Free JO03 - Detour to Murder by Jeff Sherratt Page B

president on the Dewey ticket in’48. If the Republicans had won, like they were supposed to, well then, I would’ve… but they didn’t win, damn it. That haberdasher from Missouri, Truman remained president and Warren stayed in the governor’s chair.”
    “Yeah, but you were talking about Bugsy Siegel,” Sol said. “What about him?”
    It was getting late and I worried that Byron would call off the interview any minute. Maybe he’d go to lunch, or take his afternoon siesta, or maybe he’d just want to get rid of us. He probably had better things to do, like hanging around the campfire with the buckaroos. And, Christ, Sol kept talking about Siegel. Who cares about Siegel? My mind was spinning. I had to slip Roberts into the conversation somehow without raising Byron’s suspicion that we weren’t there just to immortalize an old man’s war stories. I had to get Byron on track, discussing the plea bargain and I had to do it fast.
    “Ah, Mr. Byron, I’d like to know about a homicide, one that you handled during the time you held office—” I began.
    “Hey, Frank, did you know Joe Sica?” Sol asked. “Big Mafia honcho back in the forties, still is.”
    Sol, what are you doing? What’s all this talk about old Mafia guys? I was starting to get unsettled. I had the feeling we were blowing our only chance here.
    “Yeah, I know Sica. A bad actor,” Byron said. “But it’s his brother Freddie that scares the hell out of everyone. The guy is crazy, a homicidal maniac. But I think both Joe and Freddie are locked up now.”
    “Nah, they got out. Did a dime at Q, then the State cut ’em loose. I know those boys. They haven’t changed, just older,” Sol said. “Hey, by the way, did you know a guy named Alexander Roberts? A lifer, taking the long ride at Chino.”
    I sighed. Way to go, Sol . What a smooth way to sneak Roberts into the conversation. I should take lessons.
    Byron scratched his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
    “Are you sure?” I said. “I think I read about it somewhere in the archives. Yeah, that’s it; Paul Coates of the Mirror wrote an article, said you personally handled the Alexander Roberts plea bargain. Said you did a hell of a job.”
    “I told you I don’t recall anyone named Roberts.” There was a noticeable edge in Byron’s voice. We’d hit a nerve. Now I’d dig a little deeper.
    “Back in ’45, didn’t you cut a deal with Roberts: life instead of extradition to Arizona on a murder-one rap?”
    “What’s going on?”
    “Just want to give the readers the truth.”
    “Gentleman, I’m afraid my time is up. You’ll have to excuse me.”
    “Another minute, please, Mr. Byron,” I said.
    I pulled a paper from my pocket, a Xerox copy of the signature page from the parole board report he’d signed regarding the Roberts plea agreement. “Maybe you’ll want to see this.” I stood and dropped the paper on his desk.
    He whipped out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the document for a few seconds. Was it my imagination, or did his hand tremble slightly when he handed it back to me?
    “What is this?” he said, scowling.
    Sol jumped in. “It’s the deal you made with Roberts when you conned him into confessing to the woman’s murder. Told him he would die in the gas chamber in Arizona for killing Charles Haskell, Jr. if he didn’t cop a plea. There was no murder charge against Roberts in Arizona. Haskell had died of a heart attack. But you knew that, Frank. Didn’t you?”
    Byron sat there in silence, his anger building. He knew he’d been ambushed, but he’d spent his life as a lawyer and he knew how to control himself. He didn’t want to explode and tip his hand.
    “This is absurd. I may have signed off on the plea agreement—routine. But I wouldn’t have been involved in negotiations with the defendant. No, I wouldn’t have done that.” Byron shook his head. “I wouldn’t have had my hand in any of this, not an insignificant