“Luck has nothing to do with it, dear boychik. Genius, sheer genius, that’s why I win.” He slid into the booth. “Sit down and tell me what’s up.”
“Sol, I need some help.” No use playing games. I decided to come right out and ask.
“Money, you need money?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short stack of hundred-dollar bills.
“Here, take what you need, pay me back when you get the chance.”
The fantasy of catching up on some past due bills, or maybe picking up a new suit flashed through my mind, then just as quickly disappeared. I’d never ask to borrow money, and I knew he wouldn’t turn me down if I did. But now I had to ask him to help me professionally, without pay, which was just as hard for me. Maybe harder.
“Thanks for the offer, Sol. You’re a good friend, but what I really need is your help with a case I have to defend.”
He gave me a knowing smile. “I heard about it. Got in a brawl with Johnson. Took on a murder case. Chutzpah, Jimmy. You’ve got chutzpah, I’ll say that.”
Before I could respond, one of Rocco’s long-legged waitresses waltzed over to take our order. We both asked for steak sandwiches, coffee with mine, an extra order of deep fried onion rings for Sol.
“You heard about it already?”
“My spies tell me everything. You should have such spies.” Sol had his spies everywhere-not spies in the traditional sense like the CIA or James Bond, but more like a loose network of informants in the right places.
Background people were his spies-secretaries, clerks, janitors, typists, and at the courts, maybe the court reporter, a clerk or two, and a few bailiffs. His spies worked at City Hall, the D.A.’s office, restaurants, and bars. Waitresses, bartenders, and receptionists in public buildings fed Sol a continuous stream of intelligence. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory.
“Will you help me, Sol?” I laid it on the line, waited, and held my breath.
He pulled a gold pen from his pocket and looked down, saying nothing. I watched him mark his Racing Form, drawing little circles and underlining words that must have been important. After a few seconds, he raised his head and picked up the phone. “Please forgive me,” Sol said. “We’ll talk, but important business first. I’m gonna put a nickel on the daily double.”
Sol placed a call to Dwayne, the bartender at the Regency, who held the dubious honor of being Sol’s favorite bookmaker. Sol placed his bet-five thousand on the daily double at Del Mar.
Long Legs brought our food. While we ate, I didn’t mention the murder case. Sol’s rule number 47: no business while food was on the table. We talked about the horses, then college football. Sol said USC would go undefeated this year. With Anthony Davis and Sam ‘Bam’ Cunningham, John McKay’s team couldn’t lose. I told him not to bet on it. He said he already had.
“Now to Jimmy’s tsores,” Sol finally said after the busboy removed the dishes, and the waitress brought him another drink and refreshed my coffee. “If I help you with this case, is your client worth the effort? Did he kill the girl?”
A fair question. Why would he help me set a murderer free? He deserved a candid and straightforward answer. “I don’t know. He says he’s innocent, but the evidence against him is solid.” I placed my hands on the table, palms down. “Even if he did it, I’m still morally and, in fact, legally bound to provide the best possible defense. There might be mitigating circumstances or other factors that need to be explored.” I paused and looked into his eyes. I wanted Sol to understand how I felt. “Then again, maybe he didn’t do it. But if I don’t do my best, Rodriguez will die in the gas chamber.”
Sol listened while sipping his drink. “Reasons. Do you have reasons to think he might be innocent? You have evidence on your side?”
“No, and he’s been violent in the past, a bar fight. He’s not talking other than to declare his innocence. But I’m worried. I’m not sure he’s guilty, at least guilty in the first degree. I have a feeling inside me that won’t go away.”
“Can you win cases with feelings, Jimmy? I don’t think so. This sounds like one of those there’s-no-evidence-so-pound-the-table defenses.”
“Sol, there’s a couple of things that just aren’t kosher. How could the cops have known about Rodriguez so fast? What turned them on to him? They just showed up at the break of dawn and arrested him. Another thing: why is Johnson in such a rush to close the case?”
“Why is that important? If they get him to plead, the case is over.”
“Seems to me, if the D.A. feels that they have an open and shut case, they don’t have to bargain. They’d know that they’d win in a heartbeat.”
“Ah, maybe you’re reading too much into that. Maybe Johnson just wants to take the easy way out.”
Our discussion continued for quite some time. I told Sol all the facts I had so far, including my upcoming meeting with Roberta Allen, the deputy D.A. He asked a lot of questions. And I answered, yes, no, or mostly, I don’t know. I explained my defense plan. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I wouldn’t stand a chance unless I developed an alternate theory of the crime. Meaning, I had to come up with one or more suspects who could have murdered Gloria Graham, a basis for reasonable doubt.
“I’m a gambler, Jimmy, and I know a long shot when I hear one,” Sol said. “And besides, maybe your client’s guilty.”
“I’m his lawyer, guilty or not.” I paused and looked into Sol’s eyes. “I need your help.”
He shook his head. “Oy vai iz mir,” he moaned, and then exhaled in an exaggerated fashion. “Of course I’ll help. Have I ever turned you down?”
“I’ve never asked before.”
“So, that’s my fault?”
I chuckled and drew up a contract of sorts on the back of a cocktail napkin. I paid him a dollar for his services. With that, he would be covered under the attorney-client privilege and attorney work-product doctrine.
On his way out, Sol handed the dollar to the busboy.
C H A P T E R 6
The air conditioner in my Corvette rattled once, then quit as I inched along on the Santa Ana Freeway. The radio played a Beatles number, “Twist and Shout.” I didn’t twist, but I shouted, and it felt good. In the lane next to me, a Peterbilt truck belched heavy black smoke. All at once, it made a gear-grinding spasm and lurched forward to close a two-foot gap that opened behind a pink Caddie convertible driven by a bleached blonde lady with grotesque makeup.
The drive to the new Los Angeles County Jail, in downtown L.A., would take over an hour.
The rain vanished and now threatened to be another hot and smoggy day. The eight A.M. newsbreak predicted a stage-three air quality alert over the entire area except, of course, for the Palos Verdes Peninsula. The smog knew better; Palos Verdes had an ordinance against that sort of thing.
I circled the jail parking lot, looking for a place to park. No luck. But I found a spot on Vignes Street, two blocks away. I trudged up the small rise and entered the building at the visitors’ sign-in door. I walked through a chain-link gate and into a small hall. The gate behind me closed, and the one in front of me opened with a buzzing click. At the counter, I presented my attorney’s bar card and driver’s license to the deputy in charge.
“I’m here to confer with my client, Ernesto Rodriguez,” I said as I signed the logbook anchored to the counter’s shelf. “I’m his lawyer.”
The deputy looked at my credentials, raised his head, and studied me for a moment. “Here,” he said as he tore a page from a pad and handed it to me. “Fill this out.” He pointed to an uncomfortable looking hardwood bench that ran the length of the wall across from the counter. “We’ll call you when we take the prisoner to the conference room. You can talk to him there.”
I perched on the narrow ledge, crossed my legs, and used my briefcase as a desk to fill in the blanks on the Visitor’s Interview Request form. A few minutes later, I gave it back to the guard. Ten minutes after that, an unarmed deputy sheriff approached me. “Are you O’Brien, the lawyer here to see Rodriguez?”