The Unhoused Gift
by Peter R. West
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Like a bird of prey, Stanley Newman swooped down the curvy road that connected his Los Angeles hilltop mansion to the sprawling city below. The grin on his face grew bigger as he listened to a news report recounting how his client had walked away from the tabloid-covered trial.
Stanley had used every trick he’d developed over twenty-five years of legal scheming in the often-sensational Los Angeles criminal scene to help another big fish escape the hooks of justice. This latest one was the prominent real-estate developer Bruce Geins, accused of killing a homeless man under murky circumstances. The prosecution attempted to prove that his motive was to scare off the whole encampment that was situated too close to Cityscape Paradise, one of his new developments. The prosecution’s effort failed.
Geins was notorious for rough tactics that usually paid off, as he had acquired choice lots around the city, gotten rid of any remaining homes and residents, and turned them into upscale neighborhoods, where homes were sold for top dollars. Having homeless people in close proximity was not good for his brand.
After Stanley secured a dismissal based on self-defense, the approving headlines — in print, on television, online — added a sweet and creamy layer to Stanley’s initial dish of exaggerated retainer and outrageous fees. That’s what you should get for standing up for the contributing class, which is so often maligned by the liberal press, he thought. He had no compassion for homeless people; to him, they were an ugly boil on the face of the city, parasites that threatened the very fabric of the community.
He reflected on his meteoric rise to the top of the legal world, clawing his way from a humble, working-class family, through a modest Cal State Los Angeles Law School, to building his own office by initially taking on less-than-prestigious cases that top lawyers had shunned, to finally developing a ferocious knack for scandalous murder trials that put him on the evening news. If he could make it, there was no reason for anyone else to sleep on the sidewalk or comb through trash cans.
As he approached the city, the drivers around him tried to maneuver their cars ahead of one another, as if a big prize was awaiting the one arriving first. Stanley could hear their incessant honking as they zigzagged in and out of lanes. But his silver Bentley was like a Roman galley warship rising through rough water, smashing all obstacles in its wake.
His hand gripped the fine leather on the steering-wheel. His body pressed against the soft skin of the seats. His reflection in the mirror was of an attractive man with a kind face imprisoned by a tight ostentatious tie. He took a slight turn toward the homeless camp, which was in the general direction of his office. The dismal sight of the people he maligned in court held a sordid appeal for him.
The phone rang. “Hi, honey,” his wife’s rich voice came through. “Just wanted to make sure you are going to pick up the stuffed turkey today.”
He had totally forgotten about that. Thanksgiving was tomorrow and his parents were joining them. “Don’t worry honey; it’s right at the top of my list.”
He veered off in the direction of the turkey gourmet shop. Orders had poured in to Phil’s Delicatessen for the past couple of weeks and, if you missed your turn, you were out. No going back in line. “These people are vicious,” he muttered under his breath. No time for the ugly camp today.
“I am really proud of you, babe,” the wife continued. “Everybody is talking about you winning that developer’s case.”
“Piece of cake,” he replied.
“Have you thought any further about our talk regarding how to eliminate that encampment? It’s right on my way to Pilates. Brings the whole neighborhood down.”
“You got it, Michelle. I already have something in the works.”
“You are a genius!”
* * *
A few months earlier, at the urging of Geins, who wanted to try additional methods to push the camp out, Stanley met with an old friend, Amy Trent, who was in the day-care business. He convinced her to immediately take over a shuttered dance studio near the camp. That would render the homeless camp in violation of the expanded city ordinance to remove all transients within five hundred feet of a day-care. Of course, the costs of setting up the new business were to be borne by Geins, with a special bonus to be paid to Trent for her help.
She had met Stanley in law school. Being dyslexic and having problems with concentration proved too much for her in the overly detailed legal world, and she failed to pass the bar several times. But demand for day care was growing, so when Stanley called, she embraced the opportunity.
In a few weeks, her phone was buzzing. She shared with Stanley that parents were excited to enroll their offspring in the soon-to-be gentrified neighborhood. A young mom dressed in a Lululemon outfit came in person and told Trent that she and her well-to-do husband were going to move into Cityscape Paradise, although she was a bit concerned about the nearby homeless camp.
* * *
The aroma of the turkey filled Stanley’s car as he drove home. It had taken longer than anticipated for him to finish his work and wrap up the most pressing issues prior to the holiday. He was hungry and decided to dig into the large box that held the turkey and all the side dishes. His car was once again traveling toward the homeless camp. His fingers were blindly rummaging through the box to find some tasty morsels to quiet his cravings.
Not sure what he was touching and getting quite frustrated, he took his eyes off the road and tried to peer inside the box. He could barely distinguish between a turkey wing and a drumstick. The car veered dangerously toward the sidewalk — right next to the first homeless tent — while he half-heartedly tried to correct its course with his other hand. He finally pulled a piece of turkey out of the box, but before bringing it to his mouth, the car lunged into a metal railing on the sidewalk.
Overcorrecting, he drove his car into an electrical utility box, which caused it to swerve further and hit a fire hydrant, resulting in a burst of water. The car crashed to a stop; its front grill and hood severely damaged. The airbags deployed, trapping Stanley in his seat.
A tall man emerged from the encampment and approached the car. He opened the door and reached in to help Stanley, who was straining against the restraints. “I also can’t wait for the Thanksgiving meal to begin,” the man said. “Only problem, here it sometimes never starts.”
“What? Meal? No! The car just lost control,” said Stanley.
