Higher Law 2

By

Sheldon Siegel

Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez

Legal Thrillers

Novels 5-7

THE CONFESSION

JUDGMENT DAY

PERFECT ALIBI

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

Copyright © 2014 Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN:  978-0-9913912-7-1

1. Daley, Mike (Fictitious Character) – Fiction.

2. Fernandez, Rosie (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

3. San Francisco (California.) – Fiction. 4. Attorney and

Client- Fiction. 5. Trials (Murder) – Fiction.

For My Fans

THE CONFESSION

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. “A SLIDING SCALE FOR SIN”

2. “HOW MANY LAWYERS DOES IT TAKE?”

3. THE MUSCLE AND THE MOUTHPIECE

4. “WE’RE ONLY LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR BEST INTERESTS”

5. “THEY ALWAYS HAVE AN AGENDA”

6. “HER PERSONAL LIFE IS CONFIDENTIAL”

7. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE SERIOUSNESS OF THIS MATTER?”

8. “I AM THE ARCHBISHOP OF SAN FRANCISCO”

9. “PARLOR TRICKS DON’T WORK IN MURDER TRIALS”

10. “IT’S MY JOB TO HAVE FAITH”

11. “I KNOW HOW THIS MUST LOOK”

12. “NOBODY IS BIGGER THAN THE CHURCH”

13. “THIS IS A CRIME SCENE”

14. “EVERYBODY KNOWS EDUARDO”

15. PETE

16. “IT BECAME INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO DEAL WITH HER ON A RATIONAL BASIS”

17. “IT WAS A WRONGFUL ACT”

18. “WHAT’S THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO?”

19. “THINGS JUST DIDN’T WORK OUT”

20. “LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME?”

21. “I FIGURED YOU MIGHT BE UP”

22. “FATHER AGUIRRE PROVIDED MORE THAN COUNSELING”

23. “GOD NEVER GIVES US MORE THAN WE CAN HANDLE”

24. “EDUARDO IS A CHEATING ASSHOLE”

25. “MY EX-WIFE HAD SERIOUS EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS”

26. “IT WASN’T A SUICIDE”

27. “GOD HASN’T BEEN CHARGED WITH MURDER”

28. “THE TECHNOLOGY OUTPACED THE THEOLOGY”

29. “YOU’VE PUT ME INTO AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION”

30. “MEET JANE DOE”

31. “I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS”

32. “YOU CAN LOOK, BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH”

33. “NOBODY SAW HER”

34. “YOU DON’T WANT TO BASE YOUR DEFENSE ON THE TESTIMONY OF A HOOKER”

35. “WHO’S PICK?”

36. “YOU’RE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE”

37. “INDEED I AM”

38. “A SIN IS STILL A SIN”

39. “IT’S BETTER TO COME CLEAN”

40. “IT CAN’T POSSIBLY GET ANY WORSE”

41. “FOLLOW THE MONEY”

42. “I WON’T LET YOU TURN MY COURTROOM INTO A CIRCUS”

43. “ALL RISE”

44. “IT’S IN MY REPORT”

45. “NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, YOUR HONOR”

46. “A CLASSIC CASE OF MOTIVE, MEANS AND OPPORTUNITY”

47. “HOW LONG CAN YOU BLOW SMOKE?”

48. “THINGS DIDN’T WORK OUT”

49. “MUTUAL DECISIONS GENERALLY DON’T INVOLVE BASEBALL BATS”

50. “YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO WIN”

51. “I AM THE ARCHBISHOP’S CHIEF ADVISOR ON ALL MAJOR LEGAL MATTERS”

52. DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

53. “LUIS DOES NOT EXIST”

54. “I WAS GOING TO STEAL THE CAR”

55. A FINAL CONFESSION

56. “LIFE HAS CONSEQUENCES”

57. A CHRISTMAS CAROL

CHAPTER 1

“A SLIDING SCALE FOR SIN”

“A high-profile lawsuit against the San Francisco Archdiocese for allegedly covering up a pattern of sexual abuse by a prominent priest was put on hold when the plaintiff’s attorney apparently committed suicide.”

— San Francisco Chronicle. Tuesday, December 9.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

My rote recitation of the traditional catechism is met with a mixture of piety and detached amusement by my friend and seminary classmate, Father Ramon Aguirre, who is sitting on the other side of the portal in a musty confessional booth in the back of St. Peter’s Catholic Church at eight p.m. on Tuesday, December ninth. The organ is silent, and the bells from the tower are drowned out by the rain beating against the vaulted ceiling three stories above us. The modest wooden structure in San Francisco’s Mission District was erected in the 1880s and survived the 1906 earthquake, but its good fortune ran out almost a hundred years later when it was severely damaged by fire. It was rebuilt a few years ago and looks much the same as it did when my parents brought me here for my baptism a half century ago.

Ramon is fluent in Spanish, but there is no trace of an accent when he asks, “How long has it been since your last confession, Mike?”

Nowadays, relatively few Catholics–even recovering ones like me–get to confess their sins to a priest who knows them by name. “Do we have to go through this ritual every time we get together?”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Do I get any dispensation for all the Hail Marys I said when I was a priest?”

“You can’t use Hail Marys like frequent flyer miles. You know the drill. How long has it been?”

“When was the last time I saw you, Ramon?”

“About a month ago.”

“That was the last time I went to confession.”

The pews are empty and a few votive candles are flickering near the altar. St. Peter’s is a reminder of simpler times when this area was populated by Irish immigrants. My parents grew up a few blocks from here on opposite sides of Garfield Square, but that’s ancient history. Like many of our neighbors who wanted more room for their growing families, we moved from our cramped apartment to a modest bungalow in the foggy Sunset District forty years ago as part of a larger exodus from the inner city that was taking place in many metropolitan areas at the time. My old neighborhood has been home to a working class Latino community ever since, and the sweet aroma of burritos, salsa, and fresh fruit permeates the modest commercial strip around the corner on Twenty-fourth Street. The refurbished church is in pretty good shape thanks to an infusion of cash from the archdiocese, but the residents of the community lack the resources to maintain many of the houses and low-rise apartment buildings that date back to the late nineteenth century. Things are especially grim near the Valencia Gardens Housing Project and the BART station at Sixteenth and Mission, where drug dealers and hookers have taken up residence outside the conventional businesses. The west side of the neighborhood is gentrifying thanks to an influx of transplanted tech workers from Silicon Valley.

Ramon is also a throwback to an earlier era. The politically-astute and utterly pragmatic priest is a worthy successor to the legacy of the legendary Peter Yorke, who was born in Galway in 1887 and plied his trade in this very building in the early part of the last century. Father Yorke was a labor organizer, newspaper publisher, and political gadfly. Ramon understands that he can better tend to his flock if he has the resources to do so, and he got into a little trouble a few years ago when he accepted donations from a produce wholesaler who supplemented his income with drug and prostitution money. To this day, Ramon insists that he didn’t know the funds were dirty. He used the cash to feed the poor, and neither the DA nor the archdiocese was inclined to pursue it. He opens his church to the homeless on Thursdays, and there is a dance in the social hall every Saturday night where he always takes a turn at the mike. The Chronicle dubbed him the “Rock and Roll Reverend.”

His tone has the requisite level of priest-like judgment when he asks, “How often do you stop by to chat with God?”

“Occasionally.” My record has been spotty since I left the priesthood almost twenty years ago. “Is this interrogation necessary?”

“I’m in the business of saving souls and yours is at the top of my list. You’re a test case for the greatest challenge of my career.”

“Which is?”

“I’m trying to get my first lawyer into heaven.”

Sometimes I miss the good old days when priests were stern taskmasters instead of aspiring stand-up comics. “What are my odds?”

“Not good. I have to hold you to a higher standard because you used to be one of us.”

“There’s a sliding scale for sin?”

“Yes.”

“That rule wasn’t in effect when I was a priest.”

“It is now.” He chuckles. “One of the things I love about this job is that I get a lot of latitude in deciding what constitutes a sin.”

It’s one of the many reasons I’m no longer in his line of work. I never felt qualified to sit in judgment of people who tortured themselves with guilt for things that didn’t seem all that sinful to me. The nice people felt compelled to confess to trivial things while the schmucks were running amok on the streets. I developed a reputation as the “easy priest” at St. Anne’s in the Sunset where I worked for three years before I threw in the towel and went to law school. My lackadaisical attitude in meting out punishments was met with greater enthusiasm by the kids in my parish than by my superiors.

“How’s Rosie?” he asks.

“Fine.”

His simple question has a more complicated answer. Rosita Fernandez is my law partner, significant other, and best friend. She’s also my ex-wife. We’ve covered a lot of territory since we met at the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office sixteen years ago. We’ve managed to get married, have a daughter who just turned twelve, get divorced, and start a law practice. I mixed in an unsatisfying stint at a big law firm, and we tried our hand at being law professors at my alma mater, Boalt Hall. That latest experiment came to an end about a year after it started.

Our last high profile case was eighteen months ago when we represented an indigent man who was accused of stabbing a Silicon Valley hotshot behind a liquor store on Sixth Street. We tried to take a break after the case ended, but we discovered that Rosie was pregnant, and we welcomed an energetic baby boy in January. This led to rampant and unsubstantiated speculation that we might get married again. Some people are meant to live together, but Rosie and I aren’t. We decided to continue to live in non-marital, non-cohabitative semi-bliss in our respective places in Marin County. It isn’t an ideal arrangement, but life is full of compromises, and over the last eleven months, we’ve come to appreciate the three-block de-militarized zone separating her house from my apartment. After re-embarking upon parenthood shortly after turning fifty, I’ve decided to hold off on any additional life cycle events for the foreseeable future.

His tone turns serious. “Has there been any recurrence of the cancer?”

Rosie had a mastectomy three years ago. “She’s cancer-free.”

“That’s great news.”

Yes, it is.

“Have you given any thought to making her an honest woman?”

He always tries. “Priests aren’t allowed to do any suggestive selling. You’re supposed to sit back and listen while I tell you all the horrible things I’ve done.” I’ve always loved the fact that the Church has rules for everything.

“I hate doing confessions for ex-priests. Lawyers are even worse. They argue about everything.”

Yes, we do.

He pleads his case. “I wasn’t trying to elicit a confession. I was simply giving you some helpful post-marital or, best case, premarital counseling.”

Priests are even better at parsing than lawyers.

He tees it up again. “Have you and Rosie thought about trying a more conventional relationship? It would make my boss happy, and I could check off one more item on my to-do list. I’ll put in a good word with God if you think it would help.”

“Technically, what we’re doing isn’t a sin. We got a civil divorce, but we never got one from the Church. According to you guys, we’re still married, so you have to lay off.”

He changes the subject. “How’s Grace?”

“Fine.” Our daughter is a good kid who is showing her first signs of independence. Things are going to get more interesting when her braces come off and her figure fills out. God help us when her first boyfriend shows up at the door.

“Do you take her to church every once in a while?”

“From time to time.” She isn’t wildly enthusiastic about it, and I don’t push. I’m hoping she’ll be able to find a relationship with God on her own terms.

“And Tommy?”

Over the years, the name Tommy has had multiple meanings in our family. Originally, it referred to my father, Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr., who was a San Francisco cop for four decades until he succumbed to lung cancer after Grace was born. For twenty-two glorious years, it also meant my older brother, Tom, Jr., who was a star quarterback at St. Ignatius and Cal before he went to Vietnam and never came back. Nowadays, it means the active eleven-month-old lad with a charming disposition and strong lungs that he exercises at four o’clock every morning. We’re hoping he’ll sleep through the night sometime before he leaves for college.

“He’s been a little colicky,” I say, “but he’s doing great.” Rosie says that any woman who has a baby after she turns forty should hire a stunt-mom.

“Give them a hug for me.”

“I will.” I sound like Grace when I say, “Can we get dinner now? I’m hungry.”

“You still haven’t confessed to anything. You must have done something.”

When I was a kid, my brother and I became adept at making up a few sins on our way to church even if we hadn’t done anything especially egregious during the week. If all else failed, we’d swear at each other, then we’d go inside and confess. “If I admit to something, will you stop bugging me about getting married again?”

“Seems fair.”

It strikes me as amusing that I choose to confess my sins to a man who was known as the “Party Priest” at the seminary. We used to go out for a few beers a couple of nights a week while we were studying to become God’s emissaries, and we had to cover for each other from time to time. He’s toned things down considerably since he became the head honcho at St. Peter’s. He freely acknowledges that it wouldn’t set a good example if they found him passed out on the steps of the rectory with an empty beer can in his hand.

I go with an old standby. “I said a bad word in court today, and I took the Lord’s name in vain when Tommy’s diaper exploded last night.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His tone turns appropriately judgmental. “You shouldn’t swear in front of the children.” He lets me off with a light sentence and the usual admonition to set a better example.

I promise to play nice, but I’m reasonably sure my ticket to hell was punched the day I passed the California Bar Exam.

* * *

I dutifully say my Hail Marys and we adjourn to a religious shrine of a different sort. The Taqueria LaCumbre is a hole in the wall on Valencia, about a mile from St. Peter’s. The room isn’t long on ambiance, but the restaurant has been here forever, and many of us think the recipe for the pollo asada was handed down directly from God. We’re sitting in the corner and I’m devouring my chicken as Ramon takes a long draw on his second beer. He’s a lanky man with dark brown eyes, a prominent Roman nose, and a full head of silver hair. He still plays basketball a couple of nights a week at the Mission YMCA. He looks like he could glide down the court with the USF varsity, where he was once a starting forward. Rosie says he’s the sexiest man in the Bay Area. She’s always had a thing for priests.

His normally ebullient demeanor turns serious when our conversation turns to Church gossip. “It isn’t as much fun as it was when you were still in the business. You can’t pick up a newspaper without reading about some priest who was molesting kids or sleeping with his parishioners. You lawyers are a big part of the problem–the lawsuits never stop.”

The tribulations of the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century have been well-documented. The fact that some attorneys have taken the opportunity to line their pockets with legal fees hasn’t gone unnoticed. “Sounds like I got out at the right time.”

“You were a good priest.”

I was also an unhappy one. I never had a knack for Church politics, and I had no aptitude for raising money. This led to frustration and ultimately depression. Eventually, I went to Ramon for counseling, and his steady hand helped me stay the course during a year-long period that was darker than the worst moments when Rosie and I were getting divorced.

He shrugs. “I’m more of a politician than a priest. Our parish is poor. I spend half my time fund-raising. With the scandals and the economic downturn, people have become terribly cynical.” He tells me about a ninety year-old parishioner whom he visits at a nursing home. “Last time I saw her, she winked at me and said she didn’t have time for sex–and she came to church every Sunday. Imagine how the disenfranchised people are feeling. We’ve become a punch line for Jon Stewart, and the archbishop thinks we can solve the problems with a public relations campaign.”

Ramon’s propensity for expressing views that run counter to the party line has never endeared him to the Church hierarchy, but in all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never heard this level of frustration in his voice. “Are you thinking of getting out?”

His tone turns uncharacteristically sharp. “You did.”

It would have consumed me if I hadn’t. “I wasn’t cut out for the job.”

“I’m tired of being a full-time apologist who hears confessions when I’m not beating the bushes for money.”

I offer a priestly platitude. “Things will get better.”

“I hope Jesus is still listening to you.”

I finish my beer and look into the eyes of my old friend. “Why did you call me, Ramon?”

“Have you been following the O’Connell case?”

“A little.”

His mentor, Father Patrick O’Connell, started his career at St. Peter’s and later moved to St. Boniface in the Tenderloin. About a year ago, allegations began to surface that Father Pat had been engaging in sexual activity with his female parishioners for two decades. One of his alleged victims filed a lawsuit naming the archdiocese as a co-defendant.

Father Pat died of a heart attack a couple of months ago, but the case against the archdiocese didn’t go away. Things were coming to a head last week when jury selection was set to begin, but everything came to a screeching halt when the body of the plaintiff’s attorney was found in her Mission District flat, an apparent suicide.

“The plaintiff’s lawyer was a member of our parish,” he says, “and her mother asked me to officiate at her funeral. I’m sure this was viewed with mixed feelings down at archdiocese headquarters.”

I’ll bet. Maria Concepcion grew up a few blocks from here and graduated at the top of her class at Hastings. She spent the early years of her career taking endless depositions and briefing arcane rules of law on behalf of the tobacco companies that paid her downtown firm millions to defend product liability lawsuits. She was compensated handsomely for her efforts and became well-versed in the minutiae of class action litigation, but she never saw the inside of a courtroom. She grew weary of killing trees to facilitate the uninterrupted flow of nicotine. Coincidentally, her old firm has represented the archdiocese for decades. She had a falling out with her colleagues and her husband, and she found herself unemployed and divorced.

She set up shop in her Mission District apartment and took on small matters for her neighbors. Her career took an unexpected turn when she filed a lawsuit against the archdiocese as a favor to a friend who was trying to collect a modest judgment in a slip-and-fall case. She played it for all it was worth and got a check and an apology from the archbishop. More important, her photo appeared on page one of the Chronicle the next morning.

The timing was fortuitous. Two days later, a priest was accused of propositioning several altar boys. The victims hired the mediagenic Concepcion, who filed a dozen lawsuits against the Church for everything from child abuse to sexual improprieties. The players on Cathedral Hill and their highly-paid attorneys tried to dismiss her as a publicity-seeking hack, but the evidence proved otherwise. If you believe the Chronicle, she had negotiated settlements running well into eight figures. There has been speculation that an adverse result in the O’Connell case could push the archdiocese into bankruptcy.

Ramon holds up a hand. “I’ve known Maria since we were kids. She may have been a hotshot lawyer, but she was still a regular at mass–unlike present company.”

“She was suing the archdiocese for millions, yet she kept coming?”

“She still believed in the Church, but not in the people running it.”

“Did that include you?”

“She wouldn’t have come to St. Peter’s if she thought I was part of the problem. The fact that she was a member of our parish didn’t endear me to my superiors, but you can’t throw somebody out of the club just because she’s suing the guys who have the keys to the social hall.”

The power priests in the cushy offices down the block from St. Mary’s Cathedral might see things differently. “The press is saying it was a suicide.”

“It’s inconceivable to me.”

“Is this something we need to talk about?”

“Is this conversation attorney-client privileged?”

“It is now.”

He glances around the empty restaurant. “The cops have been asking questions.”

“That’s the usual procedure.”

“They said they might want to talk to me again. I was hoping you’d be available.”

“Of course. Do you have any information that might be of interest to them?”

There’s a hesitation. “I don’t think so.”

“Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“I’m probably just being paranoid.”

Or hiding something.

* * *

“How is Ramon?” Rosie asks.

Her sculpted cheekbones and olive skin have regained the youthful luster that belie forty-six years of mileage, two children, and a battle with breast cancer. After Tommy arrived, she went on a torturous exercise regimen to regain the svelteness that had disappeared after Grace was born. The only hints of her age are a few small creases at the corners of her cobalt eyes and my insider knowledge that her long black hair gets a helpful boost from certain products that you can find in your local drugstore.

“He’s having a hard time with Pat O’Connell’s death,” I say.

Once upon a time, Tuesday was our date night, but it became laundry night after Tommy was born. We’re watching the eleven o’clock news and folding clothes in the living room of Rosie’s rented nine-hundred-square-foot palace across the street from the Little League field in Larkspur, a tidy burg about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Tommy is dozing in Rosie’s bedroom, and Grace is sleeping in her room at the end of the narrow hallway.

Rosie isn’t surprised when I tell her that Ramon knew Maria Concepcion. Rosie’s family moved into the Mission around the same time that we left. Her mother still lives in a white bungalow around the corner from St. Peter’s. Sylvia knows everybody in the neighborhood, including the Concepcion family. Rosie says she’d met Maria a couple of times, but she didn’t know her well. She describes her as pretty and very ambitious.

“Do you know anything about the lawsuits she filed against the archdiocese?”

“It started by accident and snowballed. The fact that her old law firm represents the Church may have given her some additional incentive.”

“Was she a publicity hound?”

“She was a good lawyer.”

“Did she strike you as the type who would have committed suicide?”

“I didn’t know her that well.”

I’m pulling a load of laundry out of the dryer when the phone rings. Rosie gives me an unhappy look and dashes into the kitchen to pick it up. People with little kids generally aren’t wildly appreciative of calls in the wee hours. In our line of work, they’re an occupational hazard.

Tommy wakes up, and I head into the bedroom. He’s pulled himself up by the posts of his crib and is wailing with an intensity that will serve him well after he passes the bar exam in twenty-five years. I hoist him up on my shoulder and feel the full diaper. I gently place him on the changing table and sing “To-Ra-Loo-Ra” with the same inflection my mother used when I was a kid. I’m not sure if it’s my vocals or the removal of the diaper, but he stops crying. I put him back in his crib and say, “Why don’t you give Mommy a break tonight?”

He gives me a bemused look. The son of two lawyers knows better than to make any promises.

I’m sitting in the rocking chair next to the crib when Rosie walks in. There is a troubled look on her face as she hands me the cordless phone. “It’s Ramon.”

Something’s very wrong. I take the phone and whisper, “What’s up?”

His voice cracks. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I hope I didn’t wake Tommy.”

“It’s okay.”

“I need your help.”

“I told you I’d be available if the cops wanted to talk to you.”

“They do.”

“Fine. When?”

“Right now.”

What?

“I’ve been arrested for the murder of Maria Concepcion.”

CHAPTER 2

“HOW MANY LAWYERS DOES IT TAKE?”

“Cases involving the clergy are especially troublesome.”

— Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. San Francisco Chronicle.

“Where is he?” Rosie asks.

I’m pulling on my jacket. “The rectory at St. Peter’s.”

“Who made the arrest?”

“Marcus Banks and Roosevelt Johnson.” The SFPD isn’t taking any chances. The veteran homicide inspectors have more than eighty years of experience between them. “Ramon couldn’t say much. They’re taking him to the Hall of Justice.”

This elicits a troubled look and a realistic analysis. “Sounds like the chances of stopping the train before things get out of hand aren’t very good.”

I need to deal with an important issue up front. “Do you have the energy for this?” It isn’t an academic question. Rosie’s health problems are largely behind her, but murder cases take on a life of their own, and we agreed to steer clear of high-profile matters until Tommy gets out of diapers.

“We know all the reasons why we shouldn’t take this case.”

I hope there’s a “but” coming.

She adds, “But it’s Ramon. We have to help him.”

When push comes to shove, Rosita Carmela Fernandez is always there. On to another touchy subject. “He’s a priest. He isn’t rolling in cash.”

“We didn’t pay him to mediate our divorce.”

No, we didn’t. Ramon engaged in six weeks of thankless shuttle diplomacy while Rosie and I negotiated our settlement. We spent more time hammering on him than reviewing the legal documents. He never lost his composure even when the sniping got nasty. “You’re prepared to do this pro bono?”

“The archdiocese may be willing to pay his legal fees.”

“And if not?”

Her sense of obligation trumps her customary dedication to fiscal responsibility. “We owe it to him. I’ll take the kids to my mother’s, then I’ll meet you down at the Hall.”

End of discussion.

* * *

In my hometown, the wheels of justice grind ever so slowly in a massive gray temple we lovingly call the Hall of Justice. The monolithic six story structure takes up two city blocks adjacent to the 80 freeway. It houses the criminal courts, the morgue, the DA’s office, and the Southern Police Station. The architect who designed the Plexiglas-covered jail wing that was added in the early nineties drew his inspiration from Cold War-era structures in East Berlin. The cops derisively refer to it as the “Glamour Slammer.”

The lifeless slab is especially depressing in a driving rainstorm as I pull into a parking space on Bryant Street a few minutes after midnight. The cross-section of San Francisco’s underbelly who conduct their business while the sun is still up are absent, and the dimly lit hallway echoes with an uninviting reverberation. I’m soaked as I pass through the metal detector where the night guard greets me by name. I take the excruciatingly slow elevator to the fourth floor, where Marcus Banks and Roosevelt Johnson are waiting for me outside an airless interrogation room next to the bullpen where the homicide inspectors ply their trade. This area bustles with activity during the day, but is eerily quiet at this hour. Things could be worse. In normal circumstances, we’d be conducting this exercise at the intake center in the Glamour Slammer.

Banks is dressed in a custom charcoal suit that exudes cool control as it hugs his ebony skin. In a minor concession to the hour, his Armani tie is loosened. The only hints of his age are the gray eyebrows forming a single line across the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals.

Johnson played linebacker at Cal and was a member of the SFPD’s first integrated team when he walked the beat with my father a half-century ago. He came out of retirement earlier this year to work on cold cases. His attire is a study in meticulous business casual: khaki slacks and an oxford shirt. His trim mustache is now a distinguished shade of silver, but he looks as if he could still cover a tight end sprinting downfield.

We exchange forced greetings. I address Johnson, whom I’ve known since I was a kid and who is generally more forthcoming than Banks. “Where is Father Aguirre?”

He points toward the interrogation room and responds in a measured baritone. “His arraignment will be at ten o’clock this morning.”

Rosie is making the obligatory calls, but it’s unlikely the duty judge will grant bail. The best-case scenario is that Ramon will be here for only one night. Given the circumstances, all I can do is cast a line and start fishing. “What’s this all about?”

“Ms. Concepcion’s mother found her daughter’s body in the bathtub, wrists slashed.”

“The papers said it was a suicide.”

“They were wrong. We found a kitchen knife in the bathroom. It was covered with her blood.”

“That’s still consistent with a suicide.”

“Father Aguirre’s fingerprints were on the knife.”

Not good. “I’m sure he has an explanation.”

“He hasn’t shared it with us. A lawyer advised him not to talk.”

That would have been me. I’m tempted to explain that Ramon knew Concepcion, but you never offer anything that could be used against you. “I want to see him.”

“You’ll have to come back during visiting hours.”

Roosevelt is being uncharacteristically coy. “I want to see him now.”

“We’ll try to work something out as soon as he’s done talking to his lawyers.”

What? “I’m his lawyer.”

“Not according to the two guys inside who say they’re representing him.”

“Who?”

“F.X. Quinn and John Shanahan.”

The archdiocese isn’t wasting any time protecting its turf. Father Francis Xavier Quinn is the overbearing chief in-house counsel for the archdiocese. He looks like Orson Welles and talks like Donald Rumsfeld. He earned a law degree at night and has worked his way up the bureaucracy at the archdiocese for thirty years. When I was a priest, he oversaw the administration of St. Anne’s Parish, and he was less than understanding when I decided to leave. John Shanahan is the polished senior partner of the well-connected firm of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke LLP, where Concepcion started her career. Quinn and Shanahan are the designated SWAT team when a priest gets into trouble. Quinn is the muscle and Shanahan is the mouthpiece.

I address Roosevelt in a modulated tone. “Father Aguirre called me first.”

“This isn’t a race.”

“He asked me to represent him, Roosevelt. He’s free to change his mind.”

“Evidently, he already has.”

“I’ll need to hear it from him.”

He flashes the knowing grin that I saw countless times when he visited our house when I was a kid. “This is like a bad joke. How many lawyers does it take to represent a priest who is accused of murder?”

I return his smile. “Just one: me.”

CHAPTER 3

THE MUSCLE AND THE MOUTHPIECE

“The moral authority of the archbishop must never be brought into question.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

F.X. Quinn squeezes my hand and feigns civility. “Nice to see you again, Michael,” he lies. His tone lands somewhere between condescending and patronizing when he adds, “Thank you for coming down here in the middle of the night, but the situation is under control.”

John Shanahan nods emphatically. Smart lawyers don’t talk unless they must and always agree with their meal-ticket clients.

We’re standing in the empty corridor near the homicide division, just out of earshot of Banks and Johnson. They’ve given us five minutes to decide who gets to be Ramon’s lawyer, and the issue does not lend itself to a prompt resolution by a one-potato-two-potato contest.

Quinn towers over me by six inches and outweighs me by a hundred pounds. The one-time defensive tackle at St. Ignatius wears the traditional collar and carries the accouterments of authority with regal splendor. His bald dome, multi-tiered chins, and basset hound eyes suggest he’s a grandfather-type, but his looks are deceiving. He preaches peace and love, but he views every legal claim against the archdiocese as a personal affront to God.

Shanahan is a third generation USF alum whose father was a member of the Board of Supervisors and whose uncle was a judge. He epitomizes the fading line of lawyers who built their practices by trading on family contacts, political connections, and cronyism. Seeking to curry support from the political establishment, the then-reigning archbishop sent a few personal injury cases over to young Johnny Shanahan’s newly minted firm forty years ago. Now in his seventies, the world-class senior squash player and one-time Marine sergeant has taken on the persona of a silver-haired sage whose practiced eloquence is ideally suited for his role as archdiocese spokesman. It brings prestige and eight figures in fees annually to his once-fledgling firm, which now employs six hundred lawyers. Genteel John’s refined demeanor and aristocratic air belie the fact that he’s a street fighter who approaches every battle as if it will be his last. Whether it’s a multi-million dollar trial or a squash game, he hates to lose.

Shanahan may be the Church’s voice to the public, but Quinn lays down the law. His voice is commanding. “You can go home, Michael. We’ll take it from here.”

He may as well have added, “You’re dismissed.” “I need to talk to Father Aguirre,” I say.

The Voice of God turns more emphatic. “We have it covered.”

It will serve no useful purpose to initiate a shouting match with the chief legal officer of the archdiocese, but I have an obligation to make sure Ramon is represented by the lawyer he chooses–especially if it’s me. “I really have to see my client.”

“He isn’t your client.”

I dislike him intensely, and I’m quite sure the feeling is mutual. “He asked me to represent him, and I intend to do so until he tells me otherwise.”

Quinn is a control freak who isn’t used to having his authority challenged. His tiny eyes narrow. “I’m telling you otherwise, Michael.”

And that’s that. “You aren’t my client, Francis.”

He detests being called by his given name. “That isn’t the way things work at the Church.”

“It’s the way things work in the real world.”

“We’re representing Father Aguirre.”

“You’re representing the archdiocese. I’m representing Father Aguirre.”

He enunciates every syllable when he says, “This is a Church matter.”

I’m equally dogmatic. “It’s also a personal matter.”

“Let us handle this, Michael. I don’t want you to get in over your head again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen you in action.”

“You’ve never seen me in court.”

“I’ve seen you in church. You abandoned your parishioners. I have an obligation to make sure you don’t do the same to Father Aguirre.”

“That was twenty years ago, Francis. The fact that I left the priesthood has nothing to do with my capabilities as a lawyer.”

“Old habits die hard. I realize that Father Aguirre called you, but I was hoping you’d do the honorable thing and remove yourself from consideration.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You mean you won’t do it. In good conscience, I’m not going to recommend your firm.”

“Look at our track record, Francis. We’ve handled more than our share of high-profile cases. We know what we’re doing, and we get excellent results.”

“I can’t take that chance.”

“It isn’t your choice.”

“It is when there are ramifications for the archdiocese.”

“All the more reason for Father Aguirre to hire someone independent.”

The unflappable Shanahan interjects a modulated tone. “I know you’re trying to help a friend, but you have to think about what’s best for Father Aguirre.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“You have to understand that it’s our job to protect our people.”

“No, it’s your job to protect the archbishop. It’s my job to protect Father Aguirre. He needs a defense lawyer.”

“We have several in our firm.”

“Who specialize in defending civil suits against the archdiocese. You don’t have anybody who’s handled a murder case, and you have a conflict of interest.”

He feigns exasperation. “Are you suggesting we would set up a priest to protect the reputation of the archdiocese?”

Exactly. “I’m suggesting the conflict should be disclosed to Father Aguirre. If he doesn’t want me to represent him, I’ll go home.”

The omnipresent Quinn responds. “I’ll ask him about it.”

“I’ll ask him about it.”

His jowls work furiously. “Are you saying you don’t trust us?”

Precisely. “He called me and asked me to represent him. I’m not in a position to take instructions from you, and I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

CHAPTER 4

“WE’RE ONLY LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR BEST INTERESTS”

“The archdiocese must take a proactive role in preventing legal problems.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

The only sound in the stuffy interrogation room is the buzzing of clock. Ramon looks more like a felon than a priest as he sits in one of the two heavy wooden chairs and stares at a Styrofoam cup of water resting on the metal table. His hair is disheveled, and his denim shirt and cotton pants will be replaced in due course by an orange jumpsuit. Quinn has jammed his ample torso into the other chair, and Shanahan is standing by the door. I’m leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. Rosie hasn’t arrived and I’m feeling outnumbered.

Ramon addresses us in a hoarse whisper. “They’ve made a terrible mistake.”

I try to sound reassuring. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

His eyes fill with hope. “When?”

“Probably not until morning.”

Not the answer he wanted.

Quinn clears his throat and moves to the top of his agenda. “Ramon, I was explaining to Michael that we plan to handle your representation.”

I interject, “You need an experienced defense attorney right away.”

Quinn says, “We’ll bring in a lawyer from John’s firm if the need arises.”

I glance around and say, “The need has arisen.” I try to give Ramon some cover by invoking legal misdirection. “A conflict could arise if your interests diverge with those of the archdiocese.”

Quinn fires back. “This is a Church matter. We are trying to find the truth, and we would never turn our backs on a priest. Let us choose lawyers that we know and trust.”

And who will bow down and kiss your ring. His analysis might change if the archdiocese would face financial ruin and a public relations disaster if it didn’t offer up Ramon’s head on a platter. Not to mention the fact that it would be a career-limiting move if the archdiocese is forced into bankruptcy on his watch.

Quinn adds, “We can always retain separate counsel if an actual conflict arises.”

It’s a truthful, albeit glib argument. Getting another attorney up to speed on short notice isn’t impossible, but he’d begin the race fifty yards behind the starting line.

He turns back to Ramon. “I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

He just did.

“We’re only looking out for your best interests.”

In my long and occasionally illustrious legal career, I have observed that whenever a lawyer says he’s looking out for your best interests, it is frequently the case that he isn’t.

Quinn is still pontificating. “If we make a mistake, God will forgive us. If we lie, He won’t.”

It was inevitable that somebody was going to play the God card sooner or later.

Ramon can’t summarily dismiss the head legal honcho of the archdiocese without repercussions, so he searches for a compromise position. “I appreciate everything you’re doing for me, but I would like Mike to be on my team. He’s an excellent lawyer who understands the issues facing priests.”

He might have added that he knows me and trusts my judgment.

“There are plenty of good lawyers who never went to the seminary,” Quinn says.

Ramon’s tone is even. “All things being equal, I’d prefer one who did.”

Quinn tries to fob it off on the bureaucrats. “I’ll have to check with our insurance carrier. They’re very picky about the lawyers we use. It’s a risk management and cost containment issue.”

A moment ago, he was only interested in finding the truth. Now it’s a risk management issue. He’s starting to sound like the guys who run the HMOs.

Ramon turns to me. “I’ll find a way to pay you.”

“We’re prepared to handle your representation pro bono.”

Ramon looks at Quinn. “That should eliminate your concerns about cost containment.”

“I’ll still need to check with our carrier.”

We’ll never see a penny. I try not to sound too sarcastic. “You’ll let us know.”

“I will.”

Ramon is pleased. “Then it’s settled.”

Quinn responds with a resigned nod. Shanahan tries to make the best of the situation with a transparently phony attempt at sounding conciliatory. “We will make all of our firm’s resources available to you.”

He won’t do it for free. His gesture will cost the archdiocese upwards of seven hundred bucks an hour, depending upon which of his colleagues does the work.

There is nothing to be gained by being ungracious. “I’m glad we’ll be working together,” I say.

Shanahan nods. “I trust you will provide full disclosure of all relevant information?”

We’ll see. “Of course.”

“And input on strategy?”

I won’t let Quinn and the Shanahan tell me how to run this case. “I’ll need the final call on all strategic decisions.”

Ramon says to Quinn, “I can’t think of any reason why that shouldn’t be acceptable to you, Francis.”

I can think of a few.

The response is a grudging, “I suppose.”

Ramon tries to calm the political waters when he tells Quinn, “I want you and John to participate actively in my representation.”

Quinn isn’t giving up. “I would be more comfortable if we resolved this matter within the family. The archbishop may not look upon this favorably.”

The archbishop hasn’t been arrested.

“I’d be happy to talk to him if you think it would help,” Ramon says.

“So would I,” I interject.

Quinn derives much of his power by controlling the lines of communication. “That won’t be necessary.”

Banks knocks on the door and lets himself in. “Have you decided which of you will be representing Father Aguirre?”

“All of us,” Quinn says.

Banks’s expression makes it clear that it’s all the same to him. “We need to take your client down to booking.”

Quinn glances at his watch and tells Ramon that he’ll return in a couple of hours. “We have to make a few calls.”

The archbishop is undoubtedly at the top of his list.

I accompany Ramon as Banks and Johnson escort him to the Glamour Slammer. As he’s about to be taken inside for fingerprinting, he turns to me. “I need to talk to you as soon as I’m done.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure Father Quinn and Mr. Shanahan are with me.”

For the first time, his voice has the unmistakable sound of abject fear. “I want to talk to you alone.”

CHAPTER 5

“THEY ALWAYS HAVE AN AGENDA”

“I have complete confidence in the leadership of our archdiocese.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

Ramon is uncharacteristically agitated when he returns from booking, where he was fingerprinted, showered with disinfectant, and given a perfunctory medical exam. He tugs at his orange jumpsuit and snaps, “You have to get me out of here.”

I’m glad his emotions are running high. Guilty people tend to polish their stories, but innocent people get mad. I can’t give him the answer that he wants, so I have to revert to a lawyerly cliché. “We’re doing everything we can.”

His expression suggests he’s thinking, “Yeah, right.”

The consultation room at the intake center in the Glamour Slammer is hardly elegant, but it’s a significant upgrade from the wild booking hub in the old Hall now used for hardcore prisoners. At two a.m., the tight quarters are deathly silent and smell of cleaning solvent. Quinn and Shanahan will return at any moment. We need to get right to it.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask.

“I need to be sure there is somebody on my team whose loyalties are unquestioned.”

“You can count on me. What about Quinn and Shanahan?”

“They work for the archbishop. Francis will do anything to avoid conveying bad news. John doesn’t want to jeopardize his firm’s relationship with its biggest client. It’s no great secret that they’ve cut deals to avoid embarrassment to the archdiocese.”

Which is exactly what I’d been saying before. “If you have questions about their loyalty, why do you want them to represent you?”

“Because I have no choice. I can’t afford to piss them off, and it will look terrible if the archdiocese bails on me.”

He’s right.

He exhales heavily. “I need to get back to work. It’s almost Christmas. The children need me.”

“You’ll be there.”

“Not if I get fired.”

“They can’t fire you if you’re innocent.”

“They can send me to another parish or put me on leave. Even if I’m exonerated, my reputation will be ruined if this isn’t resolved in the next couple of weeks.”

It may be ruined already. I fully understand the problem, but I can’t fix the criminal justice system by Christmas.

He asks, “What will it take to get the charges dropped at the preliminary hearing?”

A miracle. “Realistically, we’ll have to prove that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide, or we’ll have to find the real murderer.”

“And if we can’t?”

There’s no way to sugarcoat it. “We’ll have to get ready for trial.”

The reality is hitting home. “Working at St. Peter’s is the only job I’ve ever wanted. You can’t let them take it away from me.”

His fear is genuine. He’s an only child who grew up a few blocks from St. Peter’s. He was the first member of his family to break out of poverty when he got a scholarship to USF. He decided to go to the seminary after his parents were killed in an auto accident twenty-five years ago. St. Peter’s is more than a church–it’s his family.

“What are the chances of bail?”

Not good. “Depends on the charge. It’s unlikely if they go with first degree.” I don’t mention the worst-case scenario–if they ask for the death penalty, there will be no bail. “Do you have access to any money?”

“They don’t hand out stock options in my line of work.”

“What about the archdiocese?” The willingness–or unwillingness–of the archbishop to post bail will be an early indication of his commitment to Ramon.

“I don’t know. I suppose they could mortgage St. Mary’s.”

Not likely. I tell him I’ve arranged for him to be housed in “Ad Seg,” the Administrative Segregation area of the new jail, which is reserved for prisoners who are likely to be harassed or injured. At least he’ll have his own room tonight.

The wheels start to turn. “Where do we start?” he asks.

The conventional wisdom says the police start with the victim and the defense attorneys start with the accused. “I need you to tell me where you were the night Ms. Concepcion died.” I purposely leave out any mention of the bloody knife with his fingerprints. It’s the only information I’ve gleaned from the cops, and I don’t want him to start adjusting his story to account for it–at least not yet.

He hasn’t been living in a cloister and he cuts to the chase. “Are you asking if I did it?”

Absolutely not. It’s always tempting to ask a client straight up, but that isn’t how defense lawyers work. If he lies to us, we’ll have to deal with unpleasant issues relating to California’s perjury laws. I want to hear it in his own words. More important, I want to study his body language. Non-verbal cues and significant omissions often tell you much more than anything your client says. “They didn’t pull your name out of a hat. I need to know what happened, and I don’t like surprises.”

“I didn’t do it.”

So much for my attempt to elicit a narrative by asking open-ended questions. “The cops think you did. I need you to give me enough information to prove that you weren’t in the vicinity of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment last Monday. I’ll explain everything to Banks and Johnson, and you can go back to work.”

No response.

“Come on, Ramon. You have to be straight with me.” You’d better be straight with me.

He clasps his hands together. “There’s a problem.”

Uh-oh. “Which is?”

“I was at Maria’s apartment on the night she died.”

CHAPTER 6

“HER PERSONAL LIFE IS CONFIDENTIAL”

“Above all, our parishioners expect us to keep their private matters confidential.”

— Archbishop Albert Keane. San Francisco Chronicle.

I start firing questions in rapid succession. “What were you doing there?”

“Counseling.”

“For what?”

“That’s none of your business.”

It is now. “I need you to tell me everything you can about her.”

“Her personal life is confidential.”

Good priests are obsessive about privacy. “So is this conversation.”

“Come on, Mike. You know the rules.”

All too well. I get him to reveal grudgingly that she came to him in September after she broke up with her boyfriend “What’s his name?”

There is a long hesitation. “Eduardo Lopez.”

Concepcion’s ex has operated a popular eatery at Twenty-third and Mission for three decades. An astute businessman with political aspirations, he’s used the profits from his restaurant to make a killing in real estate. A devout Catholic with time and money on his hands, he’s also formed several partnerships with government agencies and nonprofit organizations to build low-income housing in the community.

“Why did they break up?” I ask.

“Maria wanted a commitment, but he didn’t.”

It’s an all-too-typical scenario. Maybe we can get him some couch time with Dr. Phil.

Ramon adds, “The situation was complicated by the fact that he’s still married.”

Oops. “I take it Ms. Concepcion was aware of that?”

“Yes. He promised to divorce his wife and marry her.”

Seems he never got around to it. This may be a little more than Dr. Phil can handle in a one-hour show. I ask if Lopez’s wife knew about her husband’s infidelities.

“Yes, and she wasn’t happy about it.”

I want to know where Lopez’s wife was last Monday night.

His voice is somber. “Maria was forty-two and desperate to have a child. She figured Lopez was her best chance–and maybe her last.”

When I was a priest, the rules were written in black and white. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the many shades of gray. I think back to our conversation in the confessional. “You’ve become pretty forgiving of pre-marital sex and infidelity.”

“You shouldn’t judge until you’ve walked in somebody’s shoes. She had the best mental health that money could buy, but she was still unhappy.”

“Unhappy enough to commit suicide?”

“No.”

He gives me the name of her therapist, but isn’t forthcoming when I probe for additional details. I change course and ease him into a discussion about the night she died.

“I drove to her apartment at eight o’clock.”

It’s just a few blocks from St. Peter’s. “Why didn’t you walk?”

“It was raining.” He says he stayed until ten. He assures me that she was very much alive when he left.

“Was she upset?”

“Yes.”

One word answers are unenlightening. “Why?”

“The O’Connell case was starting the next day. Her plaintiff was getting cold feet.”

I let his answer hang. People often feel compelled to fill the dead air, but Ramon doesn’t elaborate. I ask him if he entered her apartment through the front door or the back.

“Front.”

“Did you leave the same way?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Maybe none. I want to know if anybody saw you.”

He tells me that he left through the back door. His car was parked around the corner. It was quicker to go through the alley. He didn’t recall seeing anybody outside.

“Did you eat anything while you were there?”

“I had an apple and a cup of tea.” He holds his palms up. “This will go faster if you tell me what you want to know.”

I tell him about the bloody knife with his fingerprints.

Ramon turns indignant. “You think I killed her?”

“Ramon, you know and I know that an explanation would make my life a lot easier.”

He’s still mad. “I cut the apple with a knife. It could have been the same one they found in the bathroom.”

“How did it get there?”

“How should I know?”

I can do without the sarcasm, but his adamancy suggests he’s telling the truth. The cards are on the table, and I want to fill in details. “Will the cops find your prints anywhere else in her apartment?”

“Probably. I was there for two hours.”

Swell. “Did you touch her?”

“I hugged her when I left. It was platonic.”

I wasn’t going to suggest otherwise. “Where did you go?”

