Detour to Murder jo-3

by Jeff Sherratt

  “That’s bullshit. I didn’t hit Mr. Haskell.”

  Schlereth’s head snapped up. “Attorney O’Brien, tell your client to please keep quiet until it’s time for him to speak.”

  I stood again. “Your Honor, I mean, Commissioner. He didn’t strike Haskell. I have proof.”

  “I said sit down!” Schlereth didn’t have a gavel, so he knocked the table with the tape recorder mic. Mrs. Thornton jumped when the amplified bang resounded in the room. “Sit down, now!”

  “Besides,” I said, ignoring Schlereth’s demands, “this isn’t about Haskell. It’s about a mysterious woman named Vera. An evil woman, who manipulated my client.”

  Schlereth rose out of his chair. “Mr. O’Brien, you’re disrupting the proceedings. I demand that you sit down and keep quiet.”

  “Larry, wait a minute,” Mrs. Thornton said to Schlereth in a small voice. “Although the inmate wasn’t extradited to Arizona back in 1945 to stand trial for Haskell’s murder, from what I understand it was a factor in his plea agreement involving the woman’s homicide. Now, I’d like him to tell us why-if he didn’t hit the man over head-why was he implicated at all in Haskell’s death back then. And why his death would be a factor in his plea agreement.” Without waiting for Schlereth to reply, she said, “Go ahead, Mr. Roberts, would you please tell us what this is all about?”

  We all turned to Roberts, who lumbered out of his chair. Staring straight ahead, not seeming to look at anyone in particular, he said, “Mr. Haskell was asleep, probably dead already, I dunno. When I stopped the car and opened his door, he fell out. His head hit a rock. My idea was to hide the body, not to rob him, but then I remembered I’d need money for gas. Besides, it was stupid to leave all that money on a dead man. What else could I do?” He hung his head and sat down.

  “Money? Gas? I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts. I don’t understand.”

  I jumped in. “That’s just it. He didn’t kill Haskell, but the DA had him over a barrel. The District Attorney lied. He knew Haskell wasn’t hit on the head. He knew the guy had died of natural causes, a heart attack. Haskell’s wound was a result of his body rolling out of the car and then his head hit something, a rock maybe, after he died. There’s not even a warrant outstanding in Arizona, never was. I checked.” I hadn’t checked, but they wouldn’t have known that.

  I looked down at my client, sitting there. Roberts knew now that the DA had lied to him, convinced him that he’d be sent to Arizona to stand trial for Haskell’s murder, conned him into believing he’d be convicted and die in the gas chamber. But if he confessed to murdering Vera, he’d get an indeterminate life sentence here in California. The deal, he thought, saved him from death row. Without a lawyer, and without a reasonable defense, he had no choice. But the DA was bluffing. The authorities in Arizona must’ve known Haskell died of a heart attack and the gash on his head was postmortem. He now knew what I’d figured out yesterday: the DA’s office in Yuma had no intention of putting him on trial for murder. Roberts sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.

  I turned back to the board. “The District Attorney at the time, a guy named Byron, lied and played Roberts for a fool. I have evidence, proof.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Schlereth banged the mic again. “As I said earlier, Mr. O’Brien, this is not a court of law. If you have any exculpatory evidence, file a motion with the proper authorities.” Fingering his glasses, he pulled them down a millimeter on the bridge of his nose and glared at me. “Tell them about your so-called proof. Ask them for a new trial.”

  Yeah, sure, I thought, a new trial almost thirty years after a guy pleads guilty to murder. “I’m going to do exactly that!” I announced, and sat down.

  Schlereth glared at me, anger building, but didn’t add anything. He obviously wasn’t used to being challenged in the hearings, his fiefdom.

