Judge Roth's Law

by Bill Sage

  “Jake, think about it. Where’s the wrong? The outcome is just, I’m not doing something morally improper.”

  Then Al stood, held up his glass as an invitation for them to take a drink together. “I’m in. Don’t worry about it. There’s no risk for me. I can do what I need to do so it’ll stay between us. No one will know.”

  Jake, with his head down, came over to Al. Then he held his glass up to join Al. “Let’s drink, brother.”

  “It’s us. We’re in this together,” Al said.

  They both drained their glasses.

  After spending a few minutes talking about some of their old 12th Street Gang buddies, Al thought it would be a good time to break out the bottle of 18-year Macallan, single malt Scotch he’d just purchased. Jake agreed. He’d never tasted it before and was eager to try some.

  Al poured them two glasses half full. They took swigs while Jake told Al about his big meeting with Claudio at Vessia’s. “I was almost gonna leave. He was pissing me off.”

  “It’s good you stuck it out.”

  After a few more minutes of gossiping, Jake brought up the Mangano trial.

  Al said, “Just sit tight. There's nothing for you to do right now anyway. I have more homework to do.”

  “Okay.” Jake stood up, getting ready to leave.

  Then Al remembered something. “Hang on just a minute. There is one thing I need to go over with you.”

  Jake turned and waited.

  Al put his glass on the coffee table. “You’re the lucky guy who’ll be dealing with Goldman. We both know he’s an asshole, but don’t let your temper get in the way.”

  As Jake’s closest friend, Al not only watched out for him, but also felt he had to reign him in when Jake got too fired up.

  “Yeah, but you know how I hate guys who put down other people for no good reason, humiliate them,” Jake said. “Think they’re smarter than anyone else. You hated guys like that too.”

  “Jake…”

  “Don’t worry, I’m keeping my feelings to myself.” A brief pause. “For now.”

  “Yeah, but keep in mind, he’s your ticket out.”

  “We’ll see.” Jake said, nodding.

  They walked to the door. “One last thing,” Al said. “I know you’re away from Detroit and all the scams you’re pulling there.”

  Jake smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “All you need to do is ask.”

  “If I ever need dough, I can always find a way of getting it.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Al said, chuckling. “Sometimes, you kill me.”

  18

  ONE PERSON ROTH COULD COUNT on to help him do something to get Mangano out of jail was Carlos Lopez. A close friend, they’d known each other for fifteen years.

  Lopez, a retired LAPD sergeant, knew almost everything about Roth's life, including what Jake did, what happened with Gerard in Munich, and that two of Roth’s old 12th Street Gang friends were gangsters in Los Angeles.

  Roth was meeting him for lunch today at Franco’s. Now with Jake’s problem taking precedence over everything else, Roth was glad he’d never mentioned anything to Lopez about Ward trying to blackmail him.

  When Roth first met Lopez, Roth was a DA in the downtown office and Lopez was working robbery out of the LAPD headquarters building in Los Angeles. A burly cop with short hair and perfect white teeth, he and Roth bonded immediately.

  Their friendship began when Lopez was a prosecution witness on several of Roth’s cases. They had so much fun working together that even when Lopez was a witness on another DA’s case, they would talk that DA into letting Roth take over the trial.

  All those trials provided them plenty of fodder for poking fun at defense attorneys, judges, and even other cops and DA’s.

  One time when Roth was putting on an armed robbery trial, their irreverent attitude got them into trouble with the judge, especially Roth.

  After finishing his direct examination of Lopez, Roth asked him one final question.

  “Officer, before you step down, I need to ask you something. Sometimes after you’ve testified in prior cases, you’ve told me that I hadn’t brought out some key facts in the case. Is there anything you want to add or tell the jury that maybe I missed? This could be an appropriate time.”

  The stunned defense attorney bolted from his chair, objecting to the open-ended question. The judge promptly sustained the objection and wouldn’t let a smiling Lopez answer. But asking the question and all the commotion it stirred drove Roth and Lopez into uncontrollable laughter.

