JO01 - Guilty or Else (27 page)

Thanks a lot, French, I thought. We’ll see who cares about you when all this comes out.

“What about that other guy? What’s his name, the pilot?”

“Kruger. We’re looking for him now. He won’t be back.”

“He knows all about it. He helped set it up. Are you guys sure you’re going to find him? I’m worried as hell.”

“Come on, Senator, get out and do your thing. There are important people here tonight. Karadimos is counting on you to stay in office, so you can win the big one down the road.”

“I want out. You guys can keep the money. I’m going to be the fucking governor of California in two years for Christ’s sake. You listen to me—I want out now!”

“It’s not healthy to talk like that, Welch. How do you think you got here?”

“Did I hear what I think I heard? Are you threatening me?”

“No. No, of course not. It’s our partners south of the border. They’re pressing us, but we have to keep things closed down until it blows over. So let’s not say anything about quitting right now.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The tape continued. I heard the office door open, slam shut then nothing. I snapped off the recorder and stared at the machine for a long time. Now I knew for sure what I only suspected before. Karadimos was importing drugs, and French and Welch were in it with him.

I quit pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, I heard a noise outside. My heart thumped. I darted to the window, pulled back the skimpy curtain, and peeked out.

It was nothing, some guy and his frumpy wife banging their luggage as they checked into the cottage next door.

I thought about French and Welch and the image they projected. Concerned citizens, stalwarts of the community. I shook my head. Thomas French, the Boy Scout, the winner of the good citizen award, the speaker at Downey High’s commencement last June. Excerpts had been reprinted in the
Downey Enterprise
. The title: ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Today’s Changing World.’

Next year, he could update it a bit. ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Blowing up a Car.’

It would get more than a write-up in the
Enterprise
, might even make the
Times
. I was sure it would. I listened to the tape again and realized just how hot it was. I could get burned just touching it. It’d blow everything wide open.

But if I turned the tape over to the court, I’d lose my license when they found out what I’d done. Was I willing to sacrifice my career, and possibly go to jail, to save Rodriguez? That’s a question they didn’t answer in law school.

C H A P T E R 
41

Sitting in the motel room,
I heard the ocean waves pound the shore as I played and replayed the tape. I listened carefully to the words, the hidden meanings and inflections.

I’d hear something, stop, rewind the tape, and play it again. I listened to the words that weren’t there and tried to connect the dots. The most incriminating thing on the tape was the part about blowing up my car.

My wild remarks about Karadimos and the cantaloupes had paid off. Welch had become rattled and started spilling his guts. French mentioned that Karadimos had “partners in Mexico.” I drew the only possible conclusion: his drug smuggling operation was based somewhere south of the border. The fact he was involved with drugs would explain the mob war and the money. I tried to figure out what French would say if the conversation ever became public. How could he and Welch explain it?

I knew the tape—even illegally recorded—would ruin Welch’s political career. But there was nothing on the tape to prove that Rodriguez was innocent. If even a modicum of evidence appeared on the tape hinting at his innocence, then a copy would already be on the
L.A. Times
editor’s desk. I’d lose my license but my client would go free. As determined as I was to see Welch and his cronies face a court of law, I didn’t think I could destroy my career to ruin Welch.

No; my obligation was to Rodriguez, and I wasn’t a crusader. I dismissed the thought of sending the tape anonymously to the
Times
or the police. Too many people would know where it had come from: Phil Rhodes set up the meeting, the staff at Chasen’s saw me with a briefcase, and even Rita knew. I wouldn’t allow her to commit perjury if it came to that.

The sun was rising by the time I dropped on the bed and plunged into an exhausted sleep.

I woke up a couple hours later and for an instant, didn’t remember where I was. I jerked up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. The cassette recorder sat on the bed next to me.

My face hurt and I was a mess, wrinkled and disheveled from sleeping in my clothes. I hadn’t planned on being away from home and didn’t pack anything; no toothbrush, razor, not even a comb. I glanced around the room, saw the phone, and lunged for the receiver. Dead, no dial tone. What the hell was this place, the Bates Motel?

