It wasn’t just actors and celebrities who retained Giesler. Over the years he also handled the legal affairs for a number of producers, moguls, and politicians.
In 1939, he even won an acquittal for Bugsy Siegel, the rakish racketeer. Siegel had been arrested and charged with murder after carrying out a hit contract on fellow gangster, Big Greenie Greenberg.
There was one thing Giesler couldn’t fix for Bugsy, though. The murder charge had cost Siegel his membership in the Hillcrest Country Club. Can’t have mad-dog killers with clubs in their hands running amuck on their pristine fairways. Unsavory.
But there was one Giesler case in particular that pounded in the recesses of my mind. Maybe it piqued my interest because it had to do the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office.
In the thirties and early forties, corruption reigned unabated within the hierarchy of the municipal government of Los Angeles. Even the county justice system was tainted. Buron Fitts, the DA at the time, had been indicted for perjury and bribery, accused of taking a bribe to squash a notorious rape charge filed against a millionaire businessman.
At Fitts’ much ballyhooed trial, Jerry Giesler had used the improbable defense of temporary insanity. The DA was acquitted and stayed in office until 1940, when he lost his bid for re-election to Frank Byron, running on a reform platform.
I wondered if Byron—the man who’d persuaded Roberts to plead guilty in 1945 by concealing evidence from him—had been troubled by the same affliction that had plagued his immediate predecessor and somewhere along the line had picked up a dose of temporary insanity, as well. Maybe Byron figured reform was an idea too heavy to tote around the Criminal Courts Building all day.
I also wondered, when Mrs. Hathaway started rattling cages, if it was Frank Byron who shouted, “Get me Giesler.”
But now almost thirty years later, the current District Attorney, Joe Rinehart, was offering to cut Roberts loose on the condition of his silence. I wondered about that, too.
C H A P T E R 16
The continuous stream of news and rumor filtering through the prison grapevine system had alerted the authorities and correctional officers that something unusual was going down—a gubernatorial pardon. The guards treated me with more respect now that I seemingly had the backing of Ronald Reagan in my hip pocket. This time the meeting with my client took place in a carpeted conference room located in the administration building, which was used primarily for visits from CDC staff officials. Al Roberts was not chained or cuffed, but a correctional officer remained in the room with us. When needed, he’d witness the signing of the affidavits. In the meantime, he stood quietly in the far corner.
Roberts and I sat across from each other at a large conference table in the center of the room. I explained the details of the District Attorney’s offer. As I walked him though the litany of the deal—the unequivocal admission of guilt and remorse, the demand of public silence on his part and the caveat that he leave the state immediately upon release—he exhibited no reaction whatsoever. He just stared at his hands, folded tightly on the table.
After I finished highlighting the details, I paused for a moment and waited for him to respond. When he just sat there, I said, “You don’t seem too excited about the news of your release, Al. Figured you’d be bouncing off the walls.”
“Who’s going to pay me?”
“Pay you? Pay you for what?”
“The twenty-nine goddamn years I spent in these goddamn prisons. They knew I was innocent when they locked me up.”
“Al, you pleaded guilty back then. No one’s going to pay you. Jesus Christ Almighty, they’re willing to let you walk. Don’t be a fool. Take the offer!”
He jumped to his feet. “I’m innocent, goddamn it! And I want you to sue the bastards. I want them to pay. And I want to see it in all the papers. I want everyone to know that they fucked up. That I’m no murderer!”
“Sit down, Roberts. And let me finish.”
He sat and glared at me.
“Look, part of the deal is for you to keep your mouth shut. They want you to get out of Dodge, pronto.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe they did screw up back then. But now they want to bury this thing. No publicity. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Didn’t you tell me before, right after the parole hearing that you were going to get my conviction overturned?”
“I said I was going to try to get you a new trial. But, damn it, that was a tremendous long shot.”
“Were you stroking me?”
