Guilty or Else jo-1

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Yeah, I’m glad too, Rita. But it might’ve been a client.” We paused, then shook our heads in unison.

  “Nah,” we said.

  I watched the swing of her hips as Rita turned and walked to her desk to call the restaurant. I hoped she passed the bar on her first try. Not many did, but if she passed, I figured she’d leave me afterward. I enjoyed her company, her youthful exuberance, and her full of life personality, but no way could I match the offers that would come her way. With corporate law, the pay and benefits would be excellent. Who knows, maybe someday she’d make partner and be a role model to other young Latinas. I moved into the other room, my office, and put on some coffee.

  “Jimmy, the Regency wants to know what time you and your-Wait, are you taking a date?” Rita shouted from the other room. “Hey, good for you. Anyway, what time are you and your new girlfriend having lunch tomorrow?”

  “It’s business! Tell them twelve-thirty.”

  After she finished the call, Rita came into my office. “The coffee smells good. I’ll pour you a cup. Too bad about your date. You should find someone-”

  “Rita!”

  “Hey, you’re a good-looking guy. Don’t give up; someone will come along.”

  I reached for the phone. Dialing, I said, “I’m not looking for anyone to come along. I want to get settled before I…never mind. Don’t you have some junk mail to file or something?”

  Rita left. I took a sip of coffee and called Sol Silverman at Rocco’s Restaurant on Florence Ave. Sol, a licensed private investigator, information broker, and consummate horseplayer had been my friend since my days on the LAPD.

  Although Sol had a full suite of offices upstairs in the same building as the restaurant, he conducted most of his business downstairs. He even had a private phone installed at his exclusive booth in the rear of the main dining area.

  When he invited me to join him for lunch, I didn’t mention that I desperately needed his help with the Rodriguez murder case. Without Sol and his staff’s assistance, I didn’t stand a chance. His investigation and security company, the best in the business, commanded extraordinary fees. But, I’d drop a few hints while we ate and see if maybe he’d volunteer, pro bono.

  Rocco’s long and narrow dining room, two steps up from the bar area, had red leather booths with white linen covering the tables. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, which cast the room in a dim glow. I walked in through the heavy, carved double doors. Andre, the maitre d’, escorted me to Sol’s booth.

  Sol put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone he held. “Thanks, Andre,” he said and waved at me while continuing with his conversation.

  A tall drink rested in front of him. Knowing Sol, I figured it had to be a Beefeater’s gin and tonic, his choice before sundown. In the evening, he switched to straight Beefeater’s on the rocks. Something about not really drinking during the day.

  He hung up the phone and stood to greet me. Sol was actually taller sitting down than standing up. His chest and stomach were huge, but his legs were short and skinny. He had a large head perched directly on top of his torso without a noticeable neck. His crop of frazzled salt and pepper hair darted out in all directions. Most startling were his eyes: deep, dark and penetrating. They could bore right into your brain searching for some truth that might be in conflict with your words. He wore a ring with a diamond on his pinky, and a solid gold Rolex that looked like it weighed five pounds circled his wrist.

  Sol bought his suits from Sy Devore in Hollywood. His tailor here in Downey altered them. Benny tried his best for Sol-marking, measuring, cutting the material, adjusting everything you could adjust, and sewing it all back together- but to no avail. Sol still looked like Omar the Tent Maker had fitted him, that is, if Omar made his tents out of worsted virgin wool with pinstripes.

  He reached out and shook my hand. “Vos tut zich? How you doing, Jimmy?”

  “Okay, Sol, I guess. Your luck still holding at the track?”

  Sol had The Racing Form spread out on the table next to his drink. I didn’t know whether it was his ability as a handicapper or the inside information he had at his fingertips that financed his lavish lifestyle.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it, dear boychik. Genius, sheer genius, that’s why I win.” He slid into the booth. “Sit down and tell me what’s up.”

  “Sol, I need some help.” No use playing games. I decided to come right out and ask.

  “Money, you need money?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short stack of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Here, take what you need, pay me back when you get the chance.”

