Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“Good morning, Senator Welch’s office. May I help you?” The voice conveyed a polished warmth, no doubt to convince the constituents that the Senator cared.

“My name is O’Brien, I’m the attorney representing-”

“Yes, we know all about you.” The tone dropped about eighty degrees. “What do you want?”

“I need to speak with the Senator. I understand he’s back in town.”

The phone clicked, silence, then it clicked again. “I’m Paul Tidman, the Senator’s Assistant to the Chief of Staff. What can I do for you, Mr. O’Brien?”

“I need to speak with Senator Welch. It’s urgent.”

“I’m sure your call is urgent and most likely related to Miss Graham’s unfortunate demise. You’re the attorney representing the accused, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Well, first of all, the Senator isn’t in, and secondly, I’ve been instructed to inform you that the Senator’s personal attorney, Mr. Thomas French, here in Downey, will be handling all matters relating to the tragic event.”

“Let me get this straight, are you saying that Welch hired a lawyer?” My heart rate increased. “Does he feel he needs an attorney, has something to hide?”

“No, of course not, strictly routine. The Senator is extremely busy doing the People’s business. Your business as well, Mr. O’Brien. Surely you can see he just can’t drop all his important work any time someone such as yourself calls.”

“I don’t give a damn what he’s doing. I have to speak with him.”

“Come now, Mr. O’Brien, even you must know how valuable the Senator’s time is.”

I didn’t like this guy’s condescending line of bullshit.

“Look, Tidbit, or Titman, or whatever the hell your name is. Damn it, this is a murder case, and the Senator has information that I need.” I took a breath and tried to cool off. I realized I was talking to a messenger boy, an assistant’s assistant. “Look, Mr. Tidman, tell Welch that if he doesn’t call me, I’ll get a subpoena, drag him in-”

“Good day, Mr. O’Brien.” The line went dead.

I looked up Thomas French’s phone number. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew about him. Seemed like an okay guy; a family man, usher in his church, and he belonged to all the community service clubs, Rotary, that sort of thing.

His name was constantly in the local paper, giving speeches, presenting awards, promoting the community, and raising money for worthy causes. He was a do-gooder deluxe, a real boy scout. I wondered how he found the time to practice law.

Rita walked in just as I was about to place the call to French. She had on white Bermuda shorts and a loose-fitting blouse with cheerful flowers printed on it, bluebells or bluebonnets, some kind of blue flowers. With no clients to speak of, I didn’t insist on a dress code. Anyway, she looked bright and fresh with her perennial smile intact.

“Good morning, Boss. Shall I make the coffee?”

“No, Rita, it’s been made, but I’ve got something for you to do right now.”

“Okay.”

I took a number-ten envelope from my desk and handed it to her. “I want you to take this to the mailbox on the corner and pretend to mail it.”

“What is this all about?” she asked, flipping the envelope over in her hand.

“Rita, when you get to the mailbox, look around to see if you spot a blue Buick parked somewhere close by.”

“Jimmy, what’s the story?”

“Just look for the car, okay?”

“Sure, but I’ll save the envelope; money’s tight, you know.” She winked.

“That’s why you’re the money manager around here.”

While waiting for Rita to return, I made the call to Thomas French’s office. He probably wasn’t there. He’d be out helping little old ladies cross the street.

A female voice answered. “Law office. May I help you?”

“Mr. French, please. Jimmy O’Brien calling about a matter involving his client, Senator Welch.”

“Mr. French is away from the office.” Her voice turned cold, like a wind from the north. Her lips must be purple.

“I’ll leave my number. Please have him call me back. It’s important. I have a hearing in a few days and I need to discuss an urgent matter regarding his client.”

The frosty voice said French was in court and would check his messages during the break. But if he called me back, it wouldn’t be until court adjourned, in the afternoon.

French might not know anything about Welch’s affair with Gloria Graham. Even if he did, I doubted that he would be willing to discuss it. He would only tell me facts already in the police report. I needed to go eyeball to eyeball with the Senator himself to see if he’d blink when I mentioned his romance with Gloria. But if I handled French right, maybe he could arrange a meeting. I figured I’d have to hound him until he answered my calls.

Rita returned, humming a pleasant tune I didn’t recognize. She came into my office and handed me the envelope.

“I saved the envelope,” she said, smiling. “But I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

“You didn’t see a blue Buick?”

“Let me see…there was a pick-up truck and a bug, you know a V-dub. I think it belongs to the guy in the State Farm office next door. And two or three other cars parked close.”

“How about a blue car, a sedan? Maybe some guy sitting in the driver’s seat?”

“Well, yes, but it was down by the corner. Some big guy sitting behind the wheel,” Rita said. “He was giving me the eye. I just figured he liked the way I looked.”

“I’m sure he did,” I said.

Rita turned to leave, then stopped. “Is this trouble, Jimmy?”

“No, of course not. It seems I’ve picked up a tail.” I leaned back in my chair and tried to appear unconcerned. It didn’t make sense to worry her. “Someone’s trying to intimidate me. That’s all,” I said. “If they were pros, out to do harm, we wouldn’t have seen them or the car.”

“Jimmy, this is giving me the creeps.”

“Rita, forget about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Okay, so I lied.

I needed answers. After Rita went back to the outer office, I sank into my chair and tried to think. Why was the guy in the Buick tailing me? Who’d care enough about a small-time murderer to send thugs out to scare me off? Another thing bothered me: why did Johnson pick me to represent the accused in the first place? And why’d he get so upset when Rodriguez wanted to plead not guilty? There had to be answers and there was one man who could give them to me.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” I told Rita as I blew by her.

With the blue Buick trailing three or four car lengths behind, I drove west on Firestone, heading to the South Gate Municipal Court. I parked and walked directly to Division III, Judge Johnson’s courtroom. I pounded on the door to his chambers. His clerk stuck her head out. “Judge Johnson is busy at the moment, Mr. O’Brien.”

“It’s imperative that I speak to him right now.”

Johnson shouted from behind the door, “What do you want, O’Brien?”

“Bob, I need to see you, now.”

“You want to see me, ex parte? Have you notified the D.A.’s office?”

“This is off the record.”

“Look, Jimmy, I’m busy. I’m preparing for a hearing. It’s coming up in an hour.”

“It will only take a minute. It’s about the Rodriguez case.”

“All right. But I can only give you five minutes.”

Johnson sat behind his perfectly organized desk, not a paper or file in sight. He wore an expensive, yellow alpaca sweater. The clerk shook her head slowly as she left the room, carrying a stack of papers.