Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“From the bag in the backroom,” he answered.

I figured I’d survive.

“Gotta go, honey, the boss just came in.” Rita hung up the phone.

“That your boyfriend?” I asked.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Just a guess. Listen, Rita, I’m going to work here a while longer. There’s no need for you to stick around.”

“Thanks, Boss. By the way, a reporter from the L.A. Times called.” She scoured her desk for the message. “Richard Conway. Wants information on the Rodriguez case.” She handed me the slip of paper with the number on it. I knew it would only be a matter of time before the story broke.

“ The Los Angeles Times ,” I said. “That’s big time.”

“Are we gonna be famous, Jimmy?” Rita winked. “A little publicity for the firm?”

“I don’t know.” The press could be a big help if I could pull it off, but I’d have to be prepared, have snappy one-liners at my fingertips, and know the case thoroughly, backwards and forwards. One slip and the newspapers would crucify me. The trial would be over before it began.

“Shall I get him on the phone for you?”

“Let’s wait on this, if he calls back, tell him I’m not in.”

She placed her hand over her heart. “You want me to lie to the press?”

“Cut it out, Rita. Just tell him I’m not here, okay?”

She looked disappointed. “Seriously, you don’t want to talk to him? The PR could help.”

“Not yet, but I’ll hang on to the number.” I stuffed the pink message in my pocket. “I’m sure we’ll use him before it’s over. I want to be prepared, that’s all.”

I walked into my office and moved to the desk, carrying the Rodriguez file. At this point, I had nothing to offer the media, but I was eager to dig into the file. Perhaps it contained hidden information that would help me point the finger at Welch. Without evidence, speculation about the senator wouldn’t fly. Even Sol’s news couldn’t be used at this point. I’d need more than rumor and innuendo before accusing him in the press of having an affair with Gloria. I’d need hard facts to support my theory that Gloria threatened to go public, and when she did, he killed her.

I cut the rubber bands and spread the work on my desk. Photos of the dead woman jumped out at me. Lots of them. I looked them over carefully. The vivid color photographs were an assault to my eyes. The file contained dozens of clinical photos taken at the morgue. They would be used to back up the autopsy. The file also held horrendous pictures shot at the murder scene. Her once pretty face was battered almost beyond recognition, its frozen expression one of silenced terror. Her dull eyes stared directly at the camera. Large glossy pictures showed where sharp steel had sliced her torso, almost cutting her in two.

Obviously, the murder wasn’t the result of a robbery gone wrong. It was personal, an act of revenge. If Welch did it, he must’ve hated her. Maybe he hated all women. But there was one thing I knew for sure: Rodriguez didn’t fit the profile. Couldn’t the police see that?

“I thought you’d be working late so I made some coffee.” Rita entered, carrying a steaming mug. “I hope it’s okay. I never made just half a pot before.” Her vibrant face brought me back to the living world, where I wanted to stay. I put the photos back in the file.

“Thanks, Rita. I’m sure it will be fine.” I took a sip and felt my toes curl.

“Is it too strong?”

Strong, she asks. The coffee made Big Foot look like a wimp. “No, it’s fine,” I said. “You know, Rita, when you’re a lawyer you won’t have to make the coffee any longer.”

“Oh, Boss, you’re always kidding around.” She smiled. “I don’t have to make it now.” She turned and walked away.

I heard the front door slam, Rita had left for the day, and I edged back into the file.

Senator Berry Welch and his wife had flown to Sacramento on the Thursday afternoon two days prior to the murder. They flew as guests of a guy named Andreas Karadimos, owner of the Acme Refuse Corporation. They flew in his Citation business jet. Riding in the plane with the businessman, the senator and Mrs. Welch were Judge Johnson and his wife. Another couple-Thomas French, the attorney, and his wife traveled with them. The only other person on the plane that day had been the pilot.

The group flew to Sacramento to attend a thousand-dollar-a-plate Welch re-election dinner, which was held Saturday night. The group returned in the same jet after gathering for a Sunday morning brunch, which had been held in the Senator’s suite at the Sacramento Inn.

I leaned back in my chair. Welch’s alibi was ironclad. Saturday night at the time of the murder, he was four hundred miles to the north at the Sacramento Inn doing the money shuffle with a couple hundred of his supporters, glad-handing, backslapping, and for all I knew kissing babies, or maybe even making them.

Damn, the killer had to be Welch. No one else in the report had even the slightest motive to murder Gloria. But how could I prove it? Juries hadn’t bought the premise that a person could be in two places at once. I doubted I could convince them otherwise.

I stood, stretched, and walked to the window. Night crept over the horizon. Cars whizzing by on Lakewood Blvd. clicked on their headlights and the neon sign atop the Broadway in the Stonewood Center blazed red against the darkening sky.

Sitting at my desk again, I continued to study the file. I needed to know more about the victim-about Gloria-but there wasn’t much in the report. She’d been born in Kansas and had family there. She moved to L.A. after high school.

While attending UCLA, she’d met a guy who became her boyfriend. They both majored in political science, but split up when the guy hit the big time, assistant to Congressman Chet Holifield. The cops found out about him from Gloria’s coworkers. They called him, but he had an ironclad alibi. He’d been even farther away than Welch had been at the time of the murder. The ex-boyfriend was in DC working the phones on the day of Gloria’s death, raising money for Holifield’s campaign. He was making calls from the congressman’s office, phoning plutocrats who did business with the government.

The telephone company had the records. The file contained Gloria’s phone records, as well. Only two long distance calls were made from her house on the day of the murder, one at three-eighteen in the afternoon to a Kansas number, and another to the Sacramento area at four fifty-three. I called the Sacramento number. An operator at the Sacramento Inn answered. I hung up. The call must’ve been made to Welch. If so, other than Rodriguez, Welch would’ve been the last known person to speak with her. I combed the files, going through them over and over. Several more hours flashed by. Still nothing to crack Welch’s alibi.

My stomach rumbled. I glanced at my watch: eleven P.M. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the Fat Burger at lunch-except Rita’s coffee that I’d chewed on earlier.

Luigi, the owner of Luigi’s Italian Deli on Paramount Blvd., greeted me as I came through the door. “Hey, Goombah, whaddya know, whaddya say?”

“I don’t know much, and I’m saying less.” I grabbed a table up front and plopped down in a chair.

Being here felt great. My migraine was waning, and I liked Luigi. There was something genuine about him, and his food.

“You wanna eat, my friend?”

“I’ll have a pizza. The one with lots of anchovies. And a Coke.”

“You got it.” He turned his head and shouted to his wife in the back, “Hey, Momma, one number six pie. It’s for Jimmy, double the anchovies.”

“You and Maria working late tonight?” I asked.