Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

I caught the eye of one of the roving guards and raised my hand. “I have a paper for the prisoner to sign,” I said in a loud voice. The guard came over, took the form, and after giving it a cursory examination, passed it on to Roberts. He also handed him a ballpoint pen that he pulled from his uniform pocket.

“Sign on the bottom, where it says client ,” I told Roberts.

His hand shook a little as he scrawled his signature on the paper. He didn’t bother to read it before handing it back to the guard, who then gave it to me. They have a lot of rules in prisons, and this was one of them. It would’ve been a crime for me to pass anything directly to an inmate.

“They pay me ten cents an hour. I work in the laundry three days a week and I get a small tip from the warden when I play the piano for him at a party.” Roberts said when the guard wandered away. “Ain’t much, and I can’t pay your fee.”

“Just tell me this, Al, and give me a straight answer. Did you kill Vera? I know you didn’t murder Haskell, but-”

Roberts exploded. “I didn’t kill nobody! Haskell or Vera. Goddamn it, I was framed.” He started to stand.

The whole room became quiet and everyone, inmates and visitors alike, looked at Roberts and me for a moment before turning away, pretending not to hear the outburst.

“Sit down and shut up,” I said. “I just had to be sure, that’s all. Hey, I’m willing to take a chance on you. And if I can get a new trial, and if you’re released, and if you get a job, then you can pay me on the installment plan. That’s a lot of ifs , but I’m willing to give it a shot. But here’s one more if -if you lie to me, even one tiny detail, then I’m off the case. It will be over, finito, and you can rot in here forever. Understand?”

He hung his head and didn’t say anything for a beat, then mumbled, “My mother taught me never to lie.”

“I hoped she also taught you never to kill people. Because if you’re guilty, it will come out. Your story will probably get a great deal of attention in the press. With all the renewed publicity your chance at a future parole will be nil.”

“You gotta believe me,” he said.

“Yeah, Al. I know.”

It was almost four p.m. when I drove out of the prison parking lot, heading back to Downey. I flipped on the radio; it looked like the Sig Alert was going continue right through the rush hour.

Everyone jumped off the Pomona Freeway and headed east on Grand Avenue, where I just happened to be, creeping along behind a loaded hay truck. I thought of the long drive to my office and decided to grab a bite to eat before fighting the traffic all the way back. Pulling into an In-N-Out burger place on Grand Avenue, a couple of miles from the prison, I ordered a Double-Double with cheese, and fries. Taking my food order to one of the picnic tables outside, I sat and faced the parking lot and started in on my food.

A black Buick Century pulled in and parked not too far from my table. I set the cheeseburger down and looked at the two big guys lounging in the front seat. No one got out of the sedan. The guy on the driver’s side wore a striped Polo shirt, stretched tight across his massive chest. His buddy had on some kind of Deadhead T-shirt, Skull amp; Roses -the Grateful Dead’s new album-plastered on the front.

They seemed to be staring at me, giving me the once-over.

At first it bothered me a little. Then I figured I was being paranoid, having just left a prison where everyone pinned both the guard and me as we walked along the prison corridors to meet Roberts in the visiting room.

But why were the two guys just sitting there in the sedan in this heat without getting out and ordering anything to eat? They were hard looking, serious, like cops. But they weren’t cops. Cops didn’t wear Deadhead T-shirts, at least while on duty-unless they were undercover. And undercover cops worked alone, not in pairs.

The Buick had no front license plate, no number. Anyhow, what would I do with it? Find a phone booth and call it in? “Hey, Sol, can you run a plate? Very suspicious, two guys are parked at an In-N-Out without a burger in their hands.”

Looking out at the guys in the Buick staring at me put a dent in my appetite. I picked up the box holding my cheeseburger and fries and changed tables.

I didn’t see her approach, but I turned when I heard the pleasant lilt of her voice. “Hey, fella, got a light?” Five-foot-nine of feminine beauty, a figure in a mini-skirt and a semi-transparent ghost of a flowery blouse stood next to my table. She had the look of a woman who’d stepped out of a forties movie, the femme fatale, not the loving wifey type. I dropped my burger and sprung to my feet. She held a cigarette in two fingers out in front of her face, a face that would make a dead man dance.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, fumbling in my pockets. I pulled out a book of matches that I kept for such emergencies and lit her cigarette.

Without taking her eyes off of me, she took a long drag. She exhaled and the smoke curled out slowly through her parted lips. Her face, backlit against the sun, seemed to glow and her bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle when she smiled. She glanced out at Grand Avenue.

“Traffic’s bad, huh?” she said.

“Yeah, the Sig Alert, big rig flipped over. It’s a mess.”

“Where you headed?” she asked. Was she just making small talk?

“Downey,” I said without adding anything.

She studied me for a moment. “Hmm, never been to Downey.”

“I have an office there.”

Her smile grew. “I knew you were a professional man. You have that look.”

Was she coming on to me? That would be wild, more than wild. Maybe I should’ve worn a nicer shirt. “Thanks, I’m in the law business.” I didn’t want to mention the word lawyer. Some people get spooked, or they start asking my advice, whip out their insurance policy and want me to read it, or something.

“Law biz, huh? Well you must be smart.” Her eyebrow arched a bit, like she was asking for a confirmation of her remark.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, with illusions bouncing in my brain. I wondered what it would be like to sleep with her. The word fantastic came to mind.

“Just passing through.”

I gestured toward the takeout window. “Hey, are you hungry? Can I buy you a Coke, a burger, some fries?” Big spender Jimmy, a girl like her probably turns down proposals for lunch at the Ritz, and I offer her a burger from a takeout joint. “Or, maybe, we could-”

She took another drag on her cigarette. “That’s sweet of you but I have to get along.”

I brushed back my hair with my hand. “Yeah, I understand,” I said, but then wondered why she stopped here if she wasn’t hungry.

“Bye.” She smiled again and my gaze followed the slow rippling of her hips as she sauntered away. If I could package that walk and sell it three for a buck, I’d make a fortune. She headed back toward the parking lot, walking to a red Mercedes convertible parked a few spaces to the right of the Buick. The two big guys hadn’t moved.

I stood there for a moment taking in her beauty, knowing I should say something, but words wouldn’t form.

She stopped at the Mercedes sports car and over her shoulder, glanced back at me. She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with the pointy toe of her stiletto boot. Then she opened the door of the convertible and slipped into the bucket seat. In a smooth motion, flashing a little thigh, she swung her incredible, almost mythical legs in and closed the door.

She guided the Mercedes to within a few yards of my table. With a long slender finger, she beckoned me over.

“You’re Jimmy O’Brien, aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at me.