Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

“Who the fuck are you?” Rodriguez asked, trying to sound tough and failing miserably.

“Why don’t we tell you inside,” Frank said as Herb Cross walked up behind the PI.

Frank’s investigator had his hand stuffed in his jacket pocket as if he were holding a gun. Rodriguez’s eyes darted between his captors. While the PI was making up his mind, Herb opened the back door and Frank made the choice for him by pushing Rodriguez inside.

The blinds were down and a low-wattage bulb in a standing lamp cast a sickly pale light over a disgustingly dirty living room. Soiled clothes, skin magazines, and dirty dishes were strewn around. The smell of stale pizza and sweat made Frank wince. He decided that calling the house a pigsty would insult swine everywhere. The only neat spot was a corner of the room given over to a computer, printer, fax, and telephone. Frank guessed that this oasis of cleanliness served as Rodriguez’s office.

“How do you live here?” Frank asked.

“Fuck you,” the PI answered without much conviction.

Frank shoved Rodriguez onto the couch and stood over him, because he was afraid to sit on any of the furniture.

“What’s this all about?” Rodriguez asked.

“We know you took the pictures of Sally Pope with Charlie Marsh,” Frank said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rodriguez said as he folded his arms across his chest and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Frank.

“Explain how he fucked up,” Frank said to Cross.

“You made a really amateurish mistake, Jack,” Frank’s investigator said. He handed the PI one of the photographs that had been shot through the windshield of a car.

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Then someone stole your ride. A VIN number is a seventeen-character alphanumeric code specific to each vehicle.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rodriguez said, but he was staring at a section of the photo and he’d started to sweat.

“The VIN is mounted on a strip where the dashboard and the windshield meet on the driver’s side. Yours is reflected in the picture. Like I said, an amateur’s mistake. I traced the VIN back to you, Jack.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Frank said. “I’m sure you know that Sally Pope is on trial for killing her husband.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“Do you know the DA’s theory? He thinks your photos were used to lure Congressman Pope to his death. That makes you an accessory to murder.”

“Bullshit.” Rodriguez hugged himself tighter. “I want a lawyer.”

“Cops have to get suspects lawyers. I’m not a cop.”

“Then who the fuck are you?”

“Your savior, Jack. The man who can keep you from facing a murder charge.”

Karl Burdett was in a great mood when he led his trial assistants into the courtroom the next morning. Frank Jaffe was supposed to be a hot shot but Karl felt that he had him on the ropes. True, Jaffe had scored some points with Otto Jarvis, but he didn’t think he’d lay a glove on Tony Rose. If the jurors believed Rose, the case was over.

“Mr. Burdett,” Judge Hansen’s bailiff said while Karl was swinging his attaché case onto the prosecution table, “the judge wants you in chambers.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know, but Judge Hansen, Mr. Jaffe, his client, and two other men are waiting for you.”

Karl frowned. He told his assistants to get his files ready and walked toward the judge’s chambers. He didn’t like surprises.

“Morning, Karl,” the judge said. She hadn’t donned her robes yet and was wearing a black pants suit and white silk blouse. Even though it was illegal to smoke in a public building, Hansen was on her third cigarette and the room stank from cigarette smoke.

Karl recognized Herb Cross, who was sitting on a couch against the wall next to a scrawny, unkempt man who looked to be in his late twenties and was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes.

Judge Hansen pointed at a chair. It was across the desk from her and next to Frank, who was seated next to his client. The only other person in the room was the judge’s court reporter, which meant they weren’t going to have an off-the-record chat.

“Mr. Jaffe has brought some very unsettling information to me and I’m trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation,” the judge said.

“What situation? I don’t know what’s going on.” The DA cast a quick glance at Jack Rodriguez. “If it involves a new witness, Mr. Jaffe hasn’t given me notice as required by the discovery rules.”

“It does involve a witness but Mr. Jaffe didn’t learn about him until last night. That’s why we’re meeting. However, before we discuss Mr. Rodriguez’s testimony, I want to make certain that I understand your case. You’re not going to argue that Mrs. Pope shot her husband, are you?”

“No. Charlie Marsh shot him.”

Judge Hansen nodded. “Okay, so, if I’ve got this right, you’re going to argue that Mrs. Pope and Mr. Marsh conspired to kill her husband.”

“Right.”

“Then Mrs. Pope got someone to take photographs of her and Mr. Marsh in compromising positions and sent these pictures to her husband to make him angry and jealous so he would come to the Westmont Country Club where Mr. Marsh could kill him.”

“That’s our case.”

“Mr. Jaffe, let’s put Mr. Rodriguez’s testimony on the record,” the judge said.

“I object to this…this procedure. I really don’t…”

“Relax, Karl,” the judge said. “I’m taking this testimony in chambers so the press won’t hear it. That would be pretty embarrassing for you. You’ll catch on once you hear what Frank’s witness has to say.”

Frank turned his chair toward the PI. “The judge swore you earlier, Mr. Rodriguez, and you’re still under oath. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Rodriguez answered reluctantly.

“Are you a private investigator?”

“Yes.”

“Have I shown you state’s exhibit thirteen, the photographs that were sent to Congressman Pope?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell us why you were following Mrs. Pope and Mr. Marsh and taking photographs of them.”

“I got a phone call.”

“From who?”

“A man.”

“Did he tell you who referred him to you?”

“I do work for the Reed, Briggs law firm every once in a while. He mentioned a lawyer over there.”

Frank turned to the judge. “If I may, Your Honor, I’m prepared to prove that the Reed, Briggs firm handles Arnold Pope Sr.’s legal work.”

“Whoa, wait a second. What’s going on here?” Burdett asked, alarmed by anything that could damage his relationship with his largest contributor.

“Relax and you’ll find out,” the judge told the DA. “Proceed, Mr. Jaffe.”

“Okay. Now, Mr. Rodriguez, was there anything unusual about the voice of the man who contacted you?”

“He had a British accent.”

“Did I have you call a number, last night?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you call?”

“You said it was the unlisted number at Arnold Pope Sr.’s estate.”

“Was there anything familiar about the voice of the man who answered the phone?”

“Yeah. It was the guy who’d hired me.”

“You’re certain?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Well, I never met the guy but it sounded just like him. He had that British accent. And when I told him who I was he got very panicky and refused to put me through to Mr. Pope.”

“Did he hang up?”

“Yeah.”

“Your Honor,” Frank said, “Derrick Barclay, Mr. Pope’s personal assistant, has a British accent. I made a recording of the call and Mr. Barclay sounds pretty rattled on it.”