“Why?”
“Because he all but pushed my brother off a ledge thirty years ago.”
Ramirez told him how his father, who had started the import/export business, died in the early 1950s. His mother succumbed to lung cancer when he was twelve, leaving the boy in the care of Jaime and his uncle, Leandro, who took over the business. Jaime was smart, graduated from college and then law school, and was recruited to work in Jennings’s office in 1957.
“People talked glowingly of my brother,” Ramirez recalled. “There was faith that he would be a great man.”
Jaime’s first job for Jennings was as a staff assistant. Within a year, however, the mayor realized how bright the young lawyer was and promoted him to a senior staff position overseeing intergovernmental affairs. About that time the stories of kickback schemes involving Concrete & Construction began to appear in The Post and the district attorney launched his first investigation.
“Portillo was part of the probe, not on the front lines, but behind the scenes, that’s how he works,” Ramirez said. “They’d feed him the investigative reports and he’d come up with interpretations. I guess you’d call him the analyst.”
Despite the allegations of corruption, Ramirez said his brother never saw it personally. Jaime remained loyal to Jennings throughout the following two years of local and state probes, throughout the constant barrage from the various city newspapers, most notably The Post. Ramirez’s uncle Leandro died of a stroke in September 1962, leaving the import business and properties on both sides of the border to the boys.
“About that same time I remember Jaime telling me it was time to get out, that he’d decided that Jennings was indeed a crook and that working there any longer would hurt his reputation,” Ramirez said, his voice hoarser now. “But he wanted to give Jennings the benefit of not resigning before the election.”
A week later, The Post ran stories that linked Jennings to Raphael Quintana, at the time the most notorious gangster in northern Mexico. Quintana was reputed to control prostitution, narcotics, and gambling operations south of the border. The stories centered on a building in Tijuana that investigative sources maintained was used by the Quintanas as a brothel and a way station for heroin mules. The building had been owned by the late Leandro Ramirez and now Jaime and Pablo.
“The stories quoted an internal district attorney’s document that indicated that the investigation was focusing on whether money had gone into the Jennings campaign from the Mexican narcotics trade,” Ramirez said “The other papers in town picked up the story and Jaime’s face was on all the front pages. He was crushed.”
“Was it true?”
“No!” Ramirez said. “Some second cousin of Quintana rented two apartments in one of our buildings and may have been running whores there. But he was a small-timer.
“The Justice Department’s report, which accompanied the federal indictments said, and I’m quoting here, ‘While there is no doubt of pervasive corruption within the Jennings administration, there is no strong evidence to substantiate reports that Jennings or his staff were in any way linked to the Quintana narcotics organization.’ ”
“You think Portillo was behind the story?” McCarthy asked.
Ramirez nodded. “He had to be. Portillo was four years younger, a nobody slaving in the D.A.’s office. It was common knowledge that he resented my brother’s position and status. Who knows, maybe he saw Jaime as a potential political opponent one day and wanted to get him out of the way.”
“So Portillo leaked the story to the papers …”
“And my brother jumped.”
The Ambush Interview …
IT SEEMED FITTING TO McCarthy that the showdown would occur along the bleached shores of Coughlin Burkhardt’s Alta Bay Park. Here vacationers jet-skied and sailed on the turquoise water while their beached brethren cavorted half-naked, toting the obligatory beer can and Frisbee, oblivious to the cesspool of betrayal, corruption, and innuendo on which the park was built.
The place had once been a swamp. Coughlin Burkhardt had used dried sewage as landfill to create several of the famous islands in the massive recreational development. On particularly hot days with the right west-east breeze, the fetid odor threatened to turn the holiday beer belly queasy. McCarthy grinned at the irony.
He glanced down at the tape recorder and the notebook and two pens by his side. Somewhere behind him, Augustus Croon was setting up. His orders were to take pictures of whoever McCarthy talked to. No need to know the story.
