JO01 - Guilty or Else (5 page)

“Stay close to me, don’t wander off.”

“Yeah, like where would I go?” I said under my breath.

We arrived at Rodriguez’s cell, a six-by-eight foot concrete cubicle outfitted with a stainless steel toilet, metal bunk, and a sink without a mirror. It occurred to me, he’d spend his life in a place like this. I wondered what it would be like to do time, locked up in prison. Just one look at the other cells on the block, all jammed with prisoners, and I knew the answer. It would be like moving into my bathroom and inviting a few of strangers off the street to come and live with me for, oh say, the rest of my life.

“Are you going to let me in the cell, so I can sit and take notes?” I asked the guard.

“Stand on the outside. You’re not going in there.”

“You have a chair?” I already knew the answer.

He didn’t respond. “Remember, we’re watching you.”

“Watching what?” I said. “Are you listening too, are there hidden mikes around?”

He ignored the remark and wandered away.

In the cell, Rodriguez slumped on his bunk, stared at the floor with his hands folded on his lap. “Listen up,” I said. “I don’t have time for games—no more silent treatment. You’re going to tell me exactly what happened.” I opened my briefcase and took out the police report and a yellow tablet. “I want to hear more than ‘I didn’t do it’. You’re going to answer my questions, or I walk. Is that understood?” After Johnson’s exhortation, I couldn’t walk, but I didn’t think he knew that.

He came over to the bars and grabbed them with both hands. He nodded.

“Okay, tell me what this is all about.”

He removed his hands from the bars and flexed his gnarled fingers. “I am good with plants. I work hard to send my children in Mexico some money. My son, Panchito, he is the oldest, will start high school next year.” A shadow clouded his face. He must’ve just grasped the thought that he might never see his son again. “I can’t pay you.”

“We won’t worry about money right now. We’ll work out something later.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled out a pen. “Tell me everything that happened. Start with Saturday. Tell me in your own words. Tell me about the argument, everything.”

“Nada, No argument.”

“The women across the street…” I glanced at the police report. “Mrs. Wilson, she’s a retired school teacher. She’ll make a good witness.” I mumbled the last part more to myself. “She says you two were arguing.”

“I go to
Señorita
Graham’s…Gloria’s—she say
es
okay to call her Gloria—to work once a week, mow the grass, trim the bushes. But she hired me extra to fix up her backyard. Caracoles, it needed too much work.”

The victim’s name was Gloria Graham, like the ’40s movie star, but without the ‘e’ at the end. From her picture, I noticed she had a striking resemblance to the actress, very pretty, but a little hard around the edges.

“You were working in the backyard when she got killed?”

“No way, man. I started early Saturday, eight o’clock, put in a new lawn, planted three palm trees, flowers. All day I work. At six, I was almost done, picking up tools to put in my truck. She come out of the house to see. ‘Es okay, Ernesto,’ she said. But she wanted me to move the trees. She wanted to see them from the kitchen, she said.”

“That’s when the argument started? You argued about trees?”

“No argument, man. She wanted me to move the trees—I move the trees. No problem.”

“Mrs. Wilson, the lady across the street, said that she went to bed at ten, after the Bob Newhart Show, but first she looked out her window and saw your truck in the driveway.” I glanced at my notes. “The back of the pickup truck was hidden by the house, but the front end stuck out and she could see it clearly. She didn’t take down the license number, but she described it: broken headlight, dented fender. She had the color right.”

“
Es muy
dark at night. How could she see?”

“Good point, Ernesto, but were you still there at that time?”

He dropped his eyes, “No,
señor
, I was not there.”

“She said—”

“Hey, man, let me finish. Okay?” He paused for a second, trying to gather his words. “I work until dark on the trees. Dig them out, dig new holes to plant them. I come back
mãnana
to finish. Miss Gloria came out of the house, had a package or something. I go to wash up, and she invited me into her kitchen for a cold
cerveza
. I drank one, went to my truck to go home, but the battery, it was no good.”

“You were in her house?” The police report said nothing about his prints being in the house or on a beer bottle. “How long were you in there?”

“Twenty minutes, half hour. I dunno.”

I scribbled on my tablet, trying to juggle the police report, my briefcase, and write at the same time. I figured it would be a miracle if I could read my notes when I got back to the office.

