JO03 - Detour to Murder (3 page)

C H A P T E R 
3

The lower slope of the
San Gabriel Mountains formed a spectacular backdrop for the Inland Empire as I barreled along Central Avenue heading back to Downey. I wanted to rush to my office and review the Roberts file again, preferably while sipping magnificent coffee brewed by Mabel.

Perhaps the file contained something I overlooked, something of a mitigating nature, something I could use at the hearing. Under my intense questioning, he’d maintained his innocence, but without any evidence in Roberts’s favor, I realized the guy had to be guilty. He had murdered the woman in the motel room. And what about that line he dished out, the bit about Haskell? An accident. Who’d believe a pile of crap like that? He killed the guy and stole his clothes, wallet and cash. He took his car and left him for dead along the side of the road, lying in the brush somewhere in the middle of the Mojave Desert. In any case, his guilt or innocence wasn’t the issue now. My job was to convince the board he was no longer a threat to society.

Sure, Roberts deserved to do his time. But it boiled down to a question of dogma. I was there to satisfy the State’s guiding principle that proclaimed everyone was entitled to representation in all phases of their legal entanglements. It said so in the United States Constitution, and who was I to argue with that? Besides, it was a job and—what the hell, I’d do what I could for him.

As I drove, my curiosity about the dead man, Charles Haskell, began to build. Although Roberts wasn’t tried for his murder, the circumstances surrounding Haskell’s death would certainly weigh heavily on the board’s collective minds. Roberts said that Haskell’s death had been an accident. It won’t hurt to check. I made a mental note to scan the Yuma County DA’s reports. Might be something there I could use to shed doubt about the murder allegation. But I knew I was being optimistic. Like the famous psychologist, what’s his name, once said, “Optimism flourishes in a lunatic asylum.”

I wheeled into the office parking lot and slid out of my Vette, clutching the file.

Mabel looked up from her reception desk when I entered. “Where you been?”

“Chino. Interviewing our new client, you knew that.”

Mabel, our firm’s office manager, receptionist, and resident nag, looked down at her bright red fingernails, which didn’t match her dyed carrot-colored hair. “Four hours to interview one guy?”

“Two hours driving.”

“The state’s only paying us for one and a half hours driving time and one hour for the interview.” She leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Jimmy, but someone has to watch the timesheets. We have bills, you know. I don’t think you and Rita realize the expenses involved in running the office.”

“Do we have any coffee?”

“You know how much coffee cost these days? A buck and a quarter a pound. You drink too much coffee, anyway.”

“Mabel!”

“You’re the boss. But I’m not making a fresh pot.”

Even a few hours old, Mabel’s coffee tasted better than any freshly brewed stuff served in restaurants around Downey. If we didn’t make it in the law biz, we could always open a coffee place, just serve coffee, nothing else, people would flock. Yeah, right. I took a sip, smiled, sat at my desk and opened the Roberts file. Carefully, I flipped through the pages, now yellowed with age. I continued turning the pages until I came to the coroner’s reports.

Pausing briefly, I glanced at the grotesque black and white glossies. Then I set the report relating to the strangled woman aside and picked up the Haskell autopsy file. Other than the deep gash on his forehead, there was nothing to indicate he had been in a struggle before he died. He had an ancient scar on his forearm and a few minor scratches on his wrist. The scratches, which could’ve been made by a cat or an animal with claws, had been there for a few days prior to his death. But that was all. Other than the wound on the forehead, there were no new bruises or other lacerations.

I found something interesting, but it wouldn’t help. The official cause of Haskell’s death was listed as a heart attack. But the DA’s addendum alleged that Roberts had beat Haskell on the head with a blunt object and
then
he had the coronary, and the latter was the direct result of the savage blow administered by Roberts. Could’ve happened that way, I thought, and if it did, then it was murder.

My eyes started to glaze over; detailed autopsy reports will do that. When I reached the page on serology, I set the papers down and walked around my desk and glanced out the window at the traffic jammed on Lakewood Boulevard. Cars were lined up trying to get into Stonewood Shopping Center. A street sweeper had stalled while making a U-turn, blocking the entrance to the parking lot. Horns honked in anger and frustration, the populace ready to riot. Women were frantic. There was a big sale going on at the Broadway.

Returning to my desk, I wiped my hands across my face and picked up the report again.

