Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“About four in the afternoon,” I said in a firm tone.

“Hold on a sec,” Butch said, coming to attention and thumbing his interrogation pad.

“Four o’clock,” I said again, louder.

“Here it is!” Butch beamed and proudly announced. “Four p.m., said he was there until four, Joe. But, hey, are we gonna take his word for it?”

Hammer turned back to me. “The call came in at 5:17. Some guy walking his dog went by her trailer. The door was open and he could see the old lady dead in her chair. Called the local law enforcement. The officers at the scene found your card on the floor by the body. They called us and here we are. Now, you’re admitting you were there. That means you, O’Brien.” He made a symbolic gun out of his fist and forefinger, cocked his thumb, and shot me with it. “You were the last person to see her alive.”

“Objection!”

All eyes in the room turned to Rita, who sat calmly with her right arm partially raised.

“The killer or killers unknown, perhaps the supposed dog walker, was the last person or persons to see the decedent alive.” She stood. “Now, gentlemen, you have my client’s statement and nothing more can be gained by further discussion of this tragic affair. So, we will be leaving now.” Rita tapped me on the shoulder. “C’mon, Jimmy, let’s go.”

“Hold up a minute,” Sergeant Hammer shouted. “Little lady, he’s not going anywhere until I say he can go.”

Rita darted around the table, charged into Hammer’s space, and all five-foot four and one-hundred twelve pounds of her reached up and jabbed her finger into the stomach of the two-fifty pound pile of ugly muscle.

“You hold on, big guy,” she said. “You either charge my client and book him right now, or we’re outta here, understand?”

“Hey, back off, sweetheart.” Hammer looked down at Rita’s tiny finger poking his belly.

“You back off, sugar buns. And listen up. You can address me as counselor, Ms., or hey you, but not sweetheart,” Rita said. “Show some class.”

She cast a quick glance in my direction, winked, then turned back to Hammer. “We’re leaving now. Have a nice evening.”

As we strolled down the hall outside the interrogation room toward the exit, I heard Hammer’s voice booming somewhere behind us: “Hey, O’Brien, don’t leave town.”

Rita glanced over her shoulder and tossed out an insolent “Ha.”

We continued walking.

It was quiet on the Santa Ana Freeway as we drove back to Downey. I glanced at Rita in the driver’s seat of the cramped little Datsun. Her skirt had slipped up to mid-thigh, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed before how lovely her legs were.

She turned my way and gave me a nice smile.

“Sugar buns, Rita? You called that hairy ape sugar buns,” I said, and she laughed.

Then we both fell silent again, wondering why anyone would want to kill a washed-out alcoholic like Hazel Farris.

At precisely 9:30 a.m., Judge Abraham J. Tobias marched in, ascended three steps, adjusted his robes, and plopped his ample backside into the seat of the black, high-back chair. He wiggled a little, getting comfortable on his throne, and with the unmistakable gleam of self-importance, he gazed out at the people gathered there. Harrumphing, he glared at us as if we were his subjects ready to do his bidding.

We were assembled in Judge Abe Tobias’s courtroom, Arraignments, Division 6 C, on the third floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. The Deputy D.A. Steve Webster and I were all set to act out our prearranged roles.

I sat at the defense table with Robbie. He wasn’t cuffed, but he still wore the jailhouse jumpsuit. There was no need for street clothes at this point. This proceeding would be held in front of Tobias without a jury present and the prisoner garb wouldn’t prejudice the judge regarding my client’s guilt or innocence. We all knew that.

Webster sat alone at the prosecutor’s table on the right side of the courtroom. His hand scribbled notes on a yellow tablet. He had to be working on one of his other cases; our deal was cut, chiseled in stone. The court reporter, a young and attractive woman in a loose white blouse, sat at her small table in front of the bench. Her fingers, forming claws were fixed above the keyboard of the gizmo in front of her, poised to transcribe our pearls of wisdom, fresh and pure, as they rolled glibly off our tongues.

The bailiff and a deputy sheriff stood close behind Robbie, guarding their prisoner.

Today would be routine. I would ask for a continuance of the arraignment until a psychiatrist had a chance to examine Robbie. Steve Webster would make a verbal motion not to set a trial date until the psychiatrist provided the court with his evaluation. Earlier, I had met Webster in the snack bar downstairs in the lobby, where he handed me a list of psychiatrists who would be acceptable to the people. I was to choose one and get back to him within a day or two.

At this morning’s arraignment, the judge would agree to our plan, and the whole affair would be over in a matter of minutes. Even with the hour drive back to Downey, I’d be out of here and back in my office in plenty of time to interview a new client Mabel had scheduled for eleven.

And after listening to the new guy’s woes-something about his troubles with a bank he tried to stiff-I’d still have time to catch up on a little paperwork before I headed out for a leisurely lunch with my best friend, Sol Silverman. Yeah, today’s arraignment was going to be a snap.

When I broke the news to Robbie about his mother’s murder, he had little response, just mumbled something about eternal damnation and continued with his praying. The only time he seemed to come out of his prayer-induced spell was when he asked if he could speak with the pastor of his mother’s church. I knew that neither Robbie nor his mother had any assets, cash or otherwise, and I assumed he wanted to ask the pastor to say a few words on his mother’s behalf at the funeral, which the county would provide. I told him I would arrange the meeting, or at the least a telephone conversation. Robbie told me the guy’s name, Reverend Elroy Snavley, and we moved on to the next order of business. I explained the arraignment procedure by rote while he slipped back into his prayer mode, not listening to a word I said.

“Docket number 73-4654, the People of the State of California versus Robbie Farris, Section 187, Penal Code, murder in the first degree lying in wait.” The clerk called our case. The lying in wait kicker was an afterthought that bounced my client’s crime from second to first degree. They say he was lurking in the dark, waiting. It was nighttime; where else could he lurk, for chrissakes? But it didn’t matter. It was moot. My plan was in high gear, and I’d be out of here in a matter of minutes.

Webster and I stood. Robbie remained seated, his hands folded on the table in front of him, his gaze directed at the ceiling, his lips going a mile a minute in silent prayer.

“O’Brien for the defense, Your Honor,” I said, adjusting my tie.

“What’s wrong with your client? He crippled or something? Can’t stand up?”

“No, Your Honor, he’s insane, and I’d like…”

“Objection, Judge.” Webster jumped in. “That has not been determined yet. We don’t know if he’s sane or not. But, the people will agree to postpone the arraignment until the defendant has been examined by a duly certified psychiatrist.”

Judge Tobias held his hands out in front of him. “Say no more, counselor. I get the point.” Tobias looked down at his desk, filched a gold pen from its holder, and started jotting on a form of some kind. Without looking up he said, “Does your client agree to the postponement of the plea, O’Brien?”