Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

Later in the day I called Sol and told him about Reagan signing the release documents. As I suspected, he already knew about it. He always knows what is going on in the halls of justice. It’s part of his business. Clients pay him a lot of money to get the inside track on the workings of government. Sol had a loose network of informants everywhere. He called them his spies. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory. So it was no surprise that he knew about Reagan signing the papers before I did.

Monday morning, I took extra care dressing, shined my shoes and even wore a tie. After twenty-nine years in prison, I’d be the first person on the outside that Roberts would see at the moment of his freedom. I felt the occasion deserved some respect.

I took a couple of one hundred dollar bills from my now depleted household stash and folded them into my pocket. The finance company holding my car’s pink slip would have to wait a little longer than usual.

Just before heading out the door, I called my office. “Any new clients, Mabel?”

“Well, yes, but it’s no big deal. Two neighbors squabbling. One of them has a black eye, wants to press charges. Rita’s handling it. Fifty bucks, tops.”

“Well, I guess we aren’t going belly up, after all.”

“Don’t get cute.”

I told Mabel I’d be gone for several hours. But if anyone called for me, I’d be in the office sometime after the lunch.

“Before you hang up there’s something I have to say…”

That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter, Mabel?”

“It’s Rita…”

“What about Rita?’

“She came in this morning toting a portable stereo player. She said the office needed a little background music-you know, like the big firms.”

“So?”

“Well, damn it. She only has one record, ‘Dream,’ by Frank Sinatra. She’s been playing it continuously all morning. I’m about to go batty!”

“Goodbye, Mabel.”

Notwithstanding the traffic on the 605 Freeway, I arrived at Chino with time to spare. This was the one day I couldn’t be late, so I left my apartment thirty minutes earlier than I normally would have when driving to prison. The guards were friendly and told me Roberts was being processed through right now and would be out shortly.

I waited by my car as instructed, and in about ten minutes Roberts walked through the sallyport carrying a battered suitcase. His clothes hung on him like the hide of a starving cow. Whoever picked out his wardrobe had a taste for the macabre. If he had a black cape he’d look like Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. Christ.

“He saw me and waved. “Howzit goin’, Jimmy?” Like we just bumped into each other at the supermarket.

“You look great, Al.”

“Yeah, terrific. It’s these fancy duds. They must’ve swiped them from some wino on Main Street. Some bum is running around buck naked this morning,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

I stowed his suitcase and we climbed in the car. In the 1968 ’Vette you had to work it around the seat to fit the luggage in place.

“I wish there were time for a getting-out-of-jail party, Al, but we only have an hour and a half to get you to the bus station.”

“This machine looks like it’ll get us there in time. What the hell do they call this contraption, anyway?”

“It’s a Corvette. They started making them in ’54. This one’s six years old.” I cranked the engine to life. “But it’ll get us there in time if I push it.”

On the drive to the Greyhound Terminal in downtown L.A., we talked mostly about the various changes that had occurred since 1945. He didn’t seem excited about jet passenger planes, but he was pissed about the Dodgers moving to L.A. and the Giants to San Francisco. I didn’t want to bring up the high cost of living these days.

We didn’t talk about his time in prison, or the circumstances that put him there. The case was closed. Roberts had his freedom. As curious as I was about a few of the facts that Sol and I had unearthed, why dredge up the past now? Discussing it would just make him more uncomfortable.

I still wondered about Sue. But whenever I’d mentioned her name before he turned stone cold. Why? I glanced to my right. Roberts stared straight ahead, a sad, silent, vacant stare. I wanted him to fill in the blanks. But I didn’t dare bring up her name.

Maybe he got a look at the 1945 movie magazine Mrs. Hathaway had found in the motel room where Vera had been murdered, the one with the photo of Sue Harvey and Francis Q. Jerome dining together at Ciro’s. That would’ve put him over the edge for sure. Hitchhiking all the way from New York to be with his fiancee, then finding out she was engaged to a movie actor. Of course, why didn’t I see it before? That could be the reason he clammed up whenever I brought up the subject. I thought for a moment about what must’ve gone through his mind when he saw that photo. And suddenly I felt like a fool. She had nothing to do with Roberts being arrested and sent to prison. I should have never mentioned it.

I pulled into the parking area of the new Greyhound terminal located on Seventh Street at eleven-ten, fifteen minutes to spare. The bus company recently moved into the new building from the old terminal at Sixth and Main Street, which back in the early fifties Greyhound had shared with the now defunct Pacific Electric Railway, Southern California’s rapid transit system.

A consortium made up of Standard Oil, General Motors, and Firestone Tire bought the electrical rail company in 1953, promising to improve the service. Instead, they tore out the tracks and dumped the Big Red Cars in the ocean halfway to Catalina. Now, miles of freeways crisscrossed the basin and Los Angeles had choked under a blanket of smog ever since.

We climbed out of the ’Vette. Roberts untangled his luggage from behind the seat and we stood looking at each other, not knowing exactly what to say.

Al seemed downhearted, but his attitude was to be expected. I wasn’t able to deliver what he really wanted: exoneration. But that wasn’t all of it. He hadn’t felt the effects of having his freedom yet, and he had serious doubts about the future. Anyone would. After being institutionalized for half his life it would take years, perhaps decades, before he could respond to his surroundings in what one would consider a normal manner.

“How long is the bus ride, Al?” I asked, making small talk.

He studied the ticket that I’d handed him earlier. “Almost three days. No big deal. There were times inside when I sat on the edge of my bunk and just stared at the wall for months on end. Only got up to eat and take a shit…” He looked at the sky. “Aw, screw that.”

We shook hands. “If there’s anything I can do for you, give me a buzz.” I doubted I could help him adjust to a new life, but somehow I knew he’d never call.

“Thanks Jimmy. I mean it. I owe you, man. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

“Yeah, take care, Al.”

He started to walk toward the terminal entrance.

“Hey, wait up,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the small stake I’d promised to give Roberts to help him get a start. “Got something for you. It’s not much-”

He turned back to face me and saw the bills in my outstretched hand.

“Put it away, Jimmy. They gave me the money I earned while working at the prison. Even at ten cents an hour, after twenty-nine years it adds up. I’ll be okay, but thanks again.”

He walked the few short steps into the building and took one giant stride out of a life of misery.

I hoped.

I got back in thecar and pulled onto 7 thStreet. At the next light I glanced at the gas gauge-running on fumes. I shuddered a little thinking of what it would have meant if I’d run out of gas while driving Roberts to the Greyhound Terminal. I wheeled into a Richfield station, and while the attendants filled the tank and washed the windows, I made my way to a payphone booth.