Richardson, through Jolene, inherited the use of a large sum upon the demise of his in-laws, and he spent much of that money in the next few years. They moved out of Miami to Camarillo six years ago, when suddenly Robert told her he got an “urge” to seek a different clientele outside of Florida. They settled in Camarillo after Robert passed the California bar and took over the law practice of an elderly attorney with an established clientele there. He told Jolene that he wished to keep his options open, and he therefore maintained another smaller law office in Miami. He told her it was run by a past associate of his, a certain John Miller. Over the last couple of years, Robert Richardson’s Florida side practice seemed to be expanding, and Jolene was spending one to two weeks a month alone in their lavish home with only Reverend Stiller and her kitty for company. She looked to the pastor’s televised words for comfort and purpose. “Our crosses borne here on earth pale in comparison to the pain suffered by Christ to atone for our sins. Trust only in God, and carry on his work here on earth. Praise Jesus!”
The only God Robert Ethan Richardson trusted was referenced to on the one-dollar bill.
Jolene laid out the two black suits and long-sleeved white dress shirts and ties that her husband always traveled with. She rose at 7:00 a.m. from her separate bedroom the next morning to see him off and found him finishing his breakfast.
“Will you be long this time, Robert?”
“I expect no more than five to seven days. It is a complicated case, and I expect the depositions will be lengthy.”
“Please call if you can, Robert. I hate it when you don’t speak to me for so long. I worry.”
With a disparaging look, he replied, “I will try, my dear, but no promises.”
Richardson drove out of the driveway while Jolene waved good-bye, the fat, fluffy cat tucked tightly under her arm.
His first stop was the office, where he hung the carrier containing the two suits up in his closet. Along with a separate prepacked bag kept in his closet, he retrieved a smartly wrapped gift box from his desk drawer and slipped it into his luggage. Martha then drove him to the airport in her Volkswagen Beetle.
Four hours later, his Delta flight touched down at Miami International. Leaving the baggage area, Robert Richardson approached a familiar green Audi parked in the loading zone. The passenger door opened, and a small figure exited and bounced up to him. “Daddy, I missed you a bunch!” The attractive Cuban driver got out at the same time. Kissing the attorney wetly on the lips, she whispered, “I missed you, too, Papa. What you bring Mommy this time?”
Robert Richardson was now home, in the only home he ever wanted to be in.
Six and a half years earlier, Mariella Cruz saw an ad in the Miami telephone book. She’d been arrested for petty theft, and as a result, the authorities discovered she was in the country illegally. A citizen of Cuba, Mariella had risked everything to leave her past behind and seek a future in America. She was one of the thousands of Cubans who actually made it across to Florida by sea. Too many boat people; too little US border protection. Now, however, she wore a bulky GPS bracelet and awaited deportation. She needed an attorney to keep the flame of her burning desire for America alive.
Attorney Robert E. Richardson had done a few immigration cases over the years. They were easy money, regardless of whether the client got to stay in the United States or not. He was smitten with Mariella the second he met her. Tall and olive-skinned, her complexion was flawless, like polished marble. Her body exuded sensuality, and Robert Richardson enjoyed none of that at home with comely Jolene. He was soon representing Mariella pro bono, and she was reciprocating by responding to him prosexually. All was fine until eleven months later, when Mariella Cruz came up with the answer to her own immigration dilemma. She named her little anchor baby Manuel.
Robert Richardson planned everything, from his daily menu to the strategies in his cases. He did not plan on little Manuel. However, when Mariella threatened to name Robert as Manuel’s father on the birth certificate, Richardson found another man, a US citizen, who agreed to be daddy in name only. Enter Mr. John Miller. Manuel’s birth put Mariella’s planned deportation exit on permanent hold with the INS authorities—no more GPS bracelets, no more tails. Her anchor was firmly set in US waters. She then began pressuring the portly protagonist to provide more and more for her and his infant spawn. She, in turn, provided for his physical needs. For an overweight guy, he had his share of needs.