“C’mon, man, I’m here to help you. I’m not getting rich with this case and now you’re on my ass. I don’t know if I like your attitude, my friend.”
He looked at his hands again, kneading his interlaced fingers. “I’m sorry. I know how you’re doing everything you can to get me outta here, and for no dough.” He glanced up, his face twisted in agony. “Chrissakes, Jimmy, I’ve been in this hell-hole since 1945. Locked up for something I didn’t do. That’s bad, but a lot of innocent guys get sent up. The system makes mistakes. That’s the breaks. But goddamn it, I was railroaded. You said so yourself. You told me that rat-bastard Byron knew all along that I didn’t kill Haskell. I see that son-of-a-bitch’s smirking face every night when I go to sleep.”
“You’re in here because of Vera. You admitted committing the murder—”
“Because Byron lied to me! Said I’d get the DP in Arizona. I swear I didn’t kill her.”
We both stopped talking and sat there staring at each other. I felt his pain. I knew now for sure that he didn’t kill Vera. And with all that had happened lately, I knew there was a cover-up in progress, and I knew that it had been going on for nearly thirty years.
Someone out there knew Al Roberts was innocent, and therefore knew who had murdered Vera—and why she’d been killed. But my job wasn’t solving crimes. My job was to do the best I could for the poor guy who sat across from me. My job was to get him out of prison. No one could give him back his twenty-nine years.
“Okay, Al, what do you want me to do?” I asked.
He didn’t more a muscle, but his eyes twitched at the edges.
I pressed: “You want me to tell them no dice? Tell them to stick it, tell them you’d rather rot in here for the rest of your life?”
“Back in ’45, they picked me up just outside of Reno. I was walking at the edge of the road with thirty-five cents in my pocket. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.” He bit his lip, his eyes shifting around the room. “What’ll I do now on the outside, a sixty-year-old convicted murderer?”
“I dunno. Anything would be better than staying here. You play the piano. Maybe you could go back to New York, get a job at a cocktail lounge. They have sing-along piano bars now. It’s all the rage. I can chip in a couple hundred to help get you started,” I said, not knowing exactly where I’d get the money. “But it’s up to you now. What’ll I tell the DA about the offer?”
“I want out.”
“You’ll go along with the deal?”
“Yeah.”
I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “For what it’s worth, Al, I know you’re innocent.”
“Thanks, pal. That helps. It really does. There’s no one else.”
Nodding to the guard standing in the corner, I slid the papers the DA’s office had prepared across the table. The officer handed Roberts a pen. He signed in the appropriate place and the guard signed as a witness.
I tucked the papers in my jacket pocket. “They’re buying you a one-way bus ticket. Got to tell them the destination. Where do you want to go?”
“The only place I belong.”
“Where’s that?”
“Loserville.”
“I’ll tell them New York City.”
“Why there?”
“You were born in New York. Easier to find a job in a town where you grew up.”
“I don’t suppose the Break O’ Dawn Club is still in business,” Roberts said.
>
I had Mabel check on the outside chance they might be willing to hire him back. From old phone books at the library, she’d discovered that the nightclub had been on the Upper West Side, close to 73rd and Riverside Drive. She checked the cross directory at the library and found the phone number of the location. The club closed for a while years ago when the owner died. New owners opened it again, changed the name, and decided to keep up with the times.
“No, afraid not, Al. The place is now a disco joint.”
“What’s that?”
“They play records, have go-go dancers jumping around.”
“Lot of changes on the outside, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Go-go dancers, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I better stay here.”
“I’ll pick you up outside the gates next Monday morning. I’ll have the bus ticket.”
I thought about the problems the case has caused me: the mystery woman and the beating I took from the thugs in the Buick, the trouble I got into because I mouthed off at the hearing, not to mention how much I’d imposed on Sol. Now it was over.
