Chapter One
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 perp
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 DA 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 DA,
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?"
"Guess so," I said.
Johnson scribbled the names of the homicide detective
and the deputy DA handling the case on a piece of paper.
"Here, take this. Go talk to them today. Tomorrow you
can interview your new client. We'll have him here in our
lockup before the arraignment. It's scheduled for ten-thirty."
I tucked Johnson's note in my pocket and left his
chambers. It dawned on me as I walked the hallway of the
court building that if the state had an airtight case, why would
the Judge want to cut a deal? They arrested the madman
who'd killed a powerful senator's secretary, a beautiful young
woman. Senator Berry Welsh had the muscle to demand
justice. You'd think he'd be clamoring for the murderer's head
on a plate. But I'd do my job and maybe Johnson would come
through and throw a bone my way from time to time.
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 perp
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 DA 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 DA,
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?"
"Guess so," I said.
Johnson scribbled the names of the homicide detective
and the deputy DA handling the case on a piece of paper.
"Here, take this. Go talk to them today. Tomorrow you
can interview your new client. We'll have him here in our
lockup before the arraignment. It's scheduled for ten-thirty."
I tucked Johnson's note in my pocket and left his
chambers. It dawned on me as I walked the hallway of the
court building that if the state had an airtight case, why would
the Judge want to cut a deal? They arrested the madman
who'd killed a powerful senator's secretary, a beautiful young
woman. Senator Berry Welsh had the muscle to demand
justice. You'd think he'd be clamoring for the murderer's head
on a plate. But I'd do my job and maybe Johnson would come
through and throw a bone my way from time to time.
GUILTY OR ELSE