A Class Action

by Gene Grossman

  “Great. Can I go in and see it?”

  He can’t get me into the garage. He’s the general manager of the entire dealership, but he still can’t break the rules that his employer agreed to. He does make one concession.

  “I can’t get you in there, but if you’re with me, you’ll be allowed to go around to the back of the building. There’s a locked storage shed back there with some file cabinets, and if you can get inside it and stand on something, you can peek through a hole in the wall and see inside the garage.”

  “And just how do you happen to know all about this elaborate peeking procedure?”

  “I have the only key to that shed, and I had to go in there yesterday to get some sales brochures. While I was in there, my curiosity got the best of me.”

  “Okay Eaton, don’t make me guess… what did you see?”

  “C’mon…you’ll have to see for yourself.”

  Eaton walks with me as we approach the garage. The guard obviously knows who he is. They nod at each other as we walk by. When we get around to the back, he goes to the storage shed and opens the lock. Once inside, he closes the door again and moves an empty file cabinet away from the wall. Sure enough, there’s a six-inch diameter hole with a two-inch diameter pipe coming through it, leaving some peeking room. Fortunately there was a concrete block lying around, so I bring it over, stand it on its sixteen-inch side, and step up to peek into the garage.

  Eaton was right. It’s not a military tank, presidential limo, or secret service Suburban. It’s a red, white, and blue customized Hummer with its top removed, making it look like a huge patriotic, open phaeton. Sitting on the floor next to it is a large bubble-like plastic dome, also partially open on the top. The bubble top has some straps around it that are connected to a chain hoist coming down from the building’s ceiling. They’re obviously going to lift it up and attach it to the Hummer, making it a secure vehicle for someone important to ride in. I don’t think there are very many of these red, white and blue four-door Hummer convertibles around, so this must be the one that Olive told me about. The nagging question now is, with all the government security, how the hell did she know about it? Of all the people in the world that the Federal government might tell about that Hummer, Olive is probably right near the bottom of the list – just above Osama bin Laden.

  Driving back to the Marina, my Hummer is doing about thirty miles an hour, but my head is doing at least ninety, trying to figure out how Olive knew about it. The only thing I can come up with is probably by some article in a recent issue of the National Enquirer. There’s only one way to really find out, and that’s by asking her.

  Olive’s knowing about the Hummer certainly asks a big question, but at the same time it answers one. If that Hummer is the one that’s going to be in the Presidential parade, then I think I now know what’s going through FBI Special Agent Snell’s mind. He isn’t worried about Joe Morgan sabotaging a Secret Service Suburban or planting a Trojan horse in the parade, he’s trying to protect that Hummer from a guy trained in the use of explosives.

  This is interesting. Myra kept Joe locked up and didn’t have a motive. All she had was a case of some people paying a service manager under the table for some non-warranty repairs. Snell has Joe locked up but has absolutely no case at all. Nada. Zip. Nothing.

  I don’t know any explosive experts, but my friend Victor at 1800AUTOPSY certainly should. I’ve heard that he brings experts like that in whenever someone gets blown up, so I call him to get a referral. He turns me on to a guy he uses who formerly worked with the LAPD Bomb Squad. I make arrangements to pick him up and take him with me to see Snell at the Federal Building. I want to see the infamous explosive device that Snell thinks can blow up a Presidential parade.

  Snell agrees to meet with us at his office and I tell him that I’m bringing an explosives expert along with me. When we’re shown into his office, he gets up with a smile on his face and an outstretched hand. I’m really surprised to see this, and then realize that the welcome isn’t for me. Snell walks right past me and shakes hands with my explosives expert.

  “Hello Vaughn, it’s been a long time.”

  What a small world. My expert used to be with the FBI and worked on quite a few cases with Snell before retiring and working part time with the LAPD. I didn’t know if their being old friends was a good thing or not until we all sat down and started talking. Snell is a smart one.

  “What can I do for you today counselor?”

  “I know about the bubble-top Hummer, Agent Snell.”

  He looks down at his desk for a while, like he’s been caught being a naughty boy. I have to hand it to him – he knows that the best defense is an offense.

  “Counselor, any information about whether or not a vehicle like that exists is classified. If you have some knowledge you’re not supposed to have, then you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “Relax, super spy. I represent the company that insures that dealership, and it’s my responsibility to know what’s being stored in every building there. I happened to notice that flag car during a routine inspection of a shed behind the building that has a hole in the wall looking right into where the Hummer is being worked on. So now that you know I’m not a foreign agent, I’d like to get back to the commercial – my client, Joe Morgan.

  “I have a hunch you realize that your friend Vaughn here will be able to tell in a New York second that the explosive devices found at Morgan’s house are only good for being squibs and setting off a fireworks display. So what the hell’s going on? We both know you don’t have a case against my client. What’s this game-playing all about? Is it just because he’s a Muslim? I don’t think you would take a chance like that. Am I wrong?”

  He starts in slowly.

  “No Peter, you’re not wrong. But I’m in a real difficult position here and I’m going to break some rules by telling you what it is. I know you’re a good lawyer and my past dealings with you on that bank robbery gang have shown that you’re a man of your word, so I’m going to have to trust you on this one.

