Guilty or Else jo-1 Read online

  Guilty or Else

  ( Jimmy O'Brien - 1 )

  Jeff Sherratt

  Jeff Sherratt

  Guilty or Else

  C H A P T E R 1

  They say never blame it on the weather. But I had to come up with something, a story that would explain why I was running late for Judge Johnson’s command performance. Today, unlike most days in sunny California, the rain beat down in a mind-numbing torrent. These late August storms blew in from the Pacific Ocean, hung around for about an hour, dumped a billion gallons of acid rain on the smog-choked, sun-baked, paved-over landscape known as the L.A. Basin before they disappeared, leaving the freeway system and feeder roads a tangled mess.

  Not that the current storm caused my tardiness. I’d overslept. But I had to place the blame somewhere. “Be here at nine A.M., exactly!” Judge Johnson demanded when he’d called my office yesterday. He didn’t say why he wanted to see me, just be there on time.

  My four-year-old ’68 Corvette skidded into the last parking spot at the South Gate Municipal Court and I rushed into the single-story brick building. When I bolted into Johnson’s courtroom, the bailiff shook his head ominously as he pointed to the Judge’s chambers.

  “Sorry, Judge, the traffic on Firestone Boulevard. The rain, you know,” I said, peeking around the door.

  “Yeah, everyone’s late. Come in and sit down.”

  I expected a ration of crap, but instead he seemed subdued, even pensive. I took a chair facing his desk.

  “I guess you heard about the murder,” he said.

  “Saw it on the news last night. Senator Welch’s secretary, stabbed to death Saturday night. Shame.” When Judge Johnson didn’t say anything, I added, “Just a kid, really.”

  “Gloria was twenty-seven,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Then he perked up. “They caught the guy who did it.”

  “Cops didn’t waste any time finding the killer.”

  I wondered why Bob Johnson wanted to see me this morning. We weren’t close or anything. Oh, we had worked together as cops on the Los Angeles Police Department years ago. He flew jets during the Korean War, mustered out shortly after the ceasefire, and joined the LAPD. I came on twelve years later after two years of police science at Cerritos Community College. Because of his military experience, Johnson rose through the ranks on a fast track and soon became a sergeant. Johnson had the chevrons. I had slick sleeves, which made him the boss of our two-man unit. But he wouldn’t have demanded my appearance this morning just to talk about old times, or gab about the news.

  “The cops didn’t break a sweat,” Johnson said. “The bastard left a trail of evidence, led right to his house. Her body was still warm when they collared the bastard.”

  “Her gardener, wasn’t it?”

  “Hot-blooded Mexican. You know how they are. Violent sons of bitches. The cops and the D.A. figured he tried to put the make on Gloria. When she wouldn’t go along-well, you saw the story on TV.”

  “Judge, have you talked to the senator?”

  “Had breakfast with him this morning. He’s shook up. Can’t understand how something like this can happen right here in South Gate. It’s not like we’re in South Central L.A.”

  “Do you think the murder will have an impact on his campaign?”

  Through his charisma and movie star looks, Senator Berry Welch played the game and worked his way up the system until he became the majority leader of the state senate, a kingpin in the Democratic Party. He was up for re-election in November, a shoe in. There was talk that he had his eye on the top prize in 1974: governor of the State of California.

  “The press already pounced on the story. Any time violence, a pretty girl, and a politician are mentioned in the same paragraph, the news maggots crawl out of wherever they come from and insinuate all sorts of lurid bullshit.”

  Johnson reached into a hand-carved antique humidor adorning his desk. He extracted a cigar the size and shape of a small torpedo. “Sells papers. I’m not worried. The election is still two years away.” He ignited a pocket-sized, gold-plated blowtorch, set fire to the cigar, and puffed on it until the tip glowed red-hot.

  “People have memories like fruit flies,” Johnson said.

  “The story will disappear once the killer confesses. Berry, of course, had nothing to do with her death. We don’t think the murder will cause problems.”

