One of the men grabbed Zeke by arm, pulled him up, and pushed him forward. Zeke walked up to the bookcase.
"Take a look at this picture," Martinez said, pointing to a framed photograph.
Zeke focused his eyes on the photo. A young Martinez stood in the center of the picture, his arms around a few friends. On his right side, nestled underneath his arm, was Francesca Cahill.
"I met Franny through some mutual friends when we were younger. She lit up the room, man. Her charm was contagious. Maybe it was because she was from the midwest. I've never met anyone in L.A. quite like her. She was so . . . kind. And outgoing. Wherever Franny was, that's where everyone else wanted to be."
Martinez picked up the photo, "She was studying theater at USC at the time. I had already started working for Mikulski, knew that he had a whole film production business on the side. I dropped her headshots on his desk. Put in a few good words. And bing-bang-boom, she had her first role."
He put the photo back down and looked at Zeke. "Nah, man. I didn't kill Franny. I couldn't. I was heartbroken when I heard she was murdered. I could've been there to help her."
"I'm sorry," Zeke said. "Wait, so if you're working with Mikulski, then why would his right-hand guy think you have something to do with her murder?"
"I was working for Mikulski. I had been one of his distributors for a few years around West L.A. As I started to understand the business, I figured I could strike out on my own. Hire my own guys and expand Mikulski's market eastwards. I pitched him on the idea, and he went for it. But the first few months were . . . rough. We lost a few guys . . ." Martinez looked over at the two men on the couch, “some really good, loyal guys. Profits weren't where I thought they'd be. Mikulski scratched the arrangement just a few weeks ago. I assumed he would keep me and my guys on as distributors. But he cut us off entirely."
Complicated, Zeke thought to himself. "How the hell does Mikulski keep a lid on his drug business? VMK Productions is a huge name in Hollywood."
"That's his dirty little secret," Martinez said, "he's selling dope to lots of his entertainment contacts. No one could narc on him without getting caught up in the whole mess themselves. And frankly, he provides a service they couldn't otherwise get. Wainwright is good, too. He runs a tight ship. No leaks."
Except for now. "Why are you telling me this?" Zeke asked.
"I'm on the outs now. I can't work for any of their other operations in L.A. Too much history. Despite appearances, I've got a small crew. Too small to strike out on my own without someone backing me. If Victor's empire crumbles, though, I might be able to fill the void."
"But I thought you said Victor is the West L.A. kingpin? Why would his empire crumble?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Martinez said, "Victor must've killed Franny. There's been rumors going around for a while that they were an item. I never believed it, frankly. Their age difference, for one. But he's also got a real mean streak. Franny didn't like people like that. In any case, Franny was a cash cow for VMK. If she was trying to end things, that could've set Victor off."
"Might explain the knife," Zeke said. "The District Attorney's office told me they found the murder weapon in my client's motorcycle. If Victor was responsible, he could've easily moved in and out of the house without attracting much attention." Zeke paused for a moment. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to testify to your relationship with Victor and Cahill? Explain why you think he may have killed her?"
"Ha. Hell no. Cops would have me in handcuffs right after I testified. Even if I was willing, Victor would have me picked off before I made it to the court house."
"Yeah, I guess I understand that. Know anyone else that would?"
"Victor was a bit of a pervert on set, the way his production staffers like to tell it. Last I heard, VMK was filming an action movie on the Universal backlot. If you could manage to talk to someone that knows more about his relationship with Franny, they may be more willing to talk."
"Ok, thanks."
"Victor also runs drugs out of a backroom at Dirty Laundry in West Hollywood. It's a bar. A cesspool of celebrities and entertainment types—"
Several cars screeched to a halt in the alleyway below Martinez's office window. The men on the couch got up and walked to the window to investigate. "What do you fools want?" one of them asked.
The windows immediately exploded, hit with gunfire from below. One of Martinez's men had been hit in the face and dropped to the ground. The other took cover to the side of the window. "We've got company, boss," he yelled.
"Who the hell is it," Martinez asked as he walked toward a gun safe at the back of the room.
"It's Wainwright, and at least seven or eight of his guys."
