But I was dead wrong.
The potato was way too hot to handle locally and the Leonard, Howard and Arthur firm, supported by the Governor, pushed the case into the Los Angeles County Superior Court.
The judge, the Honorable James Judith, had been appointed to the bench by the Governor and was quick to seize the opportunity to honor the Governor’s wish to have the case play out in the state’s highest-profile jurisdiction.
Regrets were tendered to Judge Lemieux, and the L.A. District Attorney’s office inherited the proceedings.
I was in the Victory Police Department’s headquarters where I happily read Boris Petrov his rights. He glared at me throughout.
“Lawyer,” he said, doing his best to conceal his toothless mouth, but not succeeding.
I guided him to the phone and told him he was allowed one call. He picked up the phone and looked at me.
“Privacy,” he said.
“No such thing.”
“I insist.”
“You either place the call now or forfeit your right to make it.”
“You, as we say in Russia, are one total shithead.”
“Thank you.”
He shook his head and dialed. He informed Craig Leonard of his whereabouts and that he had been arrested. Whatever Leonard responded seemed to mollify him. He ended the call and glared at me. “You and I aren’t finished, Buddy Steel. You’re barking up the wrong bush if you think you can make anything you have on me stick.”
“Tree.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s tree. Not bush.”
Petrov glared at me. “Your time will come Mr. Smart Mouth. Sooner than you think. And when it does, there’ll be plenty of rejoicing.”
“Will there be party hats?”
I returned his glare with a grin and nodded to Police Chief Art Christensen, who had been watching the proceedings. “Good to go,” I said.
Chief Christensen made certain Petrov was properly cuffed and leg-ironed, then led him outside and loaded him into the waiting van. We set off for Freedom where he would be turned over to the State Police.
“You’re a loser,” Petrov sneered at me.
I didn’t say anything.
“You play with fire, you burn to death.”
“You’re just a fount of malapropisms, aren’t you?”
“You chose wrong guy to pick on. You’re a dead man walking.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. As will the judge, also.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re on tape, bozo. And the judge will be the first person to hear it.”
“You recorded me?”
“I did. And not only that, Chief Christensen here heard you, too.”
“So what?”
“You threatened the life of an officer of the law. There are penalties for that.”
We made the rest of the trip in silence. When we pulled into the courthouse lot, a State Police van was already parked there.
I hustled Petrov into the building and was greeted by a pair of Staties. Captain Alan Hollett presented me with the paperwork required for him to assume responsibility for Mr. Petrov. Marsha Russo assured me that all was in order.
A crusty veteran possessing considerable girth, Hollett set about removing Petrov’s bindings. “What happened to his teeth?”
“An unfortunate accident.”
“Police brutality,” Petrov shouted.
Hollett looked at me questioningly.
I smiled.
Hollett shrugged and glanced briefly at Petrov’s mouth. Then he shook my hand, took Petrov by the arm and led him to a waiting vehicle.
After they had gone, Marsha looked at me. “What now?”
“Out of our hands.”
“Because?”
“Politics.”
“What politics?”
“The Governor insisted this be top shelf, highest priority. Right or wrong, Petrov’s arrest will be considered a victory for him personally, elevating his chances for higher office.”
“You mean the Presidency?”
“Nothing’s higher than that.”
“Ironic,” she said.
“How so?”
“Collusion with Russians.”