Free Judgment by Lee Goldberg Page A

names scrawled in the night sky. Crocker Bank. Simon Ministries. Hilton. Transamerica. Jesus Saves. Wells Fargo. They shined blue, green, and bright white against the blackness.
    He turned up the stereo, letting Bruce Springsteen run full throttle down "Thunder Road," and veered south away from the downtown skyline towards the softer lights of the neighborhood his father had patrolled.
    Earlier that evening Macklin had tried to sleep. But no position in bed was comfortable. His body was damp with sweat and the sheets stuck to his skin. His limbs were tingling so strong, so strangely, that relaxing was a fight. He was tortured by a nameless compulsion that needed no rest. It struggled with him, racing his pulse and making his head throb. He yanked off the sheets, lay for a few minutes, and then bolted from the bed, pacing nervously around the room.
    The image of the empty judge's bench and the whisper in his head prodded him again. The next thing he knew he was dressed and slicing through the night, his face reflecting the unearthly green light from the Cadillac's dashboard.
    Macklin tried to lose himself in the music. It was no good. The compulsion was louder. No matter how high he cranked up the stereo, no matter how fast he drove, Macklin couldn't force back the compulsion.
    The only thing that seemed to ease his tension was the image of himself holding his father's gun, pumping bullets into the gang members that had been set free. That image scared Macklin. It went against everything his father had taught him. Yet it was only when he envisioned himself killing that the painful ache in his stomach ebbed. Only then did he feel any comfort.
    The image teased him now. The pain was gone, but the compulsion was as strong as ever.
    Macklin followed the curving off-ramp and slid quietly onto the trash-strewn streets of the neighborhood, lowering the volume on his stereo and settling back into his seat. He felt removed from what he saw, as if seeing it on television or from the comfort of a tour bus. This was a foreign land, an alien planet, a world entirely different from the middle-class streets of West Los Angeles.
    This was where old General Motors cars go to die, Macklin thought. GM heaven. Monte Carlos, Chevelles, Novas, sharp Buick Rivieras, and pretentious Pontiac Bonnevilles—here they were world-class touring cars. The trappings of ghetto status and loyalty.
    Macklin cruised the streets slowly, looking at the faces, learning the terrain. People gathered near an open-all-night liquor store, warming themselves on its neon fire as if it would keep the desperation that stalked this urban wilderness at bay. The people were smileless and had tired, gentle faces.
    Teenagers played video games, hung out, strutted, and hit on girls at the Burger Shop. Little placards ran along the flat roofline advertising Chinese food, fried chicken, hickory burgers, and tacos.
    The neighborhood people all seemed to be performing to Macklin, acting rough and hard because some script somewhere told them to, because men like Macklin expected them to.
    Macklin scrutinized the faces.
    Maybe he was wrong. They seemed like frightened, angry people. Just like him. Not animals, not creatures he had to punish. Could Shaw have pushed Tomas Cruz too hard? Was the confession what Dexter claimed it was—a lie, the desperate act of a person afraid for his life?
    Then Macklin remembered them . Primo, Carrera, Teobaldo Villanueva. The violence he saw in their eyes. They didn't bother to hide it. They flaunted it, reveled in it, too.
    But did they kill Dad?
    Macklin twisted the wheel, the car screeching around the corner in front of Sho-More Adult Films and speeding away from the neon promise of "BIG THRILLS, HARD ACTION, TITILATING FUN."
    He passed Saul's hot-dog stand, following the path his father walked before his death. Bars covered all the storefront windows and doors. It was as if the neighborhood were a prison that kept its captives locked on the