JO03 - Detour to Murder

by Jeff Sherratt

“No offense, Mr. O’Brien, but I don’t think it happened that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was informed by the District Attorney’s Office this morning that due to the chronic overcrowded conditions in our correctional facilities, they’ve been testing a new program. The authorities have been reviewing the status of long-time lifers. If the inmates meet certain criteria, they will be scheduled for conditional parole, or even commutation. The District Attorney, along with other State agencies, has been working on this for quite some time. Alexander Roberts was the first test case.”

  “Really,” I said. “If they were going to let him go anyway, why’d the DA’s office bother to send Deputy DA Marshall out to Chino? He vigorously protested my client’s parole.”

  “At the time of his hearing the governor hadn’t been advised of the program. The District Attorney couldn’t go forward with the program until he had been so informed. The program is still in the testing phase. Naturally, they wouldn’t want any publicity at this point.”

  “Naturally.”

  Judge Balford tore a hunk of bread from a baguette and started to butter it. “So you see, Mr. O’Brien, you had nothing to do with Mr. Roberts’s release. The decision to grant him a conditional commutation was made prior to your involvement.”

  “I see.”

  “And your ranting about a new trial, new evidence, and all that nonsense upset everyone so much that it almost killed Roberts’s involvement in the program. He would have remained in prison if Joe Rinehart hadn’t personally intervened on his behalf. Your client owes a debt of gratitude to Mr. Rinehart.”

  I remained silent but thought, how the hell was I supposed to know there was a deal in the works? If you ask me, I’d been used, nothing but a patsy. And the judge expected me to sit here and take this crap?

  “I… understand,” I finally said.

  “However, all that said, I’m still going to instruct Millie to place your name back on the attorney list.”

  “Thank you.”

  The judge put her spoon down and looked me in the eye. “I’m going to give you one more chance. But remember, sir, you’re on probation. One misstep and you will be permanently removed. Do not test my forbearance, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “I won’t let you down, Judge.”

  “I certainly hope not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for court.”

  Millie escorted me to the door. As I was about to leave, she whispered, “Call me later this afternoon, Jimmy. I have a case for you.”

  C H A P T E R 22

  Driving back to Downey I sat in traffic and fumed, reflecting on the meeting with Balford. Sure, I was upset at the judge, but I was mostly angry with myself. I’d sat in her chambers and said nothing, not a peep, while she kept giving me verbal body slams. But she really pissed me off when she said that Roberts owed Rinehart a debt of gratitude. Christ Almighty. After I’d busted my ass working on the case, that remark went way over the top. She banged that one totally out of the park, and I just sat there and took it. Owed the DA a debt of gratitude. Damn! But I knew better than to mouth off. I needed the business.

  I walked into the office. Mabel sat at her desk thumbing a stack of bills.

  “Hey, guess what,” I said. “I talked Balford into putting me on the list again. Finally things are going to get back to normal.”

  She remained focused on the papers, sorting through them. “We gotta do better than that.”

  I noticed the open door to Rita’s office. “Where’s Rita? I don’t hear any Sinatra music.”

  Mabel leaned back in her chair. “That’s over, thank God. She’s got her feet back on the ground. Found out she’d rather listen to Grand Funk Railroad… Don’t ask.”

  I winced.

  “But anyway, she’s out working on a case. One of those high muckamucks she met at the Reagan dinner dropped in. Seems he has a nephew who lives here in Downey. The kid’s been using his parents’ home sauna to grow marijuana. She’s arranging bail for him now. And look at this.” She pulled a check from the drawer and waved it in the air. “A five-hundred dollar retainer.”

  “Hey, the dinner paid off after all.”

  “I’ll run to the bank, deposit the check, then pay some of these bills.” Mabel placed her hand on the pile of invoices. “It’ll make a dent.”

  I walked to the coffee pot and poured a cup.

  “I take it you got Roberts to the Greyhound station on time,” she said to my back.

