Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“If you feel so strongly about justice and retribution-and I assume you mean that the punishment should fit the crime- why were you willing to accept a plea from Rodriguez at the arraignment?”

“That wasn’t my choice. Johnson had set that up with my superior and I had to go along. But thanks to you, it doesn’t matter now. Your client will get his trial and he’ll be convicted.”

“You just went along?”

“Yes. But it’s never been my goal to speed up the process and alleviate the court’s burden. As Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Delay is preferable to error.’” Her smile returned. “I had to work that in.”

“In other words, if you had any doubts, any at all about my client’s guilt, you’d reopen the case. Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a heartbeat,” she said. “However, it would have to be convincing. Why, do you have something that casts doubt on his guilt, something tangible?”

Bobbi’s sincerity moved me. I had no question about her sense of fair play. She wanted to see the guilty man convicted as much as I did. I just had to convince her that Rodriguez wasn’t her guy. I decided to confide in her and take my chance. I hoped that I wasn’t letting her beauty rule my judgment. It was hard not to.

“I have evidence that Senator Welch was having an affair with the deceased,” I said. “It wasn’t in the police report. It could provide a motive.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Is that true? Where did you hear that?”

“Gloria Graham told a friend of hers that she was sleeping with a politician. We could corroborate her statement, motels, restaurants, places where Welch and Gloria were seen together, that sort of thing.”

“So what if he was? That doesn’t prove anything. If all the bosses who slept with their secretaries killed them, we’d have a whole lot of dead secretaries lying around. No, sorry, that in itself doesn’t change anything.”

“Gloria’s girlfriend will tell her story. Reasonable doubt,” I said.

“You’d bring up this so-called affair without a shred of evidence other than some girl’s story and possibly ruin a man’s reputation-”

“To save an innocent person from life in prison, hell yes. Besides, if Welch wasn’t sleeping with her, then he has nothing to worry about.”

“Yeah, sure. You’ll tell the media Welch is an adulterous murderer. You going to tell the newspapers he kicks his dog, too?”

“Didn’t know he had a dog.”

“I thought we agreed not to discuss the case with the press.”

“I’m not running to the papers, but it’ll come out in court.”

“You know how the media is,” Bobbi said. “They’ll print the story, make a big hullabaloo. Later, when the truth comes out the retraction will be on page forty seven.”

“Look, Bobbi, I’m just saying it’s possible that he was having an affair. And it’s possible, just possible, that in the heat of passion, he might’ve killed her.”

“That’s extremely unlikely.”

“It’s a lot more logical than your motive. Rodriguez, her gardener, all of a sudden losing control.”

“Welch wasn’t even in town at the time of the murder.” Bobbi shook her head. “All the physical evidence points to your guy. He had a motive-even if you don’t buy it-means, and opportunity. The police arrested the right guy.”

“That’s not all,” I said.

Bobbi leaned closer to me. “You have more?”

“Yeah, it was the Senator who pressured Johnson to wrap this up, get a plea, and close the case.”

“Johnson told you that?”

“Not right out, but it fits. I’m sure he did.”

“Perhaps Johnson was just trying to get you to accept a plea so he could clean up his calendar.”

“Believe me, Bobbi, it was Welch. He pressured him.”

She drew back; it only took a moment for her disposition to harden. She grabbed the napkin off her lap and threw it on the table. “You could be right and I should’ve known better.”

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m just telling you what I know to be true.”

“I’m not mad at you. It’s those damn politicians. They used me, wanted me to speed the process so it wouldn’t muddy up their campaign.”

“I think the police should reopen the case, take a hard look at Welch.”

“Jimmy, get real. It’s just politics, doesn’t change anything. The case is closed.”

“It changes everything.”

“The case is closed, period,” she said through clenched teeth. But almost immediately her expression softened. “Jimmy, listen. Welch was in Sacramento at the time of the murder.”

“If I show how he could have slipped away from the party, flew here-”

“You show me evidence that Welch was in Southern California at the time of the murder, I guarantee we’ll reopen the case. But you have to provide me with ironclad proof. Talk to Welch, see what he has to say.”

“He’s not talking to me. I’ve tried.”

“Try harder.”

We said good-bye in the parking lot; no sign of the Buick. It was after three o’clock when I walked into the office. Rita wasn’t around, so I called the answering service.

Mabel, the owner of the one-person business, came on the line after several rings. “This one’s from Joyce, at Mr. Silverman’s office. It says, ‘I have the license plate ID for you. The car is registered to Hartford Commodities.’ The message goes on and on. Do you want me to read the whole thing?” she asked.

“Mabel, what’s the matter with you? Of course I want you to read the whole thing.”

“Okay, here goes. It says, ‘I’ve checked with the Secretary of State’s office in Sacramento. They show that the sole trustee of Hartford is an offshore corporation called Triple A Financial, Inc. I am trying to find out its address, the company’s local correspondent bank, and the person who signs on the account. Might take a while. Someone is trying to hide the ownership.’ Signed, Joyce,” Mabel said.

I had the phone tucked between my shoulder and chin, scribbling the highlights of the message on the back of the Edison bill.

“The next message is from some guy selling insurance. Do you want me to read that one too?” Mabel asked.

“What?”

“A guy selling something.”

“No, that’s okay.” I hung up the phone.

There was no message from French. I kicked back and stared at the wall, wondering what to do next. Welch wouldn’t talk to me and now French wasn’t returning my calls. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the police report. The name Andreas Karadimos popped out at me. I figured it was about time I talked to him. He had flown Welch and his friends to Sacramento on the weekend of the murder, but I also remembered his name from the past.

I didn’t want to call him and get the brush-off, as I did from Welch and French. But I trembled at the thought of barging in on him unannounced. Karadimos owned a garbage collection company, and I’d heard rumors about him. They say he was ruthless and tough, one nasty son of a bitch.

His company, Acme Refuge, held all of the residential trash collection contracts with cities in the southeastern area of the county. His blue and white trucks were a common sight on the streets. Not only did Acme Refuge have the neighborhood business locked up, their roll-off bins could also be seen behind virtually all of the commercial establishments in the area. Garbage collection at these locations wasn’t covered by city contracts as the household accounts were. Business owners could select a refuge company of their choice. That is, if they could find one, other than Acme, willing to service them.

A few years back, when I was a cop, I bumped into a classmate from my days at Cerritos College. We both majored in police science. Tommy was now a homicide detective with the sheriff’s department.