  The fantasy of catching up on some past due bills, or maybe picking up a new suit flashed through my mind, then just as quickly disappeared. I’d never ask to borrow money, and I knew he wouldn’t turn me down if I did. But now I had to ask him to help me professionally, without pay, which was just as hard for me. Maybe harder.

  “Thanks for the offer, Sol. You’re a good friend, but what I really need is your help with a case I have to defend.”

  He gave me a knowing smile. “I heard about it. Got in a brawl with Johnson. Took on a murder case. Chutzpah, Jimmy. You’ve got chutzpah, I’ll say that.”

  Before I could respond, one of Rocco’s long-legged waitresses waltzed over to take our order. We both asked for steak sandwiches, coffee with mine, an extra order of deep fried onion rings for Sol.

  “You heard about it already?”

  “My spies tell me everything. You should have such spies.” Sol had his spies everywhere-not spies in the traditional sense like the CIA or James Bond, but more like a loose network of informants in the right places.

  Background people were his spies-secretaries, clerks, janitors, typists, and at the courts, maybe the court reporter, a clerk or two, and a few bailiffs. His spies worked at City Hall, the D.A.’s office, restaurants, and bars. Waitresses, bartenders, and receptionists in public buildings fed Sol a continuous stream of intelligence. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory.

  “Will you help me, Sol?” I laid it on the line, waited, and held my breath.

  He pulled a gold pen from his pocket and looked down, saying nothing. I watched him mark his Racing Form, drawing little circles and underlining words that must have been important. After a few seconds, he raised his head and picked up the phone. “Please forgive me,” Sol said. “We’ll talk, but important business first. I’m gonna put a nickel on the daily double.”

  Sol placed a call to Dwayne, the bartender at the Regency, who held the dubious honor of being Sol’s favorite bookmaker. Sol placed his bet-five thousand on the daily double at Del Mar.

  Long Legs brought our food. While we ate, I didn’t mention the murder case. Sol’s rule number 47: no business while food was on the table. We talked about the horses, then college football. Sol said USC would go undefeated this year. With Anthony Davis and Sam ‘Bam’ Cunningham, John McKay’s team couldn’t lose. I told him not to bet on it. He said he already had.

  “Now to Jimmy’s tsores,” Sol finally said after the busboy removed the dishes, and the waitress brought him another drink and refreshed my coffee. “If I help you with this case, is your client worth the effort? Did he kill the girl?”

  A fair question. Why would he help me set a murderer free? He deserved a candid and straightforward answer. “I don’t know. He says he’s innocent, but the evidence against him is solid.” I placed my hands on the table, palms down. “Even if he did it, I’m still morally and, in fact, legally bound to provide the best possible defense. There might be mitigating circumstances or other factors that need to be explored.” I paused and looked into his eyes. I wanted Sol to understand how I felt. “Then again, maybe he didn’t do it. But if I don’t do my best, Rodriguez will die in the gas chamber.”

  Sol listened while sipping his drink. “Reasons. Do you have reasons to think he might be innocent? You have evidence on your side?”

&nbs
p; “No, and he’s been violent in the past, a bar fight. He’s not talking other than to declare his innocence. But I’m worried. I’m not sure he’s guilty, at least guilty in the first degree. I have a feeling inside me that won’t go away.”

  “Can you win cases with feelings, Jimmy? I don’t think so. This sounds like one of those there’s-no-evidence-so-pound-the-table defenses.”

  “Sol, there’s a couple of things that just aren’t kosher. How could the cops have known about Rodriguez so fast? What turned them on to him? They just showed up at the break of dawn and arrested him. Another thing: why is Johnson in such a rush to close the case?”

  “Why is that important? If they get him to plead, the case is over.”

  “Seems to me, if the D.A. feels that they have an open and shut case, they don’t have to bargain. They’d know that they’d win in a heartbeat.”

  “Ah, maybe you’re reading too much into that. Maybe Johnson just wants to take the easy way out.”

