Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

“I’ve had a few good offers, Jimmy. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

“Yeah, I know.” I knew the day would come when Rita would leave, and that day was close at hand, but knowing didn’t make it easier. I’d miss her terribly.

“Hard to turn them down,” she said. “Don’t have to make the coffee at those fancy law firms.”

“Rita, I’ll make the coffee.”

“I’ve tasted your coffee.” She paused. “But I’ll stay anyway.” She flashed a smile that lit up my heart.

“You will?”

“Yes,” she said. “I admire you, Jimmy. And I respect you for what you’re doing for Mr. Rodriguez, especially doing it for no money when we’re practically broke. I like you a lot and love working here. I want to do what I can to help.”

“It’s a deal then. As soon as the bar results are in, you’re my new associate.”

“Oh, wow!” Rita rushed over and threw her small arms around me in a warm hug. She stepped back and looked up at me with a solemn expression on her face. “One condition, Jimmy.”

I knew what was coming-her salary. I really hadn’t thought it through. I didn’t know where the money would come from, but I wanted her to stay with me. I needed her, and not just for her skills; I needed someone I could talk with, someone who liked me for who I was. “Aw, Rita, I think I can come up with something-”

She cut me off. “I still make the coffee. I don’t want you messing with our new pot. Deal?”

Our eyes met, and hers sparkled. We both laughed, and it felt good. I wanted to hug her again, and I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, but the words wouldn’t come.

I turned and picked up the mini-recorder. “Now, Miss Associate, show me how to work this damn machine.”

She took the recorder from my hands and started to take it apart. “Thanks for the promotion, Boss. Office manager, not bad.” She nodded. “From secretary to office manager in six months. And soon, I’ll be an associate. Not bad at all.”

“If this keeps up,” I said. “In another six months, you’ll be the senior partner.”

“You bet, and I haven’t even passed the bar yet.”

We both laughed again.

Rita patiently taught me how to work the recorder. I fiddled with it while she prepared the proof of service for the discovery request. She would file it at the court and serve a carbon copy on the D.A.’s office after she returned from the bank with the papers for the signature stamp. In addition to the discovery, I’d need a motion in limine to exclude the testimony of Rodriguez’s cellmate. I planned to spend the weekend working on it. I wouldn’t file it until I received the discovery response from Bobbi. I might have to make a few changes depending on the documents she produced.

I stuffed the cassette recorder into my briefcase and left the office a little after five P.M., in time to stop at the dry cleaners before they closed. I thought about the small fortune Sol had paid for the tickets and I didn’t want some officious doorman at Chasen’s turning me away just because I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie.

The simple white structure at 9039 Beverly Boulevard had an elegant look. No garish signs-“All you can eat, one thousand dollars,” nothing like that. Just the name Chasen’s, in raised gold script, floating on the front next to the canopy covered entrance.

I pulled into the lot next to the restaurant and tossed a buck to the parking guy. After checking the crumpled dollar bill, he hurried off to greet the Rolls that had pulled up behind me. I parked my own car.

A discreet six-inch square sign hung on the front door, Private Party. Re-elect Senator Welch, Invitation Only. I had never been to Chasen’s and I was surprised by the old fashioned decor. The restaurant, with its plush emerald green carpeting, had that warm clubby look that was big in the thirties. Tufted leather booths and tables draped in immaculate linens, with enough silver to deplete the Comstock Lode. I liked it.

I presented my ticket to the maitre d?. He snapped his fingers; a waiter appeared. “Oscar, take Mr. O’Brien to the Siberian room.” He gave me a curt nod and turned to greet the next arrival.

The waiter escorted me to a small table in a dark alcove, close to the kitchen. I set my briefcase on the chair next to me. Rita told me the tape would record for forty-five minutes on each side. We’d tested the device in my office and the recorder picked up our voices while tucked out of sight in my briefcase.

I strolled over to the bar, ordered a Coke, then made my way back through the cigarette and cigar smoke swirling in the air and again sat at my table, waiting. I scanned the restaurant-at least the part I could see-and noticed Judge Johnson standing among the crowd in the front. He had a drink in his left hand and he seemed to be giving the once-over to a good-looking blonde standing close by. Johnson’s wife stood next to him, clutching her arms tightly across her chest.

After fifteen minutes, the maitre d? approached my table. “Mr. O’Brien, Maude Chasen said it would be all right to use her office for your meeting with the Senator. Please follow me.”

I got up and spotted Karadimos standing in the middle of the crowd, glaring at me. I could almost feel the hatred that flowed from his blazing eyes. When I raised my glass in a mock toast, he turned and walked away. The maitre d’ took me through the busy kitchen to a small office off to the side. The plain office held a desk, two leather armchairs, and a sofa.

The maitre d’ said he’d inform Welch that I was waiting. When he shut the door, I opened my briefcase, took out the tape recorder, turned it on and put it back. I snapped the briefcase shut and placed it next to the sofa. Leaning back, I folded my hands in my lap.

Of course, I wouldn’t tell Welch he was being recorded, and because of that little detail, I couldn’t use the tape in court. In fact, I would be fudging the law just recording him without his permission. But what the hell, I was defending a murder case. Anyway, I’d just use the tape for my notes and then quickly erase it.

A few minutes later, Thomas French entered and held the door for the Senator. Welch had a slender build, stood about six-foot-one and had an immaculate tan, like a movie actor. I wondered if it came out of a bottle. When would a guy like him have time to hang out at the beach? His dark, slicked-back hair glistened as it caught the light of the wall lamps when he moved farther into the office. I stood, and he came over to me.

We didn’t shake hands. Instead, he nodded toward French and told me, “I hope you’re not going to have a problem with my attorney being here.”

“Nope, I have a few questions for him too,” I replied.

French waved his arms in front of his chest. “Oh no, just the Senator. That’s the deal and you’ve only got ten minutes.” He glanced at his watch then pointed a finger at me. “Starting now.”

Welch sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “I think I can save some time here.” He tugged at his pant leg a little so as not to wrinkle the razor sharp crease. “I did not kill Gloria. That’s why you’re here. That’s what you wanted to ask me.”

“I have other questions, as well.”

“I was in Sacramento in a room full of people at the time she died.”

“I think you were sleeping with her, having an affair.”

French waved his hands again. “What kind of remark is that? He wasn’t involved with the girl. The very idea.”

Welsh spoke in a soft voice, “God knows I tried. What a gorgeous body.” He picked a piece of lint off his suit jacket. “I couldn’t get anywhere. I think she was hung up on someone else.”