy. The Judge felt like he was sitting in a fish bowl. If he raised from the table a little he could see the shaggy head of the homeless man sitting outside under their window sill.

  Katy was to his left, her back to the crowded restaurant, and her dad, Ralph was to his left, his back to the window. Florence sat opposite, where she could watch the cranking heads outside as people passed by and had a look at her daughter, and still view the tables to her left where split lobsters and other delicacies were being consumed.

  Florence turned to the Judge with small smile, then said, "I understand you have trouble keeping your pants on, Judge." Referring to Friday's newspaper story with an underlying relish that verged on mean.

  "I do," said the Judge, "Particularly around your daughter."

  A light blush rose across Florence's cheek bones. The Judge grunted as he felt Katy's elbow shoved into his ribs with a vengeance. He didn’t give a damn. If this was how it was going to be, by God it’d be shot for shot.

  Katy's dad immediately waded in, giving Florence a "hold your damn tongue" look.

  "Katy told us about the attack on you Friday night at the beach. We were appalled. How is your arm?"

  "It's going to be okay. An inch to the right and I'd have a severed tendon.” Assuming the role of victim now. Hoping for cover, and perhaps a little sympathy.

  "Tell us what happened?” asked Ralph. Encouraging him to carry forward the wooden leg role.

  The Judge launched into a colorful description of his Thursday evening on the Santa Monica Beach, the attack, diving into the water, jettisoning his pants, the swim, the Ferris Wheel, the fear of the hammerhead shark, coming back ashore, the LA Sheriff, the ambulance ride, and the pinch-faced nurse. As he described it, he had the feeling he was overlooking something. There was something out of place. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was there though, locked in his self-conscious. What was he missing?

  The waiter came as the Judge finished, and wine was ordered, a Shiraz by Farr, 2010, from Geelong in Victoria, Australia.

  Katy accepted her glass of wine and pretended to sip from the glass, but the Judge noted the level of the wine never went down. Tricky.

  Florence turned to the Judge and nodded at the top of the head of the person sitting on the sidewalk just outside their window. The one the Judge had given the money to as they’d walked in.

  “You shouldn’t encourage the homeless, Judge,” Florence said. “They need to find jobs and stop mooching on other people’s good will.”

  The Judge looked across the table at Florence. He knew she was baiting him. It was her nature. She couldn’t help herself. Did he want to make a scene? It was going to be an arduous evening however it was played. He rationalized a poke or two might be justified without too much blowback from Katy.

  Besides, Flo was technically his mother-in-law although she didn’t know it. He was her son-in-law. A very old son-in-law indeed. But full-fledged just the same. Both parties had to envision a continuing relationship, for Katy’s sake, and for the small peanut she was carrying.

  It was good to establish some ground rules early on about how the relationship would be. That was done by the give and take in early contacts like this. He was a little handicapped of course. He had to tread more delicately since he knew they were now in-laws and she didn’t. Still…..

  “So, why do you think we have homeless, Florence?” He softened his blue eyes as he asked the question and tried to look innocent. Not like the steel trap jurist he was.

  “They mostly have a screw loose, Judge. Some part of the population is always in that condition at any point in time. Of course we have more people now, so there are more of them. I’m all for live and let live. If they want to live in squalor and avoid working, let them.”

  She sat back in her chair, waiting to see what the Judge would say.

  “Do you feel threatened by them?”

  “Threatened? No. Well if I were in Watts or something I suppose. But not here in Santa Monica. I don’t make eye contact. You make eye contact, you encourage them. They’re all over you. Wanting money. There was some a lady in line to get on the freeway in front of me yesterday, Judge. She offered this guy standing at the on ramp with his cardboard sign a Carl’s Whopper. After all, his sign said he had no money for food. ‘No thanks’, he shakes his head. He opens one palm and taps it with his finger, bellowing ‘I need money for my rent, got any spare ones?’ She rolled her window up and kept moving.”

  “So you don’t think we should try to help them, Florence?”

  “You can’t really help these people, Judge. They’re on the street because they want to be. So let them be. There have always been people like that. Even in the thirties, and before. People too lazy to work.”

  “So I’m not sure what you’re saying, Flo. Do they mostly have a screw lose, or are they mostly lazy?”

  “Some are one, some are the other. Lots of them are both. We just have to ignore them and hope they’ll go somewhere else.”

  “What sort of categories of people become homeless, do you think?”

  “Like you said, Judge, looneys and lazies.”

  “There are some others I think , Florence. There are the vets, who fought for our country in the Middle East and Afghanistan. They have posttraumatic stress disorder, and find it difficult to cope. They often end up on the street. Should we ignore our vets?”

  “Well… no. Course not. They served on the behalf of all of us. Those people need to be guided back into VA programs and such. We have a moral obligation to help them.”

  “I agree,” said Ralph. “We have to stand by our vets.”

