Tropical Scandal - A Pancho McMartin Legal Thriller

By David M Robinson

Tropical Scandal: A Pancho McMartin Legal Thriller is a wild ride from start to finish; once you pick it up, you don't want to put it back down.

Tropical Scandal is the fifth installment in David Myles Robinson's series of Pancho McMartin legal thrillers. Based somewhat on bizarrely true events, this thrilling sequel is a

• Language: English
• Publisher: BluewaterPress LLC
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781604521955

David M Robinson

David Myles Robinson was born in Los Angeles, California. He went to Blair High in Pasadena and attended San Francisco State College, Cal State Los Angeles, University of Hawaii, and San Francisco State University respectively.He obtained his J.D. from the University of San Francisco School of Law in 1975 where he met his wife, Marcia Waldorf. The two moved to Hawaii to practice law in 1975. Waldorf retired as a Honolulu Circuit Court Judge in 2006 and Robinson retired from private practice in 2010.Robinson's non-writing passions include golfing and skiing. The two now live in Taos, NM.

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DEDICATION

To Marcia, my everything

The contents of this book regarding the accuracy of events, people and places depicted and permissions to use all previously published materials are the sole responsibility of the author who assumes all liability for the content of the book.

© 2023 David Myles Robinson

All rights reserved. Except for fair use educational purposes and short excerpts for editorial reviews in journals, magazines, or web sites, no part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and/or publisher.

International Standard Book Number 13:

Hardback 978-1-60452-193-1

Softback 978-1-60452-194-8

eBook 978-1-60452-195-5

International Standard Book Number 10:

Hardback 1-60452-193-7

Softback 1-60452-194-5

eBook 1-60452-195-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023933951

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TROPICAL SCANDAL

A Pancho McMartin Legal Thriller

by

David Myles Robinson

Chapter 1

I was surprised when my current lover, Padma Dasari, asked me to meet with Isaac Goldblum, a legendary Hawaii trial attorney who, now in his eighties, was an alcoholic still representing clients. I had made known my intolerance for those attorneys who fell prey to addiction yet refused help—all while still accepting clients. They were walking malpractice cases who risked everything they’d worked for in their own lives—not to mention the lives of their clients—by living and working as functional drunks o r addicts.

Being a trial attorney was stressful. Being a criminal defense trial attorney was particularly stressful. Aside from the relatively rare innocent defendant, our customer base was composed of criminals who, generally speaking, were not the warmest and fuzziest people to deal with day in and day out. Whether they were guilty or innocent, their lives were in our hands—a situation only the most jaded and burned-out counsel didn’t find stressful.

My surprise didn’t arise from the fact that Padma knew Goldblum. She was the former medical examiner for the city and county of Honolulu, and just as I had cross-examined her many times in her capacity as coroner, so had Goldblum. My surprise arose from the fact that Padma knew Goldblum had been one of my early heroes. He was most famous for having won an acquittal for two Hawaiian teenagers who had been charged with the murder of a prominent haole (Caucasian) businessman. The public outcry against the Hawaiian kids had been reminiscent of the uproar in the Deep South when young black men were charged with the rape of white women. It was scary. Goldblum was vilified for taking the case.

As he later said in an interview for the Honolulu Advertiser, he knew that anything short of proving who the real killer was would fall on deaf ears. His cross-examination of the businessman’s administrative assistant, who’d been having an affair with the dead man’s wife and who ultimately confessed to the murder, was nothing short of brilliant.

I had shared my early hero worship of Goldblum with Padma, but I had also made it clear that I now harbored a healthy dose of contempt for the man, who seemed intent on destroying his own legacy. At the time, Padma had not tried to defend Goldblum.

We were enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon at Padma’s Kahala Beach condo when she broached the subject of my meeting with Goldblum. He lives here, in the next building, she said. He’s invited us to stop by for a cocktail at about four.

I stared out from her oceanfront lanai at the tranquil ocean. The palm fronds on the coconut trees fronting the beach barely twitched. One lone puff of a cumulous cloud hovered in the bright blue sky.

