JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Christ, am I going to get this on the installment plan?” I gave him another dollar. “Now tell me where he went.”

  “He went to the glass doors in front, waited a moment or two, then ran outside and waited on the steps. I followed him…”

  I turned and started for the front doors.

  “He ain’t there now. He’s gone,” the beggar said to my back.

  I turned around. “Yeah, then where is he?”

  “Costya a buck.”

  I grabbed the guy by his T-shirt. “Dammit, tell me where he went.” I glanced around. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rough. People were giving me dirty looks. That’s right, folks, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, a lawyer, and I’m beating up a blind guy.

  I let go, reached into my wallet, pulled out a five and gave it to him. “Now, I want the whole story, okay.”

  “Hey, Clyde, not so rough. Guy’s gotta make a living, y’know,” he said, his face all scrunched up.

  “Yeah, maybe so.” I felt a touch of remorse for being a bit hostile. “Now, c’mon, where is he?”

  The guy lowered his glasses about a half-inch with the tip of his right index finger. He gave me a squinty-eyed look up from under his stringy, bent eyebrows. “You’re not a cop. I can tell. Your shoes aren’t shined.”

  I glanced down. He was right. “C’mon, guy…”

  “Hey, I know,” he said. “You and the con are working together. Is that it? You let him take off. What happen, he run out without coughing up the dinero?”

  “No, goddammit, it is nothing like that,” I said. “Now tell me where he went.”

  “Okay, Mac, okay. He waited outside for about five seconds. All at once, a black Ford passenger van zooms up to the curb. Then the wrecking crew jumps out…”

  “Wrecking crew?” I asked.

  “Yeah, broken-noses in suits.” He pushed his nose to one side. “Ya’know, leg breakers.”

  “Hired thugs?”

  “Yeah, two big guys. Well, anyhow, your boy sees them,” he said, pulling off his dark glasses and polishing the lenses with the end of his T-shirt. “I think he knew who they were. Then the suits rushed up and hustled him to the panel truck. They shoved him in the back seat and split.” He put the glasses back on and glanced around, nodding.

  “My God, you mean the guys in the suits kidnapped him?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t say that. He didn’t put up no fight or nothin’, he just went with them.”

  I had to think. Could the guys in the black van be helping Robbie escape? Could this be a setup? If it was, then it had to be planned out in advance, and that could mean Robbie wasn’t crazy after all. His holy-roller routine could have been an act.

  “You didn’t see the thugs pull out weapons, or anything?” I asked.

  “Didn’t see no guns, no strong-arm stuff.”

  “Did you get the license plate?”

  “Nah, it was too far away.”

  I rushed out the main door and down the steps and stopped at the curb.

  Wait a minute. Have I just been taken?

  In the harsh sunlight, the story told by a swindler, a guy as genuine as a Tijuana Rolex, about Robbie being snatched and hauled away in a black van seemed utterly bizarre, like a bad movie. And I fell for it. Cost me seven bucks. But still, as illogical as it seemed, I looked up and down Grand Avenue several times. There were no black vans in sight.

  I turned back to the court building. The cops had the front doors closed, and the building was sealed off.

  C H A P T E R 6

  Late again! The arraignment should have been history at around ten, and now over an hour later I was just getting on the freeway, rushing back to my office where my eleven o’clock client waited. The guy might think I’m not reliable. But hey, how was I to know Robbie would pull a trick and vanish like Harry Blackstone’s donkey?

  I grappled with my mind as I drove, confused about the events swirling around me, and wondered how much deeper I was going to be sucked in. All the bits and pieces, rattling debris, churning in my brain had my mind in turmoil: Robbie, my crazy client—who might not be crazy—ranting and raving about the Lord; his dead mother in a trailer and the cops questioning me about her murder as if I were some kind of suspect; and now a judge who was going to be on my ass.

  When Judge Tobias assigned the Robbie Farris case to me and I saw that Robbie was mentally deficient, I knew the only defense possible would be an insanity plea—but I also realized an insanity plea wouldn’t be easy. Only one percent of all criminal cases made use of the insanity defense, and it was practically impossible to win one without the D.A. concurring. I had Webster convinced, tentatively, to go along with me, but now I felt sure the deal was out the window.