Ramirez had spent the last hour of their conversation taking McCarthy over the ground he’d first explored with LaFontaine, showing him documents that he alleged showed further examples of behind-the-scenes dirty dealings by Mayor Ricardo Portillo. Most of them concerned development of other downtown properties. Several detailed undisclosed free trips the mayor had taken with citizens who stood to benefit from his influence. All of these incidents blurred through an avalanche of paper subterfuge.
Too much to digest and corroborate for tomorrow’s story, McCarthy thought. Certainly fodder for the page-one barrage he expected to launch over the coming weeks. The mayor and the police chief were class-A felons, perhaps accessories to murder, though the defense attorneys who would soon swoop into the action were likely to keep that appellation at bay through years of appeal.
No matter. McCarthy would get what he was here for—the meal, once tasted, that a reporter never forgets and forever hungers for: The Mike Wallace Special, the subtle, not-quite-smoky, venison flavor that fills the mouth when the bad guy flinches that first time, flinches because he knows he’s put his head in a snare, anticipating the cutting wire loop, soon to be wild game for the table.
In the past McCarthy had enjoyed his share of such repasts. Today he predicted a four-course banquet: the police chief, the candidate for governor, the sadistic real estate developer, and interior designer/madam. Reporters across the country, maybe even Mike Wallace himself, would soon grind their jaws on the bones he planned to leave by the table.
The autumn sun sneaked beneath the umbrella of the palm tree and caught him square in the face. He saw the two men, one short, one tall, approach the picnic area opposite the small marina as backlit silhouettes.
“Dinnertime,” McCarthy murmured. He got to his feet, calmly brushed the grass from his pants, and walked at a brisk pace directly west into the brilliant sun.
It wasn’t until he was thirty feet away that he realized the scenario he’d envisioned had been bent, a prismatic distortion that cast the story in a whole new light.
“You couldn’t leave fucking well enough alone, could you?” asked Lt. Jerry Fisk.
Sloan Burkhardt perched on the picnic table. He patted his hand with a fresh Wash N’Dry, like a crane preening its feathers. “The strumpet wasn’t worth the effort,” the developer said.
“We’re being watched and photographed,” McCarthy said, sliding to one side so Croon could get them all in frame.
“Of course we are,” Fisk said, waving. “I scouted the perimeter before coming in. Anyway, we mean no physical harm.”
“Tell that to Prentice LaFontaine.”
“The queer’s demise?” Burkhardt snickered. “Not our industry at all.”
Fisk said, “Not to say we weren’t sort of happy at the event.”
“A meddlesome queer,” Burkhardt observed. “The worst kind.”
“And I suppose you’ll tell me the bomb …”
“Coincidence, too,” Fisk said. “That’s the problem with you reporters, a couple of random violent acts in the same quarters, instantly you’re thinking the grassy knoll and the Texas Book Depository.”
“I think it’s an institutional weakness, the predilection for conspiracy theories,” Burkhardt said, making a strange wheezing noise that McCarthy realized was his laugh.
Fisk went on, “I admit after the bombing I was on Maalox figuring we’d have a Don Bolles reenactment here with a hundred national reporters crawling all over the place.
But no one showed up. Guess the intrepid old days of all for one in the journalism business are history.”
McCarthy ignored the baiting. “I came to speak to your boss and your candidate.”
“Too busy to be bothered,” Fisk replied. “Got a campaign to run, you know.”
“Then I’ll just have to print my story of sex, blackmail, political corruption, and police complicity without their comment,” McCarthy said. He started up the hill.
“Judge Crawford sends her regards,” Fisk called after him. “So does her husband.”
Burkhardt added, “That’s prime land you got out there behind your place. I took a tour earlier this afternoon with your realtor. Fits my three criteria—Location, location, location. Maybe I’ll make an offer.”
McCarthy didn’t think he’d be able to turn. The blows had come too fast. When he managed to get himself around, Fisk and Burkhardt were backlit again, threatening shadows. Laughter and wheezing poured from the darkness.
“At the death of your sweet friend, we surmised you might turn zealot in your hunt,” Burkhardt said. “The lieutenant’s been tailing you since the funeral.”
