“Are you going to ask Sol to call him?”
“Look, Rita, Sol worked hard for us. For no money, I might add. Let’s not impose on him anymore about something that’s not going to help us now. But, tell you what, I’ll mention Bugliosi and he can decide whether to call him or not. Deal?”
She smiled. “It’s a deal.”
I walked past Mabel, polishing her fingernails while sitting at the reception desk, stepped into my office and started to close the door. Rita pushed it open.
“Mabel says no one called all morning. I’m getting worried-”
We both turned our attention to the welcome ringing of the phone and held our breath. Perhaps a client? Mabel answered. “Law office.” We could hear her through the open door. “Hang on a sec.” She pushed the telephone hold button. I could see it flash on my desk. “Jimmy, it’s for you. Sol’s on line one.” We exhaled.
“Hi, Sol. What’s up?”
“I got news, Jimmy. You’re going to meet Raymond Haskell. He’s agreed to talk to us. It’s all set.”
Raymond Haskell, the long-deceased Charles Haskell’s younger brother, had been in the news lately, his picture plastered all over the Times. Last week he dedicated a new hospital wing; the money for the construction was donated by his foundation.
There were a few questions I would’ve liked to ask him regarding his brother’s death. I wanted to know if he realized that Roberts hadn’t beaten his brother with a blunt object and caused his heart attack, as the Los Angeles DA at the time had stated in his report.
Charles Haskell had died after picking up Roberts in Arizona, but according to the Yuma County autopsy report, he had died of the heart attack before he received the blow on his head. He’d struck his head on a rock falling out of the car after he died-just as Roberts had said.
But my job was finished. My client would be released soon. There were a lot of questions that would be left unanswered.
“Sol, the case is over. There’s no point-”
“I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with Haskell. The groisser putz wouldn’t give me the time of day. But listen to this: do you know who Mickey Rudin is?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“He’s a macher, Frank Sinatra’s personal lawyer. You should have such clients,” Sol said. “Anyway, Rudin’s a friend of mine.”
“That’s great-”
“Shut up and listen, Jimmy. He sent me tickets to the formal dinner, Friday night. And the three of us are going-you, Rita, and I.”
“What dinner?”
“The Reagan for President Dinner at the Beverly Wilshire. My wife refused to go with us. Blew a gasket when I told her we were invited to the kickoff dinner for Reagan’s campaign. I told her I didn’t buy the tickets, didn’t give him a damn dime. But it wasn’t the money she was kvetching about… Anyway, Rudin is hosting the event. And, of course, Haskell will be there, sitting at our table. Rudin set it up. After the speeches, we’ll get face time alone with him. With Rita at your side, you won’t look like a lawyer on a mission. You’ll look like a normal young couple, won’t spook the other guests.”
“Sol, what good would it do to talk to Haskell now? It’s all set. Roberts will be released as soon as Reagan signs the papers.”
“Too late. It’s a done deal. We have to go.”
“Why?”
“Look, Jimmy, I’d been working on this before the commutation thing came about. It’d be a tremendous embarrassment to my friend Mickey Rudin if there were empty seats at his table. Anyway, I’d like to have a few words with that phony son-of-a-bitch, Haskell. He’s a crook from way back. Can’t prove it, but it’s true.”
“Hang on a minute, Sol.” I turned to Rita, sitting on the edge of my desk. “Hey, do you want to go to a political dinner Friday night. Might be fun.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to?”
“It’d look funny if we didn’t show up. It’d embarrass Sol’s friend.”
“What’ll I wear?”
“Something nice. It’s formal.”
“Okay, Jimmy, I’ll go,” she said, hesitation in her voice. “But a political dinner-oh gosh.”
“Thanks Rita. I owe you one.”
“Don’t forget, tell Sol about Bugliosi,” she said.
“Was that Rita?” Sol asked. “What about Bugliosi? He’s a friend of mine too, you know.”
Christ, I thought, was Sol chummy with all the big shots? “We met him at the Regency. He wants you to call him. Said he trusts you and has information that might help the case.”
“Okay, I’ll call him. See what he has.”
“Sol, the case is over.”
“It’s not over yet, Jimmy, my boy. Not until Reagan signs the papers.”
Thursday went by quietly. A few calls came in inquiring about our firm. Did we handle divorces, wills, things of that nature. Mabel told them no, our firm specialized in criminal law. Then she came into my office and told me we’d better rethink our game plan-might be a good idea to handle a few civil cases, you know, diversify.
She continued to lay out the facts: more clients, more money, everyone happy. I feigned great interest in what she had to say. Leaning forward, I rubbed my chin and said, “Hmm… Interesting concept. Could be a winner.” But it’d be a loser for my sanity.
She got my attention, however, when she added, “Our reserves are dwindling and if it continues going the way it has for the last couple of months, we’ll run out of cash sooner than you realize.”
But the thought of handling mind-numbing civil cases brought on a mild migraine. Next thing you know, she’d have me chasing ambulances, then debt collections. I’d find another profession first.
I sat back, stared at the phone, and debated calling Millie. Obviously she was serious when she said Judge Balford had dropped me from her database of criminal lawyers willing to take court-appointed cases.
Millie controlled the list and I knew Balford would pretty much go along with her if she pressed the issue. But I couldn’t explain to her right then, without jeopardizing the deal, that my behavior had actually won Roberts his commutation.
Maybe I stretched it thinking I had a hand in the decision. But who knows, maybe my rant at the hearing did have something to do with the DA’s offer. I decided to wait until after Monday-after I dropped Roberts at the bus station-to call her and make an effort to smooth things over. I’d take her to lunch someplace nice. Not Burger King this time. I’d take her to Denny’s Coffee Shop.
Sol was just as curious as Rita about what Bugliosi had to offer. He’d said he would call him right away and get back to us. That was yesterday and Sol hadn’t called back, but Bugliosi said it might take a while to get in touch with him. What the heck, I was curious, too. But more than likely the ex-Deputy DA just had some dusty old files from way back when, which wouldn’t help determine who had actually murdered Vera. Anyway, by the time we got the files Roberts would be long gone. He’d be New York or wherever trying to build a new life.
Friday evening, I picked Rita up at her apartment on Florence Ave. We decided to drive to the dinner together to save double parking fees and such. Sol had business in the city. He’d meet us in the hotel lobby at seven-thirty.
Rita looked stunning. I hadn’t seen much of her during the day and now I understood why. She must’ve spent hours at the beauty salon. Her dark hair gleamed in the latest style. She wore it up, twisted and curled on top with little locks descending on each side of her angelic face. She wore a tight, coral turtleneck gown with bare shoulders and arms and a diving back. I held her lace wrap and sighed, glimpsing her figure, as she turned to fold it around her shoulders.
When she smiled at me, my heart melted. I almost wished we were actually having a date-a real date, not just two legal associates gathering evidence by pretending to be a carefree couple going out on a Friday night.