  I had to get to the office fast and find out just how upset the judge was. But, after mulling it over during the two hours it took to drive from the Spring Street underpass to the exit at Paramount Boulevard in Downey, a distance of fifteen miles, I concluded that Judge Tobias might not be upset with me after all. He’s an okay guy, and he’s known me for a while. He’ll understand.

  Surely, he would realize it wasn’t my fault that Robbie got happy feet and took off. Nah, I wasn’t in trouble, but just to be on the safe side, I’d phone the judge when I got back to my office. I’d phone him as soon as I was finished with my eleven o’clock client and patiently explain the details of Robbie’s escape. Yeah, that’s it; I’d simply explain how, after running around the court building looking for Robbie, unfortunately without success, I ended up on Grand Avenue. I’d tell him how I tried to get back inside, but by then the cops had the building sealed off. I was sure he’d understand. I’d calmly tell the judge to call me when the police found Robbie, and I would gladly pick up the case where we left off.

  I wheeled into the office lot, parked the Vette, and glanced at the clock in the dash as I slid out. One-thirty six. Christ, I had kept my client waiting over two and half hours.

  Mabel gave me her usual uplifting, cheery greeting when I entered.

  “Where in the hell have you been? Your client took off, and damn, we need to get some cash in here. The bills are stacking up.”

  Mabel was in her middle years, her mid-earlies, as she always said. She wore too much makeup, her carrot-top hair needed a touchup every now and then, and she had about as much class as hot dogs at the opera. But I liked her. I liked her a lot, and she worked miracles every day just keeping our law firm up and running.

  “What do you mean he took off?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell him I’d be here?”

  “How long did you think he’d wait?”

  “Didn’t you give him any coffee? I figured you’d give him some coffee.”

  “That’s when he left, when he finished the coffee.”

  “Jesus, Mabel, you should’ve given him some more.”

  “We ran out. He drank three pots,” she said.

  “The guy drank three pots of coffee?”

  “Yeah, he was kind of wired when he left.”

  “Call him again,” I said. “Tell him I can’t represent him unless he sticks around long enough for me to get the facts.” I shook my head. “What do these clients think? Can’t even wait a few minutes. Well, I guess that’s why they’re always in trouble, irresponsible,” I said as I walked in my office and closed the door.

  I told Mabel to hold my calls. I wanted to relax for a little while. It was too late for lunch. Sol wouldn’t have waited; besides, this whole mess destroyed my appetite.

  I slipped off my shoes, put my feet on the desk and started massaging my temples. I felt a headache coming on, and I wanted to put it to rest before the minor throbbing became a full-blown migraine.

  Why is it, I wondered, that when Mabel makes the coffee, it’s so good? But when I make the coffee, it tastes like Royal Triton motor oil? That was just one of those mysteries of life not worth wasting my time trying to figure out when I had so many other pressing matters to concern myself with. I continued kneading my head.

&nbs
p; After a couple of minutes of grinding my temples, the headache started to wane.

  The intercom buzzed. I grabbed the receiver while doing a couple of neck rolls. “Mabel, I said to hold my calls.”

  “You have an emergency on line one. I told him you were in a meeting. He said he didn’t give a damn. Said to put you on the line. Said it was a court order.”

  “Who said?”

  “Hissoner himself, Judge Abraham Tobias.”

  I jumped and put my stocking feet on the floor. Oh, Christ, I forgot to call him. “What’s he want, Mabel?”

  “Ask him.” Mabel hung up, and I pushed the flashing button with one hand while working a foot into one shoe with the other.

  “This is O’Brien.”

  “I want you to surrender your client, right now. Don’t mess with me, O’Brien.” Judge Tobias sounded peeved, even a mite angry, and my headache roared to life, pounding like a jackhammer.