  Everything went downhill from there, not that I was having much luck before then. When his turn came, Stephen Marshall, the Deputy DA from Los Angeles, got to his feet and reminded the board of their legal obligation to consider only the facts existing at the time of sentencing and disregard any claims of new evidence. Then he spoke eloquently about the need to punish murderers. “To allow heinous criminals back into society would violate the sense of right and wrong of a just people.” He mentioned the Supreme Court, how they had recently banned the use of the death penalty and now the only protection society had against murderers and other vicious predators was the ability of the State to keep them locked away forever. Especially double murderers like Roberts. I objected when the young assistant DA used that term.

  When Marshall finally sat down, I got to my feet and spoke for a few minutes. I told the board about Roberts’s excellent prison record. “Not only that, he’s a gifted pianist. He performs in the prison band, entertaining the inmates, and has even played for the warden a time or two.”

  But once I started delving into the facts concerning Roberts’s ill-gotten confession, Commissioner Goodwin, who’d been quiet up to that moment, dusted me off with a wave of his hand. He then leaned forward and peered at Roberts. He asked him if there was remorse in his heart, sorrow for murdering the woman.

  Roberts didn’t answer. He stood there steadfast, staring at Goodwin, remaining stoically silent. Schlereth adjourned the hearing. The guards moved in to take Roberts away.

  As they approached him, he turned to me and said in a low voice, “I thought Haskell might’ve been dead when he rolled outta the car, but I figured it would look like I clobbered him for his dough. The DA, that son-of-a-bitch! He knew.” Roberts pounded the air with his balled fists. “Goddammit, he knew I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t gonna be sent Arizona, after all.”

  “Maybe it was for the better,” I said.

  “Man, what are you saying?”

  “If you went to trial here in L.A. County over Vera’s death, with the lawyer you had at the time, you would’ve lost. You would’ve drawn the death penalty.”

  “I didn’t kill her, either. I swear.”

  The guards cuffed Roberts’s wrists, securing them to a chain lashed around his middle. Then they started to lead him away. He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Can I get a new trial, or were you just blowing smoke?” Without waiting for my answer, he turned and hobbled toward the door.

  I stood there and watched Roberts as the prison guards frog-marched him across the room. He’d been railroaded by the DA back in 1945, which might be grounds for a new trial, but the courts wouldn’t go along with it unless I had new evidence to offer. Not evidence about Haskell’s death, but evidence that exonerated Roberts regarding Vera’s murder. And even if he were innocent and the evidence existed and the courts allowed me to proceed with a new trial, what about the money? The cost would be substantial and I figured Roberts had nothing. I’d have to be Merlin the Magician to pull that rabbit out of a hat, not an inexperienced lawyer with a Cub Scout merit badge.

  CHAPTER 5

  It took over an hour to get back to the office. I didn’t care; KFWB had broadcast a Beatles tribute practically the whole way. “Hey Jude,” the full version, three times in a row.

  “The phone’s been ringing,” Mabel said as I came through the door.

  “Clients?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Who?”

  “Your little friend, Millie. Called several times. She’s upset.”

  “Why?”

  Before Mabel could respond, the phone rang. After answering it she handed the receiver to me. “Ask her yourself.”

  “What’s up, Millie?”

  Millie, an attractive divorced woman whom I’d taken to lunch several times, was Judge Balford’s clerk. She’d been instrumental in persuading the judge to assign cases to me when the public defender office was jammed up. The cases didn’t pay much but they provided a steady flow of income. I wondered for a moment why she was upset. Couldn’t have been the last lunch we had together. She said she loved Burger King.

  “Jimmy! What
are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard about your grandstand play at the parole hearing this morning.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come off of it, Jimmy. You’re gonna file for a new trial? Taking Roberts on as a client? New evidence? My God, what are you thinking?”

  Yeah, well, I mean… Hey, he might be innocent.”

  “My judge is pissed. And she’s pissed at me for recommending you. You know the rules. Just supposed to represent Roberts at the hearing, that’s all. You’re supposed to keep cases from moving up the line. Schlereth called Judge Balford. He said that you’re an arrogant SOB.”

  “He did? He’s the arrogant one. Nothing but a weasel.”