  I took a sip and turned. “Yep, at this moment he’s on the Big Dog heading back to New York.” I glanced at the clock. “Probably out near Barstow by now.”

  There were a couple of messages on my desk, appointments to be scheduled for later in the day and tomorrow. Only small misdemeanors, but I wasn’t complaining. I called both defendants and set the schedule. It felt good to be busy and especially good to have paying clients. I’ll admit it, I’d been worried. Bills came in on a regular basis, and when clients failed to materialize it could get scary.

  I made up my mind to quit fretting about Balford’s unfair reprimand and just do my best without making waves. Coffee in hand, I walked to the window, took a sip, and looked out at the cars zooming along Lakewood Boulevard. It didn’t take a financial guru to know that the income from court-appointed cases is what kept the firm afloat. I couldn’t afford to be tossed off the list again. But I didn’t want to dwell on that.

  I waited until four-thirty, after Balford’s court was adjourned, to call Millie. After pleasantries, I asked about the case that she’d mentioned earlier.

  She responded in her normal squeaky voice. “That’s right. I’m giving you a new client. But hey, didn’t you say something about lunch when you called earlier?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. We’ll have to get together one of these days.”

  “Okay, be here at the court tomorrow at nine. Your new client will be waiting, name’s Buddy Hicks. You can go over the details of his misdemeanor in the hallway before the morning arraignments start at nine-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You’ll be finished with the arraignment in time to take me to lunch.”

  “Sure, why not? Burger King sound good?”

  “I’m thinking the Regency, great steaks. Hey, the wine list isn’t bad either.”

  Ouch. “The Regency?”

  “I’m kidding, Jimmy. I know things are tight. Burger King is fine.”

  “Thanks, Millie. You’re one of a kind. See you tomorrow.”

  The next morning at nine on the dot, I met with my new client. We sat on a bench outside Judge Balford’s courtroom.

  Buddy Hicks was a tall kid about eighteen years old with shaggy blond hair, long in the back. He wore his Hawaiian shirt out over a pair of denims a size too big. He looked as if he were headed to the beach rather than a court of law.

  I quickly glanced at the complaint filed against him. I’d picked up his dossier on the way in from the DA’s office, located down the hall.

  “It says here you dumped, disposed of, or otherwise caused a certain toxic substance to be deposited on a public thoroughfare, endangering the lives and property of others.”

  “A lousy gallon of chlorine. I have a pool service route and it fell out of my truck.”

  “I see—”

  “I don’t think I’d better talk to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I got no money.”

  “So?”

  “How much do you charge per hour?”

  “A buck three eighty.”

  “Huh?”

  “Buddy, don’t you know the county’s picking up the tab? Now let’s get down to business.”

  “Hey, that’s bitchin’. How long do I have to hang around here?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here if it takes a hundred years.” A little lawyer humor.

  “Huh?”

  “Listen, Buddy. The Environment Protection Agency is trying to make an example of
you. They can’t go after the big polluters, the giant chemical companies, too much clout. So they pick on small fry, guys like you. It’s my guess they’ll have photographers show up any minute. Good PR, a guy gets tossed in the slam for polluting the environment. People will cheer. But I have a plan—”

  I heard a voice off to my left. “That’s him,” some guy said.

  I turned and saw two men, a big one wearing a brown sports coat and a pipsqueak in a three-piece suit, walking toward us. Pipsqueak was pointing at me.

  The big guy flashed a badge. “I’m Sergeant Clay Farrell, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “What is this? I’m in conference with my client.” I thought I’d paid the traffic ticket I got three months ago. But then I remembered: it was still in the kitchen drawer. “If there’s a problem, Sergeant, it’ll have to wait. We’re due in court at nine-thirty.”

  It took a moment to register that they wouldn’t send a detective sergeant to serve notice on an unpaid traffic violation. By the time I realized this, the cop had already jumped in.

  “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got no client and you’re not going to court today.” The cop indicated the pipsqueak. “Mr. Anthony from the Public Defender’s office is going to represent the defendant. Balford’s pulling you off the detail.”