“To St. Peter’s. I had a lot on my mind, so I did what priests do–I prayed.” He says the church was empty and it’s unlikely that anybody saw him. Then he went for a walk around midnight and he returned to the rectory at one. “I said good night to Father Keyes.”

For our purposes, this means nobody can corroborate his whereabouts between eight and one. We’ll have a problem if the medical examiner concludes that the time of death was during that window. “Did she say anything that seemed unusual?”

“Yes. She said that somebody was following her.”

“A stalker?”

“A private investigator.”

“Why would somebody have hired a PI to follow her?”

“She was looking for witnesses to testify against Father O’Connell. She figured the attorneys for the archdiocese were keeping an eye on her. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

All’s fair in love, war, and litigation.

He lowers his voice. “You’d better watch your backside, Mike. Francis Quinn and John Shanahan play hardball. They may put somebody on your tail, too.”

It’s an unusual twist to the concept of professional courtesy, but I take his warning seriously. It gives me the creeps if I think I’m being followed.

“There’s something else,” he says. “She was having issues with her ex-husband. He still works at John’s firm. Seems he never got over the fact that she filed for divorce.”

“Why did they split up?”

“Among other things, he had a different concept of fidelity than she did.”

“Did he know she’d been seeing Lopez?”

“Yes. She told me that he was jealous and had a temper.”

It doesn’t prove anything, but it’s another possibility. “What’s his name?”

“Dennis Peterson.”

“Why didn’t she ignore him?”

“She couldn’t. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“He’s the lead attorney for the archdiocese on the O’Connell case.”

CHAPTER 7

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE SERIOUSNESS OF THIS MATTER?”

“Father Ramon Aguirre will be fully exonerated. Our prayers are with him for a speedy resolution of this matter.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. KGO Radio. Wednesday, December 10. 7:00 a.m.

The caffeine from Rosie’s second Diet Coke has kicked in as we regroup in my office at the world headquarters of Fernandez and Daley at seven-thirty on Wednesday morning. She’s already running at full throttle. “Are you ready to go to war with the DA?” she asks.

“Of course.”

I’ve been up all night. My temples are throbbing. I take a sip of Peet’s House Blend and admire our unfinished walls. We run a low-overhead operation on the second floor of a walk-up building a half block north of the Transbay bus terminal in space better suited for a garage band than a law firm. Our tenant improvement budget went to pay for Tommy’s diapers. We put our remodeling plans on indefinite hold when our former partner and my ex-girlfriend, Carolyn O’Malley, was appointed to the Superior Court bench six months ago. Our downstairs neighbor, the El Faro Mexican Restaurant, won’t open for another four hours, but the pungent aroma of yesterday’s special is still with us. Our staff–such as it is–consists of a receptionist/jack-of-all trades named Terrence “The Terminator” Love, a former heavyweight boxer and small time hoodlum who was more successful at stealing than fighting. We’ve logged more than our share of hours trying to keep him out of jail since our days in the PD’s office. We put him on the payroll to help him comply with his latest parole agreement. So far, it’s worked out for everybody–he gets to stay out of jail, and we get somebody to answer the phone. He also doubles as my bodyguard when I venture to the earthier parts of town.

Rosie’s eyes are locked onto mine. “What about the archdiocese? F.X. Quinn couldn’t have made it any clearer that he doesn’t want us on this case.”

I hold up a hand. “Been there, done that. We’ll deal with him, too.”

“He isn’t going to make our lives easy.”

“Ramon gets to pick his own lawyer.”

Her eyes narrow. “You can’t let it get personal. This case has nothing to do with what happened twenty years ago. You’ll need to keep your head together if Francis Quinn starts yanking your chain.”

“I will. Besides, we’re theoretically on the same side.”

“For now.” She asks me about Concepcion’s ex-boyfriend.

“Lopez is no Boy Scout, but he has a high profile and political aspirations. I find it hard to believe he’d throw it away in a fit of anger.”

“And her ex-husband?”

“If he really wanted to get her, he would have tried to embarrass her at trial. That’s what lawyers do. In fact, I’ll bet he was looking forward to taking her on in court.”

“What makes you think so?”

I wink. “Ex-husbands know all of their former spouses’ weaknesses.”

“If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t try to extrapolate that theory to other situations.”

“I know better. The case is over if we can prove it was a suicide.”

“It won’t be easy to get Rod Beckert to change his mind.”

“True.” Dr. Roderick Beckert is a walking encyclopedia of forensics who has been our chief medical examiner for almost four decades. “Even if it wasn’t a suicide, the fact that they found Ramon’s prints on the knife doesn’t prove that he killed her. If he’d had the presence of mind to try to try to fake a suicide, he would have been smart enough to wipe the prints.”

“How did the knife find its way to the bathroom?”

“That’s our job to figure out.”

Her eyes bore into mine. “Bottom line, do you think he did it?”

“Ramon isn’t capable of murder.”

“For what my two cents are worth, I happen to agree with you.”

It doesn’t change a thing, but it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who thinks so.

* * *

Judge Louise Vanden Heuvel’s long blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ball as she glides to the bench with commanding elegance at exactly ten a.m. Her courtroom is packed with reporters and Ramon’s supportive parishioners, but the veteran judge’s stoic demeanor suggests it’s just another day at the office. She dons her reading glasses, turns on her computer, and studies her docket, then she bangs her gavel and invokes a tone that is equally authoritative and seductive as she instructs the gallery to be seated.

My hair is flat and my shave is spotty, but I’m presentable enough in my charcoal suit. The defense table is crowded. Rosie is to my left and Ramon is to my right. Quinn and Shanahan are squeezed in at the end. Our show of numbers may appear impressive to the uninitiated, but it’s unlikely to have any bearing on today’s proceedings.

Bill McNulty is a veteran ADA with a reputation for aggressive tactics, compulsive attention to detail, and a grouchy demeanor. He looks unhappy as he stands by himself on the other side of the aisle. “McNasty,” as he’s known around the Hall, has put in over thirty years in the trenches and could phone in an arraignment. He knows today’s proceedings will be short. Ramon will enter a not guilty plea and I’ll beg for bail. Then we’ll all go outside and plead our respective cases to the cameras.

The lawyers state their names for the record, and Judge Vanden Heuvel reminds us that we’re here for the purpose of listening to Ramon’s plea. After we dispense with a formal reading of the charges, she turns to Ramon. “Do you understand the seriousness of this matter, Father Aguirre?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Quinn decides to make a play to the crowd. “Your Honor, on behalf of the archdiocese, we object in the strongest terms to these unsubstantiated accusations.”

Duly noted. His sermon isn’t going to change anything, but it elicits a smattering of applause from Ramon’s disciples in the gallery.

The judge taps her gavel. “Father Quinn, your client will have ample opportunity to present a full defense. For now, we need to hear his plea. If you’d like to discuss any other issues, you’ll have to take them up at the appropriate time.”

“But Your Honor–,”

“How does your client plead?”

I’m glad she’s taking out her frustrations on him. I turn to Ramon and nod.

His voice cracks when he says, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Father Aguirre.” The judge looks at her calendar. “I’m setting a preliminary hearing before Judge Tsang a week from Friday at nine a.m.”

Not a great draw. Ignatius Tsang is a scholarly jurist who used to be an ADA. I’ve always gotten a fair shake from him, but he’s generally regarded as prosecution-friendly. “Your Honor, we would like to schedule the prelim as expeditiously as possible. Father Aguirre hopes to celebrate Christmas Mass at St. Peter’s.” It’s a reach, but I have her attention. I want to pressure McNulty to reveal his evidence. More important, I want the reporters in the gallery to think I have no doubt that Ramon is innocent.

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Daley?”

At least she didn’t dismiss me out of hand. By statute, the prelim must be set within ten court days after the arraignment, but the judge can speed up the timetable. “We’re prepared to begin on Friday.”

McNulty is unhappy. “Your Honor, we can’t be ready on just two days’ notice.”

Sure you can. “Your Honor, my client was forced to spend the night in jail. His parishioners depend on him. The holidays are approaching.”

She throws me a bone. “We’ll squeeze you in at nine o’clock on Monday morning.”

Not bad. “We’ll also need expedited discovery. We’d like copies of the police and medical examiner’s reports no later than noon on Friday.”

“So ordered.”

It’s more than I thought she would give me.

McNulty starts to speak and the judge stops him with an upraised hand. “Mr. McNulty, I trust you’ll be prepared to move forward on Monday, and I expect you to comply with my discovery order.” She closes her calendar. “Anything else?”

My turn again. “We’d like to discuss bail, Your Honor. Father Aguirre has strong community ties and lacks the resources to flee. We therefore respectfully request that he be released on his own reconnaissance.”

I would never request anything disrespectfully, and it’s just an opening bid. She’s unlikely to go for it, but she may be willing to consider bail.

McNulty is up again. “It is unheard of to release a murder suspect on O.R., and it is highly unusual to release him on bail. It’s a matter of public safety.”

It’s true. “Your Honor, you have discretion to review the attendant circumstances and act in the interest of justice.”

She gives McNulty the first score. “I’m not going to release the defendant on O.R.”

I try again. “Your Honor–,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Daley.”

I start backtracking. “You didn’t rule out the possibility of bail.”

“No, I didn’t.” She gives McNulty the first chance. “Do you have anything to say about it?”

His response is predictable. “The People oppose bail. The defendant is accused of first degree murder and is a substantial flight risk. He is an expert at fund-raising and would have no trouble finding the means to flee the area or even the country.”

As if Ramon has a bunch of Swiss bank accounts. “Your Honor, Father Aguirre has no intention of going anywhere. He’s prepared to surrender his passport and wear an ankle bracelet. He simply wishes to clear his name and return to work.”

McNulty fires back. “Your Honor, the victim was maliciously stabbed six times in a premeditated act. We’re considering the possibility of adding special circumstances.”

Ramon gives me a desperate look and whispers, “Is that what I think it is?”

I nod. It’s the California euphemism for a death penalty case. I turn to the judge. “This isn’t a capital case.”

The judge ponders for a long moment before she makes the call. “Bail is denied.”

There is panic in Ramon’s eyes. “This isn’t happening,” he whispers to me.

“Stay calm, Ramon.” I turn to the judge. “Your Honor–,”

“You can revisit this issue at the prelim, Mr. Daley.”

I’m about to accept the fact that there is nothing I can do until Monday when I hear the sound of F.X. Quinn’s voice. “May it please the court, we would like to call a witness to testify on behalf of Father Aguirre with respect to the subject of bail.”

He never mentioned this to me, and the judge isn’t buying it. “I’ve ruled, Father Quinn.”

“If you would hear me out for just a moment.”

His request is met with an irritated look and a question. “Whom do you wish to call?”

“The Archbishop of San Francisco.”

CHAPTER 8

“I AM THE ARCHBISHOP OF SAN FRANCISCO”

“This arrest of Father Aguirre is an unfortunate mistake.”

— Archbishop Albert Keane. KGO Radio. Wednesday, December 10. 10:00 a.m.

McNulty shoots up like a roman candle. “Your Honor, this is highly unusual.”

Yes, it is, and it puts Judge Vanden Heuvel in a tough spot by raising the age-old question of whether a Catholic judge who is up for re-election is prepared to tell the Archbishop of San Francisco to go to hell. There are a lot of Catholics in this town, and most of them vote.

The judge makes the call. “I will listen to Archbishop Keane’s testimony.”

I can’t look at Rosie. This is as good as it gets.

Quinn asks for a recess. He returns a moment later with Archbishop Albert Keane, a charismatic redhead in his late fifties who played football with Quinn at St. Ignatius and started his career at St. Peter and Paul’s in North Beach. He’s wearing the traditional collar as he takes the stand with the confidence of a man who could be running a Fortune 500 company.

Quinn stands a respectful distance from the witness box. His tone has the appropriate level of reverence. “Would you please state your name for the record?”

“Albert Keane.”

“What is your occupation?”

As if we didn’t know.

“I am the Archbishop of San Francisco.” He says he’s known Ramon for more than twenty years.

“Could you describe Father Aguirre’s character?”

McNulty’s head slumps. This scenario wasn’t addressed in law school.

Archbishop Keane’s demeanor is calm, almost serene. His bearing is erect, and his high-pitched voice is soft, yet authoritative. The courtroom is silent as he addresses Judge Vanden Heuvel directly. There isn’t the slightest suggestion in his tone that she will burn in hell for all eternity if she doesn’t grant bail. “I appreciate your taking the time to hear me, Your Honor.”

Her expression indicates that she approves of his tenor. “Thank you, Archbishop Keane.”

His delivery is flawless. “Your Honor, Father Aguirre is an honest, moral, and hardworking priest. I am sure these unsubstantiated charges will be proven false. We are prepared to offer whatever dispensation may be necessary to ensure that he is not required to spend time in jail while he is awaiting his opportunity to rectify this egregious error.”

Just the way Quinn scripted it for him.

He isn’t finished. “Your Honor, the archdiocese is prepared to post bail and welcome Father Aguirre to stay at our headquarters until his legal proceedings have concluded. I will personally guaranty his appearance at the appointed time.”

It’s a defense attorney’s dream: an archbishop is swearing that my client will appear at trial.

Judge Vanden Heuvel turns to McNulty. “Do you wish to respond?”

What can he say? All eyes, including those of the archbishop, turn to McNulty, who addresses her in a subdued tone. “We have great respect for Archbishop Keane.”

It’s a good sign when your opponent acknowledges the moral authority of your witness. McNulty is Catholic. He may be reluctant to tweak a guy who has a pipeline to God.

“But it is highly unusual for bail to be granted in a murder case that may involve special circumstances.”

It’s true. The Penal Code says bail cannot be granted in a capital case if the proof is evident and it is likely the defendant is guilty. Then again, this isn’t a capital case–at least not yet–and so far, the proof of Ramon’s guilt is hardly evident to me.

Quinn lays it on thicker. “Your Honor, the purpose of bail is to ensure that the defendant will appear in court. The archbishop is willing to vouch for my client’s character, provide a verifiable place for him to stay, and post bond.”

The judge nods.

McNulty reads her expression and begins damage control. “In the circumstances, bail should be substantial and conditional upon the defendant being remanded to the personal custody of the archbishop.”

Quinn’s tone is conciliatory. “We’re prepared to accept those conditions, Your Honor.”

Judge Vanden Heuvel has the opening she needs. “Bail is set at one million dollars. The defendant is ordered to remain at the headquarters of the archdiocese, except when he is required to appear in court. The attorneys will work out the details for implementing an appropriate monitoring regimen.” She taps her gavel. “We’re in recess.”

Rosie leans over and whispers, “Do you think we could persuade the archbishop to provide similar testimony for some of our other clients?”

CHAPTER 9

“PARLOR TRICKS DON’T WORK IN MURDER TRIALS”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in preparation.”

— William McNulty. San Francisco Chronicle.

The grimace on the face of San Francisco’s most cantankerous ADA is more pronounced than usual, and McNulty’s sarcastic tone has its customarily pointed edge. “Are you planning to call the archbishop to testify at your client’s trial?”

Understatement has never been his forté. “Only if it would help our case,” I say.

“Parlor tricks don’t work in murder trials.”

“The truth does.”

“The truth is that your client murdered Ms. Concepcion.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble proving it.”

McNulty’s boss holds up a delicate hand in a conciliatory gesture. Our mediagenic District Attorney, Nicole Ward, is pouring herself a designer water at the wet bar in the corner of her office on the third floor of the Hall. The deep gray carpets, soft leather sofas, and dark oak paneling are a lasting testimonial to the uncontrollable ego of her predecessor, Prentice Marshall Gates III, a megalomaniac whose tenure came to an abrupt end a few years ago after he was accused of murdering a male prostitute in a room at the Fairmont. Gates paid for the upgrades on his own nickel, and the city doesn’t have the spare cash to tear them out. Not surprisingly, Ward hasn’t insisted on returning her office to its former bureaucratic splendor.

She takes a seat behind her desk between the Stars and Stripes and the California state flag. She sips her Perrier and flashes the airbrushed smile that adorns the cover of this month’s San Francisco Magazine. Her lineage is impressive, and her political aspirations have been well-documented. She passed up a chance to run for mayor last year to train her sights on a shot at the U.S. Senate. The forty-year-old is more than a pretty face. The conviction statistics of the DA’s office have gone up significantly since she took the job.

Her stated purpose for calling this impromptu summit conference was to set ground rules for the expedient exchange of evidence, but that was a transparent pretext. In reality, she granted us an audience to try to smoke out information. Turnabout being fair play, we’ll see what we can get from her. My defense shield is up and my phasers are set on stun. The chances she’ll reveal anything meaningful are slim.

Rosie and I are sitting on the overstuffed couch adjacent to her mahogany desk. Quinn and Shanahan are parked in tall chairs on the other side of the oriental rug. Johnson and Banks are standing as sentries on either side of Ward’s leather chair.

Ward’s plastic smile is replaced by a practiced sincere look that plays more convincingly on TV than in person. She starts by addressing Quinn. “We’re sorry that we have to meet again in such trying circumstances. You have no idea how difficult this is for us.”

I can’t imagine.

Quinn responds with a tempered nod. “This is difficult for all of us.”

Ward darts a glance at McNulty, then she turns to me. “That brings us to the murder of Ms. Concepcion.”

I correct her. “Alleged murder. We think it may have been a suicide.”

“We don’t. Has your client provided you with an explanation of his whereabouts on the night she died?”

I recite the correct legal answer. “You know we’re under no obligation to provide information to you about our discussions with our client.”

“Yes, we do.” She rests her elbows on the polished mahogany and shakes her chestnut locks. “Frankly, we have no great desire to prosecute another priest.”

Except for the fact that you’ll be the lead story on the news for the next year.

She tugs at the sleeves of her St. John knit suit. “These cases are difficult. We were hoping to find common ground to resolve this matter before things get out of hand.”

Shanahan’s interest is piqued. “What did you have in mind?”

“If your client is prepared to come clean, we would be willing to negotiate this down to second degree with a recommendation for a reasonable sentence. It’s the best we can offer.”

McNulty interjects, “It’s a good deal. The Chronicle will crucify us for offering it. If I were in Nicole’s shoes, I wouldn’t be doing it.”

He isn’t in her shoes, and his observation sounds rehearsed. A cynic might suggest Ward is looking to make political capital by trying to elicit a quick confession in a case that could cut against her if things get ugly. That cynic would be me.

Shanahan opts for a tempered response. “We’ll take it back to our client and consider all the ramifications before we make a final decision.”

It’s a rational thought, but it isn’t enough for me. “I won’t recommend it.”

Ward’s chiseled features become more animated. “He murdered Ms. Concepcion.”

“No, he didn’t, and you can’t prove it.”

“Yes, we can.”

I’m not egging her on just to hear my own voice. Well, maybe a little, but if I can keep her talking, she might reveal some useful information. I lower the volume. “How do you figure he did it?”

She measures her words carefully. “He stabbed her and tried to make it look like a suicide. A neighbor saw him exit the victim’s apartment at ten o’clock that night.”

I could resume the argument about the semantics of whether she should be calling Ramon a murderer, but I’m more interested that she mentioned a witness. “Who’s the neighbor?”

“Her name is Estella Cortez. She lives across the alley.”

Banks interjects, “I’ve talked to her. She’s very reliable.”

He’s an excellent judge of character, but we’ll interview her just the same. I ask Ward if Cortez saw anybody else enter Concepcion’s apartment.

“No.”

“Was she watching the apartment the entire night?”

“Of course not.”

Good answer. “Then it’s possible somebody else went inside without being seen.”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Daley.”

Precisely.

Ward shakes her head. “We found his fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing.” There’s no reason to hide the ball. “Father Aguirre told us he was at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night for a counseling session. He used a knife to cut an apple.”

She stops for a beat. “You don’t know that it’s the same knife.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

Her seemingly airtight case may have sprung its first leak. “You can’t prove he’s telling the truth.”

“I don’t have to. You have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he murdered Ms. Concepcion. It isn’t our job to show that he didn’t.” It’s a tidy legal argument, but juries are good at connecting the dots. “Ms. Concepcion was a distraught woman with serious personal issues whose case against the archdiocese was falling apart. Her wrists were slashed. There was no evidence of forced entry or a struggle. How can you possibly rule out suicide?”

“Dr. Beckert said it wasn’t. He gave us a preview of his report. Ms. Concepcion sustained a blow to the back of her right shoulder that rendered her unconscious. Then the murderer placed her in the bathtub and slit her wrists. She bled to death before she regained consciousness.”

I feign exasperation. “Come on, Nicole. There isn’t a shred of evidence that Father Aguirre had any contact with her.”

“Yes, there is.” Now she’s smiling. She’s been waiting to spring this on me ever since I walked in: “Dr. Beckert found your client’s thumbprints on the back of her neck.”

CHAPTER 10

“IT’S MY JOB TO HAVE FAITH”

“Our priests are God’s emissaries. We’ll do everything to protect them.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

Before I can answer, Shanahan jumps in with an indignant response. “Everybody knows you can’t lift fingerprints from human skin,” he says.

He’s developed his keen expertise in forensic science by watching CSI.

Banks corrects him. “Yes, you can.”

Big John has expressed a widely held view, but Banks is right. Before Shanahan can dig himself in deeper, I turn to Banks and say, “Did you use glue fuming?”

“Yes.”

Shanahan gives me an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?”

I watch CSI, too. “It’s a process to remove fingerprints off a cadaver.”

For decades, experts believed it was impossible to lift latent prints from human skin because of its pliability and the fact that it is covered with perspiration and other chemicals. The problem is often exacerbated in homicide cases because the victim’s skin is frequently subjected to harsh conditions such as mutilation, weather, and decomposition. The FBI developed a procedure in which portions of the body are covered by an airtight plastic tent, sprayed with fumes of a chemical known as cynanoacrylate, and dusted with special fluorescent fingerprint powder. This so-called “glue fuming” process is most reliable if the perpetrator grabs the victim tightly and the body is discovered shortly after death.

Shanahan isn’t the sort of guy who would ever acknowledge that he may have been wrong, and he continues his misguided onslaught. “It still doesn’t prove that Father Aguirre knocked Ms. Concepcion unconscious or slit her wrists.”

Ward responds in a sugary tone. “We’d be happy to listen to any explanation your client is willing to provide.”

So would we. I ask her if they identified any bruises on Concepcion’s shoulders.

“You’ll have to ask Dr. Beckert. In the meantime, notwithstanding this damaging evidence, our plea bargain proposal remains on the table.”

This time Quinn responds. “We won’t advise our client to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.”

I like the show of fortitude, but it may be nothing more than bluster.

“You have a lot of faith in him,” Ward says.

“It’s my job to have faith.”

“Even so, our offer will remain open only until noon tomorrow.”

* * *

Rosie’s tone is business-like. “The fingerprints on Concepcion’s neck are a problem.”

We’re driving north on Franklin Street toward archdiocese headquarters in a misty rain at noon. “They were friends. Maybe he gave her a back rub.”

“Even if you’re right, it was a bad idea. There’s a big difference between counseling and massage. As my mother would say, it just doesn’t look nice.”

I can’t disagree with her. We drive in silence as I search for a parking space on Cathedral Hill. In the “All’s Fair in Love and War” spirit of this endeavor, I cut across three lanes and practically barrel into a van as I pull into a metered space on Gough Street. “I was surprised Ward was so willing to deal.”

“She doesn’t want to prosecute a popular priest, and she’ll get political points if she gets a confession–even if she cuts a deal. The last thing she needs is to put a priest on Death Row.”

Perhaps. I search for something positive. “At least the archbishop agreed to post bail.”

Rosie has a more benign view. “He had to do it. Ramon’s parishioners are inundating him with calls and e-mails. It would have been a PR nightmare if he had turned his back on him.”

“You still have questions about the archbishop’s loyalties?”

“Absolutely.”

So do I. We get out of the car. I’m about to open my umbrella when a green Chevy Impala barrels by us and crashes into a puddle, blasting a wall of water toward us. Rosie jumps out of the way, but I’m not quick enough. The splash leaves me soaked.

“Asshole,” Rosie mutters.

“Yeah.”

She reads my troubled look. “What is it?”

“That Chevy was behind us when we left the Hall. Somebody is already watching us.”

CHAPTER 11

“I KNOW HOW THIS MUST LOOK”

“God forgives those who acknowledge their mistakes.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

Ramon’s response to Ward’s plea bargain proposal is unequivocal. “No deal.”

It’s the answer I was hoping for. “We’ll convey your response to the DA.”

Our newly constituted legal team has reassembled in a conference room in the nondescript building down the street from St. Mary’s Cathedral that houses the offices of the archdiocese. A night in jail has drained Ramon’s energy. His complexion is pale. His gray slacks hide an ankle bracelet that allows the cops to monitor his whereabouts. The sandwiches on the credenza are untouched.

Quinn is sitting at the end of the pine table. His large presence contrasts with the small etching of an emaciated Jesus hanging on the wall behind him. Shanahan is nursing a Sprite and writing on a legal pad. He’s been up all night, but there isn’t a hair out of place.

Ramon’s expression doesn’t change when I tell him they’ve found a witness who saw him leave Concepcion’s apartment at ten o’clock on the night she died. “I told you I was there. I’m prepared to admit I handled the knife, but they can’t show that I knocked her out.”

It’s a more lawyerly response than I was hoping for. “They found your thumbprints on the back of her neck. We need to know how they got there.”

He drums his fingers on the table. “She had back problems and was very tense. I gave her a massage. That’s all.”

Quinn’s eyes light up, and not with joy. “You know it’s against policy for a priest to touch a parishioner.”

Especially if she’s suing the archdiocese.

Ramon’s voice is even. “I’m well aware of that. It was no different than a platonic hug.”

“The newspapers won’t see it that way.”

Neither will the archbishop. Neither do I, for that matter.

Quinn jabs a finger into Ramon’s face. “This is how we get into trouble. You play fast and loose with the rules. The next thing you know, we’re getting sued for sexual harassment. You were putting yourself and the archdiocese at risk.”

“It wasn’t like that, Francis. It was a gesture of friendship.”

“It was a gesture of stupidity that’s going to play out in court. Why didn’t you just invite Concepcion’s mother to file a civil suit?”

“You’re overreacting.”

“It’s my job to overreact.”

I hold up my hand. “Let’s keep our eye on the ball.”

Quinn isn’t buying. “Easy for you to say. I’m going to get an earful from the archbishop.”

I won’t gain anything by arguing with him. I turn to Ramon and put the cards on the table. “Was there anything going on between you and Ms. Concepcion besides counseling and back rubs?”

“No.”

“Any hanky-panky of any kind?”

“None.” He swallows hard. “I know how this must look. I’m not naive–but it’s the truth.”

I believe him.

Rosie gives him one last chance. “If there’s anything else that we should know, this would be an excellent time to tell us.”

He flashes a rare sign of anger. “Are you asking me if I slept with her?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Then the answer, Rosie–in a word–is no.”

CHAPTER 12

“NOBODY IS BIGGER THAN THE CHURCH”

“Members of the clergy must avoid even the slightest appearance of impropriety.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

Quinn’s bloated face is an unsightly shade of crimson. “Now do you see why this job is so difficult?”

I decide that his question is intended to be a rhetorical one and I don’t respond.

The chief legal officer of the archdiocese is sitting behind an inlaid cherry wood desk in a spacious office at Church headquarters. The walls are lined with books divided between secular and religious tomes. A large silver cross hangs behind his chair. A century-old version of the Latin Vulgate Bible sits on an antique end table. Except for the religious artifacts and a photo of the massive Quinn towering over the frail Pope, the surroundings could pass for a senior partner’s office at a major law firm. The door is closed.

Rosie and I are sitting in armchairs opposite the desk. Shanahan isn’t here. He muttered something about going back to the office to review motions for the O’Connell case.

Quinn is still expounding. “Do you know how hard it is to keep hundreds of priests from doing stupid things?” He answers his own question. “You give them training, you send them memos, and they still screw up.”

Guys like Quinn believe they have a God-given right to lay down the law. To the priests in San Francisco, he is the law.

I offer a priestly platitude. “They’re human.”

He won’t let them off the hook so easily. “They have no idea how much damage they can inflict. Sometimes I wish I’d gone straight to law school instead of the seminary.”

If he thinks it’s tough to keep a bunch of priests in line, he ought to meet some of the partners at my old law firm. “You wanted to see us?”

“I did.” He opens an envelope with a pearl-studded letter opener, then he takes a sip of tea from a bone china cup. “Father Aguirre’s case is very disturbing.”

Thanks for bringing it to our attention.

He temples his fingers in front of his face. “We are appreciative of your efforts, but we think this matter should be handled internally.”

Here we go again. “Who is included in the ‘we’ that you’re referring to?”

“John and myself.”

I’ve never trusted people who refer to themselves as “myself.” “We resolved this issue.”

“No, we didn’t.” He clears his throat. “Another member of our hierarchy expressed reservations.”

We’re getting squeezed. “Who would that be?”

“The archbishop.” He clears his throat again. If he keeps doing it, he’s going to rupture his larynx. “Let’s just say he isn’t. . .” He hesitates, cocks his head on an angle, and says, “comfortable with you.”

The back of my neck is turning red. “Why not?”

His head returns to its upright and locked position. “He didn’t say.”

“I’d like to talk to him about it.”

“That isn’t possible. He asked me to inform you that he expects you to withdraw.”

And that’s that.

Rosie’s eyes blaze. “We aren’t going to back away from our obligations to our client just because the archbishop is uncomfortable,” she snaps.

“If you’re going to be unreasonable, we’re going to have to let you go.”

It’s my turn for indignant posturing. “You can’t let us go, Francis. We don’t work for you. Ramon is our client. Only he can fire us.”

“Then that’s what we’ll persuade him to do.”

The hell you will. “We’ll file a grievance with the State Bar.”

“On what grounds?”

“That you attempted to coerce him into firing his lawyer.”

“Bullshit.”

I wonder what the archbishop would say about that. “It’s a sin to swear, Francis.”

“I’ll take it up at my next confession.”

“We aren’t going to resign.”

“You made the same mistake twenty years ago. You still think you’re bigger than the Church. Ramon suffers from the same delusion.”

And you suffer from being a self-righteous ass. “It wasn’t true then and it isn’t true now.” I look directly into his condescending eyes and force myself to keep my tone professional. “We aren’t going to resign, Francis.”

“We’ll wear you down.”

“Are you threatening us?”

“I’m making a promise. Nobody is bigger than the Church.”

Except for you. “And nobody is bigger than the State Bar.”

It’s a standoff.

He lowers his voice. “We’ll destroy you.”

God may have the power to smite me, but F.X. Quinn doesn’t. “If you try to take us down, we’ll bring you with us.”

He sits there, fuming. “Well, then, you should know something else. Our insurance carrier informed me that your firm is not on their list of approved attorneys. Moreover, your firm is not on our list of approved lawyers, either. As a result, we are not in a position to pay your legal fees.”

A huge surprise.

He adds, “You may wish to reconsider your decision in light of these new developments.”

Asshole. “We’ve already told you that we’re prepared to handle this matter pro bono.”

“Suit yourself, but we’re staying on as co-counsel.”

Which will give him an opportunity to monitor our every move. I try to put him back on his heels. “Did you hire somebody to follow us?”

There’s a slight hesitation. “Of course not.”

“Did John?”

“No.”

“Somebody was tailing us on our way over here.”

“We don’t hire investigators to follow co-counsel.”

We’ll see if the Impala reappears. “Did you hire a PI to tail Maria Concepcion?

There’s a longer pause. “Obtaining information about opposing counsel is part of our due diligence. It isn’t illegal. Everybody does it.”

He still hasn’t answered my question. “Did you hire a PI?”

“That’s confidential.”

“We’re on the same side.”

He fingers his reading glasses. “We have a PI on retainer.”

At least he admitted it. “We’d like to talk to him.”

“I can’t let you to do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“The information is privileged and confidential.”

“Information gathered by a PI is not privileged.”

“It’s still confidential.”

“You can get a protective order.”

“It’s a political issue. We can’t admit that we hired a PI to spy on an attorney. It will look terrible.”

You should have thought of that beforehand. “It will look worse if I have to send you a subpoena.”

“No judge will enforce it.”

“They might after your refusal to cooperate appears on the front page of tomorrow morning’s Chronicle.” Time to see if he’ll blink. “What’s the name of the PI?”

“Nick Hanson. We’ve used him for years.”

Well, that’s a bonus. Nick “the Dick” Hanson is a local legend and one of the few living contacts to San Francisco’s tawdry past. Still in robust health in his late eighties, the diminutive man about town has run an agency in North Beach for six decades. Nick employs a dozen PI’s, all of whom are related to him. He writes mysteries in his spare time. I love Nick.

“We’re going to talk to him. We’ll need you to instruct him to cooperate.”

“I’ll need to talk to John about it.”

Fine. “Was Nick watching Ms. Concepcion on the night she died?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who does know?”

“John.”

CHAPTER 13

“THIS IS A CRIME SCENE”

“Frequently, the most important element in solving a murder involves the meticulous preservation of the crime scene.”

— Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. San Francisco Chronicle.

I immediately place a call to Shanahan, who politely, but firmly, refuses to discuss any substantive issues by phone. He reluctantly agrees to meet me later tonight.

Rosie goes back to the office while I make a beeline to the Mission, where Roosevelt is waiting for me in the dark hallway on the third floor of a six-unit stucco building on Capp Street, between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth. The carpet in Maria Concepcion’s apartment building is worn, and the walls are in need of paint. The post-earthquake structure is in a corner of the Mission that’s treacherous at night, and one of her neighbors gained some notoriety a few years ago when he started tossing bricks at the pimps who plied their trade on the street. It didn’t stop their activities entirely, but it caused some of the hookers to move to another block.

Roosevelt removes a toothpick from his mouth. “Technically, I’m under no legal obligation to do this. I invited you here because we’re friends and out of respect for your father.”

He’s doing me a favor, and I express my gratitude. We both know that the California discovery rules will require him to show me the crime scene sooner or later. The fact that he didn’t foist this exercise off on a uniform suggests he wants to ply me for information. His partner is conspicuously absent. “Where’s Marcus?”

“He’s preparing for the prelim that you got pushed up on short notice.”

And he doesn’t want to talk to me. “I want to resolve this case by Christmas.”

“You can resolve it today by having your client plead guilty.”

“I had a slightly different resolution in mind.”

He lifts the yellow tape and opens the door. “This is a crime scene. If you touch anything, I will kill you instantly.”

He isn’t kidding.

I can feel the blood rushing to my feet as he escorts me inside Concepcion’s apartment, which is even smaller than mine. You never get used to the feeling when you enter a murder scene and my stomach starts churning. The tiny living room has been converted into a make-shift law office. The kitchen is big enough for one person. The dull beige carpet is tattered and the paint is chipped. A narrow hall leads to a cramped bedroom and a bath. The windows are closed. The heavy air smells of industrial-strength cleaning solvent.

I ask Roosevelt why a successful lawyer lived in such modest surroundings.

“She wasn’t that successful. In fact, she was almost broke. She had about a thousand dollars in her bank account when she died, and she was behind on her rent.”

“She must have made good money from her cases against the archdiocese.

“She considered it blood money and donated most of it to the battered women’s shelter.”

I admire her principles, but it doesn’t tell the entire story. “She had other clients.”

“It was small time stuff. She did a lot of work pro bono. Her ex-husband took everything in their divorce. She still had student loans and credit card debt.”

I look around and observe that she wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Her second-hand desk is covered with file folders. DataSafe boxes are piled haphazardly on the olive sofa. A desktop computer, iPad, and photocopier are sitting on a table from IKEA. The only family mementos are photos of her parents and a younger brother who died in an auto accident about ten years ago.

“Did you find anything interesting on her computer or her cell phone?”

“Still checking.”

“Was anything missing?”

“Not as far as we can tell. No sign of forced entry. There was money and jewelry in her dresser. We’re reasonably sure Ms. Concepcion knew her assailant and let him in. The back door was unlocked, and your client’s fingerprints were on the handle.”

Not helpful. “When did Ms. Concepcion’s mother last speak to her daughter?”

“Seven-thirty on the night she died. She told us there was nothing unusual about the conversation.”

Duly noted. “Any chance she might be willing to talk to us?”

“I can’t prevent you from approaching her, but I would ask you to be sensitive.”

“Understood.”

He leads me down the hallway to the bathroom where the sink, toilet, and tub are original issue. The white floor tile has been scrubbed clean, but I can still make out traces of blood in the grout. “There was a lot of blood.” He promises to send over the photos, but I’m not looking forward to seeing them. “We found Ms. Concepcion’s clothes in a pile on her bedroom floor.

I start fishing. “You think somebody knocked her unconscious, stripped off her clothes, put her into the tub, slashed her wrists, and tried to make it look like a suicide?”

“No, I think your client knocked her unconscious, stripped off her clothes, put her into the tub, slashed her wrists, and tried to make it look like a suicide.”

“And the motive?”

“They had a fight. A woman who lives across the hall heard shouting at a quarter to ten.”

Another witness. “What were they fighting about?”

“Ask your client. The witness couldn’t tell.”

“How did the witness know it was Father Aguirre?”

“She heard the voices of a man and a woman. We know that Father Aguirre was still here.”

Unfortunately, we do. We’ll talk to the neighbor. I point at the medicine chest. “What did you find in there?”

“Nothing unusual.” He rattles off a typical list of toothpaste, cosmetics, and deodorant.

“Anything else?”

“Birth control pills.”

It shouldn’t surprise me–even for a good Catholic.

His mustache twitches. “We also found an unused home pregnancy test.”

Seems odd. “Why we should have a pregnancy test if she was taking birth control pills?”

“Maybe she’d stopped taking them. We also found a number of prescription and over-the-counter medications, including Prozac.”

Bingo. She was being treated for depression.

“I know what you’re thinking, but just because she was taking an anti-depressant doesn’t mean she was suicidal.”

“Says who?”

“Her mother and her shrink.”

And Ramon. “It doesn’t prove that she wasn’t.”

“Save it for your closing argument.”

I will.

His tone turns defensive when I ask him if he found any blood on Ramon’s hands or clothing. “We didn’t question him until several days later. He would have washed his hands and laundered his clothing.”

“You can’t prove it.”

He doesn’t respond.

I scan the bathroom again. “Did you find his fingerprints in here?”

He studies the evidence markers. “We found his prints on the flusher, the sink, the toilet paper dispenser, and the medicine chest.”

“That suggests he used the bathroom for conventional purposes.”

“Maybe. But–” He lowers his voice and gestures toward the empty tub. “It was full of water when the body was found.”

“So?”

“If it was a suicide, Ms. Concepcion would have drawn her own bath.”

I don’t like where this is going. “Are you saying that someone other than Ms. Concepcion started the bath?”

“Yes.”

I know what he’s going to tell me, but heart sinking, I ask, “How could you possibly have made that determination?”

He points at a yellow marker on the lip of the tub, just below the hot water handle. “We found Father Aguirre’s fingerprints on the handles to the bathtub faucet, too.”

CHAPTER 14

“EVERYBODY KNOWS EDUARDO”

“With the downturn in the economy and competition from the chains, it’s become increasingly difficult for independent markets to survive.”

— Tony Fernandez. Mission District Weekly.

Tony’s Produce has been a fixture around the corner from St. Peter’s for twenty years. It’s an unusual meeting place for a couple of lawyers, but Rosie’s older brother is an excellent source of neighborhood gossip.

Rosie and I are sitting on crates in the back of the market. The sweet aroma of fresh fruit surrounds us as she takes in the details of my meeting with Roosevelt without reaction. She tosses the core of her Fuji apple into the trash and asks, “Have you talked to Ramon about it?”

“I didn’t want to do it by phone. I’m going to see him later tonight.”

“My gut is telling me he that he may not have been entirely forthcoming with us.”

Her gut is usually very reliable.

Tony is about my age and height, but he spends his free time at the gym. As a result, he carries two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle on his six-foot frame. Widowed almost twenty years ago, he recently began dating an attractive divorcee who works at the LaVictoria Pastry Shop across the street. An upbeat guy with more street smarts than formal education, he never loses his cool. He’s managed to run a clean operation in a business rife with payoffs and graft. His flashes a wide smile. “Did you like that smoothie?”

“Not bad.”

He put in a juice bar a couple of years ago in an attempt to siphon off business from a Jamba Juice that opened on Mission Street. He discovered that most of the locals can’t afford four-dollar fruit shakes, and he freely admits it hasn’t been a financial bonanza. Then again, success is often measured in relative terms. He’s still in business, but Jamba Juice isn’t.

I finish the blended orange/strawberry/kiwi concoction and ask, “Do you have a Diet Dr Pepper in the cooler?” He stocks them just for me. “Old habits.”

“Let me see what I can do.” He returns a moment later with a can of my favorite soda. His tone turns serious. “Do the cops really think Ramon killed Maria Concepcion?”

I assure him that they do.

He takes in the details with a pronounced scowl, then offers a concise analysis. “I don’t believe it.”

I ask him what he knows about Concepcion.

“Off the record?”

“Anyway you’d like it.”

“She used to come in from time to time. She was a Type Triple-A. I don’t think she had a lot of friends. She helped us with the fund-raising auction at St. Peter’s last year, but she wanted to run it like a Fortune 500 company. She treated anybody who disagreed with her as if they were stupid or nuts.”

Sounds like her instincts for church politics were similar to mine.

Tony is still talking. “A lot of people resented it when she filed those lawsuits against the archdiocese. I know that she was just doing her job, but you have to understand this community. A hundred people are holding a vigil for Ramon over at St. Peter’s tonight. The church is the center of this neighborhood, and Ramon is still a hero. Some people think she did it just to get back at her ex-husband after he took her to the cleaners in their divorce.”

You can always count on Tony for the skinny. “We understand she was seeing a man named Eduardo Lopez.”

“She was.”

“Do you know him?”

“Everybody knows Eduardo. I supply his produce.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“He’s successful.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“He’s always paid my bills, and he’s donated a lot of money to St. Peter’s.”

I’m still looking for a straight answer. “Is he honest?”

“He’s never been arrested.”

Enough. “Is he the kind of guy you’d want as your business partner?”

The sage of Twenty-fourth Street pulls at his skin-tight sleeveless shirt. “Eduardo always has an agenda for which he’s the primary beneficiary.”

Progress. “What about his personal life?”

“What about it?”

I glance at Rosie. “Is he the kind of guy you’d want your sister to date?”

“No. His idea of fidelity is a different than mine. I know his wife. Everybody in the neighborhood knew he was cheating on her. She finally hired a PI who caught him red-handed with Maria. Vicky filed for divorce and blamed Maria for breaking up their marriage.”

“Who ended the relationship between Maria and Eduardo?”

“Vicky told me that Maria pulled the plug. Evidently, Eduardo was pretty upset.”

This contradicts the story Maria told Ramon. She said Lopez broke up with her because he wasn’t willing to leave his wife.

Tony shrugs. “I’ve never asked Eduardo about it. It isn’t the sort of thing you talk about with one of your customers.”

It’s also a prototypical lose-lose-lose situation. Eduardo cheated on Vicky to sleep with Maria. Vicky got wind of it and it destroyed any chance of reconciliation with her husband. Then Eduardo and Maria split up. At the end of the day, everybody lived sadly ever after except Maria, who didn’t live at all. It will be interesting to get their respective sides of the story if they’re willing to talk.

I ask, “Do you know the name of the PI that Vicky Lopez hired to watch her husband?”

“Nick Hanson.”

His name keeps popping up.

“There’s something else,” he says. “Maria and Ramon had some history.”

“He told us they grew up in the neighborhood and they were friends.”

“There’s more. I assumed you already knew.”

“Knew what?”

“They almost got married before he decided to go to the seminary.

CHAPTER 15

PETE

“You just keep digging until you find something.”

— Pete Daley. PI Monthly.

San Francisco’s longest-running party has been in full swing for the last quarter of a century at Eduardo’s Latin Palace at Twenty-third and Mission, a block and a half from Concepcion’s apartment. Lopez’s raucous eatery was serving fresh Mexican food long before various chains sanitized the concept and took it to malls across the country. The evening’s festivities are already underway at six o’clock inside the cavernous space that smells of mesquite-grilled pork. The bar is packed with blue collar workers, attractive singles, hipsters, and button-down yuppies. The margaritas are cheap and the crowd is electric.

My brother is sitting across from me in a corner booth, beneath a neon Corona logo. We look almost identical, except he’s five years younger than I am and has darker hair and a graying mustache. Pete was up all night. He’s unshaven and his hair is disheveled. It comes with the territory when you pay the bills chasing unfaithful husbands. He nibbles at a tortilla chip and takes a long draw of his Pacifico. “I heard you got bail.”

He’s never been much for small talk. “We did.”

“Neat trick.” He takes off his brown bomber jacket. “How’d you pull it off?”

“We got the archbishop to testify.”

“I heard. Your little coup is making the rounds. By the end of the day, it will be part of local legend.”

It’s vintage Pete. He likes to ask questions for which he already knows the answers. It comes from his training as a cop. It’s bugged me for years. He would have made a great lawyer if he had the patience to sit behind a desk. He scratches the stubble covering his pockmarked face. Pete spent a decade with the SFPD before he and a couple of buddies were unceremoniously shown the door after they broke up a gang fight with a little too much enthusiasm. He’s still bitter. He’s worked as a PI for ten years. He doesn’t have the bubbliest personality, but he’s perceptive and an excellent judge of character.

