JO02 - The Brimstone Murders Page 3

  “Hey, back off, sweetheart.” Hammer looked down at Rita’s tiny finger poking his belly.

  “You back off, sugar buns. And listen up. You can address me as counselor, Ms., or hey you, but not sweetheart,” Rita said. “Show some class.”

  She cast a quick glance in my direction, winked, then turned back to Hammer. “We’re leaving now. Have a nice evening.”

  As we strolled down the hall outside the interrogation room toward the exit, I heard Hammer’s voice booming somewhere behind us: “Hey, O’Brien, don’t leave town.”

  Rita glanced over her shoulder and tossed out an insolent “Ha.”

  We continued walking.

  It was quiet on the Santa Ana Freeway as we drove back to Downey. I glanced at Rita in the driver’s seat of the cramped little Datsun. Her skirt had slipped up to mid-thigh, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed before how lovely her legs were.

  She turned my way and gave me a nice smile.

  “Sugar buns, Rita? You called that hairy ape sugar buns,” I said, and she laughed.

  Then we both fell silent again, wondering why anyone would want to kill a washed-out alcoholic like Hazel Farris.

  C H A P T E R 4

  At precisely 9:30 a.m., Judge Abraham J. Tobias marched in, ascended three steps, adjusted his robes, and plopped his ample backside into the seat of the black, high-back chair. He wiggled a little, getting comfortable on his throne, and with the unmistakable gleam of self-importance, he gazed out at the people gathered there. Harrumphing, he glared at us as if we were his subjects ready to do his bidding.

  We were assembled in Judge Abe Tobias’s courtroom, Arraignments, Division 6 C, on the third floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. The Deputy D.A. Steve Webster and I were all set to act out our prearranged roles.

  I sat at the defense table with Robbie. He wasn’t cuffed, but he still wore the jailhouse jumpsuit. There was no need for street clothes at this point. This proceeding would be held in front of Tobias without a jury present and the prisoner garb wouldn’t prejudice the judge regarding my client’s guilt or innocence. We all knew that.

  Webster sat alone at the prosecutor’s table on the right side of the courtroom. His hand scribbled notes on a yellow tablet. He had to be working on one of his other cases; our deal was cut, chiseled in stone. The court reporter, a young and attractive woman in a loose white blouse, sat at her small table in front of the bench. Her fingers, forming claws were fixed above the keyboard of the gizmo in front of her, poised to transcribe our pearls of wisdom, fresh and pure, as they rolled glibly off our tongues.

  The bailiff and a deputy sheriff stood close behind Robbie, guarding their prisoner.

  Today would be routine. I would ask for a continuance of the arraignment until a psychiatrist had a chance to examine Robbie. Steve Webster would make a verbal motion not to set a trial date until the psychiatrist provided the court with his evaluation. Earlier, I had met Webster in the snack bar downstairs in the lobby, where he handed me a list of psychiatrists who would be acceptable to the people. I was to choose one and get back to him within a day or two.

  At this morning’s arraignment, the judge would agree to our plan, and the whole affair would be over in a matter of minutes. Even with the hour drive back to Downey, I’d be out of here and back in my office in plenty of time to interview a new client Mabel had scheduled for eleven.

  And after listening to the new guy’s woes—something about his troubles with a bank he tried to stiff—I’d still have time to catch up on a little paperwork before I headed out for a leisurely lunch with my best friend, Sol Silverman. Yeah, today’s arraignment was going to be a snap.

  When I broke the news to Robbie about his mother’s murder, he had little response, just mumbled something about eternal damnation and continued with his praying. The only time he seemed to come out of his prayer-induced spell was when he asked if he could speak with the pastor of his mother’s church. I knew that neither Robbie nor his mother had any assets, cash or otherwise, and I assumed he wanted to ask the pastor to say a few words on his mother’s behalf at the funeral, which the county would provide. I told him I would arrange the meeting, or at the least a telephone conversation. Robbie told me the guy’s name, Reverend Elroy Snavley, and we moved on to the next order of business. I explained the arraignment procedure by rote while he slipped back into his prayer mode, not listening to a word I said.