Needing to establish a time line, I glanced back at the report. She died between eleven P.M. and two A.M. “Okay,” I said. “You worked until dark, say around eight, had a beer and stayed until at the latest, nine. Then what?”

“I walk home. Waited. Then I went out, got a battery, come back to
Señorita
Gloria’s house, started my truck. The cops grab me when I got back home again.”

This story had more holes than Ben the Bum’s T-shirt.

“Hold it, Ernesto. You walked home? Isn’t that a long way from Gloria’s house?”

He shrugged. “Ah, four, five miles, not far.”

“Then later, you left your home and got a battery somewhere? All the stores are closed in the middle of the night. Where did you get the battery?”

“Midnight auto supply.”

“Midnight auto supply—You boosted a battery?”

“
Ah chingado
! I did not steal, I borrowed it.”

“Explain.”

“I waited ’til two o’clock, everybody sleeping by then. I walked, had pliers, jumper cables. I found a truck just like mine,
pero
newer, took the battery, carried it to Gloria’s house. Jump started my truck—”

“You jump started your truck?”

“
Si
.”

“Where’s the battery you stole, if you didn’t put it in your truck?”

“I told you, I borrowed it. I drive back to where I borrowed the battery and put it back in the guy’s truck. Then I drive home. The cops, they were waiting.” His eyes begged me to believe him.

“What about the blood on your truck, the stuff under the seat? The body in the backyard?”

“In the dark, I don’t see no blood, and I don’t look under no seat. I don’t go into the backyard. I did not even get my tools out of the yard. Anyway, I was coming back on Sunday to finish the job, clean up the yard, fill in the holes where I moved the trees, you know. But right then, I had to hurry. I had to get out of there and put back the battery that I borrowed.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. You say that about the time of the murder, you were at home. Then later, you walked the streets looking for a battery to steal. That’s your alibi?”

“To borrow.”

“And nobody saw you?”

“When you borrow things in the middle of the night, nobody is supposed to see you.”

I jotted some more notes. I had a lot more questions and wanted to go over his story again, but the deputy approached and tapped my shoulder.

“That’s it. Let’s go. You’re out of time. The interview is over.”

Rodriguez’s knuckles turned white as he twisted his hands on the bars. I studied his tired face. “Hang in there, Ernesto. We’ll beat this thing together.”

“
Si, amigo
,” he said.

I shoved my notes in my briefcase and snapped it shut.

The guard placed his hand on my shoulder. “This way to the real world, buddy,” he said, leading me away.

Obviously, Rodriguez wasn’t a suicide risk. They’d brought him to that cell for a purpose. I wondered how long it would take for the clandestine tape recording to make its way to Roberta Allen’s desk.

C H A P T E R 
7

I drove to the Regency
and turned into the curved blacktop driveway that ran under the restaurant’s white Greco-Roman portico, waved at the parking attendants, and pulled into a spot on the east side of the building. Although I rarely frequented the Regency—too expensive for my budget—they knew me from being here on occasion with Sol.

Everyone in Downey knew Sol and went out of their way to treat him like royalty.

Marilee, the hostess, stood at her pulpit located at the entry to the dining room, greeting new arrivals as they strolled in through the double doors. I caught her eye.

“Emilio will take you to the back booth in station five, Mr. O’Brien.” She gave me a wink. “When Miss Allen arrives, we’ll bring her to your table.”

At precisely twelve thirty-five, Roberta Allen arrived with Emilio in tow. She slipped into the seat directly across from me, set her briefcase down and picked up and examined her spoon. Finding an imperfection, she polished it with her napkin. She placed it back on the table, rearranged the silverware into a straight line, and then turned to the waiter.

“I’m pressed for time. Emilio, bring me a chef’s salad, please. Roquefort on the side and iced tea.” She turned to me. “Did you order, Mr. O’Brien?”

The barbecued ribs sounded good, but what the heck. “No, I didn’t, Miss Allen, but I’ll have the same.”

Emilio scribbled on his pad and hurried off.

She reached across to shake my hand. “What do you say we skip the Miss and Mister routine? I’ll call you James and you can call me Bobbi. Deal?”