He takes another sip of his beer. “Which judge?”

“Vanden Heuvel.”

“I’m surprised. She used to be a prosecutor.”

“She’s fair.”

“And Catholic. Savor the victory. It won’t happen again.”

True enough.

He orders a second beer. “Has my nephew started sleeping through the night?”

“Almost.”

He gives me a half-smile that represents a show of great enthusiasm for him. “You don’t make the concept of having children especially attractive.”

“Since when did you start thinking about having kids?”

“Donna and I talk about it.”

Donna Andrews has been Pete’s on-again, off-again girlfriend for two years. She works in the accounting department of one of the big law firms and provides a modicum of order in Pete’s unpredictable schedule. They’ve talked about getting married, but they’ve both been divorced and they’re cautious. She’s turning forty this year. Pete better get busy pretty soon.

Hi nibbles on a tortilla chip. “Conceptually, I like the idea.”

“What about down here in the real world where you have to change diapers?”

“That’s where I have a few problems.”

I try to avoid giving him advice on his love life. My track record is terrible, and he’s never forgiven me for introducing him to his ex-wife. Nevertheless, I decide to violate my policy and offer some low-key brotherly counseling. “The benefits outweigh the sleepless nights. Don’t wait too long.”

“I won’t.” That’s as much as he cares to hear and he returns to the matters at hand. “I take it you called me down here to ask if I’d help you with Ramon’s case?”

“I did. Do you have time?”

“I can make time. Am I going to get paid?”

He’s as practical as Rosie. “Probably not. Our client is a priest.”

“I’d be retired if I hadn’t given away so much free time to your clients over the years.”

“I’ll put in a good word with the archbishop on your behalf.”

“Cold, hard cash would be preferable.”

“If it makes you feel better, we aren’t getting paid, either.”

“Maybe we could pass the hat around at St. Peter’s. There was quite a crowd over there when I walked by earlier tonight.”

“They’re trying to show support for Ramon, but they don’t have a lot of money, either.”

“If I’m not going to get paid, what’s in it for me?”

“You’d be helping Ramon.”

He acknowledges that this has some merit. “What else?”

“You can dig up as much dirt as you can on the archdiocese. Think of it as your chance for payback for all of those miserable hours you spent in Catholic school.”

His eyes light up. My brother never had the same affection for the Church that I did. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the point?”

“Concepcion was about to start a huge case against the archdiocese. I want to know who was pissed off at her.”

“You can start with the archbishop and F.X. Quinn, but I don’t think you’re be able to nail either of them with murder.”

“I need to cover all the bases.” And I have few other viable options at the moment.

My perceptive younger sibling offers me some solid advice. “You shouldn’t turn this into a vendetta against the Church.”

“I won’t.”

“Come on, Mick. It’s a bad idea to let a case get personal. Are you really going after Archbishop Keane?”

“Only if it helps Ramon.”

He takes a long draw of his beer. “Okay. I’m in. What do you know?”

“Not much. What have you heard?”

“Concepcion was a small-time attorney who worked out of an apartment in the Mission and made a living suing the archdiocese. Her body was found in her bathtub last Tuesday morning. Her wrists were slashed. It looked like a suicide–or a fake. They found Ramon’s prints on the knife. She used to be married to the guy representing the archdiocese in the O’Connell case. That’s all I know.”

His information is always solid. He maintains a detached professionalism as I fill in the details. His expression becomes troubled when I tell him the police found Ramon’s prints on the back of Concepcion’s neck and on the handles to her bathtub faucet. The mustache starts to twitch furiously when I tell him about their relationship twenty years ago.

He takes the items in order. “How did Ramon’s prints get onto her neck?”

“He gave her a back rub.”

“Bad idea. How did his prints get onto the bathtub faucets?”

“I don’t know.”

“They don’t belong there. Was there any hanky-panky?”

“No.”

“Says who?”

“Says Ramon.”

“What about their history? Some guys never give up.”

“He did.”

“She was pretty.”

“I know.”

He isn’t convinced. “What does Rosie think?”

“What difference does it make?”

“She has better instincts than you do.”

Thanks. “She didn’t know. She’s the lawyer in the family. Her brother is the gossip.”

“We need to nail that one down, Mick. It will look terrible if they were getting it on.”

Yes, it will. I ask him to look for witnesses in the area around Concepcion’s apartment. “I want to know if anybody went to her apartment on the night she died. And I want you to check out her ex-husband.” He smiles when I mention Nick Hanson’s name. I finish my beer. “I think somebody may have been following me earlier today in a green Impala.”

“You want me to have somebody watch your backside?”

“That might be a good idea.”

He nods. “You may see a black Ford Explorer in your rear-view mirror starting tomorrow morning. The driver’s name is Vince. It’s the sort of thing that works better if you pretend he isn’t there.”

“Got it.” Pete has access to a small army of operatives who seem to materialize on short notice. I explain that Concepcion recently broke up with Eduardo Lopez. “It so happens that he’s the owner of this fine establishment.”

“Maybe we should have a little talk with him.” He summons our waitress with a big smile. “Is Mr. Lopez in the building? We’re old friends.”

I love to watch my brother work. She returns the smile. “I’m afraid he’s at a planning commission meeting.”

Pete is undeterred. “Do you expect him back later?”

“He said he’d be in around eleven-thirty. Did you want to leave a message for him?”

“That’s okay.” Pete winks. “We may drop in to see him.”

CHAPTER 16

“IT BECAME INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO DEAL WITH HER ON A RATIONAL BASIS”

“The archdiocese is our largest client, but we are a full-service firm that provides the highest quality legal services to a sophisticated and diversified client base.”

— John Shanahan. San Francisco Chronicle.

John Shanahan is eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion and contempt, but his voice is pure velvet. “Michael, we appreciate everything you’re doing for Father Aguirre. It must be very difficult for you to represent a friend and classmate.”

“It is.” And you’re full of crap.

Everything about the founding partner of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke is in muted tones of gray: the hair, the eyebrows, the suit, and even the carpet. He’s addressing me from behind a hand-carved rosewood desk in a museum-quality corner office on the twentieth floor of the Russ Building, a thirty-story neo-Gothic classic at 235 Montgomery Street that was the tallest building west of the Mississippi when it was completed in 1927. He hasn’t slept in a day and a half as we’re meeting at seven-thirty on Wednesday night, but his appearance is still immaculate.

My tone is deferential. “We’d like your help, John.”

He leans back in his deep leather chair. “We’ll make all of our resources available to you, Michael.”

Sure you will. “I understand Ms. Concepcion used to work here.”

“She did.”

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“As I recall, her reviews were quite good, but she had difficulties managing the stresses of a full workload. She elected to be taken off the partnership track.”

And she was a woman who didn’t have a big book of business who was working in a male-dominated old-line firm. “Why did she leave?”

“She was married to another attorney in the firm. Things became uncomfortable after they separated.” He assures me that her departure was voluntary. “She developed an unhealthy anger toward the archdiocese that manifested itself in several unsuccessful lawsuits.”

Nice try. “The papers said she negotiated settlements that ran into eight figures.”

“They exaggerate. None of the cases went to trial. A few were settled for modest sums.”

“How modest?”

“That’s confidential.”

We’ll see. “Father Quinn told me that you hired a private investigator named Nick Hanson to watch her.”

“He’s on retainer. It’s part of our standard procedure.”

He doesn’t seem to be hiding the ball. “Did he provide any useful information about Ms. Concepcion?”

“Nothing that we didn’t already know.”

Now he’s hiding the ball. I wait for the explanation.

“We wanted to see who she was talking to in preparation for the O’Connell case. Quite honestly, there weren’t any surprises.”

I never trust people who toss around phrases like “Quite honestly” in casual conversation. “Did Nick prepare a dossier about her?”

“Yes, he did.”

“We’d like to see it.”

Another pause. “Of course.” He buzzes his night secretary and asks her to bring a photocopy of the materials that Nick prepared. His apparent willingness to provide the information probably means there is nothing in the report that may help us. “It will serve no useful purpose to withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.” And I’d feel better if I thought you meant it. “Did you give a copy to the police?”

“We will if they ask. Quite honestly, we have researched the issue and we believe a private investigator’s report will be discoverable.”

I didn’t think he’d give it to them out of the goodness of his heart. “I trust you have no problem if we want to talk to Mr. Hanson?”

“Of course not.” He arches a gray eyebrow. “After all, we’re on the same side.”

At least for the time being. “Do you happen to know what kind of car Mr. Hanson drives?”

“I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”

“We have reason to believe that somebody may be watching us.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I can assure you that we didn’t hire a private investigator to conduct surveillance on our co-counsel.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you did. Do you have any idea who might have an interest in watching us?”

“Quite honestly, I can’t imagine why anybody would be following you. Perhaps you should ask the police.”

“I will.” We’ll see if Pete’s guy finds anybody on my tail. I ask him about the status of the civil case against Father O’Connell and the archdiocese.

“It’s on hold until the plaintiff can hire a new lawyer. I’m hopeful that we may be able to settle it in the interim. I’m an optimist by nature.”

I disagree. I think you’re an asshole by nature.

He adjusts his Rolex. “With Ms. Concepcion’s untimely death, it may be easier to persuade the plaintiff to listen to reason. We usually take a hard line to discourage people from bringing frivolous lawsuits, but we made an exception in the O’Connell case because of the seriousness of the charges and the notoriety of the defendant. The judge ordered us into mediation, but Ms. Concepcion was unwilling to compromise. Regrettably, it became increasingly difficult to deal with her on a rational basis as we got closer to trial. It was a disturbing case, and she was an unhappy person with an axe to grind. For better or worse, civil litigation is generally driven by economics. If somebody thinks they’ve been wronged, they go to court and ask for money. A jury can’t fix your broken leg, but they can compensate you for it. Litigation is very risky, however, because juries are notoriously unpredictable. Most cases settle out of court because the parties know they can’t control what happens inside the jury room.”

He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, but it’s interesting to hear his take on the process. The cold, calculating tenor of his lecture is disturbing and dead-on accurate.

He isn’t finished. “The system collapses when one of the parties tries to use civil litigation for a purpose other than a redistribution of wealth. Juries aren’t equipped to fix social problems.”

“And you think Ms. Concepcion was using the system for her own reasons?”

“Precisely. She refused to recognize the system’s limitations or engage in meaningful settlement discussions. She wanted juries to hand out damage awards based on raw emotion.”

It appears that she was effective. “Put yourself in her shoes, John. If you were representing somebody who had been sexually assaulted by a priest, wouldn’t you use everything at your disposal?”

“Of course, but I wouldn’t allow my ego or my emotions to cloud my judgment. The archdiocese cannot possibly restore the dignity of the people who have been wronged by their priests, but they can be compensated for their pain. In my view, she was attempting to generate publicity to serve her own ends.”

“I understand she donated her legal fees to charity.”

“That’s commendable, but it wasn’t in her client’s best interests to dismiss our generous settlement offer out of hand.”

“How much?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Ballpark?”

“Mid-six figures.”

In the context of big-time civil litigation, a half a million bucks is chump change. “She thought she could do better in court?”

“She wanted to go to court.” His tone fills with self-righteousness. “I know it’s fashionable to bash the Church, but the fact remains that our religious institutions hold together the moral fabric of our society. The overwhelming majority of priests do excellent work and are untainted by scandal. People like Ms. Concepcion want to bring down the institution because of the bad acts by a handful of priests.”

I ask him when he last saw her.

“We had a settlement conference last Monday afternoon. The judge tried to persuade us to increase our offer, but Father Quinn was unwilling to do so. Her opening bid was fifty million dollars, which was out of the question. It wasn’t the first time she had put forth an absurd settlement offer. We told her that we’d see her in court.”

“Did you speak to her again?”

“I talked to her around seven o’clock that evening.”

Interesting. “Where were you?”

“Here.”

“Why did she call you?”

“Actually, I called her. I had persuaded Father Quinn to raise our settlement offer by a modest sum, but she turned us down. That was the last time I spoke to her.”

I ask if she seemed agitated or distraught.

“Both. It was a big case and she had difficult cards. We believe the plaintiff was getting cold feet.”

“What’s the plaintiff’s name?”

“Jane Doe.”

I sigh. It isn’t uncommon for victims of sexual abuse to avoid using their names in court documents, but I obviously need to know more. “What’s her real name?”

“That’s confidential.”

I exhale heavily. He knows that I can get it from the cops or from the prosecutors or even from the media, all of whom know her true identity. They can get into trouble only if they make the information available to the public.

He takes a deep breath. “Her real name is Kelly O’Shea.”

A nice Irish Catholic girl. “Why she was reluctant to testify?”

“Because she made the whole thing up. Do you know what she does for a living?”

“The papers said she’s a waitress.”

“She’s a lap dancer at a girlie theater. And a hooker.”

CHAPTER 17

“IT WAS A WRONGFUL ACT”

“The concept of abstinence is a fundamental principle that is deeply rooted in our theology. There are no exceptions.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

Ah, maybe not such a nice Irish Catholic girl. “And the allegations?”

“They’re claiming Father O’Connell was providing counseling to her and used his position and influence to procure sexual favors.”

“Is it true?”

Shanahan taps his Montblanc pen on his desk. “Of course not. The DA agreed to give her immunity if she fingered her pimp and Father O’Connell. The criminal charges against the pimp were pleaded out and Father O’Connell’s case was dropped after he died.”

Leaving only the civil case against the archdiocese.

“Things got more complicated a few weeks ago. The police caught Ms. Doe soliciting in the Tenderloin. Her immunity agreement didn’t cover the new charge, and the incident wouldn’t have enhanced her credibility in court. Ms. Concepcion was about to start jury selection in a high-profile case in which her star witness was a hooker. Quite honestly, we were very confident we would prevail.”

There’s that phrase again. “Then why did you offer to settle?”

“Pure economics. Protracted litigation is prohibitively expensive.”

The fact that the archdiocese would have been dragged through the mud never entered his mind. I ask if he still intends to pursue a settlement.

“We are re-evaluating our position.”

“Was Mr. Hanson keeping Ms. Concepcion under surveillance on the night she died?”

“Yes.”

Bingo. “Did he happen to see anyone other than Father Aguirre enter her apartment?”

“No.”

Dammit. “Was someone watching Ms. Doe, too?”

“Yes.” He tells me that Doe lives in a residential hotel in the Tenderloin. He assures me that she was nowhere near Concepcion’s apartment on the night she died.

“Is she going to testify?”

“The case against Father O’Connell will collapse if she doesn’t.”

And the archdiocese will be off the hook. I ask him why she isn’t in jail on the solicitation charge.

“Ms. Concepcion posted bail for her.”

She certainly was a full-service lawyer–especially if she didn’t have a lot of money. “Where did she get the funds?”

“She had sources in the neighborhood.” He places his bone china coffee cup in its saucer to signify that our conversation is coming to an end.

“I’d like to meet Dennis Peterson.”

“He isn’t available, Michael.”

Don’t knock yourself out trying to help. “Perhaps we can set up a time to get together tomorrow.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Ramon’s hands are clasped on the table in front of him at eight-thirty on Wednesday night. “What are you asking?”

We’re sitting in his makeshift room at Church headquarters that looks as if it was furnished by “Rectories R Us.” There is a single bed, a desk, a three-drawer dresser, and a lamp. A cross hangs on the back of the door. It’s been an eventful twenty-four hours since he heard my confession. We have a lot of territory to cover, and I wanted to have this discussion outside the presence of Quinn, Shanahan, and, most important, the archbishop.

“I need you to tell me the precise nature of your relationship with Ms. Concepcion.”

“I was her priest.”

“What else?”

“We were friends.”

“Close friends?”

“Yes.”

“Just friends?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, Ramon.”

There is exasperation in his tone. “Just because you’re a priest doesn’t mean you can’t have social friendships with your female parishioners.”

“I was never the priest for one of my old girlfriends.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It has come to our attention that you and Ms. Concepcion dated for a period of time.”

“We went out for six months when we were in college. We broke up twenty years ago. She went to law school, and I went to the seminary.”

“How would you describe your relationship?”

He doesn’t try to spin it. “Boyfriend-girlfriend.”

“So you were romantically involved?”

“Yes.”

“How involved?”

“Are you asking me if I slept with her?”

I nod.

“The answer is yes.”

Dammit.

“It was a wrongful act,” he says. “I went to church and confessed.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Confessing?”

“Sex.”

“It was nice, but it isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

He’s never done it with Rosie. “I need to know if there was anything in your relationship that may bite us.”

“Except for the sex, nothing.”

“I’m serious.”

“Are you asking me if I still had feelings for her?”

“Yes.”

He takes a deep breath. “I loved her as dearly as one can love a friend. I worried about her constantly, but I had no romantic feelings for her.”

“Have you been romantically involved with anybody since you’ve been a priest?”

“Absolutely not.”

Good enough. “You told me she was unhappy because Lopez had dumped her.”

“That’s true.”

“Tony heard it the other way around.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Maybe none, but if we’re going to argue it was a suicide, it would be better if he dumped her. In my vast experience, the dumpee is frequently in worse shape than the dumper.”

“Thanks for your insight, Dr. Phil. She told me that he broke up with her. If you don’t want to take my word for it, ask Eduardo.”

We will. “How well do you know him?”

“Pretty well. He’s a big benefactor of St. Peter’s.”

“Did he have a habit of cheating on his wife?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Is there reason to suspect he may have been involved in Maria’s murder?”

“Get real, Mike.”

“Work with me, Ramon.”

His tone drips with sarcasm. “While you’re at it, you shouldn’t rule out his wife. She was angry at him, too.”

St. Peter’s should be renamed St. Peyton Place. “Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

“Because neither of them is capable of murder. I was still operating under the misguided assumption that I was supposed to keep my parishioners’ secrets confidential.”

“From now on you need to tell me everything.”

“Even if it involves something I was told in confidence?”

“It beats spending the rest of your life in jail.”

He scowls. We spend the next hour going through his visit with Concepcion again in painstaking detail. Thankfully, his story doesn’t change. I try to sound casual when I ask, “Did you use the bathroom while you were there?”

“Yes.” He acknowledges that they may have found his prints on the toilet seat and the sink. “I had a headache. I took some aspirin from her medicine chest.”

That accounts for most–but not all–of the fingerprints. Now comes a big one. “They found your prints on the handles to the bathtub faucet.”

He scowls. “We got into an argument before I left. She didn’t like it when I told her I thought it was time for her to move on with her life. Her trial was about to start. I suggested that she take a bath to relax. I even started the water for her. That’s all.”

I breathe a little easier. It isn’t an air-tight alibi, but it’s a plausible explanation–I can work with it. I ask if she called anyone while he was there.

“No.”

“Did anyone call her?”

“Her ex-husband called around nine-fifteen. They talked for a couple of minutes. She got very upset.” He shakes his head. “She ended the conversation by telling him to go to hell.”

CHAPTER 18

“WHAT’S THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO?”

“Criminal defense work is like putting together a puzzle. You study each piece of evidence and try to find ways to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case. If you overlook something important, your client is in serious trouble.”

— Rosita Fernandez. Boalt Hall Monthly.

I give my daughter a parental nod. “Is your homework done?”

“Yes, Dad.”

I’m reminded that bedtime schedules frequently take a back seat to more pressing business as Grace’s smile lights up her grandmother’s living room at ten o’clock on Wednesday night. Rosie’s parents bought the post-earthquake era bungalow in the shadows of St. Peter’s almost fifty years ago for fifteen grand. Though it needs a fresh coat of paint and new appliances, it would fetch close to a million bucks if Rosie’s mom ever chose to sell it. There isn’t a chance that she will.

Sylvia Fernandez’s tidy living room looks much the same as it did when I first met Rosie, and the oatmeal-colored sofa and teak end tables have a comfortable familiarity. The faded black-and-white wedding photos of Rosie’s parents still adorn the mantle, and framed graduation portraits of Rosie and her siblings hang above the fireplace. The only significant addition in the last decade are the photos of Sylvia’s grandchildren.

Grace’s inflection is a dead-on imitation of her mother’s when she says, “I saw you on the news tonight.”

“How did I look?”

“Same as always.”

Her answers have gotten shorter as she’s gotten older. She’s also developed a fairly advanced sense of irony for a twelve year-old.

Her tone takes on a serious cast. “You said Father Aguirre was innocent.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is he?”

“Of course.”

“That isn’t what they’re saying on TV.”

“They’re wrong.”

No reaction. “I was reading about the case on the Chronicle’s website. They found Father Aguirre’s fingerprints in Maria Concepcion’s bathroom.”

“It’s true.” We keep a pretty tight lid on the Internet along with instant messaging and social media, but the speed of development in in the tech world is rapidly outpacing our ability to police it.

“Does that mean he’s guilty?”

Nice try. “It means he went to the bathroom.”

She won’t give up easily. “What was he doing in her apartment?”

“Visiting.”

“That’s all?”

It’s like arguing with Rosie. “That’s all.”

“How much will you give me if I crack the case?”

Everybody’s on the make. “Twenty bucks, but only if you prove he’s innocent.”

“What if I show that he’s guilty?”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks to keep your mouth shut.”

She responds with a smile.

My ex-mother-in-law walks in with Tommy on her shoulder. She and Rosie have matching features and identical constitutions. Sylvia was born seventy-five years ago near Monterrey, Mexico, and moved to San Francisco when she was in her teens. A intelligent soul with little formal education and an uncompromisingly level head, she assumed the role of family matriarch after her husband died shortly after Rosie and I met. She remains a pillar of strength for her children and grandchildren. We couldn’t practice law without her.

She pats Tommy on the back and whispers, “He just fell asleep.” She brushes the hair out of her grandson’s eyes. “Maybe he’ll make it through the night.”

“Hope springs eternal.”

She turns to Grace. “Get your things ready, sweetie. Mommy is going to drive us back to your house.”

“Do I have time to do a couple more computer searches?”

“Five minutes, honey.”

I hope she isn’t texting any of the boys at school.

Sylvia rocks Tommy and lowers her voice. “Father Aguirre isn’t a murderer.”

“I know.” She’s from a generation where it was considered taboo to refer to a priest by his first name. “Let’s hope the police agree with you.”

Tommy yawns and Sylvia kisses him lightly on the forehead. “I’ll get him ready to go.”

“Thanks, Sylvia. By the way, how well do you know Maria’s mother?”

Her shrug causes Tommy’s eyes to open. “Pretty well.”

“Well enough to ask her if she’ll talk to us?”

“Her daughter just died, Michael.”

“And her priest has been accused of her murder.”

“I’ll call her in the morning.”

I walk into the kitchen where Rosie is studying copies of the police reports. She has an uncanny ability to concentrate on legal issues when Grace and Tommy are nearby. Her tone is serious. “I think I saw the Impala sitting on the corner by our office earlier this evening. I called the cops, but it disappeared before they got there.”

“Did you get a license number?”

“There was no plate.” She says she filed a report with the police, who searched the vicinity and told her to keep her eyes open and her doors locked. She’s pleased when I tell her that Pete is going to have somebody watch our backsides.

I point at the stack of papers on the table. “Anything new?”

“Not much.” She glances around to make sure Grace is out of the room before she hands me the gruesome crime scene photos.

I study the pictures and notice that Concepcion’s face is covered with white cream. “What’s that stuff?”

“A moisturizer called Essential Elements. They found it all over her body.”

This is odd. “Including her hands?”

“Yes. For our purposes, the best-case scenario is that she decided to make herself comfortable before she committed suicide. The fact that they found her fingerprints on an empty plastic container sitting on the ledge of the tub would seem to support that conclusion.”

So far, so good. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“Ramon spread the skin cream on her body to cover the injuries she sustained when he knocked her unconscious and to make the fake suicide look more convincing.”

“Is there anything that suggests he was so meticulous?”

“They found his fingerprints on the empty bottle, too.”

Dammit. “His fingerprints are turning up in a lot of places where they shouldn’t. Heard anything from the medical examiner’s office?”

“I spoke with Dr. Beckert. He’s willing to talk to us.”

“Any hints?”

“He said it was definitely not a suicide. The time of death was between nine-thirty p.m. and one a.m.”

“That means she could have been alive after Ramon left.”

“If you believe Ramon’s story.”

I do. “It also opens up the possibility that somebody came in later and killed her.”

“Or that she committed suicide.”

“Not if Beckert is right.”

She hands me a stack of printouts. “These are the phone records from last Monday–both cell and land lines. There were no incoming or outgoing cell phone calls.” She confirms that Concepcion received calls at her apartment from Shanahan at seven, her mother at seven-thirty, Ramon at seven-forty-five, and Peterson at nine-fifteen. “The last incoming call was at nine-forty-seven. It lasted less than a minute.”

“From whom?”

“It was placed from the general number at the archdiocese headquarters.”

I can’t wait to hear Quinn’s explanation. “Were there any outgoing calls?”

“Just one. It was at nine-fifty and it lasted for a minute.”

“To whom?”

“Eduardo’s Latin Palace.”

“Maybe she ordered dinner.”

“Or maybe she talked to her ex-boyfriend. Did you notice any food in her kitchen when Roosevelt showed you her apartment?”

“Not that I recall.”

“They found a partially-eaten chicken burrito on her kitchen table. It was in a wrapper from Eduardo’s.”

CHAPTER 19

“THINGS JUST DIDN’T

WORK OUT”

“I have tried to give back to our community.”

— Eduardo Lopez. San Francisco Chronicle.

It’s cool outside, but the heat is on at Eduardo’s. The packed restaurant is pulsating with athletic bodies at eleven-thirty on Wednesday night. Pete and I have worked our way to a booth in the corner of the bar, where we’re sweating profusely, nursing our beers, and admiring the lead stallions on the dance floor. He leans across the table and shouts, “Oh, to be young and single.”

I nod, but make no effort to respond above the roar.

Pete spent the last two hours talking to people in the alley behind Concepcion’s apartment with little to show for it. He gestures to a shapely waitress with seductive eyes and long black hair. “Two more beers, please.” He winks. “Is Mr. Lopez in?”

She responds with an indifferent shrug.

He places a twenty on the table, and her reticence magically transforms into a warm smile. She sweeps up the bill with a graceful motion and says, “He just arrived.”

“Would you ask him to come see us?”

“Of course, sir. What’s your name?”

“Tell him we’re friends of Tony Fernandez.”

I love to watch my brother work.

She returns a moment later with our beers and her boss, a dapper man in his late fifties who looks as if he was transported intact from a GQ ad. Lopez bears a striking resemblance to Antonio Banderas. His tailor-made navy suit and crisp rep tie complement a perfect tan, slicked-back hair, and a trimmed silver goatee. He flashes a practiced smile, extends an inviting hand, and manages to sound charming, even above the din. “I’m Eduardo Lopez,” he says in lightly accented English. The consummate host presents the beers to us himself. The warmth in his tone seems genuine enough when he says, “I understand you know Tony Fernandez.”

Pete smiles back. “We do.”

He winks at the waitress. “These are on the house.”

She responds with a demure smile and walks away.

We thank Lopez profusely. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced as his plastic smile broadens. We partake in small talk for a few minutes before he tries to disengage. “It’s nice to meet you. Please give my best to Tony.”

Pete stops him with an upraised hand. “We really need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Business.” The band launches into a raucous number that causes the dance floor to erupt. Pete gestures toward the back of the restaurant and shouts into Lopez’s ear, “Can we go someplace quiet?”

Our genial host forces a smile as he tries to figure out who we are and what we want. He motions us to follow him. We weave through the crowd, where he has a handshake for every man and a peck on the cheek for each woman. It takes him ten minutes to lead us less than fifty feet to a soundproof office above the kitchen, where I can feel the reverberations from the drums downstairs. The windowless space is almost as large as Shanahan’s office and has a comfortable, albeit kitschy feeling. It houses an antique roll-top desk, two brown leather armchairs, a credenza, and a conference table covered by a scale model of a low-income housing project to be built near the Sixteenth Street BART station. His cluttered desk is covered with photos of his numerous grandchildren. The paneled walls are filled with citations, awards, testimonials, and photos of Lopez with politicians, entertainers, sports figures, and other celebrities. The most prominent is a signed picture of a young Lopez standing next to Orlando Cepeda at Candlestick Park. Next to it is a more recent photo of a graying Lopez with a retired Cepeda in front of Lopez’s burrito stand behind the scoreboard at AT&T Park.

He eyes us warily. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Pete is chomping to leap into interrogation mode, but I want to ease Lopez into this discussion more slowly. I point at his family photos. “How old are your grandchildren?”

His chest puffs out. “They range from six months to seventeen years.”

I was hoping this would get him talking, but he’s a man of relatively few words. I find another prop on the table. “Development plans?”

“It’s called Riordan Square. We’re going to provide housing for over five hundred low-income families.”

“How did you get involved in the development business?”

His eyes light up. “Our community has supported my business for a long time, and I wanted to give something back. Conventional developers can’t make money on low- and moderate-income projects, so I created a template for establishing partnerships between private builders and nonprofit agencies. The developers handle the construction at a reduced cost, and the nonprofits provide subsidies to make the units affordable. The archdiocese is the lead investor on Riordan Square. Construction will begin in the spring.”

He talks a great game. This calls for a platitude. “That’s tremendous. Do you get any compensation for your efforts?”

“A lot of satisfaction.” He hesitates. “And a modest fee.”

I’m tempted to ask him how modest, but that would be pushing it. “Is there anything that could derail the process?”

“I certainly hope not. I’ve always been an optimist.”

And I’ve always been a cynic. “There has been speculation that the archdiocese may face serious financial problems if it suffers an adverse result in its pending litigation.”

He assures me that the archdiocese has more than adequate resources to fulfill its financial obligations. He sounds like a new father as he expounds about his plans, although the level of self-aggrandizement is a bit much for my taste. Finally, he decides it’s time to see why we’re really here. “Did you want to talk about the real estate business?”

I come clean. “Tony’s sister is my law partner. We’re representing Father Aguirre. We’re looking for information about Maria Concepcion.”

The affable smile is still plastered on his face, but his eyes show the first hint of concern. “I am certain Father Aguirre is not a murderer.”

It’s reassuring to hear him say it, but there is tension in his voice. “We were hoping you would help us demonstrate the correctness of your view to the District Attorney. We understand that you knew Ms. Concepcion.”

“I did. She patronized this establishment, and I considered her a friend.”

He strikes me as the sort of guy who considers everybody on his dance floor a friend.

He adds, “I am very saddened by her sudden and untimely loss.”

Of course. “Do you know anything about her death?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Would you mind telling us where you were a week ago Monday night?”

“Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

His inflection remains upbeat. “I was in the restaurant from six o’clock Monday evening until twelve-thirty Tuesday morning.” There’s an almost-imperceptible hint of defensiveness in his tone when he adds, “You don’t have to take my word for it. Feel free to ask any of our employees.”

We will. And if they value their jobs, they’ll give us the answer he wants us to hear. “We understand you knew Ms. Concepcion pretty well.”

“In my line of work, you get to know a lot of people.”

Too glib. “We’re told you were involved with her.”

“Involved?”

“Yes.” He might be able to buffalo his employees, but he won’t be able to do it to me.

“Where I come from, personal relationships are nobody else’s business.”

“I grew up in this neighborhood, and I agree with you, but things get complicated after somebody has been murdered.”

“If you want to ask any additional questions, you’ll have to talk to my lawyers.”

That experience is likely to be considerably less than satisfying. “We aren’t after you, Eduardo.” This isn’t entirely true. If I could prove that he was at her apartment on the night she died, I would scream until somebody down at the Hall of Justice questioned him. “We can talk about this politely and we’ll get out of your hair, or I can bring over a subpoena and we can do this in a more unpleasant way.”

His eyes narrow. “My lawyers will tie you up for years.”

This is undoubtedly true. “You’ll look like you’re trying to hide something.”

No reply.

Egomaniacs generally like to have their psyches massaged, so I try to butter him up. “You know everybody in the neighborhood. We were hoping you might be willing to help us—and Ramon.”

He decides to show a degree of cooperation. “This situation is difficult. My wife and I are getting divorced. Obviously, my relationship with Ms. Concepcion has been a complicating factor.”

I try to empathize. “I understand why you don’t want to do your laundry in public, and I can assure you we’ll do everything we can to minimize your part in this matter.” It’s more than a little white lie, but still well south of a big whopper. I would broadcast everything I know about his divorce on KGO if it would help Ramon’s case.

He isn’t buying it. “I am most impressed by your sensitivity.”

I offer a realistic assessment. “The police will find out about your relationship with Ms. Concepcion. If you don’t tell them about it, your wife will.”

He decides to play it straight. “They’ve already asked me about it.”

It’s the opening I wanted. It also indicates that Roosevelt knows more than he’s told me. “What did you tell them?”

“That’s none of your business.”

It is now. “The police are required to provide copies of their reports to us. We’re going to find out what you told them. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“I don’t want to hear my name on the news.”

“The press won’t hear anything from me.”

He pushes out a heavy sigh. “Ms. Concepcion and I were involved for a short time.”

Was that so hard? “Was your wife aware of it?”

“Yes. I told her about it.”

“Before or after she hired the private investigator?”

He stares daggers at me. “After. It made reconciliation less likely.”

I’ll bet. This isn’t an opportune time to ask him to admit to serial adultery. “When did you start seeing Ms. Concepcion?”

“In March. We stopped seeing each other in early September.”

“What caused the break-up?”

“Things didn’t work out.”

I’m hoping for a little more. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

His tone turns more emphatic. “Things didn’t work out.”

Dammit. “Did you break up with her?”

“It was a mutual decision.”

That’s never the case. “And did she give you any indication that she was unhappy?”

“Things deteriorated over time. She was fifteen years younger than I am and wanted to start a family. We were at different points in our lives.”

Not to mention the fact that you were still married.

He shrugs. “Obviously, the end result was not the one either of us had hoped for.”

His tone suggests that he isn’t planning to reveal any additional information. Pete reads the cue and interjects a fresh voice. “How was Ms. Concepcion’s mood the last time you talked?”

“Same as always.”

It’s a perfectly good answer that says nothing. Pete keeps pushing. “Was she unhappy about the termination of your relationship?”

“Yes. She was getting counseling from Father Aguirre and seeing a therapist.”

“Did you notice any unusual behavior?”

“None.”

“Sadness or even depression?”

“No. Would you mind getting to the point?”

I tell him that the cops found Prozac in her medicine chest.

“I run a restaurant. I’m not a therapist.”

His tone is more callous than I might have expected. “There is some evidence that she may have committed suicide. Do you think it’s possible?”

“It would trouble me to think she took her own life.”

“But you wouldn’t rule it out?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

It isn’t as good as getting a diagnosis from her shrink, but it may help. “Mr. Lopez, when was the last time you saw her?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” He says she came into the restaurant for dinner by herself, and they had a polite, albeit strained conversation. She appeared nervous about the O’Connell case and expressed problems with a key witness. He says they didn’t speak again.

I tell him that there was a call from Concepcion’s apartment to this restaurant at approximately nine-fifty on the night she died.

“We receive hundreds of calls a day, I have no idea who she talked to or what she was calling about. I presume she ordered a take-out dinner.”

“Is there any way you can tell if she did?”

“Only if she paid with a credit card.”

I ask him to check it out, and he agrees to do so. I tell him the police found a partially eaten burrito in a wrapper from his restaurant in her apartment.

“Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?”

“I’m trying to find out whether you or anybody else from your restaurant delivered a burrito to her apartment last Monday night.”

The last remnants of cooperation disappear. “I did not talk to her last Monday night, and we don’t deliver.”

* * *

My brother is less than convinced of the veracity of our host’s story. “He was lying, Mick.”

“About what, Pete?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How could you tell?”

“His lips were moving.”

Pete’s instincts are better developed than his communication skills. I press him, but he sets his jaw and refuses to elaborate.

It’s after midnight and the raucous crowd is pouring out onto Mission Street. Traffic is still heavy as we watch a homeless man push his shopping cart down the street in search of a place to sleep. Just another night on the strip in my old neighborhood.

We shuffle down Mission and turn left at Twenty-fourth, where my car is parked at the corner. I look at my beat-up Corolla and see that the driver-side window has been smashed. Shards of glass cover the driver’s seat. “Dammit.”

Pete takes it in stride. “It happens. You’ve been living out in the suburbs too long.”

“There was nothing in the car worth stealing.”

“You couldn’t tell that from the outside.”

I glance at a pristine Mercedes parked behind my Corolla. “If I were a garden-variety car thief, I would have taken my chances with the Mercedes.”

“That car has an alarm. Yours doesn’t.”

I’m not convinced. “There are a bunch of people who aren’t excited by the fact that we’re involved in this case. Maybe somebody is trying to send me a message.”

“It may be nothing, Mick. If you’re really worried, my guy will be on your tail starting at six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks.” I wish he was there already.

Pete reads the troubled look in my eyes. “You aren’t going to back down, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.” He takes inventory of my car. “I think it’s still drivable, but it may be a little cold going over the bridge.”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

“Are you in any hurry to get home?”

The thought of crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in a cold drizzle with a broken window isn’t especially appealing. “Not really.” I haven’t slept in two days, but I’m game.

“Let’s go see if anybody is hanging out behind Concepcion’s apartment.”

What the hell. “I’m in.”

CHAPTER 20

“LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME?”

“I have instructed our Police Chief to give high priority to prostitution and other ‘victimless’ crimes in the Mission District, where law abiding citizens should not have to suffer the indignity of being accosted by prostitutes and drug dealers.”

— The Mayor of San Francisco.

My brother’s cat-like eyes are darting as we’re standing in the alley behind Concepcion’s apartment building at twelve-twenty a.m. The rain has given way to a dank fog, and I can see my breath. The tightly-packed low-rises are covered with graffiti. The only source of illumination is a single light mounted on a power pole. Cars are parked haphazardly. Threatening signs warn interlopers not to block the garages. An emaciated cat is pawing for food in an overflowing dumpster.

We’re only a block and a half from Lopez’s sleek restaurant, but it’s a different world. The alley rivals Mission Street as the neighborhood’s hub of night time commerce, and traffic is continuous. The selection of goods is limited and the quality is spotty, but all of the products are illegal. We’ve been here for fifteen minutes. We’ve been offered coke, crack, heroin, meth, and women. I can hear a wailing siren from Mission Street, but there is no discernible police presence. An imposing entrepreneur is peddling pharmaceutical products from the back of his van. He was more interested in selling heroin than providing information, and he assured us he hadn’t been in the vicinity last Monday night.

We’re leaning against a decaying garage door and trying to engage the sliver of humanity that inhabits this flea market for vice. In other words, we’re looking for trouble. We’ve chatted up drug dealers, hookers, gang members, and petty thieves, with nothing to show for it so far. One dealer pulled a knife and tried to extort a little extra cash, but quickly reconsidered when Pete flashed a twenty-two caliber pistol. My anxiety is somewhat tempered by the fact that there is an armed ex-cop standing next to me. He’s licensed to carry the gun, but legal niceties lose much of their meaning in a dark alley in the Mission.

I ask Pete, “What are the odds we’ll get some useful information?”

“Better than fifty-fifty.”

“And the chances we’ll get ourselves killed?”

He pats the handgun under his jacket. “Worse than fifty-fifty.”

Twelve-thirty turns into one o’clock as we continue talking to the addicts and low riders. The vignettes in our immediate proximity are typical for this hour: a man selling drugs to a young woman; a hooker arguing with a john; a group of boisterous teens wearing matching gang jackets. In the distance, we can hear gunfire and the sound of cars doing donuts in a parking lot behind a long-closed movie theater. Police have been cracking down on these “sideshows” for years, with limited success.

By one-forty-five, the Mission is settling in for the night. Traffic has slowed to a trickle, and the hookers and johns have retired. The next shift are the homeless, who materialize from the crevices and cautiously push their shopping carts into doorways in their nightly attempt to find sheltered places to sleep. The mist is getting thicker and my hands are getting colder. Pete’s leather jacket and mustache are covered with moisture. His eyes keep moving as the alley becomes ominously still. A dirt-encrusted man toasts us with a kind word and a bottle of gin. He lavishes us with slurred thanks after we oblige his request for change, but he provides no helpful information.

At two o’clock, Pete motions down the alley at a tall Latina walking in the shadows with a halting gait. I can’t tell if she’s injured, intoxicated, or trying to navigate high heels. “What’s she doing here?”

“Working,” Pete says.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut up, Mick.”

I always feel like Barney Fife when I’m on a stakeout with Pete.

Despite the cool temperature and the fog, the woman is clad only in a miniskirt and a loose-fitting white cotton blouse. Her heavy make-up is smeared, and her long hair is disheveled as she limps toward us. Her exact age is difficult to discern in the dim light, but she can’t be much older than twenty.

We’ve made no attempt to remain inconspicuous. Pete invokes a non-threatening tone when he approaches her cautiously. “Do you need some help, Miss?”

The worldly hooker reaches into her blouse, and the dim light reflects off the blade of a knife. “Is your name Gary?”

I’m guessing Gary isn’t her boyfriend. “I’m afraid not,” Pete says. He’s just far enough away from her so that she can’t reach him. I can feel my heart pounding as Pete holds up his palms. “My name is Pete. This is Mike.” I step forward to show her that I’m unarmed. Pete’s tone is reassuring. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Are you vice?”

“Nope.”

“Undercover?”

“Nope.”

“Mayor’s Task Force?”

“Nope.”

I admire her directness.

Her eyes turn hopeful. “Looking for a good time?”

“We’re here on business.”

“So am I.”

Pete shakes his head. “I’m a private investigator.” He gestures toward Concepcion’s building. “A woman died in there last Monday night. Were you here?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” There is recognition in her eyes when he tells her that we’re working for Ramon. “I’ve met him. I get dinner at his church a couple of nights a week.”

“Then help us.”

Reality intrudes. “My pimp is going to beat the crap out of me because I can’t find a guy named Gary. Now you want me to help you solve a murder?”

“Tell us who else works on this street. Maybe somebody can help us.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“The knowledge that you helped keep Father Aguirre out of jail.”

She’s unmoved. “You’re going to have to do better.”

“What was Gary supposed to pay you?”

“Fifty. . . a hundred bucks.”

“We’ll give it to you.”

I’m not sure about the precise legalities of this transaction, but her dull eyes light up. “A hundred and fifty.”

“A hundred–that’s going to be my best offer.”

“All right, but I want you to find me a new apartment.”

Give her credit for trying, but there are limits on what we can offer. “I’m a PI, not a social worker,” Pete tells her.

This is a spot where I might be able to add something useful. “I’m a lawyer. I know some people who might be able to help you.”

“Lawyers are assholes.”

At least we’re starting on a positive note. “Not all of them. I represent people who get arrested for crimes that aren’t their fault.”

“Like what?”

“People who get used by their pimps. I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee and talk about it.”

“Forget it.” She fingers her knife. “Coffee doesn’t pay the bills.”

“Money does.” I pull out my wallet and hand her five twenties. “Here’s the hundred that Gary owed you. Now you’re in good with your pimp. Let’s start with your name.”

She tucks the money inside her blouse . “Anna.”

“That’s a pretty name. Is it real?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your last name?”

“That’s going to cost you another fifty.”

“That’s a little steep.” I hand her a twenty.

“Moreno,” she says.

Progress. Our window of opportunity may be very short. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

She’s lying. “How long have you been doing this?”

“A couple of years.” She says she grew up just south of here on Garfield Square. Her father left home when she was a baby, and her mother died when she was thirteen. She did foster care for a few years and then went into business for herself. Now she lives in a women’s shelter.

“Hypothetically, would you be interested in meeting some people who might be able to help you go back to school?”

“What’s it going to cost me?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s no free lunch.”

“There is with me.”

“You’re an unusual lawyer.”

So I’ve been told. There are limits to what one can accomplish in an alley in the middle of the night, but she seems genuinely interested. I give her my business card and ask her to call me at the office. She gives me a phone number that I hope is real. I try to ease her into a discussion of the matters at hand. “How often do you work here?”

“Six nights a week.”

Dear God.

“I can make five hundred a night,” she says, “but most of it goes to my pimp. Every once in a while, the vice cops clear everybody out for a few weeks.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“Of course.” Her tone suggests this is an accepted cost of doing business. “I’ve done a little jail time. It sucked.”

I’ll bet. “Is there anybody who might have seen something last week?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s it going to cost us?”

“Another hundred.”

This is getting pricy. “Tell me who it is.” I flash another five twenties, which she tries to grab, but I snatch them away.

Her voice goes down a half-octave. “I thought we had a deal.”

“We did.”

“Then give me my money.”

“Not until you give me a name and tell us where to find him.”

She hesitates for an interminable moment, then she leads us down the alley and to a building a half-block from where we started. She points to a closed garage door. “His name is Preston Fuentes.”

“Is he your pimp?”

“Do you think I’d give you the name of my pimp?”

Probably not. “Who is he?”

“My cousin.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a mechanic.”

Seems innocuous enough. I’m about to pursue it when the quiet calm is broken by the sound of barking.

“That’s Fluffy,” she says. “She’s Preston’s Doberman.”

Everybody should have a pet.

