Page 57 of The Happy Month

July 29, 1996

Monday afternoon

Instead of lunch at Musso & Frank’s I got McDonald’s drive-through. I ate a quarter pounder with cheese while driving through downtown L.A. on my way to the 710 and Downey. I ended up with a ketchup stain on the light green Henley I was wearing. I arrived in the Michaels neighborhood about two-fifteen.

I parked at the end of Via Amorita, a few houses down from the Michaels’ house. I didn’t want them to be bothered by what I was doing. It might have been helpful to talk with Pete’s parents to get their immediate impressions of Larry, but I knew it would be painful and possibly, probably, not have much point.

There was a ten-year-old orange Camaro sitting in the driveway, meaning Paul Michaels was there with his parents. I couldn’t remember if I’d asked what he did for a living that he could spend so much time with them. I was curious, but that too didn’t seem to have a point.

I walked over to the house across the street. 7816. This was where Celia Wickers had lived. There was no mailbox on the street, so I couldn’t reach in and check the mail to see who lived there. There was a car in the driveway. A Chevy Citation from the early eighties. I walked up to the front door and knocked.

After a moment, the door was opened by a woman in her late forties wearing shorts and a big T-shirt. Through the screen door she asked if she could help me.

“I’m with an organization called The Freedom Agenda. We work to get wrongly convicted people out of prison.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t contribute.”

“Oh, no, that’s not… There was a murder across the street in 1976. Celia Wickers was a witness. She lived at this address and I’m wondering?—”

“Celia was my mother. She passed eight years ago. She left me her house.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You are?”

“Connie Wickers.”

“I’m reading through your mother’s statement and there are some things I’m curious about.”

She opened the screen door and came out. Standing with me on the stoop, she crossed her arms and looked at me skeptically.

“Are you a cop?”

“No, as I said, I’m an investigator with The Freedom Agenda.”

“Cops say things that aren’t true.”

“I can’t argue with that. Did your mother have a problem with the police?”

“I was in graduate school then. Fullerton.”

“What did you study?”

“Political Science. Don’t ask me why.”

“Does that mean you were living here at the time?”

“For a while. I had an awful boyfriend I’d just broken up with.”

“In her statement, your mother said she was gardening that day. She saw a yellow car at eleven-thirty. That car left while she was behind the house and then a brown car showed up at noon. Did she talk to you about that?”

“Maybe. I’m sure whatever she said is what happened.”

“Yes, but I’m not certain the statement is accurate or complete, so anything you could remember would be helpful.”

She shrugged. “I think I remember her saying the officer was very young and very rude.”

“Rude like he didn’t believe her?”

“I don’t know. I just remember she said he was rude.”