  “Docket number 73-4654, the People of the State of California versus Robbie Farris, Section 187, Penal Code, murder in the first degree lying in wait.” The clerk called our case. The lying in wait kicker was an afterthought that bounced my client’s crime from second to first degree. They say he was lurking in the dark, waiting. It was nighttime; where else could he lurk, for chrissakes? But it didn’t matter. It was moot. My plan was in high gear, and I’d be out of here in a matter of minutes.

  Webster and I stood. Robbie remained seated, his hands folded on the table in front of him, his gaze directed at the ceiling, his lips going a mile a minute in silent prayer.

  “O’Brien for the defense, Your Honor,” I said, adjusting my tie.

  “What’s wrong with your client? He crippled or something? Can’t stand up?”

  “No, Your Honor, he’s insane, and I’d like…”

  “Objection, Judge.” Webster jumped in. “That has not been determined yet. We don’t know if he’s sane or not. But, the people will agree to postpone the arraignment until the defendant has been examined by a duly certified psychiatrist.”

  Judge Tobias held his hands out in front of him. “Say no more, counselor. I get the point.” Tobias looked down at his desk, filched a gold pen from its holder, and started jotting on a form of some kind. Without looking up he said, “Does your client agree to the postponement of the plea, O’Brien?”

  I glanced down at Robbie sitting there, consumed in prayer. But before I could respond, he jerked his head up, gawked at me for an instant, and with fury in his eyes rose from his chair .

  “I’m guilty. I demand to be put to death at once!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  The judge banged his gavel several times while Robbie continued to invoke the Lord’s help in his pursuit of the great beyond.

  “Oh, Lord, show them the way. Tell them to strike me down like a rabid dog!”

  The guard and the bailiff were at a loss, not sure of their next move. “Oh, Lord, take me now! Take my wretched soul.” Robbie was on a roll, screaming hysterically, his arms flailing about. “Cast me into Hell. I have sinned.”

  What in hell is he doing? He’s going to screw everything up.

  Webster sat down. He stretched his arm across the back of the chair next to him, an amused spectator at a full-blown revival.

  Bang! The gavel hit wood. “O’Brien, control your client, or I’ll have him removed!”

  I turned to Robbie, who was now hopping up and down on one foot. I firmly placed both of my hands on his shoulders.

  “Calm down, son,” I said.

  Although I had attended Catholic schools as a youth, I’d never been much of a believer in anything religious, but I felt this might be the perfect time for a prayer of some sort, a prayer Robbie could comprehend. I squeezed hard on the soft tissue and ligaments adjacent to his shoulders and spun him around until we were face to face.

  “Look at me, Robbie, look into my eyes.”

  He brought his head up. His eyes were fiery, blazing with intense loathing, like those of a wild beast captured in a horrible trap.

  I shifted my gaze to the heavens. “Oh, Lord, calm thy servant, Robbie.” I chanted in a deep full voice, giving Robbie my best impression of an old school revivalist.

  “I killed the heathen. I have to die…” Robbie whimpered. My prayer seemed to be working. He was running out of steam.

  I continued. “Tell thy servant, Robbie, that he’ll be joining you soon enough, but also tell him that Jimmy O’Brien is going to take care of things for a while.
And tell him to shut up, so I can get this hearing over with.”

  Robbie had a perplexed look on his face. He studied me, searching for some meaning to my words, or perhaps waiting for further instructions from above.

  Judge Tobias banged the gavel once more. “This isn’t a church, goddammit. This is a court of law. No praying allowed.”

  I didn’t mention to His Honor that more prayers, fervent prayers of a heartfelt nature, were probably uttered in the criminal courts of our land than in any church ever erected. I doubted it would shed any light on the current proceedings.

  “Bailiff, remove the prisoner.” He banged the gavel again.

  The judge could not rule on Webster’s motion until Robbie agreed to the deal, but if Tobias had him removed from the court before he ruled, then I’d have to come down here sometime in the future and go through the process all over again from the top.