“Preston is restoring a Corvette in this garage. He works on it at night. Fluffy keeps on eye on things when he isn’t around.”

Two thoughts flash through my mind. First, I wonder where a mechanic got the money to purchase a Corvette. Second, I want to stay on Fluffy’s good side.

CHAPTER 21

“I FIGURED YOU MIGHT BE UP”

“It takes some babies longer to calibrate their sleeping patterns, but they should make it through the night by their first birthday.”

— Parenting for Dummies.

My brother’s voice is raspier than usual. “You sound terrible, Mick.”

It may have something to do with the fact that I spent the last three hours interviewing prostitutes and drug dealers next to a dumpster in an alley off Capp Street. My left arm is numb from the freezing rain whipping through the broken window in my car as I’m driving past the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge at three-ten a.m. “I’m fine, Pete.”

He’s still looking for witnesses behind Concepcion’s apartment. I offered to stick around, but there are times when he prefers to work alone. This doesn’t mean he’s planning to do something sordid, but it doesn’t rule out the possibility.

I glance to my right, where the clouds are obstructing my view of the Alcatraz beacon and the Berkeley Hills. “Did you find anything?”

“I can score you some of the finest crack this side of the Mississippi.”

It’s too late for jokes. “What about Preston Fuentes?”

“He works at a body shop on Valencia when the sun is up. He runs a different kind of body shop after the sun goes down.”

“Excuse me?”

“Seems he supplements his income by selling drugs and pimping out of his garage.”

“Is Anna Moreno one of his girls?”

“No, she’s really his cousin. And the stuff about restoring cars in his spare time is true. Evidently, he’s good at it.”

Maybe he can fix the window on my Corolla. I ask him how he managed to uncover the treasure trove of information at this hour.

“The Mission is always open for business. I talked to a couple of his neighbors. Then I disconnected his alarm and broke into his garage. I didn’t stay long.”

I’m not hearing this. “You realize that breaking and entering is still a crime.”

“Yes, I do. I didn’t find anything illegal, but I met Fluffy. You know I’ve always had a way with animals.”

Pete once ran over our dog with his bike and he felt terrible about it for years. He and the bike recovered, but the dog was never the same. “What’s Fluffy doing now?”

“I persuaded her to take a nap.”

Most Dobermans aren’t terribly receptive to friendly suggestions. “Did your persuasive skills include the use of a tranquilizer gun?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do me a favor. Don’t do anything illegal for the rest of the day.”

“Deal. You want to know what else I found out about Fuentes?”

“You realize we won’t be able to use anything you tell me in court.”

“I’m not a cop anymore, Mick. I’ll let you lawyers worry about it.”

I’ll take what I can get. “Okay, give.”

“Fuentes lives by himself in the building behind the garage. He spends his nights restoring a beautiful sixty-six ’Vette and collecting dough from his girls. He likes to play loud music out in the garage. This doesn’t make him especially popular with his neighbors, but there isn’t much they can do. Nobody wants to get on Fluffy’s bad side.”

Quite understandable. “They could get the landlord to evict him.”

“He owns the building.”

Sounds like he’s successful at all of his various professions.

Pete asks, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Absolutely.”

“Now?”

The fading digital clock on my dash says it’s three-fourteen a.m. “He’ll be more cooperative in the morning. Besides, you don’t want to wake up Fluffy.”

“She won’t be up anytime soon.”

* * *

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Rosie asks.

“I saw the lights. I figured you might be up.”

“You figured right.”

She’s sitting on her sofa at three-forty on Thursday morning. The furniture is pushed against the walls, and the room is dominated by a hand-me-down playpen. The rain has stopped and the crickets are chirping. Grace is asleep in her room, which she graciously shares with her grandmother when Sylvia stays on this side of the Bay. Tommy’s eyes are wide open as he clings tightly to his mother’s shoulders.

I hold up my hands. “Hand him over.”

Rosie kisses his forehead and sends him down to my end of the couch. Tommy cries when he’s hungry or wet, but that’s reasonably infrequent. He’s more of a worrier than a screamer. He gets it from me. If you walk by his crib in the middle of the night, you’re likely to find him staring up at the ceiling with a troubled expression on his face.

“Come on, partner. Daddy had a busy day. I’ll tell you all about it.” I go to my confessional voice and give him a full report. He dozes off as I’m describing my meeting with Shanahan. He’s sleeping soundly by the time I get to my visit with Lopez. “I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow,” I whisper to our sleeping son.

Rosie is still wide awake. “Are you going to get your car fixed tomorrow?”

“I hope so.”

“Do you think your smashed window was something other than a random act?”

“I don’t know.” There was no sign of the phantom Impala. “I stopped at Mission Station and filed a police report, but there isn’t a chance they’ll find the perp.”

She sighs. “We had a little excitement over here, too.”

Uh-oh.

“My kitchen window was broken when I got home.”

Hell. “Do you think it was something other than a random act?”

“Hard to tell. Nothing was stolen, and nobody came inside the house. The cops said they’ve been having some problems with vandalism by some high school kids.”

“Are you going to be all right with this?”

“It may be completely unrelated to Ramon’s case.”

“Or it may not.”

“There’s something else.” Her neighbors reported seeing a man sitting in a black Chrysler parked across the street. “He was there until about eleven o’clock. He was gone by the time I got home.”

“Did they call the cops?”

“No. He wasn’t doing anything illegal.”

“Maybe he smashed your window.”

“Maybe, but Jack and Melanie didn’t hear anything.”

“Did they get a license number?”

“There was no plate.” She says the police did a thorough search of the neighborhood, but the car was long gone. She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if any of this has anything to do with Ramon’s case, but we need to be careful.”

“We don’t have to look for trouble. I don’t like the idea of somebody watching the house.”

“I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to be intimidated. The cops promised to drive by every half hour tonight. My mother is going to stay here with Grace and Tommy tomorrow, and I’m going to talk to the principal at school. It seems pretty unlikely that the broken windows in your car and my kitchen could somehow be related, but I’m not inclined to take any chances.”

We sit in silence for a long moment. It’s something of a relief to turn back to a the more mundane matter of representing an accused murderer.

She asks, “Did Lopez break up with Concepcion?”

“He wouldn’t say either way, and he claimed he didn’t talk to her on the night she died.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know. A lot of people call the restaurant. I’d like to know how the burrito got to her apartment that night.”

She reacts with exasperation when I tell her about my reconnaissance mission with Pete. “I thought we agreed you were going to leave the cops-and-robbers stuff to the professionals.”

“Pete wanted company.”

“I need you to stay alive until Tommy finishes college. If Pete needs some muscle, Terrence should help him.” I get another suitably incredulous look when I tell her about our conversation with Anna Moreno. “You’re planning to use the testimony of a hooker?”

“It’s all that we have so far.”

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly at my description of Fuentes and his pet Doberman. “So, if somebody attacks Fuentes, he gives the command, ‘Kill Fluffy Kill!’”

“Something like that.” I leave out any mention of Pete’s decision to raid Fuentes’s garage and sedate his dog.

“Do you plan to call him as a witness?”

“Fuentes or Fluffy?”

She isn’t amused. “Fuentes.”

“Only if he provides any useful information.”

“Our only witnesses are a hooker and a pimp?”

“More or less.”

“I trust Pete is going to keep looking.”

“Yes, he is.”

We listen to Tommy’s rhythmic breathing. She says, “There is a little good news. My mother spoke to Concepcion’s mother. She’s willing to talk to us.”

Sylvia does it again. “Your mother is a gem.”

“So is Maria’s.”

She looks at Tommy. “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Can you keep an eye on him for a few minutes if he wakes up? My mother will be up soon to relieve you.”

“Of course.” Sylvia is watching CNN by four-thirty every morning.

I put a hand on Rosie’s cheek. “I’ll try to persuade her to sleep in until five.”

“She won’t.”

“I know.” I lower my voice. “Do you want me to stay?”

“It’s okay, Mike.” She glances at the baseball bat strategically positioned by the front door. “The Fernandez women can take care of themselves.”

Yes, they can.

Rosie gives me a thoughtful look through tired eyes. “Did I ever tell you that except for all of your well-documented flaws, you’re fundamentally a good man, Michael Daley?”

“You’ve mentioned it from time to time.”

She winks. “You shouldn’t put too much credibility in anything I say in my sleep-deprived stupor. I’ll make it up to you after Tommy starts sleeping through the night.”

“Will that include sexual favors?”

She reaches over and kisses Tommy’s forehead, then she takes my hand and squeezes it. “Possibly.”

* * *

Sylvia wakes up for the third and final time at five-fifteen and refuses to go back to sleep, so I make the three-block journey to the fifties-era apartment building just behind the Larkspur fire station where I’ve lived since Rosie and I got divorced. My place would be serviceable for a starving college student or a young couple, but it’s tight for a grown-up. My sofa is from IKEA and my bookcases are made of bricks and boards. The Sony TV was a wedding present. The appliances date back to the Eisenhower administration.

I flip on the lights and look around the cramped surroundings. I’m not a great housekeeper, and my home will never be featured in a Martha Stewart magazine. I’m relieved to find no broken windows or other damage. My head is throbbing and my throat is scratchy. I pull the last Diet Dr Pepper from the venerable frig and punch the flashing button on my answering machine, where the cheerful computer-generated voice informs me that I have one message. There is a pronounced smoker’s hack before I recognize the unmistakable voice of Jerry Edwards, the Chronicle’s ace investigative reporter and a regular contributor to the morning news on Channel 2. He’s an unbearably antagonistic man, but he’s also a superb muckraker when he’s sober. “Mr. Daley, Jerry Edwards of the Chronicle. Sorry to bother you at home.”

Right.

“We’ve discovered some very disturbing information about your client,” he says. “I need to speak with you about it right away.”

As if I don’t have enough on my plate. I glance out the window and my heart starts to beat faster when I see the tail lights of a Chevy Impala speeding around the corner and into the night.

CHAPTER 22

“FATHER AGUIRRE PROVIDED MORE THAN COUNSELING”

“Father Aguirre has an outstanding record of community service.”

— John Shanahan. San Francisco Chronicle. Thursday, December 11.

I’m jolted awake from a brief and uneasy sleep by my ringing cell phone. There is tension in Rosie’s voice when she says, “Put on Mornings on Two.”

I fumble the remote and click to Channel 2, where the graphic in the lower right corner indicates it’s seven-twenty a.m. and the temperature is forty-four degrees. I recognize the gravelly voice from the answering machine and look into the bloodshot eyes and pit bull face of Jerry Edwards. It takes just an instant to figure out why he wanted to talk to me. “In a late-breaking development,” he croaks, “our sources have informed us that Father Ramon Aguirre was involved in a sexual relationship with Maria Concepcion.”

Rosie is unimpressed. “It was twenty years ago.”

Edwards is still going. “It has been reported that Father Aguirre had a romantic relationship with the victim twenty years ago. Sources tell us that he was also providing counseling to Ms. Concepcion after she recently terminated a relationship with noted restaurateur Eduardo Lopez, who declined to comment.” Edwards leers into the camera. “It also seems Father Aguirre provided more than counseling to Ms. Concepcion. In fact, they were romantically involved immediately prior to her death.”

“Bullshit,” Rosie snaps.

I turn up the volume. “Father Aguirre hasn’t returned our calls. Neither have his attorneys at the firm of Fernandez and Daley. We believe this represents a tacit admission of the veracity of our reports.”

“The hell it does,” I say. “He left a message on my machine at eleven-thirty last night.”

“He’s trying to bait us,” Rosie says.

He’s succeeding.

* * *

My phone rings again. Ramon’s voice is shaky. “Did you see Jerry Edwards?”

“Yes.” I tell him that we’re going to set the record straight at a press conference later this morning.

“I want to be there.”

“That’s a very bad idea.” The chance he’ll say something that could come back to bite us is too great. “As your lawyer, I’m recommending against it.”

“As your client, I’m telling you it’s my reputation at stake.”

“Let us handle the legal strategy.”

“What does that leave for me?”

Prayer. “You have to stay calm and trust us.”

* * *

The parade continues when Pete calls a few minutes later. “Where are you?” I ask.

“Outside the body shop where Fuentes works.”

“Car repair or other activities?”

He isn’t amused. “Car repair, Mick. I tried to talk to Fuentes, but he’s no dummy. He referred me to his lawyer.”

Dammit.

He asks, “Do you want me to rough him up a bit?”

Not a good idea. “No. We’ll pay him a visit at home tonight. He may be more receptive away from his job–especially if we bring along a subpoena.”

“What about Fluffy?”

“We won’t need a subpoena for her.”

I don’t get the chuckle I was hoping for. “What do you want me to do in the meantime?”

“I need you to find Jane Doe.”

* * *

I glance at my rearview mirror. I’m relieved to see a black Explorer two cars behind me. My brother has kept his word, but I’m still uneasy–even with his friend Vince riding shotgun. I called the Larkspur police to report the Impala outside my apartment early this morning, but they weren’t able to locate it. I live a block from the police station. They’ve promised to keep a close eye on my place.

I answer my cell phone as I’m driving down Van Ness toward the office. The voice is scratchy. “Mr. Daley, Jerry Edwards, Mornings on Two.”

Here we go. “Nice to hear from you again, Jerry.”

“Thank you.” Like every good reporter, he’s being engaging to see if I’ll let my guard down, but I know better. He’s taken his share of potshots at Rosie and me over the years and we have long memories. “Did you see today’s paper?”

“Yes, I did. And I saw you on TV this morning.”

“I tried to reach you last night to see if your client might be available for an interview.”

“He isn’t.”

“Give me a break, Mr. Daley. When I couldn’t get you by phone last night, I drove all the way to your partner’s house to see if I could find you, but nobody was home.”

What? “How late did you stay?”

“Until eleven.”

“You just missed her.”

“I couldn’t stay all night. I have deadlines, Mr. Daley.”

I ask him what kind of car he drives.

“What difference does it make?”

“There was a suspicious black Chrysler parked in front of my partner’s house last night.”

“It wasn’t suspicious. It was me.”

My relief is tempered by the fact that it still doesn’t account for the Impala. “I trust you’re aware that stalking is illegal.”

“In my line of work, we call it investigative reporting.”

Right. “Do you always drive a car with no license plates?”

“I took it out of the Chronicle motor pool . I didn’t check it carefully.”

“Do you know anybody who drives a green Impala?”

“No. Is somebody following you?”

“I don’t know.”

“It wasn’t me. Now that I’ve confessed that I was parked in front of your ex-wife’s house, I think you should reconsider your decision not to let me interview your client.”

“Forget it.” I tell him that we’re going to hold a press conference later this morning. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I will. How about a consolation prize? If your client won’t appear, how about you?”

This may give me a chance to spin the story our way. “Deal.”

“Mr. Daley, my sources have reported that Father Aguirre was romantically involved with Ms. Concepcion immediately prior to her death. Would you be kind enough to confirm it for me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you denying it?”

“I will confirm that Father Aguirre and Ms. Concepcion dated for a short time twenty years ago.”

“My sources tell me they were engaged in a romantic relationship more recently.”

“Who are your sources?”

“You know I can’t reveal that information.”

Sure you can. I hold out a carrot. “I’ll give you an exclusive interview with my client if you do.”

He’s tempted. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley.”

It was a bluff. “Sorry to hear that, Jerry.”

He tries again. “Did you wish to comment about Father Aguirre’s recent relationship with Ms. Concepcion?”

“Alleged relationship.”

“Whatever. Did you wish to comment?”

“Yes. The accusation that Father Aguirre was romantically involved with Ms. Concepcion before her death is completely false.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

Yes. “I’m saying that your source is either mistaken or lying, and a good journalist like yourself would have double-checked a story that is so obviously false.”

CHAPTER 23

“GOD NEVER GIVES US MORE THAN WE CAN HANDLE”

“There is nothing more painful than burying a child.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre.

Rosie’s voice is barely a whisper as she addresses Concepcion’s mother. “Thank you so much for seeing us, Ms. Concepcion.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Fernandez.”

“It’s Rosie.”

She clutches her tissue. “I’m Lita.”

It’s only ten-thirty, but it’s been a busy morning. We held an impromptu press conference in front of El Faro to rebut Edwards’s claim that Ramon was sleeping with Lita’s daughter and to ask for help finding witnesses who were on Capp Street last Monday night. Things got heated when Edwards showed up and accused us of lying. We didn’t back down, and the situation quickly degenerated into the legal profession’s version of mud wrestling. It was great theater and will be the lead story on the news tonight. We spent a few minutes with Ramon, then we made a beeline over here. My head is throbbing from sleep deprivation. A triple dose of Extra-Strength Advil will be a part of my daily routine until this case is over.

We’re meeting in Lita’s tidy apartment in a nondescript two-story building on Valencia, not far from Mission Dolores. She’s at least ten years younger than Sylvia, but considerably more frail, and there’s a slight quiver in her voice. She’s wearing a polka dot house dress and a pair of Reeboks. She’s sitting in an embroidered armchair in a living room that makes Sylvia’s look spacious. Her daughter’s high school graduation photo is prominently displayed on the mantle, and a single candle is burning on the kitchen table.

“I know this must be very difficult for you,” Rosie says.

“It is.” There is a sense of grave purpose in her eyes when she tells us she wants to find out what happened to her daughter. “She was everything to me.”

The pained expression on Rosie’s face indicates that she’s thinking about Grace. “How long have you lived here?”

“We moved here shortly after Maria was born.” Her husband was a maintenance worker for MUNI who died twenty years ago. She glances at the same photo of her son that I saw in Maria’s apartment. “It was difficult enough to bury our son. I never imagined that I would have to bury both of our children.”

In the course of defending accused murderers, we sometimes forget that the lives of the families of the victims are changed forever. All of the lines I practiced at the seminary for occasions such as this seem to ring hollow, but I go with an old standby. “I’m so sorry, Lita. This apartment must have a lot of memories for you.”

“It does.” She bravely tries to sound philosophical. “My husband used to say that God never gives us more than we can handle.”

It’s a kind sentiment, but it garnered mixed results when I used it in my priest days.

She adds, “I suspect he may have reconsidered his view if he had lived a few more years.”

No doubt. We sit in silence for a long moment before Rosie says, “Tell us about Maria.”

Lita dabs at her eyes. “She was beautiful, sensitive, and intelligent.” She fills in the details of her daughter’s tenure at the Shanahan firm and her relationship with her ex-husband. “Dennis likes to collect things: antiques, money, guns, and women. I think he viewed Maria as another trophy.” She swallows hard. “He cheated on her from the beginning of their marriage. She filed for divorce only two years later. She’d signed a one-sided prenuptial agreement and learned some hard lessons. That’s when she decided to move back to the neighborhood and help the community.”

She says things became more strained when Maria and her ex ended up on opposite sides of several legal battles. “Their personal animosity added to the tension. Her faith helped her through the most difficult times. St. Peter’s was her anchor, and she attended mass regularly. She was terribly uncomfortable about suing the Church, but she believed that somebody had to represent the people who had been abused by the priests.”

Rosie eases her into another sensitive topic. “We understand your daughter was seeing a man named Eduardo Lopez.”

“She was.” The mention of his name brings a noticeable cringe and a terse response. “It didn’t work out.”

Rosie has to push forward. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Lita chooses her words carefully. “I’ve known Eduardo since he was an altar boy at St. Peter’s. I was troubled that Maria was seeing a married man–especially one so much older than she was. It was even more difficult because I’ve known Eduardo’s wife for years.”

This created a rather delicate situation. “How did she feel about it?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since Maria started seeing her husband. In addition to everything else, I lost a friend.”

“Did you talk to your daughter about her relationship with Mr. Lopez?”

“A little. I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea, but young people don’t always listen to reason. Maria was certain he was going to leave Vicky to marry her. She wanted things to work out so badly she didn’t see the warning signs.”

“She ignored your advice?”

Lita sighs. “You want the best for your children, but she was capable of making decisions for herself. She was desperate to have a child, and she thought Eduardo wanted to start a family with her. She was wrong.” The sadness in her tone turns to barely-containable anger. “People like Eduardo think they can make up for their behavior by donating money to the Church and building apartments for the poor. I think it’s admirable that he’s given back to the community, but I still believe Jesus looks at your character after you die and adds up the debits and the credits. If you’re evil, you can’t make up for it by donating money to charity.”

That’s the way they taught it at the seminary.

Rosie asks if Maria broke up with him.

“Yes. Just as soon as she was convinced that he wasn’t going to leave his wife. She was devastated. It became even more difficult when she found out Eduardo had been seeing another woman while he was going out with Maria.”

This is news. Any lingering doubts about Lopez’s character have now been erased. I ask, “Do you know the other woman’s name?”

“Mercedes Trujillo. She’s a hostess at the restaurant.”

It’s an example of the classic adage–if they cheat with you, they’ll cheat on you.

Lita holds up a palm. “Evidently, Maria made quite a scene at the restaurant after she found out.”

“Is Ms. Trujillo still seeing Mr. Lopez?”

“No.”

“Is she still working at the restaurant?”

“As far as I know.”

You have to pay the bills.

Rosie touches Lita’s hand. “When was the last time you talked to Maria?”

“I left her apartment at six o’clock last Monday night. I spoke to her by phone around seven-thirty.” She says her daughter was in good spirits. “She was going to have a session with Father Aguirre. She was very fond of him. The counseling seemed to be helping.”

It seems like an inappropriate time to ask if they were sleeping together.

“How well do you know him?” Rosie asks.

“He’s been our priest for a long time.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Absolutely.”

“We understand that he and Maria once dated for a while.”

“They did. It was a long time ago, and I was hoping they would stay together, but it didn’t work out. She wanted to go to law school and start a career.”

“Do you think she ever regretted her decision?”

“From time to time.”

“Do you think Father Aguirre has regrets?”

“We’ve never talked about it.”

Rosie gently explains that there have been suggestions that Ramon and Maria still had feelings for each other.

Lita shakes her head. “I read about it in this morning’s paper. Father Aguirre is a principled man. If I thought he had been engaging in immoral behavior, I wouldn’t have asked him to officiate at Maria’s funeral. I don’t believe he and Maria were romantically involved, and I think it’s disrespectful to her memory and his reputation to suggest it.”

This helps. Rosie asks her if she would be willing to testify to that effect.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

Rosie measures her words carefully as she turns to a final sensitive issue. “We understand that your daughter was taking anti-depressants.”

“They seemed to be helping.”

“There is some evidence that Maria may have taken her own life.”

Lita Concepcion gives Rosie a hard look and doesn’t parse. “Maria was a fighter. She did not commit suicide.”

CHAPTER 24

“EDUARDO IS A CHEATING ASSHOLE”

“It is with great pleasure that I present this community service award to Eduardo Lopez for his efforts on behalf of Mission District residents. He sets an excellent example for his neighbors.”

— The Mayor of San Francisco.

Lopez’s soon-to-be-ex-wife is considerably less diplomatic than Concepcion’s mother when the subject turns to her husband’s shortcomings. “Eduardo is a cheating asshole,” she says.

I’m glad she doesn’t feel compelled to sugarcoat her feelings.

We’re sitting at a table near the window of an upscale cafe at Sixteenth and Valencia in the gentrified corner of the Mission. The early lunch crowd of Millenials are hunched over their laptops and smartphones. The sweet aroma of crepes and lattes meanders through the inviting room that looks as if it was transported directly from a village in Brittany. If you walk two blocks down to the BART station, you’ll find junkies shooting up and hookers soliciting johns in broad daylight. The Mission has something for everybody.

Victoria Clemente Lopez isn’t a waif-thin beauty, but the successful designer of chic clothing carries herself with style and a feisty self-confidence that has its own charged appeal. Eduardo may be debonair, but Vicky has charisma. She runs a boutique at Twenty-fourth and Noe, about a mile from here. Her broad shoulders and toned muscles reflect some serious gym time, and you’d have to look closely at the corners of her Botoxed eyes to notice the remnants of the crow’s feet. I’d guess she’s in her mid-fifties from the dyed black hair and the hints of a second chin that’s been surgically modified, but it’s hard to tell. She appears comfortable in tight leather pants and a modest cotton blouse that is fighting a reasonably successful battle to control her ample bosom.

Rosie tries for an offhand tone when she asks how long she’s been married.

“Twenty-seven years. I was working as a hostess at the restaurant when we met.”

So is Mercedes Trujillo.

Vicky gives us a quick rundown on their four children and nine grandchildren. “Our youngest daughter is expecting twins in March. Eduardo and I need to work out some arrangements to see our grandchildren.”

Rosie lowers her voice. “Forgive me for asking some personal questions–,”

“You’re just doing your job. After everything Eduardo has put me through, I don’t have any secrets.”

“How long were you married before your husband started . . . straying?”

Vicky responds with a derisive laugh. “I’d guess about two weeks. Eduardo has always tried to portray himself as a family man who doted on his children, but it was all a lie. I knew that running a restaurant required late hours, but I ignored the signs for years.” Her inflection turns decidedly bitter. “Maybe I was naive or stupid, but I feel like I did this to myself.”

Rosie shakes her head. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.” She casts a scornful look in my direction. “A lot of men are pigs.”

It distresses me to be lumped in with the Neanderthals, but I take one for the team and keep my mouth shut.

Vicky appreciates the sentiment. “I have accepted the fact that it would be best for our children and grandchildren if Eduardo and I remain on reasonably civil terms. I have a business to run, and I’d like to get on with my life.” She gives us a wicked smile. “I wouldn’t mind taking him to the cleaners for every penny I can get.”

Go for it.

She says their divorce settlement is almost final. “My barracuda is in negotiations with his shark. With a little luck, we should have everything divided up by the end of the year. He’ll get the restaurant and I’ll keep my business. I’ll get the house and we’ll each get a car. Everything else will be split fifty-fifty.”

Rosie treads into choppier water. “How did you discover that your husband was seeing Ms. Concepcion?”

“A couple of my friends told me about it. I was skeptical, but Eduardo didn’t come home for four nights running. That’s when I hired a private investigator.” She says it took Nick the Dick only one day to catch her husband in bed with Concepcion at a Union Square Hotel. “That’s when I hired a lawyer.”

Rosie turns to another subject. “We understand some questions have been raised about your husband’s business dealings.”

“I’d say he’s as honest in business as he is in his personal relationships. He has friends at City Hall who help him get approvals for his projects.”

“Has he ever done anything illegal?”

“He’s never been caught.”

Hardly a ringing endorsement. Rosie asks, “How does he react when he’s angry?”

“Are you asking if he ever hit me?”

“Yes.”

Vicky pauses to consider the ramifications of her answer. She can do irreparable damage to his reputation by accusing him of anything from wife-beating to child molestation, whether or not the allegations are true. She opts for a frank tone and provides what I surmise is an honest response. “My husband is a manipulator and a cheat, but he also has shown many moments of great kindness and generosity. He never laid a hand on me or the children.”

This is good for her health, but it doesn’t enhance his status as a suspect.

Rosie lays it on the line. “Do you think there is any possibility he may have been involved with Ms. Concepcion’s death?”

There is no hesitation this time. “No, but he was upset that they split up. To Eduardo, a good lay is still a good lay.”

How delicate. We can add another notch to his belt, but we still have no evidence that he was violent or that he was anywhere near Concepcion’s apartment on the night she died.

“I have to ask you where you were last Monday night,” Rosie says.

“At my store.”

“Until what time?”

“Around twelve-thirty. I was working on some designs for next year’s line.”

It’s the same time her husband left work. I’m not big on conspiracy theories, but it can’t hurt to probe. Rosie asks, “Was anybody else there with you?”

In other words, can anybody corroborate your alibi?

“I was by myself. I spoke to my husband briefly around eight. We were trying to set up a time to get together with our lawyers to finalize our settlement. There were no other calls.”

Which means nobody can confirm her whereabouts that night.

She sees where we’re going and takes the offensive. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying. You’re trying to portray me as the angry ex-wife.”

Yes, we are.

“We’re trying to rule you out as a suspect,” Rosie says.

We’re also trying to rule her in as a suspect.

Rosie asks, “Were you anywhere in the vicinity of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

“I drove down Twenty-fifth street on my way home.”

She was within a block of Concepcion’s apartment.

CHAPTER 25

“MY EX-WIFE HAD SERIOUS EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS”

“Ms. Concepcion was a worthy adversary. It would be inappropriate to comment upon the pending case against the San Francisco Archdiocese.”

— Dennis Peterson. San Francisco Daily Legal Journal.

“What did you think?” I ask Rosie. We’re waiting for the downtown train on the platform of the Sixteenth Street BART station.

“Eduardo Lopez is a jerk.”

No argument from me. “I was referring to his wife.”

She looks at the TV monitor which notes that our train will arrive in two minutes. “We gave her a chance to accuse her husband of everything from spousal abuse to murder, but she didn’t. It suggests to me that he may be a pathological liar who cheated on his wife, but murder seems out of character.”

“Maybe she was protecting him.”

“Why?”

“To avoid the humiliation to her family–and herself.”

“I don’t think so. We can’t afford to rule anybody out, but we can’t place him closer than a block away from Concepcion’s apartment.”

I ask her about the burrito.

“She could have picked it up two days earlier. We have no evidence he or anybody else from his restaurant delivered it.”

Still too many holes to make a meaningful accusation. I hear the beep of the BART train horn and the musty air starts to swirl. “What about Vicky? She can’t provide an alibi for the night Concepcion died.”

Rosie shakes her head. “The jealous wife is such a cliché. Besides, we can’t place her in Concepcion’s apartment that night, either.”

* * *

Dennis Peterson greets me with a firm handshake, a gracious smile, and a polite, “How can I help you, Mr. Daley?”

The hallowed and virtually silent halls of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke look as if they were designed by the same guy who picked out the furniture for the staid–and all male–Pacific Union Club in the old Flood mansion on Nob Hill. The dark paneling and subdued artwork suggest you need to pass an initiation ritual before they’ll let you in. Every other law firm in San Francisco has gone to business casual, but not SG and O. The lawyers who speak in hushed tones are dressed in the same uniform: European-cut charcoal business suits, starched white shirts, and subdued rep ties. It gives me the creeps.

Concepcion’s ex-husband fits squarely in the mold. He’s mid-forties and could pass for Shanahan’s long-lost illegitimate son. He has the same blue eyes, perfect tan, rugged features, and erect bearing, along with the modulated tone, impeccable wardrobe, and understated mannerisms. The only significant difference is that Peterson’s hair is a chemically-enhanced jet black, whereas Shanahan’s has faded to a dignified gray.

I lean back in an armchair opposite his mahogany desk. The people who work here place a premium on good manners–even when they’re sticking it to you–so I summon a respectful tone. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I need to ask you some questions about your ex-wife.”

The Young Turk adjusts the maroon kerchief in his breast pocket and looks admiringly at his “ego wall,” where diplomas from Dartmouth, Harvard Business School, and Yale Law School hang among certificates from the state and federal courts to which he’s been admitted to practice. Most of us keep these trophies in boxes, but guys like Peterson seem to require constant reassurance that they are, in fact, licensed to practice law. “Mr. Daley, I need you to bear with me for a moment. John wants to join us.”

This is unplanned, but hardly surprising. Shanahan’s name is on the door and he has home field advantage. “Fine with me.”

He buzzes his secretary and asks her to summon the head honcho. Big John saunters in a moment later with a subdued smile and an outstretched hand. He’s had a shower and a shave since I last saw him, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a fresh suit, but it’s hard to discern any difference from the one he was sporting yesterday. I wonder if there is a closet next to the mail room where the lawyers get their costumes every morning.

Shanahan feigns interest in my well-being. “Good to see you again, Michael,” he lies. “Did you get some sleep?”

“A few hours.”

So ends the chitchat. Shanahan nods to Peterson and then turns back to me. It’s his firm and he’s going to call the shots. He tries to sound forthcoming. “Michael, I was just on the phone with the archbishop.”

I can guess what’s coming.

“He asked me once more to try to impress upon you his great desire to have a member of our firm take the lead in Father Aguirre’s case.”

“That isn’t going to be possible as long as Father Aguirre wants me to be his lawyer.”

“We were hoping you might be able to convince him otherwise.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I’m asking you as a professional colleague and a friend–is there anything that I can say to change your mind?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He sighs melodramatically. “I’ve asked Dennis to be as open and candid as he possibly can.”

Which means he isn’t going to tell me anything.

Shanahan segues into the inevitable backpedaling. “You’ll have to bear in mind, however, that Dennis is representing the archdiocese. Obviously, if there is any information that may be of a confidential or sensitive nature, he will have to make a decision as to whether it is appropriate to reveal it to you.”

Obviously. “The O’Connell case has no bearing on the charges against Father Aguirre.”

“The victim was the plaintiff’s attorney.”

“That has nothing to do with the matters at hand.”

“We’ll see.” Shanahan turns to his partner. “Do what you can to help him, Dennis. We’re all on the same side.”

Of course we are.

Peterson takes his cue. His inflection is almost a perfect imitation of Shanahan’s. “The O’Connell case is on hold until the plaintiff finds another attorney. It will probably take a couple of weeks.” I pepper him with questions about the procedural status of the case. He responds with polite, but guarded answers. He isn’t going to tell me anything more than he absolutely must, and Shanahan is here to make sure he doesn’t overstep his bounds.

I move in another direction. “How long have you been working here?”

“Since I got out of Yale.”

People who attend Ivy League schools always manage to work their alma mater’s name into every conversation.

His chest juts out two inches. “I clerked for the Ninth Circuit before I came to work here. I made partner after only six years. I was the youngest person ever elected. I sit on our firm’s executive committee.”

This is far more important to him than it is to me, but I want to make him feel good about himself. “That’s very impressive. You must be on the fast track in firm management.”

His false modesty is transparent when he says, “I suppose.”

If this place is anything like the big law firm where I worked for a few years, Shanahan presides over a puppet regime where he makes the calls on everything from partner compensation to the coffee in the lunchroom.

Shanahan interjects, “Dennis is too modest. He’s the chairman of our litigation department and he has a seat on our compensation committee. We think he has a very bright future in operations, but we don’t want to take him away from trying cases.” He nods to his disciple. “He’s a superb trial lawyer.”

I’m sure he is. Now that I’ve buttered him up, it’s time to make him squirm. “I understand your ex-wife used to work here.”

“She did. She left the firm shortly after our divorce. It was her decision.”

Sure, it was. “Was it for professional or personal reasons?”

“Both. The specific circumstances surrounding her departure are confidential.”

That’s all that I’m going to get. “How long were you married?”

“Two years.”

“What happened?”

“Excuse me?”

You heard me. “Why did you split up?”

“It didn’t work out.”

The fact that you were cheating on her didn’t help. “Why not?”

Shanahan intercedes. “This has nothing to do with Father Aguirre’s case.”

Not true. “We’re trying to analyze Ms. Concepcion’s state of mind immediately prior to her death. We have reason to believe she never fully recovered from her divorce. If we can prove she committed suicide, Father Aguirre will be released, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Shanahan nods to Peterson. “Go ahead.”

Peterson’s tone becomes more emphatic. “It just didn’t work out.”

I’ll have to do this in baby steps. “Let’s start with the basics. Who filed?”

“She did.”

“Why?”

“She was under the mistaken impression that I had been unfaithful.”

“Were you?”

“Of course not.”

He’s lying. “Did things get acrimonious?”

“Not really.”

“I understand you had a dispute over the division of property.”

“Not true.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

“Where are you getting your information?”

“I talked to your ex-mother-in-law this morning.”

This elicits an awkward glance toward Shanahan. Peterson keeps his tone professional, but measures his words carefully. “We signed a valid, binding, and enforceable prenuptial agreement.”

For a guy who is supposed to be cooperating, he’s sounding a lot like a lawyer.

He adds, “She wasn’t happy about it, but she did it.”

“I presume she liked it even less after she got nothing in the divorce.”

“It was an enforceable agreement.”

I can see why Concepcion’s mother didn’t feel especially warm and fuzzy about this guy. “Was your ex-wife a good lawyer?”

“Yes, she was.”

“You were opposing counsel on several cases against the archdiocese, weren’t you?”

“Yes, we were.”

“And she won some of those cases, didn’t she?”

“Absolutely false. She never beat me in court.”

It’s good lawyerly parsing, but it doesn’t tell the whole story. “You settled several of the cases, didn’t you?”

A grudging nod. “Yes.”

“How many?”

His irritation is turning into modulated anger. “A few.”

“How many is a few?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is now.”

“Bullshit.”

Temper, temper. “How much money are we talking about?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“The Chronicle said you were well into eight figures.”

“The Chronicle exaggerates.”

“I’ll subpoena the settlement documents.”

“They’re confidential and covered by a protective order.”

“I’ll go to a judge.”

“You won’t get very far.”

We’ll see.

“Look,” he says, “a lot of people sue the archdiocese. We have a compelling legal interest in keeping our settlement discussions confidential. We need to make it clear that our client isn’t going to be a sitting duck for shakedowns by every small time plaintiff’s lawyer.”

“Like your ex-wife?”

“That’s right.”

Now we know where we stand. “I understand you were engaged in settlement discussions right before she died.”

“That’s true.”

“Were you close?”

“Our settlement discussions are subject to the attorney-client privilege. It’s none of your business.”

I fire back. “This isn’t a civil case where we have time to shower each other with paper for ten years. Father Aguirre’s life and career are at stake. If we don’t resolve this in the next couple of weeks, he’ll never be able to work again. It isn’t in your best interests or his to be uncooperative.”

Shanahan has heard enough and answers for him. “The judge ordered us into mediation. We made a bona fide, good faith effort to settle. We were unsuccessful.”

Was that so hard? I turn back to Peterson. “Do you think there was any chance the case was going to settle?”

“No. My ex-wife had serious emotional problems that began during our marriage, were compounded by our divorce, and were exacerbated by this case. She was on medication and her judgment was impaired. We put forth a generous offer prior to her death and she dismissed it. The plaintiff is a lap dancer and a hooker with drug problems. Maria was out of touch with reality if she thought she was going to do better in court.”

I ask him when he last spoke to his ex-wife.

“Nine-fifteen last Monday night. I’d received authority from Father Quinn to increase our settlement offer. Maria rejected it out of hand.”

“Why did you up the offer if you were so sure you were going to win?”

“You can run the numbers. It costs our client more than fifteen hundred dollars an hour for John and me to sit in the same room. It costs more than fifteen grand a day for us to sit in court. A couple of weeks of trial can result in legal bills that run well into six figures. Maria knew how to work the system. We made a strategic decision to try to settle for purely economic reasons. Bottom line: we thought it would cost more to try the case than to settle it.”

Bottom line: they didn’t want to risk putting their case in the hands of a group of retirees, courthouse groupies, students, goof-offs, misfits, and other hangers-on. In legal terms, we call these people a jury.

CHAPTER 26

“IT WASN’T A SUICIDE”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert is the dean of big city medical examiners and a distinguished scholar. His textbook on forensic science is the seminal work in this field.”

— Course Catalogue. UCSF Medical Center.

Dr. Roderick Beckert strokes his gray beard and strikes a chatty tone. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies. “It’s been awhile since we’ve had a chance to work together.”

Are you ever going to retire? “It’s nice to see you, too, Dr. Beckert.”

The chief medical examiner of the City and County of San Francisco is sitting in an ancient swivel chair in his cluttered office in the basement of the Hall at three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. With his bald dome, aviator-style glasses, and cheap paisley tie, his appearance may be unimposing, but you can’t let your guard down. He knows more about forensic science than anybody in the Bay Area–and he’s happy to let you know it. The heavy bureaucratic furnishings and mundane assortment of medical texts, charts, and scientific instruments are overlaid with nearly forty years of personal memorabilia that ranges from the ego-driven (honorary degrees and photos with local politicians) to the whimsical (a life-sized skeleton sporting a Giants’ cap). A compulsive perfectionist with a photographic memory, his only hobby is teaching pathology at UCSF. An inveterate publicity hound, the forensics guru handles the autopsies and courtroom theatrics for every high-profile case in San Francisco, and he’s frequently called upon to lend his expertise to other jurisdictions. He detests defense attorneys.

His tone is always authoritative. “It wasn’t a suicide,” he tells me before I have a chance to ask. “Ms. Concepcion was murdered. She bled to death.”

He may be hard-headed, but he usually gets it right. It’s also frustrating to argue with him because he’s unfailingly polite. I summon my most respectful tone. “Would you mind explaining how you came to that conclusion?” I lean forward and prepare to receive his wisdom.

He slides a photocopy of a typed document across his immaculate steel desk. You’d think he’d just handed me the stone tablets when he says, “It’s in my report.”

If past history is any indication, this will be his response to every question. “This is the first time I’ve seen it.”

He tries to cut off the discussion before it starts. “This copy is for you. Call me if you have any questions.”

This will be my only chance to talk to him before the prelim. A flip remark will get me a quick exit. I have no choice but to genuflect. “Dr. Beckert, I would be extraordinarily grateful if you would answer a few questions.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly and he makes a big show of pulling up the left sleeve on his camel-hair sport jacket to look at his Rolex. “I have another meeting. I can spend a few minutes with you.”

It takes every ounce of my self-control to avoid making a sarcastic remark. “Thank you, Dr. Beckert.”

“You’re very welcome.”

I start with an easy one. “When did you conduct the autopsy?”

They say that great baseball hitters can remember the exact count and location of every pitch they ever hit for a home run. Great coroners are the same way. He pretends to study the report through the bottom half of his bifocals, but I’m convinced he can remember the details of every autopsy he’s performed since he got out of medical school. He flips through the pages and finds what he’s looking for. “Tuesday, December second. Three-thirty p.m.”

“That’s about seven hours after they found the body.”

“Correct.”

He isn’t going to offer anything voluntarily, so I’ll have to lead him. “Were you called to the scene?”

“Yes.” He says he arrived at Concepcion’s apartment at ten-thirty that morning.

“That was about an hour after the initial police call?”

“Correct.”

It isn’t a big point, but it gives me room to argue about the level of decomposition of the body when he first saw it and, by extension, the time of death. “I understand you’ve placed time of death between nine-thirty on Monday night and one o’clock on Tuesday morning.”

“Correct.”

“Which means at least ten hours had elapsed from the time of death until the time you first saw the body, and seventeen hours had elapsed until you began the autopsy.”

“You can do the math as well as I can, Mr. Daley.”

Yes, I can. I ask him if the body was still in the bathtub when he arrived.

“No, it wasn’t.” He explains that the paramedics removed the body from the tub in their attempts to revive her. “Except for the fact that the body was taken out of the tub and moved to the floor, the area was preserved intact.” He confirms that she was pronounced dead at the scene.

“Was the body still submerged?”

“Yes, it was, except for her head and shoulders, which were above the water level, and her left arm, which was dangling outside the tub.”

“The fact that the body was under water for up to twelve hours would have made it more complicated to determine the time of death, right?”

“I gave myself a three-hour window because the body was found in standing water. The rate of decomposition would have changed depending upon the initial temperature of the water when the body was placed in the tub.”

“If it was placed in the tub,” I argue.

He doesn’t budge. He explains that the presence of the water made the usual measurements of body temperature, lividity and rigor mortis somewhat less precise. “I was also able to do some calculations based upon the rate of digestion of food in her stomach.”

“What food was that?”

“A chicken burrito.”

At least we know she ate some of the burrito found in her kitchen. Whether she purchased it that night still remains to be determined.

Beckert adds, “If she had bled to death on the floor, I may have been able to call time of death within a narrower window.” He adds that Concepcion drank a small amount of alcohol on the night she died, and no drugs were found in her system.

His analysis gives us wiggle room to argue that she could have died after Ramon left the scene. It would help even more if we could prove that somebody else entered her apartment after he left. I pretend to thumb through the report for another moment. “How did you rule out a self-inflicted wound?”

He knows I’m looking for a preview of his testimony. “It’s in my report, Mr. Daley.”

“I’m sure it’s all here, but I would be very grateful if you would explain your conclusion.”

“We can do that in court next week, Mr. Daley.”

Yes, we could. “If we do it now, we may not have to do it again next week.”

He glances at his watch again. “If you turn to page seven, you’ll see that there were three deep cuts on each of the victim’s wrists that resulted in massive blood loss.”

I’m prepared to accept the conclusion that she bled to death. “It still doesn’t explain how you determined that the wounds weren’t self-inflicted.”

He places a photograph of the back of Concepcion’s head and shoulders on the desk in front of me and uses his gold Cross pen to point at several areas circled with a black felt-tip marker. “Do you see any unusual marks in these areas?”

I study the photo for a long minute and then answer honestly. “No.”

“Look more closely. We found the defendant’s thumbprints on the back of the victim’s neck in these locations using the glue fuming process.”

“He may have given her a back rub, but it doesn’t prove he killed her.”

He points at a spot where her right shoulder meets her neck. “Do you notice anything here?”

I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging anything short of a fully disembodied head. “No.”

“If you look at this spot right here, you’ll see a bruise on Ms. Concepcion’s right shoulder, just below the nape of her neck.”

I never graduated from medical school, and I can’t see any blood or other evidence of a significant wound. In a rare instance of the truth lining up with an appropriate legal response, I tell him, “I’m afraid I don’t see it, Dr. Beckert.”

He hands me a copy of the photo. “Your medical expert will confirm that Ms. Concepcion experienced a blow that rendered her unconscious and caused a hematoma.”

