Blackbird

by A. J. Gentile

  Zeke observed Alex. He looked, hard. His face and shoulders were chiseled and he stared at Zeke blankly. His hands were in fists on the table, bruised.

  "How's it going?" Zeke asked.

  "Good, you know, considering the circumstances."

  "I heard you got into a fight with someone named Jimmer."

  "Yeah, I ended it too. How did you hear about that, anyways?" Alex asked.

  "Well, that's the first thing I need to talk to you about. I was . . . contacted . . . by the leader of a 'motorcycle club,' the Inland Widows. They are headquartered in the Inland Empire, but apparently have operations Downtown as well. They have an interest in making sure Mikulski goes down."

  "So you still think it was Mikulski?"

  "I do, and I'll get to that in a moment. The club if offering you protection inside Twin Towers Jail as long as we present evidence of Mikulski's criminal enterprise at trial."

  "I can protect myself."

  "Well, as it turns out, Jimmer was one of theirs."

  Alex shifted in his seat.

  "They're willing to call him off and offer you protection."

  Alex sat quiet for a moment. "Like I said, I don't need anyone's protection. Especially not some drug dealing motorcycle enthusiasts."

  "That's fine," Zeke said, "but as long as we're going after Mikulski, I think they're going to do it anyways. And I don't see the harm, really."

  "They can do whatever the hell they want, and I'll do whatever I want. What else've you got?"

  "The DA has lowered their plea offer, given some of the things Matty and I discovered during our investigation and their desire to get this case closed. They are offering 20 years to life, with possibility of parole at 17 years for good—"

  "I'm not interested," Alex said.

  "This is their final offer," Zeke emphasized, "once we say 'no,' it's off the table."

  "I'm innocent. I had nothing to do with this."

  "I'll remind you, they found the murder weapon in your motorcycle."

  "I remember. And it doesn't change anything. I'm not pleading guilty to something I didn't do."

  "If we go to trial, a judge could sentence you to death."

  "You're the lawyer. What do you think I should do?"

  This was the question that Zeke—and every criminal lawyer—was afraid of. No matter what he said, there were no guarantees. But this was the whole job, right here.

  "I believe you're innocent. The moment you plead guilty, you'll lose any chance to assert your innocence in the future. I think we have a shot a trial. But it's small, and given the publicity around your case, most jurors are going to want to convict you out of spite. If it was me, I couldn't live myself if I didn't fight to the bitter end."

  "Good. Me too."

  "Ok then, it's settled. We're taking this thing to trial. Today we'll go out there are arrange your trial date and I'll be in contact with you regularly before the trial begins. Stay safe in there."

  "Thanks."

  Zeke stood up and knocked on the door, "we're ready," he said.

  After the bailiff escorted Alex into the courtroom, Zeke walked up to the defense table. Williams walked over.

  "So, what did he say," Williams asked.

  "No deal," Zeke replied, "we'll be taking it to trial."

  "Alright," he said, "I guess I'll clear my schedule."

  After waiting a few minutes, the bailiff allowed the public to file into the viewing area.

  "All rise for the Honorable Judge Katrina White," he said.

  Judge White walked into the courtroom and sat at the bench. She adjusted her glasses and took a case file from the clerk.

  "Ok, so this morning we've got Case number 2019668824, Alejandro Garcia," Judge White said. Camera shutters immediately started clicking and heads bobbed to get a better view. "Bailiff?"

  "No cameras or videos, please. The next person to who so much as touches their camera will be escorted out of the courtroom," the bailiff said.

  "Thank you. Now," Judge White, turning to Alex inside the plexiglass dock, "I see you're represented by a Mr. Ezekiel Blackbird."

  "That would be me, your Honor," Zeke said, standing at the defense table.

  "Very well, counselor. I see your client entered a plea of 'not guilty' at his arraignment. Does he wish to change his plea at this time?"

  The courtroom became silent. Zeke placed his hands on the table and braced himself, "No, your Honor, we wish to proceed to trial." He could hear gasps from the audience behind him.

  "I see, and have you discussed this with the People?"

