O.J. trial, there was a prosecution witness named Kato Kaelin who used his testimony as an audition. He got about fifteen minutes out of it. And the prosecution got zip.
It was going to be one interesting afternoon. But the morning was not over.
116
I TOOK THE elevator down and crossed Spring Street to City Hall. I went through the formal front doors, usually used only for ceremony, and walked through the marble rotunda with its pillars and bronze caravel, and took an elevator to the fourth floor.
I passed a few council offices until I got to the oak door that said:
COUNCILMEMBER
JAMIE MACARTHUR
ASSISTANT PRESIDENT
PRO TEMPORE
Beneath that was the Great Seal of the City of Los Angeles. I went through the door into a reception area. An attractive African American woman looked up from her computer terminal.
“Help you?” she said.
“I’m here to see Mr. Nielsen,” I said. “I’m an old friend.”
She picked up a phone. “May I have your name?”
“Buchanan.”
“One moment.” She punched a couple of numbers, waited, then said, “A Mr. Buchanan is here to see you. He says he’s an old friend.”
“Not that old,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Close enough for government work,” I said and smiled.
She didn’t smile. She told me to wait.
Which meant I got to look at another framed photograph of Councilmember Jamie MacArthur. The photo was beginning to annoy me. It cried out for a felt-tip mustache.
Regis Nielsen came out. This time missing his plastic smile.
“Mr. Buchanan,” he said, “I don’t really have time to talk with you.”
“I bet you have time to manipulate usage charges on city contracts.”
He paused, looked at the receptionist, who looked back at him. Then he motioned for me to follow him.
He led me down the corridor to his office. It had a desk, and computer, two chairs, a credenza, and a view of the federal courthouse across Temple Street.
Nielsen motioned for me to have a seat. I stayed standing. He sat behind his desk.
“I want to talk to your boss,” I said.
“I don’t know that that will accomplish anything,” Nielsen said.
“So where is he?”
“Mr. Buchanan—”
“It’s going to happen, and I suggest it is much better for you if it happens now, and not later. Because I get mad at people when they stall me. It’s a real character defect. I do stuff to make their lives miserable.”
Nielsen touched his lips with his two forefingers. He swiveled in his chair—right, left, right—keeping eye contact with me.
Then he said, “Have you ever seen the city from atop City Hall?”
117
NIELSEN TOOK ME to the elevators and we went up all the way, coming out to a broad staircase. At the top of the stairs was a bust of Tom Bradley, mayor of Los Angeles for twenty years, and the first African American to hold that position.
We went up another set of stairs to a reception room. There was a portable lectern with the city seal on it, and a few chairs.
Nielsen walked out the door, and we were on the outside, where there is a perimeter viewing area. The city spread out in a panorama. Walking around the catwalk gives a 360-degree view. Right now we were looking down on the Foltz Building and the old Hall of Justice across the street.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Nielsen said.
“A good place for a murder.”
“Don’t even joke about it. We had a jumper last year. They almost decided to close access. But I’m glad they didn’t. I like to come up here and relax sometimes.”
“And why am I here?” I said.
A voice behind me said, “To see me.”
Jamie MacArthur had joined us.
118
HE WAS SHORTER than I thought he’d be. His matinee-idol head seemed better suited to a man over six feet. He had gray eyes and a full head of black hair done up in that way thick-haired politicians favor—made to look casual for around $400 a cut.
He offered his hand. “You are Tyler Buchanan?”
“That’s me.” His grip was firm and assumed I’d give him my vote.
He smiled and looked out at the view. “I don’t get up here often enough,” he said. “It’s like people in New York who never go to the Empire State Building.”
He was wearing a gray suit with white shirt and red tie. A gold bracelet hung on his right wrist and a Rolex on his left. At least I think it was a Rolex. He seemed a Rolex kind of guy.
“Do you love this city the way I do, Mr. Buchanan?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Were you brought up here?”
“Miami. I came out here for