Until Proven Innocent

by Gene Grossman

  Stuart is usually good for about one fantastic new idea every six months, and he tries to get me involved in each one. Up to now I’ve avoided the temptation but he still keeps trying. He’s due for a new one any time now.

  Stuart’s right-hand man is a former porno producer named Vinnie Norman, who along with his fiancée Olive, both drive armored cars for Stuart and take part in the private investigations. I tuck the note in my pocket and make a mental note to return her calls at my next opportunity. I would do it now, but the dog is sitting in front of me holding a leash in his mouth. This can only mean that he wants to take me out for my walk. He enjoys going with me because it means he gets a chance to ride in my big yellow Hummer, where he can stick his head out of the open sunroof and pretend like he’s flying. And he really does look like he’s flying, because before he can get his face into the wind, I have my instructions to attach his ‘Doggles,’ which are aviator-styled eye-protection goggles designed especially for dogs who want to stick their heads out of moving cars. Bernie sits in the front seat with his head sticking up out of the car’s open sunroof. With his aviator goggles on and large ears flopping in the wind, we’re a popular subject for tourists’ cameras as we motor down the street.

  The reason we go in the car is because I refuse to pick up after him. Our neighborhood has a pooper-scooper law that says nobody should walk a dog on the public streets without having some scooping device to use. I have nothing against following the law, but there are some things that I just refuse to do, so we go to a dog park where he can run around and do things that I don’t know about, somewhere where I can’t see him.

  *****

  Now that the dog has taken care of his business, it’s time for me to take care of mine, so I call Stuart’s Van Nuys warehouse. Olive answers the phone. She recognizes my phone number on her caller ID display.

  “Oh, Mister Sharp, I’m so glad you called.”

  Her voice becomes hushed, as if she’s whispering into the phone.

  “Please, can I come and talk to you?”

  “Olive, if this is about that prenuptial agreement you and Vinnie were talking about, I’ve already told you that I won’t advise either one of you about it.”

  “No, no, this has nothing to do with that. It’s something else completely. I have a problem. Someone is threatening me.”

  “Olive, are you in physical danger, because if you are, I can be there in less than thirty minutes. What about Stuart and Vinnie, are they around anywhere?”

  “No, it’s not anything physical. Listen, Vinnie and Stuart will be back from lunch any minute now, and I don’t want them to know anything about this. Can I come to the boat? Please?”

  I’ve known Olive for almost a year now, and to the best of my knowledge, the only thing that freaks her out is dead bodies, so I’m really curious to find out what’s bothering her now.

  Stuart and his group have been to the boat many times, so Olive is quite familiar with these surroundings and makes herself comfortable on the couch in the boat’s main saloon. I used to call that area of the boat the ‘salon,’ but was corrected by several of our dock neighbors, who told me that if I want to fit in around here, I’ll have to call what the old sailors did: the ‘saloon.’ As I walk over to greet her, I notice that the forward stateroom door is slightly ajar, and just below the doorknob level I see an eye peering out. The kid never misses out on anything.

  Olive starts right out by swearing me to secrecy. I explain to her that anything she tells me is protected by lawyer-client privilege, even if it involves a matter that I decide not to represent her on. Once she feels confident that Vinnie won’t find out what she tells me, she starts her explanation.

  “I’m being blackmailed.”

  “C’mon Olive, you’re not a rich person. What could a blackmailer possibly expect to get out of you?”

  “He wants me to sleep with him.”

  “Okay Olive, suppose you start out right at the beginning, because it sounds like I have some catching up to do with the facts of this alleged blackmail. First of all, exactly what is it that this person has on you?”

  “You’re sure that no one will know about this?”

  I nod affirmatively until she once again feels at ease.

  “Okay here it is, Mister Sharp, and I hope you won’t think poorly of me for this, but a couple of years ago I was really having a tough time finding a job, so I answered an ad in some Hollywood magazine. They were looking for girls to work the telephones. At first I thought it would be like selling magazines or something like that, but when they told us that we could earn up to twenty dollars an hour with no selling involved, I got a little nervous. The guy went on to explain to us how lonely men wanted to talk to girls on the phone, and that they’d pay by the minute if someone would excite them.”

  “Olive, if I understand you correctly, you’re describing what they call ‘phone sex.’ Is that right?”

  “Well yeah, I guess you could call it that, but we never met anyone face to face, and there was definitely no touching or anything like that involved. All I did was follow the scripts they gave us, and talked to those lonely men on the phone. I had a trainer who taught me some of the special things to say. Things that the callers usually wanted to hear.”

  “I’m not here to judge you, Olive. You did what you had to do to make a living. That’s okay with me. Now what about this threat you mentioned?”

  “Oh yeah, that. Well anyway, I guess that someone in the business office of that company was bribed or something, because one of the guys who was a steady customer got hold of my home phone number. He was a repeat caller, and always asked for me by my phone name of Bambi. He started calling me last week and he knows my real name. He says that if I don’t meet with him, he’ll tell my boyfriend what I used to do for a living.”