  At the very least, I’d have to fight the traffic and pony up another five bucks to park. But, worse, who knew what could happen in the meantime. Webster could change his mind about accepting my insanity defense, and Robbie would most likely spend the rest of his life buried in a cell at San Quentin.

  I faced the bench. “Judge, please give me a moment. Let me confer with my client.” I loosened my grip on Robbie’s shoulders, and he started hopping up and down again, but not as high as before. “I’m sure I’ll be able to calm him down so we can get on with this.”

  “I have a dozen arraignments lined up, and that’s just the morning session. I can’t waste any more time on this nonsense.”

  “Judge, give me a few minutes. Let me talk to my client.” I dug my fingers into Robbie’s shoulders, hard. He stopped hopping. “You can move on to the next case while I explain to him what this is all about.” I was practically begging. “He’ll listen to me, Your Honor, I promise.”

  The judge sighed. “All right, O’Brien, you got ten minutes. Not one second more. If you can’t get him under control, we’re postponing until he’s fit.” He turned to the deputy sheriff. “Guard, stay with O’Brien and the defendant. I’m leaving the bench. Court’s in recess for ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” I said to the judge’s fleeing back as he hurried to his chambers door. He probably had to take a leak. If it weren’t for the judge’s weak bladder, Robbie would do life.

  Webster, the court reporter, and the bailiff all scurried out of the courtroom, bolting for the snack bar, I assumed.

  I leaned into Robbie and whispered in his ear. “Now, shut your goddamn mouth, and quit jumping around, or I bust your chops. Understand?”

  He nodded his head, slightly.

  I motioned for Robbie to sit down, grabbed my briefcase, and plopped it on the table.

  He fell quiet and sat hunched over, rocking back and forth, mumbling a little. I wondered if, when the proceedings began again, he’d start acting like a baboon.

  “Stand up, buddy,” the guard said, hovering over Robbie, reaching behind his back for handcuffs kept in a pouch hooked to his Sam Browne belt.

  “Give me a minute, deputy. He’s okay now.”

  I considered the possibility that all the uniforms, chains, and guns might be spooking Robbie. I believed I might be able to get through his mental barricade if it were just him and me, one on one. Prior to becoming a lawyer, I was a cop, LAPD. At times, I had to use my finely honed skill at negotiation to worm my way out of a jam or two.

  “No way. When court’s not in session, he’s got to be hooked up. Rules.”

  “Look at him, he’s harmless.”

  “Yeah, sure, they all are. Squeaky Fromme, one of Charlie Manson’s girls, is up there.” He gestured in the direction of the courthouse cellblock, one story above us. “She’s in our lockup waiting for her appearance down the hall, playing gin with one of the female deputies, calm and cool as can be.”

  Robbie slowly got to his feet. The deputy turned to grab his arm. Robbie leapt at him. In a blur, he grabbed the deputy’s service revolver and yanked it out of the holster. He whipped the gun furiously across the deputy’s face. Blood erupted. The guy went down.

  Before I could react, Robbie jammed the gun barrel tightly up against his right temple and started backing slowly through the bar gate. He moved steadily toward the courtroom door.

  “Don’t come near me. I’m leaving. I’m going to meet the Lord!” he screamed.

  “Robbie, don’t!”

  I glanced down at the deputy. He stirred. I made a move toward Robbie.

  He leveled the gun at me, waving it erratically. “Stop, heathen!”

  I stopped in my tracks. The word ‘heathen’ sent a jolt up my spine. I knew what happened to the last guy he thought was a heathen.

  Robbie inched backward, one cautious step after another, the gun dangling from his unsteady hand. “Oh, Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Fear blanketed his face.

  He kept moving, his eyes wide and fixed on me in a cold stare. The scraping sound his feet made as he slowly shuffled away grated my nerves like fingernails raking a blackboard. If I stood stark still, maybe Robbie wouldn’t shoot me. But if he got away, the judge would kill me for sure.

  While I stood there helplessly, Robbie disappeared through the doorway.

