An Insignificant Case, page 3
“This isn’t the first time Sabatini has pulled a stunt like this.” Jackman looked at his partner.
“I make this the third,” Tanaka said. “There was Bellini’s and that steak house on Alder.”
“What did he take this time?” Jackman asked.
“It’s a painting of a gondola on a canal in Venice,” Borelli answered.
“Show us the scene of the crime,” Jackman said.
Borelli ushered the officers into Gretchen’s office. The wall safe was open, but nothing else in the room appeared to have been disturbed.
“Do you know if Sabatini took anything from the safe?” Jackman asked.
“I don’t know everything that was in it, but he left a lot of cash and some papers. You’ll have to ask Miss Hall if there’s anything missing.”
“Miss Hall is…?” Tanaka asked.
“Gretchen Hall. She owns the place.”
“Is she coming in today?” Tanaka asked.
“No,” Borelli said. “Hall’s wealthy, and La Bella Roma is a hobby of hers. She’ll come in a few times a month when she’s in town, but I run the place most of the time. Miss Hall is in LA now with Leon Golden, the movie producer. He’s got a picture nominated for an Oscar, and they’re going to the Academy Awards.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No, but I’ll ask when I tell her about the robbery.”
“Do that. She’ll need to tell us if Sabatini took anything besides the painting. Meanwhile,” Jackman said with a sigh, “we’ll visit Guido and see if we can convince him to give back his ill-gotten gains.”
The officers left. Borelli took out his phone to call his boss, but he stopped mid-dial. Gretchen would be having a great time in LA, and the painting was no big deal. Maybe the cops could get it back and he wouldn’t have to upset her. Borelli decided to wait to tell Hall about the theft until she got back to Portland.
* * *
Officers Tanaka and Jackman cruised along the two-lane country road that led to Guido Sabatini’s farm. Overhead, white puff clouds floated across a clear blue sky and cast moving shadows over crops divided into earth-brown, sunflower-yellow, and emerald-green squares. The farmland rose up into hills thick with maples, oaks, and evergreens, and the officers were able to enjoy the pastoral scene, knowing that they would be confronting a harmless nutcase and not an armed, meth-crazed maniac.
The other time Jackman and Tanaka had come to the farm, they had recovered a painting that Guido had “liberated” from Bellini’s restaurant. Sabatini had told them that he had purchased the farm a year earlier. When Jackman had asked him what he’d been doing before that, Guido had smiled and changed the subject. One thing was clear—Sabatini hadn’t done much upkeep. The fields had gone to seed, and the exterior of the farmhouse and the red barn that Sabatini had turned into a studio looked the worse for wear.
Jackman parked the patrol car in the yard, and the officers walked into the barn. Painting supplies were spread across neatly stacked bales of hay that were within arm’s reach of the artist’s easel, where Sabatini was placing another arrow in Saint Sebastian’s torso.
“Hey, Guido,” Jackman said.
Sabatini paused his paintbrush halfway to his canvas.
“Officers Jackman and Tanaka! Welcome. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Don’t be coy, Guido. You know why we’re here,” Jackman said.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Guido answered with a serene smile.
Jackman sighed. “Does the name La Bella Roma Italian Ristorante ring any bells?”
“I’ve never dined in the establishment, but I’ve heard wonderful things about their food.”
“Come on, Guido,” Tanaka said. “Don’t make this like pulling teeth. You’re the star of a movie recorded on the restaurant’s security cameras.”
“Give us the Venice canal painting and anything you took from the safe and we won’t arrest you,” Jackman said.
Sabatini’s features darkened. “Gretchen Hall insulted me and my art. She does not deserve to look at my masterpiece.”
“Yeah, well, she may not deserve to look at your painting, but she owns it,” Jackman said. “We’ve explained this to you before. You’re a bright guy, Guido, so you can’t get away with saying that you don’t understand that a person who pays you money for a painting owns it and can hang it where they want to.”
