Something wet splashed on my arm. I smelled gasoline. I snatched up the mattress and held it out in front of me as more gasoline from a plastic water bottle sprayed into the cell. Most of it hit the hard mattress, then splattered onto the floor. A lighted match followed and the room exploded.
'Fire!' I yelled, and danced back into the far corner of the small cell shielding myself with the mattress. I could barely get away from the heat and spreading flames. I was trapped and starting to catch fire.
My sleeve was burning as well as some of my hair. I slammed my burning arm against the wall in an attempt to extinguish it, then clawed at my head to put out the fire. I don't know how long I was inside fighting to stay alive. I was choking on smoke and fire was beginning to get on my clothing. The gasoline-soaked floor was ablaze and spreading quickly. The billowing smoke triggered a fire alarm and the sprinkler system in A-block turned on. Water rained down. Suddenly, three custodial officers flung open my cell door and began spraying me with fire extinguishers. I dropped the mattress and dove through the door, rolling on my shoulder in the hallway to extinguish the fire that was now burning my shirt. They shot the fire out with C02 cannisters.
For the next few minutes the custodial officers beat down the flames in my cell as the sprinklers in A-block continued to drench us. The entire floor was thick with smoke. Prisoners were coughing and screaming in fear all around the block.
It took twenty or thirty minutes until most of the prisoners were moved out of the dorm cells on two and taken down to the staging cells on the first floor. I was led to the jail medical ward for treatment.
Sergeant Collins was shaken as he sat to fill out an incident report. I had seen nothing. A purple uniform. I couldn't identify my attacker. Collins promised that all of the trustees would be interviewed by detectives and polygraphed. Wishful thinking. Nobody was going to agree to a plea bargain or make a voluntary statement on a polygraph.
My burns were mostly superficial. Some of my hair and eyebrows had been singed off and there was one bad place on my left arm. The MT greased and wrapped it, then gave me pills for the pain.
Two arson detectives from upstairs pulled me into an I-room. I knew this would go on for the rest of the night.
'You think we should send him back to the thirteenth floor?' one of the arson dicks asked the young doctor working the jail ward. Like everybody else, he was in a big hurry to hot-potato me off to somebody else.
'I think he's okay,' the doctor answered.
'Lucky you had that mattress handy,' the arson detective said.
I had a jail breakfast at six o'clock and as I was finishing, Sergeant Collins came over, holding a sheet of paper.
'The list just came over from Division Thirty and your guy worked a miracle. You're on it.'
I thanked him and watched as he walked back to his desk.
Through it all, I couldn't shake one question.
Why had Insane Wayne Watkins saved my life?
Chapter 50
Division Thirty is in a massive, no frills, stone building, with linoleum floors and security checks at every door. The place smells of sweat, and, for some reason I can never fathom, tobacco. The arraignment court is on the second floor and occupies most of the north side of the building. The courtroom itself is a huge, square space that has a closed-off glass area where next-in-line arrestees wait. It's a criminal conveyor belt. Prisoners are walked in, their charges are read, they're asked how they plead, then bail is determined and a date for the preliminary hearing is set. Bing-bang-boom-next. When it's over, you're either taken to the bond clerk downstairs, or transported over to the big Twin Towers jail where you are held over until trial.
Handcuffed, I followed an LAPD court cop to the second floor and into a small attorney's room. When the door opened, I saw Gunner Gustafson. He was a fifty-year-old lunchbox-shaped guy with wide shoulders and longer-than-normal arms, all of which contributed to a slightly ape-like appearance. His curly brown hair was cut close and he had the fighting chin of a Nordic thug. His suit was wrinkled and nondescript.
He stood when I entered, but on his feet or in the chair, he was about the same height, his lower torso being abnormally compact. Still, there was nothing even remotely funny about him. He was small, but on home turf. In this arena, he was dangerous.
'Get those restraints off. I won't have my client paraded in front of the judge wearing chains,' he snapped at the police guard.
'I'm sorry,' the cop said. 'Can't do it.'
'Make this an issue, Sonny, and I'll find a way to give you some grief. Scully ain't going nowhere. Put a guy outside this door, or walk with us to court if you're so worried, but for the love of God, stop arguing 'cause you're gonna lose.'
The officer knew Gustafson, and since he didn't want trouble, he reluctantly unchained me.
'Now get the hell out. This is an attorney-client conference,' my gunslinger snapped. The uniform backed out of the room and shut the door. Then, Gunner Gustafson put out his hand. 'Shake it like you mean it,' he smiled. It was a little like shaking hands with a stone carving.
'I called a guy I know who's in Venice real estate to zip over and give me a legal appraisal of your digs,' Gunner said. 'Got him out of bed at four a. M. Since he couldn't walk the inside and doesn't know what condition it's in, he'll only guarantee me an appraised value of six hundred thou. That's probably about twenty-five percent under what it's really worth. But once the bondsman accepts his appraisal, if it turns out to be too high, he could get sued for the difference if you skip. Traditionally, bail appraisals are low. It's a bad deal, but it's the best I can do on such short notice.'
'How'll I get out?' I asked.
'Okay. You've got equity of around one hundred K. Discount that by twenty percent, which is a bond standard, and that leaves you with around seventy-five thou. You said you have ten grand in cash at the bank?'
I nodded.
'To get you out by ten we gotta get bail lowered to around seven hundred and fifty thousand. On Murder One, that's gonna be tough.'
I told him about the attempt on my life in jail and he snatched up his phone and started making calls. He wanted a copy of the attempted homicide report sent over right away by messenger. He wanted a list of custodial officers who were on duty last night called and set up to testify if necessary. He wanted all the arson and IO reports. The guy was impressive shouting orders to subordinates and jail employees. When he was finished, he hung up and looked over at me.
'We got one thing going for us,' he said. 'We didn't draw one of those numb-nut pussies from the normal judge's rotation. Apparently, because of sickness, vacations, and brain malfunctions, they're short on graybeards this morning. We were assigned a civil commissioner, just appointed, name of Andre Easton. I went before him last week. He's a cherry. Guy's so new he still thinks he's actually supposed to make decisions instead of just rubber stamp the District Attorney's charge sheet. That's the good news. The bad news is we got the D. A. himself trying this sucker. Because it's you and he likes to get his picture taken, Chase Beal is in the docket for the people. I hate that guy worse than country music. I'd purely love to kick his skinny prep-school ass.'
At ten till eight, we were being led into an empty court room. I'd been transferred by police car half an hour early because my case was being heard half an hour before court normally opened. As a result, there was no press and the only people in attendance were the cops guarding the door, the bailiff, the court reporter, and the clerk. The regular jail buses hadn't even arrived yet.
At the prosecutor's table sat Chase Beal. Up until now, I had only seen him on the Six O3Clock News. He was smaller in stature than I'd thought. He also looked like one of those guys who spent at least an hour a day in some Beverly Hills gym running the treads and trying to put a move on the Pilates instructor. He had narrow shoulders, a trim waist and movie-star hair. His eyes had been described once in the press as being fiercely blue, but I suspected contacts. Sitting behind the bench and at the extreme other end of the fitness scale was Commissioner Andre Easton. A big, round-shouldered, flabby-looking guy in judge's robes with a shock of sandy, longish hair. We
