Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“I want out.”

“You’ll go along with the deal?”

“Yeah.”

I reached across the table and grabbed his arm. “For what it’s worth, Al, I know you’re innocent.”

“Thanks, pal. That helps. It really does. There’s no one else.”

Nodding to the guard standing in the corner, I slid the papers the DA’s office had prepared across the table. The officer handed Roberts a pen. He signed in the appropriate place and the guard signed as a witness.

I tucked the papers in my jacket pocket. “They’re buying you a one-way bus ticket. Got to tell them the destination. Where do you want to go?”

“The only place I belong.”

“Where’s that?”

“Loserville.”

“I’ll tell them New York City.”

“Why there?”

“You were born in New York. Easier to find a job in a town where you grew up.”

“I don’t suppose the Break O’ Dawn Club is still in business,” Roberts said.

I had Mabel check on the outside chance they might be willing to hire him back. From old phone books at the library, she’d discovered that the nightclub had been on the Upper West Side, close to 73 rdand Riverside Drive. She checked the cross directory at the library and found the phone number of the location. The club closed for a while years ago when the owner died. New owners opened it again, changed the name, and decided to keep up with the times.

“No, afraid not, Al. The place is now a disco joint.”

“What’s that?”

“They play records, have go-go dancers jumping around.”

“Lot of changes on the outside, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Go-go dancers, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I better stay here.”

“I’ll pick you up outside the gates next Monday morning. I’ll have the bus ticket.”

I thought about the problems the case has caused me: the mystery woman and the beating I took from the thugs in the Buick, the trouble I got into because I mouthed off at the hearing, not to mention how much I’d imposed on Sol. Now it was over.

Of course, I’d still wonder who had actually killed Vera and why someone, after all these years went to all the trouble to cover it up. Maybe someday the truth will come out. But I did my job; my client will finally be free. Oh, I’d think about Roberts, and reflect on the injustice he suffered, for a long time. It’d be like an itch I couldn’t scratch, but I’m not a crusader, a man set out to make the world free of crime and corruption. I’m just a struggling lawyer trying to make a living. Leave the hero stuff to the martyrs and saints. But aren’t they all dead?

We both remained quiet for a moment. Roberts glanced at the clock on the wall behind him and started to climb out of his chair. Even though he’d soon be a free man, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He’d be alone in the world, out in the cold without money, prospects, or anyone to share his troubles. It would be daunting.

Twenty-nine years ago he thumbed rides all the way from New York to Hollywood just to be with his fiancee, Sue Harvey. He never made it. When Haskell stopped to pick him up on that deserted highway somewhere in Arizona, fate had intervened, his life took a wrong turn and rushed head first toward the finish line, a dead end.

But maybe Sue was still alive. Maybe Francis Q. Jerome didn’t have his facts straight. Maybe Barr hadn’t murdered her as Jerome had said. Barr went to prison for shooting his wife, not Sue.

I figured I could spend a little more time with the case if it would help Roberts. It wouldn’t be hard to check. If Sue were dead there’d be a record in the county files. But if she were still alive maybe he could complete the trip he’d started so many years ago.

We stood and faced each other, ready to shake hands and say goodbye. “It’ll be tough being alone out there,” I said.

“I’ll survive.”

“You want me to try to locate Sue Harvey?” I asked. “She might still be around. I could let you know.”

The color drained from his face. He turned away and motioned to the guard. With his shoulders rounded, he inched slowly toward the exit.

While the guard unlocked the door, Roberts turned back. “Jimmy, I asked you to leave her out of it. Please do as I ask.” He left the room.

For the next two days,Rita and I worked at the office, cleaning up the few cases remaining. Mayor DiLoreto dropped all charges against Crazy Charlie, when we convinced Charlie to get rid of the ratty house trailer on his lawn and move back in with his wife, Tillie.

“It’d be better than going to jail,” Rita had said.

“You don’t know my wife,” he answered.

But when Tillie came to the office with a fresh baked apple pie, he relented. We all shared a piece. I figured-after taking one bite-if Charlie wasn’t going to move back in with her, maybe I would.

Kelley cleaned up his bounced checks when his father-in-law ponied up the money. The bank backed off, and the judge gave Kelley a stern finger wagging. Geoff, Rita’s hopeless drunk, was still on Antabuse. So it’d be a while before he’d need our services again.

Wednesday, along about mid-morning, I sat with my feet on the desk, twiddling my thumbs, listening to the phone not ring. Rita busied herself reorganizing the files. Mabel tailed after her putting things back the way they were.

Finally, at 11:30, Mabel called for a meeting with all three of us present to be held promptly in my office.

“Jimmy, Rita,” she stated. “With no money coming in and no clients beating down the door, we’re not going to make it. I suggest you two get out there and schmooze with the locals. Join the Rotary or something, goddamn it.”

“Aw, Mabel, we’re criminal lawyers. Our type of clients wouldn’t be caught dead at a Rotary or an Elks meeting. The only crooks that join those clubs are bankers. And they steal enough money to hire the big white-shoe law firms.”

“No, Jimmy, Mabel’s right,” Rita said. “We should get out and about more. Get our name out there. How long has it been since you attended a bar association luncheon?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s been about-”

“How about, never?” Mabel interrupted.

“C’mon, Jimmy, grab your coat. The Southeast District Bar Association luncheon is being held today at the Regency. Our dues are current. So let’s go.”

“Aw, Rita.”

“Get your butt out of the chair and go with Rita to the luncheon, or I quit!” Mabel had a subtle but convincing manner about her.

We didn’t know until we arrived at the Regency Restaurant on Firestone Blvd. that the scheduled speaker at the luncheon that day was Vincent Bugliosi.

Rita and I took seats at a table located in the back of the banquet room. A couple of lawyers we knew from around town nodded politely when they saw us sitting there. After the meal, a chicken breast with some kind of stuffing, Bugliosi got up to speak.

Ex-L.A. County Deputy DA Bugliosi had made headlines back in 1970 when he prosecuted the heinous serial killer, Charles Manson.

Along with his ragtag gang of young misfits known as the Family, Manson had murdered a number of people in the L.A. area in the summer of 1969. The most notable victim of their bloody rampage had been Sharon Tate, the beautiful actress and wife of director, Roman Polanski. She had been slaughtered along with four of her friends while partying at her home in the hills above Bel Air. She was eight months pregnant when she died. Polanski had been in Europe on location at the time of the murders.

In 1972, Bugliosi had run against the incumbent, Joe Rinehart, for the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney. He’d lost after a long and bitter campaign fight. Bugliosi’s non-fiction book about the Manson Family, Helter Skelter , had just been released and he was making the rounds.