The Arraignment

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I reenter the world of the living from a haze, a foggy view of the plastered ceiling in the Mexican’s apartment.

Flat on my back for some reason, I’m feeling no pain. The hard floor is gone, replaced by something softer. I try to sit up, but I can’t. I am strapped to a gurney. I start to raise one hand toward my head, and somebody reaches out and grabs my arm. “Stay still. You’re gonna pull the needle out.”

Guy in a blue uniform taping a needle down on the back of my hand. He has one knee on the floor, working over me, adjusting a little plastic wheel on a tube from a bag of clear fluid that is running down through the needle, and into me.

“How you feelin’?”

I try to talk. “Like I got a chip of wood in my throat.”

“Don’t talk. Lieutenant. He’s startin’ to come around.”

The bag for the I.V. drip is being held by another EMT, standing over him. The needle is in my good hand, the left. My right arm is bandaged, gauze and tape all the way from the wrist to the elbow. My arms are laid across my chest, like they were getting ready to put me in a box.

“You lost a lot of blood.”

Through the frog in my throat, I talk. “I can’t feel anything.”

“That’s the pain meds.” The words come from another voice. “Don’t worry, in the morning you’ll feel like shit.” The face finally comes into view, familiar, but I can’t place it. He’s in shirtsleeves and tie, wearing dark glasses and carrying a notepad in one hand and a can of Diet Coke in the other.

“Let me sit up.” The straps hold me in place.

“No. No. Stay there.” The EMT is not going let me move.

“Right. So you can fall on your ass and sue the city.” The Diet Coke still has the icy sweat of chill on the can.

“I’d offer you one, but then you’d puke all over the crime scene. Some fucking lawyer’d find a way to use it against us in court. The vomit defense. Then we’d never be able to solve that.” He motions off to the side with the can in his hand.

I roll my head in that direction and see Espinoza. The top of his body, anyway. Most of it still wrapped in plastic except for his head and upper torso where the sheet has been sliced and peeled back like the husk off a cob of corn. His complexion is white. A narrow crease of dried blood, the thickness of dental tape, runs across his throat.

I roll my head back to look at the guy in the dark glasses. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, yeah.” He takes the glasses off. “Lieutenant Ortiz.” He gives me the pearly whites, skin so tight over the bone structure of his face that the dental feature could be part of a naked skull. “Remember? Had that nice conversation in your office. I did the monologue. You claimed privilege. Talked about your buddy Nick Rush, Gerald Metz. You do remember?”

I nod.

“I couldn’t be sure. All the drugs they’re putting in you from that bag. Probably almost as good as the shit Metz was selling. What do you think?”

I don’t answer him.

“What, no opinion? OK, fine. We’ll let that go. What do you think about this?” He wags his head toward Espinoza’s body. “You think it was an accident? I understand Rush was an accident. Read it in the paper,” he says. “Oh, yeah. Wandered into the path of a cruising bullet. It’s like they say, speed kills.” He looks at me, leaning over again.

I don’t respond.

“What, nothing to contribute? Jeez, for a fuckin’ mouthpiece, you don’t have much to say. And I was led to believe you were the mastermind behind that insurance coup. Well, that’s fine. You save your voice. We can talk tomorrow. Besides, one dead body at a time. Which leads us back to this one. You didn’t happen to see it when it happened, did you?”

I shake my head.

“I shoulda figured that. What can you tell me? Let’s see. We know he’s dead. What did he use, a scalpel?”

I turn my head the other way, toward the floor across the room. It’s gone. I look back at Ortiz. “A straight razor.”

“Aw. That what he cut you with?”

I nod.

“A name?”

I have to clear the frog living in my throat before I can get the word out. “Saldado.”

“Ah. I take it somebody you didn’t represent this time. Good for you. He’s the one lived here, right?”

I nod.

“Man has a funny way of treating visitors,” he says.

One of the EMTs checks the bandage on my arm, and I wince.

“You can roll him out in a minute,” says Ortiz. “I want to talk to him just for a sec.”

The guy checks the I.V. quickly, then moves away to gather his equipment.

“For a lawyer, you don’t seem to get it,” says Ortiz. “You’re supposed to hand out your business cards to the injured, not the dead.” He’s holding my card in his hand. The one with the note on the back to Espinoza.

“You wanna tell me what this was all about?”

“I used the card to get in. He had them.”

“Who?”

“The mother. The child.”

“The nine-eleven call. Domestic violence.”