  I remained silent, thinking. What kind of animal would murder a young woman in the prime of her life, and why?

  “Maybe there’s something you can do for me. Might be good for you too.”

  “Sure, Bob, what do you need?”

  He held out his burning cigar. “These are Cohiba cigars, Cuban, handmade for Castro. Can’t get ’em here in the United States; the embargo, you know. I’ve got a contact. The guy brings them up from Mexico.”

  My eyes stung as the room filled with a blue haze, carrying with it a sweet pungent aroma. The smell of money burning. Did he want me to get him some cigars?

  Johnson rolled the cigar around in his mouth. “How old are you, Jimmy? Thirty-five, thirty-six?” he asked between puffs.

  “Thirty-four.”

  “Getting it together, are you?”

  “I’m working on it,” I said.

  “Still drink?”

  “Nope, I quit after Barbara left me.”

  Johnson seemed to scrutinize me while puffing his torpedo.

  “You said something about a favor?”

  “Heard about your divorce,” he said. “Barbara’s a hell of a woman. Too bad.”

  “Look, Bob, I’ll admit I’ve had my problems, but I’ve cleaned up my act.”

  “How long you been off the sauce?”

  “Four years now.”

  Johnson leaned forward. “Jimmy, I can help you out, but I’ve got to know I can trust you. You played ball back in the old days when we were cops. I’m not forgetting the favors.” He paused for a moment. “I counted on you then, but can I trust you now?”

  Being on the right side of a well-connected guy like Johnson couldn’t hurt my new law practice, and I needed the business. In the six months since I started, I’d only had a handful of paying clients. “Yeah, sure you can count on me.”

  He took another hard pull on his Cohiba. “Sometimes it’s important to go along to get along.”

  Obviously, he had something in mind. I remained silent, waiting to see what he wanted from me.

  He leaned back. “Okay, I’m going to take a chance on you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “We talked about the guy who killed Welch’s secretary.”

  “Yeah, the gardener.”

  “He’s broke. Hasn’t got a quarter,” Johnson said.

  My stomach tightened. Was he going to offer me the case? “Oh?”

  “This is no pro bono deal.”

  “Are you appointing me to defend this guy?”

  “The government will pay you to represent him.” He looked me straight in the eye. “You’ll be paid, but only for the arraignment. The cops have an airtight case and the defendant is due to be arraigned here tomorrow. Cut a deal with the D.A., maybe second degree. Plead him out, he escapes life without parole. That’s it.”

  This could turn out to be one of the hottest cases of the year. Half a dozen well-qualified lawyers around town would love to get it. They’d probably even handle the defense without a fee. The publicity alone would more than justify the cost of a trial.

  “Why me, Bob?” I said.

  Johnson took a hit on his cigar, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “Because I’m a good guy, helping an old buddy. Now, can you handle it?”

  “What if the gardener tells me he didn’t do it? What if he wants to plead innocent?
”

  Johnson flicked the ash into his wastebasket and leaned into me; our noses almost touched. “This case is cut and dried. Understand, Jimmy? Don’t try to make a career out of it. Convince the guy to take a deal and get it over with. Like I said, can you do the job?”

  “Guess so,” I said.

  Johnson scribbled the names of the homicide detective and the deputy D.A. handling the case on a piece of paper. “Here, take this. Go talk to them today. Tomorrow you can interview your new client. We’ll have him here in our lockup before the arraignment. It’s scheduled for ten-thirty.”

  I tucked Johnson’s note in my pocket and left his chambers. It dawned on me as I walked the hallway of the court building that if the state had an airtight case, why would the judge want to cut a deal? They arrested the madman who’d killed a powerful senator’s secretary, a beautiful young woman. Senator Berry Welsh had the muscle to demand justice. You’d think he’d be clamoring for the murderer’s head on a plate. But I’d do my job and maybe Johnson would come through and throw a bone my way from time to time.

