Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

The Judge called, "Frankie, Frankie" again, pounding on the door now. No response.

  The Judge pulled his cell phone and dialed 911. He thought about crashing the door open with his foot. But his nose told him whatever was in there was long past help. Besides, it looked like a strong door. It might look easy to kick in a door in the movies, but the Judge wasn’t going to break his foot trying.

  Fifteen minutes later the paramedics arrived. He'd reported there was a locked door. They'd brought an ax. Thirty seconds later a large hole was axed in the center of the door. A paramedic reached in and unlocked the door from the inside. The smell poured out now, wrapping the three of them in a stench that was the stuff of nightmares.

  Frankie was there. Slumped in the bathtub. Fully clothed. Brown slacks and white dress shirt open at the neck. Brown loafers, no socks. Just as the Judge had seem him on Friday afternoon. But his body was cold and stiff. His face, hands and neck a mottled grey-blue.

  A small caliber handgun lay beside his hand. The hole in his temple hadn't bled much. And the bullet hadn't exited the other side. There were no blood and brains blasted about. But all Frank's bodily fluids had drained into the bathtub. Unfortunately for all concerned the stopper was down so the tub hadn’t drained.

  "Jesus,” muttered one of the paramedics. “Another damn suicide. A young guy too. What a waste."

  "I'll radio the police," said the other. "Not much we can do here."

  The Judge sadly wandered back to the living room, knowing he would have to wait and explain his presence in the apartment. He looked around. There wasn't much in the little unit that was Frank. It looked to be a package of rented furniture and decor, matching and dull.

  He idly wandered into the kitchen, looked in the kitchen cupboards, then under the sink, pulling out a small trash can. There were paper towels from what looked like a spaghetti spill on top.

  The Judge lifted them to reveal a torn dark brown envelope beneath. One with a label: "Additional discovery materials in the case of Hicks vs Greene, delivered subject to Attorney Client Privilege." The empty envelope had contained the missing discovery report. Damn. What the hell had Frankie done?

  He surveyed the rest of the apartment. Shuffling through Frankie’s desk in his bedroom, peeking into his small closet and the night stand drawers, examining the books shelved in the living room. He even got down and peaked under the queen bed. There was no missing report. There were no other legal or research documents either.

  The courier style brief case Frankie was so proud of, all leather with a bronze emblem, given to him by his girlfriend, was missing. As was Frankie’s laptop.

  As the Judge finished his brief search and moved back to the living room, a Los Angeles Sheriff’s officer rushed in. Christ, it was Officer Saunders, the flatfoot from the beach Friday night. Damn. The Judge figured his presence at Frankie’s death scene would be relayed back to Lieutenant Kaminsky in about a minute and a half. This was not good.

  Saunders recognized him immediately. “The nocturnal judge with the missing pants,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. He handed the Judge another of his cards which the Judge shoved in his pocket. Then he stepped around the Judge and walked down the hall to the bathroom to have a look, the two paramedics standing aside. His face changed immediately. Hardened.

  He turned back to the Judge, who had followed him, and said in a low voice:

  “You’d better have a good explanation for what you’re doing here, Judge. The detective is going to want to hear it. And it better be good. Sit down over there and think it through carefully. I know you’re a judge and all, but if you need a criminal lawyer I’ve got a good one I can refer you. You might want to sit tight until you got a lawyer present. Good luck.”

  As officer Saunders finished, another officer came in. He turned out to be a sergeant, LAPD. A big beefy guy in his mid-forties with pale brown eyes and thinning blond hair, long and combed over to hide his pate. He’d left his cap in the car.

  He nodded at Saunders, surveyed the scene in 15 quick steps from room to room, ending in the bathroom, then motioned the Judge to sit down on the sofa in the living room and wait.

  Two other LAPD arrived behind him, setting up tape at the front door of the unit, dealing with the small crowd of neighbors and a distraught property manager gathered in the hall. Then a plainclothes detective showed up, did a similar walk through and sat down beside the Judge to take his statement. He flipped open his badge carrier, identifying himself as Lieutenant Carter.

