Standing on shaky legs, he hung on to his gun mount for support and vomited. The aircraft continued to bounce and jerk violently as it moved through the sky. An artillery shell exploded close by. The plane heaved, rolled on its side, then leveled out again and continued on its heading.
Wild thoughts raced through Earl’s mind. We’re gonna die. We’re all dead men up here. We’re on a suicide mission to Hell.
He looked toward the front of the plane, toward the crawl space leading to the radio compartment. He saw fire! At the same time he heard three short rings of the alarm bell. “Prepare to bail out.”
Earl knew he should wait for the one long bell that signified “Abandon the aircraft.” He knew he should stay with the plane and the crew until the last possible moment. He knew he should grab the fire extinguisher and fight the blaze coming from the radio compartment. But he couldn’t move.
He had to jump now.
Not a second to waste.
The plane is gonna blow up.
To hell with the crew. Earl didn’t know these guys, never partied with them at the base, and hardly spoke to the men at all. He was a replacement. This was only the second combat mission that he flew with this gang. He didn’t owe then a goddamn thing.
He didn’t like the officers, or the rest of the enlisted men, hardly knew their names. And he hated the commander—that rich bastard, Raymond Haskell, with his spit-polished manner and by-the-book attitude.
Everyone around the base kissed his ass. Like they thought that maybe Haskell would part with some of his old man’s dough. Like he’d give it up just for the asking. Sure he would…what a laugh. Earl doubted that the son-of-a-bitch would ever help a crewmate out until payday when he ran a little short. Haskell never gave Earl a damn thing.
Haskell had snubbed him when Earl shook his hand at their first meeting. He knew Haskell had grown up in the snooty Bel Air section of Los Angeles. When Earl mentioned that he was from a jerk-water town back east, Haskell just nodded once. He didn’t say anything but Earl could tell from the look in his eyes that Haskell thought he was scum.
Earl knew Haskell would never abort a mission. He wanted to be a hero. Goddamn him! He wanted more citations and he wanted more bullshit write-ups in Stars and Stripes highlighting the brave exploits of the courageous captain. Earl figured Haskell wanted to go home a frigging conqueror and wave his shiny metals under his fat old man’s nose, regardless of how many of his men had to die.
But the men and officers of the B-17 crew adored Haskell.
No, he was not going to die today, not for these assholes.
Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.
“Toe-to-toe my ass,” he muttered under his breath.
He bailed out through the main entrance hatch.
C H A P T E R 20
We left the Beverly Wilshire in the wee hours of the morning. I wanted to take off right after the meeting with Haskell; so did Sol. But Rita was having the time of her life, so I decided to stay out of her way and let her enjoy the evening. I found a café in the hotel and drank coffee until it was finally time to leave.
All the way back to Downey, Rita glowed in dreamy-eyed serenity. She leaned her head on the seatback and hummed old Sinatra tunes. It began to get under my skin.
When I dropped her at the apartment she didn’t say goodnight, just more or less drifted to the front door and slipped in without looking back. He had that old black magic working and he had her under his spell.
I didn’t know why women found Sinatra so exciting. He was just a skinny lounge singer from Hoboken, New Jersey… okay, that wasn’t true. Sinatra was an iconic superstar, a man who had the rare ability of making music that lived in people’s hearts.
Was I jealous? Now, how absurd was that?
Jealous of Frank Sinatra?
Hell yes!
I hung around my apartment, sorting through bills and papers most of Saturday, only venturing out to grab a bite to eat. Sunday morning I thumbed through the Times, glancing at the sports page. Then I looked through the paper again, more carefully, on the off chance of finding news that our “law and order” governor had approved the release of a life-term murderer. No mention of it. I tossed the paper aside. Either his people were keeping Roberts’s release under wraps, as they said they would, or something had scotched the deal. Maybe the commutation of an old harmless guy like Roberts just wasn’t a big enough deal to attract the media’s attention. One thing for sure: I’d know by the end of the day if he was going to get his freedom or not. Now all I had to do was sit and wait. I planned to spend the day honing my skills at solitaire.
But I didn’t have to wait long. After I showered and shaved, preparing to head out for a late breakfast at Dolan’s Donuts, the phone rang.
“Mr. O’Brien,” the voice said. “I’m from the District Attorney’s Office. The governor has just signed your client’s order of commutation.”
I took a deep breath and sat on the chair next to the phone.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“Roberts will be released tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Pacific Standard Time. I believe you have his bus ticket.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, here’s the drill. Tomorrow go to the east yard at the prison. Be there not later than 9:30 a.m. Park in the lot and walk to the guard booth. Tell them who you are. They’ll be expecting you. Go back and wait in your car. Park in view of the main sallyport. You’ll see him when he comes out. Then take him directly to the bus station. Is that clear?”
“Yes. But what about his clothes? He’ll need something to wear.”
