That La Jolla Lawyer
A Murder Mystery
By Robert G. Rogers
Copyright 2016 Robert G. Rogers All rights reserved.
Acknowledgements:
I give special thanks to Yarka and Nina and Elsie for faithfully reading and offering valuable comments on the book. Kelly, as always, gave me a very through and helpful edit with many useful suggestions. A special thanks goes to Dr. Eva Abbo for her expert medical advice and for her keen insight about the issues raised by the story and for her useful comments on the characters. Likewise to David for his hard work on the cover. And, my eternal gratitude goes to Elizabeth Patterson for arranging signings at the Lauren Rogers Museum of Arts. I also appreciate the continuing support of the Jitters Café and Bookstore, Landrum’s Homestead and Village, A cultural trip back in time and for all the bookstores that make a place for my books and give me an opportunity to meet readers at signings in those stores.
Also by Robert G. Rogers
Tale of Two Sisters,
Murder in the Pine Belt,
A Killing in Oil,
Jennifer’s Dream,
The Pinebelt Chicken War,
The La Jolla Shores Murders,
Murder at the La Jolla Apogee.
No Morning Dew
Brother James and the Second Coming
All Bishop Bone Murder Mysteries.
The Christian Detective,
The French Quarter Affair,
Life and Times of Nobody Worth a Damn,
Jodie Mae, a Historical Drama
Runt Wade, and
The End is Near, Suspense/Thrillers
Adventure stories for teens and preteens: Lost Indian Gold,
Taylor’s Wish, Swamp Ghost Mystery, Armageddon Ritual
Children’s Picture book: Fancy Fairy
Chapter 1
The gloom that came in with the first day of June dominated the morning sky, but gave way to a bright California sun in the afternoon and beckoned all to enjoy a day on the beach. And after their all day frolic in the sun, many devoted themselves to continuing the fun into the evening in small beach towns along the Pacific Ocean where brightly lit, often gaudy, businesses enticed them inside with offerings of food, drink and entertainment.
As one frolicker shouted, “Work is the devil’s invention. Fun rules!”
Some of those rolled slowly in cars along the main drag in Pacific Beach, trying to hold back the end of another party night. Horns honked and arms waved through open car windows as they passed the Irish Pub, its name in bold, green letters over the pale background of a roof-mounted sign. Below the bold letters, in small script were the words, “but non-believers are welcome.” A floodlight on the sign made sure no one missed it.
The exterior of the building was weathered, rustic wood with faux stained glass windows adding colorful decoration. Green shrubbery poked up from beds and brushed the bottoms of the windows. Spotlights at the edge of beds sent channels of white through the openings to add a glow to the windows and walls.
Inside, wooden tables and chairs filled the space in front of a long copper-covered bar built along one side of the pub’s dining
area. A stage occupied another wall. Except for a microphone, it was empty and its lights turned off as the last few minutes of Saturday ticked away. The entertainers were gone for the night, along with the patrons. A sign at one edge of the stage identified the departed group of musicians as the “Free Irish Red Necks.”
At one end of the bar sat an unshaven man in rough clothes, unkempt hair stringing almost to his shoulders. The man’s hair and beard were light brown, showing streaks of gray, although it was hard to tell the color of anything in the multicolored, speakeasy lights flowing out from behind the bar. The man’s name was Matt Dawson. The lines in his face spoke of a hard life, one without much joy. Though approaching sixty, no one would have disputed seventy.
He stared at the few sips of beer left in his glass with a look of desperation; as if wishing more would appear and he’d have an excuse not to leave; not to go home to an empty house. He drank two beers in the pub most every night and listened to the Saturday night entertainment without watching. His contribution to conversation was an occasional agreeing nod to the bartender who dropped by between rushes to say something; usually a bitch about one thing or another. More often than not, about a patron who didn’t leave a tip.
The bartender, wearing a dingy white apron, his hair mostly white, stood some distance away, polishing glasses. Like many
who regularly worked bars, he’d developed a stomach from the
free beers and drinks satisfied customers sent his way. Lack of regular exercise didn’t help. Sounds of cleaning up for the night came from the kitchen, accompanied by the loud voices of the kitchen staff, anxious to get home. No more food would be served that night as the pub neared the dark time of its life.
He slid the glass into its slot in the overhead rack and turned to Matt. “How’re you gettin’ on with that brunette?”
Matt answered without looking up. “She’s nice. We talk a bit over coffee.”
“Hell, Matt, I wasn’t thinking about talk.” His face brightened; his head and shoulders did a little dance to accent his thoughts.
“She sleeps in the spare room. I sleep in mine. That’s about it. She’s not the type to spread ’em for people like me.”
“Time was…” the bartender turned away without completing the thought.
The bartender was asking about something that had occurred a couple of weeks earlier. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, but it would change Matt’s life.
Chapter 2
Nearing eleven in the evening, the bartender hurried over to where Matt sat and asked, “Matt, listen. I need a favor.”
Matt switched his bloodshot, emerald green eyes toward the bartender; his face a question.