Using the bathroom, I threw water on my face, tried to comb my hair with my fingers, and slowly rubbed my sore jaw. A bruise had formed. I thought it fit in with the rest of my look.

Leaving the motel room, I started walking, going nowhere really, just walking and thinking. I wanted to turn the tape over to the D.A.’s office immediately. I wanted to see Welch and French rot behind bars, but my mind told me hold off. The tape had been illegally obtained; I’d be charged with a crime and might even go to jail if it came out. I’d have to find another way.

A marine layer, low clouds and fog had rolled in from the ocean, and the sky was overcast and gloomy. I walked slowly past shops lining California Street, typical for a beach resort: a surfboard store, and a place selling souvenirs, stuff to send to your Aunt Tillie back home in Grundy Center, Iowa. She’d love a printed T-shirt, a mug; I heart Ventura, or some such bullshit on it.

I walked all the way to the ocean; the tide was out along the wide beach. At the waterline, I took off my shoes and waded in the cold water rippling at the edge of the hard wet sand.

I figured Karadimos knew about the tape by now. He’s smart, and his instinct would have told him something was up. The way I clutched the briefcase when his goons attacked me would’ve clued him in about the recording—he would’ve questioned French and Welch thoroughly—but he wouldn’t tell anyone, that’s for sure. I turned and headed back to the motel, the Cozy Corner. I had only one chance—find Kruger before Karadimos found him.

I checked out of the room, shoved the recorder into my briefcase, and stashed it behind the driver’s seat of my car. I drove to a nearby Denny’s coffee shop, wondering whether the police had hit my apartment last night. I’d ask Sol to check his sources and see if there were any warrants out on me because of the fight.

After ordering coffee and eggs, I called Sol at his home from the payphone, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t at his office either. I left a message, and then called Rocco’s. They hadn’t seen him since lunch Friday. I called Joyce back, told her to try Sol’s mobile car phone. No luck.

“It’s urgent, Joyce,” I said. “Keep trying.”

“Sure, Jimmy. I’ll stay on it. Where will you be if I reach him?”

“I’m laying low. Cops might be looking for me. But I’ll check back.”

I went back to my table and the waitress appeared with my breakfast. She also handed me a copy of the
Times
a customer had left. I glanced at the paper while I ate and found a small article buried deep inside the middle section, near the obituaries: Drunken Brawl in Parking Lot at Gala Fundraiser.

The article went on to say, “Two unidentified men were taken into custody Saturday night after a brawl erupted in the parking lot of Chasen’s restaurant. The posh Beverly Hills eatery was holding a private fundraiser hosted by the Re-elect Welch Committee. According to Philip Rhodes, the event chairman, the incident in the parking lot was not related to the affair going on inside at the time. The two men involved were released and no charges were filed.”

The article gave me some comfort. I didn’t have to worry about the police, so I drove back to my apartment.

On the way, I constantly checked my rearview mirror. If Karadimos’s thugs had followed me last night, I’d be dead meat. I didn’t see them now either, but they could be out there just the same.

I thought about Karadimos’s two goons and the battle in Chasen’s parking lot. The image of Jake’s Cadillac bouncing over the curb and charging in like the Seventh Calvary made me chuckle. I thought, what the hell, maybe it didn’t hurt having him on my side. And when I parked in front of my apartment building, I felt doubly glad to see him sitting in the Caddie across the street, giving me a thumbs-up.

Upstairs, I bolted the door, stashed the tape recorder in my closet, and spent the rest of the day calling around trying to find Sol. Nobody had seen him.

I fell asleep before dark, rolled over twenty-four hours later, made some kind of weird noise and fell back to sleep again.

C H A P T E R 
42

Monday morning; how in hell
had that happened? Was I asleep or unconscious? Must’ve needed it. A ringing phone would have woken me up. That meant I still hadn’t heard from Sol. I cleaned up, grabbed the tape recorder and drove to his office. I wanted to find him and go over the tape. Joyce met me in the lobby again.

“Jimmy,” she said. “I know you’re worried, but sometimes Sol has to get away and relax, escape the pressure of running such a large concern. He’s done this before. He’ll turn up. He’s never gone for more than a few days.”