  They laughed so hard, Roth had to ask for a brief recess.

  Several jurors and the court clerk stared at them. The angry judge asked Roth for the name of his supervisor. Roth readied himself for a stern lecture from the head of the office, but he never heard a word about it.

  The only thing that ever happened was his boss once said to him, “Hey, Roth, say hello to Judge Vocke for me.” Then he laughed.

  After Lopez believed they were good friends and he could trust Roth, he opened up and told him he enjoyed the physical part of the job. Said he looked forward to taking down suspects and getting into shoot-outs.

  Over a beer, he confided to Roth that he’d rather kick ass than talk. “Nothing’s better than making ‘em “do the chicken.” Later, LAPD would outlaw choking out suspects.

  Roth had many stories to tell about Lopez. His favorite was the time Lopez saved him from being assaulted by group of Black Panther wannabes, who’d threatened Roth in the courthouse hallway during a trial.

  Roth was prosecuting two black guys for slashing a cop with straight razors. They’d sliced the cop’s arms and hands.

  During a recess, Roth went into the hallway to wait until the trial resumed. When he sat on the wooden bench running along the walls, three black thugs came over to where he was sitting and surrounded him. They just stood there for a few seconds, leering at him without saying anything.

  He could feel the hatred, it was that intense.

  “If our brothers go to jail, we’re gonna fuck you up, honky,” one of them finally said. Another one wearing a hoodie “accidentally” stepped on Roth’s shoe.

  “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind,” Roth said.

  They glared at him for about five seconds and then returned to the bench on the other side of the hallway.

  At first, Roth thought he’d report it to the bailiff and let him handle it. But after thinking about it, he had a better idea. He dashed upstairs to the officers’ waiting room, where he found Lopez playing cards.

  At the time, Lopez was working narcotics and was dressed like a dirtbag—ponytail, beard, ragged jeans, sandals, and a soiled black vest.

  Roth told Lopez what had just happened. At first Lopez was annoyed that something like that could happen in the courthouse, but then he grinned and looked at the Latino uniformed officer standing next to him.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Lopez said. “They’re not gonna do shit. Just let me know when the case goes to the jury. I’ll be there.”

  Roth returned to the courtroom and finished the trial.

  After deliberating for less than an hour, the jury convicted the defendants of two felony counts. The judge dismissed the jury and the bailiff took the defendants into custody.

  With the DA file in hand, Roth walked into hallway. The wannabees confronted him again, one saying they were going to kick his “white ass.”

  He brushed past them and tried to walk to the escalator. They followed, yelling obscenities and more threats. People in the hallway were pretending they hadn’t heard anything, keeping their heads down. They didn’t want any part of it.

  One thug walked ahead of Roth and abruptly stopped in front of him. Roth stopped, tensing up.

  Lopez was in the hallway, waiting for the right time to leap into action. Now he approached the men surrounding Roth.

  “Hey man, I don’t like the pigs any more than you do, but he’s got nothing to do with it. He’s just doing a job. Leave him alo
ne.”

  The big dude, wearing a tight dark green T-shirt, stepped in front of Lopez, inches from his face. “Hey, honky, fuck you,” he snarled through yellow teeth.

  “I don’t want no trouble, but he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s doing what he’s supposed to.”

  When the big guy reached out to grab his vest, Lopez drove his fist into his mouth. He fell to the floor, bleeding. The other two backed up, did nothing. Then one bent down to help his bleeding friend.

  Lopez’s Latino uniformed brother-officer was sitting on the bench in the hallway too. He jumped up, ran over to Lopez and “arrested” him for battery, cuffed him, and led him away.

  But he didn’t take him to jail. They returned to the officers’ waiting room and had a good laugh.

  Two years after they’d met, Lopez made sergeant and was assigned to a bunco unit out of Rampart Division. Three years later he retired from the LAPD due to gunshot wounds he suffered in a shoot-out with a liquor store robbery suspect.