  Our discussion continued for quite some time. I told Sol all the facts I had so far, including my upcoming meeting with Roberta Allen, the deputy D.A. He asked a lot of questions. And I answered, yes, no, or mostly, I don’t know. I explained my defense plan. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I wouldn’t stand a chance unless I developed an alternate theory of the crime. Meaning, I had to come up with one or more suspects who could have murdered Gloria Graham, a basis for reasonable doubt.

  “I’m a gambler, Jimmy, and I know a long shot when I hear one,” Sol said. “And besides, maybe your client’s guilty.”

  “I’m his lawyer, guilty or not.” I paused and looked into Sol’s eyes. “I need your help.”

  He shook his head. “Oy vai iz mir,” he moaned, and then exhaled in an exaggerated fashion. “Of course I’ll help. Have I ever turned you down?”

  “I’ve never asked before.”

  “So, that’s my fault?”

  I chuckled and drew up a contract of sorts on the back of a cocktail napkin. I paid him a dollar for his services. With that, he would be covered under the attorney-client privilege and attorney work-product doctrine.

  On his way out, Sol handed the dollar to the busboy.

  C H A P T E R 6

  The air conditioner in my Corvette rattled once, then quit as I inched along on the Santa Ana Freeway. The radio played a Beatles number, “Twist and Shout.” I didn’t twist, but I shouted, and it felt good. In the lane next to me, a Peterbilt truck belched heavy black smoke. All at once, it made a gear-grinding spasm and lurched forward to close a two-foot gap that opened behind a pink Caddie convertible driven by a bleached blonde lady with grotesque makeup.

  The drive to the new Los Angeles County Jail, in downtown L.A., would take over an hour.

  The rain vanished and now threatened to be another hot and smoggy day. The eight A.M. newsbreak predicted a stage-three air quality alert over the entire area except, of course, for the Palos Verdes Peninsula. The smog knew better; Palos Verdes had an ordinance against that sort of thing.

  I circled the jail parking lot, looking for a place to park. No luck. But I found a spot on Vignes Street, two blocks away. I trudged up the small rise and entered the building at the visitors’ sign-in door. I walked through a chain-link gate and into a small hall. The gate behind me closed, and the one in front of me opened with a buzzing click. At the counter, I presented my attorney’s bar card and driver’s license to the deputy in charge.

  “I’m here to confer with my client, Ernesto Rodriguez,” I said as I signed the logbook anchored to the counter’s shelf. “I’m his lawyer.”

  The deputy looked at my credentials, raised his head, and studied me for a moment. “Here,” he said as he tore a page from a pad and handed it to me. “Fill this out.” He pointed to an uncomfortable looking hardwood bench that ran the length of the wall across from the counter. “We’ll call you when we take the prisoner to the conference room. You can talk to him there.”

  I perched on the narrow ledge, crossed my legs, and used my briefcase as a desk to fill in the blanks on the Visitor’s Interview Request form. A few minutes later, I gave it back to the guard. Ten minutes after that, an unarmed deputy sheriff approached me. “Are you O’Brien, the lawyer here to see Rodriguez?”

  I glanced around the area, up and down the bench. Only three other people were visible. To my right, about three feet away, a spaced-out Mexican kid in baggy clothes slouched, staring at a bug on the floor. To my left, farther down, slumped a grubby old white guy with a red carbuncle nose. His head was tilted against the wall, his face skyward, his mouth a gaping hole. He snored, rattling when he inhaled and whistling when he exhaled. A tall black guy, built like a pool cue, stood at the counter.

  He had to be over six feet tall, but couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. A bright green and yellow bandana sheltered his head and large gold rings hung from his ears. His flat chest was covered with a tight fitting black knit tube, which he tucked into a flowered free-flowing skirt. He wore dainty pumps on his feet. His lipstick clashed with the three-day stubble covering his pockmarked face. The guards called out to him, “Hey, Olive Oyl, show us your titties. C’mon pleeeze, Olive Oyl.”

  The deputy sheriff walking toward me and calling my name knew I had to be the lawyer in the room, briefcase and all.

  “Yeah, I’m O’Brien. Here to see my client,” I said to the deputy as I stood.