  “You’re right. The explosives we found at his house really can’t do any damage, but we didn’t know that when his arrest warrant was issued and we had him transferred over here from Myra’s jurisdiction. Look at it from our perspective. We’ve got a Muslim who’s a former Navy Seal. He’s well trained in explosives and works at a dealership that’s garaging a vehicle scheduled to be in a Presidential parade.

  “Our intelligence tells us that there’s a very high probability that some attempt will be made to do some damage during the parade. Secret Service tried to talk the President out of appearing, but he insisted. There are just too many voters in California for him to not show up.

  “Actually, we’re doing both you and your client a favor by keeping him in custody until after the parade. If we release him before the parade and some crazies kill some people that day, then you know what will happen. The press will have a field day. My head will be on the chopping block for letting a suspected Muslim terrorist with explosives training out onto the street just before a Presidential parade during which a terrorist attack takes place. Whether your client is innocent or not, he’ll be picked up and sent to Cuba for interrogation, and I’ll probably be fired or transferred to our field office in Nome, Alaska.

  “The best thing is for him to stay in our custody, so I’ll make a deal with you. He stays in, you keep quiet about it, and after the parade we’ll let him out, whether there’s an incident or not. You’ve convinced me that he’s not involved in anything, so he’ll be free after the parade – but I can’t make any guarantees about your ex-wife. When we release him, we’ll have to send him back to her. It’s then her decision to make as to whether he gets released on bail. If he’s not involved in anything more than some under the table stuff for repairs, then he should have no trouble bailing out.”

  “I don’t really have a choice, do I? The parade’s only another few days away. Even if I made a big stink I couldn’t get him ou
t before then, and if I did, and if there was an incident, then it’s back to square one. Okay Snell, you win. I’ll see you after the parade.”

  Politics sucks. As part of our deal, Snell arranges for me to visit with Joe and I explain the situation to him. Strangely enough, he agrees that it would be better for him to stay in custody. He tells me that there are some pretty angry people at his mosque, and he doesn’t want anything that anyone else does to make him a hunted man. As long as the FBI knows he’s not one of the bad guys, he’ll just sit for another couple of days and then try to get his life back on track. He only has one question. “Do you think I can get my job back?”

  That’s a tough one and I don’t want to lie to him, so I tell him that it’s unlikely, but if he’s as talented a mechanic as some of his co-workers says he is, he should have no problem getting a job somewhere else. I go so far as to tell him that I might be able to help him out there. If Stuart can’t use him, then maybe Billy Z could use someone who can fix cars and blow people up. He is not amused.

  Vaughn the explosive expert has years of experience when it comes to cars blowing up, so I put him in touch with Myra. The first two Suburbans that exploded were repaired before anyone could take a real good look at them, but the one that went off of Mulholland drive and killed Eaton’s wife and mother-in-law is still at the police impound garage. The District Attorney’s people have been going over it with a fine tooth comb, but haven’t found anything yet. Vaughn says that he knows those guys, so I assign him the task of looking over their shoulder. I’m especially interested in the front right brake caliper, so I tell Vaughn to play it close to the chest. We want to know if the D.A.’s techies formed any conclusions before we tip our hand and give our theories away. It’s still an adversarial proceeding, and I want Vaughn to make sure he knows that he’s on our side now – not theirs. Just to make sure, I check with Victor at his autopsy shop and he assures me that Vaughn is a straight shooter who can be trusted.

  *****

  Chapter 9

  Indovine’s office is calling. “Hello Peter, this is Charles.” This is a good sign. We’re back on a first-name basis, which probably means he wants something from me.

  “What can I do for you today Charles?”

  “You know, in addition to insuring the dealership, Uniman also covers many of the employees… including the general manager.”

  “Yeah, I know. His wife was insured with Uniman. You already told me he put a claim in for his wife’s death. Was it a big one?”

  “Only if you think a million dollars is big.” Yes, a million dollars is a big amount, but twenty years from now people will probably laugh at the fact that someone killed for such a paltry sum. Other than see people use an old dial telephone and drive old cars, the thing that really amuses me about the old black-and-white movies is the sums of money that were motives for crime. It was quite common to see a cop suspect a husband of killing his wife or partner to collect on a five thousand dollar insurance policy.

  “Okay Charles, it’s big. What do you want me to do, talk him out of it?”

  “If there’s anything you find in your investigation that connects him to that fellow charged with planting the bomb, we’d like to know about it.”

  “Why certainly, Charles, but if I remember correctly, you’re already paying me to clear that guy. If I do my job correctly, then he beats the murder rap and that means there’s nothing that Eaton could have done with him to cause his wife’s death. Uniman will have to pay the claim, unless I find some other information that will defeat it.”

  “Peter, are you working on another angle?”

  “Angles are my life Charles. I love angles. I can look into it, but if I save Uniman the million dollars on that life insurance claim, I want my usual ten percent reward… and as usual, I’ll make sure that you get all the credit for it. Do we have a deal? Because if we do, I’ll expect to have you fax me a memo, just to keep everyone honest… and Charles…”

  “Yes, Peter, what else?’

