JO01 - Guilty or Else (7 page)

“I can take the pizza home if you want to close up and leave,” I said.

“Nah, stick around. Momma’s gotta count the drawer and tidy up.”

The bod waddled to the front entrance, flipped the sign to read ‘closed’ and locked the door.

I started in on my meal. The banner out front said it was world’s greatest pizza. I had no reason to doubt it. But I couldn’t eat the whole thing. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Might as well start the day right; I’d have the leftover pizza in the morning.

It was around midnight when I carried the half-eaten pizza to my car.

Downey tucks itself in about nine every night. By nine-thirty, the stores are dark and the streets quiet. By ten o’clock, most of its citizens were home watching the Wacky World of Jonathan Winters on TV, howling at his stunts. By eleven, they were all asleep. At twelve, the crickets chirped.

When I zipped past Mathews & Son gun shop on Paramount Ave., next to the deli, I saw the Buick from Luigi’s lot parked there. I hung a right on Florence. But when I turned on Fifth Street, the street where I lived, something flashed in my rearview mirror. I wasn’t alone. I glanced back.

The flash became twin beams. I continued down Fifth, past my apartment building, and made a U-turn. Flipping off the lights, I pulled to the curb, killed the engine, and waited.

The Buick accelerated and blew past me. I turned to see its crimson taillights fade. I sat in my Corvette surrounded by darkness and silence.

Was I becoming paranoid, a little jumpy, seeing boogiemen in the shadows? Maybe the Buick was a coincidence, some guy going home after a night out. Of course, that had to be it. What’s the matter with me? Is the pressure of defending a murder case getting to me already? I started my car, left the lights off, and edged toward my apartment.

C H A P T E R 
9

I lived in a monument
of sorts to the 1970s musical taste of America. The Carpenters, the singing duo—Karen and her brother, Richard—had a ranch-style house north of Florence Ave. in Downey. The house came fully equipped with wall-to-wall carpeting, built-in washer and dryer, and a professional recording studio.

Unlike most of the musicians and singers I’d met during my drinking days and others I’ve read about, these youngsters seemed to have their heads screwed on straight. They took some of the profits from their hits and bought half a block on Fifth Street, tore down the pre-war tract houses and built two apartment buildings. They named the buildings after a couple of their blockbusters.

I lived—or at least slept—in the apartment building known as “We’ve Only Just Begun.” My bedroom window looked directly into my neighbor’s window across the street, “Close to You.” I’d rented the one-bedroom unit the same week that I had hung out my shingle. I thought the name was a good omen. The song title matched my high hopes.

The apartment came unfurnished and mostly stayed that way. In the living room, an old armchair faced a black-and-white TV. The chair had been part of my divorce settlement. Barbara didn’t want the chair, or me, but I loved the big ratty old thing. It was warm, comfortable, and cozy to come home to at night. I could talk to the chair. It rarely talked back.

I put the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, my prized possession. Luigi got it for me wholesale from a commercial restaurant supply in Norwalk. It was overkill: the unit was too large for me but too small for a restaurant. The only things in it right now were the pizza, three cans of Coke, and several boxes of my laundered white dress shirts, folded and pressed.

In the bedroom, a box spring mattress—no headboard or frame—took up most of the space. I didn’t have a chest of drawers, hence the shirts in the fridge. It was a good idea. In the winter, I had to remember to take a shirt out before I showered to warm it up a bit, but in the summer, it was great. I left the shirts in until the last minute. Very refreshing.

I didn’t know what time it was when I nodded off, but when I awoke, I was still engulfed by the big armchair with the file opened in my lap. Sunlight streaked in through the living room window, and the sounds of morning traffic rumbled around me. I looked at my watch: seven-eighteen. I showered, got a shirt from the refrigerator, gobbled a pizza slice, and headed for the office.

