The door banged open. A man of about sixty marched in. “This is the hearing room. No talking until I say so.”
I ignored him and continued speaking to Roberts, “Goddammit, Al, hear me out. I have important information about your case.”
“Yeah, what?” Roberts asked.
The man at the front of the room shouted, “I said, no talking!”
I glanced up at the guy. He wore a loud checkered jacket, blue pants, and his wavy hair was all fluffed up with the sides sweeping back like glossy, silver wings. He swaggered around, acting like a peacock in heat.
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled.” I stood. “I’ll talk to my client if I feel like it. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m Deputy Commissioner Schlereth. I’m in charge of the hearings.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m Jimmy O’Brien, representing Alexander Roberts. Just conferring with my client while we wait.”
He placed a stack of papers on the table. “We have a busy schedule today, Mr. O’Brien, several hearings.” He sat at the table, adjusted his chair and glared at me. “We’re late getting started.”
“So, start.”
“The other commissioners haven’t arrived yet.”
Turning back to Roberts, I started to say something about the autopsy report, but paused. I didn’t want to hurt Roberts’s chance by pissing off the commissioner before the proceedings even began. So I kept quiet. Roberts would find out what I’d discovered when I dropped the bomb on the commissioners. He looked at me, concern-or was it hope?-etched on his face. I put my finger to my lips, nodded slightly, and sat there, twiddling my thumbs.
Finally, two more people, a man in his early forties, and a middle-aged woman of obvious means wearing a fur coat-the other commissioners, I assumed-strolled into the room, talking and laughing. They took a seat on either side of Schlereth and at 9:40 the hearing started.
The Deputy Commissioner held up his hand. “All right, everyone’s now present.” He glanced at the wealthy woman. “Let’s call this hearing to order.” She gave a shrug and nodded. He looked down and fingered a file resting on the table. “Today's date is October 15, 1974. The time is now 0942 hours and we are at the California Institution for Men at Chino. This hearing is being taped.” He reached out and adjusted the reel-to-reel Magnavox in front of him. “Participants in today’s hearing are Commissioners, Mrs. Thornton, Mr. Goodwin, and I’m Deputy Commissioner Schlereth.” He looked again at Mrs. Thornton who, while examining her outstretched fingers, adjusted a lavish diamond ring. He continued reciting the names of those in attendance: “the inmate, Mr. Alexander Roberts, CDC number V-34560. And representing the inmate is the attorney, James O’Brien.”
He paused a moment. “Wait a minute, a private attorney?” He looked up at me. “What are you doing here? Attorneys get paid, don’t they? The prisoner is indigent.” He turned to Miss Rich Bitch. “Mrs. Thornton,” the Deputy Commissioner said, wiggling his fingers in a ‘gimme’ manner. The woman pulled a document from her alligator attache case and slid it across the table. “Oh, yes. Here it is,” Schlereth said. “Your application to represent Inmate Roberts. Appointed by a judge. Hmm, one of those government handouts. He eyed me curiously. “Not much money. You must be inexperienced.”
I stood and felt as if I should curtsy. That’s me, Jimmy O’Brien junior lawyer from Downey. Maybe I should show him my Cub Scout merit badge. “Commissioner Schlereth, I’m just here to serve the cause of justice.” I sat down.
“Mr. O’Brien, your lack of experience in these matters will be no excuse for improper behavior. Remember, this is not a trial and I lay down the rules.”
I got to my feet again. “Commissioner Schlereth, I hope your opinion of my ability won’t interfere with my client receiving a fair hearing. But anyway, let me get to the point. I’ve uncovered evidence that will have a bearing on the inmate’s parole-”
“You work cheap, don’t you?”
“My fee is of no consequence and does not relate to the matter before us.” I paused for a short beat. “Now, Commissioner Schlereth, I’d like to make a statement-”
“There’ll be time for that later,” he said, interrupting me for the second time.
“Listen to me, please.” I placed my hand on Roberts’s shoulder. “I have new evidence and I feel once you hear of my discovery, you’ll-”
Schlereth continued to ignore me and kept rattling on, leaning into the microphone. “And representing the people of the County of Los Angeles is Deputy District Attorney Stephen Marshall. There are no other persons present here today.”
The Deputy DA, a young guy, probably in diapers when Roberts had been convicted, sat in the last row of chairs, tilted back against the wall. He wore glasses with dark heavy frames and had on khaki pants with a blue blazer and a tie that his kid-if he had a kid-must have given him. It had pictures of little Mickey Mouses running around on it.
“Why don’t you move a little closer, Mr. Marshall? This is being taped and we’ll want to get your every word recorded for posterity,” Schlereth said.
The Commissioner wasn’t going to listen to what I had to say, at least not now. So, I sat down reluctantly and waited. I tapped my fingers on the edge of the chair while Schlereth read into the record laws governing parole hearings, section numbers, codes that referenced the authority granted to the panel by statute, that sort of thing. He included the count of the indictment: “…for violation of penal code, section 187, first degree murder, one count, Los Angeles County, case number 45-67862.”
He read the report prepared for the parole board that outlined the circumstances surrounding Roberts’s incarceration, the brutality of the crime, how he was arrested, and how he confessed to his crime after reaching an agreement with the District Attorney. Then he read the sentence handed down by Judge Alfred Nevins: life in prison with eligibility for parole in thirty years.
Schlereth continued in his droll manner, reciting the prosecuting attorney’s reasons for the plea agreement. But when he came to the paragraph that explained how Charles Haskell, Jr. had been struck with a blunt object and had died as a result of the blow to his head, I bolted from my chair. “Objection!” I yelled. “The inmate was not convicted of Haskell’s so-called murder, and besides-”
Without looking up Schlereth said, “Sit down, Mr. O’Brien. This is not a court of law. You can’t object.”
“Haskell died of natural causes!” I almost shouted. “And I object to any reference in this hearing on or off the record that indicates or implies Haskell was murdered.”
I glanced at my client. His jaw dropped and the blood ran from his ashen face. Roberts, finally, after all those years in prison, realized what I was saying. The DA had set him up.
Schlereth looked up and gave me a quick once-over. “I said sit down. This is a parole hearing. We have procedures and we follow them. I’m going to read the material as provided to the board. When I’m finished we’ll have closing arguments. First the District Attorney will have his turn. Then you and your client will be allowed to speak.”
I dropped into my chair and Schlereth started in again. Looking down his nose through the lens of his half-glasses, he read the DA Byron’s statement regarding Haskell made at the time of Roberts’s plea agreement: “On or about July 8th, 1945, the prisoner, Alexander Roberts, with malice aforethought did willfully strike one white male, aged thirty-two, to wit, Charles Haskell Jr. Shortly after being struck about the head by the aforementioned Roberts, the victim suffered a fatal heart attack. The decedent’s heart attack was the direct result of the trauma administered by the accused-”
“That’s bullshit. I didn’t hit Mr. Haskell.”
Schlereth’s head snapped up. “Attorney O’Brien, tell your client to please keep quiet until it’s time for him to speak.”