  “What the hell…?”

  The cop turned to Buddy. “Kid, go with the PD. He’ll take care of you. Mr. O’Brien is, shall we say, indisposed.”

  “For chrissakes, what’s going on?” I said, watching my client walk away with the pipsqueak.

  “C’mon, let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”

  “Look, Sergeant, I’m not going anywhere, and I asked you before, what… is… this… all… about?” I said it slowly so he could understand.

  “It’s about a homicide, Mr. O’Brien. Now, I’d like you to take a ride with me to Parker Center.”

  My heart stopped. “What? Who got killed?”

  “An old lady by the name of Hathaway. Owned a motel out by Griffith Park called Dink’s Hollywood Oasis.”

  Jesus H. Christ, Mrs. Hathaway—dead? My mind spun. But why would the cops want to question me? They must know that I met with her, checking on Vera. They’d interview anyone who had recent contact with the deceased. But why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady? A robbery, maybe? Or was it something else?

  I bit my tongue, played it cool. I didn’t want to overreact and give the wrong impression that I was somehow involved. “What was it? A robbery, mugging, something like that?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Then why was she killed?”

  “The lieutenant in charge will clue you in. Let’s go.”

  “Did they catch the killer?”

  The cop said nothing. He just looked at me.

  “Wait a minute. Am I a suspect?”

  “No, nothing like that. The lieutenant just wants to ask you a few routine questions.”

  “Why me, then? What do I have to do with this?”

  “Hathaway was gunned down by one of your clients. A guy named Al Roberts.”

  Oh, my God! Why would they think he killed her? If he’s a suspect, I realized they must have some kind of evidence to back up their suspicion. But, if they thought Roberts did it, then—at best—they’d figure I didn’t take him straight to the bus station as agreed. At worst, they’d think I was involved.

  “That’s impossible,” I said. “He’s on a bus heading to New York. I took him to the Greyhound terminal myself yesterday morning.”

  “We checked. Called the Greyhound rest-stop station in Tucumcari.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Roberts never got on the bus.”

  C H A P T E R 23

  Sergeant Clay Farrell drove me to Parker Center in his police-issued Ford Crown Victoria. The headquarters of the LAPD was a massive stone and glass structure located on Los Angeles St., a couple blocks south of City Hall. We parked in the subterranean garage, rode the elevator to the third floor, and entered RHD—the Robbery-Homicide Division. The building—seen on television in a zillion episodes of Dragnet —was originally called the Police Administration Building. But soon after the former Chief of Police William H. Parker died of a heart attack in 1966, the city council renamed the headquarters in his honor.

  The RHD brass hats must’ve figured Mrs. Hathaway’s murder was a high-profile case, or maybe a politically sensitive one. Otherwise, homicide detectives from the Hollywood Division would head up the investigation, which would be the normal routine for murders committed in the Los Feliz area. Only top-flight detectives with a high level of expertise worked out of the prestigious third floor at Parker Center. Over the years the big dicks of RHD investigated some of the most notorious Los Angeles homicides: the Black Dahlia, the Robert Kennedy assassination, and most recently the Manson Family murders. I couldn’t understand why an ordinary, everyday murder of an anonymous old lady rated such firepower.

  Sergeant Farrell, his partner Officer Tim Ryan, a lieutenant named Donald Brodie and I sat in one of the unadorned RHD interrogation rooms. Brodie lit up a Marlboro and slid the distinctive red and white pack across the table. “Go ahead and smoke, O’Brien. We might be here a while.”

  “Thanks, but I quit after I left the job.”

  “Yeah, we know. You used to be a cop. Looked up your record: unimpressive.”

  “Are we here to talk about me? If so, that’s fine, because I can’t discuss anything about Roberts—client privilege. You know that, Lieutenant.”

