Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

I glanced down at Robbie sitting there, consumed in prayer. But before I could respond, he jerked his head up, gawked at me for an instant, and with fury in his eyes rose from his chair.

“I’m guilty. I demand to be put to death at once!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The judge banged his gavel several times while Robbie continued to invoke the Lord’s help in his pursuit of the great beyond.

“Oh, Lord, show them the way. Tell them to strike me down like a rabid dog!”

The guard and the bailiff were at a loss, not sure of their next move. “Oh, Lord, take me now! Take my wretched soul.” Robbie was on a roll, screaming hysterically, his arms flailing about. “Cast me into Hell. I have sinned.”

What in hell is he doing? He’s going to screw everything up.

Webster sat down. He stretched his arm across the back of the chair next to him, an amused spectator at a full-blown revival.

Bang! The gavel hit wood. “O’Brien, control your client, or I’ll have him removed!”

I turned to Robbie, who was now hopping up and down on one foot. I firmly placed both of my hands on his shoulders.

“Calm down, son,” I said.

Although I had attended Catholic schools as a youth, I’d never been much of a believer in anything religious, but I felt this might be the perfect time for a prayer of some sort, a prayer Robbie could comprehend. I squeezed hard on the soft tissue and ligaments adjacent to his shoulders and spun him around until we were face to face.

“Look at me, Robbie, look into my eyes.”

He brought his head up. His eyes were fiery, blazing with intense loathing, like those of a wild beast captured in a horrible trap.

I shifted my gaze to the heavens. “Oh, Lord, calm thy servant, Robbie.” I chanted in a deep full voice, giving Robbie my best impression of an old school revivalist.

“I killed the heathen. I have to die…” Robbie whimpered. My prayer seemed to be working. He was running out of steam.

I continued. “Tell thy servant, Robbie, that he’ll be joining you soon enough, but also tell him that Jimmy O’Brien is going to take care of things for a while. And tell him to shut up, so I can get this hearing over with.”

Robbie had a perplexed look on his face. He studied me, searching for some meaning to my words, or perhaps waiting for further instructions from above.

Judge Tobias banged the gavel once more. “This isn’t a church, goddammit. This is a court of law. No praying allowed.”

I didn’t mention to His Honor that more prayers, fervent prayers of a heartfelt nature, were probably uttered in the criminal courts of our land than in any church ever erected. I doubted it would shed any light on the current proceedings.

“Bailiff, remove the prisoner.” He banged the gavel again.

The judge could not rule on Webster’s motion until Robbie agreed to the deal, but if Tobias had him removed from the court before he ruled, then I’d have to come down here sometime in the future and go through the process all over again from the top.

At the very least, I’d have to fight the traffic and pony up another five bucks to park. But, worse, who knew what could happen in the meantime. Webster could change his mind about accepting my insanity defense, and Robbie would most likely spend the rest of his life buried in a cell at San Quentin.

I faced the bench. “Judge, please give me a moment. Let me confer with my client.” I loosened my grip on Robbie’s shoulders, and he started hopping up and down again, but not as high as before. “I’m sure I’ll be able to calm him down so we can get on with this.”

“I have a dozen arraignments lined up, and that’s just the morning session. I can’t waste any more time on this nonsense.”

“Judge, give me a few minutes. Let me talk to my client.” I dug my fingers into Robbie’s shoulders, hard. He stopped hopping. “You can move on to the next case while I explain to him what this is all about.” I was practically begging. “He’ll listen to me, Your Honor, I promise.”

The judge sighed. “All right, O’Brien, you got ten minutes. Not one second more. If you can’t get him under control, we’re postponing until he’s fit.” He turned to the deputy sheriff. “Guard, stay with O’Brien and the defendant. I’m leaving the bench. Court’s in recess for ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I said to the judge’s fleeing back as he hurried to his chambers door. He probably had to take a leak. If it weren’t for the judge’s weak bladder, Robbie would do life.

Webster, the court reporter, and the bailiff all scurried out of the courtroom, bolting for the snack bar, I assumed.

I leaned into Robbie and whispered in his ear. “Now, shut your goddamn mouth, and quit jumping around, or I bust your chops. Understand?”

He nodded his head, slightly.

I motioned for Robbie to sit down, grabbed my briefcase, and plopped it on the table.

He fell quiet and sat hunched over, rocking back and forth, mumbling a little. I wondered if, when the proceedings began again, he’d start acting like a baboon.

“Stand up, buddy,” the guard said, hovering over Robbie, reaching behind his back for handcuffs kept in a pouch hooked to his Sam Browne belt.

“Give me a minute, deputy. He’s okay now.”

I considered the possibility that all the uniforms, chains, and guns might be spooking Robbie. I believed I might be able to get through his mental barricade if it were just him and me, one on one. Prior to becoming a lawyer, I was a cop, LAPD. At times, I had to use my finely honed skill at negotiation to worm my way out of a jam or two.

“No way. When court’s not in session, he’s got to be hooked up. Rules.”

“Look at him, he’s harmless.”

“Yeah, sure, they all are. Squeaky Fromme, one of Charlie Manson’s girls, is up there.” He gestured in the direction of the courthouse cellblock, one story above us. “She’s in our lockup waiting for her appearance down the hall, playing gin with one of the female deputies, calm and cool as can be.”

Robbie slowly got to his feet. The deputy turned to grab his arm. Robbie leapt at him. In a blur, he grabbed the deputy’s service revolver and yanked it out of the holster. He whipped the gun furiously across the deputy’s face. Blood erupted. The guy went down.

Before I could react, Robbie jammed the gun barrel tightly up against his right temple and started backing slowly through the bar gate. He moved steadily toward the courtroom door.

“Don’t come near me. I’m leaving. I’m going to meet the Lord!” he screamed.

“Robbie, don’t!”

I glanced down at the deputy. He stirred. I made a move toward Robbie.

He leveled the gun at me, waving it erratically. “Stop, heathen!”

I stopped in my tracks. The word ‘heathen’ sent a jolt up my spine. I knew what happened to the last guy he thought was a heathen.

Robbie inched backward, one cautious step after another, the gun dangling from his unsteady hand. “Oh, Lord, forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Fear blanketed his face.

He kept moving, his eyes wide and fixed on me in a cold stare. The scraping sound his feet made as he slowly shuffled away grated my nerves like fingernails raking a blackboard. If I stood stark still, maybe Robbie wouldn’t shoot me. But if he got away, the judge would kill me for sure.

While I stood there helplessly, Robbie disappeared through the doorway.

I stared at the deputy lying on the floor. He managed to hunch up to his hands and knees. Turning his head, he tossed me a scornful look. “You’d better get that son-of-a-bitch back here, O’Brien. It’s your ass. I’m not going down for this.” He swiped his hand across his cheek and looked at the blood. “Go! Damn it.”