  C H A P T E R 2

  I found a phone booth down the hall from Johnson’s courtroom, dialed the D.A.’s office, and asked to speak with Roberta Allen, the deputy D.A. assigned to the case. The woman who answered said she’d be out to lunch until about 1:30. My next call went to the South Gate police department.

  When Sergeant Hodges came on the line, he said he was eating a Big Mac at his desk but would talk to me if I got over there right away.

  My stomach tightened when I entered the police station, heard the familiar chatter of the two-way radio, and saw cops wandering around, some with suspects cuffed, dragging them toward the lockup. This wasn’t the LAPD and it wasn’t the Newton Street precinct, but it was still a police station, and I had strong feelings about the force, ambivalent memories of the job. Sure, there were some good times, some exciting times, but being here mostly reminded me of my failures, my shortcomings, and most of all, my disastrous marriage.

  After checking in, a young fresh-faced officer ushered me to the Robbery-Homicide squad room.

  Hodges, seated at his desk slurping coffee, looked up when I walked in. He had short hair and a bald spot. From the neck up, he looked like a monk with a crew cut. From the neck down, he looked like a fireplug with a stomach, only taller. A weary gray sport coat covered the back of his chair, hanging limp, and like its owner, the coat had fought one too many battles.

  Used paper cups, a butt-filled ashtray, fast food wrappers, scratch pads, chewed-on pencils, and a loaded.38 Smith and Wesson revolver littered his desk. As I approached, he stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and holstered the gun. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and a clip-on tie with a fresh coffee stain on it. The stain improved the garish design.

  “You O’Brien?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Johnson’s clerk called. Said I should talk to you, said I should cooperate.” His attitude bordered on hostility.

  “I need some information about the case.”

  “The murdering bastard’s name is Ernesto Rodriguez. The evidence is overwhelming,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure this one out. My blind ninety-eight-year-old grandmother could’ve nailed the guy.”

  “Give me a little background. How did you solve the case so fast?”

  “Look, O’Brien. They say I have to talk to you about the case. Okay, I talked. But I don’t like giving you inside information.”

  “Sarge, I’m just trying to do my job, and you’re not helping. In the morning, my client’s going to be arraigned on a murder charge. I need some background. Who knows, maybe the guy’s innocent.”

  He expanded his chest and thrust his nose in my face. I could smell the onions on his breath. “I’ll give you some background. Your client’s guilty, guilty as they come.”

  Hodges stabbed a finger repeatedly on the top of his desk. “He killed a beautiful woman in cold blood, snapped her neck and cut her up. How’s that for background?”

  I backed up a little. “Cool it, Hodges. I’m the lawyer, not the defendant.”

  “I’m sick of you guys. We bust our asses to get the scumbags off the streets. Then you lawyers with the fancy suits make sure the rotten bastards go free.”

  I fingered my jacket. “Hey, Hodges, does this mail-order suit look fancy to you?”

  Hodges didn’t give me much, but what little he did tell me would put my client away for twenty-five to life-if he took the deal. If not, he’d rot in a cell for the remainder of his life at San Quentin. When Rodriguez had been arrested, he had the murder weapon in his possession, the girl’s blood still wet on the knife.

  At one-thirty, I returned to court building and entered the D.A.’s office on the first floor. The receptionist said the deputy district attorney prosecuting my case had returned from lunch and would meet me in the conference room. I walked down a short hallway, glanced around the room’s partially opened door, and stared at a beautiful woman sitting at a large table.

  She stood and waved me in. “I’m Roberta Allen. You must be Mr. O’Brien.”

  She had dark hair, cut short and fashionably layered, with large, round and very deep blue eyes. Her skin, pale and translucent, was close to flawless. She wore a sensible business suit, which did little to hide her pleasing figure. I guessed her age to be late twenties, thirty tops.

  I moved farther into the room, speechless for an instant. “Uh, you can call me Jimmy,” I managed to say with a lopsided grin on my face. Standing next to her, we were almost at eye level, but without her heels, she’d be three or four inches shorter than my six-foot-one.

