JO01 - Guilty or Else (18 page)

At ten thirty-five Wednesday morning, the King Air finally touched down. Walking into the single airline passenger terminal, I noticed a sign welcoming visitors to the “Little Apple.” It said that Manhattan, Kansas was the birthplace of the writer Damon Runyon. I remembered a line immortalized by one of Runyon’s outrageous characters that roamed Broadway in the big Manhattan. “I long ago came to the conclusion that all of life is six to five against.”

At this point, I would be happy with those odds.

After I signed the forms and got the keys to the Ford Falcon that Rita had reserved for me, I found a pay phone.

With the time difference, it was early in L.A. I hoped I might be able to catch Bobbi in her office before she went to court. I charged the call to my home phone. The switchboard put me through.

“Allen speaking,” she said in a soft and pleasant voice.

“Hi, this is O’Brien. I’m calling from Manhattan.”

“Jimmy, what are you doing in New York?”

“Manhattan, Kansas. It’s just like New York only smaller,” I said.

“Great shows and all that?”

“Yeah, they’re terrific, the Quilting Bee was sold out, but I got a ticket to Maude Pricket’s recital on the pleasures of pea picking. Wish you were here.”

After a brief moment of silence, she said, “Me too.”

I became more serious. “You’d like to be in Kansas with me?”

“Well, perhaps not Kansas on our first date, but maybe dinner and a movie somewhere.” Her voice sounded light and slightly flirtatious.

“You’d go out with me? Dinner and a movie?” The thought of being on a date with Bobbi had my mind reeling.

“I think you’re a nice guy. I’d enjoy going out with you occasionally—provided we could separate our professional lives from our personal. Erect a Chinese wall, so to speak.”

“We could do that.”

“It might not be that easy. I’ve been promoted. I’m now a member of the Serious Crimes Sector. The SCS handles capital murders and other major crimes. That means I’ll be the lead prosecutor on the Rodriguez case. We’d have to wait until the case is closed, of course.”

“Congratulations on the promotion. You deserve it. But hey, the case could go on for a long time, months, maybe.”

“Let me explain something. You have time?”

“Sure.”

“Being a woman and having a career in what some asinine people believe is solely a man’s profession, has had its difficulties. My new supervisor is also a woman and by promoting me, she’s going out on a limb.”

“I can imagine that it hasn’t been easy, and I think your boss has made an intelligent decision.” I didn’t want to be the cause of any setbacks in Bobbi’s career, but I wanted to see more of her. “We could build that Chinese wall, as you call it. We could keep work out of our social life.”

“Jimmy, it goes without saying that I trust you. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but it’s just the appearance that could cause trouble,” she said. “Not to mention, I’m working very hard to put your client away.”

“I’m working hard too, but I know we’ll be fair and honest with each other. You’re the only prosecutor that I know of who isn’t in it just to rack up convictions.”

“If we could keep our professional lives separate, I think we could work in a date or two after the trial without compromising our careers. That is, if you still want to take me out after I mangle you in court.”

“I’d love to go out with you,” I said with sincerity. I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback for the mangle comment, but perhaps this wasn’t the time for it anyway.

“Bye, Jimmy. Call me when you’re back in L.A.” She started to hang up.

“Wait! I have to talk some business with you. That’s why I called. Bobbi, are you there?”

There was a strained silence on the line, just the crackling static of the long distance wires. She answered at last: “You mean you didn’t call just to ask me out?” I could almost hear the smile on her face.

“Of course that’s why I called you from a hot, sweaty payphone in the middle of Kansas, but seeing as how you’re on the line, we may as well discuss the case. Then these outrageous toll charges will be tax deductible. Clever, huh?”

“And I just got through saying such nice things about your ethics. Go ahead; I’ll be your tax dodge.”

“Remember when you said if I could show that Welch was in town at the time as the murder, you’d reopen the case?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said with more than a little skepticism in her voice.

I told her about the extra flight time on the jet, exactly the number of hours needed for a round trip to Sacramento, the hidden Hobbs Meter, the failure to log the time, and the missing pilot. “So, Bobbi, someone came back Saturday and whoever it was tried to cover up the flight. What do you think?”

“Now that is something significant. Hold on a minute.”