When I turned the page, a sentence caught my eye: “Creatine phosphokinase was present in blood traces located on the decedent’s left anterior fronto-occipital in near proximity to the laceration.” Wait a minute. I read the sentence again, slowly, focusing on each word. I knew from a forensics seminar I’d taken that creatine phosphokinase, an enzyme, is only in the blood after a heart attack had occurred. I rapidly flipped through more pages. Maybe I was on to something. I found another vital sentence buried on page sixteen. It said that when the body was discovered, there was no evidence of blood flow from the head injury.

Leaning back, I took another sip of coffee and let my mind mull over what I’d just read. Blood flow from the head wound should’ve been substantial. Digging deeper into the autopsy report, I found that there was no subdural bleeding either. The only blood found anywhere on the body were the few traces that had surrounded the wound, the blood with the enzyme in it, which had trickled out
after
he had died.

I sat there flabbergasted, staring at the words on the report. No blood flow meant Haskell’s heart had stopped before he was struck. The guy had died before the beating took place.

I wondered why Roberts would whack a guy who was already dead. He wouldn’t. Nobody would. In a robbery, what would be the point of beating up a guy after he died?

But what if Haskell had the fatal heart attack and then fell out of the car, banging his head when he did? Yeah, that would explain the wound and the blood traces with the enzyme. That would mean Roberts hadn’t struck him. It would mean he wasn’t lying. It would mean, in spite of everything else, Roberts hadn’t murdered Haskell.

The addendum had been signed by the District Attorney holding office at the time, Frank Byron. That’s odd. The DA himself handled the case. But anyway, he’d stated that Roberts had beat Haskell with a blunt instrument, which resulted in his death. Then, according to Byron, Roberts killed the woman to keep her from squealing about Haskell’s murder. How could that be? The DA had to know that Haskell was dead before he received the gash on his head. I looked up, stared at the wall, thinking.

Quickly, I turned back to the interrogation report. There was no mention of a heart attack in his plea negotiations with Roberts.

The District Attorney had lied. He lied to the courts, lied to Roberts, and with this document, the deceit was still very much alive. To put it pure and simple, it was all bullshit. With his lies and threats, Frank Byron had bluffed Roberts into confessing to a murder.

I knew now that the authorities in Yuma County, Arizona could not have issued a murder warrant charging Roberts. The only thing they could’ve charged him with back in 1945 would’ve been grand theft auto, hardly a capital crime, which by now would’ve been dismissed. The statute of limitations wouldn’t apply, he left the jurisdiction, but who in their right mind would try a class D felony, thirty years old?

I stared at Byron’s signature, a hasty scrawl. Why would he, the head honcho, put his name on a report that on its surface was a lie? Could it have been a cover-up? If so, what was he concealing? Maybe he didn’t want his office to take the case to trial for some reason. And by coercing Roberts to confess to Vera’s murder, there would be no trial, no witnesses, no evidence, and nothing in the public record. The documents and other ugly details—such as the autopsy report—would be buried away in the tombs of the City Hall basement, where they wouldn’t see the light of day for almost thirty years—until now.

But then why would Byron want to sweep Vera’s death under the rug? Big shots like Byron wouldn’t have messed with a small-time murder rap. And Vera was definitely small-time, just a wayward girl, like a million others who flocked to the City of Fallen Angels. Unlike a movie studio mogul, politician, or a powerful mob boss, Vera’s death would’ve been an inconspicuous pinpoint on anyone’s radar.

Byron left the DA’s office in 1946, less than a year after Roberts’s conviction and, after an unsuccessful run for governor, went into private practice somewhere in California, but that’s all I knew. I didn’t even know if he was still alive, but I knew if he were, I’d want to have a little chat with him.

I set the file down and propped my feet on the desk. What kind of shyster handled Roberts’s case back in 1945? He could not have studied the reports, or he would have seen the same things I did. The guy wasn’t much of a lawyer. He sounded more like a movie agent, selling the rights to his story, and vanishing with the cash. It would’ve been obvious to a decent attorney, or for that matter, anyone who looked, or cared:
If Roberts hadn’t killed Haskell, then he had no motive to murder the girl.
Reasonable doubt; if the case had gone to trial back then, a first-year law student could have handled it. Might have even gotten Al Roberts acquitted.

