A. Fair - All Grass Isn't Green

“Let’s do better than that,” I said. “You may not know it, but you’re a poor liar.”

He took a deep breath and said, “All right, Nanncie has it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I gave it to her. The poor kid was worried sick and she was scared. I didn’t know she was going to try to run away. I thought she was going to stick it out... I told her, ‘Nanncie, when you go to bed, keep your door locked and don’t open it for anybody unless you know for sure who it is. Keep this gun under your pillow and if you have to use it, don’t hesitate to do so.’ ”

“And then?” I asked.

“And then I showed her how to pull the trigger,” he said. “You know, it’s a self-cocking gun. It sometimes takes a little practice for a woman to pull the trigger so she can fire the gun.”

“And you think Nanncie has hung onto the gun?”

“I know she has.”

“What are the chances,” I asked, “that Nanncie got involved in this thing and pulled the trigger on the gun out there in the trailer?”

“Not a chance in the world,” he said. “Not a chance in a million.”

I thought it over and said, “Well, maybe you’re right. I’m basing my judgment on the fact that she didn’t have an automobile and she’d hardly have hired a taxicab to follow the dope car up to the place where the crime was committed, then told the taxi to wait while she went in, pulled a gun and got rid of Eddie Sutton.”

“You talk like a fish,” Calhoun said impatiently. “Nanncie wouldn’t have—”

Imperative knuckles sounded on the door.

I said, wearily, “You’d better open the door for Sergeant Sellers.”

Calhoun opened the door.

Sellers took one look at me and said, “Well, well, Pint Size, I see you hotfooted it up here to tell your client the news.”

“I’ve told him the news,” I said.

Sellers said to Calhoun, “You own a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver with a one-and-seven-eighths inch barrel, number one-three-three-three-four-seven. Where is it?”

“Go ahead and answer the question,” I told Calhoun. “He’s now suspecting you of a specific crime and asking you a specific incriminating question. He hasn’t warned you of your constitutional rights and anything you say can’t be used against you...”

Sergeant Sellers resorted to profanity, fished the Miranda card out of his pocket.

The Miranda card is something that officers carry these days since the decision of the United States Supreme Court in the Miranda case. They have to give a series of warnings to anyone, either when they’re making an arrest; or when the investigation has quit being an investigation in general terms and has moved into a specific area where they are questioning a specific suspect about a specific crime.

Sellers started reading.

“You are,” Sellers droned in a monotone, “under suspicion of having murdered one Edward Sutton. You are warned that anything you say may be used against you. On the other hand, you are advised that you do not need to make any statement at all. You are also advised that you are entitled to consult an attorney of your own choice and to have an attorney represent you at all stages of the investigation. If you are unable to afford an attorney, the state will get one to represent you.”

Sellers put the card back in his pocket. “Now then,” he said, “when did you last see this gun?”

I said to Calhoun, “You’re entitled to have an attorney at all stages of the proceeding. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Not here,” Calhoun said.

“Suppose you keep out of this,” Sellers advised me.

“You mean he’s not entitled to have an attorney?” I asked.

“I’ve already told him,” Sellers said, “he’s entitled to have an attorney.”

I caught Calhoun’s eye and surreptitiously put my finger to my tightly closed lips.

Calhoun said, “I have no statement to make. I want to consult a lawyer.”

“You may call a lawyer,” Sellers said.

Calhoun gulped, thought, then suddenly turned to me. “Lam,” he said, “I want a lawyer.”

“Don’t you have one in—”

“Not one that would be any good in a situation of this sort,” he said. “I want a local lawyer and I want the best lawyer in the country — the best criminal lawyer.”

Calhoun reached in his pocket, pulled out his billfold and started counting out fifty-dollar bills; then he changed his mind, looked in the other side of the billfold and pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to me. “Three hundred is for you,” he said. “Two hundred is for a retainer for the lawyer. Get him to come to the jail and talk with me. I’ll make arrangements for his fee then.

“In the meantime, you go ahead and keep working on this case. I’m well able to pay at the price we agreed upon.”

“There will be expenses,” I said.

“Incur them.”

“Where do I stop?” I asked. “What’s the limit?”

Calhoun pointed upward. “The sky is the limit.”

Sellers said, “I hate to do this to you, Calhoun. If you would cooperate with us, it might not be necessary to take you into custody. After all, we simply are trying to find out about the gun and to trace your movements.”

Calhoun looked at me. I shook my head.

“You aren’t his lawyer, Pint Size!” Sellers said irritably. “You don’t need to advise him.”

“I’m his investigator,” I said.

“Then you’d better be damn certain you keep your nose clean or we’ll give you an adjoining cell. Then you can do all the yakety-yakking you want to.”

“With both cells wired for sound,” I said.

“You’re damn right we’ll have them bugged,” Seller said angrily. “How simple do you think we are?”

“You’d be surprised,” I told him.

Sellers turned to Calhoun. “I’m not going to put handcuffs on you under the circumstances, but you’re under arrest and don’t make any mistake about it. Don’t make any false moves. Come on, let’s go.”

They got to the door and we went out. Calhoun locked the door. I went as far as the lobby with them. Sellers Calhoun in a police car where a local cop was waiting they drove away. I went to the public phone in the lob and called Bertha.

“I’m down here at Calexico,” I said. “I’m still in Unit Seven at the Maple Leaf Motel. I’m probably going to around here for a while. For your information, I just got some more money out of our client and instructions to ahead...”

“Money out of our client!” Bertha yelled. “Where is he? And how the hell did you do that?”

“He’s down here.”

“How long’s he going to stay?”

“Probably some little time,” I said. “Frank Sellers and a local officer just arrested him for murder.”

“Fry me for an oyster!” Bertha said.

“I’ll take it from there,” I told her, and hung up while, she was still sputtering.

I found that Anton Newberry, with offices in El Centro, the county seat of Imperial County, had the reputation of being the best criminal lawyer in the county.

I didn’t have any difficulty getting in to see him.

He took one of my business cards and said, “Cool and Lam, Private Investigators, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re Donald Lam?”

“Right.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lam?”

“I have a client in jail in Calexico. He’ll probably be transferred to El Centro.”

“What’s he charged with?”

“Murder.”

Newberry was wiry, raw-hided individual in his late forties or early fifties, with high cheekbones, eyes spaced wide apart, a high forehead and a quick, nervous manner.

“When was he arrested?”