  After his retirement, he moved to Orange County and became active in politics and other community activities, dragging Al along with him. Roth met Congressman Hamilton at one of the fundraisers.

  After Roth was appointed to the bench in 1973, they continued going to those functions. That turned out to be a good thing for Roth because about two-and-a-half years ago, he met Linda at a Chamber of Commerce event.

  Lopez spotted her first. She was with another woman from her office, drinking a glass of wine. After Linda and her co-worker fended off what looked like two business men, Roth went into action.

  He approached her and in his favorite Ricardo Montalbán voice said, “Excuse me…”

  When she turned around, he said, “We’ve never met.” A brief pause. “My name is Don…Don Carlos.”

  She gave him a dubious look.

  Then as he glanced around the room he said, “I don’t like the way the men…the way they look at you.”

  Luckily Linda’s sense of humor was like his, so she thought he was funny and charming. Then he told her his real name and asked if she’d like to meet for a drink.

  Two nights later she met him at Franco’s.

  When she came in, the hostess greeted her saying, “Hi, you must be Linda.”

  She brought her over to Al, who was sitting at the bar. The bartender came over and said, “Judge Roth, would you like the usual?” Then looking at Linda, he asked, “And what can I bring the lady?”

  Linda was surprised he was a judge; all he’d told her was that he had a government job.

  They started dating after that.

  Now Roth was meeting Lopez at Franco’s for lunch to tell him about Jake Gertner’s problem. But first he said, “I have good news. I asked Linda to marry me and she accepted.”

  “Al, that’s great news. I always thought you’d come around sooner or later. You’re lucky she waited.”

  “I think I got to her just in the nick of time, before she married some asshole from a big LA law firm.”

  “Knowing Linda, that would’ve never happened. I’m very happy for you.” Lopez paused and stared at Roth. “So, who’s it gonna be?”

  “Jake. Otherwise, it would’ve been you.”

  Then Roth told him about Jake’s situation. That he could get killed by the Mob and that he hoped Roth could do something during the Mangano trial to get him back on the streets.

  Just as Roth thought, Lopez didn't give him any phony lectures or try to distance himself. “If Mangano gets out, he’ll be wasted by Jake anyway. So where’s the fucking problem?”

  “Yeah, that’s the way I look at it,” Roth said. “There’d be justice all the way around.”

  Lopez nodded his agreement and then said, “Al, you know I’ll want to do something to help. I don't give a shit what it is.”

  Roth could sense Lopez welcomed some action and intrigue in his life. It heartened him that Lopez offered to do something to save Jake.

  “I appreciate that. You’re a loyal friend. I have a tentative plan. Tell me what you think.” Roth then laid out a scheme he’d developed for getting Mangano out of jail.

  Lopez Chuckled. “It’d be like the old days.”

  He guzzled down the last of his iced tea. “I like your plan, Al. It’ll work. It’s the kind of shit I can do in my sleep.”

  “Good. I’ll give you all the information in a few days.”

  19

  ARNOLD GOLDMAN WAS ONE OF THE most repulsive lawyers in California. Every judge he appeared before never wanted to see him enter their courtroom again.

  “Do anything you can to keep that scumbag out of your courtroom,” Presiding Judge Calvin Smith instructed the judges at a Newport Beach judge’s meeting.

  No one needed reminding.

  Goldman would never have been cast to play an attorney in a movie. Didn’t look anything like Alan Alda. In his mid-forties, Goldman was 5’10 and 35 pounds overweight. Mostly bald, he had a large, fleshy face, with a reddish blotch below his left cheekbone. It looked like he just started growing a beard. Mainly gray.

  Although he wore expensive suits, they looked cheap on him because he had his suit coats tailored too tight. He also liked to wear suede slipper loafers that made his feet look too small.

  When Claudio called Goldman about representing Mangano, he told him they’d have to meet somewhere so he could tell him about the case. That night, they met at Vessia’s in LA.