Why? I asked. Why would I want to go have a drink with a drunk who should have put himself on inactive status years ago?

Padma stared back at me with her piercing dark eyes. I half expected her to admonish me for being too judgmental—a trait I seemed to have developed in recent years. Isaac asked to meet with you. We know each other from court, and he knows I live in this building, and he knows we’re in a relationship. I think he came to me rather than you because he knows—or at least suspects—that you aren’t much of an admirer of his.

Padma had been born in India and had done volunteer work as a doctor in Bangladesh, but she had lived and worked in the United States for most of her adult life. Nonetheless, she still retained the remnants of an accent, which was melodic and soothing. No doubt she was a calming influence on many people grieving the loss of a loved one. She had been instrumental in helping my mother in New Mexico get through the early stages of the loss of my father. Just the tone of her voice seemed to take the wind out of my judgmental sails.

Okay, but do you know why he wants to meet?

She gave a small shake of her head. Something about a case. That’s all I know. She paused for a beat. Look, I know he’s a drunk and you hate the fact that he’s still going to court, but you have to admit: drunk or sober, the man knows the law and probably still has pretty good instincts. I doubt he would ask to meet with you if he didn’t think it was important.

I resisted the temptation to make a snide remark and instead looked at my watch. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Why’d you wait until now to tell me about this?

Padma’s beautiful brown face broke into a mischievous grin. So you wouldn’t have time to obsess about it.

I laughed. Jesus, Padma. We’re not even married and you play me like a fiddle.

I love the fiddle, was her only retort.

Chapter 2

The Kahala Beach condo project consisted of four buildings, each with four floors. Padma’s oceanfront condo was in Building 3. Isaac Goldblum’s condo, also on the oceanfront, was in Building 1, the closest to the neighboring Waialae Country Club. As we walked along the beach walk to Building 1, out of habit I gazed out to sea, checking the surf. The reef here was about a quarter mile out, so the only waves lapping the rocky shore were mere pups. It didn’t look like there was much surf even out at the reef, so at least I wasn’t missing out on a dec ent swell.

When I took my eyes off the ocean, I noticed Padma was looking at me, a smile playing at her luscious lips.

What? I asked.

Oh, nothing, she said. I appreciate you humoring me, and I’m glad you’re not missing a good afternoon of surf to do so.

We walked on in silence. I was wearing a polo shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, the latter of which snapped against the sand as I walked. Padma looked beautiful as ever in a yellow sundress that contrasted sharply with her brown skin. She was prone to wearing short skirts, even when she’d worked as the medical examiner, and this dress showed off her perfect legs.

That’s all well and good, I said, but I can tell you what I am missing out on. I gave her my best version of a salacious look, which probably made me look like a pervert.

You’re a sick puppy, she said, chuckling. Perhaps you’ll be rewarded for being good.

Goldblum opened the door to his condo moments after our knock, and I wondered if he’d been on his lanai watching us as we made our way to him along the beach. Thank you so much for coming, he said as he clutched my right hand in his two hands.

We followed him into his condo, which shared the same layout as Padma’s. His unit was furnished in aging but clearly expensive furniture. Lots of leather seating and koa wood tables and cabinetry. His artwork was an eclectic mix of Asian and Polynesian. It was all very tasteful and well-maintained.

We followed him into the living room, which looked out to the ocean. He was wearing white shorts and a red-and-black aloha shirt, untucked. His skinny, hairless white legs ended in long, thin, bony bare feet. He was shorter than I recalled.

He directed us to a table on the lanai, where a pitcher of what appeared to be martinis was sweating profusely. We sat, and I studied him while he poured us each a glass, plopped an olive into each, and then passed them out. His face was thin and well-lined. His bulbous nose was filled with broken capillaries, which gave it a reddish hue. His white eyebrows were long and wild and untended, much like the clumps of hair growing out of his ears. Two dominant features mitigated the impression of a mousy old man: his eyes were a deep blue and much clearer than the typical alcoholic’s, and his full head of white hair was wavy and distinguished-looking, free of the yellowing tint that afflicts so many older men with white hair. Had he been dressed in his trademark white suit and gold tie, he would have still looked the part of the famed trial attorney.

