Decker waited.

“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need…a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”

“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”

If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.

“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”

Decker nodded encouragement.

“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father…my paternal grandfather…was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down…Do you know what they do?”

“Golding Recycling.”

“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”

“Your parents are an entity.”

“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”

“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”

“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”

“You like your parents.”