Richardson became a frequent visitor to her apartment. Manuel began calling him “Daddy” as soon as he could mutter a word, all at Mariella’s prompting. Even though he had not planned for any of this, Robert Richardson began loving all of it. However, when some of his associates saw him, Mariella, and young Manuel together inside a restaurant one day, his headaches began in earnest. The other attorneys could not help but notice the physical interactions between Robert and the exotic Cuban. The resemblance between the small boy and the fat man was unmistakable as well. Despite his repeated denials, it got so bad that someone mentioned Richardson’s “girlfriend and kid” in open court one day. This prompted a nearby judge to raise an eyebrow. It became all the talk in the clerks’ break room. “He can’t deny that chubby Cuban kid; the boy looks just like him.”
Robert Richardson knew who actually provided the butter for his bread. Although his law practice provided a decent income, he had other “needs” now that Mariella and Manuel were in the picture. Mariella loved nice things and was very “appreciative” when Robert provided them. He needed this surrogate family in the otherwise-dull life with his cash-cow wife. When he realized he had to leave Miami, or risk his double-life being discovered, he looked to California as a new beginning for his law practice. California, the “land of milk and honey,” full of high-dollar clientele. When he learned of an established law practice in Camarillo for sale, he jumped on it.
There was never a Florida business associate named John Miller. However, there was a high-scale condominium in Boca Raton overlooking the harbor, with the name Cruz on the mailbox. A fifty-five-foot yacht sat in a slip nearby. The name emblazoned in red on the stern read, Mariella Bonita. What first started with two or three days every other month turned into more frequent week-long trysts. Robert Richardson was no longer satisfied spending time with Jolene in Camarillo. He longed to be rolling in the sheets with Mariella’s sweet Cuban flesh in Boca.
Mariella Cruz was smelling blood in the water, too. “Robby, why you no come live with us all da time…todo tiempo novio? Why you no divorce that ugly old woman you have? She no good for you. I am better for you, mi novio. Mas major, claro?”
The attorney wanted nothing more, but he knew what he would have to give up to obtain what he really wanted. He’d invested much in the move to California with Jolene. Besides their palatial home in Camarillo, he and his wife owned six apartment complexes in Los Angeles. Investments from Jolene’s inheritance amounted to more than six million as well. Real estate was not paying off at the moment, but it would eventually. Despite the recent haul from the fraudulent Telford Corporation lawsuit, he was in debt, and most of his wealth was attached to real estate with the name Jolene Emma Richardson right alongside his on the deeds. He had even listed one of their mutually owned properties as collateral on the loan to purchase the Mariella Bonita. Robert had a very low opinion of his wife’s ability to discover any of his misdealings. A divorce now would be out of the question, though. It would amount to severing his purse strings, and ol’ Robby Richardson liked holding that money bag.
“Robby, why you no divorce that ugly wife you have?”
Richardson told his willing concubine, “Just wait, novia, uno momento, mi amor.”
Two days after Robert Richardson returned from his “business trip” to Florida, Will Phillips and I arrived at the Nye County jail in Nevada to interview the less-than-glamorous Stanley Blivins. He looked like shit—black eye, fat lip, big cut on his ear. Just Google “worst-looking booking photos,” and that was poor Stanley. He was
housed in general population, and lately, someone had tried to play his man flute in the shower. He decided to avoid bathing altogether after that. We could tell.
Stanley sat at a lone table in the stark interview room. As soon as we appeared, he loudly barked, “What the fuck are you doing here?” Ah, he recognized me.
“Well, hello, Mr. Blivins. Kevin Rhinehardt, remember? And this is Detective Phillips.” I figured Will would appreciate his new title. He glanced my way and had a shit-eating grin on his face.
Blivins started, “I want my phone calls. You tell those guys to give me my fuckin’ phone calls. It’s my right, you know.”
Of course it was his right, but it was our right to hold the calls for a while if they might interfere with our pending investigation. We didn’t want him calling anyone, especially his attorney. We figured that what Stanley didn’t know couldn’t hurt us.