“Sure. Self-driving feature gone amuck.” The man unbuckled Stanley and pushed the airbag back. “If you can move, grab my hand and I will pull you out before this thing blows up.” Stanley did as he was instructed. “Feeling, OK?” The water was hitting the car’s roof. Other homeless people started gathering. The man continued: “For some of these folks, this could be their first shower in weeks.”
Stanley started moving backwards. His jaw clenched. “You guys better stand back before someone gets hurt.”
“Nobody is hurting no one. My name is Max. What’s yours?”
“Stanley.” He saw many concerned faces around him. He couldn’t believe he was standing in the encampment that he had disparaged in court. It had never been a real place to him. Just a manifestation of an unacceptable social condition. But now, it was real, and the one causing the social mayhem was him and his irresponsible driving. He thought about what was to follow, with the police, the press, and Geins.
He looked up and saw the Cityscape Paradise buildings towering behind the camp. Painted in emerald green and canary yellow, with vertical lines and repetitive pattern of geometric shapes like circles and triangles, like a revival of the Art Deco vibe. The structures’ ornate details were more 1920s New York than contemporary Los Angeles.
A young, pregnant woman came over with a rag. “Let me wipe that blood off your forehead.” She reached over, touched Stanley’s head with the rag, and held it there. “Must’ve been cut by the airbag. Lucky you didn’t hit the windshield.”
Stanley examined her fresh and pretty face, tinged with the beginning of dark circles under her eyes. “Thank you. Very kind of you. I am Stanley.”
“I am Bianca, but everyone here calls me Bebe. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt worse. Your car must be strong.”
A rough-looking, burly man with a flushed face came up and examined Stanley’s face. “I seen you somewhere.”
“I don’t think so,” said Stanley.
“Yeah. You a judge, ain’t you?”
“No. You must be thinking of someone else.”
The man started searching frantically through his pockets. He pulled a crumpled newspaper and opened it to a page displaying a picture of Stanley outside the courthouse. The headline read: “Developer cleared.” “See, that you. The judge.”
“I am actually a lawyer.”
The man feverishly looked at the article again. He then stopped and showed the paper to Bianca. “That’s the lawman protected the killer of your husband.” He got even closer to Stanley, shoving the paper in his face.
Max moved between them. “Step back there, Burt. We’re going to show an injured man some hospitality.”
The burly man stopped. Then, he lifted his hands up and moved back.
Bianca became very sad and turned to Stanley. “My Bennie was a good man. Didn’t deserve to die so young. Bad luck brought us here. He didn’t mean no harm. Now he’s gone. And I’m here with his boy.” She rubbed her protruding stomach.
“Sorry for your loss, ma’am. I was just doing my job as a lawyer. Bad circumstances.”
More people started to gather around them. Stanley could hear sirens approaching.
Max pulled him aside. “I don’t know what brought you here, but this is not a good place for you. Let the paramedics lead you away. And take your fancy meal with you before the hungry mob here tears it apart.”
Max gave Stanley a pat on the back as two police cruisers arrived. The officers jumped out, trying to assess the situation. The crowd started dispersing, slowly going back to their separate tents. A fire truck arrived soon after, and the firemen, realizing what had happened, gave instructions on their radio to stop the water flow to the battered hydrant. The cops approached Max and started asking him questions. He pointed at Stanley.
* * *
Thanksgiving dinner had always conjured up good childhood memories for Stanley. Now, about to finish another holiday meal with his family, he thought about his good fortunes. The turkey, which he had managed to rescue after the accident, tasted even more delicious than usual. Stanley’s wife looked exceptionally beautiful, with her blonde hair cascading down her bare shoulders. His son and daughter, on vacation from their prestigious East Coast colleges, had made an effort to dress up for the occasion, which delighted his parents, who were sitting at the other end of the table, their tanned faces told of sunny days on a Costa Rican cruise that Stanley had paid for.
“You are definitely a celeb now, Stan,” his father’s deep voice penetrated his thoughts. “You crash into a hydrant and the press has a field day. And at that camp, of all places. Were you trying to finish the job your client had started?”
Stanley touched the little scab on his forehead as he fumbled for an answer. “No, just... a total coincidence. The food got misplaced and distracted me. Maybe the car was not working properly. Just bad luck.”
“Ha, you should sue Bentley for the damages.” His father laughed.
“Well, we should all count our blessing to be here enjoying such a fine meal and not in those wretched places sprouting all over town,” said his mother. She turned to her grandchildren “You kids never met your dad’s cousin, Ashley. A lovely girl. She used to live at one of these camps, until she passed away...” She stopped to clear her throat.
Stanley raised his palm, signaling for her to stop. He thought of his talented cousin, who had left her home in Iowa to pursue singing stardom in Los Angeles. She and Stanley were best pals when he was younger. He adored her fresh and pretty face. He loved exploring the LA music scene with her and listening to her passionate voice.
But Ashley fell into drugs and eventually became a street kid. Stanley remembered how they argued a lot. But she just got deeper into street life and the transients she hung out with. He began to loathe all of them and eventually lost contact with her. One day, working as a busy young lawyer, he learned that she was found dead in an alley. He was devastated. He felt guilty about not trying to help her more. In the years that followed, he developed a strong aversion to anything related to street people. He grew to hate them.
Stanley’s knife slid over his plate with a screech as he missed the intended cut and sent turkey meat flying to the floor. He kneeled down to collect it.
“And we have so much extra food left, as always,” said his wife.
“Just don’t lay these surplus turkey scraps on us, Mom,” said his son.
Stanley got up and pulled his phone out of his pocket. That was the signal for everyone that the meal was over.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Peter R. West
