JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  She and I discussed my situation for about an hour more before we realized that the day had slipped away. We were both getting hungry. Each of us had skipped lunch, Rita working a DUI with her perennial drunk, a client named Geoff, while I was stuck behind the cement truck on the Santa Ana Freeway. We decided to grab a bite somewhere and continue the discussion.

  I discovered Rita loved pizza with anchovies as much as I did. “So, Luigi’s, here we come,” I said as we hopped in my car.

  Luigi’s Italian Deli was located a few minutes from the office on Paramount Boulevard in Downey, but when we walked in, we could have been entering a pizzeria in a country village somewhere in Italy. Luigi’s was a refreshing change from the corporate, sterile, stainless steel pizza joints springing up around the city. Cured salami and strong, aromatic Parmigiano Reggiano hung in mesh bags from the ceiling. Chianti bottles with melting, shimmering candles sat on the tables, casting the restaurant in a soft warm glow. Colorful maps and pictures of the old country lined the walls.

  Over the edge of the menu, I stole a look at Rita sitting across from me. In the candlelight, her cream-colored skin was flawless and her face was radiant with a youthful glimmer. I’d noticed before how lovely she was, of course. I’d noticed her petite, perfect figure and her beautiful features, but I’d never seen her quite the way I saw her tonight. She looked like an angel, and now she wanted to be just that—my guardian angel.

  We ordered the pizza, and while waiting for Luigi to bring our food, I tried to explain the reality of being a criminal lawyer. “It’s not all that glamorous like on TV…” I started to say, but when she gave me a wary look, I changed my angle. “It’s not that rewarding.”

  “Come off it, Jimmy. I’ve made my mind up. Criminal law is where I belong.”

  “Actually, Rita, maybe you’d like corporate law better. Think it over. The best of both worlds. The clients will still be crooks, but, hey, they pay their bills.”

  “No way, Jimmy. I’m thrilled to be with you and with the firm. And now I’m really excited. You’re my first client with serious problems! Isn’t that wonderful? …Oops.” She put her hand over her mouth, but I could still see the glint in her eyes.

  I smiled. “I know, Rita, but…”

  A shadow swept across her face. “What’s the matter? You don’t want me?”

  “Oh no, of course I want you. How could you think that? I was just concerned about your career. That’s all. Really.”

  Luigi brought the pizza and Cokes. He came just in time, saving me from delving deeper into my concerns about Rita’s experience. After we silently ate a few slices, I made up my mind. “Okay, Ms. Criminal Lawyer, where do we start?” I said.

  She took one more nibble on the crust of her pizza slice, put it down, wiped her hands on the paper napkin next to her plate, and quickly took a sip of her Coke. Then she leaned into me, and with a determined look etched on her face, she said, “All right. Here’s the way I see it.”

  “Okay,” I said, watching her eyes dance.

  “The cops are looking at you for the murder. They’ve got evidence.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But their evidence sucks. Alone, it can be explained away.”

  “Think so?”

  Rita leaned back and twirled the straw in her glass. “Yes. What do they have? You had a legitimate reason to be at Hazel Farris’ place, and just because you own a .38 means nothing. After all, your gun wasn’t the murder weapon.”

  “I haven’t fired the gun since I was a cop,” I said.

  “Okay, but it’s the other thing that bothers me, the Section 32 thing.”

  “Robbie’s escape.”

  “Yes,” she said and took another sip of her Coke. “If they tie the two together, and they will, then…”

  “Then I’ll be in deep trouble,” I said, finishing her sentence.

  She raised her head. “Jimmy, it would go to motive for the murder.”

  “Maybe they’ve already tied the cases together. Hammer said he had probable cause. That could be it. They’d figure I killed his mother and somehow Robbie knew about it. They’ll say I let him escape so he wouldn’t rat me out. But why would I kill her in the first place?”

  “Doesn’t matter, Jimmy. They’ll only need enough to get an indictment. And how do we prove you didn’t kill her?” It was a rhetorical question. When I didn’t respond, she continued. “You’ve got no alibi and we can’t prove a negative.”

  “Looks bad.”