I apologized. “Sorry about that, Mr. Blivins. We’ll tell them to fix that right away. I don’t know why they aren’t letting you call out. Right now, we need to talk to you about that murder. You know, about Dr. Redbone…your Dr. Redbone.”
Blivins responded by making nervous conversation. “Are you guys working on this beef with the Ranch? I never started the fight. That big nigger started it. I just defended myself. That bitch got in the way, too, and that cop grabbed me. I just reacted. It wasn’t my fault. Hey, you got a cigarette? I’m pretty thirsty, too.” He was shaking and rattling on a mile a minute.
Will and I figured he really was thirsty, too. After days of being on a crack high, this shitbird looked bad and probably felt the way he looked. All the better for us.
I began getting to the meat of it. “Stanley, we’re here to talk to you about your relationship with the good doctor. You know, the dead doctor.”
Blivins looked puzzled. “Yeah, OK. But I had nothin’ to do with that. I don’t know nothin’ about him getting killed neither.”
My new partner chimed in. “OK, Mr. Blivins, Stanley, can you tell us about the lawsuit, then? We want to know how you’re all related. What part did Marvin Redbone play in your case? And how did you come to meet him in the first place?”
Our weasel then became very defensive. “Hey, you guys can’t ask about that.”
Not giving him time to think, I fired back, “Do you think you’re protected here by the attorney-client privilege?”
“You bet, dude. That’s all confidential. My attorney said so. He told me not to speak to anyone about the case, so fuck off.”
Will Phillips surprised me by jumping right into Stanley Blivins’s shit.
“Listen, Stanley, I’m not your dude. Understand? The so-called attorney-client privilege does not protect you if you are committing crimes with your attorney. You got that, buddy? If you’re committing crimes together with the guy, he is a crook just like you under the law. Crooks don’t have privileges. Nothing you talked about while you caper is P-R-O-T-E-C-T-E-D. You got that, dude? So unless you want us to believe you thought all this up yourself, you better start talking.”
Wow, Phillips was talking like a pro now. Judging by his fidgeting and sweating, Stanley Blivins was either about to crack or crap himself. I needed to step in to take care of a minor legal detail before that happened.
“Excuse me, Mr. Blivins. We do respect your rights, and it appears as if you really want to tell us why you got roped into this. So please read this first. You can read English, correct?”
”Uh, yeah.”
Will Phillips thrust a Miranda rights waiver form under Stanley’s steadily dripping nose. Blivins began scanning it with eyes wide open. He held it with trembling fingers, trying to focus.
I then cast the bait out to our fish. “Stan, do you understand your rights here?”
The minnow nibbled. “Yeah.”
I worked the lure. “You know you don’t have to talk to us, right?”
Then a bigger tug. “Yeah.”
I was ready to set the hook. “Well, knowing your rights, are you willing to speak to us and tell us your story now?”
Stanley Blivins then made our trip to Nevada worthwhile. He looked up, bit down hard on the bait, and said, “Look, I never wanted it to get out of hand. I figured I could get some money. I only did what he told me to.”
As he uttered these words, Blivins signed the form and slid it back my way. He would prove to be a very tasty fish.
Chapter Fifteen
The Aha Moment
“Look, I had nothing to do with no murder, OK? I need you to know that right off. I don’t know shit about the doc’s killing. I just got involved in the plan to get money from Telford. It’s just that simple.” Our little miscreant was singing all right—just not the tune we wanted to hear.
I asked, “Stan, may I call you Stan?”
His head jerked up. “Sure, man. I jus’ don’t want no trouble.”
”Listen, if you know something about this murder, you need to tell us. If you tell us, we can work with you. If you don’t tell the truth, it could all come down on your head. Understand?”
“I’m telling ya, over and over, I don’t know about no murder! I only know about what we did, all of us, to get the money.”
Will let him talk. “OK, Stan, tell us all about what you know, and what all of you did. No bullshit; just the truth.”