I know just enough medical lingo to understand that he’s referring to a bruise resulting from a direct hit, but I’m not buying it. “Broken bones?”

“None.”

“Blood?”

“No.”

“Swelling?”

“Not discernible to the naked eye.”

I argue that the wound could have been self-inflicted.

“It would have been impossible for her to have hit herself in that location.”

“She could have fallen or bumped into something.”

“You have no evidence she did.”

“You have no evidence she didn’t. It’s your job to prove the cause of death was a homicide. It isn’t our job to prove it wasn’t.”

He strokes his beard. “I’ll win that argument in court.”

I’m not going to win it here. I’ll feed the information to a hired medical expert who will massage it to fit our needs. “So, you believe Ms. Concepcion was knocked unconscious and then placed in her bathtub, where her wrists were slashed and she bled to death?”

“Correct.” His expression turns smug. “There’s more, Mr. Daley.” He pulls out another photograph and lays it out in front of me. “They took this picture just before they moved the body from the scene.” Unlike the first photo, which was taken in his lab, this one was taken in Concepcion’s bathroom, and it shows her body on the floor in a pool of bloody water. Her head is propped up against the wall and her eyes and mouth are open. “Did you notice that Ms. Concepcion’s body was covered with white skin cream?”

“Yes. It suggests to me that she wanted to relax before she committed suicide.”

“It suggests to me that somebody made a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide. We found your client’s fingerprints on the empty skin cream container. More important, we discovered that the amount of cream in the area around the wound on her shoulder was greater than other parts of her body. This indicates that somebody was trying to cover the hematoma.”

“If her shoulder was covered with cream, how were you able to find the fingerprints on her neck?”

“Her neck wasn’t covered.”

It doesn’t add up. “If Father Aguirre was smart enough to try to cover the bruise, he would have covered the prints.”

“He was in a hurry and got careless.”

“Or somebody else hit her and didn’t know enough to cover the prints.”

“You can argue that theory to the judge, Mr. Daley. We also found skin cream on and around her reproductive organs and rectum. Women know that it is inadvisable to use such compounds in sensitive areas.”

“I suspect she wasn’t worried about reading warning labels that night.”

“She had a rash around her labia majora and her anus. If she was trying to make herself comfortable, she wouldn’t have put that type of compound on those areas.”

I point out that he found the cream on her hands. “That suggests she put it on herself.”

He fires right back. “That suggests your client put it on her hands.”

I can’t refute any of this on the fly.

Beckert isn’t finished. He points at the photo again. “Do you notice anything unusual about the position of her body?”

He would have been a great law professor. Like his medical students, I have no choice but to play along. “Nothing leaps out at me.”

“Look at her head.”

I don’t see any bruises. “Give me a hint.”

“When the paramedics pulled her out of the tub, they placed her body on the floor facing the same direction as it was when she was in the water. Her head is at the end of the tub where the faucet and handles protrude from the wall.”

“So?”

“Nobody sits in a bathtub that way because you’d bang your head on the faucet or the handles.”

He’s right.

He closes his report and hands it to me. “I really need to get to this other meeting. And you really ought to give some serious thought to a plea bargain.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Dr. Beckert.”

“You’re a good lawyer, but you’re making a big mistake.”

Duly noted. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.” He taps his fingers on his desk and his professorial tone changes to one that is almost fatherly. “Michael, we go back a long way, don’t we?”

It’s the first time he’s called me by my first name. “Yes.”

“And we’ve always played it straight with each other, haven’t we?”

More or less. “Yes.”

He takes off his glasses and wipes them with a small cloth. “There’s something else in my report that’s very troubling and you aren’t going to be able to refute.”

Uh-oh. “What is it?”

“Ms. Concepcion was pregnant.”

CHAPTER 27

“GOD HASN’T BEEN CHARGED WITH MURDER”

“A priest cannot accept confessions if his morals are in question. It’s a credibility issue.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre.

“This is now a first class nightmare,” Rosie says.

Her succinct analysis is dead accurate. My mind is racing as I’m standing in the pay lot next to the McDonald’s down the block from the Hall in a howling wind at four o’clock on Thursday afternoon. I slipped out the back door and took a circuitous loop to avoid the press and three dozen of Ramon’s parishioners, who are holding a vigil on Bryant Street. It’s difficult to hear her over the roar of the freeway as I press my cell phone tightly against my right ear. The rain has subsided, but black storm clouds are gathering to the west. I can see a black Explorer parked across the street.

First things first. “Have you talked to Pete?”

“Yes. He says Vince has been following you all day.”

Good. “Has he seen Mr. Impala?”

“Not yet.”

Dammit. At times like this, you start to question your sanity. I know I saw the Impala outside my apartment earlier this morning, but I start to wonder if it’s all just a figment of my overactive imagination.

She asks me if I’ve talked to Ramon

“Not yet.” I tell her that I didn’t want to call him because I’m paranoid enough to suspect that somebody may be listening in on the phones at the archdiocese–or even on my cell. “I’m heading over there now.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Yes. “No. I’ll handle it.”

“Have they identified the father?”

“No, but they’re going to do DNA testing.” She doesn’t need to remind me that such tests are virtually infallible. In normal circumstances, it takes several weeks to get the results, but Beckert has asked for expedited handling. We leave the obvious unspoken–if Ramon is the father, our problems may be insurmountable. “We should have the answer by Sunday.”

“The media is going to be all over this.”

It’s true. The DA’s office, the cops and the press must know about it already. Jerry Edwards will undoubtedly appear any minute now. We consider the possibility of trying to persuade a judge to seal the autopsy report, but we’ll lose the argument and give the impression we have something to hide.

She gives me a realistic assessment. “The public will turn on Ramon in a nanosecond if there is any reason to think he’s the father.”

They’ll turn on him even if he isn’t if they think he killed a pregnant woman and an unborn child.

* * *

I look into the tired eyes of my client and lower my voice to confession level. “We need to talk.”

Ramon tenses. He’s sitting on a chair in his makeshift lodgings at archdiocese headquarters. The pressure is starting to take its toll. “What is it?”

I don’t have time to be subtle. “She was pregnant.”

There is no discernible reaction before he whispers, “She told me it was possible.”

What the hell?

He closes his eyes for an interminable moment, then he opens them and understates, “It’s so terribly sad.”

“We need to discuss this, Ramon.”

“Maria and her baby are in heaven. Maybe it was God’s will.”

We aren’t going to be able to foist this one off so easily. “God hasn’t been charged with murder.” My voice starts to rise. “The autopsy report is now a matter of public record. I need to know the truth.”

“I’ve found the truth is often very elusive.”

His cryptic answer is troubling. “Did you have anything to do with her death?”

“Absolutely not.”

I’ll never speak to you again if you’re lying. “How did you know she may have been pregnant?”

“She told me she was trying.”

“When did she tell you about it?

“About a month ago.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“Life is complicated.”

“It’s going to get even more complicated if you don’t start telling me the truth.”

He takes a deep breath. “Maria asked me to keep her situation confidential until she could sort out some issues.”

“Such as?”

“She was concerned that she would lose the moral high ground in her cases against the Church if it was discovered she was having a child.”

“Her personal circumstances had nothing to do with the validity of the legal claims.”

“That’s a nice lawyerly argument, but she didn’t buy it.”

“She was wrong.”

“She disagreed. She was also going to have to explain the situation to her mother.”

“She strikes me as a very understanding person.”

“She is until you get into discussions about theology. Like many good Catholics, she views most moral issues in black and white.”

“In my experience, people become more flexible when they’re presented with the prospect of having their first grandchild. She would have come around.”

“I’d like to think so, but she wasn’t making things any easier for Maria.”

I ask if Lita knows about her unborn grandchild.

“She knew Maria was trying to get pregnant.”

“She didn’t mention it to us.”

“It isn’t the sort of news you talk about with strangers.”

“How did she find out?”

“When the police indicated it may have been a homicide, I knew there would be an autopsy. I told her that Maria had confided to me that she was trying to get pregnant. I thought it was better for her to have heard it from me.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No. I didn’t know if she was pregnant, and I was hoping the issue would go away.”

“You must have known that everybody would have found out about it sooner or later.”

“Not if she wasn’t pregnant.”

Now, everybody is going to know about it. I think back upon Lita’s pain at having buried two of her children, and I realize she’s added an unborn grandchild to the list. “You should have told me about it right away.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I was trying to protect Lita’s feelings.”

And I’m trying to save your life. “Is there any possibility Maria committed suicide?”

“She wouldn’t have taken the life of her unborn child.”

“She was in a lot of pain.”

“She wanted that baby more desperately than you can imagine.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Remember our first week at the seminary when Father John told us about the great wonders of going to heaven?”

I’m not sure where he’s heading. “I’ll never forget it.”

“I’ve tried to persuade Lita that her daughter is there, but I can’t imagine anything I’ve said has provided any solace.”

I know the feeling. There were times when I was called upon to provide comfort when I was certain I was only making things worse. The possibility that Maria may have committed suicide is difficult enough for her mother. The chance she may have also killed her unborn child is unbearable.

Ramon’s tone is somber. “Lita has endured so much sadness. I wish there was something I could do to stop the pain.”

“We can find out what really happened to her daughter.”

“I’m a priest, Mike, not a cop. I can’t leave this building without a police escort. Besides, it will never bring back Maria or the baby.”

No, it won’t, but finding the killer may provide some closure. “We need to focus on your case. The revelation of an unborn child has serious ramifications. You’ll lose the goodwill of the public and the potential juror pool if they think you were involved in the death of a pregnant woman.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then we need to prove it–preferably before your preliminary hearing begins.”

“It’s impossible to prove a negative.”

“We’ll have to try. If all else fails, we’ll need to provide the cops with one or more viable suspects who may have been at her apartment that night. Did you see anybody as you were leaving?”

“No.”

“They found a partially eaten burrito from Lopez’s restaurant on her kitchen counter. Do you have any idea how it might have gotten there?”

“No.”

Dammit. “Do you recall her making a phone call to Lopez’s restaurant before you left?”

“No.”

“You were the only people there. How could you not have noticed?”

He thinks about it. “I used the bathroom right before I left and I started her bath. Maybe she was on the phone.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It’s the truth.”

I’m not convinced. “There’s another complicating factor. The State of California views an unborn fetus as a living person in the context of a murder trial. The DA is likely to amend the charges to include double murder.” I add, “It also raises the specter of a more serious charge.”

“What can be more serious?”

“The death penalty.”

The color leaves his face, but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s another lever they’ll pull to pressure you to confess.”

Ramon’s eyes are on fire. “I didn’t kill her.”

I believe him, but it’s time to turn all of the cards face up. I ask, “Are you the father?”

He swallows hard and whispers, “It’s possible.”

CHAPTER 28

“THE TECHNOLOGY OUTPACED THE THEOLOGY”

“Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

— Exodus 20:14.

“It isn’t what you think,” Ramon says. His tone is maddeningly even.

“It’s precisely what I think.” I may have found a way to forgive him for not revealing Maria was pregnant right away, but this is far more damaging. “The last immaculate conception happened two thousand years ago.”

“Hear me out.”

“I know where babies come from.”

“This is different.”

“No, it isn’t. You lied to me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What would you call it? I asked you flat out if you were sleeping with her. You looked me right in the eye and said you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t.”

“When I turned fifty last year, Rosie bought me an X-rated video that promised to improve our sex lives. It showed one hundred and fifty-three positions. I think it covered every possible permutation as to how one can get pregnant.”

His jaws tighten. “You aren’t listening. I wasn’t sleeping with Maria. I agreed to be a sperm donor.”

It stops me dead in my tracks. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About three months ago.” He says he took care of business at a clinic in Berkeley. “She was desperate to have a child and I had a chance to help.”

I’m reeling. “Priests aren’t allowed to do that,” I stammer.

“I’m familiar with the theological rules on the subject.” He assures me he hasn’t performed a similar service for any of his other parishioners.

Here we go. “Are you the father?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“She decided to be inseminated after she broke up with Lopez, but I didn’t know the process had been successful, and she said there were other donors. I don’t know who they were. Some were anonymous.”

Swell. “Were you planning to find out if you were the father?”

“Yes, but for obvious reasons, we had agreed to keep my part in this process a secret.”

Everybody is going to find out now. I struggle to sort out the scenarios. If he’s the father, the complexion of the case changes significantly for the worse. If he isn’t, we may be able to deflect some attention to the person who is–if we can identify him. The most obvious candidate is Lopez, but I learned long ago that there are no sure bets in murder cases. We’ll still have to deal with the fact that Ramon is accused of murdering a pregnant woman. We also have an immediate issue as to what, if anything, we should tell the press and our esteemed co-counsels, Quinn and Shanahan, who are certain to find out that Concepcion was pregnant within minutes, if they haven’t already.

I ask him if Maria told anyone about their arrangement.

“No.”

“What about her mother?”

“Maria swore to me that she didn’t say anything to her. As far as I know, Lita doesn’t know the identity of the donors, including me.”

“What did you say when you told her Maria was trying to get pregnant?”

“That there was an anonymous donor.”

I don’t relish withholding material information from Maria’s mother. Ideally, we should also try to find somebody at the clinic who can corroborate the fact that Ramon went there, but it will only draw attention to him if we show up on their doorstep and start asking questions. “Did you use your real name at the clinic?”

“No. Everything was done anonymously.”

“How did they identify your . . . uh. . . donation?”

“They asked me to give them an alias.”

“What pseudonym did you use?”

“Michael Daley.”

Perfect.

I watch the second hand on the clock go around twice before he speaks again. “What do we do now?”

Our alternatives aren’t attractive. “We have three options. We can issue a vehement denial and hope the DNA tests prove negative, in which case this problem goes away.” Leaving us only with the small task of defending Ramon against a double murder charge.

“And if the results are positive?”

“We’ll look like lying idiots and our credibility will be completely shot.”

He asks what’s behind door number two.

“We’ll come clean and explain that you attempted to assist a woman who was desperate to have a child. We’ll tell the truth–that you didn’t engage in sex with Maria.”

“It will rank right up there with President Clinton’s denials about Monica Lewinsky.”

“You were helping a person in need. In a way, you were doing God’s work.”

“The perception is always more important than the truth.”

“There are mitigating circumstances. You’ll apologize for the lapse in judgment and make a confession seeking the forgiveness of the Church and the public.”

“The Church isn’t going to give me a pass.”

That’s no longer my department. “It’s a risk. You’ll be criticized for not coming forward in the first place.”

He drums his fingers on the table, but doesn’t say anything.

I lay it on the line. “I know your intentions were good, but you crossed the line. I can make good legal arguments, but you’re going to have to make your own peace with the Church.”

“I’m out of a job.”

I feel badly about that, but it’s the least of my concerns. “We’ll make your case to the archbishop after we get the murder charges dropped. You didn’t do anything illegal, and you shouldn’t be penalized just because the technology outpaced the theology.”

“The archbishop isn’t going to buy it.”

“Then we’ll go to Rome and talk to the head guy as soon as the charges are dropped.”

He shakes his head. “This is serious. I made a commitment to this vocation. Being a good priest is important to me.”

“I understand that, too, and I believe you did something to sanctify the beauty of human life and you brought hope and comfort to someone in need. If that’s a sin, so be it. Surely, there must be somebody in the Church who is willing to lend a sympathetic ear.”

“You were always the guy who argued with the priests about being flexible.”

“Maybe I was preparing to become a lawyer even then.”

He asks about the third option.

“We say nothing for the time being, and then we re-evaluate our alternatives after the DNA tests come back.”

“That will only delay the inevitable.”

“At least we’ll know what the inevitable is. It’s better to know for sure before we say anything that could embarrass us later. If you aren’t the father, the problem goes away and we may have another viable suspect.”

“Lopez?”

“Precisely.”

“So, if the tests show that I’m not the father, you’re saying we’ll invoke the time-honored theological doctrine of ‘No harm, no sin.’”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

His lips form a tight line across his face. “I don’t like it. It’s lying.”

“No, it isn’t. You’re simply electing not to reveal certain facts that could be used to incriminate you. It’s your legal right.”

“It isn’t my moral right.”

“That’s out of my jurisdiction.”

“You can dress it up however you’d like, but lying was still on the hot list of sins last time I looked.”

It may be a cop-out, but I’m no longer charged with interpreting laws that aren’t written in the Penal Code. “You’re under no legal obligation to talk about your case.”

“That may be true insofar as the State of California is concerned, but I still have to answer to a higher authority.”

“I’m no longer licensed to practice in that courtroom.”

“What do we tell Quinn and Shanahan?”

“The truth.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“As long as they’re your legal counsel, anything you tell them is privileged. If they reveal this information to anybody–including the archbishop–I’ll haul their asses before the State Bar. It’s a clumsy metaphor, but the sooner you tell them, the sooner they’re pregnant.”

CHAPTER 29

“YOU’VE PUT ME INTO AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION”

“Our faith is predicated on the principle that God loves us and is understanding of our human frailties.”

— Father F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Catholic Magazine.

It takes a supreme effort by Quinn to keep his deep voice modulated after he learns of Concepcion’s pregnancy. “This is now a complete disaster,” he snaps.

We’re meeting in his office at archdiocese headquarters. A grim Shanahan is standing in the corner. Every major TV channel is broadcasting from the steps of the Hall, and a fleet of news vans is undoubtedly barreling down Van Ness Avenue toward us. We’ll need to begin defensive maneuvers right away.

Quinn is just warming up. He points a threatening finger in my direction. “Jerry Edwards called for you.”

“I’ll deal with him.”

“We’ll deal with him. What are you planning to tell him?”

“That we have no comment.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Until we know more facts, it’s the correct answer.”

“We’ll get crucified for looking evasive.”

Interesting metaphor. “We’ll look careful.”

Quinn turns to Ramon and asks him straight up. “Are you the father of Ms. Concepcion’s unborn child?”

Ramon glances my way, and I say to Quinn, “Are you still representing Father Aguirre?”

“Of course.”

I ask the same question of Shanahan, who nods. I turn back to Quinn. “And you would therefore agree this conversation is covered by the attorney-client privilege, right, Francis?”

His bushy right eyebrow goes up slightly before he responds with a tentative, “Yes.” Shanahan agrees with him again.

That’s all I need. I nod to Ramon, who swallows hard and whispers, “It’s possible.”

The explanation takes just a moment. Quinn’s eruption comes fast and hard, followed by a diatribe that lasts a full five minutes. He punctuates his fury with hand gestures, table-thumping, and an occasional expletive. His tirade is directed in equal parts toward Ramon, who created this mess, and me, who put him in a position where he can no longer rat out our client to the press, the DA, or the archbishop without violating the attorney-client privilege. Every once in a while, the California Rules of Professional Conduct come in handy, but this doesn’t seem like an opportune time to gloat about my satisfying legal conquest.

Quinn finally regains a small portion of his composure and turns the full impact of his venom in my direction. “What do you plan to do?”

“Keep our mouths shut until the DNA results come back.”

“That isn’t a legal strategy.”

“It is until we know more facts.”

“What if he isn’t the father?”

“It may help us deflect the blame toward another suspect.”

“And if he is?”

“It won’t.”

He’s unmoved by my glib response. “I don’t like it. We’re withholding material evidence.”

Yes we are, but he’s never tried a criminal case. I remind him we aren’t obligated to reveal anything that may tend to incriminate our client.

“We’re lying.”

“No, we aren’t. Besides, that’s a moral issue, not a legal one.”

“Some of us think they’re the same.”

“I don’t.” Not anymore.

“You sucker-punched me.”

“We told you the truth. The only people who know about Ramon’s visit to the sperm bank are the employees there and everyone in this room. I can assure you that Ramon and I aren’t about to say anything. If this information leaks out, I’ll take you before the State Bar for revealing privileged information.” I look at Shanahan and say, “The same applies to you.”

“Are you threatening us?”

Yes. “I’m reminding you of your legal obligations under the California Rules of Professional Conduct.” I turn back to Quinn. “The same goes for you.”

He’s in no mood for a lecture from me, but he knows his cards aren’t good. He opens and closes his right fist and pushes himself up from his chair. “You’ve left us no choice. For the moment, our official line is that we have no comment with respect to the autopsy report, except to say that we are deeply saddened by the news that Ms. Concepcion may have been pregnant.” He points a finger at Ramon. “You will have no contact with the outside world until your preliminary hearing begins on Monday.”

It’s heavy-handed, but it’s also the right legal call. Good lawyers don’t let their clients talk to anybody before trial.

Ramon’s voice regains its edge. “I didn’t kill her, Francis.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t like yours, either.”

Quinn turns to me. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

I’m sure this is true. “It’s the correct decision, Francis.”

“It’s morally reprehensible and you’ve put me into an impossible position.”

This is one of the few times when I’m actually inclined to agree with him. “This isn’t about you, Francis.”

It isn’t the sentiment he wanted to hear. “I hope to God you know what you’re doing. I’ve worked long and hard to protect the interests of the archdiocese. If this case comes back to bite the archbishop–or me–I promise that I will bring both of you down with me.”

I try to parry by diverting his attention to another subject. “Francis, we got a copy of the phone records from Ms. Concepcion’s apartment from the night she died. It seems a call was placed from the archdiocese to her apartment.”

“So?”

“Do you have any idea who called her?”

“I did.”

Really? “What were you talking about?”

His eyes dart toward Shanahan before they return to me. “I made a slightly increased settlement offer, which she rejected. That was the last time I talked to her.”

* * *

Terrence the Terminator’s high-pitched voice has an unusual sense of urgency. “Where are you?”

“On my way back to the office.”

“Rosie needs you to  detour to the Tenderloin.”

“Why?”

“Pete found Jane Doe.”

CHAPTER 30

“MEET JANE DOE”

“All tenants must check in at the front desk. Absolutely no visitors allowed.”

— Alcatraz Hotel.

Before the 1906 earthquake, the area east of City Hall was a fashionable neighborhood with graceful apartment buildings and elegant shops, but those days are long gone. The Tenderloin, as it is now called, is a forgotten cesspool of decaying tenements and residential hotels whose teeming streets are populated by poor immigrants, welfare recipients, drug addicts, prostitutes, and the homeless.

The Alcatraz Hotel is typical of the accommodations in this heavily populated and largely ignored corner of downtown. The decrepit three-story building on Eddy Street is down the street from the Federal Building and next door to the YMCA. The first thing that strikes you is the indelible stench of urine that permeates the area in front of its grated iron door. The ground floor windows have been boarded up, and a muscular man with tattoos covering his arms is selling crack.

I hand a homeless man a dollar and push my way inside the heavy door. The check-in desk is behind bulletproof Plexiglas. It’s only five o’clock, but several hookers are already getting instructions on their cell phones. Their workday is just beginning, and I realize I’m standing in their reception area.

Pete is talking to Terrence the Terminator inside the lobby. They make an oddly intimidating pair, and the residents give them a wide berth. My brother is wearing his bomber jacket with a pair of black jeans and a flannel work shirt. Terrence towers over him by almost a foot, and his shaved head, massive shoulders, and sleeveless Gold’s Gym T-shirt suggest he could still stand toe-to-toe with Mike Tyson. Ironically, Pete is far more likely to inflict serious damage. Terrence’s rap sheet may be a mile long, but he’s a gentle giant.

I nod to Terrence and address my brother. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Upstairs.”

“By herself?”

“She’s fine, Mick. She wanted to talk to her alone.”

I’m less than reassured. “How did you find Doe?”

“I did some poking around.”

I never ask him for specifics. Working with Pete is always a need-to-know deal. I look around at the decaying lobby and observe no discernible police presence. “Why aren’t the cops watching her?”

“She’s a plaintiff in a civil case. It’s out of their jurisdiction.”

I remind him of the prostitution charge.

“She’s out on bail.”

“She may be a witness in a murder investigation.”

“I’m sure they know where to find her. I saw a couple of undercover cops on the street. As far as I can tell, they aren’t involved in the Concepcion case.”

I ask Pete if anybody followed him here.

“No.”

I turn to a more immediate question. “Did anybody follow me here?”

He gives me a sheepish grin. “Just Vince, but he’s on our side.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“About two minutes ago. He’s been watching you all day.”

“And?”

“Nobody’s following you, Mick. Either somebody got word to the guy in the Impala to stay clear or he’s taking the day off.”

I look my brother straight in the eye. “Is Vince reliable?”

“Very. Only the best for my brother.”

“I’ll have to meet him someday.”

“Not until the case is over.”

Pete leads me past the non-working elevator and up a rickety stairway with a missing banister. You see some marginal accommodations when you represent criminals for a living, but the squalor upstairs is more disturbing than I had anticipated. The stairwell reeks of feces. We stop at the first landing. He opens the door to a stifling hallway piled with discarded mattresses and bed frames. The tile floor is sticky. The only illumination comes from a bare light bulb. The odor of frying Spam fills the corridor. We pass the open door to the bathroom, where a young woman with scanty clothes is smoking crack.

Pete bangs on the steel-reinforced door of room six, and Rosie answers immediately. I follow her inside and Pete stands guard in the hall. The drab room measures no more than ten by ten and is dominated by a sagging double bed. There is a cracked white pedestal sink with a dripping faucet. Jane Doe’s panties and bras are hanging on a line strung across the room.

Rosie nods toward a petite Caucasian woman sitting with her arms crossed in the middle of an olive green bed spread. “Meet Jane Doe.”

Her razor-thin body appears to have about thirty years of mileage. Her facial features are strikingly similar to those of Julia Roberts, but her eyes are dull. Her frizzed hair and eyebrows are an enhanced jet black with red highlights, and her full lips are covered with purple lipstick. She’s wearing a black leather miniskirt and a skimpy halter top. Her deep voice is a tired mixture of worldliness and sarcasm. “Welcome to my office. I was explaining to your partner that I can’t help you. My attorney advised me not to speak to anybody except her.”

And now she’s dead.

She adds, “I’m not going to talk about my case until I find another lawyer.”

I need to put something on the table in a hurry. “We can help you.”

The street-wise operator immediately senses an opportunity to barter. “I might be willing to talk to you if you’re willing to take my case against the archdiocese–for free.”

The possibility of a contingency fee is enticing, but it would create a conflict of interest if she’s asked to testify at Ramon’s trial, not to mention the fact that we don’t handle civil cases. “I’ll give you the names of a couple of attorneys who might be willing to help you.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

It’s all I have to offer. “For the time being.” And if you don’t cooperate, we’ll come back with a subpoena and make your life a lot more unpleasant.

She’s savvy enough to realize that she may be able to get more if she plays along. “Are you willing to keep my identity a secret?”

“Of course.” That’s the truth.

“Are you willing to keep my answers confidential?”

“Yes.” That’s a bald-faced lie. If she tells us anything that might exonerate Ramon, I’ll sprint to the Hall to tell Roosevelt about it.

She remains legitimately skeptical. “I have to leave in ten minutes.”

I’ll have to work quickly. “Where are you from?”

“The lower Sunset.”

My old stomping grounds. She isn’t exactly the type that my mother always wanted me to marry. She says she went to St. Anne’s and Mercy High School. I leave out any mention that I may have heard her confessions twenty years ago. I ask if her parents still live in the neighborhood.

“Yes.” There’s an awkward silence. “I haven’t spoken to them in years.”

“Why not?”

“Among other things, they don’t approve of what I do for a living.”

“Which is?”

“I’m a dancer.”

I’m guessing she isn’t a lead ballerina at the San Francisco Ballet. “Where?”

“The Mitchell Brothers.”

The pieces are starting to fit together. In its unique way, the Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater is as much a Bay Area institution as Coit Tower. Jim and Artie Mitchell were fun-loving brothers from the East Bay who opened a girlie theater on Independence Day of 1969 in a converted vaudeville house a few blocks from here. Roosevelt Johnson and my father had the privilege of participating in the first raid a few days later, which foreshadowed decades of turmoil. The brothers got lucky in 1971 when Marilyn Chambers, the star of their X-rated feature film, Behind the Green Door, also appeared as a model on boxes of Ivory Snow soap. The attendant publicity made the film a huge hit and landed the plucky Mitchells right up there with Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt in the higher echelons of adult entertainment purveyors. The savvy brothers were among the first to bring high-class porn to a mass audience, and their empire soon expanded to a dozen locations. The lawsuits brought by local communities trying to keep them out generated substantial press coverage and free publicity. It was front page news when Chambers was arrested for solicitation at the theater in 1985, and she spent most of her brief jail time posing for photos with the cops. In response to changing times and the AIDS epidemic, the astute businessmen produced a sequel to Green Door starring porn diva Missy Manners, which was widely-recognized at the time as the first safe sex adult film.

The train started to derail in the late eighties as Artie’s drug and alcohol problems worsened, and things came to a tragic end when Jim shot his brother to death in February of 1991. At Jim’s murder trial, his lawyers argued that Artie’s death was an accident arising out of a drug and alcohol intervention that had gone awry. The prosecutors pointed out that Jim had parked his car a few blocks from Artie’s house, kicked in the door, and shot him three times, including one to the brain. He was convicted of manslaughter and he served three years at San Quentin before his release in 1997. He worked at the theater until he died of a heart attack in 2007. More than three hundred people attended his funeral, including a former San Francisco mayor and a retired San Francisco DA. Jim was buried next to Artie.

I have to ask. “How did a nice girl from St. Anne’s Parish end up working for Jim and Artie Mitchell?”

“Things don’t always work out the way you’d hope after your father touches you in inappropriate places and beats your alcoholic mother. I left home as soon as I got out of high school and enrolled at State. I got my degree, but I need to support a pretty spectacular drug habit. Dancing pays more than flipping burgers. I’m not especially proud when I take off my clothes in front of strangers, but I’m making a living and I’m not hurting anybody.”

You always get a dose of reality in the Tenderloin. Rosie asks her if she ever considered the possibility of bringing legal action against her father.

“I talked to Maria about it. She said it would be difficult to win a swearing contest against him. He can afford good lawyers.”

It’s a realistic analysis.

I take her in another direction. “We understand you were arrested a few weeks ago.”

“It was a set-up. An undercover cop asked me for a date and they were all over me. I should have seen it coming. The archdiocese wanted to smear me before the start of the O’Connell trial.”

“Who fingered you?”

“The PI who’s been following me for the last two months–Nick Hanson.”

Nick the Dick strikes again. “Was he arrested, too?”

“Of course not. He didn’t do anything illegal.”

“It’s entrapment.”

“If I ever find a new lawyer, he’ll argue it at the trial.”

The fact that she may end up in jail doesn’t seem to faze her. I ask if anybody is representing her on the solicitation charge.

“At the moment, no.”

Rosie darts a glance in my direction and then turns back to her. “We might be able to do it.”

The conflict isn’t as blatant as if we agreed to represent her in her case against the archdiocese, but it’s a liberal interpretation of the rules that prohibit offering legal services in exchange for favorable testimony. We aren’t going to quibble about it for now.

“I don’t have any money to pay you,” she says.

“We’ll handle it pro bono,” Rosie says.

“Why would you do that?”

“You have information about Ms. Concepcion. You can play ball with us, or we can come back with a subpoena, in which case you’ll have to tell us everything and you’ll have to find somebody else to represent you.”

The pragmatic hooker makes the call. “Maria was my lawyer. I guess you could say she was my friend. I got her name from the Tenderloin Legal Clinic after I was picked up for solicitation last year. She got the charges dropped. I asked her to help me sue Father O’Connell.”

Rosie bores in. “How well did you know her?”

“Pretty well. She wasn’t holding up very well. She was nervous about my case, and she had stomach problems.”

“Did you know she was expecting a baby?”

Her eyes open wide. “No, I didn’t. She really wanted to have children.”

Our attempts to elicit additional information about Maria’s personal life are met with silence. It’s hard to decide if she’s withholding information or she simply doesn’t know.

Rosie asks her where she met Father O’Connell.

“At St. Boniface.” It’s the magnificent church in the heart of the Tenderloin. She reads the look of surprise on Rosie’s face. “Just because you take your clothes off to pay your bills doesn’t mean you aren’t a good Catholic.”

Quinn might have a different view. We’re getting to the good stuff and Rosie nods to me. It’s time for the priest-voice. “When did Father O’Connell start making advances?”

“Shortly after we met. He asked me if I would come to him for private counseling about my drug problems. At the end of one of my sessions, he hugged me and told me he was proud of me. That was the first time he touched me. He did it again the next time I saw him, then he tried to kiss me. I told him it wasn’t appropriate. He pretended to agree with me, but he did the same thing the following week.”

“Why did you keep going to see him?”

Her eyes turn down. “Because he was my priest. I know it sounds strange, but I didn’t want to let him down. Then he started showing up at the theater and following me home.”

A stalker-priest. “Why didn’t you report him?”

“He said he would tell the cops that I had solicited him. He was a well-known priest, and I work at the Mitchell Brothers–who do you think they would have believed?”

Easy answer. “How long did this go on?”

“Almost a year. Then he started hitting on one of the younger girls at the club. That’s when I decided to do something.”

If she’s telling the truth, Ramon’s mentor was even more evil than he was portrayed in the press. “We’d like to talk to the other woman.”

“You can’t. She disappeared about six months ago.”

Uh-oh. “Is she still alive?”

“We think somebody paid her to leave town, but nobody knows for sure. A lot of people in this neighborhood disappear. There isn’t much the cops can do about it. Nobody takes attendance.”

I’ll ask Roosevelt about it. “So you went to Ms. Concepcion for help?”

“Yes. She was willing to handle my case for a contingency fee. She was realistic that it was going to boil down to my word against Father O’Connell’s. He was popular and had friends in high places. He also had the full backing of the archdiocese. Their lawyers are going to portray me as a drug addict and prostitute who is making wild accusations.”

I ask her about the possibility of a settlement.

“Maria and I talked it over, but we decided not to accept anything out of court. You may find it hard to believe, but I didn’t file the lawsuit for the money. I did it to expose Father O’Connell. I’m prepared to donate any judgment to the battered women’s shelter. This is about doing what’s right.” Her eyes fill with tears. “My father was abusive and there was nothing I could do about it. I wasn’t going to let the archdiocese get away with covering up this monster’s acts.”

“We understand they upped their settlement offer on the night Ms. Concepcion died.”

“They did.”

“To what?”

“A million dollars, but I turned it down. I told you this case isn’t about money.” She looks at her watch and stands. “I really have to get to work.”

I throw up a Hail Mary pass. “When did Ms. Concepcion tell you about the final settlement offer?”

“On the night she died.”

“What time was that?”

“Around ten-thirty.”

I can hear the audible gasp from Rosie’s lips. If Doe is telling the truth, she spoke to Concepcion a half hour after Ramon left her apartment.

CHAPTER 31

“I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS”

“Our case against Father Ramon Aguirre is air tight.”

— Inspector Marcus Banks. KGO Radio. Thursday, December 11.

My eyes are now boring straight into Doe’s. “Are you absolutely sure about that time?”

There is no equivocation in her voice. “Yes.”

Yes! I try to temper my excitement when I recognize a practical evidentiary problem. “We have the records from Ms. Concepcion’s cell and home phones for that evening. There was no record of an outgoing call to you.”

“She called me from a payphone.”

Huh? “Why?”

“She was afraid her phone was bugged.”

It’s a legitimate concern. “Where did you take the call?”

“At a payphone at the club.”

I can’t think of any reason why she would be making this up, but her background puts her credibility into question. Pete’s moles at AT&T will be able to identify any payphone-to-payphone calls to the Mitchell Brothers last Monday night, but it will be impossible to prove Concepcion was on the line without an eyewitness. Then again, if we can demonstrate she was still alive after Ramon left, we may have hit the defense attorney’s mother lode.

I ask her if she answered the phone at the club.

“Yes.”

“Was anybody else around?”

“No.”

So much for a corroborating witness there. “What exactly did she say?”

“That the archdiocese had upped its offer to a million dollars. I told her I wasn’t interested and I went back to work.”

Ever the consummate professional. Maybe we can find a witness at the other end. “Where was she?”

“I don’t know, but it was difficult to hear her because it was noisy.”

She may have been in a bar or restaurant near her apartment. The obvious choice is Eduardo’s. “How long did you talk to her?”

“Less than a minute. That was the last time we spoke.”

“Have you talked to the police about this?”

“Yes. I spoke to Inspector Johnson and Inspector Banks earlier today.”

Roosevelt didn’t mention it. It’s unrealistic to expect him to call me every time he receives information that may be helpful to us, but this could create a substantial hole in his case. “Are you willing to testify about this?” I’m just being polite. If she refuses, we’ll send her a subpoena.

“What’s the big deal?”

I explain that Ramon left Concepcion’s apartment at ten o’clock. “If you talked to her at ten-thirty, it means she was alive after he left.”

“She was definitely alive at ten-thirty.”

Excellent answer.

She arches an eyebrow. “I guess my testimony is pretty important to your case.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then we have some interesting issues to discuss, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Are you willing to make it worth my while?”

We could serve her with a subpoena and end this discussion right now, but it may impact her willingness to testify. Rosie says, “We’ll represent you on the solicitation charge.”

“Are you willing to represent me if I want to bring legal action against my father?”

“Yes.”

“And are you willing to help me find a new job and another place to live?”

“Yes.”

The worldly prostitute is now a key witness in a murder case. She extends a hand and says, “I think we can do business.”

CHAPTER 32

“YOU CAN LOOK, BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH”

“Highest quality adult entertainment in a safe and clean environment. Continuous show times.”

— Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theater

Pete is chewing on a toothpick as we’re standing beneath the marquee in front of the Alcatraz Hotel. “This case is over, Mick. You just won.”

Rosie nods. “If Jane Doe is telling the truth, Concepcion was still alive after Ramon left her apartment. That’s more than enough for reasonable doubt.”

Not so fast. “If she’s telling the truth,” I say, “and if the jury believes her.”

“Why would she lie?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to hold off on buying the champagne for now.”

Pete asks, “Why are you always so pessimistic?”

It’s my proper Catholic upbringing. “I’ve seen a lot of cases go sideways long before the charges are dismissed. They may know something that we don’t. It isn’t over until Ward and McNulty say it is.”

“We need to talk to them,” Rosie says.

“We will as soon as we can corroborate Doe’s story.”

“At the very least, we ought to get her to sign a declaration that she received a phone call from Concepcion at ten-thirty that night.”

The unbending voice of caution. We’ve assigned Terrence to keep an eye on Doe, but if something happens to her or she changes her mind, we’ll want some record of what she told us tonight. We’ll write something up as soon as we get back to the office, then we’ll see if we can get her to sign it. We still have to deal with the small matter of Concepcion’s unborn baby.

I turn to Pete. “I need you to do a little research over at the Mitchell Brothers.”

His eyes light up. “Hands-on research?”

He’s a few credits short of a masters in political correctness. “You can look, but you can’t touch.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’ll tell Donna.”

“Exactly what do you want me to do?”

“I need you to get the numbers of every payphone in the building. I want your mole down at AT&T to identify any calls around ten-thirty last Monday night.”

“Can I use a little muscle to get backstage if I have to?”

“Finesse and bribery are always preferable, but do what you have to do.”

* * *

I’m in my car heading toward archdiocese headquarters to give Ramon the news when my cell phone rings. “Mr. Daley,” Edwards rasps, “you’ve been withholding information. You didn’t tell me that Ms. Concepcion was pregnant.”

It’s always a joy to hear from the Chronicle’s favorite son. I need to get off the phone as fast as I can. “I just found out.”

He sigh is punctuated by violent coughing. “It would be in your client’s best interest to come clean.”

“We are still gathering facts. We have nothing to say at this time.”

“Is your client the father of Ms. Concepcion’s unborn child?”

“No comment.”

“You’ll dig yourself an even bigger hole if you’re evasive.”

“I’m prepared to give you a quote right now.”

“I’m listening.”

“Father Aguirre did not murder Ms. Concepcion and he will be fully exonerated. We will provide the testimony of a witness that will conclusively prove Ms. Concepcion was still alive after Father Aguirre left her apartment last Monday night.”

“Who’s the witness?”

There is no reason to hide it. “Her name is Jane Doe.”

* * *

Pete calls me at the office at seven-thirty. “You got a minute, Mick?

“Yeah. How are things down at the Mitchell Brothers?”

“The early show was more tasteful than I had anticipated.”

“I’ll have to check it out one of these days. Did you call just to give me a review?”

“No, I called to tell you that there are two payphones in the theater. One is in the lobby and the other is backstage. My guy at AT&T checked on calls to both. We owe him a couple of six packs.”

I’ll take care of it. “And?”

“Doe’s story is checking out. There was an incoming call to the backstage phone at ten-thirty-one last Monday night that lasted forty-seven seconds.” He says there were no other incoming calls until after midnight.

“Was he able to tell where the call was originated?”

“A payphone by the front door at Eduardo’s Latin Palace.”

Bingo. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

CHAPTER 33

“NOBODY SAW HER”

“Eduardo’s makes every effort to ensure your dining experience is pleasant. If you are dissatisfied with your food or service for any reason, please see our hostess.”

— Eduardo’s Latin Palace.

Pete points to a battered payphone in the entry vestibule next to the pick-up window in Lopez’s restaurant. “That’s it.”

With the proliferation of cell phones, it’s hard to find functioning payphones nowadays, and many that remain in service need repairs. The beat-up wall model that may hold the key to our case fits squarely into this category. The phonebook holders are empty, the steel-encased cord is dangling by a thread, and the emergency numbers and dialing instructions have been obliterated by black Magic Marker.

The young woman at the podium has the requisite model-perfect qualities that fall somewhere between Jennifer Lopez and Salma Hayek. She flashes a radiant smile and tosses her silky black hair. “Party of two?”

“Yes, please.”

“Right this way.”

Pete and I follow her to a booth in the rear of the raucous eatery. It’s eight o’clock and the evening shift is filing in. I say, “We’re looking for Mercedes Trujillo.”

She’s still smiling. “I’m Mercedes. Who’s asking?”

“Mike Daley.”

She’s flirting out of habit–it’s in her job description. “And who is Mike Daley?”

“Tony Fernandez’s brother-in-law.” And Ramon Aguirre’s lawyer.

I get the response I’m hoping for. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Daley.”

“It’s Mike.”

“Mike,” she repeats. She looks at Pete. “And who might you be?”

He gives her a big smile. “I might be Pete.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” As if she would have any interest in two middle aged guys with graying hair and expanding mid-sections.

I order a couple of beers. “We were hoping you could help us. We were trying to figure out if somebody we know came in to pick up an order last Monday night.”

The phony smile transforms into a pout. “We get a lot of customers, Mike.”

“She was a regular. we think you may have known her.”

“What’s her name?”

Here goes. “Maria Concepcion.”

The flirting stops. “You’ll need to speak to Mr. Lopez.”

* * *

Lopez is eying us from the leather chair behind his desk. Trujillo is conspicuously absent. His pronounced scowl indicates that he’s going to be the sole spokesman on matters relating to the Concepcion case. “I presume you’re looking for additional information concerning the matters we discussed last night?”

“We are.” And if you don’t cooperate, we’ll come back with a subpoena for a far less engaging visit. “Last time we talked, I mentioned that a call was placed to this establishment from Ms. Concepcion’s home phone at approximately nine-fifty-one last Monday night.”

He tries to sound cooperative. “I recall discussing it with you.”

“We were hoping you were able to determine who she talked to.”

“Mercedes.”

His forthrightness catches me off-guard. “You could have called us.”

“And you could have called us. I’m running a business. I gave the information to the police. I presume they’re required to share it with you.”

They are, and I’m not going to argue about who has better manners. “Why did she call?”

“To place a take-out order. She talked to Mercedes for just a moment. We were busy.”

On to the main event. “Did she come to the restaurant to pick it up?”

“We don’t know. It was picked up at the delivery window by the door, but Mercedes didn’t see her.”

I ask him if he has a receipt.

“Yes, we do.” He reaches into his desk and hands me a photocopy of a computer-generated receipt indicating that a phone order for a chicken burrito was placed by someone identified only as Maria at nine fifty-one p.m. “Payment was made in cash, but we don’t record pick-up times.” He says they checked their security videos, but they didn’t see her there, either.

It proves that she called in, but it doesn’t place her in the restaurant or confirm that she called Doe. I ask who was working at the take-out window.

“A new employee. You can talk to him if you’d like.” He tries to sound magnanimous when he adds, “In fact, you can talk to everybody who was working that night.”

“We’ll need a list.”

“Fine. You can use my office.” He calls Trujillo and tells her to start rounding up the troops. His apparent cooperation is admirable, but it means his employees aren’t going to impart any information that may help our case.

I try another direction. “Did you happen to see the news tonight?”

The genial smile returns. “I’m afraid not.”

“It seems Ms. Concepcion was pregnant.”

No discernable reaction. “I hadn’t heard.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“No.”

“You realize they’re going to do DNA testing.”

“Of course.”

There’s no reason to be subtle. “If it turns out you’re the father of the unborn baby, it will cast suspicion in your direction.”

“I’m not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

His smile turns patronizing as he pantomimes the motion of cutting with scissors. “Because I had a vasectomy over twenty years ago.”

CHAPTER 34

“YOU DON’T WANT TO BASE YOUR DEFENSE ON THE TESTIMONY OF A HOOKER”

“Fame and fortune are great, but a man’s most valued possession is his reputation.”

