Chapter 7, Part 1

Waking relatively early but completely refreshed, Danny missed the expected moment of disorientation that commonly accompanied waking up in a strange bed: he knew exactly where he was, and didn't really mind so much. He did mind the lack of privacy, though — people were already abroad in the corridors, and with the inveterate habit of people passing uncovered windows, they all glanced in at him... leaving him scant opportunity to deal with his inevitable erection, which throbbed painfully under the blanket, deprived of its usual morning exercise.

Switching on the television, he watched Saturday-morning cartoons for a little while, distracting his mind with childish inanities until his breakfast arrived, by which time he was able to put on his shorts and stand decently beside his bed as ordered by the guard. The morning meal wasn't as well-prepared as the evening meal had been, the scrambled eggs were overdone and the bacon was thick and hard, the white toast was just sad, and there was only one small cup of rather weak coffee. Still, it was satisfying, and trying to sprinkle salt and pepper evenly from little paper packets was something of an adventure.

The breakfast tray was retrieved eventually, and then a deputy came to escort him silently to the showers. Deputy Lasciewicz had instructed the morning shift to take special care of Danny; but the battle-hardened Deputy Broussard, a veteran of ghetto gang-wars who'd joined the Force after seeing his little brother killed in a drive-by shooting, was not as personable as his evening-shift counterpart, and didn't care for chitchat with a pretty white-boy.

Danny found the experience of showering in front of an uninterested audience extremely creepy; every time he turned around in the stall, there was Deputy Broussard, his plum-like face stony with indifference, and it sent a chill up Danny's spine. In the places Danny usually showered publicly, people either didn't look at him at all, or else looked at him with lust or at least appreciation; being simply stared at was uncomfortably weird.

"I bet this gets boring, watching people all day," Danny said cheerfully to the impassive deputy, hoping to establish a bond of familiarity.

The deputy didn't answer, didn't even grunt; he in fact gave no outward appearance that he'd heard Danny speak.

"And I bet the steam is uncomfortable," Danny tried again hopefully.

"I have other things to do, so hurry up," Broussard said without any trace of emotion, nor even of impatience.

Rinsing off and drying himself quickly before getting into his jumpsuit as fast as he could, he hoped to please the deputy with a display of considerate haste; but nothing appeared to move the man. Danny started feeling very small and immaterial, the way he often felt around his family, and it wounded him.

He hadn't washed his hair, so he didn't have to pick his curls apart, though he did prevail upon Broussard to take him to the commissary again for more lotion and a comb. Dressed and groomed and ready to go, Danny just sat in his cell reading and watching cartoons for an hour or so, until the deputy returned to take him to court.

The handcuffs were put back on, and Broussard silently led him through another maze of hallways and elevator trips; arriving finally at a caged window in a narrow passage, a deputy read Danny's wrist-band, checked a clipboarded list, and gave him a small white card with a seven-digit docket number printed on it. He was then told to sit down and wait for his docket to be called.

There were eleven other orange-suited men in the small square room beyond, sitting quietly but restlessly on plain concrete benches under the eagle eyes of the two deputies guarding the room, batons at the ready. Once they were all assembled, the bailiff came in to take the first docket-number; every fifteen or twenty minutes, he would bring a detainee back from the courtroom, then return in another five minutes to pick out a new one.

Danny was one of the last to be called, and was relieved to be finally taken out of the boredom of that little room... he was fairly well used to small windowless cells by now, but the torture of sitting in a room full of people and not being allowed to talk to them, with nothing to read but the little card with his docket number, and nothing to look at but his generally unattractive fellow detainees and the two downright ugly deputies, was very nearly unbearable.

When he was led into the bright noisy courtroom, his eyes immediately lighted on Valerien and Marquesa sitting in the center of the first row, on the right-hand side immediately behind the prosecutor's table. Mr. Casterman stood waiting for him at the defense table, but Danny didn't really see him; he didn't notice the ugly flat wooden panelling of the room, either, nor the unflattering flourescent light, nor the press photographers' flashbulbs, nor anything else in the court except Valerien and Marquesa.