  “The reward will not be set off by any fees paid to me along the way for my investigative work or expenses. I get paid whether I crack the case or not.”

  As usual, there was nothing but a grunt on the other end of the line – but also as usual, a hard copy of the grumbling acceptance just came in on the fax machine.

  Jack B. reports that he’s got just about every minute of the day accounted for from the time of the first Suburban explosion to the time that Eaton’s wife flipped herself off of Mulholland Drive, and her old man couldn’t have tampered with any of those vehicles. Jack tells me what a dedicated manager the guy is. For the past couple of months he’s been working late and closing the place up.

  “Jack, do you know anything about his whereabouts after the dealership closes for the day?”

  “Why, do you think he’s fooling around?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just curious about where he goes at night.”

  Jack is a thorough investigator. He realizes that if the dealership’s locked up for the night, there’s no way that Eaton can get to the vehicles waiting there for the next day’s service, but he still asks around about Eaton’s evening activities – and the answers aren’t very promising for our case. After work each night Eaton goes straight home, where he stays all evening, unless going out to the market for some desserts for the family. I ask Jack where Eaton lives and learn that it’s at least a half-hour away from the dealership.

  This is not going to be easy. My main suspect was nowhere near the Suburbans that exploded. The only guy who worked on them was my client Joe Morgan, yet Eaton’s wife and mother-in-law are killed in a mysterious accident. What’s wrong with this picture?

  I’m getting a little discouraged, but there’s still a lot of information out there that I’m waiting for. Maybe something interesting will turn up. While I’m pondering all this, the phone rings. It’s Myra, and she’s got some results back in on the dead body found in Stuart’s trunk. Running him through the Criminal Identification System, he came up with a rap sheet. He’s a safe cracker. After doing several years in the penitentiary for that skill, he’s been keeping his nose clean, and his parole officer was completely surprised when he learned of the guy’s fate.

  I was right. Something interesting did turn up. I call Jack B. and tell him to find out about our safecracking friend – who he hung out with, how he cracked safes, and anything else that we might be able to use. There’s no good reason for a dead safecracker to be found in Stuart’s trunk. I’m sure he didn’t commit suicide there, so someone had to help him find his final resting place. I call Stuart to try and find out exactly where that car was from the moment it was delivered to him. He checks his records and tells me exactly what I don’t want to hear. “Pete, that car was delivered to my garage and sat here for two days until I drove it to your boat that afternoon.”

  “Stu, how come you picked that particular one to drive that day?”

  “Simple. I had about seven vehicles in the garage. I went to each one and turned on the ignition. The one with the most gas in the tank is the one I used… and you know how much I rely on a dependable gas gauge.”

  I know that Stuart didn’t dump that body in his own trunk, so if what he says is correct, it means that the body was already in the trunk when the car was delivered to him. I’ve already met the guy he bought those cars from, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he were the one who killed the safecracker. After all, if I had to vote for anyone who might be acquainted with a person who breaks into other people’s safes, it would have to be Billy Z.

  Jack B. still hasn’t come back with scheduling for the car carriers, but now there’s only one of them that I’m really interested in.

  The phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize on my caller ID.

  “Peter Sharp here. What can I do for you?”

  “Mister Sharp, I’d like to make an appointment to talk to you. I’m not looking for anything free… I’ll pay you to meet with me.�
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  “Okay, let’s not get carried away. First of all, why don’t you give me some idea of what you’d like to talk to me about, because if it’s not in a field of law that I’m familiar with, maybe we can both save a lot of time and I can refer you to some other attorney.”

  “It’s concerning the probate of a will.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. All right, I’m going to give you the telephone number of the County of Los Angeles’ Attorney Referral Service. You just tell them that it’s a probate matter and give them your zip code, and they’ll give you at least two or three telephone numbers of attorneys in your area who specialize in that sort of thing, so you won’t have to travel too far.”

  “Mister Sharp, my name is James Berland. My wife was Ralph Eaton’s mother-in-law and she died in a car crash, along with our daughter.”

  Wow! Talk about being surprised. Maybe next time I get a phone call from someone I don’t know, I’ll let him talk for a few minutes before trying to palm him off onto someone else. I tell Mister Berland that even though I’m no expert in the field of Wills, I’ll be glad to meet with him – and there will be no charge for the consultation. He doesn’t drive anymore, so I get his address and make an appointment to stop by and see him in an hour. He lives out in Hidden Hills, a gated community in the West San Fernando Valley. He’ll leave my name with the entry gate’s security guard.

  I have to check the piece of paper at least twice to make sure I’ve got the correct address written down, because this place looks like Hefner’s Playboy mansion. It’s an all brick Tudor style of architecture that’s probably at least six thousand square feet. I pull up the hill and into the huge circular driveway that can easily park six or seven cars. The inside is just as impressive with high, beamed ceilings, leaded glass windows, and beautiful hardwood peg and groove floors. If Mister Berland ever decides to move out, I’m sure he can rent the place out as a church.