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. Yet 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?