Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

I turned back to the court building. The cops had the front doors closed, and the building was sealed off.

Late again! The arraignment shouldhave been history at around ten, and now over an hour later I was just getting on the freeway, rushing back to my office where my eleven o’clock client waited. The guy might think I’m not reliable. But hey, how was I to know Robbie would pull a trick and vanish like Harry Blackstone’s donkey?

I grappled with my mind as I drove, confused about the events swirling around me, and wondered how much deeper I was going to be sucked in. All the bits and pieces, rattling debris, churning in my brain had my mind in turmoil: Robbie, my crazy client-who might not be crazy-ranting and raving about the Lord; his dead mother in a trailer and the cops questioning me about her murder as if I were some kind of suspect; and now a judge who was going to be on my ass.

When Judge Tobias assigned the Robbie Farris case to me and I saw that Robbie was mentally deficient, I knew the only defense possible would be an insanity plea-but I also realized an insanity plea wouldn’t be easy. Only one percent of all criminal cases made use of the insanity defense, and it was practically impossible to win one without the D.A. concurring. I had Webster convinced, tentatively, to go along with me, but now I felt sure the deal was out the window.

I had to get to the office fast and find out just how upset the judge was. But, after mulling it over during the two hours it took to drive from the Spring Street underpass to the exit at Paramount Boulevard in Downey, a distance of fifteen miles, I concluded that Judge Tobias might not be upset with me after all. He’s an okay guy, and he’s known me for a while. He’ll understand.

Surely, he would realize it wasn’t my fault that Robbie got happy feet and took off. Nah, I wasn’t in trouble, but just to be on the safe side, I’d phone the judge when I got back to my office. I’d phone him as soon as I was finished with my eleven o’clock client and patiently explain the details of Robbie’s escape. Yeah, that’s it; I’d simply explain how, after running around the court building looking for Robbie, unfortunately without success, I ended up on Grand Avenue. I’d tell him how I tried to get back inside, but by then the cops had the building sealed off. I was sure he’d understand. I’d calmly tell the judge to call me when the police found Robbie, and I would gladly pick up the case where we left off.

I wheeled into the office lot, parked the Vette, and glanced at the clock in the dash as I slid out. One-thirty six. Christ, I had kept my client waiting over two and half hours.

Mabel gave me her usual uplifting, cheery greeting when I entered.

“Where in the hell have you been? Your client took off, and damn, we need to get some cash in here. The bills are stacking up.”

Mabel was in her middle years, her mid-earlies, as she always said. She wore too much makeup, her carrot-top hair needed a touchup every now and then, and she had about as much class as hot dogs at the opera. But I liked her. I liked her a lot, and she worked miracles every day just keeping our law firm up and running.

“What do you mean he took off?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell him I’d be here?”

“How long did you think he’d wait?”

“Didn’t you give him any coffee? I figured you’d give him some coffee.”

“That’s when he left, when he finished the coffee.”

“Jesus, Mabel, you should’ve given him some more.”

“We ran out. He drank three pots,” she said.

“The guy drank three pots of coffee?”

“Yeah, he was kind of wired when he left.”

“Call him again,” I said. “Tell him I can’t represent him unless he sticks around long enough for me to get the facts.” I shook my head. “What do these clients think? Can’t even wait a few minutes. Well, I guess that’s why they’re always in trouble, irresponsible,” I said as I walked in my office and closed the door.

I told Mabel to hold my calls. I wanted to relax for a little while. It was too late for lunch. Sol wouldn’t have waited; besides, this whole mess destroyed my appetite.

I slipped off my shoes, put my feet on the desk and started massaging my temples. I felt a headache coming on, and I wanted to put it to rest before the minor throbbing became a full-blown migraine.

Why is it, I wondered, that when Mabel makes the coffee, it’s so good? But when I make the coffee, it tastes like Royal Triton motor oil? That was just one of those mysteries of life not worth wasting my time trying to figure out when I had so many other pressing matters to concern myself with. I continued kneading my head.

After a couple of minutes of grinding my temples, the headache started to wane.

The intercom buzzed. I grabbed the receiver while doing a couple of neck rolls. “Mabel, I said to hold my calls.”

“You have an emergency on line one. I told him you were in a meeting. He said he didn’t give a damn. Said to put you on the line. Said it was a court order.”

“Who said?”

“Hissoner himself, Judge Abraham Tobias.”

I jumped and put my stocking feet on the floor. Oh, Christ, I forgot to call him. “What’s he want, Mabel?”

“Ask him.” Mabel hung up, and I pushed the flashing button with one hand while working a foot into one shoe with the other.

“This is O’Brien.”

“I want you to surrender your client, right now. Don’t mess with me, O’Brien.” Judge Tobias sounded peeved, even a mite angry, and my headache roared to life, pounding like a jackhammer.

While wiggling my other foot into the loafer, I described the events in his courtroom after he left. I explained calmly how Robbie had grabbed the cop’s gun, how he took off, and how I made a valiant effort, at risk of personal injury, to find him before he fled the building.

I didn’t mention the blind guy or his story about the two thugs who drove up in the van and hauled Robbie away. I didn’t know if I believed the story myself, and at this point, I didn’t want to confuse the issue.

“That’s not what I heard,“ Tobias said when I paused for a moment. “Officer Lisowski, the guard, said you helped the defendant escape.”

“That’s absurd,” I said, trying without success to remain unruffled.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

“Telling me what?”

“Webster is pissed. He hasn’t yet, but he’s thinking about bringing you up on charges. He has Lisowski’s sworn statement. Lisowski said you distracted him so Farris could grab his weapon.”

“That’s not true…” That son-of-a-bitch cop warned me. But, somehow, I couldn’t hold it against him. A cop losing his weapon, especially to the bad guys, is about the worst that can happen.

“Webster also found out you’re a suspect in a murder case, which occurred Monday, which just happened to be the defendant’s mother. Who you, O’Brien, just happened to be visiting at the time she was killed. And,” he said, his voice taking on a deep ominous tone, “when the homicide detectives wanted to talk to you, you lawyered up and refused to cooperate.”

“Judge, you know me better than that.”

“I thought I did, O’Brien, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Aw, Judge…”

“Webster’s hot on this. He’s talking about nailing you with a Penal Code Section 32.”

My mind started to wind up, heading for the spin cycle. “Accessory? Aiding and abetting?”

“Congratulations, you know the law,” the judge said with scorn in his voice. “You’re lucky if he doesn’t try to elevate it to conspiracy, a felony as you well know. But at a minimum, you’d lose your ticket to practice law and, frankly, it appears as if he has a damn good case.”