“Yep,” said the Honorable George Cavendish. His official robe hung on a coat-rack in the corner, a subtle reminder of his status.
“I have been told they aren’t being held in the jail; that you’ve released them to their parents, no bond. Is that correct?”
“It seemed the best way to handle things,” said Cavendish.
“And I assume, since you endorse that policy, that you are going to explain your position on the case?” King asked.
“It’s more of an approach than a position,” said Cavendish with careful reserve.
“You’re going to outline your approach, then? For my benefit?” King duly modified his inquiry, doing his best to be cooperative without conceding anything to Judge Cavendish beyond what civility demanded.
Cavendish fingered his white mustache. “Up here in Santa Rosa, things work a little differently than they do in San Francisco. We’re trying to keep the situation from erupting.”
“So I’ve been told,” said King, waiting for what he supposed was coming. “How does this tie into the Leonardi boys, or Hiro Yoshimura?”
“Our bucolic appearance is deceptive,” Cavendish went on, refusing to be hurried. “I have to tell you that this … arrest is potentially very … embarrassing throughout the county. It could have repercussions for some of our most prominent citizens.”
“Who support the White Legion,” King interjected.
“I didn’t say that,” the judge pointed out sternly. “Only that it could be embarrassing.”
“Yes: murder can be embarrassing,” said King with heavy sarcasm. “So can attempted murder, if it comes to that.”
“What do you mean, murder? If you go about making accusations like that, you may have to answer for it.” Cavendish drew himself up in his leather chair. “Nothing the Leonard boys have said links them in any way to Mr. Yoshimura’s death.”
“Murder,” King corrected him.
“If you insist on calling it that,” Cavendish said sourly.
“What else would you call it?” King demanded. “He didn’t die of natural causes, that’s sure.”
“It may be manslaughter, you know,” said Cavendish, trying not to incite King further. “The coroner wasn’t convinced the beating was premeditated.”
“Oh, wasn’t he? Did he happen to say why not?” Oscar King asked, and looked toward the window of Judge Cavendish’s office; it was a lovely spring day, getting warm, promising an early summer. “A man with several broken bones and bad bruises got them by misadventure, or through the oversight of a person or persons unknown. But you’re right: all that damage could be nothing more than accidental.” He snapped his finger as if with sudden inspiration. “And Mr. Yoshimura was a farmer. He may have fallen off a large cabbage.”
“You watch your tongue in here, Counselor,” warned Cavendish. “I’m giving you a lot of leeway on Pietragnelli’s behalf, but my patience isn’t inexhaustible.”
“Goodness no; that’s apparent by the alacrity with which you pursue justice,” said King with blatantly assumed contrition. “I would never presume to disrespect any man charged with upholding the nation’s laws.”
“I could tell you to leave, King,” Cavendish grumbled.
“But you won’t, because you want to keep this inside these walls if you can. That’s why we’re talking unofficially. You’re afraid of the attention a trial would bring, and so you want to arrange something a bit more private.” King coughed diplomatically. “It’s never amusing to have to admit you have organizations like the White Legion operating with impunity, is it?” He was unwilling to let the judge dodge the issues.
“We have to be careful; it isn’t worth having it all blow up in our faces. The incidents are all out of proportion already,” said Judge Cavendish.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Pietragnelli would agree—or Mr. Yoshimura,” said King musingly.
Judge Cavendish struggled to regain the momentum he had wanted to achieve. “It’s always a question of whose ox is gored, isn’t it? There’s more at stake here than grapes and windows, and even you must know it. This is systematic action, for several reasons. There have been all kinds of union organizers trying to get the hands to follow them, and in these days, who can afford what the unions demand? You know what kind of trouble they can make: how many of those organizers are Communists? That isn’t what any of us want, is it?… Well, most people would rather let the White Legion clean house than risk making the Communists more powerful.”