  This sounds like a story right out of one of O’Henry’s short stories written by William Sydney Porter. Olive, the former phone-sex operator is embarrassed to have her boyfriend Vinnie, the former porno director, find out about her past occupation.

  Wait a minute. If she’s so worried about Vinnie finding out, then she must not know about his past in the porno business. I better tread very carefully here.

  “Olive, what did Vinnie do for a living before you met him?”

  “Before he started working with Stuart, he told me he was with a major motion picture studio for several years, working in some department like props or wardrobe.”

  No wonder she’s worried. Vinnie never told her about his past, so she thinks he’s as white as the driven snow. This is an awkward situation because the only way to really make her comfortable in confessing her past to Vinnie is to let her know about his shady past.

  That’s a decision I can’t make. If Vinnie wants her to know how many porno films he produced and directed, he’ll have to tell her himself. It’s not my job to ‘out’ him. The last time I looked at my business card, it said ‘Peter Sharp, attorney at law,’ and not ‘Peter Sharp, gossip monger.’

  Now that I see the direct and truthful approach isn’t available to us, we’ll have to deal with this blackballing sleazeball in a different, more creative way.

  “How does he want you to reach him? Did he give you his name or phone number?”

  “All he gave me was his cell phone number, and told me to call him Hal.”

  I take the cell phone number from Olive and tell her that I’ll take care of everything.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter 3

  Once again I’m in the front seat of Tony’s unmarked squad car, hoping that our ride today doesn’t end up as exciting as the last one.

  “Tony, are you wearing that ankle holster again?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. I guarantee you that I won’t be using it today.”

  “Really? That sounds encouraging. What did you do, swear off shooting people?”

  Hearing this question brings the faint trace of a smile to his face. He reaches under his sport coat.


  “Naw, if any trouble comes up, I’ll be using this.”

  Tony brings his hand out from under the sport coat and I see that he’s holding what looks like a small hunting rifle. Not being satisfied just showing it to me, he decides to give me the full fifty-cent tour.

  “Mister Lawyer, this is a Smith & Wesson Model 500, and it makes Clint Eastwood’s .44 Magnum look like a peashooter. This weapon’s muzzle energy is more than 5 times what his was. Its overall length is fifteen inches, weighs in at over six pounds, has an eight-inch barrel, carries five rounds, and is the most powerful legal production revolver in the world. You oughta come out shooting with me some afternoon. At least once a week I go to a target range in Agoura Hills. If you want, I’ll let you fire off a couple of rounds. This new model retails for over nine hundred dollars, but I can get you a deal on one if you’re interested.”

  “Tony, I really appreciate the offer but I used up my fascination with firearms in the army, and they frown on lawyers bringing cannons into court nowadays, so I’ll have to give it a pass.”

  I don’t know why anyone would want to carry a powerful weapon like this, but in view of the fact that there are bad guys out there with AK-47 assault rifles, I guess it doesn’t hurt to avoid being outgunned. From the .50 caliber designation, I guess every shot is as powerful as one coming from a .50 caliber machine gun, like the ones they put on fighter planes. Tony tells me that Smith and Wesson was planning on also bringing out a larger .64 caliber model, but they’ve had some opposition from the United States Government, who in what Tony claims is their ultimate stupidity, consider anything larger than .50 calibers to be ‘artillery,’ and therefore not desirable for civilians to own.

  It’s amazing to me that they’ll allow these .50 caliber revolvers to be bought by the general population, considering the fact that there’s some fear that the regulation police bullet-proof vests might not stop a .50 caliber round fired from one of these small cannons.

  Tony also apologizes for inviting me to that gunfight the other night. He recognized that robber when the guy walked into the restaurant, having seen his picture on a list of recent releases from the penitentiary, all of which were reporting to parole officers in our jurisdiction. We’ll never know how many people might have gotten killed that night If Tony hadn’t acted the way he did, because I’m sure that guy wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses… and one successful robbery certainly might lead to many more.

  They can say all they want about this lunatic cop, but if it wasn’t for him, I might not be alive today. The interesting thing about the whole affair is that it looks like it didn’t shake Tony up in the least.

  I graciously accept his apology and we ride the rest of the way to Hollywood in silence. He might be crazy, and I don’t particularly like him very much, but I feel very safe when he’s around.

  *****

  The shrinks are all in an old thirteen-story building on Hollywood Boulevard just east of Highland Avenue. You can tell the building is old because there’s an elevator operator mechanically working an ancient hand lever, or an ancient elevator operator working a mechanical lever… either description would be correct. He’s wearing one of those bellboy uniforms, complete with the little cap. As we enter the elevator we’re greeted with a “floor please?”

  We get off on the eleventh floor and walk down a long marbled hallway to the end, where the ‘Psychiatric Evaluations, Inc.’ sign is engraved on a doorplate. Tony stops me before we go in.

  “I just want you to know that the main reason I want you here is to keep this shrink honest. If I tell him that my lawyer is with me, maybe he’ll give me a fair shake.”

