“Good idea,” Sol said.
“Don’s father, Clifford Clinton-the founder of Clifton’s-was one of the good guys. Back in the forties, Los Angeles was as corrupt as they come. A political machine controlled by hoodlums ran everything, right down to dogcatcher. Clifford decided to do something about it. So he and a few other good citizens started a reform movement, a committee to clean up the government. They did their own investigations, made a lot of noise and started to expose the bad guys. It wasn’t easy. Strong-arm thugs tried to stop the reformers. This cafeteria was smoke-bombed several times. Clifford received anonymous threats on his life almost daily, but he kept right on with his crusade.”
“The press kept quiet about the corruption? No editorials, nothing?” Sol asked.
“Not a thing, Sol. The L.A. Times went along with the status quo. Isn’t that right, Don?”
“Yes. Dad and the others even started backing candidates for public office, straightshooters that they could trust. He gave them the money and the clout that they needed to win.”
“The movement started making headway,” Bugliosi added. “In the late thirties, the committee managed to get a few reform candidates elected. But the big one, the election that would count more than all the others, came up in 1940. The office of District Attorney was up for grabs when it became obvious that the incumbent DA, Fitts, was an out-and-out crook. Earlier he’d taken a bribe and was indicted. Even though he wasn’t convicted, the stink clung to him like black on coal. Perfect opportunity for the committee to back a reform candidate. Long story short, Frank Byron convinced the committee that he was the man they were looking for.”
Don nodded. “Dad thought Byron was too young, but the committee checked him out thoroughly. He came across as smart, clean-cut, without a hint of scandal. So Dad and the committee decided to back him to the hilt.”
“But he didn’t stay straight. Did he?” Sol asked.
“At first everything seemed okay. But after a while, things just didn’t add up.”
“Like what, Don?” I asked.
“Little things at first. For instance, Byron was seen being wined and dined at nightspots on Sunset-Ciro’s, Cafe Trocadero, Mocambo, places like that.” Don paused for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I mean, the committee didn’t expect him to be an altar boy, anything like that. But he seemed to be making friends with a lot of questionable characters. Then there were the rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?” Sol asked.
“Nothing that could be proven. But a number of big criminal cases never made it to court.” Don shook his head. “Especially cases involving gambling interests and crooked politicians.”
“How’d he get away with it?” I asked.
“Dad found out Byron had formed a secret goon squad while in office, a small group of investigators that reported only to him. My father wasn’t exactly sure what they did. But he figured Byron used the goons to intimidate possible witnesses. Maybe that’s why no one came forward with information about Byron’s activities.”
“All through the years Clifford kept files and notes relating to his investigations,” Bugliosi said. “There was a notation in one of the files about the goon squad. An unnamed informant came forward and gave him the names of the members. Guess whose name popped up.”
“Who?”
“Rinehart. He was a young lawyer back then, working for the DA’s office.”
“The DA worked for Byron in the forties?” Sol said. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, and here’s the grabber. Rinehart was the leader of the goon squad. Actually went out with his boys on the so-called raids.”
Sol stubbed out his cigar in an upright ashtray that stood next to the couch. “My God, Vince!” he said. “Why didn’t you bring this out during the campaign?”
“Couldn’t. There was no concrete proof. The other members were long gone. No one could verify that such a squad even existed, much less that Rinehart was the leader. I would’ve looked like a fool making allegations against Rinehart regarding something I couldn’t prove.”
“My dad said Byron was the biggest mistake of his life,” Don added. “He became obsessed with digging out the truth. Even after Byron left office in ’46, Dad kept pursuing his investigation. He worked on it until the day he died in 1947. He left his files to me, but I had a business to run. As far as I was concerned it was ancient history. Changes were starting to take place; the reform movement had done its job. Clean government was coming back.”
I began to wonder what this meeting was all about. How could any of this possibly be related to my case?
Sol must’ve been reading my mind. “Thanks for the history lesson,” he said. “But what does all of this have to do with Jimmy? How does it tie into his client, Al Roberts?”
Don remained silent for a moment then glanced at Bugliosi, who nodded. He reached in his desk drawer, pulled out a large manila envelope and handed it to Sol.
“Take it with you. You can study the contents later.”
Sol opened the envelope and thumbed through it. With his thumb and forefinger he slowly pulled out a glossy, black and white photo.
He looked up and said, “My God. Is this stuff for real?”
CHAPTER 37
Sol and I thanked Don Clinton and Vince Bugliosi for their help and left. We walked out the front door together, and Sol’s limo drove up to the curb immediately. He reached out to open the passenger door.
“Wait, Sol. What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
He looked up and down the sidewalk, then pulled a grainy photo of a group of heavyweights standing in a circle outside a restaurant at night. It was obvious from the clothes they wore-wide ties, big lapels, and fedora hats-that the picture had been taken back in the forties. “Let’s meet at my office,” Sol said. “We need to talk in private.”
“I’ll see you there in a half-hour.”
As soon as the limo pulled away I jogged south on Broadway, heading back to the parking lot. When I came to the Seventh St. intersection I waited for the light to change. When it turned green I started to walk across the street. Halfway through the intersection, someone rushed up behind me. Suddenly, I felt a hard object jammed in my ribcage.
A male voice whispered in my ear, “Don’t turn around. Just keep walking.”
My heart raced. “What the hell!”
He jammed the gun harder. “Keep walking, asshole.”
I made it to the other side of the street without turning around. But my eyes shifted from side to side. I didn’t see a soul. That old line flashed in my mind: There’s never a cop around when you need one…
A couple of seconds later the same black Buick that’d haunted my nightmares pulled up to the curb. The back door flew open. My assailant shoved me into the seat and climbed in after me.
The car sped away and quickly merged with the traffic.
In addition to the driver, another guy sat in front. He turned and faced me, his gun pointed at my head. I glanced at the asshole next to me: one of the goons that had worked me over after smashing my car. The bastard in front was the other one. They were fat ugly guys, hardboiled and rotten to the core.
“Hey! What’s this all about?”
“Shut up. You’ll find out soon enough,” the guy in front said.
“You’re the same sons-of-bitches that-”
The heavyweight reached over the seat and pistol-whipped the side of my head with his revolver. I slumped back in the seat as pinpoints of light danced in front of my eyes.
“I told you to shut the hell up!”
The guy next to me wrapped tape around my wrists. My shoulders hurt like hell when he yanked my arms up tight behind my back. I decided I’d better calm down before I got myself killed.