Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

He hung up the phone and stood to greet me. Sol was actually taller sitting down than standing up. His chest and stomach were huge, but his legs were short and skinny. He had a large head perched directly on top of his torso without a noticeable neck. His crop of frazzled salt and pepper hair darted out in all directions. Most startling were his eyes: deep, dark and penetrating. They could bore right into your brain searching for some truth that might be in conflict with your words. He wore a ring with a diamond on his pinky, and a solid gold Rolex that looked like it weighed five pounds circled his wrist.

Sol bought his suits from Sy Devore in Hollywood. His tailor here in Downey altered them. Benny tried his best for Sol-marking, measuring, cutting the material, adjusting everything you could adjust, and sewing it all back together- but to no avail. Sol still looked like Omar the Tent Maker had fitted him, that is, if Omar made his tents out of worsted virgin wool with pinstripes.

He reached out and shook my hand. “ Vos tut zich? How you doing, Jimmy?”

“Okay, Sol, I guess. Your luck still holding at the track?”

Sol had The Racing Form spread out on the table next to his drink. I didn’t know whether it was his ability as a handicapper or the inside information he had at his fingertips that financed his lavish lifestyle.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, dear boychik . Genius, sheer genius, that’s why I win.” He slid into the booth. “Sit down and tell me what’s up.”

“Sol, I need some help.” No use playing games. I decided to come right out and ask.

“Money, you need money?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a short stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Here, take what you need, pay me back when you get the chance.”

The fantasy of catching up on some past due bills, or maybe picking up a new suit flashed through my mind, then just as quickly disappeared. I’d never ask to borrow money, and I knew he wouldn’t turn me down if I did. But now I had to ask him to help me professionally, without pay, which was just as hard for me. Maybe harder.

“Thanks for the offer, Sol. You’re a good friend, but what I really need is your help with a case I have to defend.”

He gave me a knowing smile. “I heard about it. Got in a brawl with Johnson. Took on a murder case. Chutzpah , Jimmy. You’ve got chutzpah , I’ll say that.”

Before I could respond, one of Rocco’s long-legged waitresses waltzed over to take our order. We both asked for steak sandwiches, coffee with mine, an extra order of deep fried onion rings for Sol.

“You heard about it already?”

“My spies tell me everything. You should have such spies.” Sol had his spies everywhere-not spies in the traditional sense like the CIA or James Bond, but more like a loose network of informants in the right places.

Background people were his spies-secretaries, clerks, janitors, typists, and at the courts, maybe the court reporter, a clerk or two, and a few bailiffs. His spies worked at City Hall, the D.A.’s office, restaurants, and bars. Waitresses, bartenders, and receptionists in public buildings fed Sol a continuous stream of intelligence. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory.

“Will you help me, Sol?” I laid it on the line, waited, and held my breath.

He pulled a gold pen from his pocket and looked down, saying nothing. I watched him mark his Racing Form, drawing little circles and underlining words that must have been important. After a few seconds, he raised his head and picked up the phone. “Please forgive me,” Sol said. “We’ll talk, but important business first. I’m gonna put a nickel on the daily double.”

Sol placed a call to Dwayne, the bartender at the Regency, who held the dubious honor of being Sol’s favorite bookmaker. Sol placed his bet-five thousand on the daily double at Del Mar.

Long Legs brought our food. While we ate, I didn’t mention the murder case. Sol’s rule number 47: no business while food was on the table. We talked about the horses, then college football. Sol said USC would go undefeated this year. With Anthony Davis and Sam ‘Bam’ Cunningham, John McKay’s team couldn’t lose. I told him not to bet on it. He said he already had.

“Now to Jimmy’s tsores,” Sol finally said after the busboy removed the dishes, and the waitress brought him another drink and refreshed my coffee. “If I help you with this case, is your client worth the effort? Did he kill the girl?”

A fair question. Why would he help me set a murderer free? He deserved a candid and straightforward answer. “I don’t know. He says he’s innocent, but the evidence against him is solid.” I placed my hands on the table, palms down. “Even if he did it, I’m still morally and, in fact, legally bound to provide the best possible defense. There might be mitigating circumstances or other factors that need to be explored.” I paused and looked into his eyes. I wanted Sol to understand how I felt. “Then again, maybe he didn’t do it. But if I don’t do my best, Rodriguez will die in the gas chamber.”

Sol listened while sipping his drink. “Reasons. Do you have reasons to think he might be innocent? You have evidence on your side?”

“No, and he’s been violent in the past, a bar fight. He’s not talking other than to declare his innocence. But I’m worried. I’m not sure he’s guilty, at least guilty in the first degree. I have a feeling inside me that won’t go away.”

“Can you win cases with feelings, Jimmy? I don’t think so. This sounds like one of those there’s-no-evidence-so-pound-the-table defenses.”

“Sol, there’s a couple of things that just aren’t kosher. How could the cops have known about Rodriguez so fast? What turned them on to him? They just showed up at the break of dawn and arrested him. Another thing: why is Johnson in such a rush to close the case?”

“Why is that important? If they get him to plead, the case is over.”

“Seems to me, if the D.A. feels that they have an open and shut case, they don’t have to bargain. They’d know that they’d win in a heartbeat.”

“Ah, maybe you’re reading too much into that. Maybe Johnson just wants to take the easy way out.”

Our discussion continued for quite some time. I told Sol all the facts I had so far, including my upcoming meeting with Roberta Allen, the deputy D.A. He asked a lot of questions. And I answered, yes, no, or mostly, I don’t know. I explained my defense plan. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I wouldn’t stand a chance unless I developed an alternate theory of the crime. Meaning, I had to come up with one or more suspects who could have murdered Gloria Graham, a basis for reasonable doubt.

“I’m a gambler, Jimmy, and I know a long shot when I hear one,” Sol said. “And besides, maybe your client’s guilty.”

“I’m his lawyer, guilty or not.” I paused and looked into Sol’s eyes. “I need your help.”

He shook his head. “ Oy vai iz mir ,” he moaned, and then exhaled in an exaggerated fashion. “Of course I’ll help. Have I ever turned you down?”

“I’ve never asked before.”

“So, that’s my fault?”

I chuckled and drew up a contract of sorts on the back of a cocktail napkin. I paid him a dollar for his services. With that, he would be covered under the attorney-client privilege and attorney work-product doctrine.

On his way out, Sol handed the dollar to the busboy.

The air conditioner in my Corvette rattled once, then quit as I inched along on the Santa Ana Freeway. The radio played a Beatles number, “Twist and Shout.” I didn’t twist, but I shouted, and it felt good. In the lane next to me, a Peterbilt truck belched heavy black smoke. All at once, it made a gear-grinding spasm and lurched forward to close a two-foot gap that opened behind a pink Caddie convertible driven by a bleached blonde lady with grotesque makeup.