  While wiggling my other foot into the loafer, I described the events in his courtroom after he left. I explained calmly how Robbie had grabbed the cop’s gun, how he took off, and how I made a valiant effort, at risk of personal injury, to find him before he fled the building.

  I didn’t mention the blind guy or his story about the two thugs who drove up in the van and hauled Robbie away. I didn’t know if I believed the story myself, and at this point, I didn’t want to confuse the issue.

  “That’s not what I heard,“ Tobias said when I paused for a moment. “Officer Lisowski, the guard, said you helped the defendant escape.”

  “That’s absurd,” I said, trying without success to remain unruffled.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

  “Telling me what?”

  “Webster is pissed. He hasn’t yet, but he’s thinking about bringing you up on charges. He has Lisowski’s sworn statement. Lisowski said you distracted him so Farris could grab his weapon.”

  “That’s not true…” That son-of-a-bitch cop warned me. But, somehow, I couldn’t hold it against him. A cop losing his weapon, especially to the bad guys, is about the worst that can happen.

  “Webster also found out you’re a suspect in a murder case, which occurred Monday, which just happened to be the defendant’s mother. Who you, O’Brien, just happened to be visiting at the time she was killed. And,” he said, his voice taking on a deep ominous tone, “when the homicide detectives wanted to talk to you, you lawyered up and refused to cooperate.”

  “Judge, you know me better than that.”

  “I thought I did, O’Brien, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Aw, Judge…”

  “Webster’s hot on this. He’s talking about nailing you with a Penal Code Section 32.”

  My mind started to wind up, heading for the spin cycle. “Accessory? Aiding and abetting?”

  “Congratulations, you know the law,” the judge said with scorn in his voice. “You’re lucky if he doesn’t try to elevate it to conspiracy, a felony as you well know. But at a minimum, you’d lose your ticket to practice law and, frankly, it appears as if he has a damn good case.”

  It’s my ass on the line now. The hell with the cop. “That’s crazy. The deputy is lying. He’s just trying to save his skin.”

  “Personally, I don’t think you’re guilty of murder, but I don’t know what to think about the Section 32 charge. You’ve been known to be very aggressive defending your clients.”

  “Aw, Judge, you know me better than that,” I said again, almost pleading. “I’d never do anything illegal. But, anyway, what’s wrong with being aggressive? That’s our system.”

  “You’ve been known to bend the rules,” Judge Tobias said.

  “I’ve always stayed within the law…”

  “So you say, but I have my doubts. You are facing serious charges, O’Brien. The way I see it, you’ve got only one way out of this mess, and that is if your client surrenders before Webster can get an indictment against you. You got three days, maybe four, that’s about it. Dammit, listen to me. I’m not going to bat for you on this. Am I making myself clear?”

  “One more thing, Judge, before you hang up,” I said.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I left my briefcase in your courtroom. Can you save it for me?”

  He slammed down the phone.

  After I hung up, I leaned back and thought, this just isn’t my day. But, at least, the worst is over.

  The intercom came to life. Mabel’s voice filled the room. “Jimmy, there’s a couple of homicide cops out here. They want to talk to you.”

  C H A P T E R 7

  “Do you own a gun, a .38-caliber?”

  I did, my police special, a .38-caliber revolver left over from my days on the L.A. police force. And these two cops knew it.

  “Why? Was she killed with a .38?” Dumb question, but I felt I had to say something.

  Both guys were standing, facing me across my desk. When they entered the office, I stood but did not come from behind the desk to greet them, and I didn’t offer any of Mabel’s wonderful coffee. One, we didn’t have any, and two, I wouldn’t have offered it even if we did. This was not a social call.

  “Where is it?” Sergeant Hammer asked. He stood there, muscles rippling beneath his tight Italian-cut suit. His partner, Butch, leaned against the wall in the corner by the window with his interrogation pad out. He wore a cheap polyester sports coat; probably bought it at Sears. That’s where I got mine.

  “Whoever offed the old broad was a crack shot. They planted the slug dead center in her forehead.” Hammer paused for a moment. “We checked your record. When you were on the job, you qualified as a sharpshooter on the range.”