— Pete Daley. Private Investigator Monthly.

Pete takes a sip of bitter coffee and says, “It isn’t enough, Mick.”

And he thinks I’m the pessimist. “It’s close.”

“Not close enough.” My brother is stewing over a Styrofoam cup of scalding java at the McDonald’s at Twenty-fourth and Mission, around the corner from Concepcion’s apartment. She may have passed this spot last Monday night on her way to Lopez’s restaurant, where we just finished interviewing the employees. Nobody remembered seeing her that night. The scared kid who was working at the pick-up window recognized her photo, but he couldn’t confirm that she had come to the restaurant. “The cops already know about the call to Doe. Roosevelt would have contacted us if we’d solved the case. Besides, you don’t want to base your defense on the testimony of a hooker.”

It’s sound advice, but I take glimmers of hope wherever I can. “It’s more than we had.”

“It’s not enough to get the charges dropped.”

He still thinks like a cop. “It may be enough to get them to re-open the investigation.”

“I’d feel better if we had somebody who actually laid two non-bloodshot eyes on Concepcion at Lopez’s restaurant after ten o’clock last Monday night.”

So would I. “At least we know Lopez isn’t the father of the baby.”

“That doesn’t help, either. If he was the daddy, he would have moved up several spots on our list of potential suspects.”

I gnaw on a French fry and try to find something positive. “Trujillo will testify that she talked to Concepcion.”

“That’s irrelevant. It proves Concepcion made a phone call ten minutes before Ramon left her apartment.”

“It isn’t inconsistent with Doe’s testimony.”

“It doesn’t corroborate it, either.”

“Doe has no reason to lie.”

“Unless she was trying to get something in return.”

“Like what?”

“Free legal services.”

“You think she’s using us?”

“Maybe. She’s been around the block.”

“I don’t think so. She couldn’t have faked the phone call to the Mitchell Brothers.”

“She’s bright enough to know that she needed to offer you something. Maybe it was a set-up. Maybe her pimp called her at that hour every night.”

“The jury will be able to connect the dots.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if you’re wrong.”

Neither would I. I look for a reality check. “Do you think Concepcion called Doe?”

He takes another drink of coffee and decides, “Probably.”

“But?”

“I can’t prove it yet, and I wouldn’t want to go to court until we can.”

“How can we prove it?”

“First, you need to get your ass on TV to tell everyone that we have a witness who spoke to Concepcion at ten-thirty last Monday night without looking like one of those hack defense lawyers who gets on the tube and blames everything on aliens from outer space or a cult.”

“I like to think I have a little more finesse.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Mick. Second, we need to find a credible witness who saw Concepcion after ten o’clock last Monday night–preferably at Lopez’s restaurant or in the immediate vicinity.”

* * *

Preston Fuentes is less than thrilled to see us as he buffs the grill of his treasured red Corvette. He’s a wisp of a man with a dark buzz cut, narrow shoulders, and arms covered in tattoos. He weighs no more than a hundred and forty pounds, but I’d take him even up in a twelve-rounder with Terrence the Terminator. There is a small caliber handgun in his belt. He doesn’t look up at us when he says, “I told you I can’t help.”

His garage door is open. The cool night air smells of a mixture of chrome polish and paint fumes. In addition to the fire hazard, we’re probably standing in a toxic swamp.

Pete uses his cop-voice. “We aren’t trying to start trouble. We’re looking for information about what was going on last Monday night.”

“Talk to the cops.”

“They won’t tell us anything.”

“Neither will I.”

“A woman was murdered across the alley.”

“It happens. I didn’t know her, and I don’t know who killed her.”

Nice guy. “You may be able to help us find out who did.”

“Getting involved in a police investigation will make my life more complicated. I like to keep things simple.”

“It doesn’t bother you that a murderer is walking the streets of your neighborhood?”

He glances at Fluffy, who is sitting at high alert in the corner. The only thing keeping the Doberman from dismantling us is a heavy choke collar securely tethered to a block of cement that could be used to weigh down a body in the Bay. “That’s why I have her.”

Pete tries his persuasive powers for a few more minutes with no success, then he ups the ante. “Look, Preston, we have reason to believe you may be engaging in some questionable activities in your spare time.”

“Says who?”

“Your cousin.”

“It isn’t true and she has a big mouth.”

Sounds like the Fuentes and Moreno families have some issues.

Pete is still talking. “I have some friends at Mission Station. I could make a couple of calls.”

Guys like Fuentes don’t respond well to threats. “I could make a couple of calls, too.”

Or he could simply turn Fluffy loose.

Pete isn’t backing down. “I know a lieutenant at Mission Station who could shut your operation down tomorrow.”

“Your friend isn’t going to bother me. I fix the cars of all of the top brass.” He takes a deep breath of the pungent air. “This would be a good time for you to leave.”

They stare at each other in any icy silence for a long moment. Fuentes returns to his work and Pete heaves a frustrated sigh.

My father used to say that you get more with honey than with vinegar. “What would it take to get you to help us?” I ask.

Fuentes doesn’t fudge. “Money.”

“What else?”

“More money.”

“We can’t do it.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

I lateral the ball back to Pete, who looks at the Corvette. “Are you almost done?”

“Yeah. I have a buyer who wants to take delivery next week, but I’ve been having trouble getting some parts.”

This gets Pete’s attention. Among macho hard-ass types, auto parts are the universal currency. “What do you need?”

“A carburetor. They’re hard to find for a sixty-six.”

The animosity between them disappears for a moment as they bemoan the dearth of auto parts suppliers in the Bay Area. To the untrained eye, it appears to be an academic exercise between two car junkies, but Pete never engages in small talk just for fun. “If I can find you a carburetor, would you be willing to help us?”

“Depends on the quality of the equipment.”

“It will be top of the line–I guarantee it.”

“Who’s your supplier?”

“Pick.”

Fuentes’s eyes light up. “You can still get parts from Pick?”

Pete nods. “Yeah.”

I have no idea what they’re talking about.

“He went out of business,” Fuentes says.

“He’s reopened, but he only services his best customers, and everything is cash up front.”

Fuentes’s slim shoulders sag. “He won’t talk to me. We got into a fight about the cost of some equipment.”

“Pick doesn’t negotiate price.”

“So I learned. How can I get in touch with him?”

“You can’t, but I can.”

“What’s it going to cost me?”

“The price of a carburetor and information about last Monday night. We might be willing to pay for the carburetor if you can provide us with some good dish.”

Fuentes weighs the potential upside against the risk of abandoning his long-standing policy against talking about police matters. The buyer of this Corvette is probably going to pay well into six figures, so the economic analysis tilts in our favor. “What do you want to know?”

“Were you here last Monday night?”

“Yes.” He says he was in the garage until one o’clock.

Pete holds up a photo of Concepcion. “Did you see this woman?”

“No.”

“Did you see anything unusual?”

He ponders for a moment. “A black SUV was parked in the alley a few minutes before one.”

“What model?”

“I don’t recall.”

He’s playing hard-to-get. A car fanatic like Fuentes knows every make and model. “Was it somebody from the neighborhood?”

“People around here don’t drive SUVs and they know it’s a bad idea to block this alley.”

“I don’t suppose you caught a license number.”

“No.” He says the car was parked for about ten minutes.

“Was anybody else in the alley that night?”

“I can ask around.”

“How soon?”

“How soon can you get me my new carburetor?”

“I’ll call Pick right away.”

“Meet me back here at ten o’clock on Sunday night with a carburetor and maybe I’ll have something for you.”

CHAPTER 35

“WHO’S PICK?”

“Our workouts and camps stress baseball fundamentals for elite players. Our coaches are experienced and knowledgeable.”

— Brochure for the Jeff Pick Baseball Academy.

“Fuentes knows something,” Pete says. He’s simmering as we’re sitting on crates in the back of Tony’s market at eleven o’clock on Thursday night. Tony is sweeping up, and I can hear the bells of St. Peter’s chime as the aroma of fresh fruit wafts through the closed business.

Rosie’s level-headed brother offers a succinct explanation. “Preston is an asshole, but he’s a great mechanic.”

I take a bite out of an apple and turn to Pete. “Who’s Pick?”

“Jeff Pick.” His matter-of-fact tone suggests that I should recognize the name.

Tony stops sweeping. “You know Pick?”

“Yeah.”

Tony’s tone fills with reverence. “I need some stuff for my truck. Can you talk to him for me?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I’m still clueless. “Who’s Jeff Pick?”

“The best baseball player ever to come out of Serra High School,” Pete says.

The powerhouse Catholic School in San Mateo has produced as many great athletes as St. Ignatius, including Tom Brady. “Barry Bonds went to Serra,” I remind him.

“Pick was better. He was unhittable. He got a full ride to Santa Clara and was an All-American his senior year. He signed with the Giants and had a couple of seasons in the minors before he hurt his arm. He still throws in the mid-eighties, but he was never the same.”

I was an all-conference pitcher at St. Ignatius, but my fastball topped out at eighty-two miles per hour. I had to rely on finesse and guile. There were no scholarship offers. Pete says Pick now pitches for a couple of semi-pro teams and coaches high school and college kids.

“What does this have to do with getting a carburetor for a sixty-six Corvette?” I ask.

“There isn’t a lot of money in pitching lessons.”

There’s even less in semi-pro baseball. “So?”

“He has a side business dealing auto parts that’s quite lucrative. Most pitching coaches don’t live in Hillsborough.”

I’m beginning to get the picture. “How did you meet him?”

“I played against him in high school. More precisely, I heard three fastballs go by before I took a seat on the bench. Our paths crossed again when I was working at Mission Station.”

“He became a cop?”

“No, he became a criminal. He was dealing stolen auto parts, but we never pressed charges.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a good guy, Mick. He got me some parts for my old Mustang. He supplies half of the SFPD, including a couple of the assistant chiefs, and he pitches on the department’s semi-pro team. They came in second in the nationals last year. Everybody wins.”

I’m not hearing this. I ask if he now acquires the parts by legitimate means.

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “Depends on your definition of ‘legitimate.’”

“Are they stolen?”

“Sometimes they’re borrowed.”

Got it. “What are the chances he can find a carburetor for Fuentes?”

“Excellent.”

“How soon?”

“I’ll call him right now. We should have something to offer Fuentes in the next day or two.”

“Don’t forget to ask him about the struts for my truck,” Tony says.

I glance at my watch. It’s eleven-eighteen. I turn to my brother. “Pick operates at this hour of the night?”

“Most of his inventory becomes available after the sun goes down.”

* * *

Jeff Pick isn’t the only guy who works late. I strain to hear Roosevelt’s voice as the wind is whipping through the broken window of my car as I’m crossing the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight. “You’re up late,” he says.

“So are you.”

“You need to get more rest, Mike. You’ll live longer.”

I’ll live even longer if I get my window fixed. “I’d sleep a lot more if you’d drop the charges against Father Aguirre.”

“Only if you find me another murderer. Otherwise, it will screw up our conviction statistics.”

“Maybe I can help you. I’ve solved the case.”

“Really? Nobody said anything to me about a plea bargain deal, so I presume this means you think your client is innocent.”

“Correct.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t break down the door to Nicole Ward’s office to demand that she drop the charges immediately.”

“I understand your reluctance, but we have some information that blows your case out of the water.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’ve found a witness who is prepared to testify that she had a telephone conversation with Ms. Concepcion at ten-thirty on the night she died. That’s a half-hour after our client left her apartment.”

His tone doesn’t show the tiniest hint of concern. “What else did Jane Doe tell you?”

“You knew?”

“Of course.”

“Since when?”

“This afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’ve been busy investigating a murder.”

“Alleged murder,” I correct him.

“I was going to call you in the morning.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m a good cop. Doe told us she received a call from Concepcion at ten-thirty last Monday night. We confirmed that a call was placed from a payphone at Lopez’s restaurant to one at the Mitchell Brothers at that time, but we couldn’t identify the parties. We also got some help from Jerry Edwards. It’s always nice to hear from the Dark Lord of the Sith. Evidently, he spoke to Doe, too.”

“The fact that Ms. Concepcion was making calls from Lopez’s restaurant a half hour after Ramon left her apartment doesn’t trouble you?”

“First, you can’t prove she was at Lopez’s restaurant.”

“We have Doe’s testimony.”

“She’s a hooker.”

“She’s credible.”

“Second, you can’t prove Doe ever talked to her.”

“We have Doe’s testimony about that, too.”

“She’s still a hooker.”

“She’s still credible.”

He exhales heavily. “You’d better keep looking, Mike.”

He usually plays it straight with me. “Is there something else you haven’t told me?”

“We’re still checking a couple of things.”

I remind him that he has a legal obligation to share any evidence that might tend to exonerate Ramon.

“I’m well-aware of that, and I can assure you this evidence does not.”

“Mind if I ask you something off the record?”

“I can’t promise that I’ll answer, but go ahead.”

“Are you having me tailed?”

“What makes you think so?”

“A guy in a green Impala seems to have taken an unusual interest in my whereabouts.”

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“It isn’t us.”

* * *

“Roosevelt knows something,” I say to Rosie.

“He always knows more than he lets on.” She yawns. “There’s nothing we can do about it tonight.”

One a.m. I’m lying down on Rosie’s sofa with my head resting in her lap. We’ve scheduled a meeting with Ward and McNulty to go over evidentiary issues in a mere twelve hours. I’d like to have something significant to show them.

She senses my frustration and tries to find something positive. “Doe’s testimony proves that Concepcion was still alive a half hour after Ramon left.”

“We can’t corroborate her story.”

“We still have three days until the prelim starts.”

“Got any good news?”

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly. “Pete talked to Vince. Nobody was following you today.”

Mr. Impala seems to be laying low or has other things to do. “Where’s Vince?”

“Sitting in his car across the street. Pete said we shouldn’t talk to him–he doesn’t want us to blow his cover.”

I glance out the window and see the outline of an Explorer, then I look up at Tommy, who is sitting on top of me with his eyes wide open. I’ve always believed that babies know more than they let on. Rosie thinks that Tommy’s dreamy personality means he’s going to be an artist, but I think he’s going to be a lawyer. I look into his perplexed eyes and we share a yawn. He stretches himself out to his full length and gives me a half smile. Tommy always looks as if he can’t quite make up his mind if he’s happy. He seems to have inherited my view that if something good happens, the roof is likely to cave in a moment later. I sit up and raise him to my shoulder. “I think it’s time for you to call it a night,” I whisper to him.

He responds with another yawn. I take him into Rosie’s bedroom and gently place him down in his crib, where he gives me another Mona Lisa smile. He’s going to be a terrific poker player.

I’m sitting in the dark on the chair next to the crib and listening to Tommy’s rhythmic breathing when I hear Rosie’s voice by the door. “Is he asleep?” she whispers.

“Barely.”

She motions me into the living room and we take our places back on the sofa. She runs her fingers through my hair and says, “I think you’re getting grayer.”

Thanks. “It’s just the light.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“I could start dying it.”

“What color?”

“How about pink?”

“It wouldn’t play well in court. Besides, I think you look distinguished.”

“I’d rather look studly.”

“Better stick with distinguished.” She gives me a playful pat on the cheek and her tone turns serious. “How are you holding up?”

“Not bad, all things considered.” This case arrived on our doorstep a little more than forty-eight hours ago and my head is throbbing. “I wasn’t getting any sleep before the case started. This gives me something to do late at night that’s more productive than surfing the Net.”

“Do you ever stop making wisecracks?”

“It’s the only thing that keeps me going in my sleep-deprived state.” I touch her cheek. “Do you have the juice to take this to the finish line?”

“It’s Ramon.”

“It could get ugly.”

“I know.” She leaves it there. It’s unwise to get introspective in the middle of a murder investigation. She turns back to business. “I got Doe to sign an affidavit about her phone call. I’m worried she might make a run for it.”

“She’ll stay put. We’re her best hope.”

“Terrence is watching her. He knows his way around, and he isn’t going to let her out of his sight.”

Not to mention the fact that he’ll get to watch the shows at the Mitchell Brothers for the next couple of nights. “Is anybody else keeping her under surveillance?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

I ask her if she’s ever heard of Jeff Pick.

“He’s a pitching coach who makes ends meet by selling stolen auto parts. I was thinking of signing up Grace for one of his camps this summer.”

“It’s nice to know that someone who engages in illegal activities can still serve as a role model for our daughter.”

Her eyes twinkle. “So, in addition to cutting deals to represent hookers, we’re now trading stolen auto parts for information?”

“It’s basic economics. Supply and demand. It doesn’t mean I like it.”

The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles. She leans forward and kisses me. “Don’t be such a prude, Mike. We’re going to get through this and Ramon will be found innocent.”

“I know.” I wish I had her confidence.

“And then Tommy is going to sleep through the night.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

She lowers her voice. “We have to get the charges dismissed at the prelim. If this goes forward, Ramon’s reputation will be annihilated, even if we win at trial.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“We’re good lawyers and now we have some evidence to work with. Besides, we have to make some time to deal with our other cases.”

Huh? “What other cases?”

“We’ve promised half the hookers in San Francisco that we’re going to represent them after this case is finished.”

“It’s a living.” I squeeze her hand. “If all else fails, we can go into the auto parts business with Jeff Pick.”

Her smile transforms into a pronounced frown as she hears the sound of her cell phone, and she leaps up and grabs it just before the second ring. Criminal defense lawyers have to deal with calls in the wee hours, but this is definitely beyond the bounds. Her eyes turn to cold steel and she nods intently as she listens. Finally, she hits Disconnect and puts on her jacket. “We have to get downtown right away.” She glances at Grace’s room. “I’ll let my mother know.”

What the hell? “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, but there was a fire at the El Faro. Our office is going up in smoke.”

CHAPTER 36

“YOU’RE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE”

“The most important element in developing a case is devoting enough resources to get the facts right.”

— Nicole Ward. San Francisco Chronicle.

There are few things more disheartening than the sight of plumes of smoke billowing out the windows of a burning building. First Street is filled with emergency vehicles whose flashing lights are creating a strobe-light effect. A couple of news vans stopped to shoot footage for the morning shows. I feel helpless standing on the sidewalk next to Rosie as the firefighters assault our office with jets of water. We’re accompanied by Carlos Cervantes, the gregarious man who has owned El Faro for twenty years and is stoically watching the destruction of his restaurant.

Our building is within a mile of the Sansome Street fire station. The blaze was reported almost immediately by a Muni bus driver who was pulling into the Transbay terminal. I suspect the fire and the water have destroyed our files and furniture, but things could have been worse. Nobody was hurt and it appears that structural damage will be minimal. The fire started in the kitchen of El Faro and destroyed most of the cooking equipment, then spread to the seating area, where the tables and chair were consumed. It’s going to be a while before we’ll be able to get a burrito downstairs.

Carlos turns to us and says, “Are you insured?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah. We’ll put it back together. I’m too old to start over somewhere else.”

I ask him if he was here when the fire started.

“We were closed. They think it was an electrical short that ignited some grease on the grill.”

“What do you think?”

“There may have been an electrical problem, but I can assure you that there was no grease. I closed down tonight and I cleaned everything myself.”

We stand in silence as we watch the smoke begin to dissipate. I turn back to my neighbor. “Does that mean you think somebody started this fire on purpose?”

“I don’t know.” His voice fills with frustration when he says the police have promised to look into it. “I’ve been here for a long time. I can’t imagine why anybody would want to do this to us.”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

“Maybe,” he replies without conviction. He gives us each a perfunctory handshake. Then he heads across the street to try to salvage what he can of his business.

Rosie pulls out her cell and calls her home number. She gives her mother an update and explains that we’re going to be working out of the house for a while. She hits Disconnect and we exchange a somber glance. “I’ll call the insurance company first thing,” she says.

“We’ll be back up and running in no time.”

“Right.” She exhales heavily. “Do you think somebody was trying to send Carlos a message?”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Do you think somebody was trying to send us a message?”

I take a deep breath of the acrid air. I don’t want to unduly alarm her, but she isn’t naive. “There are people who aren’t ecstatic about the fact that we’re representing Ramon, but they don’t strike me as the type who would burn down our building to prove a point. Frankly, there are simpler ways to threaten somebody.”

“Like following you around and smashing windows?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe they figured we weren’t getting the message.”

“We’re getting it now.”

It’s almost five a.m. when a tired fire captain whose gear is drenched approaches us. “The fire is under control, but we need to watch a few hot spots.” She tells us that it probably started by accident in the kitchen of El Faro and that it is unlikely that we’ll be able to salvage much. She asks, “Do either of you happen to drive a green Impala?”

Rosie and I exchange a quick glance. Rosie answers her. “No. Why do you ask?”

“It’s probably nothing, but the bus driver who called nine-one-one said he saw an Impala pulling out of the alley behind your building right before he saw the flames.”

* * *

I try not to dwell on the fire as I’m pulling my second consecutive all-nighter. At six-thirty a.m., I’m crossing the Richmond Bridge on my way to the Channel 2 studios in Oakland for my interview with Jerry Edwards. My cell phone rings. F.X. Quinn feigns interest in my well-being. “I saw the fire on the news this morning. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Francis. Nobody was hurt.”

“Thank God.” There is a hesitation. “Michael, we will understand completely if you need a few days to regroup.”

“We’re fine.”

“We can always ask for a continuance.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“And if you and Rosie need to reconsider your generous offer to handle Ramon’s case, we’ll understand that, too.”

No doubt. “We’ll manage.”

He keeps pushing. “We can always bring in some people from John’s firm to help you.”

“That won’t be necessary, either.”

“Are you sure, Michael?”

“I’m sure, Francis.” I’m tempted to ask him if he knows anybody who drives a green Impala, but I’m sure he’ll deny it.

The phony concern leaves his voice. “Are you going to be able to salvage anything from your office?”

“Not much, but we have what we need for Ramon’s case.” Fortunately, our laptops and the police files for Ramon’s case were at Rosie’s house.

“John said that you can use a conference room at his firm for a few weeks.”

How magnanimous. He’ll probably charge us rent. The last thing we need is to be camped out at Shanahan’s office, where he’ll have a chance to monitor every move we make. When you earn your stripes as a public defender, you have to get used to working out of cramped space. “That’s very generous of him, but we’ll manage.”

* * *

Ward’s tone is irritatingly deferential. “I’m so sorry to hear about the fire. I hope everything is going to be all right.”

“We’re fine, Nicole.”

Not a strand of hair is out of place as she leans on the delicate elbows placed on her broad desk at one o’clock on Friday afternoon. She’s just returned from a fund-raising luncheon at the Fairmont for the governor, and she looks relaxed in a chic cream-colored silk blouse with a navy scarf. The fact that we’re starting a preliminary hearing in a high-profile murder case three days from now appears to have no substantial bearing on her demeanor. Then again, her office didn’t go up like a bed sheet last night. Her patronizing tone becomes even more grating. “Have they been able to determine the cause of the fire?”

“The fire inspectors are looking into it.”

“We’ll understand if you need to delay Monday’s prelim.”

“We’ll be ready to go.”

So much for the feigned compassion. “I saw you on Mornings on Two. Have you found anybody who saw Ms. Concepcion at Mr. Lopez’s restaurant last Monday night?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll keep us informed?”

“We will.”

Her stylish clothing and confident air are a stark contrast to those of McNulty, who is wearing a rumpled Men’s Wearhouse suit and is sitting in a chair adjacent to her desk. Johnson and Banks are standing behind him. Rosie and I are on the sofa. Quinn and Shanahan have assumed defensive postures directly across from us. You can tell the pecking order from the seating arrangements: the lawyers get to sit, but the cops have to stand.

“You called this meeting,” Ward says. “What did you want to talk about?”

This is not a time for subtlety. “We think you should seriously consider dropping the charges and reopening the investigation.”

Banks and Johnson exchange a quick glance, but they remain silent. McNulty’s eye-roll is more pronounced, but he stays quiet, too. This is Ward’s office and it’s her show. The corner of her mouth turns up slightly and she responds with a sugary, “We think you should seriously consider taking more realistic positions.”

“Hear me out. We’ve found a witness who is prepared to testify that she spoke to Ms. Concepcion at ten-thirty last Monday night. We’ve obtained a written statement that Ms. Concepcion was still alive after Father Aguirre left her apartment.” Thankfully, the statement was in Rosie’s briefcase and didn’t burn up in the fire.

No reaction from Ward. “We’ve talked to Ms. Doe. You’re welcome to put her on the stand, but she’s a convicted hooker and druggie who is selling her testimony to the highest bidder. She would have told us anything we wanted to hear if we’d agreed to drop the solicitation charge. We aren’t in the business of trading information for testimony–especially from an unreliable witness.”

They do it all the time.

She adds, “Moreover, we’ll crucify her on cross-exam.”

Either she is truly unconcerned about Doe’s testimony or she’s bluffing. You never want to use a heavy hand with a witness who is also a victim. “If I were in your shoes, it would bother me that a witness is prepared to testify that the victim was very much alive a half hour after our client was supposed to have murdered her.”

“You aren’t in my shoes and you can’t corroborate her story. We confirmed that a call was placed from Lopez’s restaurant at ten-thirty last Monday night to a payphone at the Mitchell Brothers, but we have no way of proving that Ms. Concepcion initiated it or that Ms. Doe answered. And besides–”

And here she smiles. She only does that when she’s about to pounce. I hate it when she smiles.

“–it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We have a witness who can place your client back at the scene later that night.”

What? “Who?”

“Nick Hanson. He saw your client walking back to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at a quarter to twelve.”

CHAPTER 37

“INDEED I AM”

“The longer I do this job, the more I realize there’s no substitute for hard work.”

— Nick Hanson. San Francisco Chronicle.

Fior D’Italia has been a crowd-pleasing North Beach classic since it opened its doors in 1886 to service the patrons of a bordello on Broadway. Several moves and ownership changes later, it is now located in a century-old building at Mason and Francisco, and now caters mostly to tourists. Despite the occasionally-snippy waiters and the brusque service, the food is bountiful and at times, excellent. The aroma of tomato sauce and mozzarella fills the elegant dining room as Nick the Dick Hanson shoots to his feet and greets me with a broad smile and a warm handshake at nine o’clock on Friday night. Ever the man about town, the diminutive octogenarian has a fresh rose on his lapel that’s a perfect match for his red face. His new charcoal toupee complements his double-breasted Armani.

“How the hell have you been, Mike?” he croaks. It’s his standard greeting, but you manage to suspend disbelief long enough to think he actually means it.

“Just fine, Nick.”

“Sorry to hear about the fire.”

“Thanks.” We took a quick and depressing tour of what’s left of our office earlier this evening. The smoke and water did more damage than the flames, and little is salvageable. We’ll be working out of Rosie’s living room for the foreseeable future.

“You aren’t pulling out of the Aguirre case, are you?”

He’s never backed away from a fight and neither will I. “Of course not, Nick.”

“Good man.”

“I understand you’ve been keeping pretty busy.”

He arches a bushy gray eyebrow. “Indeed, I have.”

So have I. Our less-than-satisfactory visit with Ward was followed by a heated conversation with our client in which he admitted he went for a walk in the vicinity of Concepcion’s building late last Monday night, but he vehemently denied that he re-entered her apartment. He said he had forgotten to drop off some flyers for a church function earlier that evening, and he left a stack by her back door. There was no record of any such materials in the police inventory, and his story sounded a bit forced. Then we got another earful from Quinn and Shanahan, who reiterated their displeasure that they’re duty-bound not to reveal the possibility that Ramon may be the father of Concepcion’s unborn child. They made it abundantly clear that there would be serious repercussions if it turns out that he is. Next, Pete, Rosie, and I spent six fruitless hours pounding on doors in the vicinity of Concepcion’s apartment, but not a soul saw her out for a stroll last Monday night. We had another friendly chat with Preston Fuentes, who’d told us in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t talk to us again until we show up with a carburetor.

As always, tonight’s festivities begin with appetizers and the ceremonial recitation of the accomplishments of Nick’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Nick does all the reciting, and the stories flow as freely as the Chianti. He reports that the four generations of Hansons who work at his agency are doing well, and that he’s especially proud of his great granddaughter, Dena, who will start law school at USF next fall if she can pry herself away from answering the phones at her great grandpa’s business.

Our salads arrive next, and Nick shoves a plate of tomatoes in front of me. “You need vegetables,” he insists, “and more protein. I could have made a mint if I’d started writing diet books instead of mysteries.” He must be doing something right. He’s still going strong at eighty-eight. He says his latest novel has been optioned to Hollywood, although he expresses disappointment that Danny DeVito will not reprise his role in the lead. “Bruce Willis is interested. He wants to give it more of an action-adventure feel.”

I can see it now: Nick the Dick Dies Hard.

Our entrees arrive at ten o’clock, but he’s still warming up. Dinner with Nick is like getting married–it requires a commitment. I nibble at my petrale as he cuts his veal scaloppini in half and passes his plate over to me. “Try it. You need to keep your strength up.” He orders a second helping for himself. “I’ve always had fast metabolism.”

The former welterweight boxer played baseball on the North Beach Playground with his boyhood pal, Joe DiMaggio, and ran the grueling seven-and-a-half mile Bay to Breakers race in May for a record sixty-ninth straight year. He tells me he’s training for the Dipsea Race that starts in Mill Valley and goes over Mount Tam to Stinson Beach. “A ninety-four-year-old guy ran it last year. I’m going to beat him.”

I don’t doubt it.

I hear the bells of St. Peter and Paul’s chime eleven times when Nick finally finishes his second helping of veal, drains his third glass of wine, and orders dessert. He sounds like Edward G. Robinson when he says, “So, did your guy do it?”

It’s taken two hours and a couple of pounds of veal, but we’re finally getting to the good stuff. “No, he didn’t. I know this guy, Nick. He’s clean.”

“Whatever you say.” He motions to the waiter, who brings him a double espresso. Nick doesn’t drink decaf.

“I understand you’re involved in the O’Connell matter.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Was he clean?”

“Indeed he was not.”

It takes all of my self-control not to start mimicking him. “Can they prove it?”

“No way. It’s going to be Doe’s word against his. Doe’s a whore, and O’Connell is dead.”

Ever the consummate professional. “He can’t defend himself.”

“He’s better off. When he was still alive, the trial was going to be about him. Now the trial is going to be about her. The archdiocese paid me a bundle to dig up dirt on her, and it wasn’t hard. I was able to persuade a couple of vice cops to pick her up a few weeks ago on a solicitation rap. Her credibility is shot.”

Doe was right: her arrest was a set-up.

Nick is still talking. “Father O’Connell had a propensity for offering counseling services to attractive young women who came to mass at St. Boniface. It so happens that a lot of those sessions took place at the Mitchell Brothers.”

“I take it this included illicit sex with his parishioners?”

“Indeed it did.” He washes down his cheesecake with a healthy shot of espresso, then he absent-mindedly adjusts his toupee. “They’ll never be able to prove it. Doe is the only witness and she’s a druggie.”

Nick the Dick has many virtues, but diplomacy isn’t one of them. “She’s a Catholic girl from the Sunset whose father molested her and beat the crap out of her alcoholic mother. It won’t play well if Ward and McNulty try to nail her.”

Nick’s jowls vibrate as he shakes his head. “She’s a lap dancer. That doesn’t make her very credible in my book.”

Mine either. “Give her a break, Nick. She’s been through a lot.”

“This is just business. I’ve been on retainer for the archdiocese for four decades. I do whatever John Shanahan says. Do you think I got any pleasure spending day after day at the Mitchell Brothers?”

I don’t think he’s really expecting me to answer.

“I feel sorry for her, but I’m not a social worker. I hope she gets herself straightened out.”

“Did you have anybody watching her last Monday?”

“My son, Rick, was keeping an eye on her at the theater.”

“Did she receive a phone call?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t go backstage.”

I ask if he bugged Doe’s room or her phone.

“No. It’s against archdiocese policy. Jerry Edwards would crucify them if they tried it.”

Yes, he would. It’s also an interesting metaphor. “Where were you last Monday night?”

“On the roof of the garage across the alley from the back door of Concepcion’s apartment.” Another one of his sons, Nick, Jr., was watching the front door. “For the record, we didn’t bug her apartment or her phone.”

I’m inclined to take his word for it. I ask him how long he’d been watching her.

“For about six months. Lopez’s wife hired me to watch her husband, who was seeing Concepcion at the time. She got really pissed off when I told her that her husband was cheating.”

Always a pillar of decorum. “Enough to murder his mistress?”

“No. Just enough to take him to the cleaners in their divorce.”

“Are you still working for her?”

“Yeah. She wants me to keep an eye on him until the divorce is final. He isn’t seeing anybody now, but just wait a few days. You can’t paint new spots on an old dog.”

I ask him about Concepcion’s break-up with Lopez.

“It was one for the ages. She read him the riot act when she found out he was boinking the hostess from the restaurant.”

That would be Mercedes Trujillo. “She broke up with him?”

“Definitely.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard everything.”

“You just said you didn’t bug her apartment.”

“I didn’t. I bugged Lopez’s office.”

I’m confused. “You said that violates archdiocese policy.”

“It does. I was acting on behalf of Mrs. Lopez.”

You can’t tell the players without a scorecard.

“Among other things,” he continues, “she took a swing at him with his Orlando Cepeda autographed bat, and he’s lucky she didn’t connect. She took a chunk out of one of the towers of the Riordan Square model. They didn’t see each other again.”

I tell him that the phone records indicated that Concepcion placed a call to Lopez’s restaurant at nine-fifty-one on the night she died. “Did she talk to him?”

“She didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“We bugged his phone, too.”

I love it. “Did you bug anybody else’s phone?”

“No.”

“Do you think he was pissed off enough about their break-up to have killed her?”

“He’s a dick, but he’s not a murderer.”

Nick’s a good judge of character. On to a more important question. “Did you see her leave her apartment that night?”

“Yes.”

Yes! “What time was that?”

“About twenty minutes after ten.”

Perfect. “You realize Father Aguirre left her apartment at ten o’clock.”

“I saw him leave.”

Excellent. “Do you know where she went?”

“No, but she returned about twenty minutes later.”

It’s plenty of time for her to have walked over to Lopez’s restaurant and made a phone call to Doe. I ask him why he didn’t follow her.

“I couldn’t get down from the roof without being seen.”

Plausible enough. “I can understand why you were watching Doe, but why did the archdiocese ask you to keep an eye on her attorney?”

“Belt-and-suspenders lawyering. They wanted to discredit the messenger–especially if she was a depressed, quasi-suicidal loon who had a grudge against the archdiocese.”

“Was she?”

“Not really, but that’s the portrait we’re going to present to the press. We were able to take a look at her file in her shrink’s office. She was unhappy and on medication, but she wasn’t any loopier than the two of us.”

The fact that Nick was able to study Concepcion’s file at her therapist’s office is more than a little disturbing.

He adds, “I’m not prepared to testify about the contents of that file.”

“Understood.” We’ll ask the shrink about it.

“She was also becoming a monumental pain in the ass who was hell-bent on tweaking her ex-husband and her old law firm. She filed dozens of suits against the archdiocese. She never beat them in court, but Quinn and Shanahan were getting tired of explaining it to the archbishop. They settled a few cases for a couple of million bucks. In the grand scheme of things, that isn’t a helluva lot of dough when you’re talking about priests who did creepy things.”

I suppose.

“It started to get more personal in the last couple of months. Shanahan didn’t like her and her ex-husband hated her. Oddly enough, Quinn was the voice of reason. He agreed to settle a couple of the more serious cases to avoid the bad publicity.”

“He couldn’t settle the O’Connell case.”

“He tried. She wanted too much money.”

I ask him if he saw anybody come or go from her apartment last Monday night.

“Just your client. He arrived around eight and left a few minutes after ten.”

So far, so good.

He adds, “Then I saw him again around eleven-forty-five that night.”

Not so good, but it jibes with Ward’s account earlier today. “Where?”

“Walking down the alley behind Concepcion’s apartment.”

“Do you see where he went?”

“Inside the gate to Concepcion’s building.”

“How long was he there?”

“A few minutes.”

This is consistent with Ramon’s story that he dropped off some flyers at Concepcion’s back door. “Did you see him enter her apartment?”

“I couldn’t see the back entrance to Concepcion’s apartment from my vantage point, but he was clearly heading for the door.”

I ask if he could see inside the apartment.

“No. The curtains were pulled and the lights were off.”

“Were the lights off the entire time he was there?”

“Yes.”

Ward will argue that Ramon killed Concepcion in the dark. I try not to show my concern. “How was his demeanor?”

“He was in a hurry.”

He would have been running if he’d just committed murder. “Not to belabor this, but did you happen to see him kill her?”

“No.”

Good. “Can I ask you a question off the record?”

“You can ask me anything you want.”

“Do you or any of your people drive a green Impala?”

He gives me a knowing look. “Somebody’s watching you, eh?”

“We think so.”

“Off the record, we aren’t watching you, and nobody in my operation drives an Impala.”

I believe him.

He holds up a hand. “On the other hand, just because we aren’t watching you doesn’t mean that you aren’t being watched. There are a lot of people in town who have a vested interest in the O’Connell case, including the cops and the archdiocese. If I were in your shoes, I’d keep my backside covered.”

It’s good advice. “How late were you at your post behind Concepcion’s apartment?”

“Until about twelve-thirty.”

I ask him why he didn’t stay all night.

“My son called me from the Mitchell Brothers. Somebody was hassling Doe and he needed help. It turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Have you spoken to the police about all of this?”

“Absolutely. I talked to Roosevelt this morning. He looks great.”

Yes, he does. “Can you rule out the possibility that somebody entered her apartment after you left?”

“No.”

It helps a little. “Are you prepared to testify to that effect?”

“Indeed I am.”

* * *

Friday night turns into Saturday, and Saturday turns into Sunday. We spend the weekend pounding on doors in the vicinity of Concepcion’s apartment, but we find no witnesses. We regroup in Rosie’s apartment at six o’clock on Sunday night.

The mood is somber when Roosevelt calls. His voice has an ominous cast. “Did you get am e-mail from Ward?”

“Not yet.” I can feel my heart pounding. “Is it the results of the DNA tests?”

“Yes.”

I take a deep breath. “And?”

“I thought you’d appreciate hearing it from me. Your client is the father of Ms. Concepcion’s unborn baby.”

CHAPTER 38

“A SIN IS STILL A SIN”

“DNA testing has confirmed that Father Ramon Aguirre is the father of Maria Concepcion’s unborn child.”

— Nicole Ward. KGO-Radio. Sunday, December 14. 6:20 p.m.

Ramon reacts with a combination of sadness and despair. His face is ashen and his voice is a whisper when he understates, “That isn’t good news.”

I can’t disagree with him.

Quinn is sitting behind his desk with his arms folded. His view is decidedly more direct. “This is a disaster.”

A stoic Shanahan nods in agreement.

Rosie and I are sitting in the stiff chairs adjacent to Quinn’s conference table at seven o’clock on Sunday night. Ramon’s subdued reaction suggests the information didn’t come as a great surprise to him. Quinn’s lack of histrionics indicates that he had braced himself for the possibility as well.

I try to focus on the bigger picture. “It doesn’t change the fundamental nature of the case or provide a shred of additional evidence.”

Quinn’s scowl becomes more pronounced. “It provides a motive. The DA will argue that it was a clumsy attempt to cover up a sexual indiscretion. If word got out he’d fathered a baby, his career would have ended right there.”

In all likelihood, it’s probably going to end right here.

Ramon’s eyes are on fire. “You think I murdered my own unborn child?”

Quinn’s tone turns patronizing. “It happens, Ramon.”

“It didn’t happen here, Francis.”

Shanahan raises a calming hand and invokes a practical tone. “It’s time to take a hard look at the facts. They’ve placed you at the scene and you’re the father of the baby. The prosecution will argue you killed her to cover it up. Maybe she was trying to blackmail you or maybe it was in a fit of rage. In the final analysis, it doesn’t matter.”

“That isn’t what happened, John.”

“Do you think anybody is going to believe you?”

“It’s the truth.”

I’m tempted to defend him, but it won’t help. I try to shift from recriminations to problem-solving. “We’ll need to talk to the people at the fertility clinic.”

“We already know that Ramon is the father,” Quinn says.

“We need to confirm that he fathered the baby through artificial insemination.”

“A sin is still a sin.”

“Come on. It isn’t as sinful as having sex out of wedlock. You know that. We need to show it wasn’t some cheap one-night stand. It won’t look quite so bad.”

The room fills with an uneasy silence. Quinn looks at the etching of Jesus above his desk in an effort to seek divine inspiration. Shanahan takes off his reading glasses and holds them tightly. Ramon is sitting ramrod straight. Guilty people tend to panic at times like this, but Ramon doesn’t.

Rosie breaks the silence. “We still have tonight and tomorrow morning to gather as much evidence as we can.”

“It isn’t enough time,” Shanahan says. “We should ask for a continuance.”

Ramon shakes his head. “I don’t want to postpone the hearing. This will drag on for months.”

“We’re going to talk to a man who lives down the alley from Concepcion’s apartment,” I say. “He was working on his car last Monday and might have something for us.”

Quinn is unimpressed. “How did you find him?”

He was recommended by his cousin–a hooker–and we agreed to trade stolen auto parts for information. “We spent the last couple of days asking around.”

“What does he do?”

He’s a pimp. “He’s a mechanic.”

“What are the chances he might be able to help us?”

“Hard to tell. He told us there was a black SUV parked in the alley behind Ms. Concepcion’s apartment around twelve-forty-five a.m.”

Shanahan’s interest is piqued. “Did he see anybody get out?”

“No.”

“And this is supposed to give us some level of comfort?”

“It’s all we have, John. We’re checking SUV registrations.”

Quinn says, “There must be thousands registered in the Bay Area.”

“There are.”

There is a long silence before Quinn turns to Shanahan and says, “You tell them.”

“Tell us what?”

Shanahan’s silver hair gleams against the artificial light from the fluorescent tubes above us. “I received a call from Ms. Concepcion’s mother.” He turns to Ramon. “She wanted me to convey her extreme disappointment in your behavior.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Ramon says.

“No, you won’t. She has no interest in talking to you. She informed me that she has retained separate legal counsel to initiate a civil action against you and the archdiocese.”

“On what grounds?” I ask.

“Wrongful death.”

“That’s absurd.”

“That’s for a jury to decide.”

It’s true, and the threshold for finding liability will be lower. In a criminal case, the prosecution needs to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. In a civil case, the plaintiff must prove its case only by a preponderance of the evidence. They couldn’t nail O.J. on murder, but they got him on the civil charges. Moreover, the civil discovery rules are more liberal. Ramon will be able to invoke his fifth amendment rights, but he can’t refuse to testify altogether.

And now I know what’s coming next.

Shanahan turns to Ramon. “Your behavior has put us into a decidedly difficult position that creates inherent conflicts of interest.”

It’s what I’d been warning people about all along.

Shanahan now looks at me. “We may have to make a decision in the civil case that will be adverse to your client’s interests.”

I don’t like the fact that he’s referring to Ramon as my client.

“More precisely,” he continues, “it may be in the best interests of the archdiocese to settle all or some portion of the civil suit before the criminal case is resolved.”

“Meaning you’re prepared to sell out Ramon if it’s better economically for you.”

“It’s my job to protect the interests of the archdiocese.”

“You’re willing to admit liability even if it means your client’s life and career will be put into jeopardy?”

Shanahan clears his throat. “Obviously, that would not be an optimal result.”

I turn to Quinn. “Do you agree with John’s analysis?”

“It’s also my job to look out for the best interests of the archdiocese, even if it might result in a less-than-ideal situation for your client.”

Ramon points a finger at his colleague. “I’m your client.”

“Not anymore. You brought this upon yourself, Ramon.”

“I’m willing to admit I made a mistake by helping Maria, but I didn’t kill her.”

“You lied about your relationship and you may be lying now.”

“Go to hell, Francis.”

“Your ticket there is already punched.”

Shanahan steps back like a hockey referee and lets them go at it as the vitriol escalates. Rosie looks to me for guidance, but I let them blow off steam. It’s helpful to let everybody cut loose every once in a while. I’d rather let Ramon take out his frustrations on Quinn.

The sniping subsides after a couple of minutes and I reassert myself. I turn to Shanahan. “Where does this leave us?”

“We cannot represent Father Aguirre as long as the civil case is pending.”

I look at Quinn. “Is that your position, too?”

His face is still red from his tirade, but his tone is even. “We have no choice but to withdraw as counsel.”

“You realize you’re still bound by the attorney-client privilege.”

“Only with respect to issues we’ve discussed prior to our resignation.”

Not true. “If you reveal any confidences, I’ll take you before the State Bar.” I point to Shanahan. “The same goes for you.”

“Calm down, Michael.”

No, I won’t. “You should expect to receive a subpoena later tonight. We’re going to call you as a witness in Father Aguirre’s case.” I shift my gaze slowly over to Quinn. “You’ll be getting one, too.”

“Judge Tsang will never let you do it.”

“He may be inclined to rule our way after I explain to him that both of you spoke to Ms. Concepcion on the night she died.” I turn back to Shanahan. “We’re going to send a subpoena to Dennis Peterson.”

“He’s skiing.”

“We’ll find him.” I don’t say it out loud, but we will also subpoena Archbishop Keane. That should liven things up around archdiocese headquarters.