“Carlo Pietragnelli isn’t encouraging Communism, and everyone in Geyserville knows it. He’s a shrewd businessman, and he’s reliable as anyone in the valley. He kept going all through Prohibition, and he’s done a lot to help his neighbors, as most of them know. He pays good wages and offers his workers the best he can afford, which is more than many another does,” said King. “This isn’t about Communists, Your Honor, and you know it. This is about running off people from profitable lands. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.”
“It can look that way,” said Cavendish unhappily. “Which is why it’s so potentially explosive to have the Leonard boys in jail.” He folded his hands. “They don’t like being called Leonardi, you know.”
“They were caught on the Pietragnelli land with a rifle,” said King, “no matter what they call themselves. The cartridges from the rifle match those dug out of the walls at Carlo Pietragnelli’s house, and we’re not talking about a standard .22 or anything else light. This is nothing particularly significant in and of itself, but the report Deputy Sutton filed indicated the weapon was an older rifle, and the bullets had to be specially ordered. The only person ordering such bullets was Thomas Leonardi. It may not be conclusive evidence, but it is indicative, don’t you think? It increases the likelihood that someone in that household fired those shots. Somehow I can’t see Thomas doing it, can you?”
“It’s … troubling about the rifle,” Cavendish allowed. “The Leonard boys deny having any intention to do harm to anything or anyone at the Pietragnelli vineyard.”
“They have a damn strange way of showing it,” said King, making no apology for his language.
“You know how young men are—they get notions, they don’t think about the consequences of their acts, and the next thing you know, there’s trouble. Young men are impulsive, and they don’t stop to reflect, as older men do.” He laid his hand over his watch-pocket. “It’s not as if you can prove otherwise, not enough to get a conviction.”
“Are you saying the District Attorney isn’t going to take the case,” said King.
“I’m saying he hasn’t enough evidence—hard evidence—to take before a jury, and given the nature of the case, he doesn’t want to start anything that could backfire on him. There’s too much supposition and not enough real, provable facts.” Judge Cavendish frowned. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t agree with him, but just now, I do.”
“Which is why we’re having this charming tête-à-tête in your office where no one can hear our exchange of opinions,” said Oscar King.
“We’d like to make sure Carlo Pietragnelli doesn’t have to sacrifice too much on account of what the Leonard boys might—and we must say might—have done.” Cavendish opened the humidor on his desk and offered the contents to Oscar King. “Real Havanas, rolled on the thighs of pretty girls and soaked in rum.”
King took one and tested it between his fingers. “Must be fifty cents apiece.”
“Sixty, but worth every penny,” the judge boasted, still holding out the humidor. “Take one home with you, for later.”
“Thanks, but no,” said King. “It might look like a bribe.”
Cavendish had a rich, plummy chuckle. “Lawyers like you cost a lot more than a couple cigars.”
“Just the same,” said King. “I’ll join you for now, but that’s all.” He sniffed the cigar. “Very good.”
“They’d better be.” He picked up a large lighter with a built-in nipper. “If you want to snip the end.” He demonstrated on his own cigar,
then worked the lighter and puffed the cigar into glowing embers. Satisfied with the smoke, he handed the lighter to Oscar King. “Go on.”
After the minutest hesitation, King took the lighter and clipped the end of his cigar, then lit up. He loved the aroma of the smoke, and felt a sniggle of guilt as he inhaled. “All right. What are we talking about?”
“What do you think would be fair for Pietragnelli?” Judge Cavendish asked, avoiding a direct response. “Given that we can’t take this case to trial.”
“A trial that could identify his attackers and send them to prison. It would fix responsibility and provide some peace for the Pietragnellis,” said Oscar King promptly. “But since—as you say—that isn’t going to happen, you had best tell me what the county is prepared to do, and I’ll submit the offer and terms to my client”
“Who is where?” the judge asked, much too casually.
“Out of the area,” said Oscar King with equal nonchalance. “When and if your offer is accepted and the documentation is completed—”
“Nothing in writing,” said Judge Cavendish hastily.
