After graduating from law school he worked in the family business, commercial banking, and through pluck and determination he soon found himself in the position of vice president. He was twenty-six at the time. But he became restless and wanted to move on to bigger things. He decided on a life of public service. A noble gesture, he said. What better example to the lazy and shiftless, the average man who chose not to sacrifice, then his own willingness to take a tremendous pay cut and run for the office of Los Angeles County District Attorney?
My coffee had gotten cold. Sol had finished his drink, stifled a yawn, and started another cigar when Byron finally got to the part where he had single-handedly cleaned up the corruption that had taken hold of city government in the late 1930s during the scandal-plagued years of Mayor Shaw. “I’d been elected on a reform platform, and by God, that’s exactly what I did,” he said.
“You don’t say. That’s admirable, but during your term as District Attorney, did you get involved in any homicide cases?” I asked. “The publisher wants me to throw in a murder or two. Readers eat that stuff up.”
“My job was the big picture, setting the agenda, and commanding the war on organized crime. I made it tough on racketeers who were spreading their filth throughout the city.”
He went on about his heroic stand against gangs and bookmakers, but I had to steer the discussion toward murder cases, then narrow it down to just one: Roberts. “I understand, Mr. Byron, but maybe we could talk about a few capital offenses that came across your desk.”
“Let me tell you about the time I stared down the biggest gangster of them all, Mickey Cohen. Your readers will love this,” he said. “It happened one night at Ciro’s Nightclub. He was with Johnny Stompanato-Mick’s bodyguard, you know. Johnny was also Lana Turner’s boyfriend. Lana’s daughter had stabbed him to death: self-defense. But that was later; he was still alive when I met him. Anyway, Mick and Stompanato were having a drink, probably planning something big, when I walked in-”
Sol glanced at his watch. “That’s all very interesting, Frank, but what I think Jimmy’s readers would like to know is did you personally try any murder cases? Maybe something the tabloids ran with. Something just to keep your hand in, grab a few headlines, so to speak.”
“You remember when Bugsy Siegel got whacked, don’t you, Sol?”
“Sure. But that happened in 1947. You were outta office by then.”
“That’s right. In 1947 I was being groomed to take over the governor’s spot. Earl Warren had already been slated to run for vice president on the Dewey ticket in’48. If the Republicans had won, like they were supposed to, well then, I would’ve… but they didn’t win, damn it. That haberdasher from Missouri, Truman remained president and Warren stayed in the governor’s chair.”
“Yeah, but you were talking about Bugsy Siegel,” Sol said. “What about him?”
It was getting late and I worried that Byron would call off the interview any minute. Maybe he’d go to lunch, or take his afternoon siesta, or maybe he’d just want to get rid of us. He probably had better things to do, like hanging around the campfire with the buckaroos. And, Christ, Sol kept talking about Siegel. Who cares about Siegel? My mind was spinning. I had to slip Roberts into the conversation somehow without raising Byron’s suspicion that we weren’t there just to immortalize an old man’s war stories. I had to get Byron on track, discussing the plea bargain and I had to do it fast.
“Ah, Mr. Byron, I’d like to know about a homicide, one that you handled during the time you held office-” I began.
“Hey, Frank, did you know Joe Sica?” Sol asked. “Big Mafia honcho back in the forties, still is.”
Sol, what are you doing? What’s all this talk about old Mafia guys? I was starting to get unsettled. I had the feeling we were blowing our only chance here.
“Yeah, I know Sica. A bad actor,” Byron said. “But it’s his brother Freddie that scares the hell out of everyone. The guy is crazy, a homicidal maniac. But I think both Joe and Freddie are locked up now.”
“Nah, they got out. Did a dime at Q, then the State cut ’em loose. I know those boys. They haven’t changed, just older,” Sol said. “Hey, by the way, did you know a guy named Alexander Roberts? A lifer, taking the long ride at Chino.”
I sighed. Way to go, Sol. What a smooth way to sneak Roberts into the conversation. I should take lessons.
Byron scratched his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “I think I read about it somewhere in the archives. Yeah, that’s it; Paul Coates of the Mirror wrote an article, said you personally handled the Alexander Roberts plea bargain. Said you did a hell of a job.”
“I told you I don’t recall anyone named Roberts.” There was a noticeable edge in Byron’s voice. We’d hit a nerve. Now I’d dig a little deeper.
“Back in ’45, didn’t you cut a deal with Roberts: life instead of extradition to Arizona on a murder-one rap?”
“What’s going on?”
“Just want to give the readers the truth.”
“Gentleman, I’m afraid my time is up. You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Another minute, please, Mr. Byron,” I said.
I pulled a paper from my pocket, a Xerox copy of the signature page from the parole board report he’d signed regarding the Roberts plea agreement. “Maybe you’ll want to see this.” I stood and dropped the paper on his desk.
He whipped out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the document for a few seconds. Was it my imagination, or did his hand tremble slightly when he handed it back to me?
“What is this?” he said, scowling.
Sol jumped in. “It’s the deal you made with Roberts when you conned him into confessing to the woman’s murder. Told him he would die in the gas chamber in Arizona for killing Charles Haskell, Jr. if he didn’t cop a plea. There was no murder charge against Roberts in Arizona. Haskell had died of a heart attack. But you knew that, Frank. Didn’t you?”
Byron sat there in silence, his anger building. He knew he’d been ambushed, but he’d spent his life as a lawyer and he knew how to control himself. He didn’t want to explode and tip his hand.
“This is absurd. I may have signed off on the plea agreement-routine. But I wouldn’t have been involved in negotiations with the defendant. No, I wouldn’t have done that.” Byron shook his head. “I wouldn’t have had my hand in any of this, not an insignificant murder of a woman in a sleazy motel room. I was an administrator, not a litigator.”
Sol stood. The ash from his cigar fell to the antique Navajo rug.
“Use the ashtray, goddammit,” Byron snapped. “That rug cost real money.”
“I bet it did,” Sol said. “Money you got from the Haskell Foundation.” Sol moved toward the desk.
Byron scooted his chair back. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Haskell, Jr. was on his way to L.A. to collect his inheritance when he mysteriously died of a heart attack after picking up a hitchhiker, Al Roberts,” I said. “Roberts takes the fall. No public trial, no prying eyes looking into the skeletons buried in the Haskell family closet.”
“Convenient for the younger brother, Raymond Haskell, the guy who gave you the big consulting contract that allowed you to retire and live like a cowboy plutocrat,” Sol added.
“I’ve heard about enough of this.”
“What exactly did you do for the Haskell Foundation?” Sol kept moving closer to Byron, “Other than bury an innocent man behind bars, that is, so no one would investigate the rightful heir’s strange, but timely death. Nothing about the Haskell family’s business affairs or political connections would ever see the light of day. Isn’t that so, Mr. Noble Public Servant?”
Byron pushed back away from his desk as far as his chair would go. “You’re outta line here, Buster, with those insinuations.”