Russell Baker and I were at a Starbucks in Fullerton.
It was the same Starbucks where I'd met the very creepy Robert Mason, one-time soap opera star, one-time owner of the Fullerton Playhouse, who was now a full-time resident of a jail cell.
My time here with Russell Baker was decidedly more pleasant.
The young boxer was wearing a loose tank top and shorts. He had just finished working out with Jacky. Jacky wasn't his official trainer, but, like many young boxers, they sought his help and considered it an honor to work with the legendary Irishman.
More importantly, Russell looked good in a tank top. I suspected he would look good in just about anything. Of course, being in shape and looking good was expected from a professional boxer. Still, professional or not, sitting across from me was a very breathtaking man. Even for someone who doesn't need much breath.
I said, "I spoke with Dr. Sculler in Las Vegas."
"The medical examiner," said Russell, sounding very un-boxer-like. He had a quick mind. I only hoped it wouldn't be beaten out of him by the end of his career.
"Right," I said. "The official cause of death is epidural hematoma."
"I know," he said. "I've read the report. A dozen or so times."
Russell was sipping from a bottle of water. Who goes to a Starbucks and orders a bottle of water? Then again, I looked down at my own bottle of water. Well, boxers in training and vampires, apparently. I wondered if we just might be the first two people in the history of Starbucks to only order two bottles of water.
Big picture, Sam.
I continued, "I'll admit it. I thought I was going to come back here and tell you that you don't have a case."
He glanced up at me, blinking. He cocked his head a little. "You thought? What does that mean?"
"It means that it's Dr. Sculler's unofficial opinion that you could not have caused the kind of brain damage he saw in the autopsy."
Russell sat up. I knew that this was the kind of news he was praying for. "I..." he paused, gathering his thoughts. "I don't understand."