  "I have, your Honor. At this time, we would like to schedule a trial date."

  "Ok," she said, looking at the calendar, "and how would one month from today work for you?"

  "Fine by me, your Honor," Williams said.

  "That" Zeke started, "would be a bit tight. I would need at least 2 months to prepare witness statements and evidence."

  "I'll give you 6 weeks, counselor, and no longer. I'm assigning you to Judge Baker's courtroom. You'll have one more pretrial conference with him a week before the trial date for any outstanding evidentiary questions."

  Zeke and Williams nodded in acknowledgment.

  "Any questions?" Judge White asked.

  "That will be all, your Honor." Zeke said.

  "Good. Next case," she said, before calling out the next case number. An officer took Alex out a side door to return to the jail. Alex passed through the bar, into the audience, and out of the courtroom. Matty walked closely behind him.

  "Now what?" Matty asked Zeke, as they were both flanked by photographers and reporters.

  "We prepare for trial," Zeke said, pushing his way through the crowd and onto the elevator.

  March 2nd, 4:45pm

  "What happened at the hearing?" Victor asked, sitting in his darkened office.

  "Garcia didn't take the deal. They're going to trial," Wainwright replied.

  "What's my exposure?"

  "Criminal liability, probably, depending on what Blackbird presents during his defense. I sent them after Martinez when they came to me, thinking he would take them out or it would at least throw them off your tail. But Martinez may have flipped."

  "He what?"

  "He flipped, sir," Wainwright said, skipping a beat, "I believe he told Blackbird about your operations on the Westside and Downtown. Some VMK employees spotted him on the Delmonico set a few weeks ago. The bartender at Dirty Laundry told my guys that a 'dirty hipster' was there a few nights ago. Sat down with Marlowe until closing. If that doesn't describe Zeke's sidekick, I don't know what would."

  "In other words," Victor said, "you've led them right to me."

  "The murder happened at your house, Mr. Mikulski," he replied, "it's only natural that they would come asking for you."

  "A house that you were supposed to secure," Victor said, ending the conversation. This is a mess, he thought to himself, if you want something done right, do it yourself.

  "Set a meeting with Blackbird," Victor said.

  "Sir, I don't think that's a very good idea."

  "Do you have a better one?"

  Wainwright was silent for a few seconds.

  "That's what I figured," Victor said. "Set a meeting for tomorrow night at Canter's. And tell him to bring his friend."

  "What should I say the meeting is about?" Wainwright asked.

  "The truth."

  Chapter 9

  March 5th, 9:15pm

  "So what do you think he's gonna say?" Matty asked.

  Zeke was driving the Volvo. Matty was in the passenger seat, knitting a scarf.

  "How could you do that right now?" Zeke asked

  "It relaxes me."

  "I don't know what Mikulski wants. Wainwright said it was to 'clear the air,' whatever that means."

  "You don't think they're gonna . . . you know?"

  "What?" Zeke asked.

  ". . . murder us?"

  "In the middle of L.A.'s most famous deli? Seems unli
kely."

  "Yeah, but how many people are gonna be there at midnight?"

  "The place is 24 hours. Don't underestimate the number of night owls in L.A. It's a totally different city after 9pm."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Everyone in L.A. has a sidejob. People come home from their nine-to-five's in Downtown or the Valley, put on some casual clothes, and bring their laptops to Starbucks or the local diner. They plop down for 3 or 4 hours, typing out their screenplay or novel, or edit their latest YouTube video. There’re even some places that are known for this, they cater to these folks. People just go some nights to network and meetup with other hustlers."

  "Sounds kind of fun," Matty said.

  "If it wasn't for their staggering student loan debt and piss-poor medical insurance, it would be," Zeke replied.

  "Well, can we at least have a safety word? You know, if things start going south? How about 'funemployment?'"

  "Sure Matty, whatever you want."

  Zeke parked in a lot on the corner of Oakwood and Fairfax and they walked toward the restaurant. Bars along the street were just starting to get crowded as patrons spilled out onto the sidewalks carrying bottles of beer and whisky tumblers.

  "Looks like it might be a wild night," Matty said.