C H A P T E R 
4

The next morning, I skipped
breakfast and headed out, driving directly to the prison.

“You’re late,” the guard, Marsh, said. “The prisoner is already in the hearing room.”

“Yeah, the traffic, bumper to bumper.”

“Forget it. I get enough jive from the inmates. C’mon, follow me, O’Brien.”

I followed Marsh into the parole hearing room connected to the main dormitory. He moved to the back of the windowless room, where he stood again with his feet spread and his hands clasped behind his back. A rectangular conference table sat at the front of the room. Three unoccupied high-back leather chairs rested behind the table. Rows of hard steel folding chairs faced the table, filling the remainder of the room.

Roberts sat slumped in the front row. I deposited myself next to him and set my briefcase on the floor.

“We haven’t much time,” I said, “so I’ll be brief, Al.”

He didn’t acknowledge me, just kept staring at the floor.

“Listen up. I’ve found out something. May help.”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill either of them. I got railroaded. My fuckin’ lawyer split. I was on my own.”

Yeah, they’re all innocent, and it’s always about the lawyers who screw up. Maybe Shakespeare was right. Maybe they should kill all the lawyers. But in this case he was innocent, at least of Haskell’s murder.

The door banged open. A man of about sixty marched in. “This is the hearing room. No talking until I say so.”

I ignored him and continued speaking to Roberts, “Goddammit, Al, hear me out. I have important information about your case.”

“Yeah, what?” Roberts asked.

The man at the front of the room shouted, “I said, no talking!”

I glanced up at the guy. He wore a loud checkered jacket, blue pants, and his wavy hair was all fluffed up with the sides sweeping back like glossy, silver wings. He swaggered around, acting like a peacock in heat.

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled.” I stood. “I’ll talk to my client if I feel like it. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m Deputy Commissioner Schlereth. I’m in charge of the hearings.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, representing Alexander Roberts. Just conferring with my client while we wait.”

He placed a stack of papers on the table. “We have a busy schedule today, Mr. O’Brien, several hearings.” He sat at the table, adjusted his chair and glared at me. “We’re late getting started.”

“So, start.”

“The other commissioners haven’t arrived yet.”

Turning back to Roberts, I started to say something about the autopsy report, but paused. I didn’t want to hurt Roberts’s chance by pissing off the commissioner before the proceedings even began. So I kept quiet. Roberts would find out what I’d discovered when I dropped the bomb on the commissioners. He looked at me, concern—or was it hope?—etched on his face. I put my finger to my lips, nodded slightly, and sat there, twiddling my thumbs.

Finally, two more people, a man in his early forties, and a middle-aged woman of obvious means wearing a fur coat—the other commissioners, I assumed—strolled into the room, talking and laughing. They took a seat on either side of Schlereth and at 9:40 the hearing started.

The Deputy Commissioner held up his hand. “All right, everyone’s now present.” He glanced at the wealthy woman. “Let’s call this hearing to order.” She gave a shrug and nodded. He looked down and fingered a file resting on the table. “Today's date is October 15, 1974. The time is now 0942 hours and we are at the California Institution for Men at Chino. This hearing is being taped.” He reached out and adjusted the reel-to-reel Magnavox in front of him. “Participants in today’s hearing are Commissioners, Mrs. Thornton, Mr. Goodwin, and I’m Deputy Commissioner Schlereth.” He looked again at Mrs. Thornton who, while examining her outstretched fingers, adjusted a lavish diamond ring. He continued reciting the names of those in attendance: “the inmate, Mr. Alexander Roberts, CDC number V-34560. And representing the inmate is the attorney, James O’Brien.”

He paused a moment. “Wait a minute, a private attorney?” He looked up at me. “What are you doing here? Attorneys get paid, don’t they? The prisoner is indigent.” He turned to Miss Rich Bitch. “Mrs. Thornton,” the Deputy Commissioner said, wiggling his fingers in a ‘gimme’ manner. The woman pulled a document from her alligator attaché case and slid it across the table. “Oh, yes. Here it is,” Schlereth said. “Your application to represent Inmate Roberts. Appointed by a judge. Hmm, one of those government handouts. He eyed me curiously. “Not much money. You must be inexperienced.”