Even if they hadn't been right in front, his eye would have been inexorably attracted to them, their beauty and glamour was like a blinding aura. Valerien wore a sharply tailored suit of pearl-gray linen with a mauve silk waistcoat, a soft silvery necktie, and a crisp white shirt with pale mauve stripes; Marquesa was dressed in creamy white, a close-fitting silk tweed jacket and skirt with a snap-brimmed straw hat and knee-length boots, and had an extravagant shawl of shimmering sky-blue printed with brilliant butterflies flung elegantly around his shoulders and fastened with a glittering butterfly brooch of micromosaic gems.

"Before we get started, I need you to know the answers to some questions they may ask you," Rodney Casterman spoke urgently and quietly to Danny when the bailiff delivered him to the defense table, "First, you have a job. I thought it would look better for your bail if you were employed, so the Baron arranged it."

"I wondered what that was about," Danny admitted, "I heard on the news that I work for a design firm?"

"Specifically, you work for Ermengratz Design Associates, you are Theo Ermengratz's assistant. Can you remember that?"

"Oh! Wow," Danny replied, blinking in surprise; Theo Ermengratz was the most important interior designer in San Francisco, so famous that his interiors would invariably appear in Interior Digest (frequently on the cover), and he spent much of his leisure time making proud socialites and would-be celebrities grovel at his feet to obtain his services.

"You didn't tell the cops you had a job," Casterman went on when he was sure Danny had memorized the information, "because you haven't started yet, you were just hired... you interviewed with Mr. Ermengratz on Wednesday of last week, you were hired on Thursday of this week, and you're due to report for duty on Wednesday of next week. Do you know those dates?"

"Yes, the sixteenth, twenty-third, and thirtieth."

"Excellent, my clever idiot child. Other than that, you can just tell the truth. Hopefully they won't ask you any direct questions at all. They shouldn't, bail decisions don't usually require any questioning of the defendant, but you never can tell. This judge is a trifle unpredictable."

"Docket number 7144588, the People v. Marcus Daniel Vandervere IV, to set bail," the bailiff called out in an admirably stentorian voice, silencing the room.

"About freakin' time," the judge said under his breath, though loud enough for the microphone to pick up, starting a ripple of supressed giggles in the courtroom. Judge Michael Drummond wasn't one of Valerien's pets who'd been dragooned into working on a Saturday; he was the judge who usually worked Saturdays, all by himself, and he resented all this brouhaha and press attention.

A thick and florid troll of a man with great spumes of white eyebrow over fearsome coal-black eyes, Judge Drummond was nevertheless amused by his own resentments, and was ready to have a good laugh at someone else's expense. Staring portentously at the pretty defendant until he shrank fearfully behind his attorney, the judge bellowed out, "Proceed!"

"The People move that the defendant be held without bail," Assistant District Attorney Reese Moon said in a vague and distracted tone that was expertly pitched to reach the farthest corners of the room. He was a very shiny man, his round hairless head, salmon taffeta shirt-and-tie set, and sleek charcoal sharkskin suit reflecting a great deal of light; he also had a lubricious voice and an oily manner that went so well with his overall sheen.

"And the Defense will no doubt move that the defendant be released on his own recognizance?" Judge Drummond peered at Casterman over his half-moon reading-glasses.

"Of course. Though accused of a violent crime, Mr. Vandervere is a model citizen," Casterman declaimed with an elegant blend of grandeur and intimacy, like a stage-actor performing a love scene, "A property-owner, gainfully employed, with many ties to the community. He has no criminal record whatever, nor any record of violent or criminal behavior of any kind. He is furthermore a gentlemen, honor-bound to see his trial through. He should be released on his own recognizance."

"The People are not prepared to prove anyone's honor or lack thereof; but the facts are that the defendant has lived in San Francisco for less than two years and hasn't even started his new job," ADA Moon rebutted, producing a rattling sheaf of papers from his briefcase and gesturing for the bailiff to convey it to the judge, "Though he is indeed a property-owner; the report I am submitting to the Bench is compiled from the defendant's bank records, city and federal tax rolls, and insurance accounts."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Judge Drummond adjusted his reading-glasses and frowned at the paperwork.

"These figures show that the defendant owns almost five million dollars' worth of rental residential property in the city," ADA Moon went on, "He also has considerable liquid assets, over a hundred thousand in cash accounts as well as art, antiques, and other valuables insured to the sum of four and a half million dollars. He is entitled to a quite considerable income on his family's Trust, which can be paid to offshore accounts on request. The Defendant is furthermore known to enjoy the friendship of a number of wealthy individuals in the international community, many of whom have diplomatic influence. It would be far too easy for Mr. Vandervere to abscond to, and exist quite comfortably for the rest of his life in, any of several countries without extradition to the United States. He therefore represents a serious flight risk and should be held without bail."