Martinez looked at Zeke, "guess he's here to tie up some loose ends."
Chapter 5
February 15th, 7:30pm
"I had no idea. I swear!" Zeke said. "I had planned to—"
"Stinking rat!" Martinez yelled.
"But I never called him. You didn't give me a chance," Zeke said.
"One of his guys must've followed you, then."
"Well, now what do we do?" Zeke asked, as bullets exploded on the concrete office ceiling."
"We don't do anything. Go to the fourth-floor stairwell. There's a fire escape outside of the window. Get the hell out of here while you still can. Make sure you get your guy out of jail. Victor can't get away with this."
"What're you gonna do?"
"We don't back down from a fight," Martinez said, looking at his friend lying motionless on the floor. "Victor probably figures I know too much." Bits of concrete and shrapnel were raining from the ceiling. Martinez's guard responded with his own gunfire. "Get out of here, Zeke."
"Ok, thanks." Zeke started crawling towards the door. He paused for a moment, pulled something out of his jacket, and turned around. "Here," Zeke said, handing his business card to Martinez, "If you make it out of this alive, you'll probably need a lawyer. I'm taking clients, at the moment."
Martinez laughed. "You've got spunk, Zeke. Thanks."
Zeke crawled back to the door and ran up the stairs. He could hear Martinez yelling at the alley
"Bring it on, suits!" Martinez said, followed by a stream of gunfire.
One tough cookie, Zeke thought. He reached the fourth-floor stairwell and looked out the window. A wrought iron fire escape lead down to the alley below. First time for everything. He descended the staircase, jumped onto a garbage dumpster, and hopped to the ground, parkour style.
The streetlights had come on, and all of the food trucks were gone. He saw a few people running down the street, away from the sound of gunfire. Cops will be here soon, he thought. He walked to his car, which was parked at the end of the alley. He pulled onto 7th street, heading towards Downtown, just as he heard sirens approaching down the alley.
When he had put reasonable distance between himself and the gunfight, he called Matty.
"Hey," Zeke said, "you won't believe what happened. I'll be at Cole's in a few minutes. Meet me out front. And bring drinks."
"Sure, see you then, Matty said."
A few minutes later, Zeke had parked the car and was walking down the sidewalk toward Cole's. There was a twenty-something guy leaning against the iron fence outside the bar, filming himself.
"Hello Brayton James fans!" the man said, "thanks for watching another epic episode of my daily vlog series. I'd appreciate it if you could subscribe to my channel and smash that 'like' button. Head over to the BJ merch store for all of your exclusive Brayton James apparel. We're doing a sale on BJ tanks and swimsuits. Get ready for that L.A. beach weather! Today I'm in Downtown L.A., partying it up with my wing-man Quentin as we explore the age-old question, 'which pickup lines actually work?' and I'm gonna film the whole thing. But first, let's talk to—"
Zeke walked past the man as he descended the staircase to Cole's outside patio. Matty was seated a table with two beers. "Hey counselor," he said, "what's the big emergency?"
"I found E
ddie Martinez," Zeke replied, "Well, he found me really."
"Yeah? What did he say?"
Zeke recounted the details of his discussion with Martinez. Mikulski's involvement with the L.A. drug scene, his relationship with Cahill and Mikulski, and the rumors of a fling between West L.A.'s drug kingpin and the Hollywood actress on his payroll. He told Matty about the gunfight between Wainwright's men and Martinez.
"Wow," Matty said, "I'm in the wrong business."
"Apparently."
"So Martinez thinks Victor killed Cahill. Kind of a . . . jilted lover sort of thing?"
"I think so. The fact that Wainwright showed up, guns blazing, lends credence to his claim that Mikulski is some sort of L.A. druglord."
"Yeah, but if that's the case, why not go after Martinez himself. Why bother sending us after him?"
"Not sure. Just trying to put us off the scent, I guess."
"Any idea what happened to Martinez?" Matty asked.
"No. But it didn't look like Wainwright was in the mood to talk. I gave Martinez my card though, in case he needs a lawyer."