I shook her hand. “Deal. But, Bobbi, call me Jimmy.”

“Jimmy and Bobbi, sounds like a couple of grade school kids at recess.” She smiled.

“Golly gee willikers, wanna play marbles?” I said.

She laughed. “Hopscotch?”

“As long as we don’t play dodge ball.”

The laughter stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to hold out, not give me everything you have?”

She flicked an invisible bit of something off the table linen and leaned forward. “Like what? I’m not holding back.”

I was referring to my suspicion that my interview with Rodriguez had been recorded and the tape given to her. But I had no real evidence, so I figured I’d let it pass—for now.

“Jimmy, there is something new that just came across my desk this morning.”

“I’m listening.”

“The police can prove Rodriguez was in the house. His fingerprints were found on empty Coors bottles in the kitchen. He drank several beers, wanted to party—she didn’t, and he killed her.” She announced this like it was a fact carved in granite and handed to her on the mountain.

“He worked hard all day, had one beer to relax, then he left,” I said.

She leaned back, rolled her eyes, and gave me that oh brother look women do so well. “If that’s your story, stick to it. It’ll be a short trial.”

“Bobbi, a wise man once said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’” The wise man was Yogi Berra, but I didn’t think she knew who he was. “We’ll see how it plays out.”

“I’m sure we will.” Bobbi opened her briefcase and extracted a file about two inches thick; half a dozen rubber bands held it together. “Here are copies of the reports, photos, everything, all the evidence so far.” She handed me the file.

“This is everything?”

“I told you I’d give you all I had. Now, quit being a jerk.”

I sat the file on the table and started to unravel the rubber bands. “Are the cops looking at anyone other than Rodriguez?”

“When you study the file, you’ll see the police were very thorough, meticulous. All the facts pointed to your guy.”

“Look Bobbi, I can sense you’re a straight arrow, least I hope so, and I appreciate your cooperation. And I’m sure if you win, you don’t want the decision overturned because of lack of disclosure, but I wouldn’t be able to handle any last minute surprises. A ghost in the machine, so to speak.”

She didn’t respond, so I continued: “I’ll make you a deal. I want to win fair and square.” I paused when the busboy filled our water glasses. “I’ll play it strictly on the level and you continue to play it straight with me. Okay?”

A smile played on her lips. “I’ll go by the rules. But, I’ll make you another deal, as well.”

“Yeah, what?”

“You quit quoting Yogi Berra, and I won’t quote Oliver Wendell Holmes.”

Emilio appeared, pushing a small cabinet on wheels. It had our food on top and shelves underneath containing various culinary regalia. He picked up a fork and with it he crumbled a hunk of cheese in a large bowl, splashed in a shot of red vinegar, some olive oil, and sprinkled a pinch of coarse salt over the mixture.

“We only use sea salt.” He kept talking while vigorously working the bowl. “La Baleine, Sel de Mer, it comes from France,” he said with a phony French accent.

Why France? I asked myself. Is the ocean saltier over there? Guess so, the French must know their salt. Finally, Emilio served the salads. Bobbi daintily forked a piece of lettuce, and nibbled on it. I sipped my iced tea. “How did the cops find my client so fast?” I asked. “Or for that matter, the body? She was killed around midnight, and they busted Rodriguez at about five A.M. It was still dark out.”

She rearranged her bread plate, placing it on her left.

“Anonymous tip. The call came in around four in the morning. Male voice, didn’t give his name. Didn’t want to get involved. Told the police where to find the body and who did it.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “An anonymous tip? Don’t you find that weird? A murder is committed and the solution falls out of the sky, in the middle of the night, before the body had time to cool down.” My hand started to shake. I had to put the tea down; the ice cubes were clinking. “I don’t believe it. That never happens. Only in the movies.”

“No, it happens all the time. Some nearby resident or passerby doesn’t want to be identified. Maybe the person has an outstanding warrant, sees something, and calls it in.”

“Hey, the cops must’ve canvassed the neighborhood. Did they find anybody with an outstanding warrant, a hold, or anything to hide?”

She speared a crouton, and held the fork in front of her face. “I would’ve told you about it if they did. It doesn’t matter anyway; we have the killer in custody, locked up, with an overwhelming amount of evidence stacked against him.”