  “Just do what Jake says,” Claudio told him. “That’s what the bosses want.”

  “How come?”

  “I have other shit to do,” Claudio said with an aggravated expression on his face. “I can’t be bothered with this bullshit.”

  “So that’s why they’re sending this guy out here?” Then after pausing, “From Detroit?”

  “He’s supposed to have some kind of connection with the Commission. I don’t know. They trust him, that’s all I know. They want him to handle it for them.”

  Goldman was shaking his head. “He’s gonna tell me how to get a guy off? Like I don’t know?”

  “Arnie, he’s not gonna tell you to do something that’ll be bad for Nick.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “That’s the way it’s gonna be. Live with it. And, frankly I don’t give a shit. It’s not my fuckin’ problem.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Just for a couple of weeks.” Claudio paused and then stared at Goldman. “You don’t want our business no more?”

  Goldman took a sip of wine. “You got to admit it’s unusual.”

  “Make up your fuckin’ mind.”

  “It’s irregular.” Goldman paused, grimacing. Then he said, “Yeah, I can do it. It seems like it’s important to you guys. What the fuck.”

  “Just do what he says, okay.” Claudio then stood up. “I’m out of here. Got shit to do.”

  Goldman’s fee was high enough that he didn’t have a problem with anything. And besides he didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize his lucrative relationship with the LA Mob. As long as Jake spoke for them, Goldman was perfectly willing to follow his instructions.

  Jake Gertner drove to Goldman’s Camden Drive, Beverly Hills office to introduce himself and give him a general idea of what the bosses wanted him to do during the trial.

  It was after 9:00 PM and all Goldman’s staff had left for the evening.

  Jake knew he’d have to keep his contempt for Goldman to himself. And he was mindful of the promise he’d made to Al to keep his man-handling under control. But ever since he could remember he hated guys who ridiculed or demeaned other people merely because they could.

  Even though Jake dished out beatings and death, he didn’t go out of his way to make people feel like shit for no reason. He just took care of business and that was it.

  As Jake pulled up to Goldman’s office building, he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to Al. That’s just the way it was.

  Goldman met Jake at the outer door and led him back to
his office. When they were in front of his desk, Goldman turned to go to his chair, but Jake grabbed his arm.

  “Okay, Goldie, I want to give you a general idea of what the bosses want you to do.”

  “What’s with this ‘Goldie’ shit?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Goldie. Concentrate.”

  “Yeah, but we got to do it standing here?”

  “No chats. Do it here.”

  “What’s your fucking problem? We can’t sit down?”

  “Goldie, don’t push your luck. I don’t have all fuckin’ night.”

  “What the fuck? This is bullshit.”

  “One last time, Arnie,” Jake said, shooting him a savage stare.

  “Whatever,” Goldman said with an over-exaggerated shrug. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Jake moved in closer and got into his face. “Come on strong. Make personal attacks on cops, witnesses, the DA. Even the judge. More than you usually fuckin’ do. Especially when you're in front of the jury. Got it, Arnie?”

  Goldman stepped back and leaned against the edge of his desk. “This is bullshit. I don’t have to put up with shit like this. Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?”

  Jake fixed a stare on Goldman. “Did I forget my manners, dickbreath? Is that what you think?”

  Goldman swallowed hard and kept his mouth shut. Looked away.

  “No, Arnie. You got something on your mind?” Jake asked. “Oh, I know, maybe you think I need to apologize to your fat ass.”

  “No, it’s okay. I got it. I can do what you say.”

  Jake nodded and gave him his friendliest smile. Nice gleaming teeth. “You sure everything’s okay? I want you to be happy in your work.”

  “No, no,” Goldman stammered. “Everything’s fine. There’s no problem.”

  Jake nodded. Then out of nowhere, he took hold of Goldman’s shirt collar and shoved him backwards.

  Flailing his arms, a wide-eyed Goldman reached out for the corner of his desk, trying to regain his balance. “What the fuck,” he cried out.