“Judge, I want to discuss my client’s bail-”
“Bail denied. Now get the hell out of my courtroom.” He banged the gavel. “Court’s adjourned.”
He jumped up and bolted from the room. Any ideas I had about getting future favors from Johnson left the room with him.
The guards started to march my client back to the courthouse cell, where he would wait for the return bus to the central jail. I asked them to hold up for a moment.
“Ernesto, I’ll see you downtown tomorrow. In the meantime, I want you to think about everything you did on the day before you were arrested. Go over in your mind every second of that day. We need to fill in the blanks. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anybody. And I mean about anything.”
The guards pulled him away. In mid-step, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. “Su muerte no era a mi mano,” he said in a voice choked with emotion. She did not die by his hand.
Roberta walked hurriedly down the aisle toward the exit. I caught up with her just as she reached the rear of the courtroom. “I need to see you, go over the case, evidence, autopsy report, stuff like that,” I said.
“The judge was pretty hard on you just now. I won’t make it any harder.” She pushed the doors open. “I’m tied up the rest of the day and I’m due in court in the morning. You open for lunch tomorrow?”
I looked at her face and inhaled, exhaling slowly. “Where and when?”
“The Regency in Downey. Twelve-thirty?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take care of the reservations.”
“See you tomorrow.”
She rushed through the doors, down the hall, and glanced back at me. Did I imagine it? Or did she give me a warm smile before she disappeared around the corner?
C H A P T E R 5
I cruised east on Firestone Boulevard, drove over the Long Beach Freeway bridge and heading to my office, a two room storefront on Second Street in the neighboring city of Downey.
Rita Flores, my law clerk and secretary, worked at her cluttered desk in the outer office, which doubled as our lobby. Bills, junk mail, and personal mementos cluttered her desk. A small stuffed bear with a big red paper heart pinned to it rested close to the phone. Pictures of her mother and her boyfriend sat next to the bear along with a white rose from an anonymous admirer-the young salesman at the business next door. I didn’t know what the bear was all about.
“Hey, Rita, do me a favor. Call the Regency and make reservations, lunch tomorrow, booth for two.”
Rita, in her final year at Western States Law School, had been with me for six months. With her petite and shapely figure and innocent face, she appeared young and naive and acted a little ditzy at times. But Rita was bright, one of the few Hispanic women in the school, and the only one to graduate in the top ten percent of the class. She studied night and day and had taken the bar exam a month ago. The results would be published later in the year.
“Okay, Boss. Hey, you had a call while you were gone, told him you weren’t here.” She looked at me with a playful pout on her face. “But he wouldn’t leave a message.”
“That’s fine, Rita,” I said.
“Probably trying to sell you something. More insurance, maybe. For heaven’s sake, we can’t pay the bills now. I’m glad he hung up.”
Rita flashed me one of her winning smiles. She had dimples in her cheeks, and rich dark hair flowing softly to her shoulders. I never asked her about her age. I wouldn’t, and anyway the new employment rules disallowed asking personal questions. She looked nineteen, but she had to be at least twenty-three or twenty-four.
“Yeah, I’m glad too, Rita. But it might’ve been a client.” We paused, then shook our heads in unison.
“Nah,” we said.
I watched the swing of her hips as Rita turned and walked to her desk to call the restaurant. I hoped she passed the bar on her first try. Not many did, but if she passed, I figured she’d leave me afterward. I enjoyed her company, her youthful exuberance, and her full of life personality, but no way could I match the offers that would come her way. With corporate law, the pay and benefits would be excellent. Who knows, maybe someday she’d make partner and be a role model to other young Latinas. I moved into the other room, my office, and put on some coffee.
“Jimmy, the Regency wants to know what time you and your-Wait, are you taking a date?” Rita shouted from the other room. “Hey, good for you. Anyway, what time are you and your new girlfriend having lunch tomorrow?”
“It’s business! Tell them twelve-thirty.”
After she finished the call, Rita came into my office. “The coffee smells good. I’ll pour you a cup. Too bad about your date. You should find someone-”
“Rita!”
“Hey, you’re a good-looking guy. Don’t give up; someone will come along.”
I reached for the phone. Dialing, I said, “I’m not looking for anyone to come along. I want to get settled before I…never mind. Don’t you have some junk mail to file or something?”
Rita left. I took a sip of coffee and called Sol Silverman at Rocco’s Restaurant on Florence Ave. Sol, a licensed private investigator, information broker, and consummate horseplayer had been my friend since my days on the LAPD.
Although Sol had a full suite of offices upstairs in the same building as the restaurant, he conducted most of his business downstairs. He even had a private phone installed at his exclusive booth in the rear of the main dining area.
When he invited me to join him for lunch, I didn’t mention that I desperately needed his help with the Rodriguez murder case. Without Sol and his staff’s assistance, I didn’t stand a chance. His investigation and security company, the best in the business, commanded extraordinary fees. But, I’d drop a few hints while we ate and see if maybe he’d volunteer, pro bono.
Rocco’s long and narrow dining room, two steps up from the bar area, had red leather booths with white linen covering the tables. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, which cast the room in a dim glow. I walked in through the heavy, carved double doors. Andre, the maitre d’, escorted me to Sol’s booth.
Sol put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone he held. “Thanks, Andre,” he said and waved at me while continuing with his conversation.
A tall drink rested in front of him. Knowing Sol, I figured it had to be a Beefeater’s gin and tonic, his choice before sundown. In the evening, he switched to straight Beefeater’s on the rocks. Something about not really drinking during the day.
He hung up the phone and stood to greet me. Sol was actually taller sitting down than standing up. His chest and stomach were huge, but his legs were short and skinny. He had a large head perched directly on top of his torso without a noticeable neck. His crop of frazzled salt and pepper hair darted out in all directions. Most startling were his eyes: deep, dark and penetrating. They could bore right into your brain searching for some truth that might be in conflict with your words. He wore a ring with a diamond on his pinky, and a solid gold Rolex that looked like it weighed five pounds circled his wrist.
Sol bought his suits from Sy Devore in Hollywood. His tailor here in Downey altered them. Benny tried his best for Sol-marking, measuring, cutting the material, adjusting everything you could adjust, and sewing it all back together- but to no avail. Sol still looked like Omar the Tent Maker had fitted him, that is, if Omar made his tents out of worsted virgin wool with pinstripes.
He reached out and shook my hand. “Vos tut zich? How you doing, Jimmy?”
“Okay, Sol, I guess. Your luck still holding at the track?”
Sol had The Racing Form spread out on the table next to his drink. I didn’t know whether it was his ability as a handicapper or the inside information he had at his fingertips that financed his lavish lifestyle.