Matty laughed, "you're as sleazy as they come, Blackbird. You're starting to sound like a real criminal lawyer now. So, what's your next move?"
"I've got Alex's arraignment tomorrow," Zeke said, "That should be . . . interesting."
"Have you ever done one?"
"I observed a bunch when I was clerking at the Public Defender's office. But never as a lawyer, no."
"Sounds like fun. Can I come?"
"Sure. It's at the Stanley Mosk Courthouse, a few blocks from here. You can come as my assistant."
"Associate . . . jerk." Matty replied.
"Associate. Got it."
"Have you heard anything from Lexi?" Matty asked.
"No, not yet. I think I'm supposed to reach out to her. I ended things kind of awkwardly—"
"Yeah I remember."
"So I'm avoiding calling her."
"Lexi is a real catch, Zeke, she won't stay single for long."
"Yeah I know. Anyways, I should get some sleep. I haven't quite processed my near-death experience yet. And I need to search online for some 'how-to' arraignment guides."
"See you tomorrow," Matty said.
Zeke walked back up the stairs as the vlogger was introducing his wingman for the night. As he walked to his car, Zeke wondered how Angelenos were hustling tonight. Writing screenplays, shooting YouTube videos, and preparing to represent accused murderers, came to mind.
February 16th, 10:30am
"Do you understand the charges levied against you?" Judge Katrina White asked. The defendant was shackled on the right side of the courtroom, behind a box of bars and bulletproof glass called a dock. He paused a moment and looked at his lawyer, a public defender. Zeke could tell, because his attorney was carrying at least ten other files in her arms and was hurriedly flipping through the defendant's case file, as if for the first time.
She must have hundreds of cases, Zeke thought. Public defenders in Los Angeles are notoriously overworked. The deluge of cases meant that lawyers, prosecutors and defense attorneys alike, were compelled to plea out as many cases as they could. It was always the accused's decision, of course, whether or not to take a case to trial. But most defendants took one look at the the avalanche of paperwork and courtroom bureaucracy facing them and decided it was better to accept a reduced sentence.
The defendant's attorney looked up and nodded at her client. "Yes, your honor," the man said.
"And how do you wish to plea?" Judge White asked.
The man again looked at his attorney. His attorney looked towards the prosecution table. An assistant district attorney stood up and said, "Your Honor. The People are prepared to offer a plea deal to Mr. Baker. If the court would allow us five minutes to discuss in the Fish Bowl, I believe we could settle this today."
"Very well," Judge White said, "we'll push the rest of Mr. Baker's arraignment to this afternoon. That will be all for now, Mr. Baker." Judge White turned to his clerk, "next case?"
Mr. Baker's lawyer and the assistant district attorney walked together to the back of the courtroom, behind the spectator's gallery. The Fish Bowl was private room behind the gallery, separated from the rest of the courtroom by a glass partition, which allowed the lawyers and the judge to keep an eye on courtroom proceedings and negotiations, respectively.
One of the bailiffs guided Mr. Baker to a separate room off of the courtroom, where incarcerated defendants were kept during proceedings. The sheriff returned to the courtroom with Alex.
"Case number 2019668824. Alejandro Garcia, your Honor," the court clerk said. The entire gallery gasped. An endless clicking of camera lenses began. One spectator stood up and yelled, "shame!"
"Order!" Judge White said. "Bailiff, please escort that man from the courtroom." He turned back to the clerk. "Does he have counsel?" Judge White asked.
"Yes, your honor," Zeke said as he stood up, and crossed from the gallery, passed through the bar—a partition dividing the general public from the courtroom's professionals—and stood behind the defense table on the left. "I'm Ezekiel Blackbird. Blackbird and Associates."
"I've never seen you here, Mr. Blackbird. Where have you practiced?"
"Just California, your Honor. I'm new. I just received my bar exam results a few months ago."
Attorneys sitting in the gallery and behind the prosecution table laughed.
"Order!" Judge White said to the crowd. "I take it that you are the principal attorney of Blackbird and Associates?" the judge asked.
"That . . . is correct, your Honor," Zeke said, blushing.