I nod.

“I see. And who gave you the cape and tights? Why didn’t you wait for us?”

“No time. Where are they?”

“They’re all right. She’s gonna have a shiner in the morning. But she’s alive. More than we can say about her uglier half over here.” He motions toward the dead body on the floor next to me.

“Must say she’s taking it pretty well, considering. Then again, it probably wasn’t a picture-perfect romance. Who beat her up? Saldado?”

I nod. “You get him?”

“No. We got here, he was already gone. But we got people out looking, checkin’ every house, looking in the sewer. Everyplace we can. He’ll turn up.”

“Don’t think so.”

“What, you know something?”

I shake my head.

“Trust me. We’ll get him.”

If they didn’t snag him coming out of the apartment, they won’t find him now. People who do what Saldado does for a living move without suitcases and call signals without a huddle. They would have a dozen contingencies worked out before the cops came knocking, holes they could dive into or pop out of, places to hide, be picked up from, or dropped off at. In a few hours, after dark, if I hadn’t shown up, Espinoza, his wife, and baby would have each been gift wrapped, dumped in the back of the dark Blazer, and probably headed for a shallow grave somewhere in the desert east of the city. Unless I miss my bet, Saldado or whatever his real name is, is long gone, probably on his way to Cancun.

Ortiz breaks from note-taking to inspect my arm and head, then adds a few entries for his report. “He sure as hell did a number on you.”

“Like they say. You shoulda seen the other guy.”

“What did you do, serve him with process?”

“Broke his ribs.”

He looks down at me smiling, incredulous. “With what, your finger?”

“Tire iron.” I point under the front edge of the sofa.

Otriz pushes the couch a little until it slides a few inches, exposing one end of the tire iron.

“Jack. Something over here you missed.”

One of the evidence techs comes over, hands in surgical gloves.

“Did Saldado touch it?” says Ortiz.

I nod.

“Dust it for prints, then tag it,” he tells the tech. “You’ll need to get his prints too, to eliminate ’em. And blood,” he says. “See if you get any traces. We might get lucky. DNA for an I.D. Our man here says he broke a few ribs with the thing there.”

I cough, clear my throat to get his attention again.

“What is it now?”

I tap the front of my shirt, on my chest on the other side, away from my cut arm.

“What are you saying?”

“His blood.”

Ortiz comes down for a closer look. Where the Mexican coughed it up when we hit the floor. There is a fine mist of tiny specks, little dots of dried blood like bits of rust across the chest of my white shirt, some on the side of my face.

“Jack. Get a pair of scissors.”

A second later the evidence tech comes back. A few snips and he cuts a four-inch-square swatch out of my shirt.

“You become more cooperative somebody sticks you with a knife. I’ll have to remember that next time I come to your office for an interview. Anything else you have?”

I shake my head. “That’s good for now. You’re lookin’ a little peaked,” he says. “You guys want to get him outta here?” To the EMTs now, “That arm’s gonna take some stitches. If I call ahead to the E.R. and tell ’em they got a lawyer on the way, I’m sure they can find their biggest needle.” He smiles at me.

“Fine idea,” says the evidence tech. “Tell them to get that fuckin’ harpoon they use to close on autopsies. That’ll give him something to talk about when he rolls up his sleeves at bar meetings.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ortiz, now wearing his dark glasses again, is smiling. “You want me to call your partner?”

I nod. I try to form the words, but nothing comes out. I try again. “My daughter.”

“You want me to have him call her?”

Quick nods.

“They’re gonna hold you at least overnight. For observation,” he says. “And we’re gonna talk some more tomorrow, hmm? So that you know, don’t try and tell me there’s no connection between your friend here and the other client, Mr. Metz. Cuz I know there was.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m also going to assume you’re gonna tell me about it, when you’re feeling better, like tomorrow?”

Before I can respond, Ortiz has turned around to talk to one of the uniforms. “I want a hold put on him. Material witness,” he says. “He doesn’t get a release from the hospital until I sign him out. Personally. You understand?” Then he looks down at me and winks. “See you in the morning.”

Espinoza’s murder is all over the front page of this morning’s paper, along with pictures of Saldado’s apartment building fenced off from the street by yellow tape. Harry has brought copies along with a change of clothes to my hospital room at County General. Security is sitting outside my door, making sure I don’t leave.

“Even made the evening news,” says Harry.

“When do I get out of here?”

“Relax. It could be worse.”