"My client is innocent, and is anxious to clear his name," Casterman sounded hurt and offended, "And though only resident in our fair city for two years, he has lived in California all his life, as have six generations of his ancestors; he has left the state only three times in all his twenty-three years, has never once been out of the country, and does not even own a passport."

"Passports aren't difficult to come by, if you can pay cash," the ADA shrugged.

"Be that as it may," the defense attorney continued with an irritated shiver, "To incarcerate a young man who is and must be presumed innocent — a young man unaccustomed to hardship and without even a suspicion of a criminal record — for untold months or even years, for no other reason than that he has some property and a few wealthy friends, would be cruelly unjust."

"Mmm-hmmm..." Judge Drummond looked from one attorney to the other, and then to the defendant (who had turned quite white and was trembling a little at the thought of spending months or years in that tiny cell), "I agree, Mr. Casterman, that indefinite incarceration might, in this case, constitute punishment prior to conviction; however, I also agree with Mr. Moon that the defendant could leave the country with greater ease than the average citizen."

The judge leaned back and studied the papers provided by the ADA in silence for some minutes, grunting and huffing as he settled into himself like a sleepy owl. The room started to rustle slightly in the prolonged suspense, but the judge went on reading and thinking as if he were quite alone in the court. Finally, he shuffled the papers together and placed them neatly and fussily in front of him, then looked up with dramatic suddenness.

"I think we can strike a compromise: we shall give Mr. Vandervere sufficient material incentive to remain for trial, without having to resort to incarceration. Bail is set at ten million dollars," Judge Drummond banged his gavel and closed the docket folder with a decisive gesture.

"Ten million?!" Danny screamed in disbelief and horror, "Are you nuts? I haven't got ten million dollars!"

"Would you shut up?" Casterman gave Danny a savage pinch on the arm that made him yelp.

"I could make it 'cash, not bond,' if you prefer," Judge Drummond smiled viciously.

"I'm sorry, your honor, I didn't... mean to..." Danny's meek apology petered out in confusion as he tried to think out what 'cash, not bond' meant.

"I thought so," the Judge chuckled, "Next case!"

"How am I supposed to come up with ten million dollars?" Danny meant to whisper to his attorney but ended up hissing.

"Don't worry about it. Drummond didn't rule for cash, a bond is only ten percent down."

"But I haven't got one million, either. I know the Trust won't pay it, and it'll take for-fucking-ever to liquidate my assets, especially if I'm stuck in here!"

"Shush, you stupid boy!" Casterman whispered sternly to him, "The Banque de Seguemont has already arranged the bond; the Baron was prepared to go up to ten in cash, he's getting off cheap with the bond."

"Valerien's posting my bail?" Danny was thunderstruck... he knew he'd felt a connection blossoming between himself and the young baron, but to be willing to put up ten million dollars on such short acquaintance spoke of a generosity that Danny simply couldn't fathom.

"And Mr. Willard-Wilkes, in half-shares," Casterman started putting his papers back in his briefcase, "Trust me, between the two of them, my fees and a ten-million-dollar bond won't even make an appreciable dent. Ten million cash wouldn't strap those two. Now, don't keep the bailiff waiting any longer. You're going to be released immediately, I'll meet you at the other end."

Speechless with gratitude, Danny waved weakly at his benefactors as he was led out of the courtroom. Valerien waved back excitedly, and Marquesa blew a big movie-star kiss, before they were lost to view.

The Release process was almost exactly like the Intake process, but in reverse, and Danny met many of the same deputies as he was led back through. And though he tried to be cheerful with them, he had far too much on his mind, and the effort was a little strained.

His first stop was his cell, to strip his bed for the laundry and retrieve whatever he'd bought from the commissary, then back down to the booking rooms to relinquish his prison clothes and retrieve his own garments. The deputy in charge of Property had rather more to give back than Danny had given up the previous afternoon, as his wallet, keys, and PDA had been entered into property by Detective Spevik shortly after he'd been booked; it was the money from his own wallet that had been deposited for his use in jail (though the thousand dollars from his boots had blood and oil on them and so were still considered evidence).

