The Blue Knight (20 page)

Actually it was two hours after I arrested Landry that I discovered the traffic warrant. In fact, it was when I was getting ready to compose a plausible arrest report, and the discovery of a traffic warrant made me come up with this story.

“So you called into the office and found out that Timothy G. Landry of that address had a traffic warrant out for his arrest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you use Mr. Downey’s phone?”

“No, sir, I used the pay phone in the hall.”

“Why didn’t you use Mr. Downey’s phone? You could’ve saved a dime.” The P.D. smiled again.

“If you dial operator and ask for the police you get your dime back anyway, counsel. I didn’t want to bother Mr. Downey further, so I went out in the hall and used the pay phone.”

“I see. Then you went back upstairs with the key Mr. Downey gave you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knocked and announced yourself and made sure the voice inside was Timothy Landry, for whom you had knowledge that a warrant existed?”

“Yes, sir. The male voice said he was Timothy Landry. Or rather he said yes when I asked if he was Timothy Landry.” I turned just a little toward the judge, nodding my head ever so slightly when I said this. Landry again rolled his eyeballs and slumped down in his seat at that one.

“Then when you heard the window opening and feared your traffic warrant suspect might escape down the fire escape, you forced entry?”

“I used the passkey.”

“Yes, and you saw Mr. Landry on the edge of the bed as though getting ready to go out the window?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you saw a metal object protruding from under the mattress?”

“I saw a blue metal object that I was sure was a gun barrel, counsel,” I corrected him, gently.

“And you glanced to your right and there in plain view was the object marked people’s two, the sandwich bag containing several grams of marijuana?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have no further questions of this witness,” said the P.D., and now I was starting to worry a little, because he just went over everything as though he were the D.A. on direct examination. He just made our case stronger by giving me a chance to tell it again.

What the hell? I thought, as the judge said, “You may step down.”

I sat back at the counsel table and the D.A. shrugged at my questioning look.

“Call your next witness,” said the judge, taking a sip of water, as the bailiff got Homer Downey from the hall. Homer slouched up to the stand, so skinny the crotch of his pants was around his knees. He wore a dirty white shirt for the occasion and a frayed necktie and the dandruff all over his thin brown hair was even visible from the counsel table. His complexion was as yellow and bumpy as cheese pizza.

He gave his name, the address of the Orchid Hotel, and said he had been managing the place for three years. Then the D.A. asked him if I contacted him on the day of the arrest and looked at his register and borrowed his passkey, and if some ten minutes later did he come to the defendant’s room and see me with the defendant under arrest, and how long had the defendant lived there, and did he rent the room to the defendant and only the defendant, and did all the events testified to occur in the city and county of Los Angeles, and Homer was a fairly good talker and a good witness, also very sincere, and was finished in a few minutes.

When direct examination was finished the public defender stood up and started pacing like in the Perry Mason shows and the judge said, “Sit down, counsel,” and he apologized and sat down like in a real courtroom, where witnesses are only approached by lawyers when permission is given by the judge and where theatrical stuff is out of the question.

“Mister Downey, when Officer Morgan came to your door on the day in question, you’ve testified that he asked to see your register, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ask you who lived in three-nineteen?”

“Nope, just asked to see the register.”

“Do you remember whose name appeared on the register?”

“Sure. His.” Downey pointed at Landry, who stared back at him.

“By him, do you mean the defendant in this case? The man on my right?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Timothy C. Landowne.”

“Would you repeat that name, please, and spell it?”

My heart started beating hard then, and the sweat broke out and I said to myself, “Oh no, oh no!”

“Timothy C. Landowne. T-I-M . . .”

“Spell the last name please,” the P.D. smiled and I got sick.

“Landowne. L-A-N-D-O-W-N-E.”

“And the middle initial was C as in Charlie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. He’s been staying at the hotel for four, five months now. And he even stayed a couple months last year.”

“Did you ever see the name Timothy G. Landry on any hotel records? That’s L-A-N-D-R-Y?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see the name anywhere?”

“No.”

I could feel the D.A. next to me stiffen as he finally started to catch on.

“Did you at any time tell Officer Morgan that the man in three-nineteen was named Timothy G. Landry?”

“No, because that’s not his name as far as I know, and I never heard that name before today.”

“Thank you, Mister Downey,” said the public defender, and I could feel Landry, grinning with his big shark teeth, and I was trying hard to come up with a story to get out of this. I knew at that moment, and admitted to myself finally and forever, that I should’ve been wearing my glasses years before this, and could no longer do police work or anything else without them, and if I hadn’t been so stupid and had my glasses on, I would’ve seen that the name on that register was a half-assed attempt at an alias on the part of Landry, and even though the traffic warrant was as good as gold and really belonged to him, I couldn’t possibly have got the right information from R and I by giving the computer the wrong name. And the judge would be sure of that in a minute because the judge would have the defendant’s make sheet. And even as I was thinking it she looked at me and whispered to the court clerk who handed her a copy of the make sheet and nowhere in his record did it show he used an alias of Landowne. So I was trapped, and then Homer nailed the coffin tight.

“What did the officer do after you gave him the key?”

“He went out the door and up the stairs.”

“How do you know he went up the stairs?”

“The door was open just a crack. I put my slippers on in a hurry because I wanted to go up there too so’s not to miss the action. I thought something might happen, you know, an arrest and all.”

“You remember my talking to you just before this hearing and asking you a few questions, Mister Downey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember my asking you about the officer using the pay phone in the lobby to call the police station?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and I had a foul taste in my mouth and I was full of gas and had branding iron indigestion pains and no pills for them.

“Do you remember what you said about the phone?”

