Jeff Sherratt - Guilty or Else

They say never blame it on the weather. But I had to come up with something, a story that would explain why I was running late for Judge Johnson’s command performance. Today, unlike most days in sunny California, the rain beat down in a mind-numbing torrent. These late August storms blew in from the Pacific Ocean, hung around for about an hour, dumped a billion gallons of acid rain on the smog-choked, sun-baked, paved-over landscape known as the L.A. Basin before they disappeared, leaving the freeway system and feeder roads a tangled mess.

Not that the current storm caused my tardiness. I’d overslept. But I had to place the blame somewhere. “Be here at nine A.M., exactly!” Judge Johnson demanded when he’d called my office yesterday. He didn’t say why he wanted to see me, just be there on time.

My four-year-old ’68 Corvette skidded into the last parking spot at the South Gate Municipal Court and I rushed into the single-story brick building. When I bolted into Johnson’s courtroom, the bailiff shook his head ominously as he pointed to the Judge’s chambers.

“Sorry, Judge, the traffic on Firestone Boulevard. The rain, you know,” I said, peeking around the door.

“Yeah, everyone’s late. Come in and sit down.”

I expected a ration of crap, but instead he seemed subdued, even pensive. I took a chair facing his desk.

“I guess you heard about the murder,” he said.

“Saw it on the news last night. Senator Welch’s secretary, stabbed to death Saturday night. Shame.” When Judge Johnson didn’t say anything, I added, “Just a kid, really.”

“Gloria was twenty-seven,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. Then he perked up. “They caught the guy who did it.”

“Cops didn’t waste any time finding the killer.”

I wondered why Bob Johnson wanted to see me this morning. We weren’t close or anything. Oh, we had worked together as cops on the Los Angeles Police Department years ago. He flew jets during the Korean War, mustered out shortly after the ceasefire, and joined the LAPD. I came on twelve years later after two years of police science at Cerritos Community College. Because of his military experience, Johnson rose through the ranks on a fast track and soon became a sergeant. Johnson had the chevrons. I had slick sleeves, which made him the boss of our two-man unit. But he wouldn’t have demanded my appearance this morning just to talk about old times, or gab about the news.

“The cops didn’t break a sweat,” Johnson said. “The bastard left a trail of evidence, led right to his house. Her body was still warm when they collared the bastard.”

“Her gardener, wasn’t it?”

“Hot-blooded Mexican. You know how they are. Violent sons of bitches. The cops and the D.A. figured he tried to put the make on Gloria. When she wouldn’t go along-well, you saw the story on TV.”

“Judge, have you talked to the senator?”

“Had breakfast with him this morning. He’s shook up. Can’t understand how something like this can happen right here in South Gate. It’s not like we’re in South Central L.A.”

“Do you think the murder will have an impact on his campaign?”

Through his charisma and movie star looks, Senator Berry Welch played the game and worked his way up the system until he became the majority leader of the state senate, a kingpin in the Democratic Party. He was up for re-election in November, a shoe in. There was talk that he had his eye on the top prize in 1974: governor of the State of California.

“The press already pounced on the story. Any time violence, a pretty girl, and a politician are mentioned in the same paragraph, the news maggots crawl out of wherever they come from and insinuate all sorts of lurid bullshit.”

Johnson reached into a hand-carved antique humidor adorning his desk. He extracted a cigar the size and shape of a small torpedo. “Sells papers. I’m not worried. The election is still two years away.” He ignited a pocket-sized, gold-plated blowtorch, set fire to the cigar, and puffed on it until the tip glowed red-hot.

“People have memories like fruit flies,” Johnson said.

“The story will disappear once the killer confesses. Berry, of course, had nothing to do with her death. We don’t think the murder will cause problems.”

I remained silent, thinking. What kind of animal would murder a young woman in the prime of her life, and why?

“Maybe there’s something you can do for me. Might be good for you too.”

“Sure, Bob, what do you need?”

He held out his burning cigar. “These are Cohiba cigars, Cuban, handmade for Castro. Can’t get ’em here in the United States; the embargo, you know. I’ve got a contact. The guy brings them up from Mexico.”

My eyes stung as the room filled with a blue haze, carrying with it a sweet pungent aroma. The smell of money burning. Did he want me to get him some cigars?

Johnson rolled the cigar around in his mouth. “How old are you, Jimmy? Thirty-five, thirty-six?” he asked between puffs.

“Thirty-four.”

“Getting it together, are you?”

“I’m working on it,” I said.

“Still drink?”

“Nope, I quit after Barbara left me.”

Johnson seemed to scrutinize me while puffing his torpedo.

“You said something about a favor?”

“Heard about your divorce,” he said. “Barbara’s a hell of a woman. Too bad.”

“Look, Bob, I’ll admit I’ve had my problems, but I’ve cleaned up my act.”

“How long you been off the sauce?”

“Four years now.”

Johnson leaned forward. “Jimmy, I can help you out, but I’ve got to know I can trust you. You played ball back in the old days when we were cops. I’m not forgetting the favors.” He paused for a moment. “I counted on you then, but can I trust you now?”

Being on the right side of a well-connected guy like Johnson couldn’t hurt my new law practice, and I needed the business. In the six months since I started, I’d only had a handful of paying clients. “Yeah, sure you can count on me.”

He took another hard pull on his Cohiba. “Sometimes it’s important to go along to get along.”

Obviously, he had something in mind. I remained silent, waiting to see what he wanted from me.

He leaned back. “Okay, I’m going to take a chance on you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We talked about the guy who killed Welch’s secretary.”

“Yeah, the gardener.”

“He’s broke. Hasn’t got a quarter,” Johnson said.

My stomach tightened. Was he going to offer me the case? “Oh?”

“This is no pro bono deal.”

“Are you appointing me to defend this guy?”

“The government will pay you to represent him.” He looked me straight in the eye. “You’ll be paid, but only for the arraignment. The cops have an airtight case and the defendant is due to be arraigned here tomorrow. Cut a deal with the D.A., maybe second degree. Plead him out, he escapes life without parole. That’s it.”

This could turn out to be one of the hottest cases of the year. Half a dozen well-qualified lawyers around town would love to get it. They’d probably even handle the defense without a fee. The publicity alone would more than justify the cost of a trial.

“Why me, Bob?” I said.

Johnson took a hit on his cigar, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “Because I’m a good guy, helping an old buddy. Now, can you handle it?”

“What if the gardener tells me he didn’t do it? What if he wants to plead innocent?”

Johnson flicked the ash into his wastebasket and leaned into me; our noses almost touched. “This case is cut and dried. Understand, Jimmy? Don’t try to make a career out of it. Convince the guy to take a deal and get it over with. Like I said, can you do the job?”