“Taken care of. We’re sending dress-outs and a suitcase with an extra set of clothing to the prison today. Your guy is getting special treatment. Now it’s up to you. Don’t mess around. Get him to the bus station on time. Understand?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“And remember, his commutation is provisional. If he’s spotted anywhere in California tomorrow after the bus pulls out of the station, he’ll be arrested and dragged back to his cell. Is that understood?”
“Hey, I already said I understand.”
I stood there for a few seconds holding the phone. The governor had actually signed the order. A wave of relief came over me. There were too many things that could have gone wrong and at times I wondered if Roberts would actually get his freedom.
Later in the day I called Sol and told him about Reagan signing the release documents. As I suspected, he already knew about it. He always knows what is going on in the halls of justice. It’s part of his business. Clients pay him a lot of money to get the inside track on the workings of government. Sol had a loose network of informants everywhere. He called them his spies. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory. So it was no surprise that he knew about Reagan signing the papers before I did.
Monday morning, I took extra care dressing, shined my shoes and even wore a tie. After twenty-nine years in prison, I’d be the first person on the outside that Roberts would see at the moment of his freedom. I felt the occasion deserved some respect.
I took a couple of one hundred dollar bills from my now depleted household stash and folded them into my pocket. The finance company holding my car’s pink slip would have to wait a little longer than usual.
Just before heading out the door, I called my office. “Any new clients, Mabel?”
“Well, yes, but it’s no big deal. Two neighbors squabbling. One of them has a black eye, wants to press charges. Rita’s handling it. Fifty bucks, tops.”
“Well, I guess we aren’t going belly up, after all.”
“Don’t get cute.”
I told Mabel I’d be gone for several hours. But if anyone called for me, I’d be in the office sometime after the lunch.
“Before you hang up there’s something I have to say…”
That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter, Mabel?”
; “It’s Rita…”
“What about Rita?’
“She came in this morning toting a portable stereo player. She said the office needed a little background music—you know, like the big firms.”
“So?”
“Well, damn it. She only has one record, ‘Dream,’ by Frank Sinatra. She’s been playing it continuously all morning. I’m about to go batty!”
“Goodbye, Mabel.”
Notwithstanding the traffic on the 605 Freeway, I arrived at Chino with time to spare. This was the one day I couldn’t be late, so I left my apartment thirty minutes earlier than I normally would have when driving to prison. The guards were friendly and told me Roberts was being processed through right now and would be out shortly.
I waited by my car as instructed, and in about ten minutes Roberts walked through the sallyport carrying a battered suitcase. His clothes hung on him like the hide of a starving cow. Whoever picked out his wardrobe had a taste for the macabre. If he had a black cape he’d look like Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. Christ.
“He saw me and waved. “Howzit goin’, Jimmy?” Like we just bumped into each other at the supermarket.
“You look great, Al.”
“Yeah, terrific. It’s these fancy duds. They must’ve swiped them from some wino on Main Street. Some bum is running around buck naked this morning,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
I stowed his suitcase and we climbed in the car. In the 1968 ’Vette you had to work it around the seat to fit the luggage in place.
“I wish there were time for a getting-out-of-jail party, Al, but we only have an hour and a half to get you to the bus station.”
“This machine looks like it’ll get us there in time. What the hell do they call this contraption, anyway?”
“It’s a Corvette. They started making them in ’54. This one’s six years old.” I cranked the engine to life. “But it’ll get us there in time if I push it.”
On the drive to the Greyhound Terminal in downtown L.A., we talked mostly about the various changes that had occurred since 1945. He didn’t seem excited about jet passenger planes, but he was pissed about the Dodgers moving to L.A. and the Giants to San Francisco. I didn’t want to bring up the high cost of living these days.
We didn’t talk about his time in prison, or the circumstances that put him there. The case was closed. Roberts had his freedom. As curious as I was about a few of the facts that Sol and I had unearthed, why dredge up the past now? Discussing it would just make him more uncomfortable.
I still wondered about Sue. But whenever I’d mentioned her name before he turned stone cold. Why? I glanced to my right. Roberts stared straight ahead, a sad, silent, vacant stare. I wanted him to fill in the blanks. But I didn’t dare bring up her name.
Maybe he got a look at the 1945 movie magazine Mrs. Hathaway had found in the motel room where Vera had been murdered, the one with the photo of Sue Harvey and Francis Q. Jerome dining together at Ciro’s. That would’ve put him over the edge for sure. Hitchhiking all the way from New York to be with his fiancée, then finding out she was engaged to a movie actor. Of course, why didn’t I see it before? That could be the reason he clammed up whenever I brought up the subject. I thought for a moment about what must’ve gone through his mind when he saw that photo. And suddenly I felt like a fool. She had nothing to do with Roberts being arrested and sent to prison. I should have never mentioned it.
I pulled into the parking area of the new Greyhound terminal located on Seventh Street at eleven-ten, fifteen minutes to spare. The bus company recently moved into the new building from the old terminal at Sixth and Main Street, which back in the early fifties Greyhound had shared with the now defunct Pacific Electric Railway, Southern California’s rapid transit system.