  “Don’t think the County is going to cough up the money for you to engage in your fantasy and follow through with your threat. As far as Judge Balford is concerned, you don’t exist. You’ll get no more cases from her.”

  “It wasn’t a threat. I merely stated a few facts.”

  “You opened your big mouth and now you’re on your own with Roberts. Good luck!” Millie hung up.

  I let out a deep sigh and glanced at Mabel. She shook her head slowly, looked down, and fiddled with some papers on her desk. I moved into my office, quietly closing the door behind me. I figured I’d let Millie cool off for a couple of days. Then I’d ask her out for lunch. Yeah, it’d be okay. We’d work this out over a double order of onion rings.

  I don’t drink, quit a number of years ago, but later that day I met my friend, Sol Silverman at the bar in Rocco’s on Florence Avenue. The restaurant was located downstairs from Sol’s office on the top floor of the Silverman Building. Sol had made it big in the protection, security and investigation business, and now owned the ten-story building that housed his company, Silverman Investigations, Incorporated. I would’ve moved my office there but who could afford the rent?

  Some say Rocco’s, with its lively bar, is the best restaurant in Downey; others say the Regency is better, classier. But Sol didn’t give a damn about that, he just liked the place, all leather and polished brass, thick steaks marbled with fat, and strong drinks made with name-brand liquor.

  Sol, in his middle fifties, had a huge chest and bulging belly. He had short legs, a round face, and his salt-and-pepper hair-although styled by Maurice the barber on a weekly basis-was disheveled, giving him the look of a college professor or musical director. But he had amazing physical strength and, if need be, he could brawl with the best of them.

  With an infectious sense of humor, he could be charming and jovial, and he always appeared to be unruffled. But if you crossed the line, watch out. He was also an invincible optimist and a little wacky at times, but extremely bright and shrewd. And he was my friend. I was lucky.

  He’d started his business some fifteen, sixteen years ago and now owned one of the most lucrative and respected security firms in the nation. People wondered how Sol became so successful so fast. I didn’t wonder; I knew how he did it. He treated everyone fair and decent, and, of course, paid off the right people.

  I could hear his laughter as I walked into the restaurant. He sat alone at a small table, the top of which sat on a large square pedestal. The table, positioned in the entryway, must’ve been new. I hadn’t seen it there before. Sol’s fingers, under the edge of the surface, were going crazy, twisting and turning knobs that jutted out from the base. He stared intently at a small black-and-white TV embedded in the tabletop. I slipped up beside him and glanced down at the screen. “What the hell is this, Sol?”

  Without looking up, he said, “Pong. It’s new. Electric ping-pong-” Just then the table let out a beeping sound. “Damn, you made me miss. Got any quarters?”

  Ten dollars later, we moved into the bar and sat at a real cocktail table.

  “I can beat the goddamn thing. I might go broke trying, but what the hell,” Sol said, laughing. “I’m gonna get one of those gizmos for my office,” he paused for a moment. “No, better not. Wouldn’t get any work done. Pong. Hey, what are they gonna think of next?”

  Jeanine, one of Rocco’s attractive barmaids, brought our drinks-a Beefeater’s martini for Sol, his usual, and a Coke for me.

  “Hey, Jeanine, where’s my glass of water?” Sol asked.

  I was shocked. Sol never drank water in his life, unless it came from the melting ice cubes in his drink.

  “The drought, Mr. Silverman. We quit serving water unless the customer requests it. But I’d be happy to get you a glass.”

  “Nah, forget it. But I know Andre. He’s just using the drought as an excuse to cut down on washing dishes. It’s all propaganda, drought my ass, just an excuse for the municipal water companies to raise rates.”

  “I’ll be back with your water in a minute.”

  “Water, who wants water? Just keep the Beefeaters coming.”

  He picked up his drink and in a mock toast, said, “Le’Chaim… to Jimmy, my friend with the long face.” Sol lowered his glass. “I can tell something’s bugging you. Wanna tell me about it?”

  “I’m frustrated, Sol.”