“See that girl over there,” he pointed toward the far wall. At a
table along the far wall sat a young woman in a trendy, pale green outfit with orange and yellow flowers embroidered down the front of the blouse. Silky brown hair with blond streaks lay over her shoulders and rippled with enough curls to give it style. Pretty, as far as Matt could make out in the dim pub light. Mid-thirties, he decided. A small suitcase rested on the floor under the table; more like an overnight bag. On the table was half a glass of whatever she’d been drinking.
Matt nodded. He briefly wondered what her story might be, but quickly dismissed the thought. It had nothing to do with him and he didn’t want it to.
“You say you’re not into much of anything these days, but she needs a place to crash for a couple of weeks, she told me.” As if to answer Matt’s unanswered question, he added, “I think she’s running from something or somebody. She can pay rent. What about it?”
“Do I look like anybody she’d want to stay with?” He lightly touched his hand to his worn clothes which looked, even in that light, to be in need of a good wash. Better than that, to be in need
of being thrown into a trash can.
“I don’t think she wants to stay with you so much as just needs a place to stay for a while. She asked if I knew anybody with a spare room nearby. She didn’t say why. Just that she was desperate. First time I’ve seen her but she seems safe if you’re
worried she might stab you in the middle of the night. Just wandered in half an hour ago.”
Matt scoffed at the thought she might stab him.
The bartender ignored his reaction, looked toward the young woman and added, “Hell, Matt, you know I’ve seen all kinds in my day. Might work out for you, if you know what I mean.” He gave his thigh a squeeze.
“Ha.”
After a second glance at the young woma
n again as if to verify the bartender’s opinion, Matt shrugged and said, “Two blocks south, two streets over, green shotgun house with a white picket fence, what’s left of it anyway, across the front yard. Door’s unlocked. Old Mercedes in the front yard. Tell her to take the first bedroom. There’s a lock on the door. I sleep in back. I don’t give a shit about rent. Or the working out part. She can help herself to anything she can find in the kitchen.”
“Up to you. Thanks. You know I’m a soft touch.”
Matt shook his head to agree although he didn’t care one way or the other. So what if she turned out to be an axe murderer? She’d be doing me a favor. Nobody would even know I died. Ha! And, for sure nobody would care.
“Oh, by the way, tell her to beware of the gray cat. Got a broke tail and doesn’t like strangers.”
The bartender nodded and hurried away, tucking his drying towel behind his apron.
That was how the girl, who called herself Cynthia Chisolm, came to be in Matt’s shack of a house on a half lot in Ocean Beach, California; just north of San Diego, just south of Pacific Beach. It
was within walking distance of the pub.
He got home an hour or so later. The extra bedroom door was closed and the lights were out. He went to bed. His cat was not in sight.
The next morning when he got up, nearing nine, the woman he’d befriended sat at the kitchen table wearing a white terry cloth robe and holding a mug filled with coffee. Her hair was already styled for the day.
Blue eyes. Damn. She is pretty. Difficult to believe she’d need a place to stay, especially a dump like this. Can’t be more than thirty-five at the most. Not a wrinkle in her face.
An empty plate, showing crumbs, sat on the table in front of her. The scent of toast blended with the smell of coffee and wafted about the kitchen. He wore his pajamas and slippers.
She introduced herself in little more than a swallowed, diffident whisper. “Thanks for putting me up. I shouldn’t be here long,” she said, barely raising her head as she did. “I just need a place to stay until I get something resolved.”
Matt shrugged. “No problem, but you’re on your own.”
“I understand. I found everything I needed.” She made a hand gesture into the kitchen area.
“Yeah,” he said with a glance as he approached the coffee pot, one of those fancy things that ground coffee fresh for each cup. It was a holdover from the days when he cared and when he could afford such things.
He paused at a CD player and turned it on. Shostakovich’s Second Waltz began playing. A gray striped cat meowed at the back door. Ah, Matt remembered, the cat wants back in. He’d let him out to do his business before he left for the pub. He detoured back to let him in, then poured fresh food in his bowl.
The old tom cat had just showed up one morning and stayed.
No name, just Cat. He answered to it so long as the answer was backed with food. He snarled at anyone he didn’t know, especially anyone who didn’t feed him. “Could be the broken tail’s the reason he’s snarly,” Matt deduced that he’d been abused. Enough reason for me to keep him. Birds of a feather and such shit.
The Formica top of the kitchen table was chipped and stained.
It looked like a salvaged throw-away from somebody’s alley. The stainless steel chairs didn’t match and two wobbled but so far hadn’t collapsed. Stuffing from different colored cushions poked through cracks. The condition of the table and chairs matched the
rest of the house’s furnishing.
The house was built in the fifties. It had no style in particular unless mobile home or shotgun shack qualified, and nothing had
been done to it since it was built. The kitchen floor was cheap linoleum. The countertops were chipped and cracked Formica, white.