“You want to tell me how?”

“You could be sharing a room with someone else.”

“I am. With you.”

“You could be here under a managed-care plan.”

“There you have me.”

“Try turning on the soaps.” Harry points to the overhead TV. “Take your mind off of things.”

“That’ll take my mind all right.”

“Relax. At least Saldado didn’t cut a nerve,” he says.

Harry is right. My arm is hurting like hell this afternoon, throbbing all the way to my armpit, from there to my brain right behind my eyeballs, like little strikes of lightning.

“One of the few times I agree with the cops,” he says. “Tell them what you know, and let’s get back to work for the American people,” says Harry.

“What do I know? Espinoza’s dead.” Harry has brought me slacks and a clean shirt, so I change as we talk. Gingerly I roll the sleeve down over my bandaged arm and button the cuff at the wrist.

“Looks like you’re going to be writing with your left hand for a while.”

“I take it they didn’t find Saldado?”

Harry shakes his head. “They’re still checking the neighborhood, talking to people. My guess is they’re wasting their time. You had a stiff in your living room, would you stick around?”

I don’t answer him.

“Me neither,” he says.

“With a broken rib, could you run like that?” I ask.

“Depends what I was running from,” says Harry.

I’ve got one foot up on the side of the bed trying to tie the shoelace with a stiff arm.

“You want me to do that?”

“When I start drooling, you can put me in St. Florence’s home for extended living. Until then I can tie my own shoes,” I tell him.

“Fine. Just trying to help.”

“How long can Ortiz keep me here?”

“Tell you one thing. Wouldn’t want to be your nurse,” he says.

“Harry?”

“What?”

“How long can Ortiz keep me here?” Harry looks at me, shrugs a shoulder. If I have to depend on my partner to spring me from the hospital, I may as well take up squatter’s rights.

I bring up the other shoe, place it on the edge of the sheet where the mattress meets one of the side rails, and go to work on the laces. That’s when I hear voices outside the door. A second later, it opens. I stop with my foot on the bed and look up.

Ortiz waltzes through the door, this time with his partner, the blond linebacker.

“As we speak,” I say.

“What did I tell you, Norm? Give a lawyer a day with his ass stretched across a bedpan, and he’ll smile when he sees you.”

“In case you haven’t looked, this one isn’t smiling,” I tell him.

“Listen to this. Off the happy juice for a few hours and the first part of him that works again is his mouth. You remember Sargeant Padgett?” says Ortiz.

“How could I forget.” Padgett has a pad and pencil out, ready to take notes. “How you doin’?”

“From the looks of it, better than you.” Padgett slumps into the other visitor’s chair next to Harry.

“Don’t tell me you write?” says Harry.

I look at him. “Be nice.”

“Listen to your partner,” says Ortiz. “He wants to go home.”

“I’d shake hands, but both arms hurt,” I tell him.

“Knife in one, all-night drip in the other.” Ortiz describes my injuries to Padgett with a smile.

“I’m ready to leave now.”

“You haven’t finished tying your shoe,” he says. “Then you have to tell us what happened.”

“What happened! I got stabbed. I’m a crime victim.”

“Yes, but what were you doing there? And don’t tell me you were looking for a client.”

“I was.”

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to hear that. Espinoza wasn’t your client. Not anymore.” Ortiz looks at his partner. “Clarence Darrow here slides a business card under this guy’s door, telling him he’s got five grand in cash to give to his dead guest.”

“Sounds like an invitation to become a pin cushion,” says Padgett. “They teach you that one in law school?”

“It got me in the door.”

“Why did you hustle him? Espinoza?” says Ortiz. “From what we see, you’re not hurting for clients. The wife tells us you came to her apartment and wanted to represent her husband.”

They have a lot of the answers already. I don’t say anything, and Padgett contributes a little more.

“You left him in the can. At federal detention. We understand your partner here went into cardiac arrest when he called, found out Espinoza was on the street. Anybody ever tell you when you take a client you’re supposed to provide legal services?”

“Who are you working for, the bar?” says Harry.

“We talked to the first-year law student who got him out,” he says. “And seeing as you didn’t collect a fee, you weren’t in it for the money.”

“So tell us,” says Ortiz, “why was everybody so interested in Espinoza?”

“You want to tell him or should I?” says Harry.

“Oh, good. A lawyer with a brain.” Ortiz looks at Harry.

“We heard that Espinoza might know something about the shooting in front of the federal courthouse.” I talk before Harry can.

