But all of that had nothing to do with Sol and I knew that without his help I’d just be running in circles without a chance to discover what really happened back in 1945.
As I talked, Sol listened, nodding occasionally. I was making headway. But how do I ask for his help? Should I just come out with it, or should I plant the seed and see if he volunteers? I told him that Roberts had sold his story when he was arrested and they made a movie of his ordeal, a film called Detour.
Then I said, “You’d have to get a copy of the film somehow, Sol. Maybe there’s something in the movie we could use. What do you think? Maybe we could do a little investigation of the woman’s murder. You could have one of your people snoop around-”
Sol interrupted. “Why should you care? You were just hired to be his lawyer at the hearing, right?”
“Yeah, but, there’s a chance that guy might be innocent. I’m a lawyer and he’s now my client. Hell, I took an oath. I’m an officer of the court.”
“Look, Jimmy, the guy’s probably guilty.” Sol stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You said yourself. He could’ve murdered the woman. But for the sake of argument let’s just say he didn’t do it. And let’s say he got screwed back in ’45 and didn’t get a shot at a trial.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly my point. You see-”
“Let me finish, okay?”
“Sorry.”
“Now listen. It happened a long time ago, almost thirty years. There is no way anything new will be found now. At any rate, if he deserves it, the parole board will cut him loose. If not, well, what can I say? It’d be best if you dropped the case. You can’t win. Why put the guy through all that? Besides, I can’t imagine the guy has any money.”
“Sol, you know he has no money and I’m certain his parole will be denied. I’ve done enough of these cases to know when the board’s going to refuse parole.” I didn’t mention to Sol that I had pissed off the board so much that even if Roberts were the reincarnation of St. Francis of Assisi, they’d keep him locked up forever on a diet of stale bread and water. “The parole board is going to send a letter of denial. I saw it in their eyes. That’s why I need your help. C’mon, Sol, Roberts deserved-no make that, society deserved a fair trial back then. The system trashed him in ’45 and for the system to work it has to be blameless, unimpeachable. It’s guaranteed in the United States Constitution.”
“Is this where I stand up and salute?”
Jeanine brought another round of drinks and a selection of hot hors d'oeuvres: chicken wings, pizza puffs, and miniature wieners impaled on a toothpick drenched in some kind of red sauce.
I took a sip of Coke. “Are you going to help me with this Roberts thing, or not?”
Sol surveyed the tidbits on the table, his head on a swivel. He settled on the little wieners. Plucking one from the plate, he held it up before his eyes like he was a noted biologist perusing a species of a rare tropical bug. “Hmm, looks good.”
He popped it in his mouth and chewed.
“Well?” I said.
“Not bad, has a hint of Tabasco.”
“Not the goddamn wiener,” I said. “Are you going to help me investigate the Roberts case?”
“Yeah, guess so. Why not?” He nodded. “Here, try one of these.” He shoved one of the little wieners at me.
I took a bite and smiled. Sol was right, a bit spicy, but not too bad.
CHAPTER 6
It wasn’t the heat that got me down, though that was surely part of it-the thermometer hovering around the 100? mark-it was the drive out to Chino, back to the prison. It seemed to take forever. A Sig Alert had been issued. The Pomona Freeway, north of Diamond Bar, was jammed again; three lanes were blocked due to an overturned big rig.
The State had hired me to represent Roberts only at the parole hearing, nothing else. So before I could officially act on his behalf regarding matters not related to the hearing, he’d have to sign an attorney/client retainer agreement. Maybe I should’ve asked Mabel to travel out here instead to get his John Hancock on the form. Yeah, sure…
Because my visit wasn’t considered confidential, I met Roberts in the crowded visitors’ meeting room, a large well lit area with a half dozen rows of long tables placed end to end. Prisoners sat on benches with their visitors across from them. Several guards roamed the spaces between the tables and one guard, a sergeant, stood at parade rest next to the only door leading in and out of the room. The low murmur of voices reverberated off the concrete walls as inmates and their visitors-a few men, but mostly women-leaned into one another and talked. Some held hands across the table, and some had tears in their eyes, but for most it was blank stares from hollow faces.
One of the guards escorted me to Roberts. He sat bunched with prisoners in the middle of a table placed along the far wall. He didn’t say anything, just nodded, when I squeezed in tight between a man on my right and woman on my left and sat facing him. The guy to my right, a slab-sided Hispanic with tattoos up and down his arms, gave me a quick look and squirmed in his seat before turning his attention back to the inmate he was there to see.
After explaining to Roberts that I needed his signature on the form in order for me to continue to represent him, he perked up, looked around and whispered, “Someone finally gives a shit about my case. I don’t understand why, but I’m grateful just the same.”
I caught the eye of one of the roving guards and raised my hand. “I have a paper for the prisoner to sign,” I said in a loud voice. The guard came over, took the form, and after giving it a cursory examination, passed it on to Roberts. He also handed him a ballpoint pen that he pulled from his uniform pocket.
“Sign on the bottom, where it says client,” I told Roberts.
His hand shook a little as he scrawled his signature on the paper. He didn’t bother to read it before handing it back to the guard, who then gave it to me. They have a lot of rules in prisons, and this was one of them. It would’ve been a crime for me to pass anything directly to an inmate.
“They pay me ten cents an hour. I work in the laundry three days a week and I get a small tip from the warden when I play the piano for him at a party.” Roberts said when the guard wandered away. “Ain’t much, and I can’t pay your fee.”
“Just tell me this, Al, and give me a straight answer. Did you kill Vera? I know you didn’t murder Haskell, but-”
Roberts exploded. “I didn’t kill nobody! Haskell or Vera. Goddamn it, I was framed.” He started to stand.
The whole room became quiet and everyone, inmates and visitors alike, looked at Roberts and me for a moment before turning away, pretending not to hear the outburst.
“Sit down and shut up,” I said. “I just had to be sure, that’s all. Hey, I’m willing to take a chance on you. And if I can get a new trial, and if you’re released, and if you get a job, then you can pay me on the installment plan. That’s a lot of ifs, but I’m willing to give it a shot. But here’s one more if-if you lie to me, even one tiny detail, then I’m off the case. It will be over, finito, and you can rot in here forever. Understand?”