JO03 - Detour to Murder (14 page)

C H A P T E R 
21

I got back in the
car and pulled onto 7
^th
Street. At the next light I glanced at the gas gauge—running on fumes. I shuddered a little thinking of what it would have meant if I’d run out of gas while driving Roberts to the Greyhound Terminal. I wheeled into a Richfield station, and while the attendants filled the tank and washed the windows, I made my way to a payphone booth.

I figured I might still be able to catch Millie at Judge Balford’s courtroom. If she was available I’d offer to take her out for a bite. At lunch, I’d smile a lot and try to get her to lighten up on me. I’d patiently explain how my brilliant legal strategy had actually paid off as planned. Oh, I may have ruffled a few feathers along the line, but I’d won my client’s freedom. I’d tell her how I righted a twenty-nine-year miscarriage of justice. In the end that’s what counted. I don’t see how she could turn me down after my explanation and not put my name back on the list of lawyers eligible to be assigned court-appointed cases.

Millie picked up on the second ring. “Jimmy, I called your office. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“About lunch?”

“What do you mean,
about lunch?”

“I thought we could grab a bite this afternoon. I know it’s a little late, but—”

“No, there’s no time for that. The judge wants to meet you in her chambers. Can you make it here today?”

“I guess so.”

“Hang on a sec.”

She put me on hold. Music played in my ear. Mantovani and his Orchestra, a thousand strings, playing a cover of the Beatles’ “Twist and Shout.” I wondered if the Beatles were pissed. I glanced at the gas station attendants working on my car while waiting for Millie to come back on the line. Maybe this was the break I’d been hoping for. Maybe Judge Balford heard about Roberts being released and wanted to make amends.

Millie came back on. “I checked with Judge Balford. Be here in an hour.”

Judge Balford, an attractive black woman in her late forties, sat at her desk, her head bent over a bowl of steaming soup as she inhaled the aroma swirling around her. It smelled great from where I stood. Minestrone, I thought.

She looked up. “Please be seated. I hope you don’t mind if I take my lunch while we have this discussion. With my schedule there’s no time to leave the building.”

“Not at all,” I said, sitting on the edge of a chair that faced her desk.

“Okay, we’ll get right to the point, and I’ll be frank. I wasn’t pleased with the phone call I received from Deputy Commissioner Schlereth regarding your deportment at the Roberts parole hearing.”

“I can explain, Your Honor. It was all part of my plan.” I glanced at Millie, sitting on the judge’s sofa with her legs crossed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She shook her head. “You see, Judge, there was a miscarriage of—”

“Please let me finish,” Judge Balford said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“As I started to say, in light of recent developments, I’ve decided to give you another chance. But let this be a warning; I’ll not tolerate any more of your shenanigans. You’ve crossed the line one too many times.” The judge paused and sipped a spoonful of soup.

I felt a sense of relief. I knew from the moment I woke up this morning that this was going to be my lucky day.
She’s putting me back on the list
.

“Thank you, Your Honor, from now on I’m—”

“I’m not finished.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll have Millie assign arraignments to you, but because of Deputy Commissioner Schlereth’s displeasure, I can’t give you any more parole hearings.”

“But, Judge, I won my client’s freedom. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Millie shot me a look that said,
Shut your trap, take the reprimand, and maybe you’ll wind up with some clients again.

“No offense, Mr. O’Brien, but I don’t think it happened that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was informed by the District Attorney’s Office this morning that due to the chronic overcrowded conditions in our correctional facilities, they’ve been testing a new program. The authorities have been reviewing the status of long-time lifers. If the inmates meet certain criteria, they will be scheduled for conditional parole, or even commutation. The District Attorney, along with other State agencies, has been working on this for quite some time. Alexander Roberts was the first test case.”

“Really,” I said. “If they were going to let him go anyway, why’d the DA’s office bother to send Deputy DA Marshall out to Chino? He vigorously protested my client’s parole.”

“At the time of his hearing the governor hadn’t been advised of the program. The District Attorney couldn’t go forward with the program until he had been so informed. The program is still in the testing phase. Naturally, they wouldn’t want any publicity at this point.”

“Naturally.”

Judge Balford tore a hunk of bread from a baguette and started to butter it. “So you see, Mr. O’Brien, you had nothing to do with Mr. Roberts’s release. The decision to grant him a conditional commutation was made prior to your involvement.”

“I see.”

