My Dark Places - James Ellroy [147]
I never felt her kind of hatred. I never had a flesh-and-blood target.
The Beckett trial continued. The Simpson trial continued four doors down. I saw Johnnie Cochran every day. He was a perfectly groomed and tailored little man. He dressed better than Dale Davidson and Dale Rubin.
Sharon Hatch testified. She was Daddy Beckett’s squeeze in ’81. She said she dumped Daddy. Daddy flipped out. He threatened her and her kids. Sharon Hatch looked at Dale Davidson. Daddy looked at Sharon Hatch. She said Daddy never hit her. He never threatened her before she dumped him. I followed Davidson’s logic. He was establishing Daddy’s psyche pre- and post-breakup. Daddy was calm before. Daddy wigged out after. I distrusted the before-and-after line. It was a coded cause-and-effect indictment aimed at an innocent woman. The line might hit the men on the jury square in the gonads. They might commiserate with Daddy. The poor guy got fucked by a cold-hearted cunt. I looked at Sharon Hatch. I tried to read her. She seemed passably smart. She probably knew that Daddy was wigged out well in advance of their breakup. He was a strongarm loan collector. He was an armor fetishist. His chivalry to women was a symptom of his hatred for women. He was a sex psycho hibernating. He knew that he wanted to rape and kill women. The breakup gave him a justification. It was based on one part rage and two parts self-pity. You could not date his gender-wide hatred to the moment Sharon Hatch said, “Walk, sweetie.” Daddy Beckett was working toward his explicative flashpoint already. He was like the Swarthy Man in the spring of ’58. I felt a little jolt of empathy for the Swarthy Man. I felt a big jolt of hate for Daddy Beckett. My mother was 43 years old. She was caustic. She could put weak men in their place. Tracy Stewart was utterly helpless. Daddy Beckett trapped her in his bedroom. She was a lamb in his slaughterhouse.
Dale Davidson and Sharon Hatch worked well together. They set Daddy up as a frayed fuse about to unravel. Dale Rubin raised some objections. Judge Cowles overruled some and sustained some. The objections pertained to points of law and flew right over my head. I was back in the South Bay in 1981. I was a half-step from that night 23 years before.
The judge called a recess. Daddy walked to his holding booth outside the courtroom. Two plainclothes cops brought Robbie in. He was handcuffed and shackled. He was wearing jail denims. The cops sat him down in the witness box and uncuffed and unshackled him. He saw Bill Stoner and Dale Davidson and waved. They walked up to him. Everybody started smiling and talking.
Robbie was rough trade. He was tall and broad. His body fat ran about .05%. He had long brown hair and a long, droopy mustache. He looked like he benched 350 and ran a hundred yards in 9.6 seconds.
Court reconvened. The plainclothes cops sat near the jury box. A bailiff waltzed Daddy in. He sat down beside Dale Rubin.
Robbie looked at Daddy. Daddy looked at Robbie. They checked each other out and looked away.
The clerk swore Robbie in. Dale Davidson approached the witness stand. He asked Robbie some preliminary questions.
Robbie talked with a swagger. He was here to vent a patricidal grudge. He emphasized words like “ain’t” and phrases like “He didn’t have no.” He was saying, I know better and I don’t give a fuck. The implication was, I’m me and my father made me who I am.
Daddy watched Robbie. The Stewarts watched Robbie. Davidson led Robbie back to Redondo Beach and Tracy’s house and Daddy’s apartment. Dale Rubin raised several objections. The judge overruled or sustained them. Rubin looked bewildered. He couldn’t divert Robbie’s momentum. Robbie started looking straight at Daddy.
Davidson worked slowly and deliberately. He took Robbie right up to the moment. Robbie started stuttering and crying. He walked Tracy into the bedroom. He gave her to Daddy. Daddy started