I pulled into the parking area of the new Greyhound terminal located on Seventh Street at eleven-ten, fifteen minutes to spare. The bus company recently moved into the new building from the old terminal at Sixth and Main Street, which back in the early fifties Greyhound had shared with the now defunct Pacific Electric Railway, Southern California’s rapid transit system.
A consortium made up of Standard Oil, General Motors, and Firestone Tire bought the electrical rail company in 1953, promising to improve the service. Instead, they tore out the tracks and dumped the Big Red Cars in the ocean halfway to Catalina. Now, miles of freeways crisscrossed the basin and Los Angeles had choked under a blanket of smog ever since.
We climbed out of the ’Vette. Roberts untangled his luggage from behind the seat and we stood looking at each other, not knowing exactly what to say.
Al seemed downhearted, but his attitude was to be expected. I wasn’t able to deliver what he really wanted: exoneration. But that wasn’t all of it. He hadn’t felt the effects of having his freedom yet, and he had serious doubts about the future. Anyone would. After being institutionalized for half his life it would take years, perhaps decades, before he could respond to his surroundings in what one would consider a normal manner.
“How long is the bus ride, Al?” I asked, making small talk.
He studied the ticket that I’d handed him earlier. “Almost three days. No big deal. There were times inside when I sat on the edge of my bunk and just stared at the wall for months on end. Only got up to eat and take a shit…” He looked at the sky. “Aw, screw that.”
We shook hands. “If there’s anything I can do for you, give me a buzz.” I doubted I could help him adjust to a new life, but somehow I knew he’d never call.
“Thanks Jimmy. I mean it. I owe you, man. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
“Yeah, take care, Al.”
He started to walk toward the terminal entrance.
“Hey, wait up,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the small stake I’d promised to give Roberts to help him get a start. “Got something for you. It’s not much-”
He turned back to face me and saw the bills in my outstretched hand.
“Put it away, Jimmy. They gave me the money I earned while working at the prison. Even at ten cents an hour, after twenty-nine years it adds up. I’ll be okay, but thanks again.”
He walked the few short steps into the building and took one giant stride out of a life of misery.
I hoped.
CHAPTER 21
I got back in the car and pulled onto 7th Street. At the next light I glanced at the gas gauge-running on fumes. I shuddered a little thinking of what it would have meant if I’d run out of gas while driving Roberts to the Greyhound Terminal. I wheeled into a Richfield station, and while the attendants filled the tank and washed the windows, I made my way to a payphone booth.
I figured I might still be able to catch Millie at Judge Balford’s courtroom. If she was available I’d offer to take her out for a bite. At lunch, I’d smile a lot and try to get her to lighten up on me. I’d patiently explain how my brilliant legal strategy had actually paid off as planned. Oh, I may have ruffled a few feathers along the line, but I’d won my client’s freedom. I’d tell her how I righted a twenty-nine-year miscarriage of justice. In the end that’s what counted. I don’t see how she could turn me down after my explanation and not put my name back on the list of lawyers eligible to be assigned court-appointed cases.
Millie picked up on the second ring. “Jimmy, I called your office. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“About lunch?”
“What do you mean, about lunch?”
“I thought we could grab a bite this afternoon. I know it’s a little late, but-”
“No, there’s no time for that. The judge wants to meet you in her chambers. Can you make it here today?”
“I guess so.”
“Hang on a sec.”
She put me on hold. Music played in my ear. Mantovani and his Orchestra, a thousand strings, playing a cover of the Beatles’ “Twist and Shout.” I wondered if the Beatles were pissed. I glanced at the gas station attendants working on my car while waiting for Millie to come back on the line. Maybe this was the break I’d been hoping for. Maybe Judge Balford heard about Roberts being released and wanted to make amends.
Millie came back on. “I checked with Judge Balford. Be here in an hour.”
Judge Balford, an attractive black woman in her late forties, sat at her desk, her head bent over a bowl of steaming soup as she inhaled the aroma swirling around her. It smelled great from where I stood. Minestrone, I thought.
She looked up. “Please be seated. I hope you don’t mind if I take my lunch while we have this discussion. With my schedule there’s no time to leave the building.”
“Not at all,” I said, sitting on the edge of a chair that faced her desk.
“Okay, we’ll get right to the point, and I’ll be frank. I wasn’t pleased with the phone call I received from Deputy Commissioner Schlereth regarding your deportment at the Roberts parole hearing.”
“I can explain, Your Honor. It was all part of my plan.” I glanced at Millie, sitting on the judge’s sofa with her legs crossed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She shook her head. “You see, Judge, there was a miscarriage of-”
“Please let me finish,” Judge Balford said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“As I started to say, in light of recent developments, I’ve decided to give you another chance. But let this be a warning; I’ll not tolerate any more of your shenanigans. You’ve crossed the line one too many times.” The judge paused and sipped a spoonful of soup.
I felt a sense of relief. I knew from the moment I woke up this morning that this was going to be my lucky day. She’s putting me back on the list.
“Thank you, Your Honor, from now on I’m-”
“I’m not finished.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll have Millie assign arraignments to you, but because of Deputy Commissioner Schlereth’s displeasure, I can’t give you any more parole hearings.”
“But, Judge, I won my client’s freedom. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Millie shot me a look that said, Shut your trap, take the reprimand, and maybe you’ll wind up with some clients again.
“No offense, Mr. O’Brien, but I don’t think it happened that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was informed by the District Attorney’s Office this morning that due to the chronic overcrowded conditions in our correctional facilities, they’ve been testing a new program. The authorities have been reviewing the status of long-time lifers. If the inmates meet certain criteria, they will be scheduled for conditional parole, or even commutation. The District Attorney, along with other State agencies, has been working on this for quite some time. Alexander Roberts was the first test case.”
“Really,” I said. “If they were going to let him go anyway, why’d the DA’s office bother to send Deputy DA Marshall out to Chino? He vigorously protested my client’s parole.”
“At the time of his hearing the governor hadn’t been advised of the program. The District Attorney couldn’t go forward with the program until he had been so informed. The program is still in the testing phase. Naturally, they wouldn’t want any publicity at this point.”
“Naturally.”
Judge Balford tore a hunk of bread from a baguette and started to butter it. “So you see, Mr. O’Brien, you had nothing to do with Mr. Roberts’s release. The decision to grant him a conditional commutation was made prior to your involvement.”