Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

The man sitting behind the desk came around to greet me. He had a slender build, thinning hair, and a wide smile. Probably in his late forties, he spoke in a voice tinged with authority.

“Don’t give it a thought, O’Brien. Everyone’s late. The parking… what can I say? Anyway, the name’s Don Clinton. My sister and I own the place.” He nodded toward Sol and Bugliosi. “I think you already know these men.”

We all shook hands, and I took a seat in the armchair on the other side of the desk.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? Maybe a little strawberry Jello to go with it?” Don asked. “We serve the stuff by the ton.” He chuckled.

“No, thanks. I had my coffee this morning.” I didn’t mention that I hated strawberry Jello.

“We were just talking about you. They say you’re working on a case that involved Frank Byron, the DA back in the early forties. Tell me about it.”

Bugliosi stood. “Let me jump in here, Don. I want to give Sol and Jimmy a little background, just a few highlights about your father, Clifford. Then everyone will know why we’re having the meeting here at the cafeteria.”

“Good idea,” Sol said.

“Don’s father, Clifford Clinton-the founder of Clifton’s-was one of the good guys. Back in the forties, Los Angeles was as corrupt as they come. A political machine controlled by hoodlums ran everything, right down to dogcatcher. Clifford decided to do something about it. So he and a few other good citizens started a reform movement, a committee to clean up the government. They did their own investigations, made a lot of noise and started to expose the bad guys. It wasn’t easy. Strong-arm thugs tried to stop the reformers. This cafeteria was smoke-bombed several times. Clifford received anonymous threats on his life almost daily, but he kept right on with his crusade.”

“The press kept quiet about the corruption? No editorials, nothing?” Sol asked.

“Not a thing, Sol. The L.A. Times went along with the status quo. Isn’t that right, Don?”

“Yes. Dad and the others even started backing candidates for public office, straightshooters that they could trust. He gave them the money and the clout that they needed to win.”

“The movement started making headway,” Bugliosi added. “In the late thirties, the committee managed to get a few reform candidates elected. But the big one, the election that would count more than all the others, came up in 1940. The office of District Attorney was up for grabs when it became obvious that the incumbent DA, Fitts, was an out-and-out crook. Earlier he’d taken a bribe and was indicted. Even though he wasn’t convicted, the stink clung to him like black on coal. Perfect opportunity for the committee to back a reform candidate. Long story short, Frank Byron convinced the committee that he was the man they were looking for.”

Don nodded. “Dad thought Byron was too young, but the committee checked him out thoroughly. He came across as smart, clean-cut, without a hint of scandal. So Dad and the committee decided to back him to the hilt.”

“But he didn’t stay straight. Did he?” Sol asked.

“At first everything seemed okay. But after a while, things just didn’t add up.”

“Like what, Don?” I asked.

“Little things at first. For instance, Byron was seen being wined and dined at nightspots on Sunset-Ciro’s, Cafe Trocadero, Mocambo, places like that.” Don paused for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I mean, the committee didn’t expect him to be an altar boy, anything like that. But he seemed to be making friends with a lot of questionable characters. Then there were the rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?” Sol asked.

“Nothing that could be proven. But a number of big criminal cases never made it to court.” Don shook his head. “Especially cases involving gambling interests and crooked politicians.”

“How’d he get away with it?” I asked.

“Dad found out Byron had formed a secret goon squad while in office, a small group of investigators that reported only to him. My father wasn’t exactly sure what they did. But he figured Byron used the goons to intimidate possible witnesses. Maybe that’s why no one came forward with information about Byron’s activities.”

“All through the years Clifford kept files and notes relating to his investigations,” Bugliosi said. “There was a notation in one of the files about the goon squad. An unnamed informant came forward and gave him the names of the members. Guess whose name popped up.”

“Who?”

“Rinehart. He was a young lawyer back then, working for the DA’s office.”

“The DA worked for Byron in the forties?” Sol said. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, and here’s the grabber. Rinehart was the leader of the goon squad. Actually went out with his boys on the so-called raids.”

Sol stubbed out his cigar in an upright ashtray that stood next to the couch. “My God, Vince!” he said. “Why didn’t you bring this out during the campaign?”

“Couldn’t. There was no concrete proof. The other members were long gone. No one could verify that such a squad even existed, much less that Rinehart was the leader. I would’ve looked like a fool making allegations against Rinehart regarding something I couldn’t prove.”

“My dad said Byron was the biggest mistake of his life,” Don added. “He became obsessed with digging out the truth. Even after Byron left office in ’46, Dad kept pursuing his investigation. He worked on it until the day he died in 1947. He left his files to me, but I had a business to run. As far as I was concerned it was ancient history. Changes were starting to take place; the reform movement had done its job. Clean government was coming back.”

I began to wonder what this meeting was all about. How could any of this possibly be related to my case?

Sol must’ve been reading my mind. “Thanks for the history lesson,” he said. “But what does all of this have to do with Jimmy? How does it tie into his client, Al Roberts?”

Don remained silent for a moment then glanced at Bugliosi, who nodded. He reached in his desk drawer, pulled out a large manila envelope and handed it to Sol.

“Take it with you. You can study the contents later.”

Sol opened the envelope and thumbed through it. With his thumb and forefinger he slowly pulled out a glossy, black and white photo.

He looked up and said, “My God. Is this stuff for real?”

Sol and I thanked DonClinton and Vince Bugliosi for their help and left. We walked out the front door together, and Sol’s limo drove up to the curb immediately. He reached out to open the passenger door.

“Wait, Sol. What’s in the envelope?” I asked.

He looked up and down the sidewalk, then pulled a grainy photo of a group of heavyweights standing in a circle outside a restaurant at night. It was obvious from the clothes they wore-wide ties, big lapels, and fedora hats-that the picture had been taken back in the forties. “Let’s meet at my office,” Sol said. “We need to talk in private.”

“I’ll see you there in a half-hour.”

As soon as the limo pulled away I jogged south on Broadway, heading back to the parking lot. When I came to the Seventh St. intersection I waited for the light to change. When it turned green I started to walk across the street. Halfway through the intersection, someone rushed up behind me. Suddenly, I felt a hard object jammed in my ribcage.

A male voice whispered in my ear, “Don’t turn around. Just keep walking.”

My heart raced. “What the hell!”

He jammed the gun harder. “Keep walking, asshole.”

I made it to the other side of the street without turning around. But my eyes shifted from side to side. I didn’t see a soul. That old line flashed in my mind: There’s never a cop around when you need one…