My heart almost stopped when I walked out the front door of my apartment. The blue Buick, the same one I’d seen the night before, was parked across the street about twenty yards away. I stared at it for about fifteen seconds. A big guy with a buzz-cut sat in the driver’s seat reading a newspaper. I debated walking up to the guy and asking him why he was stalking me. But then I thought he’s probably a private eye keeping tabs on my neighbor, Poppy Jasper. She had several boyfriends, all of them married, or so I’d heard. If it was the same car I saw last night, then the guy had probably mistaken me for his client’s husband. If this were a movie, my character would jot down the guy’s license plate number, and in the last reel, he’d turn out to be the mad-dog killer. I chuckled and walked to my Corvette.

But when I drove past it, the Buick pulled out and followed me. What the hell? I turned on Downey Ave. The car stuck with me and remained three car lengths behind.

Enough is enough. I had to straighten out his mistake. I veered to the curb, parked in front of the Meralta movie theater, and started to climb out of the Vette.

I flagged the driver of the Buick, figuring he’d stop as well. But the car crawled up next to me without pulling over. The driver pinned me as he passed and pointed his finger like a gun. Our eyes met, and he mouthed the word “Bang.” This guy was no P.I looking to snag a wayward husband. No, the ugly son-of—a-bitch knew who I was. I sensed it. Something in his eyes told me he knew he had just shot Jimmy O’Brien.

When I reached the office, it was 8:30 and Rita hadn’t arrived yet. It was just as well. My hands shook a little when I made the coffee. Guys shooting you can do that; make your hand shake a little—unless they use real bullets, of course.

While waiting for Mr. Coffee to complete its cycle, I sat at my desk, picked up the telephone, and called Welch’s district office in South Gate.

“Good morning, Senator Welch’s office. May I help you?” The voice conveyed a polished warmth, no doubt to convince the constituents that the Senator cared.

“My name is O’Brien, I’m the attorney representing—”

“Yes, we know all about you.” The tone dropped about eighty degrees. “What do you want?”

“I need to speak with the Senator. I understand he’s back in town.”

The phone clicked, silence, then it clicked again. “I’m Paul Tidman, the Senator’s Assistant to the Chief of Staff. What can I do for you, Mr. O’Brien?”

“I need to speak with Senator Welch. It’s urgent.”

“I’m sure your call is urgent and most likely related to Miss Graham’s unfortunate demise. You’re the attorney representing the accused, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Well, first of all, the Senator isn’t in, and secondly, I’ve been instructed to inform you that the Senator’s personal attorney, Mr. Thomas French, here in Downey, will be handling all matters relating to the tragic event.”

“Let me get this straight, are you saying that Welch hired a lawyer?” My heart rate increased. “Does he feel he needs an attorney, has something to hide?”

“No, of course not, strictly routine. The Senator is extremely busy doing the People’s business. Your business as well, Mr. O’Brien. Surely you can see he just can’t drop all his important work any time someone such as yourself calls.”

“I don’t give a damn what he’s doing. I have to speak with him.”

“Come now, Mr. O’Brien, even you must know how valuable the Senator’s time is.”

I didn’t like this guy’s condescending line of bullshit.

“Look, Tidbit, or Titman, or whatever the hell your name is. Damn it, this is a murder case, and the Senator has information that I need.” I took a breath and tried to cool off. I realized I was talking to a messenger boy, an assistant’s assistant. “Look, Mr. Tidman, tell Welch that if he doesn’t call me, I’ll get a subpoena, drag him in—”

“Good day, Mr. O’Brien.” The line went dead.

I looked up Thomas French’s phone number. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew about him. Seemed like an okay guy; a family man, usher in his church, and he belonged to all the community service clubs, Rotary, that sort of thing.

His name was constantly in the local paper, giving speeches, presenting awards, promoting the community, and raising money for worthy causes. He was a do-gooder deluxe, a real boy scout. I wondered how he found the time to practice law.

Rita walked in just as I was about to place the call to French. She had on white Bermuda shorts and a loose-fitting blouse with cheerful flowers printed on it, bluebells or bluebonnets, some kind of blue flowers. With no clients to speak of, I didn’t insist on a dress code. Anyway, she looked bright and fresh with her perennial smile intact.

“Good morning, Boss. Shall I make the coffee?”

“No, Rita, it’s been made, but I’ve got something for you to do right now.”

“Okay.”

I took a number-ten envelope from my desk and handed it to her. “I want you to take this to the mailbox on the corner and pretend to mail it.”