Goldblum’s full, soft-looking lips formed a smile as he lifted his glass. Cheers.

We echoed his toast and took a sip.

I made an assumption that you’d both be fine with vodka, but if you’d like anything else, let me know. I didn’t want you sitting here while I puttered around at the bar mixing drinks.

I’m fine, I said. In fact, it was perfectly made and was already working to take the edge off my churlish attitude.

Me too, Padma said. This is excellent.

The three of us sipped our cocktails in silence.

Goldblum then glanced at Padma before directing his attention to me. Again, I thank you for humoring an old man and coming to meet with me here at my home. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. His voice was still sonorous—a courtroom voice with only a slight hint of the weakness associated with someone in his eighties.

I nodded but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

I have a case I’d like to consult with you on. He paused, and his unregulated eyebrows furled and bobbed up and down. Strike that. What I’d really like is for you to take over for me. My client’s been indicted, and I represented him at the arraignment and plea. He can’t afford bail, which has been set at two million. The prosecutor promised to get the police report and grand jury transcript to me, but I haven’t received anything yet.

I didn’t answer right away. I glanced at Padma, who sat impassive, uninvolved. With bail set at two million, I assumed we were talking about a murder case. I took another small sip of the martini and then set the glass down and looked at Goldblum. Let me ask you a question first. Why are you still practicing law?

To his credit, the old trial attorney’s only reaction was to blink and curl one side of his mouth into a kind of smile.

I glanced at Padma again in time to see her shoot me a frown. In her world, you didn’t go into a person’s home, accept a drink, and promptly insult the host. I tried not to dwell on her disappointment and instead turned back to Goldblum.

It’s a fair question, he said, looking from me to Padma and back to me. Although I suspect our friend here may consider it arrogant and rude, I don’t. We trial attorneys have to be arrogant and rude from time to time. He hesitated, fingering his glass. The short answer is money. I’ve been married three times. My first wife passed away after a long illness, which sapped our resources. The next two ended in very expensive divorces. I bought this condo for a couple million dollars back when we all thought we’d be able to purchase the fee under the project, but our attorney fucked up and the court refused to force Bishop Estate to sell their leasehold interest to us. So the lease on the land under these buildings is set to expire in a few years. They have made it clear they will not extend the lease. Highest and best use, and all that shit. In my divorces I insisted that I keep the condo. I love it here. And I knew that once I owned the fee, it would easily be worth ten million or more by the time I was ready to retire. Now, with the short time I have left, I probably couldn’t get a hundred grand for it. So, long story short, I spent much of my savings keeping a condo that is now worth next to nothing.

A palm frond that had been hanging by a thread to the large coconut tree fronting Goldblum’s lanai when we first arrived suddenly gave up and dropped to the ground with a thud.

Goldblum didn’t seem to notice. He stared down into his martini glass for a moment before continuing. I really had no choice but to keep working. I needed the money. He held up a bony hand as if to silence me before I could respond. And yes, I know I drink too much. But whatever people may say or think, I don’t believe my drinking has ever adversely affected a client.

So why do you need me to take over this case—whatever it is?

Goldblum seemed to wince, revealing a split-second furrowing of his brow. Because I’m done. I recently settled a decent personal injury case, so I have a little money in the bank. I’ve also discovered that I’m dying. Cancer. I’ll try to sell this place for whatever I can get, or I’ll just rent it out. These units are in high demand as rentals. In any event, my plan is to move to New York and live out my remaining days with my sister. He took another sip of his martini, set it down, and heaved a long sigh. I never thought I’d leave Hawaii to go die on the mainland, but I really don’t have a choice at this point.

