Until Proven Innocent (2 page)

The waitress finally breaks away from the two or three bar patrons and slinks over to our table.

“
Hi, Tony. I had the cook start a Mexican Pizza when I saw you pull into the parking lot. It’ll be ready any time now.” She places two cold bottles of beer on the table. I can tell this is a real neighborhood joint because she doesn’t bring any glasses.

We pick up our respective bottles, clink them together as a macho toast, and take a refreshing swig while the waitress sets our smoking hot appetizer down on the table between us. Unlike the pizzas prepared at Shakey’s, this one is a large flat plate of beans and rice heaped on top of large chips, all smothered in melted cheeses. I don’t know what the cholesterol and fat count of this deadly dish is, but I think Doctor Kevorkian could successfully use it on some of his patients.

Waiting for Tony to speak to me, I break off a mouthful-sized chunk of this suicide platter. While looking toward the bar, Tony seems to be reaching down to scratch his leg. Just as I put the chunk into my mouth, he decides to finally speak. It’s almost a whisper.

“
When I say ‘now,’ I want you dive down in the booth. It might even be better if you made it all the way under the table.”

This is a first. I’ve been out to dinner with a lot of people, but no one has ever said that to me. I then realize that he wasn’t reaching down to scratch his leg. He was removing a snub-nosed revolver from an ankle holster. I can see in the mirror that there’s a black man standing near the bar and cautiously looking around the room.

Suddenly it happens. The standing black man reaches under his jacket and removes not one, but two large handguns that were tucked into his belt. He points one towards the bar and the other towards our booth and shouts out.

“
Nobody move. Anybody move, and they’re dead!”

I’m now sitting here nervously trying to make a decision. Should I dive under the table immediately, or wait for Tony’s command?

Unfortunately the decision is made for me, because when the bartender notices that the robber is glancing over in our direction, he pulls out his own gun and takes a shot at the black man. At that instant, three things happen simultaneously. The robber fires back at the bartender, Tony shouts ‘now’ at me, fires two quick shots at the robber, and I sit here frozen in place, watching the whole show in the mirror. After firing at the robber and hitting him, Tony jumps out of the booth, runs over to the guy lying on the ground and kicks the guns out of his reach. I don’t think the dead criminal was in any condition to reach for them, but I guess that’s what cops are trained to do.

*****

When Tony returns to the booth, he seems upset.

“
I thought I told you to get down in the booth. You didn’t move. You just sat there.”

“
Well yeah, I didn’t want to miss the show.”

I hear some sirens in the distance, so the cavalry must be on the way. Tony must think I’m either completely crazy, or the coolest character on the planet. He calms down a bit and lets me know that I’m on my own for a ride home.

“
You might as well finish the pizza… it’ll be on the house. When the uniforms get here, I’ll be busy for the rest of the night. That’s the big problem with shootings – there’s too much paperwork involved. You better plan on taking a cab back to the Marina.”

When the men in blue come in through the front door, Tony stands up and displays his badge. They take his weapon and escort him outside. For some strange reason, the whole incident has made me hungry, so I’m now pigging out on the pizza while waiting for them to come and take my statement. I’m sure that the police brass and the City Council will be unhappy with tonight’s event. Too bad they won’t even take into consideration the fact that Tony stopped an armed robbery and probably saved the lives of several people, one of them being especially important to me.

* * * * * *

Chapter 2

Last night’s Mexican restaurant incident is leading all the local morning news shows. It took about an hour for me to explain what happened to the three different detectives who interviewed me and kept asking the same questions over and over again. Tony called this morning and apologized, explaining that they make an extra effort interviewing witnesses whenever a police shooting is involved. When leaving the restaurant last night to get into the cab, I noticed that there were several news helicopters circling. Their videotaped views of the neighborhood, complete with flashing squad car lights and an ambulance, are now on the screen while the newsreader explains about how our city’s ‘Dirty Tony’ has struck once again. It seems like they can’t make their mind up about him. They’re torn between portraying him as a hero or a trigger-happy lunatic.

While sitting here watching the news and eating a large bowl of cold breakfast cereal, I look over to the couch and see that I now have an audience. A kid and a dog.

The kid is Suzi, our law firm’s senior managing partner, who’s an adorable pre-teen Chinese girl with a genius IQ. The dog is her huge Saint Bernard, who I call ‘Bernie.’ Suzi was the stepdaughter of Melvin Braunstien, an old law school classmate of mine and former employer. When he died in a plane crash, his instructions stated that I was to be appointed as her legal guardian. When I took his place as the firm’s licensed adult and was brought in as a junior partner I discovered that Suzi had always been the real brains behind Melvin’s firm. With the help of some successful legal victories and several large fees, we were able to trade up from Melvin’s houseboat to another client’s 42-foot Californian, and ultimately to my dreamboat, the one we’re living on now - a gorgeous 50-foot Grand Banks trawler yacht.

At first glance most people think that I’m an experienced boater, but Suzi knows the truth… I don’t even know how to start the engines.

