Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“Who’s John Barr?”

“You never heard of John Barr?”

“Afraid not.”

“A lousy cowboy actor, that’s who he was, a real asshole with a short fuse. Strictly B-movies. Sue was shacking with him when I met her. One day shortly after the marriage, Barr and I got into it, a real slugfest. He was a lot younger and before the movies he’d been a professional prizefighter. He put me in the hospital. Made all the papers. Hedda wouldn’t let the story die; embarrassing. I was shooting a high-toned weeper at the time. MGM had to close down the set for almost two weeks while I recuperated. The guy never worked a day in Hollywood after that.”

“Where is John Barr now?” I asked.

“In San Quentin. He murdered his wife.”

Sunday morning I rattled aroundinside the apartment doing nothing, really. Reading the Times , I came across an article about the Grateful Dead concert at the Winterland Arena in San Francisco. What’s the story with these guys, anyway? Their stuff isn’t worth a damn. I guess I’m stuck in the sixties, the greatest music decade-ever. I popped a Beatles tape in my stereo, listened for a while, then put in Otis Redding and played his hit single, “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” a few times. I sat back and took a sip of coffee. Yeah, that’s cool. The guy had soul. Maybe he invented it. Sad-he died in a plane crash three days after recording the song.

I debated organizing my sock drawer, but instead turned on the TV. The L.A. Rams were hosting San Francisco. Should be a good game. It was a sellout, so the local station carried it live. I settled back with chips, dip, and a few cold cans of Coke and spent the next three hours watching the game. With their new quarterback, James Harris, the Rams beat the crap out of the 49ers. I’d grilled a couple of hot dogs during halftime and while I ate I talked to the chair, reflecting on my marriage.

In my past life, I had been known to take a drink on occasion-and everything was an occasion. I’d have a few in the morning to make it through the day, and a few during the day to get ready for the night, then at night… Yeah, I drank all the time and I drank a lot.

It started when I was patrol cop on the LAPD. Maybe it was the job, maybe it was me, or maybe I was just a drunk at heart. But anyway, I got hooked. Gin, vodka, cheap whisky, expensive French wines… I didn’t care; I’d guzzle it down, wipe my mouth and ask for more.

When it came to the bottle, my wife, and me-well, let’s just say not all stories have a happy ending.

Barbara and I had wed just out of high school and the marriage had been rocky from the start-too young, too many bills, and too little common sense, I guess. But the boozing was the worst of it. You can’t hold on to a marriage while hobbling around on eighty-six proof anesthetic crutches.

After she divorced me, my friends-the few that remained anyway-got on my case. One by one, they soon disappeared. Sol stuck by me, and he was relentless, determined to get me sober. He never gave up and he never let up. There were times when he came at me like a runaway freight train, screaming and threatening. Other times he’d just sit and talk calmly, sometimes for hours, using reason and logic. Not once did he put our friendship on the line and I loved him for that. One time, after a particularly ugly scene at Rocco’s, he threatened to take me out back to the parking lot and introduce me to someone I really didn’t want to meet. I didn’t remember how I got home that night. For all I know I crawled on my hands and knees.

He kept pounding on me, inexorable, like he was fighting the devil himself. I knew he’d eventually win. I just hoped I’d still be alive when he did. It took a while but Sol finally wore down my resistance. The day I quit drinking forever I felt like a splayed catfish, gutted and broken. But it was strange, because at the same time it felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders.

To quote W.C. Fields, “When enough people tell you you’re drunk, sit down.” I sat down.

Monday morning when I walked in the office I handed Mabel the police report and told her about the “hit and run.” I asked her if she had taken care of the insurance premium. Her eyes went blank and she said, “Well, duh,” as she snatched the paper from my hand.

I was eager to tell Sol about the actor, John Barr. I felt he could deal with the authorities at San Quentin and arrange it so I could meet with him. Figuring Sol wouldn’t be in his office this early, I asked Mabel to phone Joyce, his secretary, to see if she could work up a report on Barr to give to Sol the moment he arrived.

After walking into my office, I dialed the Deputy DA’s number. “This is O’Brien. I’m returning Stephen Marshall’s call,” I said to his assistant when she answered.

Instantly he came on the line. “Okay, O’Brien, I’ll cut to the chase. We’re willing to deal on Roberts. Time served.”

“C’mon, Steve, quit jerking my chain.”

“I ain’t kidding, my friend. Your boy will go free and you owe me lunch.”

I sat up in my chair. “Is this for real?”

“Yep, straight from the top. Our exalted leader, Joe Rinehart, has strong connections with Governor Reagan. Rinehart convinced the governor to commute his sentence to time served, pursuant to a sincere admission of guilt by Roberts, of course. He’ll have to reaffirm his guilt, confess to killing the woman, without reservation. No fingers crossed behind his back. He’ll have to sign documents.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. If it were up to me the guy would rot. But your client will have to leave the state. And I mean the minute he hits the street. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and do not talk to the press. The county will buy him a one-way bus ticket, preferably to someplace far away.”

I was astonished; freedom for Roberts after twenty-nine years, after just being turned down by the parole board? Something wasn’t right.

“Why’s the DA so hot to set Roberts free?”

“What do you care?”

“I want to talk to Rinehart. Get the operator to switch me to his office.”

“Fat chance.” Marshall let out a sardonic chuckle, in essence saying I didn’t rate. A high-powered District Attorney like Joseph Rinehart would never discuss important affairs with a night-school lawyer like me. “What’s the matter with you, O’Brien? You won. Now hotfoot it out to Chino and let Roberts know he caught lightning in a bottle. I’ve already started the paperwork for Reagan to sign. Your client could be free in a few days. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“You have to keep all of this strictly on the QT until it’s a done deal. Reagan is going to announce his candidacy for president. He’ll be running in the ’76 Republican primary. There’s a lavish fundraiser bash being held Friday at the Beverly Wilshire. Big donors, a law and order crowd. After the event he’ll quietly sign the release forms. Remember if the news hits the media before he’s signs the papers, the deal’s off.”

“Any leaks won’t come from me. But when exactly will Roberts be released?” My hand started to shake as the realization that Marshall wasn’t joking swept over me. After twenty-nine years, my client was going to walk in the sun again, a free man.

“If all goes well, we could have everything wrapped up a week. They’ll cut him loose next Monday morning.”

“I’ll head out to Chino to give him the news in person this afternoon.”

“Okay, stop by my office on the way to meet your client. I’ll have the affidavits he’ll have to sign prepared, a document reaffirming his guilt, and a declaration of remorse. A correctional officer will witness the signing. After you see Roberts return the papers to me.”