  "Sure does."

  The pair walked into Canter's. Business was slow. The restaurant was in a lull between regular dinner service and last call at the area bars. Drunks would wait it out with a pastrami sandwich and pound water until they were good to drive. Waiters called it the 'hangover shift.'

  Zeke walked up to the hostess. "How many?" she said.

  "Four, I think. Someone else actually made the reservation. Should be under Mikulski," Zeke replied.

  "Ah, yes. Mr. Mikulski and his colleague already arrived. Please follow me."

  They followed the waitress to a booth near the back of the restaurant. Zeke and Matty immediately recognized Wainwright, who cut a large figure even sitting down. He stood up as the pair reached the table.

  "Gentlemen," Wainwright started, "it's a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce Mr. Victor Mikulski, CEO of VMK Studios. Mr. Mikulski, this is Mr. Zeke Blackbird and . . . uh . . . I'm sorry I seem to have forgotten your name."

  "It's cool," Matty said, "I'm Matty Fox, Zeke's assistant, and utterly unmemorable in every way."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you both," Victor said, offering his hand, "Please, take a seat."

  Their waitress came immediately to take Zeke and Matty's drink order, deflating what would otherwise have been a tense and uncomfortable silence. After Matty finished ordering a complicated mixed drink the waitress had never heard of, Victor started the conversation.

  "Thank you for taking the time to talk with me, Mr. Blackbird. I'm sure you’re busy with Mr. Garcia's defense."

  "Yes, well, we certainly have a lot of questions."

  "And I'll be happy to answer them. But first, I would like to clear the air about my relationship with Ms. Cahill. It is my understanding you believe I may have had something to do with her murder."

  "Well . . ." Zeke replied, surprised Victor was being so direct. "What makes you think that?"

  "Mr. Wainwright tells me that you and your associate were spotted on the VMK not too long ago. Apparently, our caterer was rather open with you about what has been going on around set."

  "And what is that, Mr. Mikulski?" Zeke replied.

  "You don't need to play stupid, Mr. Blackbird. I know you've been told I was pursuing Ms. Cahill . . . romantically—"

  "That's not how she saw it, apparently," Matty interjected.

  "Let him finish!" Wainwright said.

  "If anyone has told you my advances appeared aggressive, than they simply misunderstood the nature of my relationship with Ms. Cahill."

  "Care to elaborate?" Zeke asked.

  "Anyone with eyes could tell Francesca was attractive. I discovered her as an actress while she was still in college and cast her in a couple indie movies just to see if she had the chops, so to speak. She did. Big time. Then she blew it out of the water as the lead in Lindsey Delmonico, so much so we did two of them. We've probably spent hundreds of hours together between auditions, readings, shoots, and press junkets. She was unlike anyone else I've met. A minute with her was . . . pure bliss. I knew that our relationship would look problematic, since I was her employer, but I couldn't pass up what I saw as a beautiful relationship. I've never before courted one of my actresses."

  "We hear that's not strictly true, either," Matty quipped.

  "Quit it!" Wainwright interjected. "Mr. Blackbird, is his presence really necessary?"

  "Yes,” Zeke said, “so, what was the status of your relationship with Ms. Cahill the night she died."

  "The answer to that . . . is probably one of the greatest regrets of my life. I had asked her out, like a school boy, several times. But that night must have been the final straw. She rejected me, harshly, and stormed away. It was the last time I saw her."

  "Alive?" Matty asked.

  "Yes," Victor replied, "of course she was alive."

  "Let's say I buy that your interest in Ms. Cahill was innocent," Zeke said, "how do you explain her bodyguards?"

  "This is our meeting," Wainwright said, "Mr. Mikulski doesn't have to explain anything—"

  "It's ok Connor, that's a fair question. And there is a reasonable explanation, I assure you."

  "Let's hear it," Zeke said.

  "I suppose it will come out at trial anyways, so there's no point in hiding it. Francesca had a drug problem."

  "I can't imagine why," Matty said, "what with her boss hitting on her and slinging drugs across town."

