All the way back to Downey, Rita glowed in dreamy-eyed serenity. She leaned her head on the seatback and hummed old Sinatra tunes. It began to get under my skin.
When I dropped her at the apartment she didn’t say goodnight, just more or less drifted to the front door and slipped in without looking back. He had that old black magic working and he had her under his spell.
I didn’t know why women found Sinatra so exciting. He was just a skinny lounge singer from Hoboken, New Jersey… okay, that wasn’t true. Sinatra was an iconic superstar, a man who had the rare ability of making music that lived in people’s hearts.
Was I jealous? Now, how absurd was that?
Jealous of Frank Sinatra?
Hell yes!
I hung around my apartment, sorting through bills and papers most of Saturday, only venturing out to grab a bite to eat. Sunday morning I thumbed through the Times, glancing at the sports page. Then I looked through the paper again, more carefully, on the off chance of finding news that our “law and order” governor had approved the release of a life-term murderer. No mention of it. I tossed the paper aside. Either his people were keeping Roberts’s release under wraps, as they said they would, or something had scotched the deal. Maybe the commutation of an old harmless guy like Roberts just wasn’t a big enough deal to attract the media’s attention. One thing for sure: I’d know by the end of the day if he was going to get his freedom or not. Now all I had to do was sit and wait. I planned to spend the day honing my skills at solitaire.
But I didn’t have to wait long. After I showered and shaved, preparing to head out for a late breakfast at Dolan’s Donuts, the phone rang.
“Mr. O’Brien,” the voice said. “I’m from the District Attorney’s Office. The governor has just signed your client’s order of commutation.”
I took a deep breath and sat on the chair next to the phone.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I said.
“Roberts will be released tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Pacific Standard Time. I believe you have his bus ticket.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, here’s the drill. Tomorrow go to the east yard at the prison. Be there not later than 9:30 a.m. Park in the lot and walk to the guard booth. Tell them who you are. They’ll be expecting you. Go back and wait in your car. Park in view of the main sallyport. You’ll see him when he comes out. Then take him directly to the bus station. Is that clear?”
“Yes. But what about his clothes? He’ll need something to wear.”
“Taken care of. We’re sending dress-outs and a suitcase with an extra set of clothing to the prison today. Your guy is getting special treatment. Now it’s up to you. Don’t mess around. Get him to the bus station on time. Understand?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“And remember, his commutation is provisional. If he’s spotted anywhere in California tomorrow after the bus pulls out of the station, he’ll be arrested and dragged back to his cell. Is that understood?”
“Hey, I already said I understand.”
I stood there for a few seconds holding the phone. The governor had actually signed the order. A wave of relief came over me. There were too many things that could have gone wrong and at times I wondered if Roberts would actually get his freedom.
Later in the day I called Sol and told him about Reagan signing the release documents. As I suspected, he already knew about it. He always knows what is going on in the halls of justice. It’s part of his business. Clients pay him a lot of money to get the inside track on the workings of government. Sol had a loose network of informants everywhere. He called them his spies. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory. So it was no surprise that he knew about Reagan signing the papers before I did.
Monday morning, I took extra care dressing, shined my shoes and even wore a tie. After twenty-nine years in prison, I’d be the first person on the outside that Roberts would see at the moment of his freedom. I felt the occasion deserved some respect.
I took a couple of one hundred dollar bills from my now depleted household stash and folded them into my pocket. The finance company holding my car’s pink slip would have to wait a little longer than usual.
Just before heading out the door, I called my office. “Any new clients, Mabel?”
“Well, yes, but it’s no big deal. Two neighbors squabbling. One of them has a black eye, wants to press charges. Rita’s handling it. Fifty bucks, tops.”
“Well, I guess we aren’t going belly up, after all.”
“Don’t get cute.”
I told Mabel I’d be gone for several hours. But if anyone called for me, I’d be in the office sometime after the lunch.
“Before you hang up there’s something I have to say…”
That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter, Mabel?”
“It’s Rita…”
“What about Rita?’
“She came in this morning toting a portable stereo player. She said the office needed a little background music-you know, like the big firms.”
“So?”
“Well, damn it. She only has one record, ‘Dream,’ by Frank Sinatra. She’s been playing it continuously all morning. I’m about to go batty!”
“Goodbye, Mabel.”
Notwithstanding the traffic on the 605 Freeway, I arrived at Chino with time to spare. This was the one day I couldn’t be late, so I left my apartment thirty minutes earlier than I normally would have when driving to prison. The guards were friendly and told me Roberts was being processed through right now and would be out shortly.
I waited by my car as instructed, and in about ten minutes Roberts walked through the sallyport carrying a battered suitcase. His clothes hung on him like the hide of a starving cow. Whoever picked out his wardrobe had a taste for the macabre. If he had a black cape he’d look like Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. Christ.
“He saw me and waved. “Howzit goin’, Jimmy?” Like we just bumped into each other at the supermarket.
“You look great, Al.”
“Yeah, terrific. It’s these fancy duds. They must’ve swiped them from some wino on Main Street. Some bum is running around buck naked this morning,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
I stowed his suitcase and we climbed in the car. In the 1968 ’Vette you had to work it around the seat to fit the luggage in place.
“I wish there were time for a getting-out-of-jail party, Al, but we only have an hour and a half to get you to the bus station.”
“This machine looks like it’ll get us there in time. What the hell do they call this contraption, anyway?”
“It’s a Corvette. They started making them in ’54. This one’s six years old.” I cranked the engine to life. “But it’ll get us there in time if I push it.”
On the drive to the Greyhound Terminal in downtown L.A., we talked mostly about the various changes that had occurred since 1945. He didn’t seem excited about jet passenger planes, but he was pissed about the Dodgers moving to L.A. and the Giants to San Francisco. I didn’t want to bring up the high cost of living these days.
We didn’t talk about his time in prison, or the circumstances that put him there. The case was closed. Roberts had his freedom. As curious as I was about a few of the facts that Sol and I had unearthed, why dredge up the past now? Discussing it would just make him more uncomfortable.
I still wondered about Sue. But whenever I’d mentioned her name before he turned stone cold. Why? I glanced to my right. Roberts stared straight ahead, a sad, silent, vacant stare. I wanted him to fill in the blanks. But I didn’t dare bring up her name.
Maybe he got a look at the 1945 movie magazine Mrs. Hathaway had found in the motel room where Vera had been murdered, the one with the photo of Sue Harvey and Francis Q. Jerome dining together at Ciro’s. That would’ve put him over the edge for sure. Hitchhiking all the way from New York to be with his fiancee, then finding out she was engaged to a movie actor. Of course, why didn’t I see it before? That could be the reason he clammed up whenever I brought up the subject. I thought for a moment about what must’ve gone through his mind when he saw that photo. And suddenly I felt like a fool. She had nothing to do with Roberts being arrested and sent to prison. I should have never mentioned it.