  The Judge explained that he was Frankie’s employer. That he was a lawyer in the middle of an arbitration. That Frankie was his law clerk. That Frankie had not been in the office since Friday as far as he knew. That Frankie had missed scheduled appointments to work with the Judge on Saturday, Monday and now today. Had left no call-in message of being sick or unable to work. That the Judge had become worried and dropped by to see if Frankie were okay. That the apartment’s door had been unlocked and slightly ajar. But not the bathroom. It had been locked from the inside.

  That the odor in the apartment told the Judge something was wrong. That he’d called 911.

  Carter took it all down.

  “Looks to me like a straight up suicide, Judge. Way the pistol’s positioned. The locked bathroom door and all. No note of course. But they often don’t leave notes.”

  The Judge nodded noncommittally. He knew studies suggested only about 37 percent of suicides left notes. The rest just happen. But few people die by suicide without letting others know how they are feeling, either directly or indirectly. They give clues which are often cries for help.

  The Judge thought back to the class he’d taken and some of the verbal statements sometimes clues of suicidal intent:

  ‘I can't go on anymore.

  I wish I was never born.

  I wish I were dead.

  I won't need this anymore.

  Everyone would be better off if I were dead.

  Life sucks. Nobody cares if I live or die.

  They're so cruel to me. They'll be sorry someday.

  Nothing will ever change, will it?’

  He could recall no such clues from Frankie. His clerk seemed very happy with himself and his life. The Judge told the lieutenant as much.

  The Judge left the apartment a half hour later in deep thought, moving mechanically as he punched the button in the elevator for the ground floor. As he stepped out of the elevator into the lobby he nearly collided with someone sprightly stepping in. He stepped back to apologize, looking down into the face of Dick Harper, Randal Hicks’ lawyer in the arbitration.

  Recognition shown in both their faces at the same time, Dick looking first stunned, then guarded, then all smiles as his features settled into his public face.

  "Just dropping off some files for one of paralegals working at home today," said Dick, perhaps a tad too quickly. "Has the flu." He hefted a small brief case he was carrying up in front of him as though it were a prop to emphasis his purpose.

  There was the faintest sound of sucking in breath. Often a telltale sign of tension. The Judge wondered why Dick felt the need to explain his presence and mission to the Judge. Was it a coincidence this was the same building where Frankie resided? Dick's explanation was also a little thin. What firm sends a $750 an hour partner to drop off work for a paralegal out with the flu?

  But Dick was all smiles now, shaking the Judge's hand and commenting on what a beautiful day it was in Playa Vista. The Judge exchanged pleasantries for thirty seconds, then walked on across the lobby and out into the afternoon. After 30 yards he turned to look back toward the building. Dick was still standing at the elevator entrance, perplexed, wringing his hands, looking at the paramedic truck, the two LAPD police cruisers, and the L.A. Coroner's truck just pulling up. He seemed to have second thoughts about delivering his documents to his sick paralegal.

  As the Judge drove away, he recalled that some years before Dick Harper had been in some trouble with the California State Bar. He'd very nearly l
ost his license. The detective he'd been working with had gone to jail. It had involved Hollywood personalities in civil litigation. There'd been allegations of illegal phone tapping and bugging of the other side's law offices. It had cast a cloud over Dick’s professional ethics which still lingered. Did Dick Harper have anything to do with the murder of Carl Greene and now the mysterious death of Frankie. Maybe a suicide. Maybe not.

  The Judge drove back to his office on automatic, not seeing the road, trying to get his head around Frankie’s death.

  He settled at the long table in his office, a note pad in front of him. He drew circles and boxes and lines and arrows, trying to piece things together. But he didn't have enough facts. He was smack in the middle of what was going on, but its outlines were still shrouded.

