Conspiracy of Innocence

by Gene Grossman

  Per the Chief’s suggestion, we go out the back door and walk about two blocks to the Italian Café in the center of town. Sure enough, there’s an outdoor table reserved for us under the canopy, and we sit down to start our lunch with some hot Italian onion buns that get immediately dipped into a small container of garlic and oil.

  This lunch is much more enjoyable than I thought it would be. The Chief is in his thirtieth year of service and will be retiring next year. He’s got plenty of stories to tell, most of them about his experiences on the job in some much larger cities. Other than a car backfiring a few blocks away, it’s a quiet, pleasant afternoon lunch. The quality of this place is confirmed when I’m brought the special chopped salad I designed and ordered, which includes the usual greens and tomato plus extra chopped onions, garbanzo beans, anchovies, chopped garlic and mushrooms. As a courtesy to anyone within a ten-foot radius, I keep an extra tin of breath mints with me whenever I order my special salad. The Chief orders one of the house specialties, an angel-hair pasta dish covered with large pieces of salmon.

  Wendy, the Deputy D.A. was transferred out here a few years ago from Pasadena. She’s married to a court clerk and is rather dull as far as stories about experiences go, but she’s friendly. When the check comes, I pick it up and walk over to the cashier’s counter. While paying the bill, the cashier looks past me.

  “Hey, Chief. Did you hear the gunshots?”

  The Chief looks at her with a puzzled expression. “Shots? What shots?”

  “Oh, about twenty minutes ago, you know, when I brought your lasagna over, there were some gunshots over on the other end of town.”

  She must be talking about what we thought was a car backfiring. I sign the credit card receipt and we all start walking back to the station. The Chief is using his walky-talky, bawling out someone on the other end for not notifying him about the incident. I hear the poor employee on the other end apologizing. “Gee, Chief, you’ve told me a million times that you didn’t want to be disturbed while you were at lunch.”

  The Chief is anxious to get back to his office, so we’re walking at a pretty brisk pace when a California Highway Patrol squad car pulls up and cuts us off just as we’re about to cross the street. We stop dead in our tracks, not knowing what’s going on as the two CHP officers jump out of the car with their guns drawn. One of the State troopers shouts out some orders. “Step aside, Chief. You too, lady.”

  The Chief and Wendy quickly follow their instructions. There were only three of us walking together, so with those two ordered to step aside, that leaves only me. I haven’t felt like this since kindergarten, when I lost out in a game of musical chairs. Both cops are now pointing their guns directly at me.

  “Peter Sharp, you’re under arrest for the murder of Michael Luskin. Please turn around and lock your hands behind your neck.” At least they said please.

  2

  In another two minutes I’m handcuffed and seated in the back seat of their CHP car. The Chief sits down next to me as we ride back to the Police Station. On the way, we pass by the loading zone where I parked my car. The brightly painted green curb is there, but my car isn’t. “Chief, sorry for the inconvenience, but as soon as they take these cuffs off of me, I’d like to fill out a stolen car report.”

  One of the CHP officers turns around from the front seat. “Let me guess… it’s a yellow Hummer.”

  By the time we drive that remaining block to the police station, the press has arrived. I’ll never know how they manage to appear so magically, like buzzards around a fresh kill. I know that they have radio scanners in their cars to listen in on police communications, but that still doesn’t explain how they can slice through traffic like it’s warm butter.

  I’m being held firmly by both of my arms and being led into the front door of the police station. This is what’s called the ‘perp walk.’ There are only about three reporters with cameramen there, all shouting questions at the Chief, who ignores them as we charge into the station.

  Once inside, the Chief looks at both CHP officers. “Okay, boys, what’ve we got here?”

  “Chief, while you were at lunch, there was a drive-by shooting on the other side of town, close to the freeway ramp. We were passing by, heard the shots, and saw a yellow Hummer speeding down the street. By the time we got off the freeway and made it through traffic in the direction of where the Hummer went, we were too late. Whoever was driving dumped it. They must have made a switch back to their stand-by vehicle and disappeared.