“And where did you hear this?”

“From your people,” says Harry.

Ortiz shoots him a look.

“Our people?”

“What are we supposed to do? People talk. Some of them work for the government. OK. They’re not supposed to. Still, they talk; we listen.”

“You have the names of these people?” says Ortiz. Padgett is sharpening the point on his mechanical pencil, turning it for some new lead.

“I don’t think they ever mentioned their names,” says Harry.

“Agencies?”

Harry shakes his head. “That either.”

“I see, anonymous phone calls to your office.”

“Something like that,” says Harry.

“It’s an open investigation. How would you like to have a deputy D.A. ask you under oath, in front of a judge?” says Padgett. “Maybe spend some time in the bucket for contempt?”

“They have rooms like this, you won’t hear me complaining. TV, three squares. Probably pick up a few clients in the day room. Sounds like a vacation,” says Harry. “To say nothing of the publicity. Lawyer goes to jail to protect his sources.”

“That’s reporters,” says Padgett.

“Yes, but it’s such a good cause,” says Harry. “I think they’d stretch the rule.”

“That’s right, I forgot. The settlement kings,” says Ortiz. “Accidental death. Let’s talk about that. Who was it you were representing? The wife, the new one, what’s her name?”

“Dana,” says Padgett. “You remember, good looker. Blond. Sassy little thing. Diamond-studded fangs.”

“How could I forget? What did she get, a million, million and a half?” asks Ortiz.

“Something like that,” I say.

“And you,” says Padgett. “How did you take your fees? A check? Or was there some other arrangement?” He cracks a grin. “You know we can always find out.”

“Do that.”

“We understand she’s seeing somebody else,” says Ortiz.

“Besides who?” I ask.

“Give him a break,” says Padgett. “Maybe it was just a momentary lust.”

“Maybe it was business” I say. “Tell me, what do you think of his car?” Padgett’s face gives it up, the kind of expression that doesn’t have to say a word to make a confession. They have been following Fittapaldi. “Yeah, I know. I’m not partial to Jags either.”

“Maybe it was a three-way twist,” he says.

“You mean tryst, don’t you?”

“Twist, tryst. The three of ’em together.”

I turn to Ortiz. “I know this is a stimulating conversation. But can we go now?”

“Not until you tell me about Espinoza,” he says.

“What do you want to know?”

“For starters, why did you go looking for him at this guy Saldado’s apartment?”

“I had Saldado’s name. Espinoza gave it to me when I interviewed him at the lockup.” It’s a little white lie, but this way I keep Joyce’s and Bennie’s names out of it.

“How did they know each other, Espinoza and Saldado?”

“I don’t know the connection. Not exactly.”

“What do you know?” Padgett’s pencil working on the pad now.

“You remember the visas that were stolen a year or so ago? The van down in Tijuana?”

“Why the feds had Espinoza in custody,” says Ortiz.

“Right. I saw the arrest in the paper. Espinoza’s name came up in my interview with Metz, before I handed him back to Nick.”

This catches the two cops where they live: in the curiosity department.

“What did he say?”

“He gave me the name. Said Espinoza was a go-between with some people he was doing business with down in Mexico.”

“What people?”

“Two brothers.”

“Names?” says Ortiz.

“Ibarra. Arturo and Jaime.”

“So these brothers, they were dealers?” says Ortiz.

“Who knows?”

“That’s your business. That’s why you wouldn’t do Metz, isn’t it?”

“He told me they hired him to do some construction work. That’s all I know.”

“But you didn’t believe him,” says Ortiz.

“What I believe doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does. That’s why you gave Metz back to your friend. That’s why he’s dead. And that’s why you keep nosing around. Or did I miss something?” Ortiz is quick.

Harry claps a couple of times from his chair in the corner. “Now can we all go home so my partner can get the therapy he needs, and the rest of us can get on with life?”

“So when Metz got shot and this guy got arrested, you remembered the name?” Padgett is trying to get his notes straight.

“I told you.”

“Tell me again,” he says.

“Slower this time, so he can get all the stick-people pictures a little bigger,” says Harry.

“Fuck you,” says Padgett.

“If you think you can spell it, put it in your book there.”

When Padgett doesn’t write anything, Harry says: “That’s what I thought.”

“You saw it in the paper?” Padgett tries to ignore him. “Or you got wind that there was somebody in the federal lockup might know something? Which is it?” says Padgett.