  “Let’s keep this on a professional level. Okay, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Sure, professional.” We shook hands. She had long fingers with a firm grip “Anyway, I’m here about-”

  “I know why you’re here. However, I have to be in court at two,” she glanced at her watch, “so I won’t have time to go over the details, but I’ve prepared a file regarding the defendant. It contains the relevant facts of the case.”

  Roberta Allen reached into her briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. When she handed it to me, our eyes locked for a moment, but she quickly shifted her gaze to the papers that I held.

  “Here are the preliminary reports. You’ll get the remainder of the file later…” She looked up at me again, “if you need it. Look the facts over and you’ll see it’ll be an easy conviction. It’s a sure bet for the prosecution. However, in order to expedite the proceedings, if your guy pleads, we’ll take life without the possibility of parole off the table. I’ll recommend twenty-five to life.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Johnson said.”

  “He agreed to this, in fact he suggested the deal. Who am I to argue?” She let out a small sigh.

  “I’ll talk to Rodriguez before the arraignment and pass along the offer, but I’ll need to know more before I can recommend anything. How long is this offer going to last?” I asked.

  “Until tomorrow at five o’clock. After that, I’m prepared to go all out. Your client will be convicted and locked up forever, and I hope he suffers each and every day. Goodbye, Mr. O’Brien.”

  I looked into her face, calm, innocent and beautiful. “Like I said, I’ll talk to him.”

  “See you in court,” she said, managing to give me a weak smile. Maybe it wasn’t a smile at all. Maybe it was a smirk, a sardonic expression of confidence. Maybe she knew I had never tried a murder case. Maybe she knew my biggest criminal case had been a pickpocket. The guy did a little time.

  I turned and walked out of the room.

  On the way back to my office, I stopped for a bite at Harvey’s Broiler, a drive-in restaurant on Firestone. While I tucked into my Fat Boy burger, I reviewed the file Roberta Allen had given me. No doubt about it, just as she’d said, the case was a sure bet for the State. With evidence this tight, Clearance Darrow couldn’t get Rodriguez off. Y
et they wanted me to offer him a deal. Why?

  If this case went to trial, especially in an election year, the D.A. could show his office was tough on crime. The voters had a shameless passion for hard-nosed politicians who didn’t coddle criminals. The D.A. could add another notch to his alligator briefcase, another killer got the max. All over town there would be cheering in the streets.

  There had to be something missing. I rolled the facts around in my mind. Again, why me? Way did Johnson dump the case in my lap? He’s a member of Welch’s for re-election committee. Could it have to do with the senator’s campaign?

  Johnson had to figure I wouldn’t dig, wouldn’t ask questions. He knew about my experience and probably figured I was a little naive. He knew I needed money. But why would he assume I’d go along with the deal? Because, I’d sat on my hands and told him I would. That’s why.

  C H A P T E R 3

  The next day, I waited for Ernesto Rodriguez in a room the court made available to lawyers and their incarcerated clients holding pre-trial conferences. The room, a stark and unforgiving cubicle, had plain white walls and a cold, grey cement floor. A bluish light radiated from the fluorescent tubes embedded in the acoustic tile above. A metal table, bolted down, occupied the center. Two chairs, also bolted, faced the table.

  At nine-thirty, the guards appeared with Rodriguez. They hustled him into a chair, and his body sagged with fatigue. The guards ran chains through eyebolts welded to the chair and locked them to the iron encircling his hands and feet. With his arms shackled behind his back, the chains hitched too tight, his torso tilted forward at an oblique angle. Fear and anger burned in his dark eyes.

  I sat down across from him. “Mr. Rodriguez, I’m Jimmy O’Brien. I’ve been appointed by the court to represent you today at the arraignment.” Rodriguez wore a white jumpsuit with the words LA County Jail stenciled in India ink on the back. He had a full head of black hair, which he wore Indian style, hanging long and straight. I imagined when he wasn’t in jail that he pulled it back into a ponytail.