Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

Before the thugs realized what was happening, Jake bolted from the Caddie. With his left hand, he grabbed the briefcase guy and flung him into a parked Bentley. The guy struck it hard and stayed down. Jake’s right hand was a steel fist that exploded violently into the other goon’s nose. It burst like an overripe tomato and blood pulsed out in a sickening stream. The guy dropped. He was down for the count.

Jake turned and ran back to his car. “Get outta here, O’Brien, ’fore the cops come.”

A crowd started to form. But they scattered when Big Jake stomped on the gas, screaming backward, without looking, at about ninety miles an hour right out of the lot and onto the boulevard. He whipped the car around, made a skidding U turn, and disappeared down the street. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds.

I pulled my Corvette onto Beverly, turned right, and headed west. In my rearview mirror, I saw two squad cars, red lights flashing, swerve into Chasen’s parking lot. I glanced at the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, and my jaw didn’t hurt so much anymore.

At Sunset Boulevard, I turned left and drove west to PCH. I followed the coastline north and cruised past the Palisades, then Malibu, and soon I was beyond Point Mugu.

A jade green florescence shimmered on the breakers as they rolled onto the shore fifty feet to my left.

I merged onto US 101 and drove until I came to California Street in Ventura. I exited and stopped at the first motel I saw. After checking in, I dead-bolted the door. I had to get away and wanted to go away from Downey. I figured someone at Chasen’s might have gotten my license number, and I didn’t want the police pounding on my door.

I wanted time to analyze the tape and plan my next move. The motel was typical for a beach town: a dozen or so tiny cottages, built in the 1940s, surrounding a gravel parking lot. The neon sign in front by the office flickered and buzzed like fireflies gone mad. Each cottage had a double bed with a single thin blanket, a lamp with a forty-watt bulb that barely cast enough light to read by, and a black and white TV resting on a veneer-covered plywood dresser. The room was perfect.

I set my briefcase on the bed, sat down, and removed the recorder, anxious as I rewound the cassette. I hit the play button and skimmed the first part, where I was in the room. At the point where I made the remark about the cantaloupes, I hit stop. I stood, walked around the room, went into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. Why was I stalling? I told myself to get in there and turn it on. I took a deep breath, sat down, and pushed the play button again.

I listened to ten or fifteen seconds of silence. Then Welch’s voice erupted, “What does he know?”

“Nothing, he’s fishing, that’s all.”

I’d been holding my breath, and when I heard what Welch and French said, I exhaled. Goddamn, I knew it. I stood, flexed my hands, and paced as I listened to the rest.

“What do you mean, fishing? Did you hear him, the cantaloupes? He’s not fishing; he’s off the boat and on the shore. I’m telling you he knows what’s going on, and I don’t like it-”

“Calm down, Berry. Karadimos has everything under control, but what was he talking about when he said something about a letter to the girl?”

“Who knows? I don’t give a shit about that. But, damn it, I’m concerned. Listen, French, you’re in this too. I thought you guys were gonna get rid of him.”

“Look, it isn’t that easy. We’ve tried. He’s got help from Sica’s gang.”

“Can’t you blow up his car or something? Jesus Christ Almighty!”

“Berry, we don’t want any more bodies lying around. We’re in enough trouble with Graham’s murder. We’ve got to snatch O’Brien and get rid of him in Mexico. Turn him over to our partners down there. Nobody will know what happened to him and I doubt that anyone will care.”

Thanks a lot, French, I thought. We’ll see who cares about you when all this comes out.

“What about that other guy? What’s his name, the pilot?”

“Kruger. We’re looking for him now. He won’t be back.”

“He knows all about it. He helped set it up. Are you guys sure you’re going to find him? I’m worried as hell.”

“Come on, Senator, get out and do your thing. There are important people here tonight. Karadimos is counting on you to stay in office, so you can win the big one down the road.”

“I want out. You guys can keep the money. I’m going to be the fucking governor of California in two years for Christ’s sake. You listen to me-I want out now!”

“It’s not healthy to talk like that, Welch. How do you think you got here?”

“Did I hear what I think I heard? Are you threatening me?”

“No. No, of course not. It’s our partners south of the border. They’re pressing us, but we have to keep things closed down until it blows over. So let’s not say anything about quitting right now.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The tape continued. I heard the office door open, slam shut then nothing. I snapped off the recorder and stared at the machine for a long time. Now I knew for sure what I only suspected before. Karadimos was importing drugs, and French and Welch were in it with him.

I quit pacing and sat on the edge of the bed. A minute later, I heard a noise outside. My heart thumped. I darted to the window, pulled back the skimpy curtain, and peeked out.

It was nothing, some guy and his frumpy wife banging their luggage as they checked into the cottage next door.

I thought about French and Welch and the image they projected. Concerned citizens, stalwarts of the community. I shook my head. Thomas French, the Boy Scout, the winner of the good citizen award, the speaker at Downey High’s commencement last June. Excerpts had been reprinted in the Downey Enterprise . The title: ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Today’s Changing World.’

Next year, he could update it a bit. ‘The Challenges Facing Youth in Blowing up a Car.’

It would get more than a write-up in the Enterprise , might even make the Times . I was sure it would. I listened to the tape again and realized just how hot it was. I could get burned just touching it. It’d blow everything wide open.

But if I turned the tape over to the court, I’d lose my license when they found out what I’d done. Was I willing to sacrifice my career, and possibly go to jail, to save Rodriguez? That’s a question they didn’t answer in law school.

Sitting in the motel room, I heard the ocean waves pound the shore as I played and replayed the tape. I listened carefully to the words, the hidden meanings and inflections.

I’d hear something, stop, rewind the tape, and play it again. I listened to the words that weren’t there and tried to connect the dots. The most incriminating thing on the tape was the part about blowing up my car.

My wild remarks about Karadimos and the cantaloupes had paid off. Welch had become rattled and started spilling his guts. French mentioned that Karadimos had “partners in Mexico.” I drew the only possible conclusion: his drug smuggling operation was based somewhere south of the border. The fact he was involved with drugs would explain the mob war and the money. I tried to figure out what French would say if the conversation ever became public. How could he and Welch explain it?

I knew the tape-even illegally recorded-would ruin Welch’s political career. But there was nothing on the tape to prove that Rodriguez was innocent. If even a modicum of evidence appeared on the tape hinting at his innocence, then a copy would already be on the L.A. Times editor’s desk. I’d lose my license but my client would go free. As determined as I was to see Welch and his cronies face a court of law, I didn’t think I could destroy my career to ruin Welch.