“Both.”

“Both? How can it be both?”

“Somebody told him about Espinoza’s arrest, so he went looking in the paper,” says Ortiz.

“Maybe you should be taking the notes,” I tell him.

“Then you checked the name and remembered that Metz had mentioned it in the interview, is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“That still doesn’t answer why you picked up Espinoza as a client,” says Padgett. “Why you didn’t call us.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Nine-one-one. You were late getting there.”

“Cute,” he says.

“So what doesn’t fit?” says Ortiz.

“What do you mean?”

“What is it that ruffles you about Metz and your buddy Rush?” says Ortiz. “You don’t think Rush was capable of doing a drug deal?”

“It’s not a question of capabilities. It’s a question of judgment.”

“I see. He was too ethical.”

I smile. “He was too smart. Nick was a former prosecutor. He did major drug cases. Why, after all these years, would he become a player?”

“Maybe he needed the money. We’ve looked at his bank account,” says Padgett. “The cupboard was getting a little bare. Besides, you think cops and prosecutors never turn to the dark side?” says Padgett.

“In your case, I’d make an exception,” I tell him.

What is bothering me is not that Nick was above reproach, but that he was no man’s fool.

“Besides, Nick would never get involved in a drug deal with a client. That would be like serving candy to you people. Tell me your mouth doesn’t salivate at the thought? Nailing some defense attorney caught up with somebody like Metz. Hmm?” Ortiz gives me a face of concession. “Now tell me, have you found any drug connection in this thing? With either of them?”

“You just gave us one. The two brothers down in Mexico,” says Padgett.

“I didn’t say it was drugs.”

“But that’s what you thought.”

“And maybe that’s where we’re making our mistake.”

“So what do you think it was?” says Ortiz.

I take a deep breath, blow out some air, look at Harry, about to cross the Rubicon. “Ever heard of something called Mejicano Rosen?”

Ortiz looks at his partner, who shakes his head. “What is it?”

“We don’t know. According to Espinoza, it’s what these people in Mexico were dealing.”

“Maybe something new. Manufactured,” says Padgett. “I can check with the narcs, DEA. They mighta heard of it.”

“I’ve made phone calls,” I tell them. “Nobody who does narcotics cases in California has ever heard of it. I don’t think it’s narcotics,” I tell him.

“So what is it?” says Ortiz.

I shake my head. “I was hoping to talk to Espinoza and find out.”

“We know who paid to spring him. Hired the lawyer and posted the bail,” says Ortiz. “Three guesses. The first two don’t count.”

“Saldado.”

“I figured he must have picked him up from outside the facility. He wasn’t going to let him go far.”

“Is that his real name?” says Harry.

“We don’t know. We’re checking prints from the apartment. If he’s ever been booked in the states, they should have something. We may get another name.”

“More than likely, you’ll get twenty of them,” says Harry.

“We couldn’t find a driver’s license under Hector Saldado. So there’s a good chance it’s an alias,” says Padgett.

“What about the car?” I ask.

“What car?”

“The one out in front. The rusted-out Blazer.”

Ortiz looks at me like I’m speaking Farsi.

“Broken back window. Black plastic.”

Ortiz looks at Padgett, who shakes his head.

“There wasn’t any car.” By the time Ortiz looks back at me, he knows there was. “Where the hell did it go? You didn’t happen to get a number off the plates?”

I shake my head. “It was there when I went in. You’re telling me it was gone before your people got there?”

“We know he didn’t take it.” Padgett’s up out of his chair now, worried that somehow he might have let it slip through his fingers. He had the outside detail.

“Check with traffic. They cordoned the area around the house,” says Ortiz.

“Maybe it wasn’t his?” says Padgett.

“Espinoza told me about it. It’s how I found the place. The way he talked, he thought it belonged to Saldado.”

“Then who took it?” says Ortiz.

I don’t have an answer.

Ortiz turns to his partner. “Check the other tenants in the building, see if anybody besides Saldado is missing. Now,” he says. “Use the phone outside. And get a description out on the car.”

I give them details about the black plastic over the back window.

“That should make it easier to I.D.,” says Ortiz. “Get somebody on the horn. Find out who’s over there. We still have somebody on site?”

Padgett is not sure.

“See if any of the neighbors have anything on the plates. One of them might remember. And Norm-” Padgett is already out the door. He sticks his head back in. “Call down to the border. Have ’em put a stop on the vehicle if it tries to cross.”