Danny was also given another brief medical examination to make sure nothing untoward had happened to him in jail; but instead of fresh fingerprinting and DNA-sampling, he was given a multi-page questionnaire to fill out, requiring the addresses at which he could be reached, as well as soliciting his opinion of how he had been treated, whether or not he had been given his proper rights and offered services in a timely manner... he was even invited to share his thoughts on what the San Francisco Sheriff's Department might have done to make his stay more pleasant. After filling out all the bubbles in the affirmative, and jotting out a few ideas about the proper preparations of bacon and coffee, Danny was officially released.

Once again dressed comfortably and elegantly in cashmere and linen, with his belongings in a large paper envelope and the white wristband still attached to his wrist, he wandered dazedly into the Release lobby, where he spotted Casterman waving at him near the door.

"There, now," Casterman greeted him warmly with a handshake and a pat on the head, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, it was a lot nicer than I expected," Danny allowed, "The only really painful experience I've had so far is when you pinched me. You left a bruise!"

"I'm afraid I forgot myself," Casterman laughed, putting his arm paternally around Danny's shoulder and leading him toward the exit, "And you were being a jackass, yelling at a judge like that. You simply must remember the cameras from now on! It's going to be all over the news, the spoiled rich-boy yelling 'are you nuts' in a court of law. It's not going to help your credibility any... and TV reporters in particular won't easily forgive you for looking so fresh and pretty in that abysmal lighting."

"I'm sorry," Danny looked at his feet and blushed, ashamed of his undisciplined behavior; he hadn't thought about the cameras and what effect his perfectly understandable but quite inappropriate outburst might have on his case.

"It's absolutely no fun scolding you, my dear child," Casterman relented, reaching out to tug gently on Danny's forelock, "You're so charmingly submissive. I suppose I shouldn't expect you to be experienced in the ways of the world; that's what I'm here for."

"I'm still sorry I behaved so badly," Danny smiled his entrancing 'shy' smile, and Rodney J. Casterman, Esquire fell completely and suddenly in love with him... a glowing paternal love instead of a smoldering sexual love, but an infatuated, heart-wrenching love all the same.

"Now," Casterman stepped back and straightened Danny's hair and sweater fussily, "There will be reporters outside: do not speak to them. Just act confused by all the voices and flashbulbs... which should be easy, as you no doubt will be confused by all the voices and flashbulbs. Any sane person would be. Be careful to not look frightened or guilty; hold a smile, nod graciously, shrug apologetically as required. That's perfect, you're a born actor. If we get separated, just head for the Baron's car, it's that brown-and-gold Rolls parked out on the street, do you see it? Bascombe will let you in and ward off any reporters who get too close. Don't run under any circumstances, just walk steadily and don't talk. Ready? Break!"

The deafening, blinding maelstrom of voices and flashbulbs took Danny by surprise, despite Casterman's warning, and it was very easy for him to not talk to anyone as he was hustled through the clamoring throng to the waiting car... he didn't even understand any of the questions, they came so fast and furious. He felt Casterman's arm slide off his shoulders and heard the attorney's distinctive voice adding itself to the din, but he slipped through the crowd like a greased fish and found himself quite suddenly enveloped in quiet as the car-door closed behind him.

"This is so exciting!" Valerien cried as he pulled Danny down onto the deep divan-like seat between himself and Marquesa, then grabbed his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth; when Valerien eventually pulled back, he looked up into Danny's eyes with his usual heart-fluttering worshipful expression, "I've never rescued anyone from prison before!"

"It's just a county jail, you daft frog, not the Château d'If," Marquesa drawled, putting out a gloved hand to touch Danny's cheek gently, "Are you all right, darling? They didn't hurt you in there, did they?"

"I'm fine," Danny said, the tears shining in his eyes again, "I can't thank you both enough for getting me out of there. I mean, ten million dollars! It's so much!"

"Pish-posh," Marquesa dismissed the magnitude of the gesture and rummaged in his handbag for cigarettes, "It's just a bond, Val's bank had everything set up for several contingencies before close-of-business yesterday. Very handy having a banker in the family, even handier having a whole bank."

"Still, it's an awful lot," Danny took Marquesa's flashy diamond-crusted platinum lighter and held the flame steady for him, "Taking even a million out of circulation will represent a net loss of tens of thousands of dollars, if this trial drags on."

