Free The Bomb Maker's Son by Robert Rotstein

“Order.”
    Holzner looks at Lovely in astonishment. She takes one of his shackled hands in hers.
    “Here are the release conditions,” the judge says. “And for the record, I want to make it clear up front that I’m not letting the defendant go free to roam the streets. I am not loco en la cabeza .”
    I doubt anyone in the courtroom believes Gibson’s disclaimer of insanity. I certainly don’t.
    “The defendant will be confined to an acceptable secure residence with a family member or close friend who is deemed acceptable by this court. He’ll be subject to electronic monitoring. I’ll set bond in the amount of six million dollars. Plus constant surveillance of said residence by the US Marshal’s office, defendant to defray the cost.” Judge Gibson rocks back in his chair and beams at the gallery with self-satisfaction. “Yes, that’s my ruling. Si. ”
    With the judge’s words, the pall of righteous indignation enshrouding Marilee Reddick lifts like LA fog on a March afternoon. She knows that Holzner can’t even afford the cost of twenty-four-hour surveillance, much less a six-million-dollar bond. And there’s the problem of relatives. None have come forward, and if Holzner knows where any of them are, he hasn’t told me. Ernesto, his former boss, denounced him to the conservative Orange County newspapers. He doesn’t seem to have any other friends. I guess that when you’re a fugitive from justice, you can’t let people get too close.
    I start to object to the judge’s conditions, but before I can utter a sound, he shakes his finger at me. “Don’t go there, Mr. Gerald. My order stands. But I would like you to come back to chambers when we adjourn so we can get a photograph together.”
    I glance over at Holzner, who’s gazing at me with brown eyes I now recognize as a paternal version of my own—intense, stubborn, righteous. Those eyes radiate an almost-serene fatalism, as if he’s finally aware that this hearing is the beginning of an inevitable end game in which he’ll die by lethal injection. I’ve never been a fatalist. I learned as a child actor that no matter how scripted a scene is, no matter how constraining the rules, much of life is improvisation. Words often form of their own volition, seemingly unrelated to cognition. Maybe it’s because Holzner is my father. Maybe it’s simply because this crazy judge is a star struck, and I don’t like star fuckers. But without thinking I blurt out, “I’ll post bond for Mr. Lansing, pay the surveillance cost, and let him serve his confinement at my residence.”
    Behind me, Lovely gasps, seemingly triggering a rising wave of murmurs that finally breaks at the judge’s sharp glance.
    Gibson reclines in his chair, looks at the ceiling, shuts his eyes, and taps his pen on the bench. When he returns to an upright position, he says, “I don’t think that’s going to work, counsel. The ethical rules clearly prohibit an attorney from paying his client’s financial obligations. That includes bail. So says the California State Bar. In any event, I ordered that the defendant reside with a family member or intimate friend. Less incentive to skip out and leave a loved one holding that bag. You’re a lawyer, not a loved one, Mr. Stern.”
    A second chance to stick to the script, and a second time departing from it: “No problem, Your Honor. Nothing in the ethical rules prevents a lawyer who’s also a relative from posting the defendant’s bail. The defendant, Ian Holzner, happens to be my father.”

CHAPTER TEN
    While Lovely accompanies Holzner to the detention center for processing, I stay at the courthouse and arrange to post the six-million-dollar bond. I’m good for the amount. I saved enough from my earnings as a child actor and don’t need to work. But if Holzner jumps bail, I will have to practice law to make a living. All the while, the media follow me down the airless corridors shouting questions, nipping at my heels like stray