Shanahan hands me a letter noticing the resignation of his firm and Quinn as counsel of record in Ramon’s case. “I was hoping we might have been able to do this in a civilized and orderly manner. Even in difficult circumstances, it’s important to maintain your professionalism.”

Rosie has heard all that she can stomach. “Professionals don’t quit on their clients the night before their prelims.”

“We have no choice.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s out of my hands. My partners won’t let us continue.”

“Your name is at the top of the letterhead. You can do anything you want.”

“I can’t put my firm’s reputation at risk.”

“But you’re prepared to ruin your client’s.”

Genteel John tries to strike an imposing posture as he folds his arms and lowers his voice. “Let me give you some free legal advice.”

There’s no way I can possibly stop him.

“I’ve been doing this for more than forty years. I know you’re angry, but I think you should sleep on this before you start shooting out subpoenas to people who have the wherewithal to make your lives miserable.”

Rosie responds before I can. “We don’t intimidate that easily.”

“I’m not trying to intimidate you,” he lies. “I’m looking out for your best interests.”

Rosie’s tone oozes contempt. “Thank you for your wisdom, John.”

Their minds are made up and I need to address some practical considerations. I turn to Quinn. “I trust your decision to withdraw from this representation will have no bearing on your decision to post bail for Father Aguirre?”

“Correct. We will honor that obligation.”

“And you will continue to provide a place for Father Aguirre to stay?”

“We intend to fulfill that commitment, too.” He isn’t happy about it, but it would be a public relations disaster if they go back on their word.

“I don’t want you to discuss any matters with Father Aguirre unless I am present.”

“Understood. I hope you will have no objection if we’re polite when we have contact from time to time. After all, he’s our guest.”

“You can talk about the weather. I will make your lives a living hell if anybody in this building talks to Father Aguirre without my permission, and I will bring the mother of all legal actions if Father Aguirre’s room or phone is bugged.”

“You’ve made your position crystal clear.”

“We’d like to talk to our client for a few minutes—in private.”

In addition to everything else, we are now at war with the San Francisco Archdiocese.

CHAPTER 39

“IT’S BETTER TO COME CLEAN”

“We must always bear in mind that the actions of one priest can cast a long shadow upon the archdiocese as a whole.”

— Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

Ramon’s voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry, Mike. I was trying to help Maria.”

We’re meeting in his room at archdiocese headquarters at eight o’clock on Sunday night. His surge of energy has dissipated, and the harsh realities are sinking in. His freedom is at stake, the cards are stacking against him, and nobody in this building is his friend.

I put on my game face and try to sound reassuring. “We’ll deal with it. You’re family.”

“They say it isn’t a good idea to represent relatives.”

“Sometimes you have to break the rules.”

“Seems I’ve done enough of that in the last few months to last a lifetime.”

He certainly has.

Rosie starts with pragmatics. “You have to be careful about who you talk to. Everybody here is a potential witness. We’re the only people you can trust.”

“I understand.”

“We need to deal with Maria’s unborn child,” I say. “It’s better to come clean and move forward.”

“It will cost me my job.”

“We can address that issue after the charges are dropped.”

The reality check is now complete. He lowers his voice and asks what he can do to help.

“We need a description of everybody you met at the fertility clinic. With a little luck, we’ll find a witness who can corroborate that you made a . . . donation. We need to show that it wasn’t a one-night stand. We also need a detailed chronology of precisely what you did and where you walked after you left Ms. Concepcion’s building last week. Maybe we can find somebody who will testify that you never re-entered her apartment.”

“I told you I left some flyers by her back door.”

Which doesn’t help without corroboration. I shift gears. “Both Quinn and Shanahan spoke to Ms. Concepcion last Monday.”

“So?”

“I think they know more than they’ve told us.”

“They might. What do you want me to say?”

“That they had a grudge against her and would sell their souls to protect the reputation of the archdiocese.”

“They did and they would, but I don’t think they’d get involved in murder.”

“I’m not as forgiving as you are.”

“I’ve been in the forgiveness business longer than you have.”

And I got out before I got good at it.

He acknowledges that he has no great love for either of them, but he’s adamant in his belief that neither man would engage in criminal activity. “They wouldn’t cross the line. There’s too much at stake.”

I push him, but he doesn’t change his view. I explain that McNulty will present his case at the prelim as expeditiously as possible, and we’ll put on a full court defense. “The prosecution will probably finish by the middle of the day. We’ll have to be ready to go.”

“When do I testify?”

Rosie and I respond in unison with an emphatic, “You don’t.”

He gives up quickly after he hears the adamancy in our respective tones. There is a slight chance that Rosie and I will put him on the stand if this case goes to trial, but it’s far too risky to let him testify at the prelim, where McNulty will tie him in knots.

“We’ll pick you up first thing tomorrow morning,” I tell him. “Wear your collar.”

“I will. Where are you off to now?”

“I have to deliver a carburetor.”

CHAPTER 40

“IT CAN’T POSSIBLY GET

ANY WORSE”

“The preliminary hearing for Father Ramon Aguirre will begin at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Pull up a comfortable chair, get a big bowl of popcorn, and prepare to enjoy the show.”

— Legal Commentator Mort Goldberg. Channel 4 News. Sunday, December 14. 10:00 p.m.

Preston Fuentes studies every inch of the carburetor that Jeff Pick located for him with the same precision that a jeweler would use in examining a fine diamond. “This looks good,” he finally decides. “Where did Pick find it?”

“I didn’t ask,” Pete says.

We’re standing inside Fuentes’s garage at ten o’clock Sunday night. The door is closed. Fluffy is sitting quietly in the corner. The cramped area smells of car wax.

“What do I owe you?” Fuentes asks.

“Nothing.”

“What’s it really going to cost me?”

“Information about the woman who died in the building across the alley.”

“I didn’t know her, and I don’t know what happened to her.”

“You said you’d try to find somebody who did.”

“I can ask around.”

“We were under the impression you were already doing that.”

“I told you’d I’d see what I can do after you delivered the carburetor.”

Pete’s voice gets louder. “So, you haven’t done a thing.”

“Correct.”

“We had a deal.”

“Yes, we did. Now that you’ve fulfilled your part, I’ll fulfill mine.”

Pete can’t mask his irritation. “How soon?”

“Come back tomorrow night. Same time, same place.” He looks down at the carburetor. “Give my best to Pick.”

* * *

Pete is seething. “That was a waste of time.”

What my brother lacks in eloquence he makes up for with directness. We’re sitting in my car behind Tony’s market at ten-thirty on Sunday night. I need to get back to Rosie’s to continue preparations for the prelim. Pete is going to relieve Terrence the Terminator, who is spending some quality time at the Mitchell Brothers watching Jane Doe.

He adds, “He should have had his ass in gear. He knew I would get him the carburetor.”

As if Fuentes would have any reason to think Pete has a reputation for procuring auto parts.

He isn’t finished. “We don’t have time to screw around. I’ll go around and knock on a few doors tonight.”

I admire his tenacity. “I want you to relieve Terrence.”

He nods. His dark brown eyes reflect the glow of the street light above us as he gives me his honest assessment of our situation. “We’re screwed, Mick.”

“We’ve been in tougher spots. Besides, what else can they do to us? They’ve followed us, smashed my car window, broken into Rosie’s house, and tried to burn down our office. It can’t possibly get any worse.”

“Yes, it can, Mick.”

I’m about to start the ignition when my cell phone rings. I can tell from the Terminator’s shaky voice that something is very wrong. “She’s dead, Mike,” he whispers.

“Who?”

“Jane Doe.”

No! “What the hell happened?”

“Somebody shot her as she was leaving the theater.”

Dammit. “Did they catch him?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“No.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“They’re already here.” He’s choking back tears. “I’m sorry, Mike. I did the best that I could.”

“I know. We’ll be right there.” I press Disconnect and turn to Pete. “Things just got worse.”

CHAPTER 41

“FOLLOW THE MONEY”

“We are receiving preliminary reports of a shooting behind the Mitchell Brothers Theater. The victim has not been identified.”

— KGO Radio. Monday, December 15. 12:30 a.m.

The Terminator is inconsolable as he’s sitting on a milk crate outside the yellow tape in the alley behind the Mitchell Brothers at twelve-forty-five a.m. His voice is child-like when he says, “I let you down.”

The flashing lights and haphazardly-parked news vans create a surreal carnival-like atmosphere in a neighborhood where many crimes go unreported and most go unsolved. Reporters from the major TV stations jockey for position to get the best angle of the backdrop of a girlie theater offset against the foggy night sky.

I put a hand on his muscle-bound shoulder. “You couldn’t have prevented it, Terrence.”

“She was out of my sight for less than a minute. It’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. Somebody was waiting for her.”

He says he saw a green Impala pull out of the alley. He didn’t see the driver or a license plate.

I look down the alley, where I see Marcus Banks escorting Rod Beckert toward the body. I try to get their attention, but they ignore me. I stay with Terrence as Pete walks along the perimeter of the restricted area. He returns a moment later with Roosevelt, whose tired voice has a cast of respect and sorrow. “I can’t let you inside.” I pepper him with questions for which he provides precious few answers. Yes, Doe was shot and killed. No, the murder weapon hasn’t been found. Yes, it appears that it was a single bullet. No, they haven’t been able to identify the caliber of the weapon. Yes, a green Impala was seen in the alley immediately after the shooting. No, they don’t have anybody in custody.

He tries to pull away and I stop him. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

“Too soon to tell. Her purse was missing. It could have been a robbery–or somebody trying to make it look like one.” He responds to my skeptical expression. “The fact that it was a clean kill hasn’t gone unnoticed, but she wasn’t on the best of terms with her drug suppliers.”

“What about the Impala?”

“We’re looking for it.”

I remind him that somebody has been following us in a similar car.

“I’m well-aware of that.”

I was hoping for a little more. “You’re saying this has nothing to do with Doe’s case against Father O’Connell?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You seem to be ruling out a professional job.” Or trying to.

“I didn’t say that, either.”

“What are you saying?”

“Anything’s possible. She was going to be the star witness in a civil case against the archdiocese and a criminal case against your client. You can do the math.”

* * *

Rosie’s living room has a morgue-like cast as we regroup at three a.m. I just arrived from archdiocese headquarters, where Ramon took the news of our star witness’s untimely demise with deep resignation. Pete is sitting on the window sill. He spent the last two hours hounding his former colleagues for additional information about Doe’s death with no luck.

The Terminator walks in with a tray of sodas and leftover tortilla chips. I didn’t want to leave him by himself tonight, so I told him that he could bunk with me. He’s barely spoken since we got here. He says to Pete, “Donna’s on her way.”

“What does she need?” My brother has an unwritten rule that his girlfriend isn’t supposed to get involved with his job.

“She’s bringing you dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

As far as I know, Terrence has never had a long-term or even a short-term relationship, but his instincts on domestic matters are surprisingly good. “When somebody does you a favor, you’re supposed to say thank you.”

My brother is smart enough to back off. Donna arrives a few minutes later with a bag of turkey sandwiches. Her straight blonde hair cascades down her back, and her melancholy eyes evoke a sense of sadness. She’s a lapsed Catholic who grew up in the Sunset and attended Mercy High. Her no-nonsense demeanor and crackling sarcasm keep the partners in line at the law firm where she works. More important, she provides adult supervision to my brother.

The sandwiches are homemade and hearty, and I thank her profusely while devouring mine. “What’s the word on the street?” I ask. We lawyers tend to get so caught up in our own little worlds that we frequently ignore what’s going on outside.

“The bad news is that everybody is going crazy about the fact that your client is the father of the baby. The good news is that Doe’s death is taking everybody’s mind off the bad news.”

Not for long.

Donna is still talking. “They interviewed Banks on TV, but he didn’t say much. Jerry Edwards is going nuts. He thinks somebody involved in the O’Connell case murdered Doe.”

It’s a great angle for a reporter. We may be able to channel his energy to our benefit. I ask, “Did he happen to mention whom?”

“He was speculating it was somebody connected with the archdiocese.”

That doesn’t narrow the field by much. “Did he offer any proof?”

“Of course not. That’s not his job.”

It’s ours.

She adds, “John Shanahan said such claims are totally preposterous.”

That’s his job. “Did you believe him?”

“I believe everything he says. He looks like George Clooney.” She takes a deep breath. “How badly does Doe’s death hurt your case?”

I answer her honestly. “We can still introduce her statement at the prelim.” It was in Rosie’s briefcase and was one of the few things that didn’t burn up in the fire. “It sounds harsh, but her death may not be such a bad thing for us. Given her background, she may not have been a very credible witness.”

“You think she’ll come off any better now that she’s dead?”

“At least they won’t have a chance to cross-examine her.”

I turn to Rosie and ask if all of our subpoenas have been served.

“Yes. They found Dennis Peterson on the slopes at North Star.”

It isn’t easy to find process servers who ski. I arch an eyebrow. “Was our process server able to serve the archbishop?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In church.”

“Perfect.” Quinn is going to get an earful. “Does that mean our server is going to hell?”

“I don’t think so. He’s Jewish.”

I’m not sure that entitles him to a free pass.

Rosie turns serious. “It’s fun to tweak them, but we have to connect Concepcion’s death to Doe’s murder.”

“We have no evidence that they’re related.”

“We have no evidence that they aren’t.”

I ask her how she plans to prove it.

“I can’t.”

We sit in silence for a moment before Pete speaks up. “I checked the auto registrations for some of the players. Lopez and his wife drive matching Lexus SUVs, and Shanahan and Peterson drive the same model. The archdiocese owns a couple of Jeep Cherokees to chauffeur the archbishop and the power priests.”

It raises some intriguing possibilities, but we can’t prove that any of the cars were parked behind Concepcion’s apartment last Monday night.

He adds, “I’m trying to find out if anyone has reported a stolen green Impala.”

Donna has been listening to our conversation intently. “If you want to get some dirt on Shanahan, you might check on the trust accounts at his firm.”

Law firms are required to maintain separate bank accounts to hold funds on behalf of their clients. They’re used to advance costs and pay settlements.

She adds, “I’ve seen some hanky-panky in our firm’s trust accounts. A couple of the power partners exert more control over them than they should.”

Too vague. “Meaning?”

“They take care of certain matters on behalf of our clients without going through the proper channels. They have the discretion to make some problems go away.”

“Payoffs?”

“We refer to them as settlements. They probably won’t release the information voluntarily, but they’re no different than any standard corporate bank account.” She turns to Pete. “Surely, you must have experience in this area.”

“I do.”

“Follow the money. Maybe you’ll find a connection to Jane Doe.”

It’s a long shot. “We can subpoena the financial records for the archdiocese and Shanahan’s law firm,” I say, “but that will just invite a discussion with their lawyers.” I look at my brother. “Can you get their bank account information another way?”

“Probably.”

“Can you do it legally?”

“Depends on your definition of the term legally.”

CHAPTER 42

“I WON’T LET YOU TURN MY COURTROOM INTO A CIRCUS”

“I expect every lawyer who appears before me to be prepared and to treat everyone in my courtroom with respect.”

— Judge Ignatius Tsang. California State Bar Journal.

The Honorable Ignatius Tsang is stroking his chin as he studies the legal papers before him. A slight man in his late fifties with a quiet, but authoritative voice, a receding hairline, and a scholarly demeanor, the judge could pass for a college physics professor. His tone is measured. “We need to discuss some issues before we can begin the preliminary hearing.”

The dignified jurist is sitting in an old leather chair behind a standard-issue metal desk in his cramped chambers at nine-ten on Monday morning. The native of Taiwan moved to San Francisco when he was in his teens. He grew up in Chinatown, where his parents held multiple low-paying jobs to allow young Ignatius to focus on his studies. A brilliant student with a photographic memory, he absorbed English quickly and graduated at the top of his class at San Francisco’s super-competitive Lowell High. He raced through UC-Berkeley in three years and was first in his class at Boalt Law School. He clerked for Justice Byron White before he took an entry-level position at the San Francisco DA’s office, where he labored tirelessly for two decades while pursuing his academic interests by writing law review articles and teaching criminal procedure at Boalt. He has brought the same tenacity and intellectual strength to the bench for the last eight years.

The room is packed with dusty legal tomes reflecting his cerebral approach to the law, as well as several photos of his son, Nathan, a professor at UCLA Law School. A bronze rendering of the scales of justice sits on his desk. A tasteful lithograph of the U.S. Supreme Court hangs next to his law school diploma. The only nod to the twenty-first century is the state-of-the-art notebook computer on a credenza piled high with papers.

We had barely completed the attorney introductions when Judge Tsang summoned us into his chambers. Quinn and Shanahan presented their papers to withdraw as Ramon’s counsel of record first thing this morning, and the cautious judge called a timeout to talk things over. It’s helpful to know who is representing whom. Smart judges abhor disarray.

Rosie and I have taken positions in armchairs to the left of the judge’s desk, and McNulty and Ward are sitting on an old green couch to his immediate right. Quinn and Shanahan are forced to stand against the bookcase. If this were a baseball game, Rosie and I would be in the luxury boxes and they’d be in the bleachers.

Judge Tsang announces that we’re off the record, then he turns to me. “I understand one of your witnesses is no longer available.”

“That’s true. Ms. Kelly O’Shea–also known as Jane Doe–was killed outside her place of employment late last night.” I leave out any mention of the Mitchell Brothers.

“Does this mean you’ll need a continuance?”

“No, Your Honor. We’ve discussed this matter with our client and we wish to proceed.”

“Are you sure? I understand you had an emergency at your office over the weekend, too.”

“We’re sure, Your Honor.”

He nods politely, but his expression indicates that he was hoping we’d bump the prelim until we have more information about Doe’s death. “Does this suggest that the testimony of this witness is not essential to your client’s defense?”

“We intend to introduce a sworn statement that we obtained from her before she died.”

This gets McNulty’s attention. “That’s unacceptable to us. We didn’t have an opportunity to interview the witness to make a judgment as to her credibility.”

And now you never will.

“Moreover,” he continues, “we haven’t reviewed the document and confirmed its authenticity. For all we know, Mr. Daley could have generated it on his word processor.”

The bombast is typical McNulty, yet I’m surprised he’s complaining. Nick Hanson is going to testify that he saw Concepcion leave her apartment at ten-twenty and return at ten-forty. The fact that Concepcion spoke to Doe at ten-thirty now has little relevance to their case. Unless they want to undermine Nick’s testimony, they’ll have to show that Ramon killed Concepcion when he came back to her building later than night.

I answer in an even tone. “Your Honor, the police interviewed Ms. Doe before she died. If Mr. McNulty is concerned about her credibility, he should consult with Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. If he wishes to challenge the authenticity of her statement, he’s free to do so at trial.”

“May I see the document, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I hand it over to him.

He studies it for a moment, then he turns to McNulty. “I’m inclined to admit it.”

“But Your Honor–”

“I’ve ruled.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

It’s a small victory. We still have to deal with the fact that Ramon was spotted in the vicinity of Concepcion’s apartment later that night.

Judge Tsang is just warming up. “I called you in here because I want to sort out who is representing the defendant.”

Shanahan speaks up first. “Your Honor, let me try to shed some light on the situation–,”

The judge cuts him off. “With all due respect, these are my chambers and I get to ask the questions. I’ll let you know if I need you to provide illumination.”

It isn’t a good sign when a judge addresses you with the words, “With all due respect.”

Shanahan sucks it up. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Tsang turns to McNulty and Ward. “I presume the lineup on your side of the aisle hasn’t changed?”

Ward answers for them. “That’s correct, Your Honor. Mr. McNulty and I will be representing the people.”

The judge is pleased. “Have you made any progress in negotiating a resolution of this case?” Plea bargains are a judge’s best friend.

“No, Your Honor. Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez have been unwilling to seriously consider our generous proposal.”

The judge’s eyes shift in our direction. I try to sound as respectful as I can. “Our client did not kill Ms. Concepcion. He is unwilling to say that he did.”

“Does the revelation that he is the father of the victim’s unborn child cause him to reconsider?” Judges watch the news just like the rest of us.

“That fact has nothing to do with the identification of Ms. Concepcion’s killer.”

Ignatius Tsang is one of the most intelligent judges on the San Francisco bench–smart enough to know that presiding over the murder trial of an accused priest is likely to turn into a quagmire that will not enhance his reputation. His stoic expression transforms into a pronounced scowl. “It’s been suggested that it provides your client with a motive.”

“That suggestion is mistaken.”

He shoots a glance at Ward which indicates he’s thinking, “I tried,” then he turns back to me. “I take it you and Ms. Fernandez are still representing Father Aguirre?” He’s still a prosecutor at heart–he’s going to ask leading questions in a manner that elicits the answers he wants to hear.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He addresses Quinn and Shanahan. “I have reviewed your papers. I understand you wish to withdraw as counsel of record.”

Shanahan elects himself as spokesman. “That’s correct, Your Honor. We have a conflict of interest.”

“Didn’t you have the same conflict on Friday?”

“No, Your Honor.” He says the situation changed when Lita Concepcion advised him that she was going to file a civil lawsuit naming Ramon and the archdiocese as co-defendants.

“I would think your interests line up with Father Aguirre’s.”

“Circumstances may require us to take positions that are adverse to Father Aguirre’s interests.”

“In other words, you may want to cut a deal in the civil case that would implicate Father Aguirre.”

Shanahan starts to tap dance. “We hope that situation will not arise.”

“But it might.”

“If it does, it would place us in the untenable position of having to represent clients with adverse interests.”

“And the DNA test indicating the defendant was the father of Ms. Concepcion’s baby and the attendant publicity had nothing to do with your decision?”

He isn’t making this easy for them.

“No, Your Honor,” Shanahan says.

“And you believe the situation has changed so precipitously since Friday that you are no longer in a position to provide adequate representation to Father Aguirre?”

“The Rules of Professional Conduct don’t allow it, Your Honor.”

Judge Tsang exhales heavily. “I find it very troubling that you would withdraw on the morning of your client’s preliminary hearing.”

“We have no choice, Your Honor.”

“Yes, you do. You can refer the civil matter to another firm and continue as counsel for Father Aguirre.”

This would require Shanahan to do the unthinkable–to let another firm handle a major matter for the archdiocese. He’d rather remove his internal organs with his bare hands. He starts dancing faster. “Your Honor, the archdiocese is already a client of our firm.”

“So is Father Aguirre.”

“Nevertheless, we may obtain confidential information that could require us to take positions that are adverse to the interests of the archdiocese.”

“That problem will go away if you refer the case to somebody else.”

Quinn interjects, “The archbishop would like Mr. Shanahan’s firm to act on behalf of the archdiocese.”

“I’m sympathetic, but I’m troubled that Mr. Shanahan is prepared to do so at Father Aguirre’s expense.”

“We have no choice, Your Honor.”

Shanahan adds, “I agree with Father Quinn.”

He always does.

I keep my mouth shut as the dignified judge lambasts them, but when it becomes apparent that Quinn and Shanahan aren’t going to cave, he turns to Ward. “Do you have any objection to this change in Father Aguirre’s representation?”

She’s thrilled. Shanahan and Quinn have far more resources than Fernandez and Daley. Ward summons her best solemn tone. “No, Your Honor.”

The judge turns to me. “Do you or your client have any objections, Mr. Daley?”

It would be bad form to appear ecstatic. “No, Your Honor.”

He turns back to Shanahan and Quinn. “You’re off the case, gentlemen.”

Shanahan can’t contain a smirk. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

Judge Tsang takes off his glasses and places them on the desk in front of him. He points a finger at Shanahan. “Let me give you some free legal advice.”

The smile disappears. “Yes, Your Honor?”

“I’m going to contact the judge assigned to the civil case. I intend to inform him or her that you have obtained privileged and confidential information with respect to Father Aguirre and you should therefore be disqualified from representing the archdiocese.”

The color leaves Shanahan’s face. “But Your Honor–,”

“You can’t have it both ways, Mr. Shanahan. This court does not approve of lawyers who abandon criminal defendants in order to handle more lucrative civil work.”

Shanahan is watching a potential seven-figure fee go out the window. “We’ve researched this question. We believe no such conflict exists.”

“I believe it does, and my opinion counts for more than yours. I think you should consider your next step carefully before you embarrass your firm and yourself.”

Looks like the all-nighter pulled by one of Shanahan’s associates to research this issue is going to waste. “Yes, Your Honor.” Shanahan holds up a thin hand. “There is another issue we’d like to discuss. Father Quinn and I were served with subpoenas to be called as witnesses in Father Aguirre’s case. So was my partner, Dennis Peterson, as well as Archbishop Keane.”

“So?”

“We believe the aforementioned individuals should not be compelled to testify.”

It isn’t a good idea to use legalistic words like “aforementioned” when addressing a smart judge like Ignatius Tsang, who isn’t going to be impressed by Shanahan’s vocabulary.

The judge’s annoyance is starting to grow. “On what grounds?”

“We may be asked to reveal privileged and confidential information about his case.”

Judge Tsang lets Shanahan drone on for a moment before he stops him. “We just decided you’re no longer representing Father Aguirre. There is no reason to prevent you from testifying.”

“You’re putting us into the unfathomable position of compelling us to reveal privileged information.”

“You can ask for a protective order.”

“It isn’t good enough.”

The judge gives us equal time. “How do you feel about this, Mr. Daley?”

“We have no intention of asking Father Quinn or Mr. Shanahan about any matters that may be subject to the attorney-client privilege. We plan to ask them about their contact with the victim on the night she died. That information has nothing to do with Father Aguirre, but it has everything to do with them. They can’t withdraw from representation and then expect to be immune from questioning.”

Shanahan’s face is red. “This is highly irregular.”

The judge snaps right back. “It’s even more irregular for counsel to withdraw on the day of a preliminary hearing.”

“Surely you can’t expect Mr. Peterson to testify. He was the victim’s opposing counsel in the O’Connell case.”

I interject, “We aren’t planning to ask any questions about that case.”

“Why do you need to call him as a witness?” the judge asks.

“He was one of the last people who spoke to Ms. Concepcion on the night she died. He was married to her. He may be able to provide information concerning her state of mind.”

“How would that be relevant?”

“He may be able to help us prove Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

Shanahan is becoming more animated. “Mr. Peterson isn’t a therapist.”

I fire right back. “No, he isn’t, but he knew his ex-wife better than anybody else did.”

“There are no legal grounds to compel him to testify.”

“There are none for him to avoid it, either.”

The judge makes the call. “I don’t see any legal justification for excusing Father Quinn, Mr. Shanahan, and Mr. Peterson from testifying. I am therefore ruling that they will do so, subject to the caveat that they may seek appropriate relief if they believe they are being asked to reveal confidential and/or privileged information.”

Shanahan is livid. “But Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Shanahan. In addition, I see no legal justification for concluding that Archbishop Keane should not be required to testify as well.”

It’s a slap in the face to Quinn, who has let Shanahan do the talking until now. “Your Honor,” Quinn says, “it is unfair to call upon the archbishop to testify as to legal matters involving the archdiocese. The information is privileged.”

Not to mention the fact that it could turn into a public relations nightmare and cost Quinn his job. I’m not going to give him an easy out. “Your Honor, we are cognizant of the sensitivity of the issues that could arise by calling Archbishop Keane to testify, but no legal basis exists to conclude that he should be exempt.” Now I’m really trying to tweak Quinn.

Quinn’s voice rises. “Your Honor, Archbishop Keane has no information that is relevant to Father Aguirre’s case.”

How the hell do you know? “Not true,” I say. “He’s been involved in preparations for the O’Connell case, and he was present during settlement discussions with Ms. Concepcion.”

“Those discussions were confidential and off-the-record.”

“Not in the context of a murder trial.” This may not be entirely true, but I’m on a roll. “Archbishop Keane spoke with Ms. Concepcion in the days leading up to her death. The status of the O’Connell case and her demeanor during that time are relevant to Father Aguirre’s case. The only items that aren’t fair game are those covered by attorney-client privilege and those which may tend to incriminate the witness.”

Quinn points a finger at me. “Are you suggesting that Archbishop Keane is a suspect?”

Now that you mention it, why not? “I’m simply noting that he doesn’t get a free pass just because of his position.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“That’s the law.”

Judge Tsang makes the call. “I’m going to allow Mr. Daley to call Archbishop Keane.”

Excellent.

Shanahan’s face is bright red. “But Your Honor–,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Shanahan.”

It’s a win for us. I keep my mouth shut.

The judge isn’t done. “There are several other issues that I want to address. First, I’m going to ban television cameras from this proceeding. As much as I like being on TV, I want to keep the media hype for this case to a minimum.”

The only mild protest comes from Ward, who will lose face time on the news tonight.

“Second, I’m imposing a strict gag order on everybody involved in this case.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “I don’t want to see you spreading rumors on Mornings on Two.”

Ignatius Tsang isn’t going to let us play this one out in the media.

“Third, I expect all of you to behave in a dignified and professional manner. I will not hesitate to hold you in contempt if you start grandstanding. Understood?”

We reply in unison with an unenthusiastic, “Yes, Your Honor.”

He reminds Quinn and Shanahan that they are on the witness list and are therefore not allowed to be present in the courtroom during the testimony of the other witnesses. Then he stands and heads for the door. “Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER 43

“ALL RISE”

“Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez should ask for a continuance.”

— Legal Commentator Mort Goldberg. Channel 4 News. Monday, December 15. 8:30 a.m.

A faulty heating duct has left Judge Tsang’s packed courtroom unbearably hot. The air reeks of mildew from the torrential rains as the bailiff calls for order at nine-thirty. Umbrellas and raincoats are strewn haphazardly, and the jury box is filled with reporters. The sketch artists are sitting in the rear, pencils poised. Jerry Edwards is perched in his usual spot in the second row, just behind Lita Concepcion. Quinn and Shanahan have to wait in the corridor, but a couple of dutiful associates from Shanahan’s firm are taking copious notes. We can keep witnesses out of court before they testify, but we can’t prevent their colleagues from spying.

McNulty and Ward look like twins separated at birth in their matching gray suits. Ramon’s hands are folded as he sits at the defense table between Rosie and me. He’s wearing the traditional collar and black slacks. I’ve instructed him to be attentive and respectful, but to avoid drawing attention to himself. In other words, I need him to look like a priest.

“All rise.”

Judge Tsang hustles to the bench and motions us to sit down. He buys a moment to gather his thoughts by turning on his computer, adjusting his microphone, and pouring himself a glass of water. He wants to give the impression that this is just another day in the office, but his act is unconvincing. He dons his reading glasses, looks at his docket, and says. “Are counsel prepared to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” we recite in unison.

He asks the bailiff to state the case.

“The People versus Father Ramon Aguirre.”

The murmuring stops, the house lights go down, and the curtain goes up.

The judge patiently reminds the few people in the gallery who’ve never watched Law and Order that the purpose of this prelim is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to suggest that Ramon committed murder. “The threshold for holding a defendant over for trial is significantly lower than to convict. Just because a defendant is bound over does not in any way suggest he is guilty. It is a fundamental principle of our legal system that the accused is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law.”

The younger reporters may be impressed by his solemn recitation of the customary legal catechism, but the rest of us are unmoved, and other practical ramifications are left unsaid. Our system is as good as any, but it’s imperfect. Once you’ve been accused of a serious crime, your life is never the same. Ramon’s career probably ended when Judge Tsang banged his gavel.

The seating arrangements in courtrooms are similar to weddings. Ward and McNulty are akin to the bride’s side of the family. Their guest list is longer than ours, and their invitees are jockeying for the seats on their side of the aisle. Our only invited guest is Terrence the Terminator, who is surrounded by a half dozen of Ramon’s parishioners who waited in line over night to get the few seats available to the public. Their support is appreciated. When you cut your teeth in the PD’s office, you get used to being outnumbered.

Judge Tsang asks Ward if she’s ready to proceed

She responds with a radiant smile. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Will we be hearing from you or Mr. McNulty today?”

“Both of us.” Her smile gets broader. “Initially, you’ll be hearing from me.”

It isn’t uncommon for the DA to appear in court to provide moral and political support to her subordinates, but it is unusual for her to conduct any real business. The media-savvy Ward recognizes this is a high-profile matter that requires serious attention. She’s also interested in generating face time. District attorneys are first and foremost politicians.

Judge Tsang looks over his reading glasses. “We’re pleased to have you back in our courtroom, Ms. Ward.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

Oh, please.

The judge turns my way. “Will you be addressing us on behalf of the defense, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I glance over at Ward and take a gratuitous swipe. “We are also pleased that the district attorney has decided to take an active role in this case. It’s encouraging to see our tax dollars at work.” I give Ward a nod that says, “If you want action, you’ve got it.” She responds to my trash talk with a magnanimous plastic smile.

The judge decides not to dip his toe into our petty pissing contest. He says to Ward, “Did you wish to make an opening statement?”

Are you kidding? She’s going to play this for all it’s worth.

“Yes, Your Honor.” She nods to Edwards as she saunters to the lectern, where she stands erect and adjusts the microphone. She tosses her hair back and locks eyes with Judge Tsang. She may be self-serving and compulsively ambitious, but she has charisma. She also has a feel for staging as she works without notes. “May it please the court,” she begins in a crisp voice, “we are here to discuss a serious matter.” She points a finger at Ramon and then looks at the poster-size photo of a smiling Concepcion that she’s placed at the front of the jury box. “We face a difficult situation in which a respected member of our community stands accused of murdering the beautiful woman whose picture appears before you. Maria Concepcion was a successful attorney who was only forty-two years old when her life was tragically snuffed out.”

I want to break up the rhythm of her memorized speech and I take a calculated risk by objecting. “Excuse me, Your Honor. These proceedings will move along more quickly if Ms. Ward would go a little lighter on the hyperbole.”

The judge looks at our DA, who is rolling her eyes. “Ms. Ward, I’m going to overrule Mr. Daley’s objection, but I would encourage you to get to the point.”

She casts a sarcastic glance in my direction. “Your Honor, if Mr. Daley is planning to interrupt me at every turn, these proceedings will move at a snail’s pace.”

That’s the whole idea.

Judge Tsang’s tone remains diplomatic. “I would ask each of you to be respectful of opposing counsel.”

Good judges are masters of understatement.

Ward goes back to work. “Your Honor, we will present sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over for trial for the murder of Ms. Concepcion.”

One more time. “Object to use of the term murder. I would ask you to instruct Ms. Ward to use the term ‘alleged’ murder.” Now I’m being petty.

I get another nasty look from Ward. “In the interest of having an opportunity to conclude my very brief opening statement, let the record show that I am hereby adding the term ‘alleged’ to the term ‘murder’ in my earlier remarks.”

The judge turns to me. “Are you happy, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.” I’ve done what I needed to do. It’s time to sit down and shut up.

Ward isn’t flustered. “Your Honor, we will demonstrate that the defendant was present at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment on the night she died, that the defendant had physical contact with the victim and the murder weapon, and that the defendant attempted to cover up his crime with a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide.”

Somebody coached her to say the words ‘the defendant’ as many times as she can.

She’s still going. “The defendant has also admitted that he was the father of Ms. Concepcion’s unborn child. This suggests the defendant murdered her to protect his position as a priest. The defendant had motive, means, and opportunity. There is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over for trial for the murder–I mean alleged murder–of Maria Concepcion.”

She sits down. Her workmanlike opening was more than adequate despite my attempts to throw off her pacing, but somewhat south of sensational. Most important, it was brief.

The judge turns to me. “Do you wish to offer a statement?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” We have the option of opening now or after the prosecution has finished its case. I want to take a few potshots right away.

Rosie leans over and whispers, “Stay on point and keep it short.”

I stand as erect as my six-foot frame allows, and I walk to the lectern. I place three handwritten note cards in front of me and look up at Judge Tsang, who eyes me with a somber expression. The courtroom is still as I button my charcoal suit jacket and address the judge as if he’s the only other person in the room. “Your Honor, Father Ramon Aguirre is a respected priest, scholar, and community leader, who has been accused of a terrible crime that he did not commit. We will demonstrate that the police and the district attorney have made a colossal error by rushing to judgment without carefully examining the evidence. We intend to conduct a full defense to clear his name so that he may return to his duties at St. Peter’s.”

No reaction from Judge Tsang. He has a better poker face than Tommy.

“Your Honor, our only objective is to find the truth.” This is complete crap, but I want to try to win a few credibility points by acknowledging certain indisputable facts. “Father Aguirre visited Ms. Concepcion’s apartment to provide counseling on the night she died. He used a kitchen knife to cut an apple. Coincidentally, it appears the very same knife was used to slash Ms. Concepcion’s wrists. Ms. Ward will introduce evidence suggesting Father Aguirre inflicted those wounds, but we will show that he didn’t.” I don’t want to telegraph the portion of our defense where our medical expert will testify that Concepcion committed suicide–it’s too early in the game. “I would ask you to keep an open mind and weigh the evidence carefully.”

I have a tendency to try to account for all of the holes in our case before the prosecution points them out. Rosie gives me a signal to speed it up. We agreed that I would address the most damaging issue. “Your Honor, it has been reported that Father Aguirre is the father of Ms. Concepcion’s unborn child.”

The courtroom is hushed. Judge Tsang leans forward.

“In the spirit of finding the truth, I can confirm that he is, in fact, the father of the unborn fetus. He has admitted it. He has no reason to lie–about anything.”

I get a muted reaction from the back of the courtroom.

“Your Honor, Father Aguirre is deeply saddened by the death of Ms. Concepcion and his unborn child. He attempted to help a parishioner who was desperate to have a baby by acting as a donor so she could be artificially inseminated. The procedure was successful, and Ms. Concepcion became pregnant. Father Aguirre acted out of compassion, and any suggestion that this matter was the result of a sordid affair is absurd. The accusation that he murdered Ms. Concepcion is an unsubstantiated claim of the worst kind. Those are the facts, Your Honor. Two lives have been lost. Let us not compound this tragedy by sending a moral man to prison for a crime he did not commit.”

* * *

Johnny Nevins is a good cop and a great character. The outgoing younger brother of one of my classmates at St. Ignatius has a quick smile and a glib manner. At five-five and a wiry hundred and thirty pounds, Johnny was a lightning-fast running back who still holds several school records. He was also the guy who organized the illicit beer parties with the girls from St. Mary’s. His dad and four older siblings are all cops, and it was preordained that he would end up in the family business. Johnny developed a deft touch for undercover work that’s taken him to some of the seamiest corners of San Francisco. Now in his mid-forties, he gave up Vice a couple of years ago after he took a bullet in a drug bust. He trains new recruits at his old stomping grounds at Mission Station, where the kids can’t keep up with him.

Ward approaches the witness box, where Johnny greets her with an affable smile. His crow’s feet and graying hair reveal his age, but the boyish eyes haven’t changed. He tells her he’s been a cop for twenty-two years. “I enrolled at the academy on my twenty-first birthday. Just like my dad and my brothers.”

It’s Ward’s turn to beam. Then she furrows her brow in a manner that suggests she’s attempting to elicit great wisdom. “Were you the first officer called to Maria Concepcion’s apartment on Monday, December first?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He uses the term “ma’am” only when he’s in court.

“What time was that?”

“Nine-thirty-six a.m.” He says he responded to a nine-one-one call placed by Concepcion’s mother. “I was driving by myself toward Mission Station when the call came in. I was returning from an errand.”

“Where?”

“The donut store.”

A smattering of laughter. Johnny can charm the chrome off a tailpipe.

In response to Ward’s question about what he did when he arrived, Johnny leans forward. “I followed standard police procedures for securing a crime scene.”

I didn’t expect him to say he stole all of Concepcion’s valuables.

He adds, “I provided comfort to Ms. Concepcion’s mother and I called for help.”

“I trust you didn’t disturb any evidence?”

I need to put an end to this love-fest. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading. We’ll stipulate that Officer Nevins complied with all applicable procedures in securing the scene.” I’m not going to win any arguments that Johnny mishandled the evidence.

“Sustained.”

Ward remains unfazed. “Did you check Ms. Concepcion for a pulse?”

“I did.” He glances at Lita and his tone turns solemn. “Unfortunately, I was unable to find one.”

Ward lets the answer hang. The fact that he found the body is no bombshell, but from a prosecutorial perspective, she’s ticked off the first item on her checklist: there is a victim. Johnny confirms that the paramedics took the body out of the bathtub in an unsuccessful effort to revive her. “Inspector Banks and Inspector Johnson of the homicide division arrived a short time later and took over responsibility for the scene. We assembled a team and we began to canvass the area for witnesses.”

“Did you find any?”

“A neighbor heard the defendant and Ms. Concepcion arguing at approximately nine-forty-five the previous night. Another witness saw the defendant leave Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at ten-oh-two. A third witness, Mr. Nicholas Hanson, saw the defendant return to Ms. Concepcion’s building at approximately eleven-forty-five p.m., and leave a short time later.”

She’s ticked off another item on her list: she’s placed Ramon at the scene–not just once, but twice. She keeps Johnny on the stand to talk about crime scene procedures and evidence collection. She also introduces a poster-sized diagram of Concepcion’s apartment. I make a few gratuitous objections, but his testimony is factual, and I have no grounds to complain. Good lawyers know you have to pick your spots. She has all that she needs less than ten minutes later when she turns to me and says, “Your witness.”

I button my jacket and head to the lectern. Johnny has established a rapport with everybody in the courtroom. I don’t want to crowd him. It’s unwise to mount a full frontal attack on a likeable witness, but I can’t afford to roll over. “Officer Nevins, you mentioned that you spoke to a witness who heard Father Aguirre’s voice inside Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at approximately nine-forty-five that night.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did she see him enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

“No.”

Good. “How did she know it was Father Aguirre?”

“She had met him on a couple of occasions.”

“Did she know him well?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Yet she was able to positively identify his voice?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Do you know the approximate age of the witness?”

“Sixty-four.”

I ask if she was in good health.

Ward decides to try to slow me down. “Objection. Officer Nevins isn’t a doctor.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I turn back to Johnny. “Without making any medical determinations, did it appear to you that the witness was in good health?”

Ward starts to stand, but reconsiders.

Nevins says, “As far as I could tell.”

“Did she have any trouble hearing you when you questioned her?”

“No.”

“Did you ask her what she was doing that night?”

“Watching television.”

“Was her door open?”

“No.”

“So a woman in her mid-sixties who was watching TV was able to positively identify the voice of a man whom she’d met only a couple of times?”

“That’s correct.”

“And she was absolutely sure it was Father Aguirre?”

“Yes.”

In other circumstances, I might be able to win this case by claiming she was mistaken or that her hearing was bad, but we already know that Ramon was there. I’ll lose credibility if I suggest he wasn’t. I move on to a more important legal point. “Did she see Father Aguirre stab Ms. Concepcion?”

“No.”

“Did any witnesses see him stab Ms. Concepcion?”

“No.”

“So, as far as you know, it is possible that someone other than Father Aguirre may have stabbed her, right?”

I get the expected objection from Ward. “Calls for speculation.”

Time for semantic games. “Your Honor, I’m not asking Officer Nevins to speculate. I’m asking for his personal knowledge based upon his expertise as to whether it’s possible that someone other than Father Aguirre may have stabbed Ms. Concepcion.”

Judge Tsang sees it my way. “Overruled.”

Nevins rolls his eyes. “I have no personal knowledge that the defendant stabbed the victim, nor did I interview anyone who had personal knowledge that he had done so.”

We’re on the board. I’ve established that this is a purely circumstantial case. “Officer Nevins, you don’t know how Ms. Concepcion died, do you?”

“It isn’t my job to make that determination.”

“But as far as you know, she may have taken her own life, right?”

Ward is up again. “Objection. The question is speculative and calls for the witness to come to a conclusion based on expertise for which no foundation has been established.”

I fire back. “I’m not calling upon Officer Nevins to make a medical determination.”

Judge Tsang doesn’t buy it. “It sounds to me that it is exactly what you’re doing.”

True. “Not true. I’m simply trying to demonstrate that Officer Nevins has no personal knowledge as to the cause of Ms. Concepcion’s death, and, as such, he cannot rule out a suicide.”

Judge Tsang exchanges a glance with Nevins, then he turns back to me. “I’m going to sustain the objection, Mr. Daley. If you want to ask someone to provide a medical opinion as to the cause of death, I would suggest you talk to the chief medical examiner.”

That’s precisely what I intend to do.

CHAPTER 44

“IT’S IN MY REPORT”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert has handled the autopsy in every major murder investigation since Richard Nixon was in the White House.”

— Profile of Dr. Roderick Beckert. San Francisco Chronicle.

There’s been a change in the line-up when we resume. Bill McNulty has replaced Ward at the podium. Ward had her moment of glory when she opened in front of a packed house, but she’s astutely handing the ball over to her best nuts-and-bolts interrogator. McNasty’s face is contorted into the familiar grimace. What he lacks in charm, he makes up for in preparation and tenacity. His voice fills with reverence when he addresses the next witness. “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert.” His tone exudes the confidence of Willie Mays swinging at a belt-high fast ball. “I’ve been the chief medical examiner of the City and County of San Francisco for thirty-seven years.” He settles into the uncomfortable wooden chair and pours himself a glass of water. The camel-hair jacket and the cheap paisley tie have been replaced by a charcoal Wilkes Bashford double-breasted suit and a subdued rep tie. He may be a character in the bowels of the Hall, but he’s all business in court.