While waiting for Bobbi to return, I glanced through the terminal plate-glass window overlooking the runway. A small twin-engine airplane had landed and two middle-aged guys dressed as cowboys got out and strode through the terminal, headed for the café.

I’d missed breakfast, and the thought of eggs and bacon sizzling in a pan made me hungrier than I already was. The only thing they’d served on the plane had been a small bag of stale peanuts. In first class they probably had a suckling pig roasting on a spit with dancing girls slicing off morsels and popping them in the passengers’ mouths between sips of their Dom Pérignon Champagne.

“I’m sorry for the delay, Jimmy. I had to make a call on the other line.”

“Did you think over what I said?”

“It’s not enough to re-open the case, but I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. I’ve just talked to Detective Hodges, South Gate PD. I’ve asked him to follow up on the Hobbs Meter thing. If it pans out, we’ll make further inquiries. We’ll look for the pilot.”

I didn’t like getting the cops involved, especially after what Big Jake had said. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of tipping my hand to the other side. But I had to trust her. It was the only hope Rodriguez had. “Fischer is the key, Bobbi. He knows who murdered Graham.”

“We’ll see. Do you have anything else?”

Although I trusted her, I’d already told her enough. I didn’t tell her my office was tossed, and that the only thing stolen was the Rodriguez file, or about the threats. “That’s about it,” I said.

“You’re in Kansas. Are you going to be back in time for the hearing tomorrow?”

“Sure, I’m flying home tonight.”

“The hearing starts at ten-thirty. Let’s meet in the courtroom at nine-thirty. We can go over everything then. I won’t promise you anything, but if what you told me checks out, I’ll recommend bail and ask for a continuance on the hearing, and we’ll investigate further. Does that sound fair?”

I tried not to show my excitement. “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. And, Jimmy…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget, the Chinese wall.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

We said goodbye again. I hung up, and walked on clouds to the airport café.

While eating, I unfolded the map from Avis. Bonnie Munson lived on a farm somewhere twelve miles northeast of Manhattan.

I tried to plot my route but couldn’t figure it out, so I asked the waitress for help. She said something like: Take Highway 113 through town. Then turn off on a dirt road somewhere, go past a red manure-spreader and after a while, look for a mailbox with the Munson name painted on it.

What did a manure-spreader look like? I wondered.

C H A P T E R 
27

I had second thoughts. Maybe
it was actually being here in Kansas, the land of good manners and courtesy, that changed my mind. I decided I wouldn’t just barge in on Bonnie Munson. I’d call her first to let her know I was on my way to see her. If she said no, stay away, then I’d barge in on her.

I went back to the same payphone and dialed her number. When she answered, I told her who I was. At first, she said that she wouldn’t talk to me about Gloria. I explained that I wouldn’t take much of her time. I just wanted to go over a few details concerning the comments she’d made to Sol and his men. When she heard that I’d flown all the way from California just to meet with her, Bonnie’s Midwest hospitality kicked in. With a slight hesitation in her voice, she agreed to see me.

After missing a few turns and backtracking a bit, I spotted the remains of derelict piece of farm equipment leaning on the side of Highway 113.

“Is that a manure-spreader?” I asked the farmer standing near the rusty hulk.

He peered at me sideways through a squinted eye. “Nah, it’s an old combine. Why?”

“I need some help,” I said glancing at the note in my hand with the waitress’s directions scribbled on it. “I need to find a manure-spreader. You see, I’m a lawyer—”

“That so? Well, then I can see why you’d need one.”

Kansas humor, no doubt. “Uh, do you know how to get to the Munson farm?”

The old guy pointed to a farmhouse about a hundred yards down the road.

The house, a small, well-maintained white wooden structure with a cupola on top, stood far back from the road, nestled among some tall trees. A wood-rail fence enclosed the green lawn and flowerbeds that surrounded the home. Vegetables flourished off to the side in a small garden.

After parking the Falcon next to an olive green John Deere tractor, I climbed out of the car. Two Labrador retrievers bounded over and loped around me, their tails going a mile a minute. They threw a few barks my way. I jumped back, “Jesus,” I exclaimed.

“Johann. Sebastian. Leave the man alone. You know better, now go away.”

