“Es muy dark at night. How could she see?”
“Good point, Ernesto, but were you still there at that time?”
He dropped his eyes, “No, senor, I was not there.”
“She said-”
“Hey, man, let me finish. Okay?” He paused for a second, trying to gather his words. “I work until dark on the trees. Dig them out, dig new holes to plant them. I come back manana to finish. Miss Gloria came out of the house, had a package or something. I go to wash up, and she invited me into her kitchen for a cold cerveza. I drank one, went to my truck to go home, but the battery, it was no good.”
“You were in her house?” The police report said nothing about his prints being in the house or on a beer bottle. “How long were you in there?”
“Twenty minutes, half hour. I dunno.”
I scribbled on my tablet, trying to juggle the police report, my briefcase, and write at the same time. I figured it would be a miracle if I could read my notes when I got back to the office.
Needing to establish a time line, I glanced back at the report. She died between eleven P.M. and two A.M. “Okay,” I said. “You worked until dark, say around eight, had a beer and stayed until at the latest, nine. Then what?”
“I walk home. Waited. Then I went out, got a battery, come back to Senorita Gloria’s house, started my truck. The cops grab me when I got back home again.”
This story had more holes than Ben the Bum’s T-shirt.
“Hold it, Ernesto. You walked home? Isn’t that a long way from Gloria’s house?”
He shrugged. “Ah, four, five miles, not far.”
“Then later, you left your home and got a battery somewhere? All the stores are closed in the middle of the night. Where did you get the battery?”
“Midnight auto supply.”
“Midnight auto supply-You boosted a battery?”
“Ah chingado! I did not steal, I borrowed it.”
“Explain.”
“I waited ’til two o’clock, everybody sleeping by then. I walked, had pliers, jumper cables. I found a truck just like mine, pero newer, took the battery, carried it to Gloria’s house. Jump started my truck-”
“You jump started your truck?”
“Si.”
“Where’s the battery you stole, if you didn’t put it in your truck?”
“I told you, I borrowed it. I drive back to where I borrowed the battery and put it back in the guy’s truck. Then I drive home. The cops, they were waiting.” His eyes begged me to believe him.
“What about the blood on your truck, the stuff under the seat? The body in the backyard?”
“In the dark, I don’t see no blood, and I don’t look under no seat. I don’t go into the backyard. I did not even get my tools out of the yard. Anyway, I was coming back on Sunday to finish the job, clean up the yard, fill in the holes where I moved the trees, you know. But right then, I had to hurry. I had to get out of there and put back the battery that I borrowed.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You say that about the time of the murder, you were at home. Then later, you walked the streets looking for a battery to steal. That’s your alibi?”
“To borrow.”
“And nobody saw you?”
“When you borrow things in the middle of the night, nobody is supposed to see you.”
I jotted some more notes. I had a lot more questions and wanted to go over his story again, but the deputy approached and tapped my shoulder.
“That’s it. Let’s go. You’re out of time. The interview is over.”
Rodriguez’s knuckles turned white as he twisted his hands on the bars. I studied his tired face. “Hang in there, Ernesto. We’ll beat this thing together.”
“Si, amigo,” he said.
I shoved my notes in my briefcase and snapped it shut.
The guard placed his hand on my shoulder. “This way to the real world, buddy,” he said, leading me away.
Obviously, Rodriguez wasn’t a suicide risk. They’d brought him to that cell for a purpose. I wondered how long it would take for the clandestine tape recording to make its way to Roberta Allen’s desk.
C H A P T E R 7
I drove to the Regency and turned into the curved blacktop driveway that ran under the restaurant’s white Greco-Roman portico, waved at the parking attendants, and pulled into a spot on the east side of the building. Although I rarely frequented the Regency-too expensive for my budget-they knew me from being here on occasion with Sol.
Everyone in Downey knew Sol and went out of their way to treat him like royalty.
Marilee, the hostess, stood at her pulpit located at the entry to the dining room, greeting new arrivals as they strolled in through the double doors. I caught her eye.
