I said, “You left out ‘bloody.’”
Fred said, “From what you’ve told me, Nate, the LAPD either botched this out of sheer incompetence or they’re covering something up for their pals at the CIA. How is making enemies of either of those fine upstanding institutions good for business?”
“With a client,” I said, “we have a certain amount of cover, not to mention funding. As it is, all I have are suspicions. That’s why we’re talking, fellas. Staying on this is hard to justify.”
“No it isn’t,” Hasty said. “You’re the boss. You are the A-1, both in the public perception and in the legal sense.”
With a tinge of reluctance, Lou’s voice announced, “Hasty’s right. We three partners put together don’t add up to your percentage of the business. It’s not a democracy. This is your decision, Nate.”
A knock at the inner office door prompted a “Yes?” from me.
Our receptionist, Evie, apparently between auditions, stuck her pretty blonde head in. “There’s a gentleman out here to see you, Mr. Heller. He doesn’t have an appointment but seems to think you’ll see him. What should I...?”
“What’s his name?”
“Ronald Kiser.”
Fred and I exchanged glances. A reporter for Life magazine both here and abroad, Kiser had been the Sirhan Sirhan defense team’s investigator. He was an interesting guy, having trained as a Jesuit before winding up a married journalist. I knew him a little, the A-1 having provided security for him when his insider reports on Vatican II got him death threats.
I signed off with Sapperstein and Hasty and told Evie to send Kiser in. And I asked Fred to stick around, which he did, repositioning himself on the sofa under the wall of framed press accounts and signed celebrity photos, leaving the client chair empty and waiting.
Kiser came confidently in, a youthful forty or so, a short but formidable figure in a conservative gray suit and darker gray tie; under a blond burr haircut and behind dark-rimmed glasses, the pleasant blue-eyed features on his round face often wore a smile. But not today.
“Mr. Heller,” he said as he approached the desk and held out his hand. “Apologies for just dropping by.”
I got up, shook the offered hand, and reminded him that he was Ron and I was Nate and to have a seat.
I gestured to my partner on the couch. “I believe you know Fred Rubinski.”
They nodded to each other, as Kiser settled into the client’s chair.
“I was sorry to read about Drew Pearson’s passing,” he said in a steady baritone. “He was a force of nature. And you knew him well, I know. Did a lot of work for him over the years.”
“That’s so. He was a damn tightwad and a hypocritical old Quaker, but I’ll miss him.”
“You’d been doing a job for him lately, I understand.”
I nodded. “How is it that you...?”
“Grant Cooper mentioned it. Well, warned me, I suppose.” He took his glasses off and cleaned them with a handkerchief; though possibly myopic, his gaze was direct. “Are you, uh, going back east for the funeral?”
“No. We’re sending flowers.”
Kiser leaned in, folded his hands and set them on the edge of my desk. “If I might ask... are you intending to go forward with your investigation?”
“Jack Anderson tells me the Washington Merry-Go-Round column won’t be pursuing that line of inquiry, so... no.”
“Would you be open to taking on a new client in the matter? Life wants a series of articles and so does Paris Match. Plus, I’m going to be writing a book about the case. I can’t think of anyone more qualified and appropriate than you to be out there gathering info while I start the writing. With something this topical, it’s important to strike while the iron is hot. I can meet your standard fee and cover all expenses as well.”
Fred was sitting on the edge of the couch. With the stub of cigar stuffed in his cheek, he looked like Edward G. Robinson playing a managing editor in a ’30s movie.
“I need to know where you’re coming from,” I said, coolly, “before I can decide anything.”
A smile made a brief appearance before retreating. “Well, Time/Life has authorized a ten-thousand-dollar retainer to get us started. Would that be sufficient?”
My partner was salivating, but I needed to make sure this wasn’t some kind of payoff. Kiser had been part of a defense team that just might have sold their client down the river. Maybe this offer was about finding out what I’d learned and hushing it up.
“Excuse me, Ron,” I said, and went over to Fred and took him by the arm, eased him up from the couch, and walked him out.
On the other side of the door, I said, “Talk about deus ex machina.”
He blinked at me. “What the fuck language is that?”
“Latin, and I’ll let you know whether it means stroke of luck or screwed sideways.”
Back in my office, I resumed my position behind the desk and asked, “Tell me, Ron — how did you come to be the investigator for the Sirhan Sirhan defense?”
Well, my first reaction was strictly emotional. After the news bulletin about the shooting knocked me on my ass, I cried and cursed and threw a glass across the room, wanting to do something, anything, besides just sit in front of the TV choking on rage and sorrow. So I pulled myself together and called Life’s L.A. bureau and got enlisted on the spot.
First assignment was to head out to interview Sirhan’s brother at his apartment in Pasadena. This was maybe twenty-four hours after the assassination. I had a photographer along but the brother wouldn’t cooperate, and he later told the police we’d tried to strongarm him. Which was bullshit. The cops ignored that as well they should. I believe that was the last good decision on the case the LAPD made.
Next I got a call from Al Wirrin, the ACLU’s chief counsel in Los Angeles. An assassination isn’t a free speech issue, obviously, but Wirrin wanted to make sure Sirhan got a fair trial.
‘Is it true Grant Cooper’s a pal of yours?’ Wirrin wanted to know.
A top-flight criminal lawyer like Cooper was just what Sirhan Sirhan would need. I said I knew Cooper, which I did from several stories I’d worked on involving him, and then sort of horse-traded — told Wirrin I’d put Cooper in touch if Wirrin could get me in to see Sirhan.
Did I know Cooper had represented mob guys? Sure I did. I didn’t think much of it at the time — he was dealing with Phil Silvers in that Friars Club card-cheating case and that didn’t make Cooper a comedian, did it? Later, I had some second thoughts... when was that? When we wound up with two mob-connected lawyers on the team. This other one had been Mickey Cohen’s mouthpiece. That was a bit unsettling, but what really bothered me was Cooper’s approach. How so? Well, he was one of those hale fellows well met, all smiles and friendly personality, adding up to nothing much.
Look, in Cooper’s defense, we couldn’t have had any more eyewitness evidence against Sirhan if God had taken snapshots, so it wasn’t like we were trying to deny this was the guy who shot Bobby Kennedy. It’s just... the defense team took the LAPD’s word on everything. Cooper didn’t challenge them once!
And if I’d bring something up, like the possibility of a second shooter, or a conspiracy, Cooper’d just brush it off — took everything the prosecution handed us at face value. He was fine with stipulating to the killing. He said his only concern was saving ‘this wretched boy’s life.’