  “True, but I have a plan,” she announced, her eyes sparkling.

  “Go.”

  “We find Robbie, bring him back, and prove he’s insane. Just as you said all along. That will show that you didn’t help him escape in the first place. Once we do that, there’ll be no reason to tie his disappearance to the murder, no motive. Ergo,” she said, with a lilting smile, “no reason to figure you contributed to Mrs. Farris’ untimely demise.”

  I sat thinking. There were a couple of loopholes in her plan.

  “What do you think, Jimmy? Good plan?”

  “Better than average.”

  I didn’t want to mention it, but the problem with her plan was that we had no idea where to look for Robbie in the first place. God only knew where he could have gone.

  Rita’s soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking. How are we going to find Robbie?”

  “Well, not really.”

  “We’ll get Sol Silverman, the world’s greatest detective, to help us. You know he’ll do it. He won’t even charge you.”

  “Think so?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s your friend. I know he’ll help. Try not to worry.”

  “I’m not worried. With Sol helping out, and with you as my lawyer, how can I miss?”

  I wasn’t worried; I was scared. After all, I was being questioned in connection with a murder. Who wouldn’t let that gnaw at his guts? And I had real concerns about Webster filing the Section 32 charge. Even if the homicide detectives found out I had nothing to do with the old woman’s death, assuming they found the real killer, I could still be convicted of the Section 32 violation, aiding and abetting. I’d lose my license to practice law.

  Even though I wasn’t guilty of a crime—stupidity maybe, but a crime, no—getting off the hook wasn’t going to be that easy. Webster had the cop’s statement, and as Rita pointed out, how do you prove a negative? In other words, how do I prove I didn’t do it?

  Oh, all the inspired rhetoric flowing from lofty sources said a person isn’t guilty until proven so in a court of law. And they always say the accused doesn’t have to prove his innocence. Bullshit.

  Yes, Rita’s plan was a simple one. Find Robbie, bring him back, and prove to the judge that he’s insane. That would work, and as she said, Sol would help. Rita thinks he’s the world’s greatest detective. Why did Rita think that? I mused. Because Sol told her so, that’s why.

  We left the pizzeria. The moon, a silver crescent drifting in the night sky among a scattering of gleaming stars, was high in the east. We walked silently to my Vette.

  “Look at the moon, Jimmy,” Rita said. “It’s right next to that star. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  I was dying inside and my lawyer was gazing at the moon. But I glanced up. The tip of the lunar crescent was pointed at the planet Venus, shimmering bright in all its splendor. Was that an omen, the moon pointing at Venus that way? Was the moon telling me to get out of town and move far away, preferably to another planet?

  “Yes, Rita. It’s beautiful.”

  When we pulled into the parking lot back at the office, we lingered a moment.

  “I know you will do everything possible on my behalf, Rita, and I’m grateful.”

  She gave my arm an affectionate pat and hopped out of the car. She didn’t have to say how concerned she was; the worry was in her eyes.

  C H A P T E R 9

  Sol took a sip of Krug Champagne and set the flute glass down on the linen tablecloth. “So tell me, Jimmy,
what is this all about?”

  When I’d called and asked for help finding Robbie, Sol suggested we discuss the situation over lunch, and now we were at Rocco’s. After we ordered, I told him the whole story, filled him in on the murder of Robbie’s mother, and mentioned how the homicide detectives were looking at me like I was some kind of suspect. Then I explained how Robbie had vanished at the arraignment. I told him that Webster had the guard’s statement, and now he was going to file charges, which could cause me to lose my license and possibly land me jail.

  “Frankly, Sol, I’m getting a little antsy about the whole affair,” I said.

  “That’s how it is being a lawyer, Jimmy,” Sol said in a convivial manner. “Got to take the good with the bad. Here, taste this veal.” He reached across the table with his fork. A morsel of veal was impaled on it. “It’s terrific, veal Oscar, named after King Oscar of Sweden or someplace like that,” he said. “You see, this king guy was…”

  My guts were churning and Sol kept rambling on about some goddamn king and his goddamn veal.

  “Sol, forget the king, I’ve got a problem here, and I need your help.”