  “Doesn’t hold up, Counselor. Privilege only extends to the crimes he committed before he retained you, not for crimes he may have committed after that. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right as far as that goes. Just don’t ask about conversations I may have had with him regarding our past relationship.”

  “If he talked about any crime he planned to commit in the future, you’re required to report what he said to the authorities. I’m right about that, too. Aren’t I?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything about any future crimes, because he wasn’t planning to commit any. He planned to go to New York and start a new life.”

  “Just for the record, you’re not representing Alexander Roberts in this matter, are you?”

  “If he needs me, I’ll be there. C’mon, Lieutenant, let’s get on with this. I’ve got other stuff to take care of today.”

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s talk about the old lady. Are you okay with that?”

  “For chrissakes, get to the point.”

  “All right, Mr. O’Brien. I just want it understood that I’m not asking you to violate any attorney/client privilege you may have had with the suspect. And I want it on the record that I have the right to question you regarding this crime as it relates to Alexander Roberts.”

  “Is this room bugged?”

  “It’s routine to tape theses interviews, you know that. And it’s legal under California Penal Code, title—”

  “I know the law, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay, we’ll get to Roberts later, but first I want to talk about Mrs. Hathaway. She died sometime late last night from a gunshot to the head.” He paused for a couple of beats and leaned into me. “And we have reason to believe that you knew, or had some sort of relationship with the deceased. We know this because your business card was found at the scene.”

  “Yeah, I met her once. Went to see her at the motel about the Roberts case. I wanted to ask her a few questions about the girl he had supposedly killed in one of her bungalows back in ’45. Also, I figured it might be helpful to see the room where the murder took place, might shed some light.”

  “Did it?”

  “Did it what?”

  “Shed some light.”

  “Not really.

  “Ironic, isn’t it? Almost thirty years later Roberts returns and drops the hammer on the woman who’d rented him the room.” The lieutenant shook his head. “He held that anger in his gut all those years. First da
y out, he pops her.”

  “He had no motive.”

  “Could’ve been revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  We continued to play interrogatory dodgeball, and I was it. The cops hovered over me, lobbing questions about Hathaway and Roberts, which for the most part I answered, but some I adroitly deflected if I felt my answer would touch on the murder back in ’45. I even managed to toss a few questions their way.

  “Lt. Brodie, listen to me. Roberts had been in prison for twenty-nine years, had limited contact with the outside, and when he was released I took him directly to the terminal. Okay, maybe he missed the bus, maybe he didn’t, but you’re trying to tell me that within twelve hours from the time he walked through those prison gates Roberts was somehow able to make a connection with someone who gave him a gun and then get a ride to the other side of town and shoot Mrs. Hathaway. All this for no apparent reason? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “We don’t see it that way. He’s probably been planning this hit for years, had it all laid out before he was released. Somebody hid a gun where he could find it, and—”

  “You gotta be kidding me. He didn’t know he was getting out. Roberts figured he’d be locked up forever. He wasn’t planning a murder, for crying out loud!”

  “The physical evidence speaks for itself.”

  “What evidence?”

  He pulled a clear plastic bag from his jacket pocket. The bag was sealed and marked, EVIDENCE. It also had a case number and the date written on it. Visible inside the bag was a small paper tag, like the price tag you’d find on a new article of clothing. Though the plastic I could see Roberts’s prison number printed on the tag in black ink—CDC # V-34560.

  “The tag came from Roberts’s dress-out clothes,” the lieutenant said. “We found it at the scene. He probably didn’t even know they tag the clothes before they ship them to the prison. Record keeping.” He nodded and a hint of a smile appeared on his face. “I’ll bet when we run the prints found at the motel, Roberts’s will be among them.”

  “Look, Lieutenant, Roberts didn’t do this. He couldn’t have. I know the guy. He’s no killer. I don’t know how his clothing tag ended up at the scene, but there has to be an explanation, and Greyhound screwed up when they said he never boarded the bus. Big companies make mistakes all the time. Hell, I’ll bet he’s halfway to New York by now.”