“And hanging the painting in her office, where Miss Hall can see it all the time, isn’t an insult,” Tanaka said. “She wouldn’t be able to see it as much if it was in the dining room, so that shows you she really likes your artwork.”
“I do not honor an egotist who keeps my work where only she can see it and hides my masterpiece from a public that hungers for great art.”
“Guido, if you’re in jail, you can’t paint,” Tanaka said. “By refusing to give back one piece of art, you’ll be depriving the world of more masterpieces.”
“If you put me in jail, it is you who will be depriving the world of the works of Guido Sabatini.”
Jackman sighed. “Are you gonna give us the painting? If you don’t, we have to take you in, and the charge will be burglary, because you broke into the restaurant. That’s a felony. It carries prison time. I like you, Guido. I think you’re a hell of a painter, and I don’t want to see you rot away in the Oregon State Pen. Please give us the painting.”
Guido put down his paintbrush and held out his hands.
“Put on your handcuffs. I would rather be a martyr like Saint Sebastian than betray my art.”
CHAPTER SIX
On the night before the Academy Awards, Charlie Webb had many more than one too many at the Buccaneer Tavern, the hangout favored by his friends in the Barbarians motorcycle club.
Barbarians Bob Malone and Gary Schwartz drove the partially comatose attorney to his apartment house, a four-story brick building just off Northwest Nineteenth Avenue. Charlie’s apartment was on the third floor, and the building did not have an elevator. Fortunately, Bob and Gary were huge, and they got Charlie up the stairs and tucked into bed without much trouble.
Charlie’s apartment was very small. When he came home from work, he entered a short, narrow hall where a clothing rack and four large Tupperware containers filled with underwear, shirts, and other garments passed for a clothes closet. At the end of the hall was a bathroom that was just big enough for a narrow stall shower, a toilet, and a sink. Next to the bathroom was an L-shaped area. The section to the right of the bathroom was occupied by a sofa that sat across from a low table on which Charlie’s television balanced. This area doubled as a bedroom when Charlie opened his sofa bed.
The apartment’s only window did not add much light to the other section of the L. It looked out on the back wall of the apartment house next door and was covered with grime. A microwave sat on top of a small, squat refrigerator directly below the window and kitty-corner from a tiny sink. Charlie dined at a yellow Formica-topped table that stood in the shallow area in front of the sink.
Charlie fantasized that someday he would make enough money to buy a grand condo where he could hold wild parties, though who would attend these gatherings was a mystery, since his only close friends were left over from high school and Charlie had no steady girlfriend.
Charlie liked girls, and he was able to get dates since he was nice-looking and solid, but he was also boring, and the relationships didn’t last. Sadly, more than one girl had broken his heart, because he always fell head over heels for someone who showed him any degree of affection.
When Charlie slipped out of sleep and into the real world on Sunday morning, his eyelids rose in slow motion and he struggled to focus. He managed to tilt his head so he could see the bright red digital readout on the clock on his nightstand. It was 10:05.
After staring at the ceiling for several minutes, Charlie sat up and was rewarded for his effort by the gift of a very painful bolt of lightning that ricocheted through the inside of his skull. He waited for the pain to subside. Then he staggered into the bathroom and let an ice-cold shower shock him awake. After he dressed, he managed to ingest half a bagel and a cup of instant black coffee. Then he checked the time to see how much longer he would have to wait until the Oscars were on.
Charlie went to the movies a lot. His friends in the motorcycle gang liked movies with a lot of car chases and gunfights, like The Fast and the Furious franchise. Charlie liked them too, but he also went to films with intellectual content. When the Academy Awards were handed out, he hunkered down and rooted for his favorites.
At three, he got a beer, a bag of blue corn tortilla chips, and a jar of mild salsa and turned on the E! network to watch the celebrities being interviewed as they arrived on the red carpet. Mandy Cole’s interview with Meryl Streep had just ended when a handsome, tuxedo-clad gentleman with professionally coifed white hair and a perfect tan got out of a limousine. He reached down and extended a hand to a beautiful blonde in a tight red dress, who was wearing a diamond necklace and matching earrings that Charlie could never afford to buy.
