Poor Butterfly

“Counselor,” said Preston, sitting on the edge of the table and looking at his watch. “You want some time alone with your client?”

“Absolutely,” he answered.

Preston and Sunset moved toward the door, but the little lawyer held up his hand.

“Not in this room,” he said. “I want privacy. You wouldn’t want your case thrown out later because you failed to honor the lawyer-client relationship?”

In short, the lawyer was telling them the room had a hidden mike and he knew it. Now we all knew it.

“Bathroom’s down the hall to the right,” Preston said. “Inspector Sunset will show you.”

The lawyer picked up his briefcase, adjusted his jacket and vest, and we followed Sunset into the hall. Sunset led us to the washroom and made it clear he would be waiting outside the door for us. There were two windows in the room, both open a crack to let some of the smell of Lysol out and some of the smell of the night air in. Four urinals, their white showing rust patterns, stood along one wall alongside two stalls without doors. Opposite urinals and stalls were two sinks.

The lawyer, who identified himself as Manuel Flores, turned on the water in all four faucets and talked softly, our heads close enough together that I could smell his aftershave. I told him everything. It took about five minutes. Then he asked questions. That took about fifteen minutes.

“Basta,” he said when he had finished. “We have a problem. All they have is circumstantial evidence, but that is all they need. The law says they must establish your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. That means there can be some doubt as long as the jury, if there is a jury, is convinced that you have committed the crime. But what is a reasonable doubt?”

“You really think they’re going to hold me for this?” I asked.

Lawyer Flores shook his head to show he wasn’t sure. He washed his hands, patted down his hair, checked his mustache in the spotted mirror, and led me to the door where Sunset was standing guard.

Back in the little interrogation room, Flores pulled up a chair and sat at the table with me at his side. “I would like to hear charges and cause before deciding my client’s course of action,” he said, opening his briefcase. He took out a fresh white pad, removed his Waterman pen from his jacket pocket, and looked at Preston. Sunset stood in the corner, arms folded.

“Your client’s fingerprints,” Preston added, after he had gone over what else he had on me, “are all over the apartment. Just got a call from forensics. He was in that apartment with a dead woman looking for something, probably money, when a patrolman arrived. Also, we have testimony that your client had a fight with the deceased this morning.”

“Fight?” I said. “You …”

“Weapon?” Lawyer Flores interrupted, taking notes.

“Missing,” said Sunset. “There’s a balcony and the bay right outside the window. It’d take a good throw, but our Peters here looks like he’s got a whippy little arm. We’ll look in the morning, but it could have been washed clear down to San Jose by now.”

“Why do you not believe the Bartholomew woman was dead when my client went up to her apartment?” Flores asked.

“Doorman called up when he arrived,” said Preston wearily. “Miss Bartholomew told him to send said client up.”

“How does the doorman know it was the Bartholomew woman who answered?” Flores asked. “An intercom phone, a word, a uh-huh in answer to the doorman’s question if he should send my client up. Why could it not be the killer who answered the call?”

Preston shrugged and Sunset sighed. They had heard this kind of thing before.

“What are you fishing for, Senor Lawyer?” Sunset asked.

“My client answers questions,” Lawyer Flores said. “In return for the state’s attorney setting reasonable bond.”

“State’s attorney says we go for murder one,” said Preston. “Just talked to him. Asking for a hold without bond.”

“I need a toilet,” I said, standing up.

“You were just in the toilet,” said Sunset. “Something wrong with your fucking guts? Your lawyer slip you some greasy tacos or something?”

Lawyer Flores was looking at his legal pad notes, tapping his pen point in the margin. He looked up at Sunset, who tried to hold Flores’ gaze, but Sunset was a kitten and Lawyer Flores a tiger.

“I will be filing a grievance with the community relations section of the police department,” Flores said. “The grievance will cite your ethnic insults. This is not a threat, Sergeant. It is a piece of information so that you can prepare for the inquiry.”

“Confession,” suggested Preston. “And maybe we can recommend aggravated manslaughter. Maybe your client was high on reefers. Hell, maybe the lady threatened him and he had to take her knife away. Self-defense. Be creative.”

“I’m about to piss in my pants,” I said.

“Take him,” sighed Preston.

Sunset pushed away from the wall, made a sour face, and pointed to the door. Lawyer Flores was trying to be creative, but he didn’t have many blocks to play with.

“Taco lawyer isn’t going to do you shit, Peters,” Sunset informed me as we headed back down the dim hallway to the men’s room. “You got a long wait in County and then a long vacation in Folsom.”

I started into the washroom with Sunset no more than a step behind. I had no doubt that if I dropped my drawers and sat on the toilet he would stand and watch and criticize my technique. But I wasn’t going to give him that chance. I grabbed the end of the door, stepped to my left, and jerked the door back as hard as I could into Sunset as he took a step into the room.

He didn’t fall, but he did let out a woomph sound and slid down the slimy wall, his hand going automatically for the pistol in his holster. I got it first and gave him a little push with my foot that sent him the rest of the way to the floor. His head hit the tile and bounced like a baseball on concrete. I backed up toward the windows, pointing his gun at him.

Sunset was stunned but he wasn’t out. He tried to sit up and slipped. I went for the first window-put my free hand under the opening and pushed up. It didn’t budge. I looked back at Sunset, who was sitting up now. I tried the second window. It wouldn’t budge either.

“Don’t panic,” I told myself. “Calm. Be calm.”

I shook my arms in warmup, took a deep breath of stench, and used the back end of Sunset’s pistol to break the window. It made a hell of a lot of noise as the glass fell and cracked in the alley one floor below.

Sunset made an uncoordinated lunge for me from the floor. I got out of the way, pushed a few standing shards of glass away, and looked out the window as he got to his knees, shaking his head to clear it.

The alley was one floor down.

“I’ll tear your …” Sunset growled as I started to climb out the window. He put his hand on the nearby sink to try to pull himself up.

“I’m going to do you a favor, Sunset.” I said, looking back. “Little friendly secret between you and me.”

I flipped open the pistol, dropped the bullets into the sink, where they skittered toward the drain, flipped the pistol closed, and threw the empty weapon across the room.

“Go get your gun, Inspector,” I went on, easing myself out the window as Sunset made it to his feet. “No one has to know I took it from you. Just tell them I went out the window as soon as we got through the door. Our secret gringo.”

I jumped. I didn’t want to jump. I was afraid to jump. But it was better than being locked up and having the key shipped to Peru. I jumped in the general direction of a pile of garbage stacked next to rusty trash cans. I hit the garbage feet first. I landed on an oversized paper bag that popped open like a balloon, and I went rolling in the oily alley. Above me I could hear Sunset scrambling for his gun and bullets. I got to my feet and lurched to the entrance of the alley. I was too old for this kind of thing. I was too old for most kinds of things, but I wasn’t going to admit it, not even to myself. Behind and above me, Sunset was not calling for my surrender.

“Halt,” he yelled. “Or I’ll fire.”

“I’m not armed,” I said.