The Flaming Motel

by Fingers Murphy

  “The one on the driver’s side was mid-forties, bald, kind of scrawny. The other one was a pretty burly Mexican guy. Never took his sunglasses off.”

  Liz and I exchanged looks. I said, “Neither of those is our guy.”

  “They wouldn’t need to be,” Jendrek pointed out. “These were probably just two cops following up on a tip. But I’ll bet I know who phoned in the tip. It’s a much safer approach than doing it himself because he knows you two would be able to identify him as the one who pulled you over.” Jendrek’s cynical grin was settling back onto his face where it belonged, displacing, or at least covering, the other, more troubled emotions. Then he smiled and shook his head. “Jesus, you’ve got to hand it to the guy. It’s damned clever.”

  I said, “So how do we prove it?”

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, like a man contemplating the impossible. “I demanded that they leave the car undisturbed. I want it fingerprinted and examined. But it won’t do any good. I’m sure he wore gloves. Maybe we can find evidence that the car was broken into. He’d have had to disable the alarm somehow, but I’m sure that’s simple if you know what you’re doing.”

  “It is,” I said, reaching back into my past. Back home to the blue collar neighborhood and the friends I once had. “I knew a guy once who made a living stealing car stereos. All you have to do is crawl under the car and short the alarm out. Usually it’s pretty easy to do, especially on an old car like yours, with an after-market alarm.”

  “Then I doubt we’re going to find much. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out there are security cameras in the garage, but I’m sure he thought of that too. Shitty building like ours probably doesn’t have them. But we need to check.”

  “And if we don’t find anything?”

  Jendrek pursed his lips and brooded over the table for a moment, then flashed a sarcastic smile. “We can always try to overturn Illinois v. Gates.”

  Liz and I must have looked mortified. Jendrek smiled at the two of us and said, “We fight it like anything else. You raise enough Fourth Amendment challenges, who knows. Besides, it’s going to be prosecuted by a city attorney who has a hundred other active cases and won’t want to deal with an aggressive defense. There’s lots of easy ones to prosecute, why spend your time on a hard one? We might get lucky in the end and the whole thing will just go away.”

  I couldn’t tell if he really believed that or not, but it sounded reasonable. “But for now,” he added, “I’ve got to get the hell out of here. There’ll be an arraignment in the morning. They’ll give me bail, I’m not a flight risk, I’ve lived in LA my whole life. The only question is how much they’ll want. You need to be ready to argue that and be ready to get a cashier’s check out of the firm account for my bail. If I’m lucky, I can at least be back on the street by noon tomorrow.”

  He seemed satisfied enough by the prospect of just getting out of jail. One small step at a time, I figured. But then that left us with the mess to deal with, looming out there like an approaching storm. I hadn’t even mentioned the day’s other main event, the discovery of the relationship between David Daniels and Tiffany Vargas. That fact seemed insignificant compared to what we were facing now, but it was obviously related. Someone wanted us to stop looking, and they were doing a hell of a job distracting us.

  “And when you’re back on the street,” I said, “then what?”

  Jendrek’s eyes narrowed and hardened. There was a galvanized look to them. “Then we figure this mess out,” he said. “I’ll be damned if I won’t get even with someone for this. I’m going to make someone pay if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “I think we’re getting close to something,” I said, without much basis to say it. Perhaps the reassurance of the words themselves was what I wanted to hear. “Whatever is going on, whoever’s behind it, they sure think we’re on to something, which must mean that we are, without knowing it. We’re not the only people who’ve been threatened.”

  Jendrek looked at me, waiting for the rest. “I met with David Daniels’s girlfriend today. It seems our friend paid her a visit as well. He scared her so bad she’s running for the hills. Another day and I don’t think I’d ever have found her.” I debated telling them more, but what he did to her seemed unnecessary, both in the doing and the retelling.

  “What did she say?” Jendrek asked.

  “She said a cop showed up wanting to ask her some questions. She let him in and he roughed her up and threatened her and asked her what she knew.” I paused, figuring that was enough of a description. “She told him she didn’t know anything. Eventually he left. But between that and Daniels washing up on the beach, she’s going to do her best to disappear. She was so freaked out when I came by she pulled a gun on me.”

  “You didn’t tell me that?” Liz sounded shocked. I knew there was a lot more about what the cop did to that girl that would shock her, but I left it at that.

  “I don’t think she was serious,” I said, although I knew she was completely serious, at least at first. “She was just scared. But she did tell me something that she swore she didn’t tell the cop.” I cleared my throat, shifted in my seat, and went on. “She said two things actually. The first is that for a month or two before he got killed, David Daniels was periodically bringing home wads of cash, like ten grand at a time. Second, and this is the biggie, David Daniels was Tiffany Vargas’s younger brother.”

  “What?” Jendrek almost came out of his seat with surprise. “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “It may not even be true. But the girlfriend sure seemed to think it was.”

  “Jesus, so what’s going on? He was pulling a scam on his sister, is that it? Him and Pete?”

