Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

Sol took a puff of his cigar, looked at the glowing tip, and settled into the same club chair as before.

“That’s right,” I answered, sitting next to Sol.

“Who-may I ask-are you writing this for, the Los Angeles Times?”

“Frank,” Sol said. “Jimmy’s writing it for the New York Times , syndicated worldwide.”

Christ, Sol! What are you doing? I thought. You’re laying it on pretty thick. “That’s right,” I said, “New York Times. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Really, the New YorkTimes , that’s impressive. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen any of your work. Where have you been published before?”

“Everywhere,” Sol said and took another drag on the cigar. “Jimmy’s chronicling the history of L.A. in the forties. Big project.”

“Los Angeles history is kind of a hobby of mine,” Byron said. “I’m well versed with journalists writing about our exciting past. But, I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything you’ve written.”

“Well… ah, my articles have been-”

We all turned toward the sound of the door opening; the butler entered with the drinks. Thank God.

The discussion stopped for a minute while we sipped our drinks. Then I set my coffee cup down. “Let’s not talk about me,” I said. “I’m here to ask you, Mr. Byron, a few questions for the article. I understand you were a young man when elected to the office of District Attorney. Can you tell me a little about your background, and so on?”

“Be delighted to, Jimmy. It all started when I was just a child, before that really. You see, my grandfather…”

Whenever anyone starts telling his life’s story and starts it with when I was a child you know he’s going to bore the hell out of you. But I scribbled on my pad, trying to look like a journalist who cared about what he was saying.

Byron continued to ramble on. He told us about his family, his childhood, and then took us through his school years. He explained that although he came from a privileged background, his family’s wealth and connections had no bearing on his success. The very fact that two generations of Byrons had graduated from Harvard, and through the years had contributed generously to the university, had nothing to do with him being accepted there, of course.

After graduating from law school he worked in the family business, commercial banking, and through pluck and determination he soon found himself in the position of vice president. He was twenty-six at the time. But he became restless and wanted to move on to bigger things. He decided on a life of public service. A noble gesture, he said. What better example to the lazy and shiftless, the average man who chose not to sacrifice, then his own willingness to take a tremendous pay cut and run for the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney?

My coffee had gotten cold. Sol had finished his drink, stifled a yawn, and started another cigar when Byron finally got to the part where he had single-handedly cleaned up the corruption that had taken hold of city government in the late 1930s during the scandal-plagued years of Mayor Shaw. “I’d been elected on a reform platform, and by God, that’s exactly what I did,” he said.

“You don’t say. That’s admirable, but during your term as District Attorney, did you get involved in any homicide cases?” I asked. “The publisher wants me to throw in a murder or two. Readers eat that stuff up.”

“My job was the big picture, setting the agenda, and commanding the war on organized crime. I made it tough on racketeers who were spreading their filth throughout the city.”

He went on about his heroic stand against gangs and bookmakers, but I had to steer the discussion toward murder cases, then narrow it down to just one: Roberts. “I understand, Mr. Byron, but maybe we could talk about a few capital offenses that came across your desk.”

“Let me tell you about the time I stared down the biggest gangster of them all, Mickey Cohen. Your readers will love this,” he said. “It happened one night at Ciro’s Nightclub. He was with Johnny Stompanato-Mick’s bodyguard, you know. Johnny was also Lana Turner’s boyfriend. Lana’s daughter had stabbed him to death: self-defense. But that was later; he was still alive when I met him. Anyway, Mick and Stompanato were having a drink, probably planning something big, when I walked in-”

Sol glanced at his watch. “That’s all very interesting, Frank, but what I think Jimmy’s readers would like to know is did you personally try any murder cases? Maybe something the tabloids ran with. Something just to keep your hand in, grab a few headlines, so to speak.”

“You remember when Bugsy Siegel got whacked, don’t you, Sol?”

“Sure. But that happened in 1947. You were outta office by then.”

“That’s right. In 1947 I was being groomed to take over the governor’s spot. Earl Warren had already been slated to run for vice president on the Dewey ticket in’48. If the Republicans had won, like they were supposed to, well then, I would’ve… but they didn’t win, damn it. That haberdasher from Missouri, Truman remained president and Warren stayed in the governor’s chair.”

“Yeah, but you were talking about Bugsy Siegel,” Sol said. “What about him?”

It was getting late and I worried that Byron would call off the interview any minute. Maybe he’d go to lunch, or take his afternoon siesta, or maybe he’d just want to get rid of us. He probably had better things to do, like hanging around the campfire with the buckaroos. And, Christ, Sol kept talking about Siegel. Who cares about Siegel? My mind was spinning. I had to slip Roberts into the conversation somehow without raising Byron’s suspicion that we weren’t there just to immortalize an old man’s war stories. I had to get Byron on track, discussing the plea bargain and I had to do it fast.

“Ah, Mr. Byron, I’d like to know about a homicide, one that you handled during the time you held office-” I began.

“Hey, Frank, did you know Joe Sica?” Sol asked. “Big Mafia honcho back in the forties, still is.”

Sol, what are you doing? What’s all this talk about old Mafia guys? I was starting to get unsettled. I had the feeling we were blowing our only chance here.

“Yeah, I know Sica. A bad actor,” Byron said. “But it’s his brother Freddie that scares the hell out of everyone. The guy is crazy, a homicidal maniac. But I think both Joe and Freddie are locked up now.”

“Nah, they got out. Did a dime at Q, then the State cut ’em loose. I know those boys. They haven’t changed, just older,” Sol said. “Hey, by the way, did you know a guy named Alexander Roberts? A lifer, taking the long ride at Chino.”

I sighed. Way to go, Sol . What a smooth way to sneak Roberts into the conversation. I should take lessons.

Byron scratched his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “I think I read about it somewhere in the archives. Yeah, that’s it; Paul Coates of the Mirror wrote an article, said you personally handled the Alexander Roberts plea bargain. Said you did a hell of a job.”

“I told you I don’t recall anyone named Roberts.” There was a noticeable edge in Byron’s voice. We’d hit a nerve. Now I’d dig a little deeper.

“Back in ’45, didn’t you cut a deal with Roberts: life instead of extradition to Arizona on a murder-one rap?”

“What’s going on?”

“Just want to give the readers the truth.”

“Gentleman, I’m afraid my time is up. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Another minute, please, Mr. Byron,” I said.

I pulled a paper from my pocket, a Xerox copy of the signature page from the parole board report he’d signed regarding the Roberts plea agreement. “Maybe you’ll want to see this.” I stood and dropped the paper on his desk.