JO01 - Guilty or Else (9 page)

“What about the times when the police arrest the wrong man?” I asked. “You know it happens.”

“You know better than to ask that, Jimmy. There would be no justice if that were the case. The guilty person would go free. That’s why just adding more convictions to my resume does nothing for me.”

“If you feel so strongly about justice and retribution—and I assume you mean that the punishment should fit the crime— why were you willing to accept a plea from Rodriguez at the arraignment?”

“That wasn’t my choice. Johnson had set that up with my superior and I had to go along. But thanks to you, it doesn’t matter now. Your client will get his trial and he’ll be convicted.”

“You just went along?”

“Yes. But it’s never been my goal to speed up the process and alleviate the court’s burden. As Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Delay is preferable to error.’” Her smile returned. “I had to work that in.”

“In other words, if you had any doubts, any at all about my client’s guilt, you’d reopen the case. Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a heartbeat,” she said. “However, it would have to be convincing. Why, do you have something that casts doubt on his guilt, something tangible?”

Bobbi’s sincerity moved me. I had no question about her sense of fair play. She wanted to see the guilty man convicted as much as I did. I just had to convince her that Rodriguez wasn’t her guy. I decided to confide in her and take my chance. I hoped that I wasn’t letting her beauty rule my judgment. It was hard not to.

“I have evidence that Senator Welch was having an affair with the deceased,” I said. “It wasn’t in the police report. It could provide a motive.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Is that true? Where did you hear that?”

“Gloria Graham told a friend of hers that she was sleeping with a politician. We could corroborate her statement, motels, restaurants, places where Welch and Gloria were seen together, that sort of thing.”

“So what if he was? That doesn’t prove anything. If all the bosses who slept with their secretaries killed them, we’d have a whole lot of dead secretaries lying around. No, sorry, that in itself doesn’t change anything.”

“Gloria’s girlfriend will tell her story. Reasonable doubt,” I said.

“You’d bring up this so-called affair without a shred of evidence other than some girl’s story and possibly ruin a man’s reputation—”

“To save an innocent person from life in prison, hell yes. Besides, if Welch wasn’t sleeping with her, then he has nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, sure. You’ll tell the media Welch is an adulterous murderer. You going to tell the newspapers he kicks his dog, too?”

“Didn’t know he had a dog.”

“I thought we agreed not to discuss the case with the press.”

“I’m not running to the papers, but it’ll come out in court.”

“You know how the media is,” Bobbi said. “They’ll print the story, make a big hullabaloo. Later, when the truth comes out the retraction will be on page forty seven.”

“Look, Bobbi, I’m just saying it’s possible that he was having an affair. And it’s possible, just possible, that in the heat of passion, he might’ve killed her.”

“That’s extremely unlikely.”

“It’s a lot more logical than your motive. Rodriguez, her gardener, all of a sudden losing control.”

“Welch wasn’t even in town at the time of the murder.” Bobbi shook her head. “All the physical evidence points to your guy. He had a motive—even if you don’t buy it—means, and opportunity. The police arrested the right guy.”

“That’s not all,” I said.

Bobbi leaned closer to me. “You have more?”

“Yeah, it was the Senator who pressured Johnson to wrap this up, get a plea, and close the case.”

“Johnson told you that?”

“Not right out, but it fits. I’m sure he did.”

“Perhaps Johnson was just trying to get you to accept a plea so he could clean up his calendar.”

“Believe me, Bobbi, it was Welch. He pressured him.”

She drew back; it only took a moment for her disposition to harden. She grabbed the napkin off her lap and threw it on the table. “You could be right and I should’ve known better.”

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m just telling you what I know to be true.”

“I’m not mad at you. It’s those damn politicians. They used me, wanted me to speed the process so it wouldn’t muddy up their campaign.”

“I think the police should reopen the case, take a hard look at Welch.”

“Jimmy, get real. It’s just politics, doesn’t change anything. The case is closed.”

“It changes everything.”

“The case is closed, period,” she said through clenched teeth. But almost immediately her expression softened. “Jimmy, listen. Welch was in Sacramento at the time of the murder.”