  “What about families, Florence? Dad lost his job. Jobs are tough to get in this recession. He does what he can. Part time jobs flipping hamburgers, serving as a night watchman. Little jobs. Not enough to save the house. Two small kids. A wife that also tries to get part-time employment. They’re living in their car right now. Trying to save up the deposit so they can rent. Spending time during the days in parks. Struggling to feed everybody and keep the kids in school. Terribly embarrassed about their situation. They try to hide their poverty and pretend they are still okay. Their extended family may not even know they’re living in their car. Do you help them?”

  “Food stamps, day care after school, that sort of thing. Sure.”

  “How about temporary shelter? Until they get on their feet financially. Free job counseling and tech training to develop new skills in areas where jobs exist?”

  “Okay, I’ll buy into that.”

  “Who pays for it?”

  “We all do I guess. Taxes.”

  “Okay, Florence, how about the alcoholics? People who had jobs and families and lives, but go down a long spiral through alcohol addiction. Now they’ve lost everything. They live only to feed their addiction. Do we help them?”

  “How?”

  “Shelter first. Rehab programs, counseling, ten-steps, job training. Dry them out. Get them qualified, then occupied. Try to fix their inside issues afterward.”

  “I suppose we should.”

  “What if it’s a drug addiction?”

  “I’m not for helping druggies.”

  “Is it any different than alcohol?”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Does that mak
e the wretch who’s caught in the addiction any less worthy of help?”

  “They have it coming. They should have known better.”

  “You can say the same of the alcoholics. Yet you’re willing to help him.”

  “Well…..”

  “What about the people who are mentally ill? Perhaps schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. Do we take them off the streets and put them in some level of help facility? Night shelter, congregate care, a secure facility so they don’t wonder off. Away from help. What have they done wrong to deserve a wretched life on the street?”

  “That might get expensive”

  “We’re the richest country on the planet. We send thirty billion every year to assist the rest of the world’s needy. Perhaps a lot of those dollars are better spent at home on ‘our’ homeless.”

  “Perhaps.” A grudging admission.

  Flow was turning visibly pinker as the Judge painted her into a corner. Katy jumped in, giving the Judge a sharp kick under the table.

  “I’m going to have the branzino,” she announced. “How about you, Judge?”

  “Oh, sorry Katy, haven’t looked,” said the Judge, turning back to Flo.

  “So another significant category of homeless are ex-cons, Florence. The people who for whatever reason got caught up in our antiquated criminal justice system. They are spit out the other side with felony records. They don’t have a prayer of getting a job in this recession unless they luck into a handful of programs or have family connections. What do we do about them?”

  “They’re the dangerous ones,” Flo said. “Surely you don’t want to spend money on them.”

  “That’s why I do want to spend money. They’re the ones most likely to go back to their old life of crime if there’s no other way to get by. If you or I had a family to support and no way to feed ourselves or them, wouldn’t we steal?

  We either spend to provide temporary shelter, job training and a reasonable method to expunge criminal records once they’ve done their time so they have no felony record, or we accept the existence of a whole underclass of desperate criminals on the streets of our cities.”

  Florence went silent, frustrated but unable to think of a reply.

  “I think we’re on the verge of solving the homeless problem here, Florence.” The Judge couldn’t resist the small taunt. Katy gave him a glare that would peel skin.

  Ralph came to Flo’s rescue, suggesting it was certainly time to put the dinner order in.

  After the dinner order the party settled into polite conversation. The girls talked about new fashions and the escalating price of food. The Judge, reverting to his basic shy nature, peppered Ralph with questions, learning about his career and the many places he'd traveled. Avoiding disclosure about himself. The Judge peeked occasionally at Florence, who seemed to be going along with the flow, not chewing her lip as much. Maybe she was mellowing.

  After the wine was poured, Ralph raised his glass and proposed a toast.

  “To our new friend.”

  Katy raised her wine glass in the toast, but again the level of the wine didn’t go down with the toast as she pretended to sip. Then Katy raised her glass again, saying, “I’ll do you one better, Dad. We have an announcement.” All heads turned.

  “The Judge and I are no longer living in sin. We eloped three weeks ago. We’re married!”

  Florence’s jaw dropped almost to the table, her eyes blank in shock. A huge smile spread across Ralph’s face. He immediately extended a large hand over to the Judge, his eyes dancing with pleasure. This was no doubt where Katy got her wonderful smile.

  “Welcome to the family, Judge,” said Ralph, pumping the Judge’s hand. Then he stood up and leaned over to give his daughter a big hug.

  Florence took a huge slug of her wine. Then pasted something of a smile on her face, dutifully congratulating the Judge and her daughter, demonstrating a good sport attitude the Judge had to admire.

  Katy was then peppered with questions about how they eloped, when and where, and asked to recite an elaborate description of all that happened.

  “My daughter seems very happy," Florence said, turning to the Judge. He hoped this might by a symbolic olive branch.

  "We are both very happy, Florence," said the Judge.

  "I am a bit sad she didn't have a formal wedding. But people in Katy's generation don't seem to worry so much about the old traditions these days," said Florence.