  “C’mon, Sarge. You know anyone who could squeeze the trigger qualified.”

  “Give it up, O’Brien. If your gun’s not the murder weapon, you’re off the hook. See, we’re on your side,” he said, tossing out the remark to his partner. “Aren’t we, Butch?”

  “Yeah, we’re on his side. But if he doesn’t cough up the weapon, we’re gonna be on his bad side,” Butch Something said.

  “You gonna turn the weapon over voluntarily, or do we have to get a warrant?” Hammer asked without rancor. “We got probable cause.”

  Again, I found myself in that phase of a tense negotiation where there was a lot of staring going on. I stared at him and he stared at me. But I really didn’t have any major concerns about letting the cops have my gun. After all, my .38 wasn’t the murder weapon. However, being a criminal lawyer, I knew that sort of thing just wasn’t done. What kind of an example would I set, caving in to the cops like that after telling my clients to clam up when dealing with them? I’d be the laughingstock of the Criminal Lawyer’s Don’t-Answer-That Society.

  I kept the revolver in my top desk drawer here in the office, but I kept the gun’s cleaning kit and a box of bullets in the bedroom closet, top shelf, at my apartment. I brought the weapon to my office after receiving a telephone threat on my life concerning an old case. The man who’d made the threat won’t be making any more nasty calls. Let’s just say that his phone has since been permanently disconnected.

  And now I wasn’t about to give up the revolver. If the cops wanted my gun, they’d have to get their warrant.

  All three of us turned when we heard the door bang open. Rita marched in.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” she asked. “You guys questioning my client without me being present? That’s against the rules. Now, get out.”

  Hammer cast a sidelong glance at Rita as she swept toward us wearing a bellbottom pantsuit with a delightful sweater vest, her breasts stretching the fabric in a tantalizing way.

  “Missy, I knew you were going to be trouble from the jump,” he said.

  “Move it, big boy,” she responded.

  The cops, knowing they were going to get nothing more, and now that the odds were even—two against two, lawyers versus cops—they turned to leave. But before they did, I had to find out what Hammer meant when he said they had pro
bable cause. “Hold it,” I called out.

  Hammer shrugged. “Yeah, what?”

  “Shut up, Jimmy,” Rita said.

  Rita reacted as any good criminal lawyer would have, but she had only been a member of the bar for about a month with one small case under her belt. I had been a lawyer for a couple of years now with several cases. I had concerns. I didn’t know if she had what it took to handle a thing this heavy.

  “Rita,” I said. “Hold on a minute. I want to talk to these guys.”

  “Let me handle this. I’m your lawyer.” She turned to the cops. “You guys still here? Take a hike.”

  “Goddammit, make up your mind,” Hammer said. “You wanna cooperate, or not?”

  Rita and I silently stared at each other. Abraham Lincoln’s moldy adage flashed through my mind: “A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client and a fool for a lawyer.” There was no doubt I was in trouble and I needed a lawyer. Oh, did I need a lawyer. I studied Rita’s face; she seemed awful young to be a top-notch attorney.

  Rita peered at me out of the corner of her eye, waiting.

  I turned to the cops. “You heard my lawyer. I’m through talking.”

  “It’s your funeral, O’Brien. C’mon, Butch, let’s go get that warrant.”

  I knew I would feel more secure with some weathered old guy acting as my attorney, an experienced trial lawyer with a golden tongue and a bear trap mind. A guy like Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution. Rita did not look like Charles Laughton.

  “Rita,” I said, “I’m thrilled that you’re my lawyer. What’s next?”

  “Before this thing gets totally out of control,” she said, “we need a plan.”

  C H A P T E R 8

  “Let me have a crack at it,” Rita said, walking to my office window and glancing down at the traffic rushing by on Lakewood. When she turned back, her face was solemn, her eyes focused and sharp.

  “Jimmy, I want to be your lawyer. I’ll do anything. I’ll do everything with every fiber of my being to get you out of this mess.”

  “I know you will,” I said and I meant it. But will that be enough?