  Had Frank really committed suicide? Had someone ended his existence? And if so why? What was the envelope that had contained Carl Greene’s secret report doing in Frankie’s trash? Frankie must have taken it. But why? And why scratch up the bureau drawer to make it look like the lock had been forced? So he could deny he’d taken it? And where was that damned report now?

  Chapter 26

  4:00 PM Tuesday

  The afternoon lingered as the Judge soldiered on, doing legal research online for a client. Not his favorite task. After a while he put the work aside and took a break, closing his eyes for a moment, settling back in his large overstuffed chair in his small office. A half hour later the Judge’s cell phone rang, startling him out of a comfortable nap. It seemed he needed a power nap more and more these days when his schedule could accommodate one. Some said as you got older you got tired more quickly, but it was okay because when you worked you worked smarter.

  The Judge suspected you just got older.

  He was old and a little beat up. As he reached for the phone, flashes of pain shot up his arm, reminding him of just how deep the knife had struck. The doctor said he’d been lucky. What sort of luck put you in a knife fight with an unknown assailant? He needed no more luck like that.

  “Judge, we need to talk.” The gravelly voice on the other end was vaguely familiar. It suggested smoke damage, too much booze, and late nights partying until you’d exhausted everyone you could party with and were alone. Who the hell was it?

  The voice answered the unspoken question in low growls. “This is Randall Hicks.”

  It was the Plaintiff in the patent case! The Judge immediately started to protest the call, but was cut off.

  “Look, I know all the attorney bullshit about not talking to the judge, and I waive all that. And that little squirt, Carl Greene is dead, so I know he doesn’t care. And I don’t want to talk about the case anyway. At least not the part you’re arbitrating.”

  “This is against all judicial procedure and ethics,” sputtered the Judge.

  “Just hear me out, Judge. Just be quiet a minute and listen.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I think I’m in deep doo-doo, Judge. I just heard about your law clerk, Wolin. Murdered! I think I might be next.”

  “The police don’t know yet whether it was a suicide or what,” said the Judge. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “Oh I know, Judge. And so do you. You’re no fool. This thing has gone way far beyond what was intended. First Greene gets killed. Now your clerk. And I’m being shadowed. I think I’ve been set up. I may be next to have a sudden accident. I want to talk to you now Judge, private, close by, and quick. There’s more involved than you know.”

  Against his better judgment, the Judge assented. “Meet me around the corner at Chaya Venice in a half hour Mr. Hicks, and bring your attorney along. I don’t want to talk to you alone. I’ll see you there.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Hicks.

  The Judge finished the legal point he’d been researching when the nap struck, saved his work, grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

  He’d met Randall Hicks when he’d appeared at the start of the case, and twice more, once when he testified, and once when he sat in to listen to Carl Greene’s testimony. A tall lean cowboy, late forties, with a quick smile and a line of bullshit that wouldn’t quit. As though enough words thrown at something could make it true. Shifty eyes always looking for advantage. And of course the gravelly voice. A sign of hard living.

  The Judge had met the type before. Los Angeles was full of them. In his experience they couldn’t be trusted. Smarter than a used car salesman but with the same lack of ethics.

  Chaya Venice was trendy, on the border between Santa Monica and Venice. Only a block from the Judge’s office. The restaurant was known for its crowded bar of young people playing dress-up and trying to appear important, arrogant, and condescending to one another. Tonight was no exception. The bar was packed. All the tables and stools occupied and people standing around between. Chaya’s claim to fame was its happy hour menu, which started at five p.m. and lasted all night, but only in the bar and the adjacent sushi bar. Hence the raucous crowd squeezed into the tight confines.

  The Judge elbowed his way to the bar with difficulty, getting no respect for his senior status, and ordered a pineapple infused martini. One of his favorites. As he paid he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Randall Hicks at his elbow.

  Hicks shouted over the din, “I’ve got us a quiet table at the back.”

  Hicks led him to a small table . The other tables in the dining area were mostly vacant. A little too early for the dinner crowd. Hicks’ attorney was nowhere in evidence. The Judge settled in a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the room.