King pounced on this. “Oh, yes, in writing, with provisions of confidentiality, and terms under which the confidentiality must be kept as well as terms under which it can be breached, such as if the Leonardis are released from jail.”
“You can’t make such demands,” the judge blustered.
“Of course I can. And I will. You want this swept under the political carpet for reasons I don’t know, nor do I want to be told, this is murky enough without that. It doesn’t change the facts: Pietragnelli and his family need assurances that they will be protected, and the only way to guarantee their safety is a contract—a written contract—that will make it possible for them to have some leverage.” He took a long drag on the cigar. “You can’t seriously expect Carlo Pietragnelli to be willing to give away that leverage simply because you would prefer it, now can you?” He gave a predatory grin. “What do you take me for?”
“You listen to me, sonny boy,” said Judge Cavendish, his hand gathered into a fist. “I’m not going to have you blowing the lid off Sonoma County because it gets you airtime and a fancier office down in the big, dangerous city. You’re a spoiler, King, out to wreck what you can’t loot, coming in here for a little while and leaving all of us to clean up the hash you make. Don’t think we haven’t seen your kind before.” He lifted his finger to underscore his words. “And I’m not going to have you running off to Sacramento to the Attorney General, getting the state all riled up about a couple isolated incidents. It won’t be allowed.”
“Fine thing for a judge, making threats,” said King, doing his best not to be angry; he knew that was Cavendish’s intention, a way to keep him off-guard. “If you don’t want the Attorney General dragged into this, then you better start coming up with something worthwhile, or I’m leaving and driving back to San Francisco, and I’m going to report our entire conversation to Mr. Pietragnelli, no matter what. Then he and I will decide what to do next, whether you like it or not.” He held out the cigar. “This is very good.”
Cavendish glowered at the ceiling. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Why should I? It hasn’t been easy for my client,” King pointed out. “It’s his interests I’m obliged to represent.”
“I don’t deny that, but I have to remind you that we can’t conclusively tie the Leonards to the troubles Pietragnelli has been having.” He tapped his broad expanse of blotting paper and tried to seem above it all, as he often did on the bench.
“And you aren’t going to make any effort to find the link, are you?” Oscar King asked. “I won’t require an answer. Think of my question as rhetorical.”
“If you won’t discuss this in good faith,” Judge Cavendish said, his disgust obvious, “we have nothing more to say to each other, and I’m just taking up your valuable time for no good reason. I’d be sorry to have that happen, but if you think it would serve your client’s interests to throw the whole shebang away…” He opened his hands to show his helplessness.
“Until you offer something substantial, this can go nowhere. I won’t let my client be victimized by a fast shuffle.” Oscar King tapped off the ash at the end of his cigar into the empty waste-basket beside the judge’s desk. “What kind of an attorney would I be if I left my clients exposed to all manner of retribution with no fall-back to keep them safe? The agreement must be written, with confidentiality clauses and provision to break them. I can’t bring Pietragnelli any agreement that does not contain such language.”
“All right. The sheriff won’t like it, but I can see your point. I’ll explain it to him. He’s not as unreasonable as you seem to think he is.” He knocked the ash off his cigar into his large copper ashtray. “But that confidentiality provision will have to be ironclad, with forfeiture of all awards and grants if it isn’t kept to the letter.”
“There will be no punitive actions taken against Pietragnelli, his family, his workers, or his neighbors. This is absolute. No sideways actions, either. No zoning games, no water-rights disputes, no tax changes, no road or dam development, no eminent domain that would compromise his vineyards. I know all the tricks, Judge, and I’ll be watching you. Pietragnelli has adequate financial backing, so banks aren’t an issue, but suppliers and transportation is. None of those aspects of his business is to be compromised in any way, or those of his employees. If that happens, the confidentiality terms will be terminated.” He leaned forward. “Also, there will be no whispering campaigns, no rumor-mongering, no hints and innuendos that can destroy a man’s reputation. Pietragnelli is to resume his wine-making without any nasty repercussions from this case. Is that clear?”