I stood and felt as if I should curtsy. That’s me, Jimmy O’Brien junior lawyer from Downey. Maybe I should show him my Cub Scout merit badge. “Commissioner Schlereth, I’m just here to serve the cause of justice.” I sat down.

“Mr. O’Brien, your lack of experience in these matters will be no excuse for improper behavior. Remember, this is not a trial and I lay down the rules.”

I got to my feet again. “Commissioner Schlereth, I hope your opinion of my ability won’t interfere with my client receiving a fair hearing. But anyway, let me get to the point. I’ve uncovered evidence that will have a bearing on the inmate’s parole—”

“You work cheap, don’t you?”

“My fee is of no consequence and does not relate to the matter before us.” I paused for a short beat. “Now, Commissioner Schlereth, I’d like to make a statement—”

“There’ll be time for that later,” he said, interrupting me for the second time.

“Listen to me, please.” I placed my hand on Roberts’s shoulder. “I have new evidence and I feel once you hear of my discovery, you’ll—”

Schlereth continued to ignore me and kept rattling on, leaning into the microphone. “And representing the people of the County of Los Angeles is Deputy District Attorney Stephen Marshall. There are no other persons present here today.”

The Deputy DA, a young guy, probably in diapers when Roberts had been convicted, sat in the last row of chairs, tilted back against the wall. He wore glasses with dark heavy frames and had on khaki pants with a blue blazer and a tie that his kid—if he had a kid—must have given him. It had pictures of little Mickey Mouses running around on it.

“Why don’t you move a little closer, Mr. Marshall? This is being taped and we’ll want to get your every word recorded for posterity,” Schlereth said.

The Commissioner wasn’t going to listen to what I had to say, at least not now. So, I sat down reluctantly and waited. I tapped my fingers on the edge of the chair while Schlereth read into the record laws governing parole hearings, section numbers, codes that referenced the authority granted to the panel by statute, that sort of thing. He included the count of the indictment: “…for violation of penal code, section 187, first degree murder, one count, Los Angeles County, case number 45-67862.”

He read the report prepared for the parole board that outlined the circumstances surrounding Roberts’s incarceration, the brutality of the crime, how he was arrested, and how he confessed to his crime after reaching an agreement with the District Attorney. Then he read the sentence handed down by Judge Alfred Nevins: life in prison with eligibility for parole in thirty years.

Schlereth continued in his droll manner, reciting the prosecuting attorney’s reasons for the plea agreement. But when he came to the paragraph that explained how Charles Haskell, Jr. had been struck with a blunt object and had died as a result of the blow to his head, I bolted from my chair. “Objection!” I yelled. “The inmate was not convicted of Haskell’s so-called murder, and besides—”

Without looking up Schlereth said, “Sit down, Mr. O’Brien. This is not a court of law. You can’t object.”

“Haskell died of natural causes!” I almost shouted. “And I object to any reference in this hearing on or off the record that indicates or implies Haskell was murdered.”

I glanced at my client. His jaw dropped and the blood ran from his ashen face. Roberts, finally, after all those years in prison, realized what I was saying. The DA had set him up.

Schlereth looked up and gave me a quick once-over. “I said sit down. This is a parole hearing. We have procedures and we follow them. I’m going to read the material as provided to the board. When I’m finished we’ll have closing arguments. First the District Attorney will have his turn. Then you and your client will be allowed to speak.”

I dropped into my chair and Schlereth started in again. Looking down his nose through the lens of his half-glasses, he read the DA Byron’s statement regarding Haskell made at the time of Roberts’s plea agreement: “On or about July 8
^th
, 1945, the prisoner, Alexander Roberts, with malice aforethought did willfully strike one white male, aged thirty-two, to wit, Charles Haskell Jr. Shortly after being struck about the head by the aforementioned Roberts, the victim suffered a fatal heart attack. The decedent’s heart attack was the direct result of the trauma administered by the accused—”

“That’s bullshit. I didn’t hit Mr. Haskell.”

Schlereth’s head snapped up. “Attorney O’Brien, tell your client to please keep quiet until it’s time for him to speak.”

I stood again. “Your Honor, I mean, Commissioner. He didn’t strike Haskell. I have proof.”

“I said sit down!” Schlereth didn’t have a gavel, so he knocked the table with the tape recorder mic. Mrs. Thornton jumped when the amplified bang resounded in the room. “Sit down, now!”