  “We found about six shell casings inside the Hummer. It’s a good thing we were close, because it didn’t give them time to police their brass. At that point we didn’t know if they were still in town, or had made it onto the freeway.

  “Our onboard DMV computer showed that the Hummer is registered to Mister Sharp here, so we had the station send his driver’s license picture to our portable computer screen. We were on our way to your office when we saw him walking down the street. We had no way of knowing that you were all together, so we had to follow proper procedure.”

  The Chief explains to them that we were all having lunch together when the shooting took place. Everyone there seems to now understand that the killers came into town, borrowed my Hummer, and did their job. The Chief theorizes that the reason they decided to use a yellow Hummer is because they were trying to send prospective business associates a message that probably says ‘we’re here, we’re killing someone for a reason, and we’re not afraid to be seen, so you’d better not mess with us.’ Notwithstanding the fact that the victim was an upstanding citizen, we all can’t help but feel that this was a drugrelated hit. The Chief also tells us all how much Michael Luskin will be missed, and that for a guy who was orphaned as a child and raised in foster homes, he made a success out of his life and was well respected by the entire community.

  The luncheon goes well. Myra is the most popular one there, being the first female elected to the office of Los Angeles District Attorney. The only small hitch happens just after lunch as the speaker is concluding his droning on. “A note was just handed to me about the arrest of one of our own for a drive-by shooting in La Verne, California a little while ago. We certainly hope that he’s vindicated for this murder.”

  At the sound of the word ‘La Verne,’ Myra’s head goes down into her hands. She knows in her heart that if a murder took place in a small town being visited for the first time by her screw-up exhusband, he’s involved somehow. Several of Myra’s employees are sitting at her table, and they remember hearing her mention that Peter wouldn’t be joining them because he had some pressing business to take care of in La Verne.

  Myra uses her cell phone to call Wendy’s office in La Verne and hears the whole story, including the fact that Peter wasn’t involved in the shooting, but it was his car that was stolen and used by the killers.

  As she steps out into the street outside the restaurant, Myra is ambushed by a group of reporters who obviously haven’t yet heard that Peter was cleared of any wrongdoing out there in La Verne. They shout questions at her, and the main thrust of their inquiries is whether or not she would recuse herself from the prosecution of her ex-husband, to avoid giving any impression of giving him special treatment. She only has one thing to say to them.

  “If anyone should worry about special treatment, it should be the killer who guns down someone in cold blood on the street in broad daylight, because in every case we prosecute like that, I guarantee that there will be something special added, but it won’t be treatment, it will be circumstances. And as you should all know, special circumstances in a murder case can justify our asking for the death penalty.

  “And as for the prosecution of my exhusband, attorney Peter Sharp, it would be my pleasure to personally stick the needle in his arm if he kills someone, but I’m afraid that I won’t get the chance to do it this time, because he wasn’t involved in any way in this drive-by shooting. I’ve just spoken to our chief deputy in La Verne and learned that my ex-husband’s car wa
s stolen and used in the shooting, which took place at the exact same time that he was on the other side of town, having lunch with the local police chief and a deputy from my office, so I guess I’ll have to find some other way to needle him. Thank you.” Her statement having been made, Myra is whisked away by her waiting driver.

  Thanks to some successful case outcomes in the past year, Peter was able to purchase the boat of his dreams… a beautiful fifty-foot Grand Banks trawler yacht – and that’s where Suzi, an adorable little Chinese pre-teen girl who is also Peter’s legal ward, is watching the local news. As usual, her assistant Bernie is by her side. Hearing about Peter’s arrest and subsequent release and then watching her idol Myra on the news, she makes a remark to Bernie. “I really shouldn’t let him leave the boat too often. He just doesn’t know how to keep out of trouble. I wish he’d grow up.” Bernie probably agrees with her but doesn’t say much in response, because he’s the silent type – which is understandable, because he’s also a huge Saint Bernard.