  “What are you worried about? I was there. Everyone in that bar will testify that you did the right thing.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what this is all about today. Here, they want to see how bad you feel and how shook up you are. And I’m not. That’s the problem. If I don’t act like I’m at least shook up a little, they might think I’m nuts. They started wanting to get me off the force several shootings ago, and I don’t want to give them any openings here today.”

  Nice. He’s a serial killer, too. I assure him that the shrink is a professional, and that if he tells the guy about his past experiences in combat as a U.S. Marine, and about all the gunfights he’s been in as a cop, that the shrink will realize he’s dealing with a true professional who can keep his head together during and after a deadly situation. This is such a good line that even I believe it.

  He feels a little better hearing that, so we go inside the office and are greeted by a woman who’s on the verge of hysteria. This is not a good sign for a shrink’s office. She immediately notices which one of us looks more official, runs over to Tony and grabs his arms.

  “Are you the police? Please tell me you’re the police.”

  “Yeah, I’m the police. I’m supposed to see a…”

  Hearing that he’s a cop, she cuts him off mid-sentence.

  “Thank God you’re here… he’s still out on the ledge. I think he’s really going to jump this time.”

  I’ve got to hand it to Tony. He stays as cool as a cucumber. “Has he done this before?”

  “Yes. Last month he did the same thing, but we talked him back in off the ledge. I’m afraid he’s really going to jump this time.”

  “Yeah I know, you already told me that. Is there a window that opens anywhere near where he is on that ledge?”

  She nervously points to one of the office’s other windows. It’s next to the only one that has been opened.

  “What’s this guy’s first name?”

  “It’s Christopher.”

  Tony walks over, opens the window, sticks his head out, looks both ways, and then spots the jumper.

  “Hey Chris, I’ve got a couple of questions to ask you.”

  I can’t see the jumper, but we’re far enough up off of the street so that the noise of the traffic doesn’t drown out his voice.

  “Don’t try to stop me. I’m going to jump today.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re gonna jump. I’m not here to stop you, I just wanna know if your car is in the garage, because if we don’t get it outa here tonight, the office will have a ton of paperwork to fill out.”

  “You mean you’re not one of those crisis negotiators? They didn’t even send a crisis negotiator? They sent one last time.”

  “Yeah, but that was last month, before the budget cuts. We don’t send crisis negotiators anymore. They sent me to get your information, because once you hit the ground, there’s really not much to scrape up. Anyway, is your car in the garage? And if it is, do you know what level it’s on?”

  “You know, you’re crazy. I’m out here on a ledge, and you’re asking me questions about my car.”

  “Chris, I agree that one of us is crazy, but let’s face it. You’re the one out there on the ledge. Now are you gonna tell me about your car, or should I just shoot you?”

  Tony draws his stainless steel cannon out of its shoulder holster and waves it towards the jumper. I hear fear in the guy’s voice.

  “What are you going to do, shoot me with that thing?”

  “What the hell do you care? You’re gonna jump anyway. Our new policy is that once you’ve tried a stunt like this, the next time, we make sure you go through with it. Do you have any idea how much it costs the City to send those fire engines and police over here every time you pull a stunt like this? If we don’t put a stop to it, you’ll just keep doing it, and then we’ll be so short of funds, we’ll have to lay off some cops.

  “Now you’ve got two choices, either jump, or go back through your window and sign the papers I’ve brought with me, promising not to do this anymore. We’re getting sick and tired of jerks like you wasting our time and money.”

  Tony has now holstered his cannon and is waving a legal-looking document at the guy. I’m completely flabbergasted. Now I’m convinced. Tony is as crazy as the guy out on the ledge. To my surprise, Tony withdraws his head from the ope
n window, and closes it.

  “What happened, Tony? Did he jump?”

  “Naw, he went back into his office. Excuse me, I’m supposed to check in with the receptionist about my appointment.”

  That was it. Tony didn’t give it a second thought. The receptionist was still shaking, but Tony calms her down, hands her his card, and says that he’s here to see one of the doctors. She’s obviously still in a state of shock, but out of pure force of habit tells him to go down the office hallway to room ‘B.’ Tony motions for me to come with him. This is really strange. He’ll kill a robber and threaten a jumper, but it looks like he’s afraid to go into a shrink’s office without me at his side. I might as well go along and watch the rest of this show, so I follow him down the hall.

  Seated behind the desk is a neatly dressed gentleman in his late fifties. He seems very calm, picks up a folder with Tony’s name on it, and starts his usual psychobabble.

  “Hmmm. Let’s see, what do we have here? Ah, I see. A police officer that seems to take delight in shooting black people, and shows no remorse about it.”

  I can see that this guy’s trying to build up his fee. He’ll probably suggest that Tony’s not ready to return to active duty, but after a couple of months of treatment, maybe he’ll be cured. I look at the nameplate on his desk. The first name after ‘Dr.’ is ‘Christopher.’ I look at Tony with a question on my face, and he responds with a slight affirmative nod, letting me know that we’re now in the presence of the ledge guy.

  Doctor jumper continues. “Detective, have you brought with you the certification sheet for your return to active duty?” I think I’d better hold on to it for a while, because we should meet a few more times.”