Vaughn Poffley also stood foursquare against indicting the Almighty, fearing the pre-trial publicity would cost Martin the upcoming election. Martin’s mother, he knew, would have just one thing to say to him—“Your father would not be proud”—and so he didn’t even tell her. Much to his dismay, the person from whom he expected unequivocal support had no use for his project at all. “I mean, what’s the point, really?” asked Patricia as she and Martin sat down to espresso and sweet rolls in a Glendale coffee shop, Café Olé. “We owe it to Brandon.” “Brandon is dead.” “We owe it to Corinne.” “Even if you get a conviction—even if they shut off the Lockheed 7000—is that justice?” “Patricia, I’m hurt. Why can’t you believe in me?” “I do believe in you. What I don’t believe in is revenge.” He jammed a Feminone capsule in his mouth. Phallic in its contours, the pill seemed designed to torment its consumers: not only do you have prostate cancer, Charlie, but your wife stands a better chance of satisfying herself with one of these things than with your disenfranchised dong.