The metal cabinets had been white but had turned gray over time. Only half the drawers opened without effort and a like number of the cabinet doors wouldn’t stay closed. The flooring in
the rest of the house was wood and in need of refinishing. The walls were painted bead board as were the ceilings. The living room and master bedroom faced the back and looked out at the beach. The combination kitchen and dining area were at the front. A small porch shaded the back of the house.
*****
He’d received the house as a fee from a drug dealer he’d saved from a murder charge; killing a rival drug dealer. A hung jury in Matt’s favor caused the DA to abandon the case. His client left town the next day and hadn’t been seen, officially, since. Unofficially, he’d been by to see Matt once or twice since then.
The first time was after the Schofield trial which had left Matt so depressed, he was only getting out of bed to eat enough to stay alive. And, he wondered why he was even doing that.
One day the doorbell rang. He ignored it but it didn’t stop so he wandered up and looked out to see a smallish man. Looks like
somebody I know, but who?
He wore an expensive suit, white shirt, stiff collar but no tie.
His dark hair was pulled back into a top knot like some gangster, with muscles pushing at the fabric of his suit.
Matt’s reaction to the muscles was, must be eating steroids by the handfuls.
A thin mustache showed above his lip. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. Who in the hell can that … ah, Roberto Sanchez, the drug client he’d gotten off, the one who had given him the house.
He opened the door. “Damn, Roberto, I hardly recognized you.” Not with the new body and the mustache.
“Hey, man, I don’t want to be standing out here in front of God and everybody!”
Matt motioned him in to the kitchen.
“Have a seat. What brings you to town? I imagine the cops are looking for you for something. You look prosperous but I doubt you’ve changed your occupation. Maybe you want to buy the place from me?”
He laughed. “No way, mi amigo! The cops would have the place staked out in a week. They have informants everywhere. Hey, you look like shit, man.”
“Yeah. Well, I feel like shit.”
“You won that big case awhile back. I read about it! Woman killed her husband and walked away free. Thanks to you. You should be jumping up and down. Chicks should be standing in the street waiting to come in. Sleep with the big dog!”
“Yeah. So, what are you doing here? I hope you’re not in trouble. I’m not open for business.”
“Just wanted to see the place.” He waved an arm about the room. “You haven’t changed a thing. Still a dump. I don’t want it.
I have many houses now. Maids running around. Tits, no bras, short skirts and all smiling to keep me happy. Big, grande houses, man. Some looking over the ocean.”
Matt nodded. “You’re doing okay then, Roberto? Not in
trouble.”
“No trouble, amigo. My name is Cisco these days. I got networks up and down the state. My biggest competitor died. I think you know that.” He smiled and winked.
Matt recalled the death. He got a hung jury out of it. “You want anything … Cisco? Coffee?”
He shook his head no. “Man, you look like you need some of what I’m selling. Put a skip in your shoes. Not me, you know. My people do the selling. I just distribute. They don’t even know my real name. I learned much since we last talked.”
The consequences of Matt’s prolonged depression had set in and, like most depressions, robbed him of the motivation to give a damn.
“What the hell happened to you?” the man asked. “I barely know you. All that beard and hair hanging over your ears. Shit, man!”
“Not something I can talk about.”
“You’re the best, man. Bite that dog that’s got you by the balls! I may need you to stay out of jail.”
“Don’t count on me.”
“When the time comes, amigo, you’ll be ready. I know you. You’re still the big dog in here.” He laughed, first patted his chest then Matt on the shoulder.
Not anymore, Matt thought.
As the man walked out t
he door, he waved and immediately, a big black Mercedes rolled up and he quickly hopped in.
*****
Matt had moved into the place after his second divorce, having sold his La Jolla home to pay his wife’s debts and to give her a lump sum in lieu of alimony; the same thing he’d done for his first wife. He viewed divorce settlements with open-ended alimony decrees like holding onto strings of barbed wire that had no end. Lump sum settlements that took his assets didn’t bother him particularly. His reputation as a criminal defense lawyer guaranteed that he’d never have a shortage of clients charged with murder or something almost as dire.
He’d never had children. His doctor said he was okay in that department and his wives swore they were not taking pills, but neither had gotten pregnant. That made him wonder, but not long enough to care. He was too busy with his practice to have time for children anyway.
“They couldn’t breeze around town looking beautiful for the studs if they were pregnant. Too hard to hop in and out of beds with big bellies,” he once joked to a colleague about his wives.
“They marry me for my money and my reputation and leave with my money and a big smile. Unfortunately, they never left me with a child.”
Matt was not a particularly handsome man. Rugged was how the newspapers covering his trials described him. He had high cheek bones, light brown hair and green eyes. He always stayed in pretty good shape; working out or playing tennis depending on how much time he had. Animal magnetism-he liked that one-was the best description he ever got. Plain was how he saw himself and plain suited him.
He smiled only when it seemed appropriate for a point he was making; likewise a frown or an angry pronouncement. Everything he said and did was designed to achieve something. “Staging” was what he called it. He was always on stage, always giving a line that would help him win. A major part of every defense he undertook was getting the jurors to bond with him, to see him as an earnest, honest man who’d never defend a guilty client.
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