“My spies are your spies.”
“See if you can find out what Webster’s up to.” As I asked for Sol’s help, I wondered if there was anything in the canons of legal ethics about using paid informants to spy on the D.A. I supposed there probably was, but I was getting nervous with the deadline and all. “Can you get a copy of the guard’s statement? Find out if Webster has enough to file a complaint?”
“Of course, my boy, but you knew that. In the meantime, I suggest you turn your daily work, your caseload, over to sweet little Rita.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t want her as your lawyer, but she can help. She can free you up so you can concentrate on getting out from under this mess. And, Jimmy,” he reached across the table and patted my arm, “if the time comes when you need a lawyer, don’t worry, I’ll get you Morty.”
Sol had powerful friends. I wondered if he was referring to Morton Zuckerman, the highest-priced criminal defense attorney on the coast. “Morty who?”
“Morty, my wife’s nephew.” Sol slowly shook his head. Then he looked up. “Hey, Morty’s not a nitwit. He just needs a client to show what he can do.”
So much for Zuckerman. I didn’t want him anyway. Rita was my lawyer. “Yeah, thanks, Sol.”
“Good. But what about Rita? Can she handle your caseload?”
There was no use explaining to Sol that Rita handling my clients wouldn’t be a problem. I only had one. And who knew if he’d be back-unless he liked Mabel’s coffee, that is. But Sol was right. I needed to keep my mind free until this thing was behind me, and I knew Rita could act as my lawyer and still handle my day-to-day duties without breaking a sweat.
“Yeah, good idea, Sol. I think she might be able to handle my caseload. Of course, if she gets bogged down or needs my advice, I can always help. But you’re right. I’ve got to get myself out of this mess.”
I left Rocco’s feeling optimistic. I knew with Sol’s help we’d find Robbie. In spite of all of his oddball characteristics, Sol was the best.
When I arrived back at the office, Mabel reminded me that Rita had a trial appearance in West L.A regarding her client, Geoff. She wasn’t expected to return for the remainder of the day.
I walked into my office, sipped coffee, and gazed out the window watching the line of the cars turn into Stonewood Shopping Center. Must be a big sale at the Broadway. Life goes on, I guess.
I needed to see Rita to explain the transfer of my workload, my one client. Big deal, a nothing case. The guy was charged with credit card fraud. She’d cut a deal, have the guy promise to pay back his debt, and they’d drop the charges. No sweat.
It was well after seven when I got up from my desk ready to leave the office. Rita hadn’t returned, but I hadn’t expected her to. That’s okay. I’d catch her tomorrow.
I lived close by, and at that time of night there wouldn’t be much traffic. The drive home took less than five minutes. I had a nice two-bedroom apartment on Cecilia Street. I needed a spot where I could relax and unwind at the end of the day, so I had converted the second bedroom into a study. A hardback chair stood in the center, a guitar leaning next to it. That’s all, just the guitar and the chair. I didn’t like things cluttering up my life.
Tonight, I figured I’d soak in the tub, forget about my problems, and maybe practice the guitar, a Beatles number I was working on: “Let it Be.” I wasn’t sure; I thought John Lennon had performed the song on the sixties hit record, but a beautiful girl I had met at Rocco’s one night told me the singer wasn’t Lennon but McCartney. Though convincing, she was probably wrong. I wanted to ask her out, but she was from out of state, just visiting a friend. And besides, she was engaged; at least that’s what she’d said. She may have been wrong about that too.
I made the turn onto Cecilia.
“Oh, Christ, what now?” I exclaimed. My apartment door was open. I saw the flashing lights of several squad cars parked haphazardly at the curb.
CHAPTER 10
I parked, vaulted the stairway three steps at a time, and rushed to my apartment on the second floor. Cops were all over the place. Hammer and Butch Something were in the living room. Hammer directed a couple of Downey cops who were getting ready to search the living room. Butch was braced in the corner by the TV, smoking a cigarette.
“You got the warrant, I guess,” I said to Hammer.
“Yeah, want to see it?” He removed the document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.
I took a quick glance: a no-knock search warrant signed by Judge Frisco. This meant they didn’t need a whole lot of compelling evidence to get the warrant. Frisco, an ex-D.A., was known for being a law-and-order judge. He’d sign anything the cops set before him.
The police had the right to search my home looking for my gun and-if found-the warrant allowed them to seize it. A no-knock warrant meant they could walk right in, bust down the door if necessary, and tear the place apart. To get a no-knock warrant, the police would normally have to provide an affidavit certifying that they were afraid the evidence was in imminent danger of disappearing. I doubted they even told Frisco what they were looking for. They filled in the blanks, and he signed it. Why didn’t he just give them a rubber stamp with his signature? Maybe he did.
“You can save yourself a lot of grief, O’Brien, if you tell us where it is.”
The law stated I couldn’t interfere with the search, but it also said I had the right to keep my mouth shut and not say anything that would aid them. But if I didn’t tell them where the gun was, they’d continue ripping my place apart.
“We found your gun kit and some bullets in the closet next to a cowboy hat,” he said, “But no gun.”
“I was going to ask about the hat,” Butch Something piped up from the corner. “You some kind of cowboy, O’Brien?” He flashed a lewd smirk. “Like to ride ’em bareback?”
I ignored Something’s remark and started for the bedroom.
Ducking my head in, I almost gagged. Everything in the room was in shambles, mattress torn apart, all my clothes scattered on the floor, drawers pulled out and flung around the room.
I stood stock still, shocked to the point of paralysis. Then the rage started to build like pressure in an old boiler. All of a sudden, I lost it. I lurched at Hammer; the two uniforms jumped in and grabbed me before I could get to him. “You son-of-a-bitch, you’re going too far!”
“Cough up the weapon, and we won’t search the rest of the premises.”
I read the threat and struggled to get free of the two big cops that were latched onto my arms. “Goddammit, let go of me.”
Butch ground his cigarette butt on my carpet. “Interfering with a lawful search pursuant to a warrant is a crime.”
“Shut up, Butch,” Hammer snapped. “He’s a lawyer. He knows the law.” Then he said to me, “If you don’t behave, O’Brien, I’ll hook you up.”
I kept quiet, the anger burning inside.
“Let him go,” Hammer told the uniforms. “Now, damn it, O’Brien, where’s the gun? Where did you hide it?”
“I didn’t hide it. It’s at the office.”
“I think it’s here. Or maybe you hid it somewhere. If you don’t cough it up, we’re going to search this place from top to bottom.” Hammer scowled. “We won’t be so neat and tidy this time.”
They were using the gun excuse to go through my living quarters with a scorched-earth vengeance. The warrant only gave them the right to look for my gun, but if they found something else they could use it against me as well. They’d find nothing-but my place would be a shambles. “Hammer, if I was going to hide my gun, do you think I’d be stupid enough to hide it here? Look,” I said, “just cool your heels. I’ll go to the office and get the gun. I’ll bring it right back.”
“Better hurry.”
I heard a ripping sound, and turned. One of the cops was tearing the back off my sofa. “Hey, knock it off. That’s a brand new sofa. Cost me fifty bucks.” I spun around. “Goddammit, Hammer, tell your storm troopers to back off.”