A Fair - Cut Thin to Win

“We’re both in one hell of a mess,” I said. “I’ll contact you later.”

He reached for his wallet. “You want money?”

“Not now,” I told him. “Later.”

I left the office and walked to my hotel, thinking the thing over.

I stopped at the desk and got the key to my room.

A man stepped forward and said, “Donald Lam?”

I looked at him and nodded.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ve got a warrant for you from Los Angeles, compounding a felony, squaring a hit-and-run. You want to waive extradition?”

I said, “I’ll send a telegram and tell you then.”

He said, “We were told we’d have trouble.”

“Not with me,” I told him. “I’m docile as a kitten.”

I sent a telegram to Colton C. Essex, attorney at law:

ARRESTED IN DENVER COLORADO FOR COMPOUNDING FELONY AND SQUARING HIT AND RUN. AM AT PRESENT IN CUSTODY OF DENVER POLICE. SHALL I WAIVE EXTRADITION.

I signed it Donald Lam, and turned to the plain-clothes officer, “Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”

They put me in a cell in the Denver jail. After an hour, a trusty came with a telegram for me. The telegram had been opened, read, stamped, censored and was handed to me in that condition.

The telegram was signed by Colton C. Essex. It said,

WIRE RECEIVED. SIT TIGHT. AT THE PROPER REPEAT PROPER TIME EVERYTHING WILL BE UNDERTAKEN TO BRING YOUR CASE TO SATISFACTORY CONCLUSION. SIT TIGHT. SAY NOTHING. KEEP COOL.

I asked if I had the privilege of sending out for a meal which I could pay for out of my own pocket and was advised I didn’t have that privilege.

I asked about bail. I was told that would be arranged in due time, but if I wanted to sign a paper waiving extradition, I could have quite a few courtesies.

I said I was sitting tight.

I was told that a man was due to arrive to take me back to Los Angeles to face the charges in California. Again, I was told I would make it a lot easier for myself if I waived extradition. I had a poor night.

Frank Sellers was there in the morning.

They took me from the cell up to an office where a couple of plainclothes men sat at a table, and Frank Sellers spoke in such carefully guarded language that I knew the room was bugged and everything I said was being taped.

“Well, Pint Size,” Sellers said, “you didn’t do so good. Want to tell us about it?”

“Tell you about what?”

“About the whole thing.”

“I have nothing to tell.”

“I’m in a little different position now than when I was talking with you the last time,” he said. “Now I’ve got a witness that saw the woman being struck by the automobile.”

“Did he get the license number?” I asked.

“We don’t need the license number,” Sellers said. “We got the car. We’ve got a perfect case of circumstantial evidence.”

“How come?”

“Fibers from the fabric of the skirt the woman was wearing were found adhering to the undercarriage of the automobile. It’s a perfect match.”

Sellers turned to one of the detectives and said conversationally “That’s a Colorado license plate on the number. We’ve got the owner all right, Phyllis Eldon, who resides here in Denver.”

One of the detectives nodded; then suddenly stiffened to attention. “Wait a minute,” he said, “did you say Eldon, E-L-D-O-N?”

“That’s right.”

“When was this accident? This hit-and-run you’re talking about?”

Sellers looked at his notebook. “On the twenty-first,” he said.

“What time on the twenty-first?”

“Eight o’clock in the evening.”

Both Denver detectives were sitting straight up at attention.

One of them said, “Wait a minute, this Eldon dame is one we’ve been wanting to question in connection with...” He suddenly broke off and looked at me.

“Well, she’s in L. A.,” Sellers Said. “I’ve got her spotted. All I need to make a perfect case is to find out what Pint Size here has done with the victim. He made a pay-off and has her under cover.”

“Wait a minute — wait a minute,” one of the Denver detectives said, “let’s not do any more talking right now. Take him back to his cell.”

“There’s no use taking him back now and letting him think it over,” Sellers said. “I’m putting it on the line with him. He is in bad. I offered him a deal if he’d give us the information. He told us who his client was. It’s a phony. He’s been double-crossing me. His license is on the line right now and he’s in bad. We’ve got a charge against him, compounding a felony.”

The detective leaned toward Sellers. “We’ve got a little talking to do,” he said. “We don’t want him in on it.” He turned to me and said, “Come on, Lam, come with me.”

Sellers started to protest but was outnumbered. He looked mad and puzzled as they beckoned to me.

I followed the detective back down the corridor, was delivered to a turnkey and escorted back to my cell.

I stayed there.

I was kept out of circulation for two hours, then I was brought back to a meeting that had evidently been far from harmonious.

The two Denver police officers were there; a deputy district attorney was there; Sergeant Sellers was there; and Colton C. Essex, the attorney, was there.

Essex jumped up to greet me with a cordial handshake. “Well, well, Lam, how are you?” he said. “I got here just as soon as I could. I had to charter planes. This is an outrage.”

“I’m doing all right,” I said.

He squeezed my hand hard. “I’m representing you,” he said, “and I’ll do the talking.”

“You’ve done enough of it already,” Sellers said.

“Well, gentlemen,” Essex said, turning around and putting a protective hand on my shoulder, “this man is probably in a position to bring suit for false arrest, but he’s not vindictive. However, if he isn’t released immediately, I’m going to file habeas corpus.”

Sellers said, “I tell you the guy squared a hit-and-run charge.”

“What hit-and-run charge?”

“You know damned well what hit-and-run charge!” Sellers said.

“I’m beginning to think this may have been a frame-up, this whole business,” Essex said. “Somebody certainly has it in for my client, Phyllis Eldon. You can see for yourselves, gentlemen, these Denver detectives swear they have a witness, whose name they’re not prepared to disclose, who saw her automobile here in Denver, Colorado, at the time of the Canby death — a death which the authorities here believe is a murder.

“On the other hand, Sergeant Sellers says he has two witnesses who definitely swear that automobile was in Los Angeles within an interval of four hours.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Sellers said. “They don’t identify that automobile.”

“I thought you just said they did.”

“Well, I say that that’s the automobile that struck down this Mrs. Chester.”

“No one got the license number?”

“Well, they got the time of the accident. They saw her hit and we know what automobile did the hitting. We’ve got perfect circumstantial evidence that would result in a conviction in front of any jury in the world.”

“Providing you had a complaining witness,” Essex said.

Sellers turned to glower at me. “Thanks to this little pint-sized bastard,” he said, “we’ve got no complaining witness at the moment, but we’re going to get her.

“When we get her and she tells her story, it’s just going to be too bad for Pint Size, here.”

“My client’s name,” Essex said, with dignity, “is Donald Lam. If you expect any courtesies in connection with failure to file suit for malicious prosecution and unlawful arrest, you had better be a little more courteous in turn.”