“Didn’t take much to figure out what you were up to,” Fisk stated. “The judge is sort of jelly-kneed when it comes to her reputation. Only a year away from retirement, you know. The husband’s even weaker.”
“Stellar investigative scribe bribes superior court judge, tsk, tsk, what a headline!” Burkhardt said.
“It’s their word against mine,” McCarthy said defiantly.
“Their word alone would probably do it,” Fisk said. “But we didn’t take chances.”
From his pocket Fisk pulled out a microcassette deck like the one McCarthy held in his hand. The homicide detective flicked it on. Voices blared. McCarthy and Crawford on the phone last night ironing out the details of their illicit deal.
“You fucking sons of bitches,” McCarthy said.
Fisk’s grin was like a hammock. “By the way, thanks for that miserable ride through the smog to the L.A. County Jail the other day. I was wondering where little sweet Shirl had hidden herself.”
“You evil dwarf.”
Fisk chuckled. “Evil dwarf! C’mon, McCarthy, I got the upper hand here. You’re not gonna get me to go off. Not for your photographer, anyway.”
“So play your hand, Rumplestiltskin.”
Fisk’s laugh choked off. He glared at the reporter, then gestured to Burkhardt, who said: “Your debauched narrative, if you want any chance at retaining custody of your beloved late fiancée’s children, is now spiked. That’s the operative term, isn’t it?”
“That’s what it’s called,” McCarthy said. “But I can’t spike it. The editor of the paper’s running this show.”
“So you told the chief and the mayor,” Burkhardt said.
“So here’s the plan,” Fisk said, “We provide you with documented explanations you can take to your editor to show it’s no story. At least not the story you want to tell.”
“And in return?”
“We ensure that the honorable Evelyn Crawford names you ward of the brats,” Burkhardt said. “Of course, there will be a succession of delays before she makes the conclusive resolution, say six to eight months’ worth, during which time you’ll resign from the paper, depart the environs, and obtain office in a less strenuous line of affairs.”
“If I don’t?”
“You will,” Fisk assured him. “The thought of nasty daddy with the defenseless little boy and girl will make sure of that.”
“Not to mention the threat of incarceration for attempted judicial coercion,” added Burkhardt. “In which case the promise of you seeing the fruit of your lover’s loins ever again would be next to nil. You being a convict and all.”
McCarthy suffered an alloyed response to the threats, a dull metallic blend of humiliation and claustrophobia that he realized were bars. For a fleeting instant he fancied himself the stoic martyr in the tradition of Hollywood storytelling, willing to sacrifice all for the sake of outing the truth. Jimmy Stewart on the floor of the Senate railing against political greed came to mind. Up in the press gallery, however, he saw Carlos and Miriam peering down at him.
“Face it, pal,” Fisk said, when he didn’t reply. “You’re fucked.”
McCarthy was too demoralized to do anything but nod in agreement.
“Thrilled to transact commerce with you!” Burkhardt said, smartly flicking a piece of lint off his blazer. “What wisdom may we impart?”
McCarthy was bowed, but his reporting instincts were not broken. For his own sake he wanted to know.
He took several steps forward out of the sun, faced Fisk, and made a thumbing motion at the developer. “Fernando Trujillo paid you ten thousand dollars to stay quiet about this verbally adept psycho’s sadistic tendencies, am I right?”
Burkhardt jumped off the picnic table, his lips purpled, pasty hands clenched tight.
McCarthy pointed a finger at him. “I’m no hooker half your size, Sloan,” he warned. “Besides, you might get yourself dirty wrestling out here in the great outdoors.”
Fisk got between them, his forehead barely reaching the developer’s tie. “We’re here to answer questions, Mr. Burkhardt, remember?”
The detective turned to McCarthy. “And you’re here to listen and leave. No need for disorderly conduct. The game is over.”
“I’ll ask the questions I want to ask,” McCarthy countered. “I don’t go gently, even when I’ve lost.”
Fisk smiled again. “Fair enough. As to your question. Off the record. Yeah, sure that was me who got the money.”