“How am I supposed to enforce such terms?” Judge Cavendish asked innocently. “I can’t keep people from talking. The First Amendment says so.”
“That isn’t my concern; it has to be done; you know how to do it, so I leave it up to you. And the Leonardi boys are not to be allowed to stay in this area,” King went on. “They’re not to get off scot-free for all they’ve done.”
“There I agree,” said the judge unexpectedly. “Well, we both know they’re out of hand. It would make things easier if they didn’t stick around—who knows what they might get up to next? What do you suggest?”
“The army and navy. One boy to each service. They shouldn’t serve together,” said King, who had thought about this on the long drive up from San Rafael. “They have to be on their own.”
“Their parents won’t like it,” said Judge Cavendish.
“They would like public notoriety even less,” said King.
“You have a point there,” said Judge Cavendish. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Not good enough,” said King. “You get it done, or I head for Sacramento.”
“You’re driving a hard bargain,” Cavendish complained.
“There’s reason to do so, wouldn’t you agree?” King asked with a suggestion of a smile. “You’d do the same thing in my place, wouldn’t you?”
“All right. The boys go into the service—not the same service; one army, one navy—for what? Two years?”
“Five. Make it a minium of five years. You can set up enlistment terms for that long, can’t you? I know you can pull the right strings to make that stick, and get it in writing, so there’s no shift later on. That’ll keep them off the streets until 1942, and that should teach them a thing or two about the world, if nothing else.” King rubbed his hands together. “It’s little enough for either boy, considering what they’ve done.”
“I’ll try,” said Judge Cavendish.
“Convince them, Your Honor, or the deal won’t hold,” said King. “Now, about restitution.”
“Oh, Lord,” the judge said, addressing the ceiling.
“The house and workers’ cabins are to be restored completely. No skimping, no half-measures, no delays. The windows will be replaced, the buildings painted, and any secondary damage repaired. All
of it, even if it’s only a scratch on a fence-post” King held up his hand, indicating he was not through yet. “The county is to pay the family a thousand dollars for each month they have been under siege, and for each month until the work is finished.” It was an outrageous amount, but he wanted to find out how serious Judge Cavendish was in regard to making this case vanish.
“That’s a hefty chunk from the county budget,” said the judge, scowling portentously.
“A trial would cost more, wouldn’t it? The publicity alone would be costly, to say nothing of the potential for civil claims afterward.” King was beginning to enjoy himself, for he could see Cavendish squirm.
“Let’s say I could get the Board of Supervisors to authorize the payments—would that be an end to it or would you have more tricks up your sleeve?” Cavendish was still trying to menace King, but his heart was no longer in it.
“That would depend on my client, of course,” said King. “But if all these conditions are met, and met promptly, then I think we could have the whole thing resolved in short order.”
“Pietragnelli will have to have his signature notarized if he doesn’t come here to the courthouse to sign,” Cavendish said, once again fishing.
“He can reach a notary where he is, and you needn’t worry about it being authentic; you can have verification of all sorts, so long as you don’t require Mr. Pietragnelli to return to Sonoma County until this is settled.” King drew on his cigar once more, thinking its flavor had improved in the last several minutes. “If you require it, his notarized signature could be witnessed by a judge, like yourself.”
“We’ll … decide upon that when the terms are agreed upon,” said Cavendish, his gaze held by the contents of the bookshelves on the other side of his office.
“I want you to understand that Pietragnelli won’t come back to Geyserville until the contract is signed and sealed,” said King, making the most of his momentary advantage. “It isn’t that there’s any distrust of you, Your Honor, but since the White Legion operates in secrecy, it’s not wise for him to come here without real protection, and that means more than hired guards at his house. Although those will continue on duty for as long as Mr. Pietragnelli and I deem them to be necessary.” He had been assured by Ferenc Ragoczy that the guards would be paid for as long as a year if it seemed reasonable to keep them on.
Midnight Harvest Page 51
