Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

Had Mrs. Hathaway actually filed her lawsuit, it would’ve been denied. Her claim didn’t hold water. No way would the county be held liable for damages to a citizen’s property caused by a crime committed on the premises. The county didn’t use private attorneys to handle their litigation, yet someone had hired Jerry Giesler to settle with Mrs. Hathaway. Someone who had wanted the case to vanish quietly without leaving a paper trail. But who?

I knew all about Giesler-a half-bald, paunchy guy in a pinstriped three-piece suit with a permanent question mark chiseled on his face.

When he died in 1962 I remembered reading his obit in the Times . The article highlighted his celebrated career defending movie stars such as Robert Mitchum, arrested for possession of marijuana; Errol Flynn, for a couple of statutory rapes; and when Marilyn Monroe divorced Joe DiMaggio she asked Giesler to deal with the messy particulars.

It wasn’t just actors and celebrities who retained Giesler. Over the years he also handled the legal affairs for a number of producers, moguls, and politicians.

In 1939, he even won an acquittal for Bugsy Siegel, the rakish racketeer. Siegel had been arrested and charged with murder after carrying out a hit contract on fellow gangster, Big Greenie Greenberg.

There was one thing Giesler couldn’t fix for Bugsy, though. The murder charge had cost Siegel his membership in the Hillcrest Country Club. Can’t have mad-dog killers with clubs in their hands running amuck on their pristine fairways. Unsavory.

But there was one Giesler case in particular that pounded in the recesses of my mind. Maybe it piqued my interest because it had to do the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office.

In the thirties and early forties, corruption reigned unabated within the hierarchy of the municipal government of Los Angeles. Even the county justice system was tainted. Buron Fitts, the DA at the time, had been indicted for perjury and bribery, accused of taking a bribe to squash a notorious rape charge filed against a millionaire businessman.

At Fitts’ much ballyhooed trial, Jerry Giesler had used the improbable defense of temporary insanity. The DA was acquitted and stayed in office until 1940, when he lost his bid for re-election to Frank Byron, running on a reform platform.

I wondered if Byron-the man who’d persuaded Roberts to plead guilty in 1945 by concealing evidence from him-had been troubled by the same affliction that had plagued his immediate predecessor and somewhere along the line had picked up a dose of temporary insanity, as well. Maybe Byron figured reform was an idea too heavy to tote around the Criminal Courts Building all day.

I also wondered, when Mrs. Hathaway started rattling cages, if it was Frank Byron who shouted, “Get me Giesler.”

But now almost thirty years later, the current District Attorney, Joe Rinehart, was offering to cut Roberts loose on the condition of his silence. I wondered about that, too.

The continuous stream of newsand rumor filtering through the prison grapevine system had alerted the authorities and correctional officers that something unusual was going down-a gubernatorial pardon. The guards treated me with more respect now that I seemingly had the backing of Ronald Reagan in my hip pocket. This time the meeting with my client took place in a carpeted conference room located in the administration building, which was used primarily for visits from CDC staff officials. Al Roberts was not chained or cuffed, but a correctional officer remained in the room with us. When needed, he’d witness the signing of the affidavits. In the meantime, he stood quietly in the far corner.

Roberts and I sat across from each other at a large conference table in the center of the room. I explained the details of the District Attorney’s offer. As I walked him though the litany of the deal-the unequivocal admission of guilt and remorse, the demand of public silence on his part and the caveat that he leave the state immediately upon release-he exhibited no reaction whatsoever. He just stared at his hands, folded tightly on the table.

After I finished highlighting the details, I paused for a moment and waited for him to respond. When he just sat there, I said, “You don’t seem too excited about the news of your release, Al. Figured you’d be bouncing off the walls.”

“Who’s going to pay me?”

“Pay you? Pay you for what?”

“The twenty-nine goddamn years I spent in these goddamn prisons. They knew I was innocent when they locked me up.”

“Al, you pleaded guilty back then. No one’s going to pay you. Jesus Christ Almighty, they’re willing to let you walk. Don’t be a fool. Take the offer!”

He jumped to his feet. “I’m innocent, goddamn it! And I want you to sue the bastards. I want them to pay. And I want to see it in all the papers. I want everyone to know that they fucked up. That I’m no murderer!”

“Sit down, Roberts. And let me finish.”

He sat and glared at me.

“Look, part of the deal is for you to keep your mouth shut. They want you to get out of Dodge, pronto.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe they did screw up back then. But now they want to bury this thing. No publicity. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Didn’t you tell me before, right after the parole hearing that you were going to get my conviction overturned?”

“I said I was going to try to get you a new trial. But, damn it, that was a tremendous long shot.”

“Were you stroking me?”

“C’mon, man, I’m here to help you. I’m not getting rich with this case and now you’re on my ass. I don’t know if I like your attitude, my friend.”

He looked at his hands again, kneading his interlaced fingers. “I’m sorry. I know how you’re doing everything you can to get me outta here, and for no dough.” He glanced up, his face twisted in agony. “Chrissakes, Jimmy, I’ve been in this hell-hole since 1945. Locked up for something I didn’t do. That’s bad, but a lot of innocent guys get sent up. The system makes mistakes. That’s the breaks. But goddamn it, I was railroaded. You said so yourself. You told me that rat-bastard Byron knew all along that I didn’t kill Haskell. I see that son-of-a-bitch’s smirking face every night when I go to sleep.”

“You’re in here because of Vera. You admitted committing the murder-”

“Because Byron lied to me! Said I’d get the DP in Arizona. I swear I didn’t kill her.”

We both stopped talking and sat there staring at each other. I felt his pain. I knew now for sure that he didn’t kill Vera. And with all that had happened lately, I knew there was a cover-up in progress, and I knew that it had been going on for nearly thirty years.

Someone out there knew Al Roberts was innocent, and therefore knew who had murdered Vera-and why she’d been killed. But my job wasn’t solving crimes. My job was to do the best I could for the poor guy who sat across from me. My job was to get him out of prison. No one could give him back his twenty-nine years.

“Okay, Al, what do you want me to do?” I asked.

He didn’t more a muscle, but his eyes twitched at the edges.

I pressed: “You want me to tell them no dice? Tell them to stick it, tell them you’d rather rot in here for the rest of your life?”

“Back in ’45, they picked me up just outside of Reno. I was walking at the edge of the road with thirty-five cents in my pocket. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.” He bit his lip, his eyes shifting around the room. “What’ll I do now on the outside, a sixty-year-old convicted murderer?”

“I dunno. Anything would be better than staying here. You play the piano. Maybe you could go back to New York, get a job at a cocktail lounge. They have sing-along piano bars now. It’s all the rage. I can chip in a couple hundred to help get you started,” I said, not knowing exactly where I’d get the money. “But it’s up to you now. What’ll I tell the DA about the offer?”