Of course, I’d still wonder who had actually killed Vera and why someone, after all these years went to all the trouble to cover it up. Maybe someday the truth will come out. But I did my job; my client will finally be free. Oh, I’d think about Roberts, and reflect on the injustice he suffered, for a long time. It’d be like an itch I couldn’t scratch, but I’m not a crusader, a man set out to make the world free of crime and corruption. I’m just a struggling lawyer trying to make a living. Leave the hero stuff to the martyrs and saints. But aren’t they all dead?
We both remained quiet for a moment. Roberts glanced at the clock on the wall behind him and started to climb out of his chair. Even though he’d soon be a free man, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He’d be alone in the world, out in the cold without money, prospects, or anyone to share his troubles. It would be daunting.
Twenty-nine years ago he thumbed rides all the way from New York to Hollywood just to be with his fiancée, Sue Harvey. He never made it. When Haskell stopped to pick him up on that deserted highway somewhere in Arizona, fate had intervened, his life took a wrong turn and rushed head first toward the finish line, a dead end.
But maybe Sue was still alive. Maybe Francis Q. Jerome didn’t have his facts straight. Maybe Barr hadn’t murdered her as Jerome had said. Barr went to prison for shooting his wife, not Sue.
I figured I could spend a little more time with the case if it would help Roberts. It wouldn’t be hard to check. If Sue were dead there’d be a record in the county files. But if she were still alive maybe he could complete the trip he’d started so many years ago.
We stood and faced each other, ready to shake hands and say goodbye. “It’ll be tough being alone out there,” I said.
“I’ll survive.”
“You want me to try to locate Sue Harvey?” I asked. “She might still be around. I could let you know.”
The color drained from his face. He turned away and motioned to the guard. With his shoulders rounded, he inched slowly toward the exit.
While the guard unlocked the door, Roberts turned back. “Jimmy, I asked you to leave her out of it. Please do as I ask.” He left the room.
C H A P T E R 17
For the next two days, Rita and I worked at the office, cleaning up the few cases remaining. Mayor DiLoreto dropped all charges against Crazy Charlie, when we convinced Charlie to get rid of the ratty house trailer on his lawn and move back in with his wife, Tillie.
“It’d be better than going to jail,” Rita had said.
“You don’t know my wife,” he answered.
But when Tillie came to the office with a fresh baked apple pie, he relented. We all shared a piece. I figured—after taking one bite—if Charlie wasn’t going to move back in with her, maybe I would.
Kelley cleaned up his bounced checks when his father-in-law ponied up the money. The bank backed off, and the judge gave Kelley a stern finger wagging. Geoff, Rita’s hopeless drunk, was still on Antabuse. So it’d be a while before he’d need our services again.
Wednesday, along about mid-morning, I sat with my feet on the desk, twiddling my thumbs, listening to the phone not ring. Rita busied herself reorganizing the files. Mabel tailed after her putting things back the way they were.
Finally, at 11:30, Mabel called for a meeting with all three of us present to be held promptly in my office.
“Jimmy, Rita,” she stated. “With no money coming in and no clients beating down the door, we’re not going to make it. I suggest you two get out there and schmooze with the locals. Join the Rotary or something, goddamn it.”
“Aw, Mabel, we’re criminal lawyers. Our type of clients wouldn’t be caught dead at a Rotary or an Elks meeting. The only crooks that join those clubs are bankers. And they steal enough money to hire the big white-shoe law firms.”
“No, Jimmy, Mabel’s right,” Rita said. “We should get out and about more. Get our name out there. How long has it been since you attended a bar association luncheon?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s been about—”
“How about, never?” Mabel interrupted.
“C’mon, Jimmy, grab your coat. The Southeast District Bar Association luncheon is being held today at the Regency. Our dues are current. So let’s go.”
“Aw, Rita.”
“Get your butt out of the chair and go with Rita to the luncheon, or I quit!” Mabel had a subtle but convincing manner about her.
We didn’t know until we arrived at the Regency Restaurant on Firestone Blvd. that the scheduled speaker at the luncheon that day was Vincent Bugliosi.