Stanley Blivins began vomiting out his story. “OK, back almost two years ago, I did get hurt at Telford. I was working the line, and my shirt got caught, and my arm got fucked up a little. They didn’t do much to help me afterward, and they sent me off to go see a doctor. I had no doctor, and I figured I might be entitled to a little something, so I called an attorney I found in the phone book. I called Richardson. He was real happy to hear from me, too, and right away he sends me to see Doc Redbone in Solvang. The lawyer said that he worked with that guy on workers’ comp cases and that I could trust him. So I went there. The doc actually checked me out, for real, and said that I had some bad cuts and bruising and a buffed rotilator cup—somethin’ like that. He asked me what I wanted to do about all this. I tells him I sure could use some money from Telford. I didn’t like my shitty-ass job there and figured they owed me since their machine had fucked me up. The doctor called up Richardson, and I overheard them talkin’ on the phone.”
I was curious at this point. “What did you hear them talking about that first time on the phone, Stan?”
Blivins continued, “Redbone was doin’ a lot of yeah, yeah, OK, and then puts the phone down. And he asks me if they took any pictures of the injuries before they let me go off from the plant. They didn’t do shit, and I told him so. The doc talks some more with Richardson and then hangs up. He told me to call the lawyer back in three days, and gives me an indefinite off-work order to give to Telford HR. The reason on the slip said, ‘Severe injury to upper left arm and shoulder. Patient under heavy sedation for pain.’ I see this written on the paper, so I asks Redbone if he was going to give me something, you know, for my severe pain. He started writin’ me scripts for Oxycodone then.”
Will Phillips waded into the fray. “So, Stanley, now you’re using drugs you don’t need, right?”
“Well, yeah. I did hurt a little, though. Redbone made me go home with a sling thing on my arm and told me to come back the next day, early. I came back at eight o’clock, and he makes this big-ass cast that covered my shoulder and arm. He had to put a fucking bar thing on it, from my hand to my chest, just so’s to support that fucking heavy thing. I was all ‘What the fuck?’ I can’t go around with this on all day. No way. He then says he could fix it, and he took a little electric saw and starts cutting on the thing. He put a friggin’ hinge on it! He covered it up so you couldn’t see it neither. He was like a genius with that shit. Pretty cool, since I could just flip a small lock he had painted white like the thing, and take the itchy motherfuckin’ thing off!”
I said, “So, you never needed this cast. And Richardson knew it was a fake?”
Laughing, Stanley snorted. “Fucki
n’ A, he knew it.” Blivins was on a roll now. “The doc made a big damn deal about how important it was for me to wear this cast thing whenever I went out of my place into public. And he said, ‘Never talk to your friends about it being fake. Loose lips sink ships and get us thrown in jail.’ Guess I messed all that up now by talking to you guys.”
Will told Stan he was doing the right thing and then asked the money question. “So, where does Attorney Robert Richardson fit into all this?”
Stanley couldn’t wait to tell us. “The attorney was in the middle of it. He met with me that first week at his office down there in Camarillo after I had the cast. He told me he was the best person around at injury law stuff and that if I followed his instructions, my case could be worth a million bucks, maybe more. He said that he wanted to wait a couple of months before filing anythin’ and that he had up to a year to do it. He said somethin’ like, ‘We don’t want them to think we are gunning for ’em—right away at least.’ He told me I needed to see Doc Redbone twice a week for a few months and that the doc would need me to fill out more paperwork for insurance payments. I did just like I was told. I was getting my regular paycheck from Telford, so I gots to sit at home on my ass a lot and play video games and watch the tube. It was pretty fucking boring.”
I asked an important question. “Did Dr. Redbone have anyone else working with him? Did you see anyone with red hair contact him or Richardson?”
“Naw, no gingers I can remember. I would prob’ly remember, too, ’cause I hate redheads. Dated one of those red-haired bitches once. I used to say, ‘Red on the head, like the penis on a poodle!’ Naw, never saw a redhead.”
The little shithead came across as believable.
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 11