“Whoever offed the old broad was a crack shot. They planted the slug dead center in her forehead.” Hammer paused for a moment. “We checked your record. When you were on the job, you qualified as a sharpshooter on the range.”
“C’mon, Sarge. You know anyone who could squeeze the trigger qualified.”
“Give it up, O’Brien. If your gun’s not the murder weapon, you’re off the hook. See, we’re on your side,” he said, tossing out the remark to his partner. “Aren’t we, Butch?”
“Yeah, we’re on his side. But if he doesn’t cough up the weapon, we’re gonna be on his bad side,” Butch Something said.
“You gonna turn the weapon over voluntarily, or do we have to get a warrant?” Hammer asked without rancor. “We got probable cause.”
Again, I found myself in that phase of a tense negotiation where there was a lot of staring going on. I stared at him and he stared at me. But I really didn’t have any major concerns about letting the cops have my gun. After all, my.38 wasn’t the murder weapon. However, being a criminal lawyer, I knew that sort of thing just wasn’t done. What kind of an example would I set, caving in to the cops like that after telling my clients to clam up when dealing with them? I’d be the laughingstock of the Criminal Lawyer’s Don’t-Answer-That Society.
I kept the revolver in my top desk drawer here in the office, but I kept the gun’s cleaning kit and a box of bullets in the bedroom closet, top shelf, at my apartment. I brought the weapon to my office after receiving a telephone threat on my life concerning an old case. The man who’d made the threat won’t be making any more nasty calls. Let’s just say that his phone has since been permanently disconnected.
And now I wasn’t about to give up the revolver. If the cops wanted my gun, they’d have to get their warrant.
All three of us turned when we heard the door bang open. Rita marched in.
“Hey, what’s going on?” she asked. “You guys questioning my client without me being present? That’s against the rules. Now, get out.”
Hammer cast a sidelong glance at Rita as she swept toward us wearing a bellbottom pantsuit with a delightful sweater vest, her breasts stretching the fabric in a tantalizing way.
“Missy, I knew you were going to be trouble from the jump,” he said.
“Move it, big boy,” she responded.
The cops, knowing they were going to get nothing more, and now that the odds were even-two against two, lawyers versus cops-they turned to leave. But before they did, I had to find out what Hammer meant when he said they had probable cause. “Hold it,” I called out.
Hammer shrugged. “Yeah, what?”
“Shut up, Jimmy,” Rita said.
Rita reacted as any good criminal lawyer would have, but she had only been a member of the bar for about a month with one small case under her belt. I had been a lawyer for a couple of years now with several cases. I had concerns. I didn’t know if she had what it took to handle a thing this heavy.
“Rita,” I said. “Hold on a minute. I want to talk to these guys.”
“Let me handle this. I’m your lawyer.” She turned to the cops. “You guys still here? Take a hike.”
“Goddammit, make up your mind,” Hammer said. “You wanna cooperate, or not?”
Rita and I silently stared at each other. Abraham Lincoln’s moldy adage flashed through my mind: “A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client and a fool for a lawyer.” There was no doubt I was in trouble and I needed a lawyer. Oh, did I need a lawyer. I studied Rita’s face; she seemed awful young to be a top-notch attorney.
Rita peered at me out of the corner of her eye, waiting.
I turned to the cops. “You heard my lawyer. I’m through talking.”
“It’s your funeral, O’Brien. C’mon, Butch, let’s go get that warrant.”
I knew I would feel more secure with some weathered old guy acting as my attorney, an experienced trial lawyer with a golden tongue and a bear trap mind. A guy like Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution. Rita did not look like Charles Laughton.
“Rita,” I said, “I’m thrilled that you’re my lawyer. What’s next?”
“Before this thing gets totally out of control,” she said, “we need a plan.”
CHAPTER 8
“Let me have a crack at it,” Rita said, walking to my office window and glancing down at the traffic rushing by on Lakewood. When she turned back, her face was solemn, her eyes focused and sharp.
“Jimmy, I want to be your lawyer. I’ll do anything. I’ll do everything with every fiber of my being to get you out of this mess.”
“I know you will,” I said and I meant it. But will that be enough?
She and I discussed my situation for about an hour more before we realized that the day had slipped away. We were both getting hungry. Each of us had skipped lunch, Rita working a DUI with her perennial drunk, a client named Geoff, while I was stuck behind the cement truck on the Santa Ana Freeway. We decided to grab a bite somewhere and continue the discussion.
I discovered Rita loved pizza with anchovies as much as I did. “So, Luigi’s, here we come,” I said as we hopped in my car.
Luigi’s Italian Deli was located a few minutes from the office on Paramount Boulevard in Downey, but when we walked in, we could have been entering a pizzeria in a country village somewhere in Italy. Luigi’s was a refreshing change from the corporate, sterile, stainless steel pizza joints springing up around the city. Cured salami and strong, aromatic Parmigiano Reggiano hung in mesh bags from the ceiling. Chianti bottles with melting, shimmering candles sat on the tables, casting the restaurant in a soft warm glow. Colorful maps and pictures of the old country lined the walls.
Over the edge of the menu, I stole a look at Rita sitting across from me. In the candlelight, her cream-colored skin was flawless and her face was radiant with a youthful glimmer. I’d noticed before how lovely she was, of course. I’d noticed her petite, perfect figure and her beautiful features, but I’d never seen her quite the way I saw her tonight. She looked like an angel, and now she wanted to be just that-my guardian angel.
We ordered the pizza, and while waiting for Luigi to bring our food, I tried to explain the reality of being a criminal lawyer. “It’s not all that glamorous like on TV…” I started to say, but when she gave me a wary look, I changed my angle. “It’s not that rewarding.”
“Come off it, Jimmy. I’ve made my mind up. Criminal law is where I belong.”
“Actually, Rita, maybe you’d like corporate law better. Think it over. The best of both worlds. The clients will still be crooks, but, hey, they pay their bills.”
“No way, Jimmy. I’m thrilled to be with you and with the firm. And now I’m really excited. You’re my first client with serious problems! Isn’t that wonderful? …Oops.” She put her hand over her mouth, but I could still see the glint in her eyes.
I smiled. “I know, Rita, but…”
A shadow swept across her face. “What’s the matter? You don’t want me?”
“Oh no, of course I want you. How could you think that? I was just concerned about your career. That’s all. Really.”
Luigi brought the pizza and Cokes. He came just in time, saving me from delving deeper into my concerns about Rita’s experience. After we silently ate a few slices, I made up my mind. “Okay, Ms. Criminal Lawyer, where do we start?” I said.
She took one more nibble on the crust of her pizza slice, put it down, wiped her hands on the paper napkin next to her plate, and quickly took a sip of her Coke. Then she leaned into me, and with a determined look etched on her face, she said, “All right. Here’s the way I see it.”
“Okay,” I said, watching her eyes dance.
“The cops are looking at you for the murder. They’ve got evidence.”