“I see Leon Golden, who produced Amazon, headed our way,” Mandy Cole said.
“Hi, Leon,” Cole said when Golden reached her. “Am I correct when I say that this is the first time you’ve received an Oscar nomination?”
“It is, and we’re pretty excited.”
Charlie had seen the movie, which was a critically acclaimed feature about a couple who try to save their marriage by taking a wildlife cruise to a remote part of the Amazon jungle. Charlie had enjoyed the movie, but he didn’t think that it should win the Oscar.
“Who is your companion, Leon?” the interviewer asked.
“Gretchen Hall, a dear friend.”
Just as the interviewer was about to ask another question, two men and a woman walked down the red carpet dressed in windbreakers with the letters POLICE stenciled on them. Standing at the curb where the red carpet began were more officers. The woman held up a badge.
“Sorry to interrupt your interview, Miss Cole,” the woman officer said, “but we’re here to arrest Mr. Golden and Miss Hall on charges of running a sex ring that trafficked underage girls.”
Hall looked sick, and Golden’s tan lost a few shades.
“What are you talking about?” Golden demanded.
“Mr. Golden and Miss Hall, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney to represent you. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at no expense.”
“You’re damn right I have attorneys, and they’ll be suing your ass for this outrageous miscarriage of justice!” Golden yelled.
The officer seemed unaffected by the producer’s outburst.
“Do you understand your rights?” she asked.
“Go fuck yourself!” Golden shouted.
Hall laid a hand on Golden’s forearm. “Calm down, Leon. Everything you’re saying is on TV.”
“Holy shit!” Charlie said as the officers led Hall and Golden away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlie woke up at eight forty-five on Monday. He wasn’t worried about getting to his law office late. He had no court appearances or client meetings scheduled because he only had a few clients and none with pressing business.
He rented a small office in a suite on the tenth floor of an old office building in downtown Portland. The main tenant was a ten-person firm that specialized in personal injury and family law. He paid his rent partly in cash and partly by doing work for the firm at an hourly rate.
His office was furnished with a scarred wooden desk, two client chairs, and a bookcase where he put his law school texts because the binding on the spines looked impressive. The decorations were Spartan, consisting of his college and law school diplomas and fancy documents that attested to his membership in the Oregon and Federal Bars.
Charlie was at work by a little after ten, and he’d just settled in when the receptionist told him that he had a call from the court administrator. When he hung up, he had mixed emotions. He hadn’t had a new client this month, so being appointed to represent an indigent “alleged” criminal was nice, but court-appointed cases paid diddly-squat. Still, some money was better than no money, so he straightened his tie, hoisted his attaché case, and headed for the Justice Center, where newly arrested individuals were arraigned.
It only took ten minutes to get to the Justice Center from Charlie’s office. It had been raining for most of the week, but the sun was out this morning. Charlie walked into the center’s vaulted lobby and took the curving staircase to the next floor, where he saw Deputy District Attorney Monica Reyes in an earnest discussion with a lawyer who had a contract to represent indigent defendants. Reyes was carrying an armful of case files, and Charlie knew that one of them would have Guido Sabatini’s name on its label.
Charlie had tried a case against Reyes, and she had been fair and reasonable, so he hoped they could work a deal if it turned out—as it usually did—that everyone could stop using the word alleged when referring to his new client.
“Hey, Monica,” Charlie said when she was free.
“Oh, hi, Charlie. Who do you have?”
“Guido Sabatini. It’s a burglary charge.”
Monica rolled her eyes. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
“You know him?”
“Oh yeah. And he’s a genuine, grade A fruitcake.”
Charlie frowned. “What’s the story?”
Monica found Guido’s file and handed copies of the indictment and several police reports to Charlie.
