Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

No; my obligation was to Rodriguez, and I wasn’t a crusader. I dismissed the thought of sending the tape anonymously to the Times or the police. Too many people would know where it had come from: Phil Rhodes set up the meeting, the staff at Chasen’s saw me with a briefcase, and even Rita knew. I wouldn’t allow her to commit perjury if it came to that.

The sun was rising by the time I dropped on the bed and plunged into an exhausted sleep.

I woke up a couple hours later and for an instant, didn’t remember where I was. I jerked up and wiped the sleep from my eyes. The cassette recorder sat on the bed next to me.

My face hurt and I was a mess, wrinkled and disheveled from sleeping in my clothes. I hadn’t planned on being away from home and didn’t pack anything; no toothbrush, razor, not even a comb. I glanced around the room, saw the phone, and lunged for the receiver. Dead, no dial tone. What the hell was this place, the Bates Motel?

Using the bathroom, I threw water on my face, tried to comb my hair with my fingers, and slowly rubbed my sore jaw. A bruise had formed. I thought it fit in with the rest of my look.

Leaving the motel room, I started walking, going nowhere really, just walking and thinking. I wanted to turn the tape over to the D.A.’s office immediately. I wanted to see Welch and French rot behind bars, but my mind told me hold off. The tape had been illegally obtained; I’d be charged with a crime and might even go to jail if it came out. I’d have to find another way.

A marine layer, low clouds and fog had rolled in from the ocean, and the sky was overcast and gloomy. I walked slowly past shops lining California Street, typical for a beach resort: a surfboard store, and a place selling souvenirs, stuff to send to your Aunt Tillie back home in Grundy Center, Iowa. She’d love a printed T-shirt, a mug; I heart Ventura, or some such bullshit on it.

I walked all the way to the ocean; the tide was out along the wide beach. At the waterline, I took off my shoes and waded in the cold water rippling at the edge of the hard wet sand.

I figured Karadimos knew about the tape by now. He’s smart, and his instinct would have told him something was up. The way I clutched the briefcase when his goons attacked me would’ve clued him in about the recording-he would’ve questioned French and Welch thoroughly-but he wouldn’t tell anyone, that’s for sure. I turned and headed back to the motel, the Cozy Corner. I had only one chance-find Kruger before Karadimos found him.

I checked out of the room, shoved the recorder into my briefcase, and stashed it behind the driver’s seat of my car. I drove to a nearby Denny’s coffee shop, wondering whether the police had hit my apartment last night. I’d ask Sol to check his sources and see if there were any warrants out on me because of the fight.

After ordering coffee and eggs, I called Sol at his home from the payphone, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t at his office either. I left a message, and then called Rocco’s. They hadn’t seen him since lunch Friday. I called Joyce back, told her to try Sol’s mobile car phone. No luck.

“It’s urgent, Joyce,” I said. “Keep trying.”

“Sure, Jimmy. I’ll stay on it. Where will you be if I reach him?”

“I’m laying low. Cops might be looking for me. But I’ll check back.”

I went back to my table and the waitress appeared with my breakfast. She also handed me a copy of the Times a customer had left. I glanced at the paper while I ate and found a small article buried deep inside the middle section, near the obituaries: Drunken Brawl in Parking Lot at Gala Fundraiser.

The article went on to say, “Two unidentified men were taken into custody Saturday night after a brawl erupted in the parking lot of Chasen’s restaurant. The posh Beverly Hills eatery was holding a private fundraiser hosted by the Re-elect Welch Committee. According to Philip Rhodes, the event chairman, the incident in the parking lot was not related to the affair going on inside at the time. The two men involved were released and no charges were filed.”

The article gave me some comfort. I didn’t have to worry about the police, so I drove back to my apartment.

On the way, I constantly checked my rearview mirror. If Karadimos’s thugs had followed me last night, I’d be dead meat. I didn’t see them now either, but they could be out there just the same.

I thought about Karadimos’s two goons and the battle in Chasen’s parking lot. The image of Jake’s Cadillac bouncing over the curb and charging in like the Seventh Calvary made me chuckle. I thought, what the hell, maybe it didn’t hurt having him on my side. And when I parked in front of my apartment building, I felt doubly glad to see him sitting in the Caddie across the street, giving me a thumbs-up.

Upstairs, I bolted the door, stashed the tape recorder in my closet, and spent the rest of the day calling around trying to find Sol. Nobody had seen him.

I fell asleep before dark, rolled over twenty-four hours later, made some kind of weird noise and fell back to sleep again.

Monday morning; how in hell had that happened? Was I asleep or unconscious? Must’ve needed it. A ringing phone would have woken me up. That meant I still hadn’t heard from Sol. I cleaned up, grabbed the tape recorder and drove to his office. I wanted to find him and go over the tape. Joyce met me in the lobby again.

“Jimmy,” she said. “I know you’re worried, but sometimes Sol has to get away and relax, escape the pressure of running such a large concern. He’s done this before. He’ll turn up. He’s never gone for more than a few days.”

Christ almighty, this is not the time for him to run away and relax. “He would’ve called, left a message, something.”

Joyce just looked at me for a moment before she spoke. “You know Sol. Expect the unexpected.” She smiled.

I couldn’t wait around any longer. I had to do something. I called Rita at the office and told her I’d be tied up for a while. She reminded me about the motion to exclude the jailhouse witness. I was supposed to work on it over the weekend. I hadn’t, of course. To my surprise, she’d already typed it up on pleading paper and filed it with the court.

“Rita, I’m proud of you. You’ll make a fine lawyer.”

“Ah, Boss, I knew you’d say that. But I haven’t been tested yet, haven’t had to make the hard decisions. I don’t know how far I’d go to protect my clients.” She stopped talking line for a moment, then she said in a low voice, “Like you’re doing for Mr. Rodriguez.”

I thought about the tape. Would I really make it public? Would I do that even to set Rodriguez free? Would I be willing to sacrifice my career, and be convicted of a crime? Did I have that kind of courage?

“Wait for Sol’s call, okay? I’ll check back on the hour.”

“I’m sure he’s okay. He’ll call. Don’t worry.”

I shot north on Firestone and drove past Harvey’s Broiler, the drive-in restaurant where we cruised in our hot cars when we were high school kids. My buddy’s father owned the Chevrolet dealership in Downey, and one night, the kid drove though the drive-in, sitting smugly behind the wheel of a brand new ’54 red and white Corvette. The convertible top was down as he slowly glided between the rows of parked cars. He was like the Pied Piper. Even my date jumped out of my jalopy and chased after him.

I arrived at the South Gate Police Department and walked to the front desk. “Who’s the graveyard shift dispatcher?” I asked the cop working there.

“Who wants to know?”

I handed him my card. “O’Brien, criminal defense lawyer, investigating the Graham homicide.”