I was speechless and could feel whatever righteous indignation I had left drain from my body. I felt stupid and sad and embarrassed.

Padma leaned forward in her chair and took Goldblum’s hand in hers. I’m so sorry, Isaac.

Goldblum shrugged, patted Padma’s hand with his free hand, and gave her a wan smile. It is what it is. I’ve lived a hell of a life. As Nietzsche said, ‘One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly.’

I finally found my voice. I’m terribly sorry—both for your situation and for my rudeness.

Goldblum took his hand out from under Padma’s and waved it in the air. Nothing to apologize for. I just hope you’ll be able to help my client, Dayton Kalama. I’ve represented him on small charges a number of times over the years. Every one of those cases ended up being dismissed, but this is different. He got popped with a hundred hydrocodone pills. Vicodin. His grandmother, with whom he lives, bailed him out—as usual—but five days later she was found dead in her bed. An overdose of Vicodin. For some reason I don’t know, the police seem to have ruled out suicide or accidental overdose and arrested Dayton for her murder the next day.

I opened my mouth to speak, but once again, Goldblum signaled he wasn’t done.

I’ll let you get the story from Dayton yourself, but let me say a couple more things. One, Dayton is a bit slow. A less gracious person might say he’s dumb as a post. He’s in his early thirties but developmentally seems more like a not-too-bright teenager. Two, I don’t think he’s guilty, but I also don’t think Eleanor killed herself. Goldblum paused, and his face clouded over. I knew her pretty well, and I don’t think she was using drugs, and she certainly didn’t strike me as suicidal. Her whole mission in life was to take care of Dayton. Then again, who really knows what someone else is thinking. I won’t taint your judgment by saying anything further for now. Once you meet with him and establish an attorney-client relationship, we can talk. He signaled he was finished by picking up his glass and taking a healthy swig of martini.

So if you don’t think Eleanor killed herself, accidentally or on purpose, and you don’t think Dayton is guilty, then you think she was murdered by someone else. Any ideas who?

Goldblum stared down into his martini glass, almost empty now, and shook his head.

Out at sea, the late afternoon sky had turned a deep orange, streaked with random lines of purple.

Chapter 3

W ell, what do you think? Pa dma asked.

We were back on her lanai, snug in her comfortably padded Brown and Jordan chairs, facing the rocky shore, which was lit by spotlights in the waning evening light.

I listened to the rhythmic pounding of Tahitian drums at the Kahala Resort hula show next door for a few moments before answering. Well, frankly, I’m conflicted. I kind of feel like I’ve been ambushed by the old guy. I feel sorry for him, and I admit to having been an ass, but I’m busy as hell right now, and this sounds like it may be a pro bono case unless the ‘dumb-as-a-post’ kid has a bunch of money lying around.

Padma didn’t answer. She had been with me long enough—and had worked on enough of my cases—to understand that I wasn’t just a criminal defense attorney; I was a small businessman. I had a sizable nut to cover every month before I could take a dime out of the business. Rent, salaries, malpractice insurance, professional fees, cost advances on client cases all had to be paid regardless of whether I was working for free or for a well-paying client.

I’m going to get a glass of wine, I said as I stood. You want one?

Sure.

A few moments later I handed her a glass of French Chablis and, holding my own glass, sat down. I’m sorry about confronting Goldblum like that. I’m embarrassed. I think all the rumors I’ve heard about him were exaggerated. I’ll go talk to Dayton, but I’m not promising anything.

We sat in silence while we sipped our wine.

My thoughts kept returning to Goldblum. I can’t help thinking that—but for the grace of God—that could be me in my old age.

Padma chuckled. You mean you’re afraid you’re going to turn into a short old man with Russian eyebrows and clumps of hair growing out of your ears?