“Emilio will take you to the back booth in station five, Mr. O’Brien.” She gave me a wink. “When Miss Allen arrives, we’ll bring her to your table.”
At precisely twelve thirty-five, Roberta Allen arrived with Emilio in tow. She slipped into the seat directly across from me, set her briefcase down and picked up and examined her spoon. Finding an imperfection, she polished it with her napkin. She placed it back on the table, rearranged the silverware into a straight line, and then turned to the waiter.
“I’m pressed for time. Emilio, bring me a chef’s salad, please. Roquefort on the side and iced tea.” She turned to me. “Did you order, Mr. O’Brien?”
The barbecued ribs sounded good, but what the heck. “No, I didn’t, Miss Allen, but I’ll have the same.”
Emilio scribbled on his pad and hurried off.
She reached across to shake my hand. “What do you say we skip the Miss and Mister routine? I’ll call you James and you can call me Bobbi. Deal?”
I shook her hand. “Deal. But, Bobbi, call me Jimmy.”
“Jimmy and Bobbi, sounds like a couple of grade school kids at recess.” She smiled.
“Golly gee willikers, wanna play marbles?” I said.
She laughed. “Hopscotch?”
“As long as we don’t play dodge ball.”
The laughter stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to hold out, not give me everything you have?”
She flicked an invisible bit of something off the table linen and leaned forward. “Like what? I’m not holding back.”
I was referring to my suspicion that my interview with Rodriguez had been recorded and the tape given to her. But I had no real evidence, so I figured I’d let it pass-for now.
“Jimmy, there is something new that just came across my desk this morning.”
“I’m listening.”
“The police can prove Rodriguez was in the house. His fingerprints were found on empty Coors bottles in the kitchen. He drank several beers, wanted to party-she didn’t, and he killed her.” She announced this like it was a fact carved in granite and handed to her on the mountain.
“He worked hard all day, had one beer to relax, then he left,” I said.
She leaned back, rolled her eyes, and gave me that oh brother look women do so well. “If that’s your story, stick to it. It’ll be a short trial.”
“Bobbi, a wise man once said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’” The wise man was Yogi Berra, but I didn’t think she knew who he was. “We’ll see how it plays out.”
“I’m sure we will.” Bobbi opened her briefcase and extracted a file about two inches thick; half a dozen rubber bands held it together. “Here are copies of the reports, photos, everything, all the evidence so far.” She handed me the file.
“This is everything?”
“I told you I’d give you all I had. Now, quit being a jerk.”
I sat the file on the table and started to unravel the rubber bands. “Are the cops looking at anyone other than Rodriguez?”
“When you study the file, you’ll see the police were very thorough, meticulous. All the facts pointed to your guy.”
“Look Bobbi, I can sense you’re a straight arrow, least I hope so, and I
appreciate your cooperation. And I’m sure if you win, you don’t want the decision overturned because of lack of disclosure, but I wouldn’t be able to handle any last minute surprises. A ghost in the machine, so to speak.”
She didn’t respond, so I continued: “I’ll make you a deal. I want to win fair and square.” I paused when the busboy filled our water glasses. “I’ll play it strictly on the level and you continue to play it straight with me. Okay?”
A smile played on her lips. “I’ll go by the rules. But, I’ll make you another deal, as well.”
“Yeah, what?”
“You quit quoting Yogi Berra, and I won’t quote Oliver Wendell Holmes.”
Emilio appeared, pushing a small cabinet on wheels. It had our food on top and shelves underneath containing various culinary regalia. He picked up a fork and with it he crumbled a hunk of cheese in a large bowl, splashed in a shot of red vinegar, some olive oil, and sprinkled a pinch of coarse salt over the mixture.
“We only use sea salt.” He kept talking while vigorously working the bowl. “La Baleine, Sel de Mer, it comes from France,” he said with a phony French accent.