“Yes, sir, that it didn’t work. It’d been out of order for a week and I’d called the phone company, and in fact I was mad because I thought maybe they came the night before when I was out because they promised to come, and I tried it that morning just before the officer came and it was still broke. Buzzed real crazy when you dropped a dime in.”

“Did you drop a dime in that morning?”

“Yes, sir. I tried to use it to call the phone company and it didn’t matter if I dialed or not, it made noises so I used my own phone.”

“You could
not
call out on that phone?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“I suppose the phone company would have a record of your request and when they finally fixed the phone?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said the D.A. weakly. “Calls for a conclusion.”

“Sustained,” said the judge, looking only at me now, and I looked at Homer just for something to do with my eyes.

“Did you go upstairs behind the officer?” asked the P.D. again, and now the D.A. had slumped in his chair and was tapping with a pencil, and I’d passed the point of nervous breathing and sweat. Now I was cold and thinking, thinking about how to get out of this and what I would say if they recalled me to the stand, if either of them recalled me, and I thought the defense might call me because I was
their
witness now, they owned me.

“I went upstairs a little bit after the officer.”

“What did you see when you got up there?”

“The officer was standing outside Mister Landowne’s room and like listening at the door. He had his hat in his hand and his ear was pressed up to the door.”

“Did he appear to see you, or rather, to look in your direction?”

“No, he had his back to my end of the hall and I decided to peek from around the corner, because I didn’t know what he was up to and maybe there’d be a big shootout or something, and I could run back down the stairs if something dangerous happened.”

“Did you hear him knock on the door?”

“No, he didn’t knock.”

“Objection,” said the D.A. “The witness was asked . . .”

“All right,” said the judge, holding her hand up again as the D.A. sat back down.

“Did you ever
hear
the officer knock?” the judge asked the witness.

“No, sir,” said Homer to the judge, and I heard a few snickers from the rear of the court, and I thanked the gods that there were only a few spectators and none of them were cops.

“Did the officer say anything while you were there observing?” asked the P.D.

“Nothing.”

“How long did you watch him?”

“Two, three minutes, maybe longer. He knelt down and tried to peek in the keyhole, but I had them all plugged two years ago because of hotel creepers and peeping toms.”

“Did you . . . strike that, did the officer say anything that you could hear while you were climbing the stairway?”

“I never heard him say nothing,” said Homer, looking bewildered as hell, and noticing from my face that something was sure as hell wrong and I was very unhappy.

“Then what did he do?”

“Used the key. Opened the door.”

“In what way? Quickly?”

“I would say careful. He like turned the key slow and careful, and then he pulled out his pistol and then he seemed to get the bolt turned, and he kicked open the door and jumped in the room with the gun out front.”

“Could you hear any conversation then?”

“Oh yeah,” he giggled, through gapped, brown-stained teeth. “The officer yelled something to Mister Landowne.”

“What did he say? His
exact
words if you remember.”

“He said, ‘Freeze asshole, you move and you’re wallpaper.’”

I heard all three spectators laugh at that one, but the judge didn’t think it was funny and neither did the D.A., who looked almost as sick as I figure I looked.

“Did you go in the room?”

“Yes, sir, for a second.”

“Did you see anything unusual about the room?”

“No. The officer told me to get out and go back to my room so I did.”

“Did you notice if anything was on the dresser?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Did you hear any other conversation between the officer and the defendant?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“The officer warned him about something.”

“What did he say?”

“It was about Mister Landowne not trying anything funny, something like that. I was walking out.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, it’s something else not exactly decent.”

“We’re grown up. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You get out of that chair and I’ll shove this gun so far up your ass there’ll be shit on the grips.’ That’s what he said. I’m sorry.” Homer turned red and giggled nervously and shrugged at me.

“The defendant was sitting in a chair?”

“Yes.”

“Was it his own gun the officer was talking about?”

“Objection,” said the D.A.

“I’ll rephrase that,” said the P.D. “Was the officer holding his own gun in his hand at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see the other gun at that time?”

“No, I never saw no other gun.”

The P.D. hesitated for a long, deadly silent minute and chewed on the tip of his pencil, and I almost sighed out loud when he said, “I have no further questions,” even though it was much too late to feel relieved.

“I have a question,” said Judge Bedford, and she pushed her glasses up over a hump on her thin nose and said, “Mister Downey, did you happen to go into the lobby any time that morning
before
the officer arrived?”

“No.”

“You never went out or looked out into the lobby area?”

“Well, only when the officer drove up in front. I saw the police car parked in front, and I was curious and I started out the door and then I saw the officer climbing the front steps of the hotel and I went back inside to put a shirt and shoes on so’s to look presentable in case he needed some help from me.”

“Did you look into the lobby?”

“Well, yes, it’s right in front of my door, ma’am.”

“Who was in the lobby?”

“Why, nobody.”

“Could you see the entire lobby? All the chairs? Everywhere in the lobby area?”

“Why sure. My front door opens right on the lobby and it’s not very big.”

“Think carefully. Did you see two men sleeping anywhere near the lobby area?”

“There was nobody there, Judge.”

“And where was the officer when you were looking into the empty lobby?”

“Coming in the front door, ma’am. A couple seconds later he came to my door and asked about the room and looked at the register like I said.”

My brain was burning up now like the rest of me, and I had an idiotic story ready when they recalled me about how I’d come in the lobby once and then got out and come in again when Homer saw me and thought it was the first entry. And I was prepared to swear the phone worked, because what the hell, anything was possible with telephone problems. And even if that bony-assed, dirty little sneak followed me up the stairs, maybe I could convince them I called to Landry
before
Downey got up there, and what the hell, Downey didn’t know if the marijuana was on the dresser or in the closet, and I was trying to tell myself everything would be all right so I could keep the big-eyed honest look on my kisser because I needed it now if ever in my life.