Yeah, exactly, I said with a laugh. Come on. You know what I mean. Criminal law isn’t exactly the most lucrative side of a law practice. I charge a lot of money, but for every case that resolves, I need to get a new client—a new paying client. I’m trying to save as much as I can, but hell, I didn’t even start making enough to open a 401K until five or six years ago. I paused, aware that I sounded like a rich whiner, the very kind of person I found intolerable. I shrugged. I just don’t want to be at the end of my career handling DUIs and misdemeanor cases for a few hundred bucks a pop because I can’t afford to quit.

Well, don’t forget you’ll be a drunk by then, so that’ll take some of the sting out of it. Obviously, Padma was having none of my self-pity—or whatever it was I was wallowing in.

I smiled and raised my glass in a mock toast. Good point. Then I turned my attention to wondering whether it was too soon after making an ass out of myself to suggest making love.

~~~

I was pleasantly surprised the next morning to find that the prosecutor’s office had accepted my plea deal in a drug possession case that was scheduled for motions that afternoon. That allowed me to arrange to meet Dayton Kalama at the Oahu Community Correctional Center, commonly referred to as O-triple-C, later that afternoon.

My law office was in a glass-ensconced high-rise overlooking Honolulu Harbor. Six months earlier I had moved to a larger office one floor up, which gave us enough room for my investigator and best friend, Drew Tulafono, to have his own office. Drew was an ex-NFL lineman who had played with the San Diego Chargers for enough years to ruin both knees. He’d finally gone through a double knee replacement and was more or less pain-free for the first time since retiring. I gave my secretary, Elise, instructions on setting up an interview with Dayton, then knocked on Drew’s door and entered after hearing his grunt, which I knew meant Enter.

Drew rarely saw clients or potential witnesses in his office. Consequently, he’d made little effort to bother with aesthetics. His battered old oak desk, which he’d insisted on buying second-hand, was covered with stacks of papers and files. The one credenza alongside his desk was also covered with work. In the only nod to personalization, he had placed some trophies from his football days atop a small bookshelf. Three photos decorated the wall above: one of Drew in his Chargers uniform, one of the whole team, and one of Drew and President Obama. In the latter, Drew was in uniform, his helmet held in his right hand and hanging to the side. Obama was on his left, wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and a plumeria lei.

What’s up, big guy? I said, walking in and removing a stack of papers from the lone client chair in front of his desk.

Drew pulled his wide, dark bare feet off the desk and sat up. Nada mucho, boss. Just going over these police reports on the Matteo case. Trying to see if we missed anything before you agree to sell him down the river.

I snorted a laugh. Yeah, well, good luck with that. Even our client agrees he should be sent down that river.

Drew tossed the file he’d been holding onto his desk. Those are the assholes I worry most about. They agree to a deal to get out of a longer sentence, then complain about it later. So, what’s up with you?

I filled him in on my meeting with Goldblum and the request to take over the representation of Dayton Kalama. Do you know anything about the case?

Only what I’ve read. He’s accused of murdering his grandmother by feeding her a shitload of painkillers, which, by the way, he’d been arrested for selling only a week or so prior.

I promised Goldblum I’d at least talk to the guy. I’m going to see him at three-thirty this afternoon at O-triple-C. See if you can dig anything up on him and the grandma before I go. From the little I know so far, it doesn’t make any sense that he’d kill his grandmother. According to Goldblum, she had just bailed him out of jail yet again. She also always paid for his attorney’s fees.

Got it. I’ll see what I can find out. Do you know the grandmother’s name? I can’t remember what the papers said it was.

I shook my head. Nah. I’m not even sure Goldblum told me.

No worries. I’ll look it up.

I stood and turned to leave but turned back to face Drew after taking only one step. Let’s keep in touch. If I get done in time, maybe we can catch a few waves later.

Chapter 4

I met Dayton Kalama in a small, windowless, cement-walled room in Module 5, the holding area for pretrial felons. The prison itself was ugly and outdated and, like all prisons everywhere, miserable. Unfortunately, I knew it all too well. I was on a first-name basis with most of the guards who worked in and around Module 5. As far as I knew, none of them held it against me that I was on the defense side. Oahu, despite having over