Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

I thought I saw a flicker of truth in his eyes. I didn’t think he’d lie about not having an affair and then admit that he made a move on her.

“Didn’t you send her a letter? She got it Saturday. You dumped her. I found the envelope at her house, handwritten. The cops could check your handwriting.”

“Let them check. I’ve nothing to hide.” He didn’t seem to be bothered about the envelope.

Perhaps he wasn’t involved with Gloria after all. Maybe the envelope was nothing. His denial carried a ring of truth. “Are you saying you were not having an affair?”

“Asked and answered,” French shouted.

“Shut up, French,” I said. “This isn’t a courtroom.”

“Nope, I’m sorry to say,” Welch said. “ Jesus , she was hot stuff.”

I could feel my theory about the case slipping away, but I continued: “Did she call you the day she died? Between four and five in the afternoon?”

“No, she didn’t.” Welch glanced at the ceiling. “The only call I got on Saturday was from Phil Rhodes, our PR guy. He’d hired a comedian for the dinner and the prick cancelled at the last minute. Phil wanted me to ask Goulet to sing an extra set to cover for him.”

“Graham called the hotel and talked to someone for twenty minutes,” I said.

“Not me.” Welch glanced at his buffed fingernails. “Let’s see. Yeah, between four and five, I was in the bar with Tom Brokaw; he’s the news guy on Channel 4 here in L.A. He’s doing a piece on the 1974 governor’s race. He’ll verify it. He paid the bar tab. I’m sure he put it on his expense report.”

French jumped in. “Why don’t you get off the Senator’s back? It’s obvious that he had nothing to do with Miss Graham’s unfortunate death.”

“Why did you pressure Judge Johnson to force my client to plead guilty?”

“That’s enough, O’Brien!” French snapped. “You’re crossing the line with these insinuations.”

“It’s okay, Tom. I’ll answer him.” Welch started to climb out of the chair. “It’s true. I had lunch with Johnson on the Monday following the murder, but I didn’t pressure him. My assistant had been murdered. They caught the guy who did it, and I wanted to make sure they got the right person, that’s all.”

“It was in your best interests to have the case closed as soon as possible,” I said.

“Okay, that’s it, O’Brien. He told you he didn’t pressure anybody.” French shook his head. “Interview’s over. Goodbye.”

“Thought I had ten minutes. It hasn’t been that long.”

“You’re questions are inappropriate. The Senator hadn’t agreed to be slandered.” French started to move toward me.

I looked into Welch’s eyes. “What about Hartford Commodities and Karadimos? I know you’re connected with him. You too, French?”

That caught their attention. Welch raised his eyebrows slightly and his mouth opened as if to speak. No sound came out, but French piped up: “The Senator’s business interests are in a blind trust. Karadimos is a large contributor. He just wants quality government. Now, this meeting is over. Please leave.”

“Welch, I think you’re in up to your neck with the Greek.”

“You’re outta here, O’Brien.”

“Senator, answer my question.”

“Don’t say anything, Berry.” French stepped quickly between Welch and me. “Now, do I have to call someone, or are you leaving?”

I moved to the door and put my hand on the knob. Turning back, I looked at Welch and French. “I know about the cantaloupes,” I said and left the office.

“Mack the Knife” reverberated from the bar as I walked back into the dining room. The crowd was whooping it up for all they were worth. I found a spot where I could see the kitchen passage, and waited. Waiters scurried in and out, and after a long while-at least it seemed like a long while-French and Welch emerged.

They brushed by me without looking and joined the group in the main dining room. I glanced around. The coast was clear. I raced into the kitchen and maneuvered around the prep counters, chefs and busboys nearly slipping on the tile floor, then darted though the double doors, heading back toward the office.

When I reached for the knob, I paused. I hadn’t planned to leave my briefcase with the recorder running in the office after I left. I told myself I didn’t actually mean to eavesdrop on Welch and his lawyer. But I knew better. And I’d have been a fool not to take the opportunity when it popped up.

The remark about cantaloupes came to me in a flash imports from Mexico. If the produce business was on the up and up, Welch and French would pass the remark off as a non-sequitur. But if they responded to it, I’d know for sure that they were partners, engaged in some sort of illegal activity.

I opened the door and dashed into the office. Grabbing my briefcase, I darted through the kitchen again. I just wanted to get out of the restaurant-fast. Go somewhere and listen to the tape. I headed toward the front and pushed my way through the crowd. When I got closer to the main room, I saw Karadimos shoving guests aside as he elbowed toward me.

Our eyes locked. I saw his fury and knew he must have figured something wasn’t right. He charged at me like a raging bull, bellowing; even his nostrils flared.

A shout from the crowd rose above the clamor, “Andy, wait!”

Karadimos jerked his head to the side and I followed his gaze. French shook his hand slightly, and nodded toward the small group with a TV camera in a circle of lights gathered around Mayor Sam Yorty. Karadimos would draw unwanted attention if he kept coming at me.

He stopped. Looking around, he snapped his fingers at a couple of heavyweights leaning against the wall by the entrance. He pointed at me, and then made furious jabbing motions with his finger toward the front door. The hoods came alive like puppets on a string. They sprinted past the maitre d’s station and pushed their way outside.

I backed up a few feet, turned, picked up my pace, and retraced my steps through the kitchen, running for the rear. The back door opened onto an alley littered with trash containers and empty boxes. I shot around the corner of the restaurant and entered the parking lot. My Corvette was parked close to the front near Beverly Boulevard.

One of the parking guys ran toward me. “Hold it. What are you doing back there?”

I pulled the car keys from my pocket, holding them in the air. “Going to my car.” I pointed to my Corvette. “I came out through the back door.” I kept moving. The valet turned and walked back toward the front of the lot.

Karadimos’s men loitered on the sidewalk by the street. I spotted them and they spotted me. I made a dash for my car. I got there fast, but too late.

One of the thugs grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He came back with his right hand and took a roundhouse swing at me, but I blocked it with my forearm.

The other guy tugged madly at the briefcase. I held on, jerked it free, and took a swipe at his head with it. I missed.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fist coming at me, heavy and fast, like a freight train. I whipped my head back. The punch grazed my jaw.

All the color drained out of the night and the darkness turned white. I staggered, but I hung on to the briefcase when the other guy grabbed it again. Suddenly, I heard loud yells coming from everywhere. The noise reverberated in my head like shouts in a tunnel.

“Watch out!”

“ Jesus ! Crazy bastard-”

“He ain’t slowing down.”

“Get outta the way!”

The tugging on my briefcase eased. I didn’t know how I was able to hang on to it, but I did. I shook my head. My vision cleared enough to see Big Jake’s Cadillac bounce over the curb, hurtle toward us, and screech to a stop right in front of Karadimos’s men.