  “Can’t take your client to the conference room. He’s on psych watch.”

  “Psych watch, why?”

  “I guess the brass thinks he’s a suicide risk.”

  “A suicide risk? You’ve seen my guy, what do you think?”

  “Hey fella, it’s not up to me.”

  “I’ve got to talk to my client.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m meeting the deputy D.A. in a couple of hours. I need some answers.”

  “I’ll take you to his cell. You can talk to him through the bars. But you’ll only have fifteen minutes. And I’ll have to search you first. Rules.”

  After he patted me down, the guard behind the counter buzzed us through the door leading to the bowels of the jail.

  “Stay close to me, don’t wander off.”

  “Yeah, like where would I go?” I said under my breath.

  We arrived at Rodriguez’s cell, a six-by-eight foot concrete cubicle outfitted with a stainless steel toilet, metal bunk, and a sink without a mirror. It occurred to me, he’d spend his life in a place like this. I wondered what it would be like to do time, locked up in prison. Just one look at the other cells on the block, all jammed with prisoners, and I knew the answer. It would be like moving into my bathroom and inviting a few of strangers off the street to come and live with me for, oh say, the rest of my life.

  “Are you going to let me in the cell, so I can sit and take notes?” I asked the guard.

  “Stand on the outside. You’re not going in there.”

  “You have a chair?” I already knew the answer.

  He didn’t respond. “Remember, we’re watching you.”

  “Watching what?” I said. “Are you listening too, are there hidden mikes around?”

  He ignored the remark and wandered away.

  In the cell, Rodriguez slumped on his bunk, stared at the floor with his hands folded on his lap. “Listen up,” I said. “I don’t have time for games-no more silent treatment. You’re going to tell me exactly what happened.” I opened my briefcase and took out the police report and a yellow tablet. “I want to hear more than ‘I didn’t do it’. You’re going to answer my questions, or I walk. Is that understood?” After Johnson’s exhortation, I couldn’t walk, but I didn’t think he knew that.

  He came over to the bars and grabbed them with both hands. He nodded.

  “Okay, tell me what this is all about.”

  He removed his hands from the bars and flexed his gnarled fingers. “I am good with plants. I work hard to send my children in Mexico some money. My son, Panchito, he is the oldest, will start h
igh school next year.” A shadow clouded his face. He must’ve just grasped the thought that he might never see his son again. “I can’t pay you.”

  “We won’t worry about money right now. We’ll work out something later.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a pen. “Tell me everything that happened. Start with Saturday. Tell me in your own words. Tell me about the argument, everything.”

  “Nada, No argument.”

  “The women across the street…” I glanced at the police report. “Mrs. Wilson, she’s a retired school teacher. She’ll make a good witness.” I mumbled the last part more to myself. “She says you two were arguing.”

  “I go to Senorita Graham’s…Gloria’s-she say es okay to call her Gloria-to work once a week, mow the grass, trim the bushes. But she hired me extra to fix up her backyard. Caracoles, it needed too much work.”

  The victim’s name was Gloria Graham, like the ’40s movie star, but without the ‘e’ at the end. From her picture, I noticed she had a striking resemblance to the actress, very pretty, but a little hard around the edges.

  “You were working in the backyard when she got killed?”

  “No way, man. I started early Saturday, eight o’clock, put in a new lawn, planted three palm trees, flowers. All day I work. At six, I was almost done, picking up tools to put in my truck. She come out of the house to see. ‘Es okay, Ernesto,’ she said. But she wanted me to move the trees. She wanted to see them from the kitchen, she said.”

  “That’s when the argument started? You argued about trees?”

  “No argument, man. She wanted me to move the trees-I move the trees. No problem.”

  “Mrs. Wilson, the lady across the street, said that she went to bed at ten, after the Bob Newhart Show, but first she looked out her window and saw your truck in the driveway.” I glanced at my notes. “The back of the pickup truck was hidden by the house, but the front end stuck out and she could see it clearly. She didn’t take down the license number, but she described it: broken headlight, dented fender. She had the color right.”