  "I will not be talked down to by fucking bar rat!" Victor yelled. His demeanor had changed. "I make films and provide services to the good people of Los Angeles. What I've made and how I've made it are no business of yours. If I wanted to avoid this conversation, I could've had both of you taken care. And I still can, don't forget."

  Whoa, Zeke thought to himself, I think we've struck a nerve.

  "Uh . . . here is your drink sir,” the waitress said. “Sorry, the bar had to look up how to make a 'Corpse Reviver #2.'"

  "That's no problem, thanks,' Matty replied.

  "So . . . can I get you guys some food?"

  "Just the drinks, thanks," Wainwright said.

  "Screw that, give me a pastrami on rye," Matty replied.

  After the waitress left to put in Matty's order, Victor continued.

  "Francesca got deep into the stuff, whatever it was she was taking. I didn't care at first, all the actors do it. I mean, shit, it’s what keeps my business running. But then she started to buy it for her friends. Threw huge house parties. Not long after she started asking for an advance on her checks from the studio. She was burning through money so quickly, and it seemed to all be going up her nose. I agreed to give her a loan—"

  "Big of you," Matty said.

  “But I put conditions on it. I told her I was hiring her a security detail to keep tabs on what she was doing. My first concern was that she was going to overdose. I didn't want to lose her because I loved her, but she also brings—brought—in a lot of money for VMK."

  "Yeah, we heard about that. One of the production staff told us that she was freaked out, like she had a stalker or something. Insinuated that she was trying to stay away from you."

  "More like strung out," Wainwright said. "I made sure her security detail wouldn't let her near the stuff. Didn't work, apparently. As you know, cops found narcotics during the autopsy."

  "Guess it didn't really work then, did it?" Zeke asked.

  "I met with someone that was dealing to her. Apparently, she stopped by for drugs more than a few times with her security detail," Matty said.

  "Where was her security the night she died?" Zeke asked.

  "They called the night before to say they couldn't watch Cahill the day of the party. Something came up."

  "Who is hell is they?" Victor asked.


  "The name of the firm is Blue Shield Security. I contacted them last year at the recommendation of one of Mr. Mikulski's colleagues. Former law enforcement, I believe."

  "Ok," Zeke said, "but who are they?"

  Wainwright was quiet.

  "Who the fuck were they Connor?" Victor said.

  "I . . . don't know, exactly. The firm sends out one or two of its guys to work a job. It could've been different people escorting Cahill every day for all I know. It's owned by Mike Salter though, I came up with him in the Marines. I've got a full time job doing security for VMK, I don't have time to be checking in on the talent too—"

  "Shut the hell up, Connor," Victor said.

  "Wait," Zeke said, "did you say, Salter? As in Detective Salter?"

  "No. You're thinking of Phillip Salter, at the LAPD."

  "Yeah," Matty said, "but it's not that common of a name. Are they related?"

  Wainwright was silent for a moment. "I . . . I'm not sure. I hadn't made the connection until now."

  "For fuck's sake you're useless," Victor said.

  "It would be a weird coincidence if they were related, though, wouldn't it?" Zeke asked. Could Det. Salter really be involved, Zeke thought to himself. "I know someone in the LAPD that may know him. We'll have to ask around for more information."

  "Fuck that," Victor said, "I can have him picked up and taken care of within a few hours."

  "Don't!" Zeke said, "If one or both of them was involved in her death, I'll need their testimony to keep Alex out of jail."

  "But Salter's the investigating officer," Matty said, "he's probably pulling strings just to keep him there—"

  "Maybe. All the more reason to leave him alone until we know what we're dealing with."

  "Fine. If there aren't any developments within the week, though, I'm moving on him," Victor said.

  "Is there anything else?" Zeke asked.

  "One more thing," Victor replied, "word on the street is you've been talking to the Inland Widows. Is that true?"

  "They didn't give me much of a choice," Zeke said, "they basically kidnapped me."

  "I'm not sure what Rebecca offered you, but I'm going to let you in on a secret. There's a whole lot of small fish in this town trying to go after my business, and I have a long memory. If I hear that you're collaborating with the Widows to take me down, I'll have no choice but to kill you myself."