  C H A P T E R 5

  I stared at the deputy lying on the floor. He managed to hunch up to his hands and knees. Turning his head, he tossed me a scornful look. “You’d better get that son-of-a-bitch back here, O’Brien. It’s your ass. I’m not going down for this.” He swiped his hand across his cheek and looked at the blood. “Go! Damn it.”

  I raced to the courtroom door, grabbed the handle, then stopped. Robbie had a gun. He might be laying in wait for me. He could be lurking just outside in the hall, waiting for me to blindly follow him. I tossed a quick look back at the deputy.

  “Get going,” he shouted, as he struggled to his feet. “Follow him, but don’t get shot.”

  Yanking the door open, I stuck my head around the edge of the wall, ready to jerk it back at the first sight of a gun barrel pointed in my direction. Down the hall, I saw the stairwell door at the far end slam shut.

  “I’m going for help,” I heard the deputy shout behind me. “We’ll have to block the building’s entrances. It’s your fault, goddammit.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said more to myself than to the deputy as I shot though the doorway and made a beeline for the stairwell.

  Pausing cautiously for a second, I pulled on the stairwell door. Again, Robbie could be waiting, ready to send a Doubting Thomas like me to meet his maker. But I could wait no longer. I slipped tentatively through the opening, pressing my body tight against the cold, hard wall.

  “Robbie, it’s me. I want to help you.” I waited and listened, but heard only the sound of my heart thumping in my chest. “Anybody in here?”

  There was no response, just my voice echoing off the concrete walls, bouncing up and down the stairwell.

  I had to find him, and I had to find him fast.

  Closer to the steps, I quietly listened again. I heard no sound, no running footsteps on the stairs, nothing. He could have dashed to the next floor and charged out into the hallway there. He could be running around flashing the gun, scaring the hell out of everyone, or… he could have shot someone by now. There were a lot of heathens to choose from in the Criminal Courts Building, and I didn’t just mean the lawyers.

  If he went up, he couldn’t get out of the building. The cops would catch him sooner or later. I bolted down the steps, three at a time.

  I exited on the second floor, ran into the hall and took a quick look in both directions. Everything seemed normal. People going on about their business, no crazed gunman terrorizing the citizens.

  After charging down the next flights of stairs and running out into the hall, I stopped for an instant to catch my breath. I was on the ground floor, and again I glanced in all directions—no luck, he wasn’t there.

  Then I ducked into the snack bar and asked sever
al people if they had seen a guy wearing jailhouse whites. Nobody had. Damn, I mumbled and continued roaming the marble lined lobby. I asked an elderly lady, who had just emerged from one of the restrooms, if she saw Robbie. The woman had a feather boa wrapped around her neck, partially obscuring the undulating folds of flesh drooping there. With her elbows flapping, she gave me a haughty look and kept on walking, feathers flying.

  I heard a man’s raspy voice coming from somewhere down the main corridor. “Hey, buddy, you lookin’ for the dude in the white outfit?”

  I turned around. Nobody was there.

  “Psst, over here.”

  I turned again and saw a guy wearing dark glasses. He held a white cane while leaning against the wall. A tin pail rested at his feet. “Yeah, that’s right, me. Over here, Jake,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you know something?” I didn’t ask if he saw Robbie.

  “Costya a buck.”

  “For what?”

  “I saw him. The escaped con.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Sometimes I can see,” he said.

  “Nobody else saw him,” I said.

  “The good citizens thought he was a janitor. Ya’know, wearing the white coveralls. People don’t notice guys like that. Just ’cause he had L.A. County Jail plastered in big letters on his back don’t mean he mops up the jail.”

  “For chrissakes. Where’d he go?”

  “Costya a buck,” the blind pretender said again, louder.

  I ripped a dollar bill from my wallet. “Okay already, here’s a buck,” I said, flinging the bill into his pail. “Now what about my guy?”

  “He charged out of the stairway door,” he said with his boney finger pointing at the stairwell. “Then, he looked around for a couple of seconds, you know, like he didn’t know what to do…” his voice trailed off. He stared straight ahead, his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses.

  “Go on. Then what?”

  “Costya a buck,” he said, running the words together in a well-practiced manner.