Why France? I asked myself. Is the ocean saltier over there? Guess so, the French must know their salt. Finally, Emilio served the salads. Bobbi daintily forked a piece of lettuce, and nibbled on it. I sipped my iced tea. “How did the cops find my client so fast?” I asked. “Or for that matter, the body? She was killed around midnight, and they busted Rodriguez at about five A.M. It was still dark out.”
She rearranged her bread plate, placing it on her left.
“Anonymous tip. The call came in around four in the morning. Male voice, didn’t give his name. Didn’t want to get involved. Told the police where to find the body and who did it.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “An anonymous tip? Don’t you find that weird? A murder is committed and the solution falls out of the sky, in the middle of the night, before the body had time to cool down.” My hand started to shake. I had to put the tea down; the ice cubes were clinking. “I don’t believe it. That never happens. Only in the movies.”
“No, it happens all the time. Some nearby resident or passerby doesn’t want to be identified. Maybe the person has an outstanding warrant, sees something, and calls it in.”
“Hey, the cops must’ve canvassed the neighborhood. Did they find anybody with an outstanding warrant, a hold, or anything to hide?”
She speared a crouton, and held the fork in front of her face. “I would’ve told you about it if they did. It doesn’t matter anyway; we have the killer in custody, locked up, with an overwhelming amount of evidence stacked against him.”
Marilee came to our booth with a plug-in phone. “Mr. O’Brien, you have a call. Would you like to take it here at your table? The caller said it’s urgent.”
I looked at Bobbi. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
Marilee plugged in the telephone.
“Jimmy, I’ve got news. Big news.” Sol, who else? “I know you’re having lunch with the Ice Princess, doubtless she’s at the booth with you right now. True?”
“Yeah.” Muffled racetrack noises echoed in the background. I heard the announcer call, “And there they go!”
“Did the race just start?” If Sol had a bet riding, he wouldn’t talk until it ended.
“I’m not down on this one. Maiden fillies, meshugas.”
I was eager to hear the news, but I didn’t want Bobbi to know I was talking to Sol. I turned my head and said in a low voice, “What’s up?”
“Jimmy, I’ll be brief. I know you can’t talk in front of Miss Rigid Frigid, and they have a policy about phones here at the track. All outgoing calls are taped. Bookmakers, you know-a plague on society, you know.”
“C’mon, tell me.”
“What?”
“You know. What you called me about.”
“Oh, you mean the news I heard.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Okay, hang on to your seat…” Sol paused for dramatic effect. He always did that. “It seems Senator Goody Two-Shoes Welsh was shtuping the victim, having an affair with her. The info comes from a tipster, whose identity shall remain undisclosed. But I’ll tell you this: the tip came from an extremely reliable source.” Then he whispered, “She was a long-lost friend of Gloria Graham.”
“You just whispered the person’s identity.”
“I wanted you to know.”
“Yeah, but-”
“But, what?”
“You said the phones were tapped. Oh, never mind. But, are you sure she’s on the level?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit. I’ve known Berry Welch a long time. He’s always on the prowl, looking for someone to jump. Maybe it’s an occupational hazard, these power-mad politicians.”
I glanced at Bobbi, sitting across from me. She reached into the butter bowl and removed one of the foil-wrapped pats. With her polished fingernails, she delicately removed the wrapper and put the butter on her bread dish. She pretended not to eavesdrop.
Sol’s news shook me to my core, but I had to play it cool. “Uh huh,” I said to him as he continued to ramble on about Welch’s sexual peccadilloes.
“Jimmy, I gotta go. Angie and Burt just arrived. You know, Burt as in Bacharach?” Sol said. “Their table is next to mine. They’ve got a horse in the Crosby Stakes, and I need some info.” He shouted away from the phone, “Hey Angie, baby-” and the line went dead.
While I was on the phone, a busboy had zipped over and scooped up the dishes, including my untouched salad. I turned back at Bobbi. Her face held a mischievous smile.