“What is this all about?” she asked, flipping the envelope over in her hand.

“Rita, when you get to the mailbox, look around to see if you spot a blue Buick parked somewhere close by.”

“Jimmy, what’s the story?”

“Just look for the car, okay?”

“Sure, but I’ll save the envelope; money’s tight, you know.” She winked.

“That’s why you’re the money manager around here.”

While waiting for Rita to return, I made the call to Thomas French’s office. He probably wasn’t there. He’d be out helping little old ladies cross the street.

A female voice answered. “Law office. May I help you?”

“Mr. French, please. Jimmy O’Brien calling about a matter involving his client, Senator Welch.”

“Mr. French is away from the office.” Her voice turned cold, like a wind from the north. Her lips must be purple.

“I’ll leave my number. Please have him call me back. It’s important. I have a hearing in a few days and I need to discuss an urgent matter regarding his client.”

The frosty voice said French was in court and would check his messages during the break. But if he called me back, it wouldn’t be until court adjourned, in the afternoon.

French might not know anything about Welch’s affair with Gloria Graham. Even if he did, I doubted that he would be willing to discuss it. He would only tell me facts already in the police report. I needed to go eyeball to eyeball with the Senator himself to see if he’d blink when I mentioned his romance with Gloria. But if I handled French right, maybe he could arrange a meeting. I figured I’d have to hound him until he answered my calls.

Rita returned, humming a pleasant tune I didn’t recognize. She came into my office and handed me the envelope.

“I saved the envelope,” she said, smiling. “But I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

“You didn’t see a blue Buick?”

“Let me see…there was a pick-up truck and a bug, you know a V-dub. I think it belongs to the guy in the State Farm office next door. And two or three other cars parked close.”

“How about a blue car, a sedan? Maybe some guy sitting in the driver’s seat?”

“Well, yes, but it was down by the corner. Some big guy sitting behind the wheel,” Rita said. “He was giving me the eye. I just figured he liked the way I looked.”

“I’m sure he did,” I said.

Rita turned to leave, then stopped. “Is this trouble, Jimmy?”

“No, of course not. It seems I’ve picked up a tail.” I leaned back in my chair and tried to appear unconcerned. It didn’t make sense to worry her. “Someone’s trying to intimidate me. That’s all,” I said. “If they were pros, out to do harm, we wouldn’t have seen them or the car.”

“Jimmy, this is giving me the creeps.”

“Rita, forget about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Okay, so I lied.

I needed answers. After Rita went back to the outer office, I sank into my chair and tried to think. Why was the guy in the Buick tailing me? Who’d care enough about a small-time murderer to send thugs out to scare me off? Another thing bothered me: why did Johnson pick me to represent the accused in the first place? And why’d he get so upset when Rodriguez wanted to plead not guilty? There had to be answers and there was one man who could give them to me.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” I told Rita as I blew by her.

C H A P T E R 
10

With the blue Buick trailing
three or four car lengths behind, I drove west on Firestone, heading to the South Gate Municipal Court. I parked and walked directly to Division III, Judge Johnson’s courtroom. I pounded on the door to his chambers. His clerk stuck her head out. “Judge Johnson is busy at the moment, Mr. O’Brien.”

“It’s imperative that I speak to him right now.”

Johnson shouted from behind the door, “What do you want, O’Brien?”

“Bob, I need to see you, now.”

“You want to see me, ex parte? Have you notified the D.A.’s office?”

“This is off the record.”

“Look, Jimmy, I’m busy. I’m preparing for a hearing. It’s coming up in an hour.”

“It will only take a minute. It’s about the Rodriguez case.”

“All right. But I can only give you five minutes.”

Johnson sat behind his perfectly organized desk, not a paper or file in sight. He wore an expensive, yellow alpaca sweater. The clerk shook her head slowly as she left the room, carrying a stack of papers.

I sat in one of the tufted leather chairs facing his desk. “Nice sweater,” I said, glancing at the golf bag leaning against the wall in the corner.

“You’ve got four minutes left,” he replied with a hard look on his face. I figured he was still steamed over my inability to bring in the guilty plea.