More guffawing from the crowd.
"I will have order!" the judge said again. "Very well Mr. Blackbird. Please understand that you will be treated the same as every other attorney. No special treatment."
"I understand your Honor."
Judge White grunted, satisfied with their exchange. She opened Alex's file and turned to the court clerk, "What are the charges?"
"According to The People's indictment," the clerk said, "Mr. Garcia is being charged with murder in the first-degree under California Penal Code section 187(a)."
The Judge looked up at Alex. "Mr. Garcia, do you fully understand the charges that have been levied against you?"
Alex stared at Zeke. Zeke nodded.
"Yes, your Honor," Alex replied.
"And how do you plead?"
Alex looked back at Zeke.
"Your Honor, my client—"
"If I may, your Honor," ADA Williams piped up from behind the prosecution table. "Mr. Blackbird and I are presently engaged in plea negotiations. If you allow us a few minutes to discuss this morning, we can probably come to an agreement."
Judge White looked at the calendar on an opposite wall, check his watch, and sighed. "Very well, Mr. Williams. You have an hour. Let me know when you are done and how you wish to proceed."
ADA Williams passed through the bar and walked back toward the Fish Bowl just as the other attorneys were finishing their discussion. Zeke stood for a moment, not sure what to do.
"What the hell are you waiting for, kid," an older attorney said behind.
Zeke jaunted through the gallery towards the Fish Bowl. A few spectators held up a sign reading, "Justice for Cahill," and several people filmed Zeke on their smartphones. "Scum," someone sneered.
"I will have decorum! Bailiff, please—" Zeke could hear Judge White saying as he closed the door to the Fish Bowl.
ADA Williams was sitting at a long table, with Alex's open file placed in front of him. "Hey Zeke, he said, "please take seat."
Zeke sat down at the table. He had bought a cheap briefcase at Target on his way home last night. Inside, he had put a blank notepad, pens, and a printed copy of the relevant penal code sections.
"Nice briefcase," Williams said, staring at a sales sticker on the side of the suitcase.
"Yeah, thanks," Zeke said, pulling off the sticker and crumpling it between his fingers.
"So," Williams continued, "what did your client think of our offer?"
Zeke paused. Alex had insisted on his innocence the last time they had talked, but Zeke thought he was dropping the case anyways, so hadn't pushed the issue. "We haven't had an opportunity to talk about it at length. But Alex continues to claim innocence."
"I see," Williams said. "Anything I can do to sweeten the deal?"
"He's barely 18 years old, Dan," Zeke said. "If you offered 15 to life, you could give him a second-chance at making something of himself—"
Williams cut him off. "Do you see what we're dealing with out there? How closely we're being watched on this case? The sheriffs can barely keep a lid on the discontent in there. If I go in there and announce that we're cutting Cahill's killer some slack, we'll both be on the front-page tomorrow morning."
Sounds like good marketing to me, Zeke thought to himself. "This is his first offense," Zeke said, "he has no priors. Given what witnesses said about the tray of drinks and Cahill cussing him out in front of the crowd, this was clearly heat of passion murder. It's unlikely to happen again. He can be rehabilitated."
"He killed a movie star," Williams said, "even if I wanted to cut him a break—and I don't—there's no way the District Attorney would go for it."
Zeke paused for a moment, hoping Williams would throw him a bone.
"Look, I can help him out on the incarceration end. I'll make sure that the Department of Corrections puts him in a minimum-security prison. He'll have access to anger classes, maybe work toward a certificate in a trade. If, towards the end of his sentence, he has a record of good behavior, he can petition the Parole Board to cut him loose after 25 years. But make no mistake, the Parole Board may say no. The only thing that’s certain is it’s a life sentence."
Zeke stayed quiet.
"He's not doing well in jail, Zeke. Look at him. He's as thin as a rail and his face looks like it’s being used as a punching bag. If he wants this thing to go to trial, he's looking at least at another six to eight months in jail. After we get a conviction, he'll be in a maximum-security prison for at least 24 years. That’s assuming the DA doesn’t want to go for the death penalty. The smart move it to take the deal here."
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