“You look a little perplexed,” she said. “Something you ate? Or perhaps it was Silverman’s message?”
“Whose message?” I said.
“Sol Silverman, the investigator. The guy who’s helping you with the case.”
“Silverman? Helping me? Bobbi-”
“C’mon, Jimmy. Everybody knows you retained him. Not a bad move, if I may say so.”
How did she know about Sol so fast? Maybe she had spies too. Maybe everyone had spies. Christ, maybe I was the only one who didn’t have spies.
“You spying on me?”
Bobbi laughed. “You should be so lucky.”
I was a little unnerved that Bobbi knew about Sol and wondered what else she knew about me, or the case. I quickly ran through my mind the jailhouse discussion with Rodriguez. Was there anything we said during the interview that she could use? Not much. Everything we discussed would just help our side.
It would be a violation for the sheriff’s deputies guarding the jail to turn over to the D.A. anything overheard or recorded during a lawyer/client conference. But I knew it happened from time to time. Even if the information gleaned in this manner couldn’t be used in court, it could help the prosecution plan their trial strategy. Sometimes, the deputy D.A.’s had integrity and refused the proffered information, but that was an uncommon occurrence.
Bobbi had beauty and brains, but I wondered about her integrity. Would she play it straight? “Remember, Bobbi, we’re going to be square on this, no tricks. Right?”
“No tricks, he says, and coming out of the gate, he goes running to Silverman.”
“I’m not saying I did, but hypothetically, so what?”
“He knows more tricks than Rex the Wonder Dog.”
“Just a minute ago you said if I hired Sol it’d be a smart move.”
“Jimmy, you’re going to need all the help you can get. But, my friend, I’m still going to pound you into sand.” She flashed a half-second smile. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “But with Rex the Wonder Dog on my side, how can I lose?”
The County picked up the lunch tab. I offered, but Bobbi insisted on paying. She said she had an expense account. We left the restaurant together; she went her way, and I went directly to Angelo’s Fat Burger for a real meal without the pompous bullshit. I asked the fry cook where he got his salt.
“From the bag in the backroom,” he answered.
I figured I’d survive.
C H A P T E R 8
“Gotta go, honey, the boss just came in.” Rita hung up the phone.
“That your boyfriend?” I asked.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Just a guess. Listen, Rita, I’m going to work here a while longer. There’s no need for you to stick around.”
“Thanks, Boss. By the way, a reporter from the L.A. Times called.” She scoured her desk for the message. “Richard Conway. Wants information on the Rodriguez case.” She handed me the slip of paper with the number on it. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the story broke.
“The Los Angeles Times,” I said. “That’s big time.”
“Are we gonna be famous, Jimmy?” Rita winked. “A little publicity for the firm?”
“I don’t know.” The press could be a big help if I could pull it off, but I’d have to be prepared, have snappy one-liners at my fingertips, and know the case thoroughly, backwards and forwards. One slip and the newspapers would crucify me. The trial would be over before it began.
“Shall I get him on the phone for you?”
“Let’s wait on this, if he calls back, tell him I’m not in.”
She placed her hand over her heart. “You want me to lie to the press?”
“Cut it out, Rita. Just tell him I’m not here, okay?”
She looked disappointed. “Seriously, you don’t want to talk to him? The PR could help.”
“Not yet, but I’ll hang on to the number.” I stuffed the pink message in my pocket. “I’m sure we’ll use him before it’s over. I want to be prepared, that’s all.”
I walked into my office and moved to the desk, carrying the Rodriguez file. At this point, I had nothing to offer the media, but I was eager to dig into the file. Perhaps it contained hidden information that would help me point the finger at Welch. Without evidence, speculation about the senator wouldn’t fly. Even Sol’s news couldn’t be used at this point. I’d need more than rumor and innuendo before accusing him in the press of having an affair with Gloria. I’d need hard facts to support my theory that Gloria threatened to go public, and when she did, he killed her.
Guilty or Else jo-1 Page 4