“And your ranting about a new trial, new evidence, and all that nonsense upset everyone so much that it almost killed Roberts’s involvement in the program. He would have remained in prison if Joe Rinehart hadn’t personally intervened on his behalf. Your client owes a debt of gratitude to Mr. Rinehart.”

I remained silent but thought, how the hell was I supposed to know there was a deal in the works? If you ask me, I’d been used, nothing but a patsy. And the judge expected me to sit here and take this crap?

“I… understand,” I finally said.

“However, all that said, I’m still going to instruct Millie to place your name back on the attorney list.”

“Thank you.”

The judge put her spoon down and looked me in the eye. “I’m going to give you one more chance. But remember, sir, you’re on probation. One misstep and you will be permanently removed. Do not test my forbearance, Mr. O’Brien.”

“I won’t let you down, Judge.”

“I certainly hope not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for court.”

Millie escorted me to the door. As I was about to leave, she whispered, “Call me later this afternoon, Jimmy. I have a case for you.”

C H A P T E R 
22

Driving back to Downey I
sat in traffic and fumed, reflecting on the meeting with Balford. Sure, I was upset at the judge, but I was mostly angry with myself. I’d sat in her chambers and said nothing, not a peep, while she kept giving me verbal body slams. But she really pissed me off when she said that Roberts owed
Rinehart
a debt of gratitude. Christ Almighty. After I’d busted my ass working on the case, that remark went way over the top. She banged that one totally out of the park, and I just sat there and took it.
Owed the DA a debt of gratitude
. Damn! But I knew better than to mouth off. I needed the business.

I walked into the office. Mabel sat at her desk thumbing a stack of bills.

“Hey, guess what,” I said. “I talked Balford into putting me on the list again. Finally things are going to get back to normal.”

She remained focused on the papers, sorting through them. “We gotta do better than that.”

I noticed the open door to Rita’s office. “Where’s Rita? I don’t hear any Sinatra music.”

Mabel leaned back in her chair. “That’s over, thank God. She’s got her feet back on the ground. Found out she’d rather listen to Grand Funk Railroad… Don’t ask.”

I winced.

“But anyway, she’s out working on a case. One of those high muckamucks she met at the Reagan dinner dropped in. Seems he has a nephew who lives here in Downey. The kid’s been using his parents’ home sauna to grow marijuana. She’s arranging bail for him now. And look at this.” She pulled a check from the drawer and waved it in the air. “A five-hundred dollar retainer.”

“Hey, the dinner paid off after all.”

“I’ll run to the bank, deposit the check, then pay some of these bills.” Mabel placed her hand on the pile of invoices. “It’ll make a dent.”

I walked to the coffee pot and poured a cup.

“I take it you got Roberts to the Greyhound station on time,” she said to my back.

I took a sip and turned. “Yep, at this moment he’s on the Big Dog heading back to New York.” I glanced at the clock. “Probably out near Barstow by now.”

There were a couple of messages on my desk, appointments to be scheduled for later in the day and tomorrow. Only small misdemeanors, but I wasn’t complaining. I called both defendants and set the schedule. It felt good to be busy and especially good to have paying clients. I’ll admit it, I’d been worried. Bills came in on a regular basis, and when clients failed to materialize it could get scary.

I made up my mind to quit fretting about Balford’s unfair reprimand and just do my best without making waves. Coffee in hand, I walked to the window, took a sip, and looked out at the cars zooming along Lakewood Boulevard. It didn’t take a financial guru to know that the income from court-appointed cases is what kept the firm afloat. I couldn’t afford to be tossed off the list again. But I didn’t want to dwell on that.

I waited until four-thirty, after Balford’s court was adjourned, to call Millie. After pleasantries, I asked about the case that she’d mentioned earlier.

She responded in her normal squeaky voice. “That’s right. I’m giving you a new client. But hey, didn’t you say something about lunch when you called earlier?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. We’ll have to get together one of these days.”

“Okay, be here at the court tomorrow at nine. Your new client will be waiting, name’s Buddy Hicks. You can go over the details of his misdemeanor in the hallway before the morning arraignments start at nine-thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You’ll be finished with the arraignment in time to take me to lunch.”

“Sure, why not? Burger King sound good?”

“I’m thinking the Regency, great steaks. Hey, the wine list isn’t bad either.”

Ouch. “The
Regency?”

“I’m kidding, Jimmy. I know things are tight. Burger King is fine.”