  “I have no idea. The girlfriend said that his sister got Daniels the job with Pete. And then all the sudden, just recently, he started bringing home the cash. She didn’t say anything more, and I got the impression that she didn’t know anything else. She said that Daniels made her swear to never tell anyone that he was Tiffany’s brother. She hadn’t, until now. I guess she figured she was splitting. Daniels was dead. She’d tell me and let me deal with whatever it meant.”

  We all sat around thinking about it for a few minutes, but it was clear that no one was going to come up with any revelations. Finally, Jendrek ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up, and left it tangled around his head, like a sculpture of what was going on inside of him. He said, “Well, I can’t worry too much about that right now. We’ll have to figure that out after I get out of here. It all adds up to something, but we’re not going to figure it out now. Whatever’s going on, I’ve got to get out of here before I worry anymore about it.”

  “What time is the arraignment?”

  “Check at the desk. They’ll know. It’s the same time every morning.” Jendrek shook his head and laughed. “Fucking asshole. Whoever this guy is. This is perfect for him. He doesn’t care if I go to jail or not. What he really wants to do is distract us. Every minute we spend trying to defend this bullshit case is a minute we aren’t spending trying to catch this guy. As far as he’s concerned, the plan has already worked.”

  “Well,” I said, scooting my chair back. “Get some rest, and don’t let the man keep you down.”

  “You kidding?” Jendrek stood and leaned over on the table, his palms flat against it like he was about to come at us right over the top of it. “These fuckers are going to regret having me in here. I’m staying up all night with the guys on the cell block, helping them draft habeas petitions on rolls of toilet paper. By Friday, the docket’s going to be flooded with more writs than these people have ever seen.” Jendrek went to the door and knocked on it, then turned back and said, “A pissed off former ACLU lawyer with too much time on his hands? I’m the last guy they want to have in here.”

  The door opened and he stepped out into the hallway. “See you bright and early,” he called back.

  Thursday

  November 7

  XXIVr />
  The courtroom was standing room only. Dozens of lawyers and teary-eyed family members were crammed at the back, spilling through the doors and out into the hallway. The cattle call started at nine and only a handful of people got there early. Liz and I were sitting in one of the front rows by 8:30, sipping coffee and going over what I’d planned to say.

  We’d gone back to the office after we left Jendrek and stayed up half the night pulling cases, preparing our argument. We had all the different tests for analyzing flight risk, we had cases that supported our position pulled, with extra copies for the Court so we could go over them right there if we had to. I’d practiced a few versions of my argument with Liz critiquing. We finally made it home at three in the morning and had a few hours of fitful sleep.

  I called Wilson on the way downtown. I told him where we were headed and asked him to call me so we could meet. I promised him some new information, good information, hoping that might entice him. At a quarter to nine my cell phone rang. It was Wilson.

  “Okay, I got you the file,” he said, without so much as a hello. “Now what have you got for me?”

  I said, “Quick, Indy, throw me the idol, I’ll throw you the whip.”

  “Huh?”

  I laughed, “It was a joke.”

  He barked, “Have I ever given you any reason to think I like jokes?”

  He had me there. “I’m downtown at the courthouse waiting for an arraignment.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “It’s not for me, but it’s related to this whole mess. It seems your comrade struck again. Meet me down here and we’ll tell you about it. We can exchange info as well.”

  He grunted into the phone and asked, “You’re down at the morning cattle call?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there. Wait for me.” He hung up.

  A few minutes later the court reporter came in and sat at her desk below the bench. Then a bailiff peeked into the courtroom to see what was going on. The courtroom was booming with noise. Lawyers chatting with each other, kids running in and out of the rear doors, family members speculating about what was going to happen. There was commotion in every corner of the room. Then a side door opened and two police officers came in, leading a line of men in orange jumpsuits.

  The clamor in the room subsided as everyone turned to watch them come in. Each man had his wrists cuffed in front of him, but was otherwise unbound. I watched them come in, one at a time. They were all men. I wondered if there was a separate session for women or if that was just the way it worked out that morning. Surely women got arrested in Los Angeles.

  Jendrek came in near the end of the line. He looked around the room, trying to spot us. Liz and I both waved our hands until we caught his eye. He grinned at us but looked tired, haggard, mildly disheveled. He sat with the others on the long bench that ran along the side of the courtroom, essentially where the jury might normally have sat. The room stayed quiet for another minute.

  And then the judge came in. The bailiff made us all rise, called out his normal spiel, and a woman in her late-forties, with shoulder length salt and pepper hair poking out of her black robe entered from the back of the room and stepped up on the bench. She flashed a quick smile, told us all to be seated, and immediately got down to business.

  The judge flipped through some papers she had and asked for the first case to be called. It was a black kid in his early twenties, arrested for a hit and run in the parking lot of a dance club I’d never heard of. The kid came up in front of the court and a police officer undid the handcuffs. Then the kid conferred with a lawyer in a ratty suit who looked like he was meeting his client for the first time right there at the hearing.

  The judge looked impatient as the kid and his lawyer whispered back and forth. When they were done, the judge asked the kid if he understood the charges against him. He said he did. Then she asked how he pled. Not guilty. Then she set his bail at $2500 and called for the next case, an assault charge, which was handled in much the same way. Five or six cases went by like that, until a forty-something Mexican guy was called on a drug possession charge.