  When Randall Hicks had given testimony, he’d been very confident, his answers crisp and well-rehearsed. As you’d expect with Dick Harper as your counsel. Dick would have spent hours asking the questions he’d ask Hicks in front of the Judge, and the questions he’d anticipate the other side would ask. Getting the answers down pat. With just the right inflection and earnestness. Clear, concise, open answers, with no handles for the other side to grab.

  As a lawyer you never asked your witness a question you didn’t already know the answer to. But a skilled attorney did so much more. So many ways to tell the same facts. So many shades of accusation or guilt, competence or innocence, surprise or malice. You could project whatever shading you wanted into the facts, just by word choice.

  The English language was a magnificent creation, lending itself to ambiguity and artifice, innuendo and pathos, passion and horror. The facts were the facts and truth was truth in the mind of the listener. But only based on what he took away from the testimony, giving advocates free play around the edges to manipulate the story to be told. Speech was an imperfect tool for getting at the truth. But then again at the bottom, each man’s truth was different.

  Hicks settled into a seat across from the Judge. He didn’t look confident and well-rehearsed with all the answers this evening. He looked haggard. Continual tension and a lack of sleep showed. He nervously scanned the restaurant as they sat, then nursed his drink for a minute. Finally he lowered his head, projecting his gravel voice softly off the table so the Judge could just make him out.

  “Thanks for coming, Judge. I need some advice.”

  “Look, Mr. Hicks. I’m not your lawyer. So I can’t give you any legal advice. And I’m the sitting judge-arbitrator on a case in which you’re a party. Talking to you and your lawyer outside chambers is highly irregular. And speaking to you without your lawyer present is forbidden.”

  “Don’t speak then, Judge. Just listen. You came because this whole case is irregular. Someone snuffed old Carl out. They tried to kill you too. And now your law clerk’s dead. I’m scared I’ll be next.”

  “Okay,” barked the Judge, not happy. “I’m listening.”

  “Here’s how it started, Judge. Early last year I was desperate for cash. My public company, 1st Enterprises, had gone bust. Our new technology for purifying water held promise. Unfortunately, we’d run through the investor capital we’d raised privately to fund the company. The i
nvestors who’d put up that money had their lawyers sharpening their knives.”

  “Where’d the money go?” asked the Judge. “Did it all go for development or did a large chunk go for salaries and overhead?”

  Hicks blinked.

  “Like anyone else I had to live, Judge,” he wheedled. “My executive salaries might have been a tad high, but we were worth it. We needed prestigious offices in order to persuade people to invest. And courting those damn investors wasn’t cheap. There were lots of airplane rides and hotel rooms and expensive dinners and functions. Some wanted secret rebates to invest. The brokers who placed shares got full boat commissions and often a little extra under the table. And when the initial pool of investors dried up, I had to hire a sales room to make cold calls around the country. We had some great closers. But it all takes money.”

  “So how much did you raise in this so called ‘private’ offering?”

  “About five million.”

  “And how much went for actual product development?” asked the Judge.

  “Maybe half that. Like I said, there was a lot of overhead. Anyway, Judge, that’s not the point.”

  “Okay. What’s the point, Mr. Hicks?”

  “We needed another five million minimum to keep going. Carry on the development. Cover overhead.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “We went public.”

  “Of course you did,” said the Judge, a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “We hired an IR. group. That stands for investor relations.”

  “I know,” said the Judge.

  “And we heavily promoted the stock. News releases. Direct mail. Multiple web sites. The cold call room. You know.”

  “Unfortunately I do, Mr. Hicks. And how did generating interest and I assume sales volume in your public stock help your company raise the missing capital?”

  “Oh, that was easy. My brother was selling shares into the excite market and loaning the money back to the company, and presto, we had another three million pretty quickly.”

  “So that enabled you to complete development of your water purification system?” asked the Judge.