“If I show how he could have slipped away from the party, flew here—”

“You show me evidence that Welch was in Southern California at the time of the murder, I guarantee we’ll reopen the case. But you have to provide me with ironclad proof. Talk to Welch, see what he has to say.”

“He’s not talking to me. I’ve tried.”

“Try harder.”

We said good-bye in the parking lot; no sign of the Buick. It was after three o’clock when I walked into the office. Rita wasn’t around, so I called the answering service.

Mabel, the owner of the one-person business, came on the line after several rings. “This one’s from Joyce, at Mr. Silverman’s office. It says, ‘I have the license plate ID for you. The car is registered to Hartford Commodities.’ The message goes on and on. Do you want me to read the whole thing?” she asked.

“Mabel, what’s the matter with you? Of course I want you to read the whole thing.”

“Okay, here goes. It says, ‘I’ve checked with the Secretary of State’s office in Sacramento. They show that the sole trustee of Hartford is an offshore corporation called Triple A Financial, Inc. I am trying to find out its address, the company’s local correspondent bank, and the person who signs on the account. Might take a while. Someone is trying to hide the ownership.’ Signed, Joyce,” Mabel said.

I had the phone tucked between my shoulder and chin, scribbling the highlights of the message on the back of the Edison bill.

“The next message is from some guy selling insurance. Do you want me to read that one too?” Mabel asked.

“What?”

“A guy selling something.”

“No, that’s okay.” I hung up the phone.

There was no message from French. I kicked back and stared at the wall, wondering what to do next. Welch wouldn’t talk to me and now French wasn’t returning my calls. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the police report. The name Andreas Karadimos popped out at me. I figured it was about time I talked to him. He had flown Welch and his friends to Sacramento on the weekend of the murder, but I also remembered his name from the past.

I didn’t want to call him and get the brush-off, as I did from Welch and French. But I trembled at the thought of barging in on him unannounced. Karadimos owned a garbage collection company, and I’d heard rumors about him. They say he was ruthless and tough, one nasty son of a bitch.

His company, Acme Refuge, held all of the residential trash collection contracts with cities in the southeastern area of the county. His blue and white trucks were a common sight on the streets. Not only did Acme Refuge have the neighborhood business locked up, their roll-off bins could also be seen behind virtually all of the commercial establishments in the area. Garbage collection at these locations wasn’t covered by city contracts as the household accounts were. Business owners could select a refuge company of their choice. That is, if they could find one, other than Acme, willing to service them.

A few years back, when I was a cop, I bumped into a classmate from my days at Cerritos College. We both majored in police science. Tommy was now a homicide detective with the sheriff’s department.

Over drinks, he told me about a case he was working on that involved Acme Refuge Company. It seems that a rival trash company had tried to land some of the larger commercial accounts in the southeast area. A trash war of sorts broke out and Acme eventually won control of the region when the owner of the rival company committed suicide.

Tommy said that he tried to look further into the case, but his hands were tied by the brass downtown. His suspicions had been aroused when he read the autopsy report and discovered that the deceased had shot himself in the head—twice. I’d given him a questioning look.

“Maybe the first shot didn’t kill him. Maybe he tried again.” Tommy shrugged.

C H A P T E R 
12

I drove to Cudahy, a
smokestack community about five miles west of Downey. Railroad tracks crisscrossed as they sliced through the landscape. I waited on Firestone at the Union Pacific crossing as a slow moving freighter crawled across the boulevard. Continuing on, I drove a few blocks farther, turned right on Atlantic Ave. and waited again for the same train as it moved along the diagonal. It crept behind factories that populated the area, dropping off boxcars along the way.

Acme Refuge Company’s yard, about ten acres square, was located on the southern edge of the industrial commonwealth of Cudahy. A twelve-foot-high fence made from corrugated metal and topped by sharp razor-wire surrounded the facility.

I parked my car on the outside and hiked to the doublewide gate that closed in the middle. A chain, locked with an industrial padlock, encircled the gate where the two halves came together. A hand-lettered sign hung on the fence: “KEEP OUT—THIS MEANS YOU.” I looked around for a buzzer or a doorbell, something like that, but didn’t see one.