“Besides,” I said, ignoring Schlereth’s demands, “this isn’t about Haskell. It’s about a mysterious woman named Vera. An evil woman, who manipulated my client.”

Schlereth rose out of his chair. “Mr. O’Brien, you’re disrupting the proceedings. I demand that you sit down and keep quiet.”

“Larry, wait a minute,” Mrs. Thornton said to Schlereth in a small voice. “Although the inmate wasn’t extradited to Arizona back in 1945 to stand trial for Haskell’s murder, from what I understand it was a factor in his plea agreement involving the woman’s homicide. Now, I’d like him to tell us why—if he didn’t hit the man over head—why was he implicated at all in Haskell’s death back then. And why his death would be a factor in his plea agreement.” Without waiting for Schlereth to reply, she said, “Go ahead, Mr. Roberts, would you please tell us what this is all about?”

We all turned to Roberts, who lumbered out of his chair. Staring straight ahead, not seeming to look at anyone in particular, he said, “Mr. Haskell was asleep, probably dead already, I dunno. When I stopped the car and opened his door, he fell out. His head hit a rock. My idea was to hide the body, not to rob him, but then I remembered I’d need money for gas. Besides, it was stupid to leave all that money on a dead man.
What else could I do?”
He hung his head and sat down.

“Money? Gas? I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts. I don’t understand.”

I jumped in. “That’s just it. He didn’t kill Haskell, but the DA had him over a barrel. The District Attorney lied. He knew Haskell wasn’t hit on the head. He knew the guy had died of natural causes, a heart attack. Haskell’s wound was a result of his body rolling out of the car and then his head hit something, a rock maybe, after he died. There’s not even a warrant outstanding in Arizona, never was. I checked.” I hadn’t checked, but they wouldn’t have known that.

I looked down at my client, sitting there. Roberts knew now that the DA had lied to him, convinced him that he’d be sent to Arizona to stand trial for Haskell’s murder, conned him into believing he’d be convicted and die in the gas chamber. But if he confessed to murdering Vera, he’d get an indeterminate life sentence here in California. The deal, he thought, saved him from death row. Without a lawyer, and without a reasonable defense, he had no choice. But the DA was bluffing. The authorities in Arizona must’ve known Haskell died of a heart attack and the gash on his head was postmortem. He now knew what I’d figured out yesterday: the DA’s office in Yuma had no intention of putting him on trial for murder. Roberts sat at the table, his face buried in his hands.

I turned back to the board. “The District Attorney at the time, a guy named Byron, lied and played Roberts for a fool. I have evidence, proof.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Schlereth banged the mic again. “As I said earlier, Mr. O’Brien, this is not a court of law. If you have any exculpatory evidence, file a motion with the proper authorities.” Fingering his glasses, he pulled them down a millimeter on the bridge of his nose and glared at me. “Tell
them
about your so-called proof. Ask
them
for a new trial.”

Yeah, sure, I thought, a new trial almost thirty years after a guy pleads guilty to murder. “I’m going to do exactly that!” I announced, and sat down.

Schlereth glared at me, anger building, but didn’t add anything. He obviously wasn’t used to being challenged in the hearings, his fiefdom.

Everything went downhill from there, not that I was having much luck before then. When his turn came, Stephen Marshall, the Deputy DA from Los Angeles, got to his feet and reminded the board of their legal obligation to consider only the facts existing at the time of sentencing and disregard any claims of new evidence. Then he spoke eloquently about the need to punish murderers. “To allow heinous criminals back into society would violate the sense of right and wrong of a just people.” He mentioned the Supreme Court, how they had recently banned the use of the death penalty and now the only protection society had against murderers and other vicious predators was the ability of the State to keep them locked away forever. Especially
double murderers
like Roberts. I objected when the young assistant DA used that term.

When Marshall finally sat down, I got to my feet and spoke for a few minutes. I told the board about Roberts’s excellent prison record. “Not only that, he’s a gifted pianist. He performs in the prison band, entertaining the inmates, and has even played for the warden a time or two.”

But once I started delving into the facts concerning Roberts’s ill-gotten confession, Commissioner Goodwin, who’d been quiet up to that moment, dusted me off with a wave of his hand. He then leaned forward and peered at Roberts. He asked him if there was remorse in his heart, sorrow for murdering the woman.