A consortium made up of Standard Oil, General Motors, and Firestone Tire bought the electrical rail company in 1953, promising to improve the service. Instead, they tore out the tracks and dumped the Big Red Cars in the ocean halfway to Catalina. Now, miles of freeways crisscrossed the basin and Los Angeles had choked under a blanket of smog ever since.
We climbed out of the ’Vette. Roberts untangled his luggage from behind the seat and we stood looking at each other, not knowing exactly what to say.
Al seemed downhearted, but his attitude was to be expected. I wasn’t able to deliver what he really wanted: exoneration. But that wasn’t all of it. He hadn’t felt the effects of having his freedom yet, and he had serious doubts about the future. Anyone would. After being institutionalized for half his life it would take years, perhaps decades, before he could respond to his surroundings in what one would consider a normal manner.
“How long is the bus ride, Al?” I asked, making small talk.
He studied the ticket that I’d handed him earlier. “Almost three days. No big deal. There were times inside when I sat on the edge of my bunk and just stared at the wall for months on end. Only got up to eat and take a shit…” He looked at the sky. “Aw, screw that.”
We shook hands. “If there’s anything I can do for you, give me a buzz.” I doubted I could help him adjust to a new life, but somehow I knew he’d never call.
“Thanks Jimmy. I mean it. I owe you, man. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
“Yeah, take care, Al.”
He started to walk toward the terminal entrance.
“Hey, wait up,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the small stake I’d promised to give Roberts to help him get a start. “Got something for you. It’s not much—”
He turned back to face me and saw the bills in my outstretched hand.
“Put it away, Jimmy. They gave me the money I earned while working at the prison. Even at ten cents an hour, after twenty-nine years it adds up. I’ll be okay, but thanks again.”
He walked the few short steps into the building and took one giant stride out of a life of misery.
I hoped.
C H A P T E R 21
I got back in the car and pulled onto 7th Street. At the next light I glanced at the gas gauge—running on fumes. I shuddered a little thinking of what it would have meant if I’d run out of gas while driving Roberts to the Greyhound Terminal. I wheeled into a Richfield station, and while the attendants filled the tank and washed the windows, I made my way to a payphone booth.
I figured I might still be able to catch Millie at Judge Balford’s courtroom. If she was available I’d offer to take her out for a bite. At lunch, I’d smile a lot and try to get her to lighten up on me. I’d patiently explain how my brilliant legal strategy had actually paid off as planned. Oh, I may have ruffled a few feathers along the line, but I’d won my client’s freedom. I’d tell her how I righted a twenty-nine-year miscarriage of justice. In the end that’s what counted. I don’t see how she could turn me down after my explanation and not put my name back on the list of lawyers eligible to be assigned court-appointed cases.
Millie picked up on the second ring. “Jimmy, I called your office. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“About lunch?”
“What do you mean, about lunch?”
“I thought we could grab a bite this afternoon. I know it’s a little late, but—”
“No, there’s no time for that. The judge wants to meet you in her chambers. Can you make it here today?”
“I guess so.”
“Hang on a sec.”
She put me on hold. Music played in my ear. Mantovani and his Orchestra, a thousand strings, playing a cover of the Beatles’ “Twist and Shout.” I wondered if the Beatles were pissed. I glanced at the gas station attendants working on my car while waiting for Millie to come back on the line. Maybe this was the break I’d been hoping for. Maybe Judge Balford heard about Roberts being released and wanted to make amends.
Millie came back on. “I checked with Judge Balford. Be here in an hour.”
Judge Balford, an attractive black woman in her late forties, sat at her desk, her head bent ov
er a bowl of steaming soup as she inhaled the aroma swirling around her. It smelled great from where I stood. Minestrone, I thought.
She looked up. “Please be seated. I hope you don’t mind if I take my lunch while we have this discussion. With my schedule there’s no time to leave the building.”
“Not at all,” I said, sitting on the edge of a chair that faced her desk.
“Okay, we’ll get right to the point, and I’ll be frank. I wasn’t pleased with the phone call I received from Deputy Commissioner Schlereth regarding your deportment at the Roberts parole hearing.”
“I can explain, Your Honor. It was all part of my plan.” I glanced at Millie, sitting on the judge’s sofa with her legs crossed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She shook her head. “You see, Judge, there was a miscarriage of—”
“Please let me finish,” Judge Balford said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“As I started to say, in light of recent developments, I’ve decided to give you another chance. But let this be a warning; I’ll not tolerate any more of your shenanigans. You’ve crossed the line one too many times.” The judge paused and sipped a spoonful of soup.
I felt a sense of relief. I knew from the moment I woke up this morning that this was going to be my lucky day. She’s putting me back on the list.
“Thank you, Your Honor, from now on I’m—”
“I’m not finished.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll have Millie assign arraignments to you, but because of Deputy Commissioner Schlereth’s displeasure, I can’t give you any more parole hearings.”
“But, Judge, I won my client’s freedom. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Millie shot me a look that said, Shut your trap, take the reprimand, and maybe you’ll wind up with some clients again.
JO03 - Detour to Murder Page 14