“First of all, his name isn’t Guido Sabatini. It’s Lawrence Weiss, but he refuses to answer to that name and insists on being called Guido Sabatini. He claims he’s the reincarnation of a Renaissance painter who worked with Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci.”
Charlie grimaced. “Do you have any Xanax on you?”
Monica laughed. “You’ll need something stronger by the time you finish representing Guido. I’ll check with the guys in Vice and Narcotics and see if they’ve got anything for you in the evidence locker.”
“What has Guido allegedly done?”
“Nothing serious. He’s actually an excellent artist, and he goes to restaurants and sells the owner a painting. Then he becomes incensed if the painting isn’t displayed where he wants it to be. If the owner refuses to change the painting’s location, Guido ‘liberates’ it. This is his third offense. I just gave you the reports in the other thefts.
“In your case, the restaurant is La Bella Roma. The arresting officers didn’t find the painting when they arrested Guido. I’ve been told that I can dismiss the case if Guido returns it. Also, he may have taken something from a safe in the owner’s office. We’ll want that back too.”
“Okay. Let me talk to my client. What about getting him out of jail? Do you want him to post bail, or will you go with recog?”
“My boss says I can go along with a release on his own recognizance. Judge Noonan presided over Mr. Sabatini’s other cases. He knows he’s nuts, but he also knows that Guido will show up for court.”
It was time for the arraignments to start, so Charlie followed Monica into the courtroom and took a seat in the front row.
Charlie took a seat in the front row of the spectator section. Guido’s case was third on the docket, and Charlie walked through the bar of the court when it was called. Moments later, two guards brought his client into the courtroom. Guido was dressed in his floor-length caftan, and everyone stared as the guards placed him next to his court-appointed lawyer.
“I’m Charlie Webb, Mr.… Should I call you Mr. Weiss or Mr. Sabatini?”
“I am Guido Sabatini!”
“Right. So, Guido, do you know what’s going to happen next?”
Guido smiled. “This is not—as they say—my first rodeo. Is the nice lady at the other table going to allow my release on my own recognizance? I need to get back to my painting.”
“The DA won’t object if I ask the judge to let you out on your word that you’ll show up for all of your court appearances.”
“You have my word that I will appear when summoned.”
“Good.” Charlie handed Guido his card. “I had a nice talk with the DA, and I think I can get you out of your scrape with very little wear and tear.”
Anthony Noonan was handling arraignments. Charlie had tried one case in the judge’s court, and he thought that the judge was fair. Noonan always wore short-sleeve shirts under his robe. Every time the judge’s robe fell back along his forearms, Charlie could see the tattoos Noonan had gotten in the Marine Corps. The judge had gone to college after the service, then worked his way through law school at night while driving a truck during the day. He was in his midsixties, but he still looked fit, and he had been on the bench long enough to have seen it all. When Guido was brought into the courtroom, Noonan shook his head.
“Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Webb?” Judge Noonan asked when he thought Charlie had had enough time to get acquainted with his new client.
“We are, Your Honor.”
The judge looked at the prosecutor and sighed. “What has Mr. Weiss done now?”
“Sabatini, Your Honor,” Guido said.
From his past experience with the defendant, the judge knew that Guido would not answer if he was called by his real name. “I forgot myself,” Judge Noonan said. “What has Mr. Sabatini done this time?”
“He broke into La Bella Roma Italian Ristorante and … liberated a painting of a Venice canal he’d sold to Gretchen Hall, the owner. It’s also possible that he took something from the safe in Miss Hall’s office.”
Charlie frowned. The name Gretchen Hall sounded familiar, but he couldn’t remember why.
The judge turned his attention to Charlie’s client.
“So, Mr. Sabatini, you’re back to your old tricks.”
Guido shrugged. “Unfortunately, Your Honor, great art is not appreciated in this world of TikToks and video games.”
“On that, we are agreed. But your means of expressing your displeasure is—as I’m sure your attorney will explain to you—forbidden by the laws of this state. How do you plead to the charge?”