  “Not until you taste this stuff.” He jabbed the fork at me.

  “I don’t want any damn veal Omar, or whatever the hell you call it.”

  “Eat it!”

  “All right, then we work on my problem.” I took the fork and stuck it in my mouth. “Okay, now here’s the plan… hey, this stuff’s pretty good.”

  Sol, his finger whirling in the air, signaled for Janine, our waitress.

  After I finished a plate of veal Oscar and Sol had his second helping, we got back to why we were there in the first place.

  “So, anyway, Sol, I need your help. We gotta find the guy,” I said. “Rita and I had dinner last night and—”

  “Thought you were going out with that flight instructor. What’s her name again?”

  “Susie. But she got a job with an airline, a puddlejumper somewhere in the Midwest. She left a month ago. Anyway, what’s this got to do with finding Robbie?”

  “You hitting on Rita now?”

  “No, damn it. I work with her, for chrissakes. Anyway she’s my lawyer now.”

  “What! Rita’s your lawyer?” He started to laugh.

  “Yeah, but Sol, she just wants to help.”

  “Yeah, but nothing, Jimmy. You need a real lawyer.” Sol said. “Cute little Rita, with her nice little tushy, Jimmy’s lawyer.” He continued laughing. “Hey, don’t worry; I’ll bring the veal Oscar on visiting days.”

  “Sol, knock it off. This is serious. It’s a murder charge.”

  Suddenly he became somber. “What’s for dessert?”

  I should’ve known that it would do no good to discuss my case with Sol while food was on the table.

  A few minutes later, I was sipping the last of my coffee while Sol peered at me with one eyebrow cocked. He sat back and put his wine glass on the table. We were now ready to discuss my tsores, his word for troubles. Now was the time to put Rita’s plan into action.

  “Okay, Jimmy, just what is it you want me to do?”

  “Sol, I need to use your contacts. I’ve only got a few days.”

  Sol had contacts, a vast network of people on his payroll, off the books—paid in cash—informants in key places. He called them his spies. I wanted to make good use of his sources.

  “My spies are your spies.”

  “See if you can find out what Webster’s up to.” As I asked for Sol’s help, I wondered if there was anything in the canons of legal ethics about using paid informants to spy on the D.A. I supposed there probably was, but I was getting nervous with the deadline and all. “Can you get a copy of the guard’s statement? Find out if Webster has enough to file a complaint?”

  “Of course, my boy, but you knew that. In the meantime, I suggest you turn your daily work, your caseload, over to sweet little Rita.” He chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t want her as your lawyer, but she can help. She can free you up so you can concentrate on getting out from under this mess. And, Jimmy,” he reached across the table and patted my arm, “if the time comes when you need a lawyer, don’t worry, I’ll get you Morty.”

  Sol had powerful friends. I wondered if he was referring to Morton Zuckerman, the highest-priced criminal defense attorney on the coast. “Morty who?”

  “Morty, my wife’s nephew.” Sol slowly shook his head. Then he looked up. “Hey, Morty’s not a nitwit. He just needs a client to show what he can do.”

  So much for Zuckerman. I didn’t want him anyway. Rita was my lawyer. “Yeah, thanks, Sol.”

  “Good. But what about Rita? Can she handle your caseload?”

  There was no use explaining to Sol that Rita handling my clients wouldn’t be a problem. I only had one. And who knew if he’d be back—unless he liked Mabel’s coffee, that is. But Sol was right. I needed to keep my mind free until this thing was behind me, and I knew Rita could act as my lawyer and still handle my day-to-day duties without breaking a sweat.

  “Yeah, good idea, Sol. I think she might be able to handle my caseload. Of course, if she gets bogged down or needs my advice, I can always help. But you’re right. I’ve got to get myself out of this mess.”

  I left Rocco’s feeling optimistic. I knew with Sol’s help we’d find Robbie. In spite of all of his oddball characteristics, Sol was the best.

  When I arrived back at the office, Mabel reminded me that Rita had a trial appearance in West L.A regarding her client, Geoff. She wasn’t expected to return for the remainder of the day.