The chain hung loosely and when I pulled on one side of the gate and pushed on the other, it opened slightly and left a gap large enough for me to squeeze through.

I stuck my head through the opening and glanced around.

The sound was deafening. Machinery screamed, trucks growled, and a Caterpillar dozer’s blade screeched as it heaved garbage into a huge pit. The only people I saw were far away, busy at work. They didn’t seem to notice me. I pulled my head back out and looked up and down the street, nervous just standing there. It might be considered trespassing, but I figured I’d slip through the gate, find the office, and maybe Karadimos would talk to me if he were there. I turned sideways and with a little effort squeezed through the opening in the gate.

On the north side of the yard, in front of a row of twenty-five or thirty garbage trucks, stood a small stucco building. It looked like an old tract house that had been picked up, moved, and plopped down at its present location without concern for the building’s integrity. Cracked plaster covered the exterior, windows were broken, and the pitched roof sagged in the middle like a swayback horse. Someone had taken a paintbrush and splashed the word OFFICE over the front door. An area had been scraped smooth next to the building, probably parking spaces set aside for the office workers. No cars were there.

A thick, obnoxious stench hung in the air and I practically had to dog paddle through it as I made my way to the office. It took a couple of minutes to reach the door. I knocked lightly, waited, and knocked again. No answer. I put my hand on the knob. Glancing around the yard—nobody was looking in my direction—I twisted it and sighed. Maybe down deep I really didn’t want to go in, but I gave the door a little shove and it opened.

I didn’t know if I’d learn anything and wondered if breaking in would be worth the risk. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I had to look anyway.

Slipping inside, I shut the door behind me and jerked the knob to make sure it was closed and locked. Then I turned and scanned the room. Defused light streaked in from the dirty windows illuminating dust particles floating in the air.

The dust swirled, forming intricate patterns in my wake as I moved through the office.

Battered pieces of junk served as furniture. The backseat from an old car stood in for a couch. At the far end of the room, in front of two banged-up filing cabinets, sat a scarred wooden desk.

No art or personal effects hung on the walls, no family pictures, citations, or anything like that. But someone had nailed a giveaway business calendar to the wall. It advertised a company called Executive Aviation, located at Long Beach Airport. The calendar had a picture of an airplane on it, a Lear Jet flying among puffy cumulus clouds. The page hadn’t been turned in a while. Although it was August, the Lear Jet was the plane of the month for April.

I rushed over to the filing cabinets and tugged on the drawers. Locked. I turned and checked the desk. I saw nothing of interest on top of it, just an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts, a half filled cup of cold coffee with a dead fly floating on the surface, and a few pieces of paper that looked like lists of garbage routes.

A shadow filled the room. Something outside moved across the window. I flattened myself against the wall. Trembling slightly, I glanced out the filthy window that overlooked the yard. A truckload of rotten cantaloupes rolled past the window. I watched as the truck dumped the slimy melons into several gray metal bins. But, thank God, I didn’t see anyone coming toward the office.

I turned from the window and moved rapidly back to the desk to see if I could spot anything that might shed light on the Sacramento flight. I opened the top center drawer. It held some pens, a few pencils mostly with broken tips, and a dozen or so unwrapped cigars. I quietly closed it and opened the narrow drawer to the right. A .45 automatic sat on top of a small stack of invoices. I wanted to examine the papers, but I didn’t want to touch the gun and leave my prints on it.

As I stood there frozen, staring at the gun, I heard a car door slam. Christ, I thought as I shoved the drawer closed.

Quickly scanning the room, I spotted another door to my left. I was almost through it when the front office door burst open. I slipped into the next room, a small kitchen. Dark green oilcloth covered the windows.

I heard voices coming from the room I had just left, three men talking shop. Damn, I had to figure a way out. I sidled along, inch by inch, my back to the wall, feeling with my hands in the dim room. Perspiration soaked my shirt and my heart pounded in my chest. I thought, what a fool I’d been. If caught here, the charge would be breaking and entering. At best, I’d lose my law license. I didn’t want to think about the worst that could happen.