McCarthy turned to Burkhardt. “Sloan, you called Fisk or T. Lawrence himself when Bobby Carlton died the hard way, didn’t you?”
“For the record,” Burkhardt snarled. “There was no expiration at my residence. Mr. Carlton and others supportive of the mayor gathered at my house for an engaging cocktail party and buffet that broke up at nine. Mr. Carlton, for reasons I can’t fathom, decided that tennis was an intriguing way to expunge the effects of smoked salmon and champagne.”
“And everyone at the party, everyone who signed campaign checks that evening will testify to that?” McCarthy asked.
“Most assuredly,” Burkhardt said.
“Off the record?” McCarthy asked.
Burkhardt smirked and rubbed his hands together. “The chief was most accommodating and razor-sharp in his thinking. The lieutenant here arrived within an hour to carry out the mission.”
“But Gentry managed to get you on tape talking to Leslie?”
“She listened in on the bedroom phone while I spoke from my office.”
“How much did she want?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Fisk broke in.
“Oh, humor me,” McCarthy said. “I can’t do any harm now.”
“Fifty thousand the first time,” Burkhardt said. He had his back to McCarthy, rearranging the paper towels he’d been sitting on. “A hundred thousand the second. Two hundred thousand the third. We declined to recompense at the third request for funds.”
“Which came after her infamous statement that corruption went much higher than street cops?”
“Don’t answer that,” Fisk ordered. “You’re pissing me off, McCarthy. This has nothing to do with why we’re here.”
“It has everything to do with why we’re here. If I don’t know the truth, how can I adequately fashion the lie?”
Fisk studied him a moment. Reluctantly, he said, “Yeah. She was fucking out of control.”
“A liability best written off the books,” Burkhardt said.
“So you killed her, Lieutenant?”
The detective flushed. “Me? No way.”
“But who better to set the crime scene up so it matched the way the other whores had been slain?” McCarthy said. “Who better to lure her in than the cop she’d acted as informant for, the cop she’d been granting sexual favors to?”
Burkhardt’s head twisted around to apprais
e the homicide detective. “And here I thought I was sole keeper of hellish secrets.”
“Shut up, Mr. Burkhardt,” Fisk said, evenly. “On the record, off the record, I don’t know what you’re talking about, McCarthy. The justice system will eventually hold that Officers Patrick and Blanca were guilty of that heinous crime.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“What else you got?” Fisk demanded. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Whoever killed Gentry didn’t find that tape, did they?”
Neither man responded.
“I’ll take that as a yes and further suppose that your efforts at recovery at Gentry’s apartment and Billy Kemper’s place were unsuccessful and the tape remains at large.”
They stayed silent.
“That’s a problem, isn’t it?” McCarthy asked.
Burkhardt broke and sneered at him, “Not if it remains in oblivion. And if it hasn’t surfaced now, it’s unlikely that it ever will.”
“You’re becoming a pest, McCarthy,” Fisk said. “Now finish up so I can hit the gym before I go home.”
McCarthy addressed the developer. “Who are the limited partners behind Blue Coast?”
It seemed that Burkhardt had been waiting the entire time for that question to be thrown. In one fluid motion he opened the black briefcase beside him, retrieved a manila folder, and said. “For your purposes, I think these documents will suffice.”
They were copies of contracts marked “confidential” drawn up by Max L. Crisp identifying the various partners as several well-known California financiers known to invest in real estate and two Japanese concerns McCarthy wasn’t familiar with.
“I take it that these are bogus,” McCarthy said.
“You certainly can’t verify their authenticity without a subpoena,” Burkhardt said. “And that is beyond the constitutional powers granted the fourth estate.”
“Convenient that there’s no mention of several Texas limited partnerships also devised by Mr. Crisp.”
“Even the bona fide contracts wouldn’t show that,” Burkhardt said. “Max is a virtuoso of the corporate shell game. It would require excavations in secretary of state filings in sixteen states to unearth the identities behind those partnerships.”
Hard News Page 39