  “Emilio Sanchez,” the judge said to the man, “you were arrested for possession of marijuana. Do you understand the charges against you?”

  Sanchez unfolded a piece of paper he held in his hand and studied it. Then he answered that he understood.

  “How do you plead?” the judge asked.

  “Your honor, I do not wish to plead, I wish to motion for the evidence to be thrown out.”

  The judge rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “On what grounds?”

  Sanchez turned the paper over and read it for a few seconds, before answering, “The search of my car violates the Fourth Amendment as an illegal search and seizure.”

  “Nice try, Mr. Sanchez. Your car isn’t a private space in the same way your home is.”

  “But your honor, I live in my car.”

  “You can’t live in your car.”

  “Says who? I can live where I want.”

  “Your car is on the public streets, it isn’t protected like someone’s house is. The Fourth Amendment doesn’t work that way. The police can search your car when they arrest you in connection with your car.”

  “But I wasn’t inside the car.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You were in control of the vehicle, Mr. Sanchez.”

  Sanchez glanced over at Jendrek. Jendrek nodded his head at him, mouthing something to him that I couldn’t make out. Sanchez studied the paper he was holding, and then said, “But your honor, it was an illegal search and seizure. My car is my home. I park it on private property, which I rent.”

  “Excuse me?” The judge seemed surprised by the statement.

  “I rent the parking space where I park the car. Fifty dollars a month. And I live there. I was outside of the car when the police came up to me and asked me if I was drunk. If they were going to arrest me for public drunkenness, that’s one thing, but they had no right to search the car. I want the evidence they found in the car thrown out.”

  Sanchez turned over the piece of paper he was holding and glanced back at Jendrek. I watched Jendrek sitting there, beaming, glowing at the judge and the cop standing behind Sanchez. The cop was just shaking his head in disbelief. The judge flipped through what appeared to be a police report, reading it through for what I imagined was the first time.

  When she was done, she looked at Sanchez and said, “Mr. Sanchez, did someone help you with your argument?”

  Sanchez looked down at his paper again, as though the answer to that very question was written there. Then he said, “With all respect, I can’t see how that matters, your honor.”

  The judge stared at him and then uttered a short laugh. “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Sanchez. I’ve read through this police report and the officers do say that they observed that you were standing next to your car and you appeared drunk. They then asked you whether the car was yours, to which you responded that it was. They then searched the car and arrested you based on what they found as a result of that search. Unfortunately for the police, they forgot to arrest you and charge you for public drunkenness. Mr. Sanchez, I’m giving you one week to come back here with proof that you rent the parking space where the car was parked. If you do that, I’ll dismiss the charges.”

  Someone in the back of the courtroom hooted in support. Sanchez turned and faced the room, smiling, giving us all a thumb’s up. The judge rapped her gavel on the bench and said, “Calm down everyone, this isn’t a free-for-all in here.” Then she asked for the next case.

  “The People versus Mark W. Jendrek,” the bailiff called out.

  Jendrek got up and walked over to the front. I rose and came forward, through the gate and stood next to Jendrek. The officer removed the handcuffs and Jendrek leaned over and whispered to me, “Did you like that? I made cheat sheets for twenty guys last night.”

  I didn’t have time to respond, the judge peered down at us, giving Jendrek a stern look.
So stern, some of it seemed to be spreading to me. I felt like I was being accused of something. “Mr. Jendrek, you’ve been charged with possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute.”

  As soon as she said it, I realized I’d come up front without any cases, without my notes or anything. I felt a sudden panic. Then she asked how he wanted to plead. I jumped in.

  “Your honor, we have numerous issues to contest regarding the evidence and Mr. Jendrek’s Fourth Amendment rights.”

  She looked at me like she was wondering where I’d come from and said, “So is that a not guilty?”

  “Not guilty, your honor,” Jendrek said.

  She glanced back down at the thin file in front of her and then said, “Mr. Jendrek, nearly a pound of heroin was found in your car. This is a very serious charge.” Jendrek didn’t say anything, but the judge looked at the two of us like one of us ought to be talking.

  So I said, “Your honor, we dispute the charges on every level. Mr. Jendrek is a lifelong resident of Los Angeles. He has been a licensed and practicing attorney in this city for more than twenty-five years. He is an adjunct member of the faculty of the UCLA Law School. There is absolutely zero risk of flight from this jurisdiction. Mr. Jendrek fully intends to remain here and prove his innocence.”

  She flashed me a condescending smile, as if to tell me I was being cute and should shut up, and then she said, as if pulling a random figure from the air, “Fifty thousand dollars bail,” and rapped her gavel on the bench, already looking for the next case.

  Jendrek smiled and said, “Well, I guess Vargas’s money is going to get put to some use.”

  We waited around for Detective Wilson for about fifteen minutes, and then I started getting anxious. I wanted to get the bail posted so we could get Jendrek out. I called Wilson but couldn’t get him. Then I described him to Liz and left her at the back of the courtroom to wait for him while I went and got a cashier’s check. It didn’t take long. I was back forty minutes later, but Liz said he never showed.