“Thanks, Millie. You’re one of a kind. See you tomorrow.”

The next morning at nine on the dot, I met with my new client. We sat on a bench outside Judge Balford’s courtroom.

Buddy Hicks was a tall kid about eighteen years old with shaggy blond hair, long in the back. He wore his Hawaiian shirt out over a pair of denims a size too big. He looked as if he were headed to the beach rather than a court of law.

I quickly glanced at the complaint filed against him. I’d picked up his dossier on the way in from the DA’s office, located down the hall.

“It says here you dumped, disposed of, or otherwise caused a certain toxic substance to be deposited on a public thoroughfare, endangering the lives and property of others.”

“A lousy gallon of chlorine. I have a pool service route and it fell out of my truck.”

“I see—”

“I don’t think I’d better talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I got no money.”

“So?”

“How much do you charge per hour?”

“A buck three eighty.”

“Huh?”

“Buddy, don’t you know the county’s picking up the tab? Now let’s get down to business.”

“Hey, that’s bitchin’. How long do I have to hang around here?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here if it takes a hundred years.” A little lawyer humor.

“Huh?”

“Listen, Buddy. The Environment Protection Agency is trying to make an example of you. They can’t go after the big polluters, the giant chemical companies, too much clout. So they pick on small fry, guys like you. It’s my guess they’ll have photographers show up any minute. Good PR, a guy gets tossed in the slam for polluting the environment. People will cheer. But I have a plan—”

I heard a voice off to my left. “That’s him,” some guy said.

I turned and saw two men, a big one wearing a brown sports coat and a pipsqueak in a three-piece suit, walking toward us. Pipsqueak was pointing at me.

The big guy flashed a badge. “I’m Sergeant Clay Farrell, LAPD. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. O’Brien.”

“What is this? I’m in conference with my client.” I thought I’d paid the traffic ticket I got three months ago. But then I remembered: it was still in the kitchen drawer. “If there’s a problem, Sergeant, it’ll have to wait. We’re due in court at nine-thirty.”

It took a moment to register that they wouldn’t send a detective sergeant to serve notice on an unpaid traffic violation. By the time I realized this, the cop had already jumped in.

“I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got no client and you’re not going to court today.” The cop indicated the pipsqueak. “Mr. Anthony from the Public Defender’s office is going to represent the defendant. Balford’s pulling you off the detail.”

“What the hell…?”

The cop turned to Buddy. “Kid, go with the PD. He’ll take care of you. Mr. O’Brien is, shall we say, indisposed.”

“For chrissakes, what’s going on?” I said, watching my client walk away with the pipsqueak.

“C’mon, let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”

“Look, Sergeant, I’m not going anywhere, and I asked you before, what… is… this… all… about?” I said it slowly so he could understand.

“It’s about a homicide, Mr. O’Brien. Now, I’d like you to take a ride with me to Parker Center.”

My heart stopped. “What? Who got killed?”

“An old lady by the name of Hathaway. Owned a motel out by Griffith Park called Dink’s Hollywood Oasis.”

Jesus H. Christ, Mrs. Hathaway—dead? My mind spun. But why would the cops want to question me? They must know that I met with her, checking on Vera. They’d interview anyone who had recent contact with the deceased. But why would anyone want to kill a harmless old lady? A robbery, maybe? Or was it something else?

I bit my tongue, played it cool. I didn’t want to overreact and give the wrong impression that I was somehow involved. “What was it? A robbery, mugging, something like that?”

“We don’t think so.”

“Then why was she killed?”

“The lieutenant in charge will clue you in. Let’s go.”

“Did they catch the killer?”

The cop said nothing. He just looked at me.

“Wait a minute. Am I a suspect?”

“No, nothing like that. The lieutenant just wants to ask you a few routine questions.”

“Why me, then? What do I have to do with this?”

“Hathaway was gunned down by one of your clients. A guy named Al Roberts.”

Oh, my God! Why would they think he killed her? If he’s a suspect, I realized they must have some kind of evidence to back up their suspicion. But, if they thought Roberts did it, then—at best—they’d figure I didn’t take him straight to the bus station as agreed. At worst, they’d think I was involved.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “He’s on a bus heading to New York. I took him to the Greyhound terminal myself yesterday morning.”

“We checked. Called the Greyhound rest-stop station in Tucumcari.”

“Yeah?”

“Roberts never got on the bus.”