"Hark at you," Marquesa laughed, "'Net loss,' you sound like an accountant! The amount of money we stand to lose is less than what I spend on flowers in a year; it's not that big a deal."

"But you could lose the whole ten million if I skipped bail," Danny reasoned, "You have to let me sign over my real estate or my furniture or some kind of promisory note as security."

"We know perfectly well you'd never skip bail. You're our friend," Valerien turned Danny's face to his, "And we know you're innocent. The money simply isn't important, you're to put it out of your mind this instant. Marquesa, peek outside and see if Casterman's finished with the press yet; I want my lunch."

While Marquesa pulled back the window-shade an inch or so, Danny was able to look around at the car; he hadn't seen it very clearly from outside, but was pretty sure it was a Silver Cloud limousine of 1950s vintage. The interior was cavernous, plush with champagne velvet and gold fittings, with a sheepskin rug and two jumpseats facing the deep backseat on either side of a walnut cabinet containing a stereo system and a miniature wet-bar; all the windows were covered in parchment shades, and the front seat was sealed off beyond a padded partition inset with an elaborate enamel coat-of-arms.

"Here he comes," Marquesa called out after a few moments of watching, "Bascombe is elbowing out a passageway for him. Where should we have lunch?"

The noise of reporters and cameras exploded into the luxurious cabin as the door opened and the lawyer darted in, and stopped just as suddenly when the door slammed shut. The car rocked a bit as it started up, though no noise of a running engine could be detected, and the chauffeur nudged the great Rolls carefully out of the crowd.

"I was thinking of l'Aurente," Valerien said airily, as if dodging rabid reporters were an everyday activity and no reason to interrupt the consideration of lunch.

"Is that wise?" Casterman asked as he settled into one of the rear-facing jumpseats, "It's so very see-and-be-seen."

"Precisely," Marquesa nodded, approving of Valerien's plan, "We want everyone to see Danny having lunch with us. Can we open the shades yet? Is Bascombe following?"

"Who's Bascombe?" Danny wondered, confused by this extra person who kept surfacing in conversation but had not yet been seen.

"He's Marquesa's driver and bodyguard," Valerien told him, pushing a button on a panel beside his elbow and causing the blinds to roll up into their cases; the padded partition slid down into the carriage, leaving a glass partition between them and the chauffeur, who was driving on the right-hand side of the car, "He's in the blue Packard behind us. I have to leave for Sonoma immediately after lunch, and Bascombe's following so Marquesa will be able to take you and Mr. Casterman home."

"And why do you want me to be seen lunching with you at l'Aurante? Ooooh, pretty!" Danny returned to the previous topic while peering out at the long glittering midnight-blue 1932 swan-crested Packard Eight convertible through the rear window (Danny knew little about cars, but was an expert on vintage coachwork), as well as at the stunned passersby who gawked at these two glorious antique automobiles driving together up crowded Folsom Street at a snail's pace.

"Because, mon cher," Valerien squeezed his knee, "You have been saddled with an unfortunate degree of notoriety, and notoriety unsuits you for your accustomed social life. For you to continue living life as you know it, you will have to be accepted among and protected by your old acquaintance. The people we know, call them 'Society,' the haute monde, the bon ton, whatever... they are not going to be reading the papers and following new developments and discussing logical premises; they are going to be gossiping about whether or not you're guilty. But if they see you with two principal leaders of Society, lunching conspicuously at l'Aurente, they will know that the only Socially acceptable opinion will be that you are, indeed, innocent."

"Notoriety becomes celebrity, just like that," Marquesa snapped his fingers.

"Society will then influence Politics," Valerien went on, "because Politics requires Society's money. Politics will influence the Press, because the Press needs Politics' open doors. And finally, the Press will influence Public Opinion, because that's what the Press exists to do. Et voilà, eventually everyone, including any possible jury of one's peers, will believe in Danny's innocence as much as we do."

"That's very intelligent," Casterman gazed at the two young socialites with new understanding, impressed by the strategy.

"It's not a new concept," Marquesa blew a fat smoke-ring, "In the old days we called it 'circling the wagons.' Society is a tricky beast, and dangerous when roused; but it's predictable, if you know how to ride it."

"Still, it's smart," Casterman said with a shrug, "And I love lunching at l'Aurente. I'm thinking of ris de veau and a lovely crisp Meyer-Fonné... courtesy of Uncle Sam via my expense account; this will be a real treat!"