  The Chief tells me that he’s going to visit with the murdered man’s widow. She’s already been notified of her husband’s death, but he wants to offer his condolences in person. He tells me that she’s community minded and volunteers her time at a local suicide prevention hot line and that he’s met her on several occasions. He asks if I’d like to come along with him. I accept his invitation, maybe to apologize to her because it was my car that was used by her husband’s killers. I don’t really know why I accepted, but it doesn’t make any difference, because now we’re in the back seat of the Chief’s car, being driven to the Luskin residence.

  I remark to him that this must be one of the nicest homes in the area. He agrees, telling me that her husband had done quite well. In addition to this big house, they own several industrial building on the outskirts of town that are rented out to various commercial companies.

  The widow Luskin is an attractive woman in her mid thirties. She greets us at the door and invites us in. It’s a terrible thought, but I can’t help feel that she’ll have no problem finding someone to replace her deceased husband. Even after experiencing what she went through today, she’s still a looker. We express our deep sympathies for her loss and the Chief explains who I am. She graciously lets me know that it wasn’t my fault that the killers decided to take my car instead of someone else’s. Her maid serves us some coffee and cake. As we’re leaving, I let her know that I’m an attorney and hand her my business card, telling her that if there’s anything I can ever do for her, not to hesitate calling.

  She tells me that the only thing she’s concerned about is the insurance company and her bills. As the Chief and I are leaving, we both assure her that everything will turn out okay.

  It’s been a long day during the past two hours and I know that if I don’t hit the road now I’ll be sitting in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic all the way back to Los Angeles. I thank the Chief for his hospitality and apologize for not taking the opportunity to avail myself of his booking procedure. He tells me that he’s already heard from Deputy D.A. Wendy and that she’s spoken to her boss about the matter, explaining that I’ve been cleared.

  “Chief, being cleared legally and being cleared with a woman are two completely different things.”

  “I know, Mister Sharp. I’ve been married for over thirty years now.”

  We exchange a few chauvinistic remarks about women and I then ask him if one of his people could drive me to the Hummer.

  “Oh, we’ll be glad to give you a lift, but it won’t be to the Hummer. We’ll be keeping that for a while until our crime scene people finish going through it. Instead, we’ll be giving you a ride over to Budget Rent-a-Car.” Damn. It didn’t occur to me, but the Chief is right. The car is evidence, so he has to hold on to it for while. No sense arguing with him about it, because he’s one hundred percent right.

  One of Chief Olshansky’s officers drops me off at the local rent-a-car place and as I’m exiting his vehicle he hands me an envelope. “This is from the Chief. He wanted to make sure I gave it to you before you left town.”

  I’m in no mood to read at the moment, so I put the envelope in my jacket pocket, thank him for the ride, and head into the rental car office.

  The Budget office in La Verne doesn’t have any Hummers to rent. In fact, they don’t have any luxury cars at all to rent. I am now driving back to Los Angeles in a like-new Ford Focus, which has neither air-conditioning nor electric windows.

  Over the noise of rush hour freeway traffic I hear my cell phone ringing. The caller display show’s Stuart’s office number at his Van Nuys warehouse. I answer. It’s Vinnie calling.

  “Mister Sharp, I spoke to Stuart and told him that it’s all straightened out in La Verne. He thanks you very much. I told him about the other little problem there, too.”

  “You mean the drive-by murder in broad daylight, using my Hummer, which was stolen and is now impounded? The murder I was arrested for? You mean that little problem, Vinnie?”

  “Er, yeah, Mister Sharp, I told him about that too. He says he’s sorry to hear about it and that he wants you to use one of his Camrys until your car is released, and that he’ll personally drive you back to La Verne to get it.”