  Was this an indirect dig, wondered the Judge? Old Traditions. Katy's generation. Or was he just overly sensitive?

  Katy immediately waded in to make another surprise announcement.

  "We've decided to have a big reception, Mom. The Judge has reserved the California Club downtown for a Saturday Brunch. In twelve weeks. In the Lady’s Dining Room. We'll need your and Dad's guest list right away so we can send the invitations out. Feel free to invite whoever you like. And I’m going to need your help planning the invitation, the menus, the table design, the flowers and just everything. Of course we’ll have go shopping for new gowns to wear.

  We’ll have to take lunch at the California Club and check it all out." This was all said in a rush that left Katy quite breathless.

  The Judge could see Flo's face visibly brighten. He'd won some points back here. This was good.

  The girls went into planning mode now, Katy soliciting preliminary advice about menus, wines, flower arrangements, and music. Florence followed up with questions about what she should wear, what would Katy wear, who should be invited, and so on. Katy produced a proof of an invitation which was scrutinized by two bobbing heads. Ralph and the Judge were ignored.

  Ralph had questions for the Judge. Where he went to school, where he grew up, why’d he become a lawyer, how come he was no longer a judge, was he enjoying his fresh start rebuilding a law practice, what sort of cases did he handle?

  The questions were politely introduced in the natural ebb and flow of conversation, slowly drawing the Judge out of his shell. In the space of 15 minutes the Judge was surprised how much he'd told his new father-in-law. But it felt okay. Ralph had a real interest. He wanted to know the Judge better. And his questions were soft and perceptive, interwoven with sharing similar information about himself, his past and his future aspirations.

  The Judge sensed a very soft but shrewd man. Relaxed with himself. Curious about the world around him and the people in it. Open to accepting the Judge into his family and creating a lasting friendship. The Judge found himself drawn to the man. Liking him more then he'd expected. The man was a gentleman of the old school.

  The food arrived. By agreement, shared family style. There was Szechuan beef, Chinese chicken salad, tempura ahi sashimi with uni-sauce, a whole sizzling catfish with ponzu dipping sauce, crispy spinach and duck fried rice. Shanghai lobster also showed up, mostly for Flo. Neither the Judge nor Katy could bring themselves to eat the poor creature. An Australian bottle of Hill of Grace Shiraz washed it down, leaving everybody but Katy a little lightheaded.

  Between the wine and the warmth of Katy's dad, the Judge was feeling quite festive by the time the plates were cleared and desert menus arrived. Even Florence seemed more relaxed, small splotches of color appearing on her cheeks from the wine.

  For the two females at the table planning the wedding reception was a blood sport.

  CHAPTER 19

  10:00 AM Monday

  The Judge got a late start off the boat, and then sat awhile in his car, considering his options. Instinct told him he’d best set his other clients aside for now and get to the bottom of the Carl Greene case. This Ferris wheel ride would take him over the top and slam him down if he wasn’t careful.

  He pulled out his laptop, and searched for a Yana Greene in Santa Monica. She lived in a penthouse condo on Alta Avenue and Ocean. The high rent district.

  The Judge dialed her number. When she answered he explained he was investigating Carl’s death. He implied he was acting in an official capacity without saying so. Asked if he could speak to
her for perhaps 20 minutes.

  “Yes Mr. Judge. Come over,” Yana said. She sounded a little sloshed.

  The desk man in the lobby, a dapper young college student, called Yana to announce the Judge, then buzzed the elevator down for him. He was whisked to the 10th floor and deposited onto a flamboyant purple and grey carpet in a hallway paneled in mahogany and framed with expensive Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein prints, all signed. A door opened at the far end and an attractive lady in bright purple booty shorts and black top beckoned him down the hall.

  Yana wasn't at all what he’d expected. Younger than Carl, perhaps 34, but definitely not a mere girl as Allan Clark had said. And a looker all right, but more in an exotic kind of way. Short cropped black hair framed large blue green eyes with the slight hint of Mongolian lineage in their shape. She wore full on makeup, giving her a face a uniform color, except for the blush expertly applied along high cheek bones. She was tall, perhaps five foot nine, athletic and graceful. All strong muscular calves and thighs supporting a tight bottom, small waist and flat stomach. She had small breasts, barely covered by her soft top a size too small.

  She didn’t look the part of the grieving widow.

  She said, "Good Morning," betraying a Russian accent and the scent of vodka. She invited the Judge in, leading him to a breakfast nook off a stainless steel kitchen that looked brand new and equipped to serve meals for the Ritz.

  The Judge settled in with her over coffee and admired the view from his ten story perch. The hustle of traffic along Ocean Avenue, the greens of Palisades Park across the Street, and the blues of the endless Pacific Ocean stretching out to the horizon.

  He could also see small drab shapes here and there on the Park lawn. Homeless souls sprawled out in the shade, their few possessions in shopping bags close beside. He wondered how the cliff dwellers in this building felt about the tragic stories working themselves out below. Did they even notice?