I shifted my attention from the dogs to the woman standing in the doorway of the house. She had on a sleeveless blouse and tight fitting jeans that flattered her impressive figure. By Los Angeles standards, she’d probably be considered overweight, but by Kansas standards, I imagined that she was just about perfect. If it were a contest, I’d vote for the Kansas standards.

“Don’t worry; their Bach is worse than their bite.” More Kansas humor. She walked over and stuck out her hand.

“You must be Bonnie Munson,” I said.

“Yes, and you must be Mr. O’Brien.”

She invited me into the house, where the yeasty aroma of fresh-baked bread enveloped me like a warm blanket. The cozy smell was in keeping with the unpretentious décor of the home. Being there gave me a sense of security and peacefulness that I never felt in the city. I followed Bonnie into the kitchen. The table was set for three.

“My husband, Jack, will be here shortly. I phoned him at work and told him you were coming. He suggested inviting you to have dinner with us.”

I glanced at my watch: twelve-thirty. “I’d love to, Bonnie, but I have to be back at the airport by five.”

Her smile flickered for a moment. “Oh, dinner is our mid-day meal. We have supper in the evening.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.”

“I’ll finish setting the table.” She pointed to a door. “You can wash up in there.”

I finished washing my face and hands and returned to the kitchen. Jack had just arrived. He stood six feet tall, had a sturdy build, a ruddy complexion, and red, thick hair. We shook hands. His grip was strong. His hands were callused like a man who spent his life doing physical labor.

As anxious as I was to find out what Jack and Bonnie knew that might help my client, I felt I’d have to go slow. Jack said we would talk after dinner and I didn’t push it.

We sat at the table. Bonnie and Jack rested their folded hands on the edge. I waited. They looked at each other and nodded. Bonnie bowed her head and Jack glanced at me. “Mr. O’Brien, we say grace before meals. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I followed suit.

“Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the food we are about to receive and we beseech you to bless our home, our family, and the visitor from California who is with us today. We beg thee to protect us from the evil that befell your servant, Gloria. And please grant courage and hope to the man who is wrongly accused of her murder. Amen.”

I snapped my head up. Jack nodded. “Yes, Mr. O’Brien, we know he’s innocent. Your client didn’t murder Gloria.”

C H A P T E R 
28

After we finished the meal,
I offered to help with the dishes, but Jack said the dishes could wait. We all moved into the living room. Bonnie sat in a straight-backed antique chair next to an upright piano. Jack eased into an old overstuffed armchair, then reached for his pipe resting on an end table.

He filled the bowl with tobacco, tamped it down, and lit it with a lighter he held at an angle. Bonnie coughed and waved her hands slightly. Jack pretended not to notice. I sat on one end of a blue davenport. As I sank into it, I wondered if I would ever be able to get up again.

“Do you want to ask questions or shall we just tell you what we know about Gloria?” Jack asked.

“I’ll ask questions later, if that’s all right.”

“Bonnie, go ahead and tell him. And, honey, tell Mr.

O’Brien everything.”

“Everything?” Bonnie asked with a concerned look on her face.

“Yes, just as we discussed on the phone. Bonnie, we knew someday it’d have to come out. We can’t keep the truth locked up when a man is in prison. It’s time to clear our conscience.”

Bonnie took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned to me. “Gloria and I were very close, best friends all the way through school.” She stood and went to a framed photograph resting on the piano. “Come here please, Mr. O’Brien.”

She handed me the picture. I stared at a teenage girl dressed in a cheerleader outfit, a pretty girl. Her eyes were alive and sparkling, not at all like the eyes that stared back at me from the crime scene photos.

“Gloria and I were cheerleaders,” Bonnie said. “That’s how Jack and I got together. Jack was the Tigers’ quarterback, the team captain. Oh, he was handsome—”

“Bonnie,” Jack said, “just talk about Gloria, not me. Okay?”

“Yes, dear, of course.” She replaced the photograph and moved back to her chair. “Gloria was not only pretty, but smart.” Bonnie paused, struggling to keep her emotions under control. “She loved history and politics, wanted a career in that field, thought she could make a difference. She graduated and won a full scholarship to UCLA.”