My audience is obviously waiting for me to make a full report on the shooting last night, so I don’t disappoint them. As usual, I’m the only one who talks. After a half hour description that covers everything including the ride to the restaurant, the greasy food, the beer without the glass, the shooting, the police interviews and the taxi ride back, they both get up and exit to the little princess’ domain, her private stateroom in the bow of the boat. Before they leave, the dog makes one last inspection tour to search for cereal droppings.

I guess that Tony’s recent marksmanship display shoves his domestic situation to the back burner, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it soon enough, because once again he’s been placed on administrative leave. That’s what the city calls it, but if you’re told to go home and still get paid, I call it a vacation.

I can’t help but notice a steady stream of people going to his boat each day, including police public relations, police union delegates, police brass, news people, and some other sorts that I can’t classify by just looking at them.

There are some large soft paws pitter-pattering into my stateroom. The only thing that makes a sound like that on this boat is the dog, bringing me a message. For some strange reason, the kid rarely talks to me. Communications on our boat are usually sent by dogmail, which consists of a message tucked into Bernie’s collar.

This is a very economic way of sending mail. The only cost involved is the messenger’s tip, which consists of a pat on the head and a “good boy” compliment. This message tells me that tomorrow I’m to accompany Tony the ‘offbeat’ cop, to a police shrink’s office. This isn’t something I’m looking forward to. Over the past several years I’ve become acquainted with quite a few police officers, and they all have the same mindset in common. Once they’ve been sworn in and get to wear the badge and gun, there are only two types of people in the world – cops and bad guys. They know that they can depend on any other cop in the country to watch their back, and the rest of the people out there are nothing more than possible future suspects in all the bad things that are sure to happen.

The unfortunate part about their philosophy is that it keeps them from becoming friendly with that large part of the population not wearing badges. I guess it’s because they don’t want to get close to people who they might have to arrest someday. They want to keep their distance because it helps them to believe that even the most innocent-looking citizen is guilty of a crime.

Personal feelings aside, I’ll do this for the kid. I have no idea why she wants me to go with him, but I’ve learned not to question her messages. She always has some reason that’s better than any objection I can ever come up with, so I just do as I’m told.

Whenever there’s a police-involved shooting, the assumption is that it’s a traumatic experience for the cop who did the shooting, so they routinely require a visit to the shrink, who must make an official recommendation that the officer is emotionally and psychologically fit to return to regular active duty.

To avoid the possibility of familiarity, they use a rotating system so that no officer ever knows what psychologist he’ll be visiting until the actual time of the appointment. Tony is scheduled for a one o’clock session tomorrow afternoon at the shrink building on Hollywood Boulevard, just a few blocks west of Vine Street.

The other part of the message is a reminder to return Olive’s telephone call. She’s already called three times and I’m told that she’s starting to sound desperate.

Stuart Schwarzman is a close friend of mine, and one of the most entrepreneurial people I’ve ever met. In the last year alone, he’s been extremely successful in starting businesses that provide a variety of products and services, including weight-loss juice, used Toyota Camry’s that he has trucked out from New Jersey, an armored car business called “he’s taking it with him” that’s hired by disgruntled heirs for funeral processions, and most recently, a service that imports young Thai girls for prospective American husbands. These activities are all in addition to his growing private investigation service that has proven itself very helpful in some of our firm’s recent lawsuits.

Stuart is usually good for about one fantastic new idea every six months, and he tries to get me involved in each one. Up to now I’ve avoided the temptation but he still keeps trying. He’s due for a new one any time now.

Stuart’s right-hand man is a former porno producer named Vinnie Norman, who along with his fiancée Olive, both drive armored cars for Stuart and take part in the private investigations. I tuck the note in my pocket and make a mental note to return her calls at my next opportunity. I would do it now, but the dog is sitting in front of me holding a leash in his mouth. This can only mean that he wants to take me out for my walk. He enjoys going with me because it means he gets a chance to ride in my big yellow Hummer, where he can stick his head out of the open sunroof and pretend like he’s flying. And he really does look like he’s flying, because before he can get his face into the wind, I have my instructions to attach his ‘Doggles,’ which are aviator-styled eye-protection goggles designed especially for dogs who want to stick their heads out of moving cars. Bernie sits in the front seat with his head sticking up out of the car’s open sunroof. With his aviator goggles on and large ears flopping in the wind, we’re a popular subject for tourists’ cameras as we motor down the street.

The reason we go in the car is because I refuse to pick up after him. Our neighborhood has a pooper-scooper law that says nobody should walk a dog on the public streets without having some scooping device to use. I have nothing against following the law, but there are some things that I just refuse to do, so we go to a dog park where he can run around and do things that I don’t know about, somewhere where I can’t see him.

*****

Now that the dog has taken care of his business, it’s time for me to take care of mine, so I call Stuart’s Van Nuys warehouse. Olive answers the phone. She recognizes my phone number on her caller ID display.