“I know all that,” she said. “You’re supposed to say was he a kid or an aldult. Ain’t that cristo clear? What I’m askin’ is what can you do for him?”

“What’s crystal clear, Mrs. Sieff?”

“The boy’s dumb. Screwy.” She pinged her waxy forehead with an index finger. “Din’t talk till he was four, still don’t talk so good.”

“You’re saying Rand’s— ”

“I’m saying Randolph ain’t never gonna be no aldult.”

Which was as good a diagnosis as the jargon in my notes.

Behind her, rising above both of us, the concrete grid of the jail was the world’s largest window shade. “You coming or going, ma’am?”

“My appointment’s not for a coupla hours. With the buses from the Valley it’s hard to figger, so I get here early. ’Cause if I’m late, those bastards don’ lemme in at all.”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“You payin’?”

“I am.”

“Then, fine.”

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

Jails spread a very specific commercial rash, a trickle-down of cheap lawyers, bail-bond outfits, translation services, fast-food joints. I knew of a hamburger stand nearby but the walk through the parking lot was too much for Margaret Sieff’s stiff legs. She waited by the entrance as I pulled up in my car. When I got out to open her door, she said, “Fancy-dancy caddy. Must be nice being rich.”

My Seville’s a ’79, with a rebuilt engine. At that time it was well into its third vinyl roof, and a second paint job was already losing the battle with corrosive air. I took her cane and braced her elbow as she struggled to get in. When she finally settled, she said, “How much they payin’ you to evaluate?”

I said, “That’s not your concern, ma’am.”

That made her smile.

* * *

I drove to the burger joint, set her up at an outdoor table, went inside, and waited in line behind a motorcycle cop who’d outgrown his tailored shirt, an A.D.A. who looked fifteen, and a pair of scruffy, mustachioed guys with faded gang tattoos. Those two paid with coins and it took awhile for the kid behind the counter to do the math. When I finally reached the front, I ordered two cardboard-flavored coffees.

When I returned to Margaret Sieff, she said, “I’m hungry.” I went back in and got her a cheeseburger.

She snatched the food from me, ate ravenously, made token attempts at daintiness— quick dabs of paper napkin on mottled chin— before returning to her spirited attack. “That hit the spot,” she said, scraping ketchup onto a finger and licking it off. “I tell you, sometimes I could eat five a those.”

“What do you want to tell me about Rand?”

“Other than him being a dummy?”

“Must’ve been hard raising him.”

“Everything’s hard,” she said. “Raising his mama was hard.”

“Your daughter had problems.”