  “Only lonely people are frustrated. Are you lonely, Jimmy? Hey, what about that little bubele? What’s her name? I could fix you up.”

  “Christ, not her, Sol. Anyway, that’s not what’s on my mind.”

  “What wrong with her?”

  I didn’t know who Sol was referring to and I didn’t care. He continually tried to fix me up, usually one his wife’s picks. I’d taken out a few. They always turned out to be some poor girl who couldn’t get a date with a starving man if she was munching a giant turkey leg. Now that I think about it, most of them were. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her, Sol,” I said. “She’s too old, doesn’t speak English, hates sex, and she’s about as husky as a cement truck. How’s that?”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Shut up,” I said with a chuckle. “But let me ask you something.”

  He grabbed his pack of Dunhill cigarettes off the table, flipped one out and lit up. “Shoot.”

  “I got a guy who’s in prison for murder, been there for almost thirty years. He’d been railroaded by a less than forthright DA back in ’45.”

  “The guy’s innocent?”

  “He says he is, but I don’t know. He could’ve murdered the woman, but he didn’t kill Haskell.”

  “Who’s Haskell?”

  “The dead man he didn’t kill. But the DA induced him to confess to killing the woman.”

  “The woman he killed?”

  “Yeah, but-”

  “So, what’s the problem?’ Sol said with his arms wide. “He did it. He confessed. He’s in jail. Sounds like justice has been served.”

  “You don’t understand. The guy deserves a new trial and I kind of agreed to take the case.”

  “I wonder what they cost.”

  “What? The cost of a new trial?” I said.

  “The Pong thing.” Sol took a drag on his smoke. “I could get one for the staff, but only on their lunch break, mind you. We’ll have no Pong during working hours.”

  “Sol, you’re not even listening to me.”

  “What’s to listen? The bad guy is doing time, paying the price.”

  “Look, this thing has me bugged. I represented him at his parole hearing this morning. I found mitigating facts, and opened my mouth at the wrong time.”

  Sol arched an eyebrow, which I took as a sign of mild interest. So I continued. I outlined my discovery in a quick and concise manner. I explained how Roberts hadn’t murdered Haskell after all, and therefore had no motive to kill the woman. I explained how the DA had bluffed Roberts into thinking he was headed to the gas chamber. I even cited a precedent I’d looked up prior to our meeting where the courts overturned a conviction and granted a new trial once it was shown that the prosecutor had lied and withheld evidence.

  I desperately needed Sol’s help with this thing. I needed new evidence for a retrial, and Sol and his staff of crac
k investigators would find it. That is, if any evidence existed. Also, I had to satisfy my commitment to the law. If I did what I could for Roberts and nothing came of my efforts, well then, so be it. But I had to try. Still, there was no money available and Sol’s services were expensive. He’d helped out in the past pro bono, so to speak, and he might do it now. Sol and I had worked together on a murder case a couple of years ago where the accused, a poor gardener with a family, was set up to take the fall for a powerful politician. Together we got the guy off. There was no financial payoff then. But just seeing the guy’s face when he walked out of prison and into the arms of his family was reward enough. This case wouldn’t be like that one. Roberts had no family who counted on him, and he might indeed be guilty. However, Roberts was an American citizen with a right to a fair trial and the justice system had illicitly denied him due process. I took an oath when I was admitted to the bar; the same oath the DA, Byron, took years ago when he was admitted. I swore to uphold the law and I intended to keep my word.

  But all of that had nothing to do with Sol and I knew that without his help I’d just be running in circles without a chance to discover what really happened back in 1945.

  As I talked, Sol listened, nodding occasionally. I was making headway. But how do I ask for his help? Should I just come out with it, or should I plant the seed and see if he volunteers? I told him that Roberts had sold his story when he was arrested and they made a movie of his ordeal, a film called Detour.

  Then I said, “You’d have to get a copy of the film somehow, Sol. Maybe there’s something in the movie we could use. What do you think? Maybe we could do a little investigation of the woman’s murder. You could have one of your people snoop around-”