Christ almighty, this is not the time for him to run away and relax. “He would’ve called, left a message, something.”

Joyce just looked at me for a moment before she spoke. “You know Sol. Expect the unexpected.” She smiled.

I couldn’t wait around any longer. I had to do something. I called Rita at the office and told her I’d be tied up for a while. She reminded me about the motion to exclude the jailhouse witness. I was supposed to work on it over the weekend. I hadn’t, of course. To my surprise, she’d already typed it up on pleading paper and filed it with the court.

“Rita, I’m proud of you. You’ll make a fine lawyer.”

“Ah, Boss, I knew you’d say that. But I haven’t been tested yet, haven’t had to make the hard decisions. I don’t know how far I’d go to protect my clients.” She stopped talking line for a moment, then she said in a low voice, “Like you’re doing for Mr. Rodriguez.”

I thought about the tape. Would I really make it public? Would I do that even to set Rodriguez free? Would I be willing to sacrifice my career, and be convicted of a crime? Did I have that kind of courage?

“Wait for Sol’s call, okay? I’ll check back on the hour.”

“I’m sure he’s okay. He’ll call. Don’t worry.”

I shot north on Firestone and drove past Harvey’s Broiler, the drive-in restaurant where we cruised in our hot cars when we were high school kids. My buddy’s father owned the Chevrolet dealership in Downey, and one night, the kid drove though the drive-in, sitting smugly behind the wheel of a brand new ’54 red and white Corvette. The convertible top was down as he slowly glided between the rows of parked cars. He was like the Pied Piper. Even my date jumped out of my jalopy and chased after him.

I arrived at the South Gate Police Department and walked to the front desk. “Who’s the graveyard shift dispatcher?” I asked the cop working there.

“Who wants to know?”

I handed him my card. “O’Brien, criminal defense lawyer, investigating the Graham homicide.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” he responded, tapping the card on the counter. “Mitch is the graveyard guy.”

“Is he here? I need to see him for a moment.”

The officer glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind him. “His shift’s over. Got off at nine, but let me check, might still be in the locker room.”

He retreated to one of the battered steel desks, pushed an intercom knob and spoke into it. A few seconds later, he came back and said Mitch would be right out.

“You waiting for me?” Mitch looked more like a surfer than a cop. He had on a Hang Ten T-shirt, cut-off Levis, and open-toed sandals. His hair was streaked blond from the sun.

“You’re the officer who took the anonymous call involving the Graham murder?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Got a minute? I need some information.”

“Who in the heck are you?”

I reached out to shake his hand. “Name’s O’Brien. I’m a lawyer now, but used to be on the LAPD, worked night watch out of Newton Street.” I figured I’d toss out the cop routine, maybe develop some rapport—just one of the boys. “I’ve got a couple of questions. Won’t take long. Can I buy you a cup of coffee, some breakfast?” I wanted to get him out of the station before Hodges spotted us talking.

“Newton, huh? Tough division. How long on the job?”

“Since before the Watts Riots.”

“Wow, I was in junior high at the time. Must’ve been rough. What was it like?”

“C’mon, I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

“Sure, why not?”

We took separate cars to the Pancake House, a down-home type of place on Atlantic, south of Firestone. The tired, clapboard restaurant had been there forever. The place had Formica tables, sticky with syrup, the wooden chairs didn’t match, and the overweight waitress was probably named Flo. It seemed all these diners had a waitress named Flo.

The waitress came and poured coffee into cups that were already on the table. “The special this morning is pigs-in-a-blanket, two eggs, dollar-ninety-five,” she said as she passed the menus to us. Mitch ordered the special. She looked at me.

“I’ll just have coffee, Flo,” I said.

“Who’s Flo?”

I laughed at my slip of the tongue. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

“The name’s Jacqueline, but you can call me Jackie.” She turned her head slightly to the side and lifted her chin. “Some people say I look like my namesake, Jackie Kennedy.”

She looked more like Jackie Gleason than Jackie Kennedy. “Yeah, Flo. I can see it, except she has dark hair. Otherwise, dead ringer,” I said.