Rita and I took seats at a table located in the back of the banquet room. A couple of lawyers we knew from around town nodded politely when they saw us sitting there. After the meal, a chicken breast with some kind of stuffing, Bugliosi got up to speak.
Ex-L.A. County Deputy DA Bugliosi had made headlines back in 1970 when he prosecuted the heinous serial killer, Charles Manson.
Along with his ragtag gang of young misfits known as the Family, Manson had murdered a number of people in the L.A. area in the summer of 1969. The most notable victim of their bloody rampage had been Sharon Tate, the beautiful actress and wife of director, Roman Polanski. She had been slaughtered along with four of her friends while partying at her home in the hills above Bel Air. She was eight months pregnant when she died. Polanski had been in Europe on location at the time of the murders.
In 1972, Bugliosi had run against the incumbent, Joe Rinehart, for the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney. He’d lost after a long and bitter campaign fight. Bugliosi’s non-fiction book about the Manson Family, Helter Skelter, had just been released and he was making the rounds.
I’d followed the Manson story in the papers at the time of the murders and wasn’t too keen on hearing the gory details of the tragic events again, especially after a heavy meal, but Rita seemed fascinated. I will admit, though, Bugliosi gave a hell of a talk.
Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed that Bugliosi had focused on Rita and me several times during his presentation. But, then again, maybe he just focused on Rita. And why not? She was attractive and was the only woman in the room.
Following the lecture Bugliosi took questions from the audience. Most of them, surprisingly, weren’t centered on the murders. They had to do with his years working high up in the DA’s office. The lawyers in the audience looking for an edge, perhaps. He apologized for not having books available at the event. Helter Skelter had sold out at the local bookstore, but more were on the way, he said.
“Horrible, huh, Jimmy?” Rita said. “I mean the murders.”
“It will be a long time before the people of Los Angeles forget what happened in the summer of 1969.”
While Rita sipped the last of her white wine and I nibbled the remnants of my dessert, Bugliosi shouldered his way through the crowd, h
eading toward the exit, pausing every so often to shake hands with an admirer. I looked up, surprised, when he stopped at our table on his way to the exit door behind us, and started to climb out of my chair.
“Please stay seated,” he said. Then, acknowledging Rita, he held out his hand. “Hi, young lady. I’m Vince Bugliosi.”
“I know,” Rita said and gave him one of her amazing smiles.
Bugliosi lingered on Rita for a moment before turning back to me. “You’re Jimmy O’Brien, aren’t you?”
I stood. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I understand you work with Sol Silverman.”
“That’s right. Why? What’s this about?”
He glanced left and right. “I only have a moment. I’m aware of your run-in with Byron, and now Joe Rinehart’s on your case. I ran against him in the last election, and believe me, I know his dark side. Watch out. He can be trouble.”
I didn’t think she was serious when Deputy DA, Pamela Young told Rita that Rinehart was keeping an eye on me. And now Bugliosi was saying Rinehart is “on my case,” whatever that meant.
“I doubt that Joe Rinehart really gives a damn about me,” I told him. Due to my agreement to keep quiet about Reagan signing the commutation papers in a few days, I couldn’t explain to him that the Roberts case was, for practical purposes, over.
He glanced around quickly again; someone was walking toward our table. “I have information you need. Stuff I picked up from my days working in the office.”
He dropped his business card on the table. “Have Sol call me. I can trust him. I may be hard to reach, but tell him to keep trying. It’s important.”
A judge I recognized, but didn’t know personally, came up behind Bugliosi and slapped him on the back. Bugliosi spun around.
“Hey, Vince. C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink,” the judge said while looking at Rita and me curiously.
Bugliosi chuckled halfheartedly. “This little lady stopped me on the way out, wanted a signed copy of my book. How could I refuse her?” He turned back to Rita. “Remember, my dear, just call my office. A book will be mailed right away. You have my card.”
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