Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

Over drinks, he told me about a case he was working on that involved Acme Refuge Company. It seems that a rival trash company had tried to land some of the larger commercial accounts in the southeast area. A trash war of sorts broke out and Acme eventually won control of the region when the owner of the rival company committed suicide.

Tommy said that he tried to look further into the case, but his hands were tied by the brass downtown. His suspicions had been aroused when he read the autopsy report and discovered that the deceased had shot himself in the head-twice. I’d given him a questioning look.

“Maybe the first shot didn’t kill him. Maybe he tried again.” Tommy shrugged.

I drove to Cudahy, a smokestack community about five miles west of Downey. Railroad tracks crisscrossed as they sliced through the landscape. I waited on Firestone at the Union Pacific crossing as a slow moving freighter crawled across the boulevard. Continuing on, I drove a few blocks farther, turned right on Atlantic Ave. and waited again for the same train as it moved along the diagonal. It crept behind factories that populated the area, dropping off boxcars along the way.

Acme Refuge Company’s yard, about ten acres square, was located on the southern edge of the industrial commonwealth of Cudahy. A twelve-foot-high fence made from corrugated metal and topped by sharp razor-wire surrounded the facility.

I parked my car on the outside and hiked to the doublewide gate that closed in the middle. A chain, locked with an industrial padlock, encircled the gate where the two halves came together. A hand-lettered sign hung on the fence: “KEEP OUT-THIS MEANS YOU.” I looked around for a buzzer or a doorbell, something like that, but didn’t see one.

The chain hung loosely and when I pulled on one side of the gate and pushed on the other, it opened slightly and left a gap large enough for me to squeeze through.

I stuck my head through the opening and glanced around.

The sound was deafening. Machinery screamed, trucks growled, and a Caterpillar dozer’s blade screeched as it heaved garbage into a huge pit. The only people I saw were far away, busy at work. They didn’t seem to notice me. I pulled my head back out and looked up and down the street, nervous just standing there. It might be considered trespassing, but I figured I’d slip through the gate, find the office, and maybe Karadimos would talk to me if he were there. I turned sideways and with a little effort squeezed through the opening in the gate.

On the north side of the yard, in front of a row of twenty-five or thirty garbage trucks, stood a small stucco building. It looked like an old tract house that had been picked up, moved, and plopped down at its present location without concern for the building’s integrity. Cracked plaster covered the exterior, windows were broken, and the pitched roof sagged in the middle like a swayback horse. Someone had taken a paintbrush and splashed the word OFFICE over the front door. An area had been scraped smooth next to the building, probably parking spaces set aside for the office workers. No cars were there.

A thick, obnoxious stench hung in the air and I practically had to dog paddle through it as I made my way to the office. It took a couple of minutes to reach the door. I knocked lightly, waited, and knocked again. No answer. I put my hand on the knob. Glancing around the yard-nobody was looking in my direction-I twisted it and sighed. Maybe down deep I really didn’t want to go in, but I gave the door a little shove and it opened.

I didn’t know if I’d learn anything and wondered if breaking in would be worth the risk. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I had to look anyway.

Slipping inside, I shut the door behind me and jerked the knob to make sure it was closed and locked. Then I turned and scanned the room. Defused light streaked in from the dirty windows illuminating dust particles floating in the air.

The dust swirled, forming intricate patterns in my wake as I moved through the office.

Battered pieces of junk served as furniture. The backseat from an old car stood in for a couch. At the far end of the room, in front of two banged-up filing cabinets, sat a scarred wooden desk.

No art or personal effects hung on the walls, no family pictures, citations, or anything like that. But someone had nailed a giveaway business calendar to the wall. It advertised a company called Executive Aviation, located at Long Beach Airport. The calendar had a picture of an airplane on it, a Lear Jet flying among puffy cumulus clouds. The page hadn’t been turned in a while. Although it was August, the Lear Jet was the plane of the month for April.

I rushed over to the filing cabinets and tugged on the drawers. Locked. I turned and checked the desk. I saw nothing of interest on top of it, just an ashtray overflowing with cigar butts, a half filled cup of cold coffee with a dead fly floating on the surface, and a few pieces of paper that looked like lists of garbage routes.

A shadow filled the room. Something outside moved across the window. I flattened myself against the wall. Trembling slightly, I glanced out the filthy window that overlooked the yard. A truckload of rotten cantaloupes rolled past the window. I watched as the truck dumped the slimy melons into several gray metal bins. But, thank God, I didn’t see anyone coming toward the office.

I turned from the window and moved rapidly back to the desk to see if I could spot anything that might shed light on the Sacramento flight. I opened the top center drawer. It held some pens, a few pencils mostly with broken tips, and a dozen or so unwrapped cigars. I quietly closed it and opened the narrow drawer to the right. A.45 automatic sat on top of a small stack of invoices. I wanted to examine the papers, but I didn’t want to touch the gun and leave my prints on it.

As I stood there frozen, staring at the gun, I heard a car door slam. Christ, I thought as I shoved the drawer closed.

Quickly scanning the room, I spotted another door to my left. I was almost through it when the front office door burst open. I slipped into the next room, a small kitchen. Dark green oilcloth covered the windows.

I heard voices coming from the room I had just left, three men talking shop. Damn, I had to figure a way out. I sidled along, inch by inch, my back to the wall, feeling with my hands in the dim room. Perspiration soaked my shirt and my heart pounded in my chest. I thought, what a fool I’d been. If caught here, the charge would be breaking and entering. At best, I’d lose my law license. I didn’t want to think about the worst that could happen.

Finally, I reached the back door. I knew the kitchen had to have one, and I felt a moment of relief as I twisted the knob slowly and it turned. I gently pulled and prayed that the hinges wouldn’t squeak as it opened. I needn’t have worried about the hinges; the door wouldn’t budge.

I pulled harder; nothing. Panic set in. I yanked on the door with both hands. Sweat gushed from every pore of my body. No use, the door wouldn’t open. It must be dead bolted, with no key in the lock. Definitely a building and safety code violation. Perhaps, if I were caught here, I could make a deal with these guys. They’d let me go and I wouldn’t turn them over to the building inspector. That ought to bring them to their knees.

I stood as still as I could, breathing slowly, in and out. I hoped they couldn’t hear the drum beating in my chest. After a few minutes, I moved along the wall back toward the door to the front office. I figured I’d wait them out. The light was too dim in the room to read my watch, but I knew it must be close to five. Wasn’t five quitting time? The freeways were jammed at five, people heading home. But that was just dreaming. No telling how long I’d have to wait, and every minute I waited was a minute closer to being caught.