  “Okay Vinnie. Here’s what you do. I’m bringing this little toy car I’m now driving over to the Rent-a-car’s Van Nuys office and turning it back in. You meet me there and we’ll go back to your warehouse for me to pick up a grown-up’s car to drive.”

  It took a little over an hour and I’m now exiting the Northbound 405 Freeway at Burbank Boulevard. As I make a left turn onto Sepulveda I spot Vinnie parked and waiting for me in front of the Budget Rent-a-Car lot. After turning in the Ford Focus I get into the Camry with Vinnie for the ride to Stuart’s warehouse. During the drive I mention that Stuart must be spending a bundle making all those calls from Thailand to here. Vinnie explains that Stuart has learned some way to use the computer to make international calls for only two cents a minute, over the Internet. Leave it to Stuart, the most entrepreneurial guy I know.

  When we get the warehouse, Vinnie shows me the row of Camry’s and lets me know that Stuart says I can take whatever car I want. I know about the key box on the warehouse wall, so I go over there, remove a set of keys and to Vinnie’s surprise I walk past the Camry’s, unlock Stuart’s personal Lincoln Town Car and drive it out of the garage.

  On the way out, Vinnie is waiting for me at the raised garage door. I wave at a smiling Vinnie. “You’re a class act, Mister Sharp.”

  This is a definite improvement. It’s hard to believe that the same company manufactures both cars I’ve driven this afternoon: The Ford Focus and the Lincoln Town Car.

  The 405 Freeway is usually packed this time of day, so I take a leisurely ride South on Sepulveda, up through the tunnel near Mulholland and then down through Brentwood. I take Sunset Boulevard West to Barrington, and then south to Venice Boulevard, which I take west to the Marina.

  Back at the boat, I see the kid and her beast going from the galley to her forward stateroom. The look she gives me is the same one usually reserved for the dog when he accidentally steps in his water bowl and spills it all over the floor.

  She must think I’m a big dummy who only serves two useful purposes in her life - dragging heavy sacks of dog food up from the cart and onto the boat, and driving her downtown every quarter where she takes some examinations at the school board. Her grades on the home schooling tests were so high, that they now insist she take her tests in a proctored setting. Her IQ is probably off the charts, and it never ceases to amaze me how she runs our law practice from her computer.

  When her stepfather died in a plane crash with Stuart’s uncle, I took over as her legal guardian, and I keep wondering who’s the guardian and who’s the ward.

  Once the two of them are out of the room, I sit down for a moment to relax. My jacket is hanging on the back of a nearby chair and I see something white sticking out of the inside breast pocket. It’s the envelope t
hat the Chief wanted me to have. I reach for the envelope and sit back to read it, thinking it’s probably a nice note from him inviting me back to La Verne soon.

  I was partly right. It is an invitation to come back and visit his building. It’s a parking ticket for unauthorized use of a loading zone.

  3

  I call Chief Olshansky to thank him for his generous going-away gift.

  “Mister Sharp, I issued you that ticket for two reasons. First, you voluntarily confessed to having parked there, and second, I wanted to make sure you’d be coming back to our little town so that I could return the courtesy and buy you lunch.”

  “Chief, I guarantee that I’ll be back in your little town to get that free lunch, and warn you that I’m going to demand a jury trial on my ticket. I’m entitled to have a little fun every once in a while too.”

  He chuckles and we agree to be friendly enemies until my case is over.

  “By the way, Chief, did they find anything of use in my car?”

  “Other than the shell casings, they didn’t leave much. We dusted the casings, door handles, seat adjustment levers, shift knob, steering wheel, and back of the rear-view mirror. Our techie says he got some good results, probably because the Chippies got there before they had a chance to wipe things down. The return date on your ticket is next week, so when you get here, you can drive your Hummer home.” ‘Chippies’ is an affectionate nickname we use here to describe the State Troopers, members of the CHP - our California Highway Patrol.

  “Thanks, Chief, I appreciate that. What about the victim’s body? Did you or the D.A. request an autopsy?”