  I walked into my office, sipped coffee, and gazed out the window watching the line of the cars turn into Stonewood Shopping Center. Must be a big sale at the Broadway. Life goes on, I guess.

  I needed to see Rita to explain the transfer of my workload, my one client. Big deal, a nothing case. The guy was charged with credit card fraud. She’d cut a deal, have the guy promise to pay back his debt, and they’d drop the charges. No sweat.

  It was well after seven when I got up from my desk ready to leave the office. Rita hadn’t returned, but I hadn’t expected her to. That’s okay. I’d catch her tomorrow.

  I lived close by, and at that time of night there wouldn’t be much traffic. The drive home took less than five minutes. I had a nice two-bedroom apartment on Cecilia Street. I needed a spot where I could relax and unwind at the end of the day, so I had converted the second bedroom into a study. A hardback chair stood in the center, a guitar leaning next to it. That’s all, just the guitar and the chair. I didn’t like things cluttering up my life.

  Tonight, I figured I’d soak in the tub, forget about my problems, and maybe practice the guitar, a Beatles number I was working on: “Let it Be.” I wasn’t sure; I thought John Lennon had performed the song on the sixties hit record, but a beautiful girl I had met at Rocco’s one night told me the singer wasn’t Lennon but McCartney. Though convincing, she was probably wrong. I wanted to ask her out, but she was from out of state, just visiting a friend. And besides, she was engaged; at least that’s what she’d said. She may have been wrong about that too.

  I made the turn onto Cecilia.

  “Oh, Christ, what now?” I exclaimed. My apartment door was open. I saw the flashing lights of several squad cars parked haphazardly at the curb.

  C H A P T E R 10

  I parked, vaulted the stairway three steps at a time, and rushed to my apartment on the second floor. Cops were all over the place. Hammer and Butch Something were in the living room. Hammer directed a couple of Downey cops who were getting ready to search the living room. Butch was braced in the corner by the TV, smoking a cigarette.

  “You got the warrant, I guess,” I said to Hammer.

  “Yeah, want to see it?” He removed the document from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over.

  I took a quick glance: a no-knock search warrant signed by Judge Frisco. This meant they didn’t need a whole lot of compelling evidence to get the warrant. Frisco, an ex-D.A.
, was known for being a law-and-order judge. He’d sign anything the cops set before him.

  The police had the right to search my home looking for my gun and—if found—the warrant allowed them to seize it. A no-knock warrant meant they could walk right in, bust down the door if necessary, and tear the place apart. To get a no-knock warrant, the police would normally have to provide an affidavit certifying that they were afraid the evidence was in imminent danger of disappearing. I doubted they even told Frisco what they were looking for. They filled in the blanks, and he signed it. Why didn’t he just give them a rubber stamp with his signature? Maybe he did.

  “You can save yourself a lot of grief, O’Brien, if you tell us where it is.”

  The law stated I couldn’t interfere with the search, but it also said I had the right to keep my mouth shut and not say anything that would aid them. But if I didn’t tell them where the gun was, they’d continue ripping my place apart.

  “We found your gun kit and some bullets in the closet next to a cowboy hat,” he said, “But no gun.”

  “I was going to ask about the hat,” Butch Something piped up from the corner. “You some kind of cowboy, O’Brien?” He flashed a lewd smirk. “Like to ride ’em bareback?”

  I ignored Something’s remark and started for the bedroom.

  Ducking my head in, I almost gagged. Everything in the room was in shambles, mattress torn apart, all my clothes scattered on the floor, drawers pulled out and flung around the room.

  I stood stock still, shocked to the point of paralysis. Then the rage started to build like pressure in an old boiler. All of a sudden, I lost it. I lurched at Hammer; the two uniforms jumped in and grabbed me before I could get to him. “You son-of-a-bitch, you’re going too far!”

  “Cough up the weapon, and we won’t search the rest of the premises.”

  I read the threat and struggled to get free of the two big cops that were latched onto my arms. “Goddammit, let go of me.”

  Butch ground his cigarette butt on my carpet. “Interfering with a lawful search pursuant to a warrant is a crime.”