The Forgotten

“You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”

“No one was hurt, you know.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You think we can work something out?”

“I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”

“And if you can’t work something out?”

“Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”

He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels …”

Silence.

“But you’re bored,” Decker said.

“Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”

No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”

“No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this … obsession. I … had to do it.”

“You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”

“Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”

“My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”

Decker waited.

“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need … a good friend to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”

“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”

If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.

“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”

Decker nodded encouragement.

“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father … my paternal grandfather … was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down … Do you know what they do?”

“Golding Recycling.”

“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”

“Your parents are an entity.”

“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”

“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”

“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”

“You like your parents.”

“Yeah … yeah, I do. I … admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.”

“What’s screwed up?”

“Me. I’ll tell you my part in the mess, but that’s as far as I’ll take it. I’m not a rat, I don’t name names.”

“So there are others?”

“I didn’t say that. For your purposes, I was the sole perpetrator.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s my story. Should I go on?”

“I’m still here,” Decker said. The boy didn’t seem to know how to start. Decker helped him out. “Why did you vandalize the synagogue?”

“That’s a good question. I have nothing against Jews.” He looked away. “It has more to do with my personal problems. I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive, and I’m not just throwing out psych terms. I’ve always had weird rituals. Some of them I’ve outgrown. But some … I can’t help it. We don’t have to go into specifics, but my obsessions are relevant because once I get a thought into my head, I can’t let go. And that’s the problem. I have these dreams … more like fantasies because I’m awake when I think about them. It has to do with my Jewish grandfather—Isaac Golding. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Jewish. Matter of fact, I think he was a Nazi.”

Decker kept his face flat. “Isaac’s a strange name for a Nazi.”

“That’s because it wasn’t a real name. I found this all out about six months ago. Remember I told you the honors civics assignment?”

“The family tree. Dr. Ramparts.”

“Yeah. Exactly. It’s a semester project. Dr. Ramparts wants it done in detail and correctly. So I’ve been working on this for a while, mostly getting oral history down from my parents because all my grandparents are dead. But then I figure I should do paper research for the sake of completion. So I started going through trunks of old documents that my dad has buried in the attic.”

“An attic?” Decker asked.

“Yeah. I know that’s weird for L.A. homes. But like I said, we have a big home.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on. You’re digging through old documents.”

“Yeah, right. I think my dad didn’t even know about the shit. It was given to him after his mother died.” Ernesto hesitated, then drank some water. “Anyway, my grandfather supposedly escaped the Nazis and moved to Argentina in 1937. Except old papers showed me that Grandpa’s account was off by ten years. From what I could tell, Grandpa actually came to South America in 1946 or 1947 under the name of Yitzchak Golding. Yitzchak is Isaac in Hebrew. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”