The Forgotten

Decker smiled, turned to Jaime Dahl. “What’s his name?”

Putting her in a bind. It was beginning to look like the stud was hiding something. If she didn’t at least minimally cooperate, she’d look like she was hiding something as well. Reluctantly, she said, “Answer the question.”

The boy’s name was Ernesto Golding.

Decker said, “Let me make a deal with you, Ernesto. I’m not interested in drugs, pills, weapons … well, maybe weapons. You have a stash in there, and tell me it’s fish food, I’ll believe you.”

“Then why do you want to look in his backpack?” Jaime asked.

“I have my reasons.” He smiled. “What do you say?”

The boy was silent. Jaime looked at him. “Ernie, it’s up to you.”

“This is clearly police abuse.”

Decker shrugged. “If she won’t make you do it, I don’t have any choice. But you’ll hear from me again, son. Next time I may not be so generous.”

Ernesto stood on his tiptoes, attempting a pugilistic stance. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nah, I never threaten—”

“Sounds like a threat to me.”

“Shall we move on, Dr. Dahl?”

But Jaime didn’t move on. Instead, she said, “Ernie, give him your backpack.”

“What?”

“Do it!”

The boy’s face turned an intense red. He dropped the pack at his feet, the storm in his eyes shooting lightning. Decker picked the knapsack up and immediately gave it to Jaime. “You look through it. I don’t want to be accused of planting anything. Tell me if you see anything unusual.”

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

What Decker expected to find were obscene photographs of concentration-camp victims. What Jaime Dahl pulled out was a silver kiddush cup.

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It stood out, a surface of metal against books and papers. Decker brought his eyes over to the young man’s face. Ernesto Golding was dressed in khakis and a white shirt. Ernesto Golding had intense eyes on a good-looking face, a broad forehead, and weightlifter’s arms. Ernesto Golding didn’t look like a thug. He looked like a macho teen with better things on his mind than killing Jews. Decker took a handkerchief from his pocket and held up the kiddush cup. “Where’d you get this?”

Ernesto folded his arms across his chest, pushing out his bulging biceps with his fists. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“And why are you bringing a family heirloom to school?”

The boy’s face was an odd combination of fear and defiance. “Show-and-tell, sir.”

I’ll bet you’ve been doing lots of show-and-tell, Decker thought. Jaime spoke up. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Decker answered. But his eyes remained on his prey. “The cup has some Hebrew writing on it. See here?” He showed it to Golding. “It’s easy Hebrew. Read it for me.”

“I don’t read Hebrew—”

“I thought you said it was a family heirloom.”

“My family’s origins are Jewish. But that doesn’t mean that I know Hebrew. It’s like assuming every Italian knows Latin.”

Decker was taken aback. “Your family’s Jewish?”

“No, my family is not Jewish. We’re humanists with ancestry in the Jewish race.”

The Jewish race—a Nazi buzz phrase.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jaime stated bluntly, “but what is going on?”

Decker said, “Did you listen to the news this morning, Dr. Dahl?”

“Of course.”

“Then you must know that a local synagogue was broken into and vandalized. I was down there. Most of the damage was ugly, but it can be repaired. The one thing that was reported stolen was a silver benediction cup.”

Jaime looked at Ernesto, then at Decker, who held up the cup. “This family heirloom is inscribed with the words ‘Beit Yosef.’ That’s the name of the vandalized synagogue.”

“It’s a family heirloom,” Ernesto insisted. “We’re doing a family history. A family tree for honors civics. Dr. Dahl is aware of this assignment. Back me up on this one, Doctor.”

“There is a family-tree assignment in honors civics—Dr. Ramparts.”

“Yeah. Third period.” Ernesto rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “I brought this in specifically to illustrate my family’s past, and to give Dr. Ramparts a more … genuine feel for where I came from. I’m sure there is more than one Beit Yosef in the world.”

The kid was oh so cool. And he probably thought he was pulling it off. Never mind about the beads of sweat that dotted his upper lip. “I’m sure there are, Mr. Golding. Even so, you’re coming with me.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“That can be arranged.”

They took him to Dr. Williams’s office, Decker standing over Ernesto’s shoulder as the kid called his parents—Jill and Carter Golding. Decker could hear outraged voices on the other side of the line. He couldn’t discern much, but he did hear them instruct Ernesto to refrain from talking to anyone. From that point on, things moved quickly.

Mom made it down in six minutes. She was a pixie of a thing with pinched features and thin, light brown hair that was long, straight, and parted in the center. She wore rimless glasses and no makeup. Behind the specs, her eyes were smoldering with anger that only a parent knew how to muster. First, there were a few choice glances thrown in Decker’s direction. The stronger ones were reserved for her son. Decker knew what that was about.

Dad arrived about ten minutes later. He was short and thin. The eyes were dark and most of the face was covered with a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with silver. He appeared more befuddled than angry. He even shook hands with Decker when introduced. Ernesto didn’t resemble either of his parents, leaving Decker to wonder if the boy had been adopted.

The last part of the equation came in on Dad’s heels. Everett Melrose was an Encino lawyer who had made a name in California Democratic politics. He was well built, well tanned, and had the appropriate amount of sincerity in the eyes and distinction in the curly gray hair. He wore designer suits and dressed with flair. He had a wife, six kids, and was active in his church. He had defended some very big and bad people in his years, and had come out on top. Melrose’s past was squeaky clean as far as Decker knew. Amazing—a lawyer and a politician with nothing to hide. He shook hands all the way around and requested that he speak to his client, the young Ernesto, in private.

His request was granted.

The twenty minutes that followed were protracted and tense.