McNulty is clutching a copy of the autopsy report with the same respect that one would use when holding a Bible. He approaches Beckert respectfully and lobs the first softball. “Would you be kind enough to summarize your academic and professional qualifications?”

Some of the younger reporters might be interested in hearing about Beckert’s advanced degrees from Johns Hopkins and his teaching career at UCSF, but I’ve heard it before and I’m inclined to skip the recitation. “Your Honor, we’re prepared to stipulate to Dr. Beckert’s expertise in the field of pathology.”

Judge Tsang is pleased. “The record will reflect the fact that the defense has stipulated to Dr. Beckert’s qualifications.”

McNulty takes a moment to find his place in his carefully scripted notes. He was planning to walk Beckert through his credentials. Now he has to fast forward his presentation. He holds up the autopsy report. “Do you recognize this document?”

Beckert identifies his report and McNulty introduces it into evidence. I don’t challenge its existence, but I’ll take a few potshots at what’s inside.

McNulty approaches the witness box. “When did you first see Ms. Concepcion’s body?”

“It’s in my report.” Becker leafs through the document. “I arrived at her apartment at ten-thirty a.m. on Monday, December first.”

McNulty lowers his voice. “Was Ms. Concepcion still alive?”

“No, she was not.”

The courtroom is silent.

“Dr. Beckert, where was the body when you first saw it?”

“On the floor of her bathroom.” He glances at Lita and explains that she found her daughter’s body in the bathtub at nine-thirty that morning. “She called the police and the paramedics immediately, but it was too late. The paramedics moved the body from the tub to the floor in their attempts to revive her, but their efforts were unsuccessful.”

“At what time was Ms. Concepcion pronounced dead?”

“Ten-thirty-four a.m.” Beckert correctly notes that an official pronouncement doesn’t necessarily coincide with the time of death. “The victim is pronounced when medical personnel arrive. Ms. Concepcion had passed away quite some time before her body was discovered.”

Medical examiners never use euphemisms such as “pass away” unless a member of the victim’s immediate family is present.

McNulty is pleased. “Dr. Beckert, were you able to make a determination as to the time of death?”

“Between ten-forty-five on Monday night and one o’clock on Tuesday morning.” He goes through a clinical analysis of blood loss, body temperature, lividity, and extent of digestion of the food in Concepcion’s stomach to support his conclusion.

McNulty gives him an inquisitive look. “As I recall, the initial version of your report set forth a different time frame.”

“It did.” Beckert acknowledges that he first concluded Concepcion could have died as early as nine-thirty. “Based upon credible evidence provided by a witness who was present at the scene, I revised my original analysis.”

“Would you describe that evidence?”

“The witness saw the victim walking to her apartment at approximately ten-forty p.m.”

“Which means she was still alive at that time.”

Nothing escapes McNulty’s keen eye.

Beckert nods. “That’s correct. The name of the witness is Nicholas Hanson.”

We’ll be hearing from him shortly.

McNulty is still doing damage control. “It isn’t uncommon for you to change your conclusions from time to time, is it?”

“No. When new and better facts become available, we add them to the analysis.”

“Can you be more precise about the time of death?”

“I’m afraid not. The fact that the body was submerged in water prior to its discovery made an exact determination impossible.”

“Dr. Beckert, you concluded the cause of Ms. Concepcion’s death was blood loss, correct?”

I can’t make it that easy for him. “Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty gives me an impatient sigh. “I’ll rephrase the question, Your Honor.”

I knew he would.

“Were you able to make a determination of the cause of Ms. Concepcion’s death?”

“Yes. She experienced significant injuries that led to acute hypotension, which ultimately resulted in a cessation of vital bodily functions. In layman’s terms, she bled to death.”

“And you have no reason to doubt your conclusion?”

“Objection,” I say. “Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty darts an apologetic look toward Concepcion’s mother and then launches a pre-emptive strike in anticipation of our next argument. “Did you consider the possibility that Ms. Concepcion may have committed suicide?”

“I did, and I concluded that she did not.” He parrots the analysis he gave me at his office. He emphasizes Ramon’s thumbprints on the back of Concepcion’s neck and swears that he found evidence of a trauma on her right shoulder. I object sporadically and for all practical purposes, inconsequentially.

McNulty returns to the podium. “Dr. Beckert, did you find any alcohol in the victim’s bloodstream?”

“A slight amount. Well below the threshold for driving under the influence.”

“What about prescription medications or other substances, illegal or otherwise?”

It’s a standard ploy: he’s ruling out an accidental overdose.

“None,” Beckert says. He confirms that Concepcion’s medical records indicated she had been given a prescription for Prozac.

McNulty picks up his notes and rolls them into a tube that he uses to gesture. “Was there anything else of note about Ms. Concepcion’s physical condition prior to the time she died?”

“She was pregnant.”

McNulty reacts as if he’s just revealed a deep, dark secret. “Did you conduct any tests on the baby?”

He could just as easily have chosen the term “fetus” or “unborn child,” but “baby” has greater emotional impact, and I’ll sound like a jackass if I object.

Beckert nods. “Yes, we did. The baby was approximately eight weeks in gestation and was approaching a point where viability was possible.”

McNulty is standing at the podium with his chin resting in his right palm. “Were you able to make any determination as to the sex of the baby?”

“A boy.”

“And the health of the baby?”

“The baby had no identifiable medical complications.”

“In other words, Ms. Concepcion was carrying a healthy baby boy?”

How many times are they going to use the word, “baby?” “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty flashes a triumphant smile. “Dr. Beckert, did you conduct DNA tests to determine the identity of the baby’s father?”

“Objection. We’ve stipulated that Father Aguirre is the father.”

“Sustained.”

The fact that we’ve admitted it doesn’t diminish its impact.

McNulty folds his notes and tucks them into his breast pocket. “No further questions.”

* * *

I don’t want Judge Tsang to call a recess. I walk to the lectern before McNulty sits down. I’m not going to win this case during cross-exam, but I have to cast doubt on some of Beckert’s conclusions. If I can’t prove it to the judge, maybe I can get Edwards to pick up the scent.

“Dr. Beckert, you concluded that Ms. Concepcion died between ten-forty-five p.m. on Monday, December first, and one a.m. on Tuesday, December second.”

“Correct.”

“You had to change your original opinion as to the time of death after you received information from a witness who said Ms. Concepcion was still alive at ten-forty that night, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I received evidence of the later sighting after I had released my original report. As a matter of good practice, I was compelled to amend it.”

“Is it possible your conclusion as to time of death could change even more as additional information is compiled?”

“I look at the totality of the evidence, and I draw my conclusions based on the best information and science available at the time. If you present credible evidence that I have made a mistake, I will reevaluate my conclusions and reissue my report.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Occasionally.”

“When was the last time you reissued a report?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert looks up at the ceiling to suggest he’s trying to remember something that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far away. “I believe it was about five years ago.”

“What did you get wrong?”

“I concluded that a homicide was a suicide.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“The perpetrator confessed.”

We’re unlikely to have a similar result in this case. “Dr. Beckert, there is evidence that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.” I state it as a fact and I’m surprised McNulty doesn’t object, but Beckert doesn’t need a lot of help.

“Intelligent people can disagree about many things,” Beckert says.

“Your report indicates that Ms. Concepcion bled to death after her wrists were slashed by a kitchen knife found adjacent to the bathtub, yet you didn’t take into account the fact that Ms. Concepcion’s fingerprints were on that knife.”

“So were your client’s.”

“My client has admitted he handled the knife to cut an apple.”

“So?”

You don’t get to ask the questions. “Ms. Concepcion was distraught and taking antidepressants. Based upon your earlier testimony, it appears that she hadn’t taken her Prozac that night. Reasonable people might put these facts together to conclude she used the knife to slash her own wrists.”

“That isn’t what happened.”

I didn’t expect him to agree with me, but I want to cast a little doubt. “You also concluded that Ms. Concepcion was knocked unconscious before she was stripped, placed in the tub, and had her wrists slashed.”

“Correct.”

“Yet your report contains no specific explanation as to how you concluded Father Aguirre did any of these things.”

“We found an injury to her right shoulder. I therefore concluded that he inflicted a blow that rendered her unconscious. He then removed her clothing, placed her in the tub, and inflicted the fatal wounds. We found his fingerprints on the back of her neck.”

“Is it possible that Father Aguirre’s fingerprints could be explained in another manner? Perhaps he gave her a back rub.”

McNulty pops up. “Objection. Speculation.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert’s tone turns condescending, “Anything’s possible, Mr. Daley.”

Yes, it is. “How do you account for the fact that there were no substantial bumps or bruises to Ms. Concepcion’s head or neck?”

“There was a bruise on the back of her right shoulder not easily discernible to the naked eye. This suggests he hit her just hard enough to knock her out.”

“He didn’t hit her at all,” I snap.

“Yes, he did.”

“Did you find any broken bones or bruises from weapons–perhaps a stun gun?”

“I would have mentioned it in my report if I had.”

“It sounds like you made the same mistake five years ago.”

McNulty is up immediately. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I’m just warming up. “Your report also indicates that much of Ms. Concepcion’s body was covered with a skin cream called Essential Elements.”

“It was.”

“Did it occur to you that she may have been trying to make herself comfortable as she was taking her own life?”

“I thought it might be possible, but I found the cream in certain sensitive areas where it would have caused her great pain. She simply wouldn’t have done it.”

“Maybe she was careless.”

“Maybe she was murdered.”

“Did you find skin cream on her neck?”

“No.”

“If Father Aguirre was trying to cover his tracks by faking a suicide and he knew his fingerprints were on her neck, wouldn’t he have tried to cover them with skin cream?”

“Perhaps the defendant wasn’t that careful or sophisticated.”

“Yet you think he was sophisticated enough to try to fake a suicide?”

“Yes, I do.”

I return to the lectern and pick up my notes. “It’s your belief that Father Aguirre killed Ms. Concepcion when he returned to her apartment building at approximately eleven-forty-five on the night of Monday, December first, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s your theory that he entered her apartment, knocked her unconscious, removed her clothing, took her into her bathroom, placed her in her bathtub, slit her wrists, drew her bath water, and covered her body with skin cream?”

“We’ve covered this issue, Mr. Daley.”

Okay. “How long do you think it took him to do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Ballpark guess.”

McNulty is up. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I have stipulated to the fact that Dr. Beckert is an expert in his field. In determining the time of death, he must have factored in the length of time it would have taken a perpetrator to do all of the things I just mentioned.”

“I’ll allow it.”

I wasn’t sure he’d give me that one.

Beckert tries evasion. “It would be difficult for me to hazard a guess.”

Not good enough. I ask the judge to instruct Beckert to answer, and he obliges.

Beckert gives McNulty a helpless look. “He could have performed all of those tasks in just a few minutes.”

I bore in. “How many minutes?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

“Two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“Less than five minutes, but I don’t know for sure.”

Good enough. “And you would acknowledge that if Father Aguirre never entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment for the second time, or was there for a very short time, it is unlikely he could have done all of the things I just mentioned, right?”

McNulty’s up again. “Objection. He’s asking the witness to speculate.”

I’m also trying to put words into his mouth.

Judge Tsang gives me a look that says, “Nice try.” “The objection is sustained.”

I’ve made my point. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 45

“NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, YOUR HONOR”

“It isn’t just the story–it’s how you tell it.”

— Nick Hanson. San Francisco Chronicle.

“That didn’t go very well,” Ramon says.

We’re sitting in the consultation room behind Judge Tsang’s courtroom during the morning break. His glass of water is untouched and his face is flush.

I give him a reasonably honest appraisal. “We scored some points, but the prosecutors always have the upper hand at the beginning.”

In reality, things went downhill after my cross of Beckert. McNulty called a veteran crime scene expert named Kathleen Jacobsen, who deftly placed Ramon’s prints on the knife, Concepcion’s neck, and the bathtub faucets. She handled my challenging questions about glue fuming with great dexterity. Concepcion’s neighbor then gave a compelling account of the tension between two former lovers when she testified that she heard them arguing. McNulty continued with a brief, but powerful presentation by Concepcion’s therapist, an articulate new-age guru named Pamela Swartz, who told us in no uncertain terms that pregnant women don’t commit suicide. This led to an outburst by Maria’s mother, who was gently escorted from the courtroom by a burly bailiff. That’s when Judge Tsang decided it was time for a break.

Ramon pushes his glass of water aside. “I was hoping you would have persuaded Dr. Beckert to change his mind about suicide.”

“He won’t.”

“He reconsidered his conclusion on the time of death.”

“Only after he was presented with Nick Hanson’s testimony.”

“I trust you’ve saved some good stuff for our defense.”

It’s still a work-in-progress. “We have.”

“Have you reconsidered your decision not to let me testify?”

“We haven’t.”

* * *

For courtroom aficionados, an appearance by Nick the Dick is as widely anticipated as a Bruce Springsteen concert. The jaunty PI looks like a politician as he makes his way down the center aisle and pumps the hand of everybody within reach. An inveterate and equal-opportunity schmoozer, he greets Ward, McNulty, Rosie, and then me.

When the bailiff asks Nick if he swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he responds with a wide smile and says, “Indeed I do.” He extends a hand to Judge Tsang and chirps, “Nice to see you again, Your Honor.”

The judge ignores the outstretched palm and motions him toward the stand. “Please take your seat, Mr. Hanson.”

The chuckles in the gallery are cut off by Judge Tsang’s gavel. Nick climbs up into the witness box, adjusts his boutonniere, runs a hand through his toupee, and pours himself a glass of water. He flashes another grin at Judge Tsang, then nods at McNulty, who is standing at the podium with an uncharacteristic expression that almost resembles a smile.

McNulty asks, “Would you please state your name and occupation for the record?”

“Nick Hanson. In the daytime I’m a PI. At night I write mysteries. My next book is coming out in January.

He always manages to work in a plug for his favorite author.

McNulty asks him how long he’s been a PI.

“Sixty-eight years.” Nick takes his own sweet time telling us his life story–and it’s a good one. He was born in North Beach and educated on the tough streets of the Barbary Coast. He became a PI out of necessity after his father was jailed for bootlegging. It would be suicidal for me to interrupt him. Our only saving grace is that McNulty is questioning him in the monotone that he uses for cops and forensic experts.

McNulty turns to the business at hand. “Mr. Hanson, you were conducting surveillance on the evening of Monday, December first, at the apartment building where the victim lived, weren’t you?”

“Indeed I was.” He says the archdiocese hired him to obtain background information on Concepcion and to identify any potential witnesses.

“How long have you been employed by the archdiocese?”

“Forty years.”

“How long were you working on this case?”

“About six months. We were hired to keep Ms. Concepcion’s apartment under surveillance twenty-four-seven.” He explains that he and his sons worked in ten hour shifts. “I was situated on the roof of a garage across the alley behind Ms. Concepcion’s building.”

“How did you happen to choose that vantage point?”

“It gave us an unobstructed view of the back of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment, and it allowed us to remain inconspicuous.”

“Could you also see the back door to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

“No. Our view was obstructed by her garage. However, we could see the gate leading to the passageway, as well as the windows to her bedroom and kitchen.”

“Was anyone assisting you in these surveillance activities that night?”

“My son, Rick, was watching the front of the building from a parked car on Capp Street.”

“Could anyone have gone in or out without having been seen by you or your son?”

“We’re professionals, Mr. McNulty.” His story doesn’t change. He confirms that Ramon entered through the front door at eight o’clock and left via the rear door at ten. He saw Concepcion depart at ten-twenty and return at ten-forty. Ramon returned on foot at eleven-forty-five, went in the back gate and left a few minutes later. There is nothing new, except the story is being told by a master. Most important for McNulty, it places Ramon at the scene a second time that night.

McNulty is still standing at the lectern. “Mr. Hanson, do you have any idea why the defendant returned to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

I need to break up their flow. “Objection. Calls for speculation, and Mr. McNulty is mischaracterizing this witness’s earlier testimony. Mr. Hanson said he saw Father Aguirre enter the backyard to Ms. Concepcion’s building, but he did not–and could not–see him enter her apartment. In fact he testified that he could not see the back door from his vantage point.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty tries it another way. “Could you see into Ms. Concepcion’s apartment last Monday night?”

“No.”

McNulty freezes. “Why not?”

“The blinds were closed.”

McNulty acts as if this isn’t a significant issue, but it will give me a little ammunition, and he changes course. “Why did the defendant return to Ms. Concepcion’s building?”

I’m up. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty presses forward. “Is it likely he may have gone inside?”

“Objection. Still speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Is it possible he may have gone inside?”

“Objection. More speculation.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty tries to mask his frustration. “Mr. Hanson, did you or your son see anybody else enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?” He can’t prove that Ramon went inside, but he can try to confirm that nobody else did, either.

“No.”

“How was the defendant’s demeanor when he left the second time?”

“Objection. Speculation as to the defendant’s state of mind.”

“Your Honor,” McNulty says, “I’m asking him to describe the defendant’s appearance.”

I’m going to lose this one.

“Overruled.”

Nick says, “He was in a hurry.”

“Do you know why?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty tries again. “Mr. Hanson, is it possible the defendant was in a hurry because he had just murdered Ms. Concepcion and was trying to leave the scene as quickly as possible?”

“Objection. Calls for more speculation.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty has placed Ramon at Concepcion’s building at eleven-forty-five and demonstrated a likelihood that he went inside, but he can’t go any farther. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Rosie whispers to me, “You have to go after him.”

“I know.” I button my jacket and remind myself to keep my tone unfailingly professional. I’ll lose points if I question his credentials or stamina, and I’ll go down hard if I start trading wisecracks with him. I nod respectfully from the lectern and look into the congenial eyes of the legendary PI. “Mr. Hanson, you testified that you were keeping Ms. Concepcion’s apartment under surveillance last Monday night, right?” I’m trying to elicit yes-or-no answers.

“Yes.”

“Were you there all night?”

“No.” McNulty and Ward exchange a glance, but they don’t say anything. Nick gives me a fatherly nod. “I had to leave for a short time around twelve-thirty.”

“I thought you were hired to provide round-the-clock surveillance.”

“I was, but I received a phone call from my other son, Nick, Jr., who was keeping Ms. Concepcion’s client under surveillance. He was concerned somebody was following her, but it turned out to be a false alarm.”

“Did you leave your post at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment to assist him?”

“Yes. I went to her client’s place of employment.”

“That would have been the Mitchell Brothers Theater?”

“Correct.”

A few murmurs in the back of the courtroom.

“That would be an adult theater, wouldn’t it?”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Relevance.”

“Sustained.”

No problem. I ask Nick if he returned to his post later that morning.

“Yes. Around two a.m.”

“By which time Ms. Concepcion was already dead.”

“I don’t know.”

Here goes. “Did you enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

“No.”

“Did you enter it on any occasion?”

“No.”

“Did you use electronic eavesdropping equipment or bug her phone?”

“No. The archdiocese has a policy against such tactics.”

Quinn will be pleased that he recited the party line. “Mr. Hanson, you testified earlier that you couldn’t see the rear door to her apartment.”

“Correct.”

“So, you couldn’t see if anybody entered her building that night, could you?”

He responds with a grudging, “True.”

“And although you saw Father Aguirre enter her backyard at eleven forty-five, you have no direct personal knowledge as to whether he actually went inside her apartment, do you?”

“The only logical reason was to go back to her apartment.”

I can’t let him fudge. “Yes or no, Mr. Hanson–did you see Father Aguirre enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at eleven-forty five that night?”

“No.”

Good. “And it is therefore possible that he never did. In fact, he may have stayed in the gangway or left something outside her door without ever entering the building, right?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Overruled.”

Nick shakes his head. “I couldn’t say, Mr. Daley.”

I switch gears. “Mr. Hanson, you told the police that you saw Ms. Concepcion return to her apartment at approximately ten-forty that night.”

“Correct.”

“I trust she was very much alive at the time?”

“Of course.”

Just checking. “What did Ms. Concepcion do when she got home?”

“I don’t know. I just explained that I couldn’t see inside.”

“You couldn’t see inside,” I repeat. “She turned on the lights, didn’t she?”

“Of course.”

“When did she turn them off?”

Nick darts a glance toward McNulty, then he turns back to me. “Eleven-thirty.”

“Were they still off when Father Aguirre returned?”

“Yes.”

“Did Ms. Concepcion turn them on again when Father Aguirre entered her yard?”

“Not that I recall.”

Good answer. “Were the lights on in her apartment at any time between the moment you saw Father Aguirre enter her yard and the time that he left?”

“Not that I recall.”

“So, if she let Father Aguirre inside, they were conducting their business in the dark?”

“So it would seem.”

“Did that strike you as odd?”

“It didn’t occur to me until you just raised it.”

“According to Dr. Beckert, Father Aguirre entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment, knocked her unconscious, stripped off her clothing, started her bath, slashed her wrists, placed her in the bathtub, and spread facial cream over her body in a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide.”

McNulty is up. “Is there a question there somewhere?”

Not really. “How long was it from the time Father Aguirre entered Ms. Concepcion’s gate until the time he left?”

“A few minutes.”

“How many minutes is a few?”

“More than two, but less than ten.”

“Less than five?”

“Maybe.”

Close enough. “But it could have been even shorter, right? Maybe one or two minutes?”

“Maybe”

“Based upon your sixty-eight years of experience as a private investigator, do you think it is plausible that Father Aguirre was able to do everything Dr. Beckert said in two or three minutes?”

McNulty is up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation.”

“Overruled.”

Nick gives me an honest answer. “I don’t know.”

“Not to mention the fact that he did all of it in the dark?”

“Anything is possible, Mr. Daley.”

Just the answer I wanted. “And is it also possible that somebody other than Father Aguirre could have entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment while you weren’t there and killed her, right?”

“Anything is possible,” he repeats.

In the world of criminal defense attorneys, alternate possibilities—no matter how farfetched—frequently lead to acquittals. “No further questions.”

CHAPTER 46

“A CLASSIC CASE OF MOTIVE, MEANS, AND OPPORTUNITY”

“You continue to ask yourself if you have enough credible evidence to prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. If you settle for anything less, you’re wasting everybody’s time.”

— Marcus Banks. San Francisco Chronicle.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Inspector Marcus Banks.” He always includes his title when he introduces himself. He turns to the court reporter and adds, “B-A-N-K-S.”

As if she didn’t know.

Eleven-thirty. Nick the Dick’s testimony was entertaining and may have piqued the interest of some of the reporters in the gallery, but it’s time to get back to business. McNulty is bringing his presentation to a close by calling a battle-tested warrior to have the last word. Banks is ideally-suited for the role–he looks and sounds like James Earl Jones.

McNulty remains at the lectern as Banks recites his credentials: forty-two years with the SFPD, with thirty-four in homicide; an array of commendations, decorations, and medals. I let Marcus brag for a moment before I stipulate to his expertise. I want to get him off the stand as soon as possible.

McNulty’s tone is conversational. “Inspector Banks, you and your partner are the lead homicide investigators in the death of Ms. Concepcion.” He’s making statements instead of asking questions, but I’m not inclined to interrupt just yet.

“Correct.”

“Could you please describe your investigative procedures?”

McNulty got caught up in the moment with Nick Hanson and got a little sloppy, but he’s reverting back to form. He’s going to walk Banks through each and every piece of evidence in his customary methodical manner. It isn’t scintillating theater, but it’s effective. McNulty leads him through thirty minutes of textbook direct exam. I object frequently and inconsequentially as Banks starts with the securing of the scene, continues with a description of every shred of evidence found in Concepcion’s apartment, and concludes with a concise analysis of how the pieces fit together. It’s also a blatant attempt to run out the clock on this morning’s court session, thereby giving Judge Tsang a long lunch hour to digest a turkey sandwich and the prosecution’s case without significant interference from me. McNulty finishes by asking Banks to summarize his reasons for concluding that Ramon murdered Concepcion.

The warhorse clears his throat. “The defendant was present at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment on two occasions that night. She left her apartment for about twenty minutes, but she came back a short time later. There is uncontroverted evidence she was present when he returned. We originally thought the defendant may have killed her during his first visit, but the eyewitness accounts thereafter led us to conclude he killed her on his return.”

He’s tailored his story to account for Nick the Dick’s testimony.

Banks is still talking. “The defendant and Ms. Concepcion had a volatile history and exchanged heated words earlier that evening. The defendant’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the victim’s body, and in the room in which the victim was found. He has offered no explanation for his actions, and our chief medical examiner has ruled out a possible suicide.” Banks turns and addresses Judge Tsang directly. “Your Honor, this is a classic case of motive, means and opportunity. There is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over for trial.”

That’s that.

The judge glances at his watch and then he turns to me. “Do you plan to conduct a lengthy cross-exam?”

“Just a few questions, Your Honor.” It’s the sort of blatant lie you use when you’re trying to recruit somebody to serve on the PTA or coach Little League. You suck them in by telling them the time commitment will be minimal.

The judge gives me a legitimately skeptical look. “Proceed.”

The gloves are off and it’s time for hand-to-hand combat. The reporters in the gallery will be heading outside to do live updates as soon as we’re done, and I want to give them something to talk about. I walk up to Banks and get in his face. “Inspector, when we first met, you believed that Ms. Concepcion was killed prior to ten o’clock last Monday night, didn’t you?”

“It was one of the scenarios we had considered.”

“But your analysis changed when you discovered she was very much alive after ten o’clock, didn’t it?”

“We obtained new evidence from a reliable source. We adjusted our analysis to account for it. The fact remains that your client was seen entering her building at eleven forty-five last Monday night, and Ms. Concepcion wasn’t seen alive after that.”

I correct him. “Mr. Hanson testified that he saw Father Aguirre enter the gate leading to Ms. Concepcion’s backyard. He didn’t actually see anyone enter her apartment.”

“You can put two and two together.”

So can everybody in this courtroom. “For the record, did Mr. Hanson or anyone else see Father Aguirre re-enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

“No.”

Good enough. I suggest that Ramon couldn’t have knocked Concepcion unconscious, undressed her, slit her wrists, covered her body with skin cream, and drawn her bath in the short time he was seen in the vicinity by Nick the Dick.

“It doesn’t take long to commit murder.”

“You think he did all of this in a couple of minutes?”

“Desperate people do desperate things.”

So do desperate lawyers. I steal a glance at Rosie, who touches her index finger to her nose–the signal to move on. “Inspector, did you ever consider any other suspects?”

“The evidence didn’t lead in any other direction.”

Time for some smoke. “Ms. Concepcion phoned a restaurant called Eduardo’s Latin Palace earlier that evening, didn’t she? And you found a partially-eaten burrito from that establishment in her kitchen, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware that Ms. Concepcion and the proprietor of that restaurant had terminated an extra-marital affair a few months earlier, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The fact that she called his restaurant on the night she died didn’t cause you to consider him as a suspect?”

“We questioned him. We concluded that she did not have any direct contact with him that night.”

“You took his word for it?”

“We were able to corroborate his story by talking to his staff.”

“You didn’t consider the possibility that his employees lied on his behalf?”

“We never take anybody’s statement at face value.”

“Did you also question Mr. Lopez’s estranged wife?”

“Yes. We ruled her out, too.”

And I can’t place either of them in her apartment that night. “Ms. Concepcion also spoke to her ex-husband by phone that night, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. We have no evidence that he was anywhere near her apartment that night.”

Neither do we. “But you would acknowledge that their relationship was contentious?”

“So is my relationship with my ex-wife.”

A smattering of laughter in the back of the courtroom.

I keep pushing. “Ms. Concepcion also had contact with the general counsel of the San Francisco Archdiocese that night, didn’t she?”

“They spoke by phone.”

“Their relationship was also contentious, wasn’t it?”

“They were on opposite sides of litigation.”

“Did you ever consider anybody associated with the archdiocese as a suspect?”

“We consider every possibility, but it’s our job to look at the evidence to see what we can prove in court.”

“Does that mean you’ve ruled out somebody connected to the archdiocese?”

“It means the evidence points toward your client.”

I press him, but he doesn’t budge. I sense Judge Tsang is getting hungry. I return to the lectern and lower my voice. “Inspector, did you interview a woman known as Jane Doe?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please explain to everybody in this courtroom who she was?”

McNulty interrupts us. “Objection. “Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Ms. Doe was going to be a key witness in this case. She was one of the last people who spoke to Ms. Concepcion before her death.”

“I’ll allow it.”

Banks answers in an even tone. “Ms. Doe was Ms. Concepcion’s client. She had brought a civil case against the archdiocese.”

Not good enough. “For what?”

“Sexual harassment.”

McNulty tries again. “Your Honor, I still fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

It’s my turn to testify. “Ms. Doe spoke to Ms. Concepcion at approximately ten-thirty last Monday night, which means she may have been the last person to have talked to her before she died.”

The judge goes my way. “The objection is overruled.”

I turn back to Banks. “Inspector, can you please tell everybody in this courtroom why Ms. Doe is not available to testify today?”

“She was shot to death outside her place of employment last night.”

“So now both the attorney and the plaintiff in that case are dead.”

“Yes, they are.”

I glance at Edwards, then I turn back to Banks. “It has been reported that Ms. Doe had a strong case against the archdiocese.”

“That’s for a court to decide.”

“Does it strike you that it may be more than coincidental that Ms. Doe and her attorney are now both dead?”

McNulty is up. “Objection. He’s asking the witness to Speculate.”

“Sustained.”

“Is it disturbing to you that the plaintiff in a high-profile civil case and a key witness in a murder trial was gunned down just as both cases were about to start?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you have any idea who may have killed her?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“Have you ruled out the possibility that Ms. Doe’s death may be related in some manner to the death of Ms. Concepcion?”

“We haven’t ruled out anything, Mr. Daley.”

“Have you considered the possibility that somebody associated with the archdiocese may have decided to silence both of these women?”

McNulty leaps up. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance. Speculative. Argumentative.”

All of the above. The judge gave me more leeway than I had anticipated, and I need to tone down the rhetoric. “Withdrawn. No further questions.”

Judge Tsang turns to McNulty. “Any other witnesses?”

“No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

The judge looks at me. “I take it you’d like to make a motion?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I make the standard request that the charges be dropped as a matter of law on the theory that the prosecution hasn’t met its threshold of proof.

“Denied. I’ll expect you to be ready to call your first witness at two o’clock sharp.”

CHAPTER 47

“HOW LONG CAN YOU BLOW SMOKE?”

“The older I get, the less interested I am in money and fame. I’m far more interested in finding the truth.”

— Dr. Robert Goldstein. San Francisco Chronicle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rosie asks.

We’re standing outside the courtroom during the lunch break. Ramon is in the consultation room down the corridor.

“Trying to give the judge some options,” I say.

“Are you planning to accuse everybody who ever talked to Concepcion of murder?”

More or less. It’s a variation on the time-tested defense strategy known as S-O-D-D-I—some other dude did it. “I’m trying to make something happen.”

“That isn’t the game plan.”

“The game changed when they conceded that Concepcion was still alive after Ramon left at ten o’clock. It makes Doe’s statement irrelevant. We have to give the judge some alternatives.”

“Then we should wait until trial.”

“Ramon can’t wait that long. His career is over if we can’t show somebody else did it.”

“His life may be over if we keep telegraphing our defense.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“At the moment, no.”

I promise to lighten up on the hyperbole a bit. My cell rings and I answer.

“How far did the prosecution get?” Pete asks.

“They wrapped up. No bombshells.”

“I take it that means you weren’t able to persuade the judge to drop the charges?”

“Not yet. When will you be here?”

“As soon as I can. I went to see Fuentes again. He said he may have something for us. How long can you blow smoke?”

“How long do you need?”

“At least until tonight.”

* * *

Our first witness goes on at the stroke of two. “My name is Dr. Robert Goldstein,” he says with genial authority. “I’m an emeritus professor in the departments of pathology and trauma surgery at UCSF.”

He’s also one of the most accomplished bullshit artists in the San Francisco medical community. Now in his late sixties and semi-retired, the once-impressive scholar works the lecture circuit and acts as a hired gun. Thankfully, Quinn’s last official act before he withdrew as Ramon’s attorney was to authorize payment of ten grand to Dr. Goldstein, who spent a good two hours browsing Beckert’s report. Nice work if you can get it.

I’m standing at the lectern. “Dr. Goldstein, would you describe your expertise in the field of pathology?”

His impeccably coiffed gray hair matches his subdued Wilkes Bashford suit. His resume can stand toe-to-toe with Beckert’s, and his blue eyes gleam as he tells us he graduated from Stanford and went to medical school at Johns Hopkins. McNulty grudgingly stipulates to his qualifications.

I walk up to the witness box and offer him a copy of Beckert’s report. “Are you familiar with this document?”

“I’ve studied it in great detail.”

Or in as much detail as he could muster in a couple of hours of preparation after he got home from the Warriors game on Saturday night.

He straightens his tie. His tone is deferential. “I’ve worked with Dr. Beckert for many years. I have great respect for him.”

Just the way we rehearsed it.

He adds, “That’s why I was very surprised when I read this report.”

It’s my cue. “Why is that, Dr. Goldstein?”

His jowls wiggle as he shakes his head in feigned disbelief. “I believe Dr. Beckert made an error in his analysis of the cause of death.”

Gee, big surprise. I dart an incredulous glance at Edwards, then I turn back to Goldstein. “Could you explain why?”

“Dr. Beckert concluded that Ms. Concepcion had been knocked unconscious, but I could find no evidence of any such injury.”

“Are you sure about that?”

McNulty makes his presence felt. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

No problem. I continue playing the straight man. “Would you please explain your conclusion?”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.” He addresses the judge directly. “Would you mind if I took a moment outside the witness box to point out a couple of items from the autopsy photos?”

McNulty offers no objection.

Goldstein walks over to an easel that I’ve conveniently set up adjacent to the witness box where the judge and the gallery can watch him. He buttons his double-breasted suit and takes a gold Cross pen out of his pocket to gesture. He works without notes as he points at an enlarged photo of the area where Concepcion’s neck meets her right shoulder. He makes a circling motion and says, “This is the area where Dr. Beckert claims that Ms. Concepcion was struck.” He moves in closer and puts on his reading glasses–just the way I told him to. “Your Honor, I have studied this photograph along with various enhancements thereof with great care.”

Grace spends more time on her math homework every night.

He straightens up and prepares to recite his carefully scripted lines. “Your Honor, I cannot find any evidence of a significant trauma that would have caused Ms. Concepcion to have lost consciousness.” He shakes his head vigorously. “I did not have the benefit of examining the body, but our current photographic technology is excellent, and it is very difficult for me to disagree with one of my most respected colleagues.”

Unless somebody is willing to pay him ten grand to do it.

“As a result, I believe Dr. Beckert’s conclusion that Ms. Concepcion was knocked unconscious was incorrect. I’m sure Dr. Beckert would be willing to reconsider his determination if given the opportunity.”

He’s starting to ad lib. I need to get to the punch line. “Dr. Goldstein, would you please state your conclusion as to Dr. Beckert’s determination concerning the cause of Ms. Concepcion’s death?”

He puts the pen into his pocket and returns to the stand. He clears his throat and summons his most authoritative tone. “I have concluded that it is highly unlikely that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

Air raid! Emergency! It’s a trial lawyer’s worst nightmare–a perfectly coached witness with an impeccable set-up who fumbles the delivery. I struggle to keep my composure. “Dr. Goldstein, didn’t you mean to say exactly the opposite?”

His confident demeanor gives way to a deer-in-the-headlights look. “What did I say?”

“You said it is unlikely that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” You idiot.

“That’s not what I meant,” he stammers. “I meant to say that it is very likely that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

I have him reiterate the correct conclusion once again, but the damage is done. As Nick Hanson likes to say, it isn’t just the story–it’s how you tell it.

The judge’s expression indicates that whatever points we made at the beginning of Goldstein’s testimony were lost at the end. He turns to me and asks, “Do you have any more questions for this witness?”

“No, Your Honor.”

The judge turns to McNulty. “Cross-exam?”

“No, Your Honor.” He may as well have added, “I don’t need it.”

You can write the perfect script and have the perfect cast, but the show can go down the tubes if somebody flubs their lines.

The judge turns to me. “I need to take a short recess.”

As we’re leaving the courtroom, Edwards buttonholes me. “How much did you pay Goldstein?”

“Ten grand.”

“Next time you ought to pay him a little extra to get his lines right.”

CHAPTER 48

“THINGS DIDN’T WORK OUT”

“Whereas, Eduardo Lopez is one of the moral pillars of St. Peter’s Parish and the Mission District Community.”

— Commendation issued by San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

Mercedes Trujillo isn’t flirting today. She looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than the witness box when I ask her, “How long have you been a hostess at Eduardo’s Latin Palace?”

Her long hair is pulled back, the big earrings are gone, and her make-up is subdued. “For about two years.”

By the time we’re finished, she may be unemployed. “Do you know a man named Eduardo Lopez?”

“He’s my boss.”

“Do you know him well?”

“Pretty well.”

I’m tempted to ask her if she knows him in the biblical sense, but I’d be getting ahead of myself. “Did you know a woman named Maria Concepcion?”

“Yes, I did. She used to come to the restaurant. You could say she was a regular.”

I could. “Ms. Concepcion knew Mr. Lopez pretty well, didn’t she?”

“They were friends.”

“In fact, they were more than friends, weren’t they?”

She takes a deep breath and her pouty lips form a tight ball. She looks around for help, but none is forthcoming. “Yes,” she finally decides, “they were more than friends.”

“In fact, they were lovers, weren’t they?”

“I’m really uncomfortable talking about this.”

I turn to the judge for help. “Ms. Trujillo,” he says, “you’ll have to answer the question.”

She nods. “Mr. Lopez and Ms. Concepcion were involved in a romantic relationship.”

So far, so good. “Ms. Trujillo, are you aware that Mr. Lopez and his wife have filed for a divorce?”

“I’ve never talked to them about it.”

I’m sure this is true. “One might conclude that one of the reasons for their separation involved Mr. Lopez’s extra-marital affair with Ms. Concepcion.”

“Objection, Your Honor. Assumes facts that have not been introduced into evidence.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Trujillo,” I continue, “you also had a relationship with Mr. Lopez, didn’t you?”

She freezes for an instant. “He was my boss.”

“He was more than your boss, wasn’t he?”

She waits a beat. “Mr. Lopez and I were romantically involved for a short time. Things didn’t work out.”

For anybody. “When were you seeing Mr. Lopez?”

“Last August and September.”

“Was Mr. Lopez also seeing Ms. Concepcion during that time?”

“Yes, he was.”

“So, Mr. Lopez was seeing both you and Ms. Concepcion earlier this year?”

McNulty tries to slow me down. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

Judge Tsang goes my way. “Overruled.”

Trujillo takes a deep breath. “Mr. Lopez was dating both of us for a short time.”

Good. “And just so we’re clear, he was still married at that time, wasn’t he?”

Everybody in the courtroom knows the answer. “Yes.”

“Did Ms. Concepcion find out that Mr. Lopez was also seeing you?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And how did she react?”

“Badly. She came to the restaurant and made a scene, then she went upstairs to Mr. Lopez’s office and ended their relationship.”

And she took a swing at him with his Louisville Slugger. “I take it she was upset?”

“That would be an understatement.”

“Was Mr. Lopez also upset?”

“Very.”

“Ms. Trujillo, did you and Mr. Lopez continue to see each other after that?”

“No. I told Mr. Lopez that I thought it would be better if we parted company.”

“Yet you still work for him?”

“You have to pay the bills, Mr. Daley.”

And she has a gold-plated sexual harassment claim if she’s fired. On to the pyrotechnics. “You mentioned that Mr. Lopez was upset that Ms. Concepcion broke up with him.”

“Yes, he was.”

Here goes. “Upset enough to kill her?”

This gets McNulty out of his chair. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I’m just starting to ask her to speculate. “Ms. Trujillo, did Mrs. Lopez know that her husband was seeing you and Ms. Concepcion?”

“Yes. She called me and told me she’d hired a private investigator who had seen us.”

“Did Mr. Lopez know about this?”

“Yes. I confronted him. He told me that she already knew.”

“Did he seem to care?”

“Not as far as I could tell.”

Here we go again. “Was Mrs. Lopez upset about it?”

“Very.”

“Upset enough to murder Ms. Concepcion?”

McNulty shoots up again. “Objection,” he shouts. “There isn’t the slightest bit of foundation for this speculative line of questioning. Mr. Daley is desperately grasping at straws in order to suggest there may be other possible suspects in this case.”

Yes, I am.

Judge Tsang knows exactly what I’m doing. “Sustained.”

I glance at Edwards, then I turn back to Trujillo. “When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Concepcion?”

“She called the restaurant to place an order last Monday night.”

“Did she pick up the order?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she have any contact with Mr. Lopez that night?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Did he leave the building at any time during your shift?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“And what time did your shift conclude?”

“Twelve-thirty a.m.”

“Ms. Trujillo, did you happen to leave the restaurant through the rear door?”

“Yes.”

“And did you walk down the alley?”

“For about a block.”

“Are you aware that Ms. Concepcion lived in a building that backs onto the same alley?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Did you happen to see Ms. Concepcion or anyone else in the alley that night?”

“No.”

It was worth a try. “Was Mr. Lopez still at the restaurant when you left?”

“Yes. We walked out the back door at the same time.”

It’s around the same time Nick the Dick left his post–that would explain why he didn’t see Trujillo or Lopez. “Is it possible that he paid a visit to Ms. Concepcion at some point after you left the restaurant that night?”

McNulty finally stops me. “Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I keep pressing her. “It’s possible that Mr. Lopez could have gone to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment and killed her that night, isn’t it?”

“Objection. The question is speculative and there is no foundation.”

Yes, it is, and no, there isn’t.

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Mercedes Trujillo may have been a reluctant witness, but Vicky Lopez most certainly is not. She’s dressed in one of her own creations as she adjusts the microphone. Her olive skin is gleaming against an understated beige blouse. She tells an impressed gallery that she runs one of the most successful independent fashion design firms in the country, and she appears quite ready to inflict a full-blown frontal assault on her husband’s character. Never underestimate the pent-up anger in a jilted spouse.

“How long have you been married?” I ask.

“Twenty-seven years.” I notice an approving nod from Judge Tsang as I take her through a brief recitation of a listing of her children and grandchildren.

“Mrs. Lopez, is it true that you and your husband have filed for divorce?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Would you mind telling us why?”

“My husband is a cheating pig.”

Just the dignified tone I was hoping for. Judge Tsang silences the gallery with a single tap of his gavel.

The marriage counseling is over and the gloves are off as Vicky Lopez catalogues her husband’s infidelities. She acknowledges that she hired Nick the Dick, who reported on her husband’s relationships with Concepcion, Trujillo, and several others. “Eduardo was probably cheating from the day we got married.”

This confirms that he’s a jerk, but it still doesn’t place him at Concepcion’s apartment last Monday night. “Mrs. Lopez, how did you feel when you first heard that your husband was cheating on you?”

“How do you think I felt?”

“Angry?”

“Irate. It was humiliating.”

Fair enough. “Did you confront him?”

“Yes. He denied everything. I told him that I would leave him if he cheated again. He didn’t think I meant it, but believe me, I did.”

I believe you. “You knew Ms. Concepcion, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I was furious when Mr. Hanson told me about it.”

“At Ms. Concepcion?”

“At my husband.”

Not the right answer for establishing the ever-popular “Jealous-Wife-With-a-Motive” theory, but it throws a little more mud on her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s his reputation. “Did you confront her about it?”

“I confronted my husband.”

Dammit. “And?”

“He denied it.”

True to form. “Is that when you filed for divorce?”

“Yes.” I let her vent. It’s entertaining to wash the Lopez family’s dirty laundry in public. She’s also building an impressive case for her divorce proceedings. However, the purpose of this exercise is to provide evidence that Eduardo may have been so angry at his ex-girlfriend that he killed her. Unfortunately, there is none. Our next option involves smoke and mirrors.

“Mrs. Lopez, where were you on the night of Monday, December first?”

“At my shop.” She says she was there until about twelve-thirty a.m. “I like to work at night because it’s quiet.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“Yes.” She says she lives within a mile of her store. “I’m still living at our house at Twenty-fifth and Bryant. My husband has taken an apartment at Twenty-fifth and Folsom.”

“Did you have any contact with Ms. Concepcion that night?”

“None.”

I didn’t expect her to say that she bumped into her in the alley behind her apartment just before she went upstairs and killed her. “Did you speak to your husband that evening?”

“We had a telephone conversation around eight o’clock. We were trying to work out a time to get together with our lawyers to iron out the final details of our divorce settlement.”

McNulty finally stands. “I fail to see the relevance of this questioning.”

Judge Tsang says, “I’m inclined to agree with Mr. McNulty.”

So am I. “Just a couple more questions, Your Honor.”

He gives me the benefit of the doubt. “Proceed.”

“You saw your husband later that night, didn’t you?”

“Briefly. I almost drove into his car as I was heading east on Twenty-fifth at about twelve-forty-five a.m. He was pulling out of the alley between Mission and Capp. It would have been pretty ironic if we’d wrecked our cars just before we were about to finalize our divorce settlement.”

True enough. It also places both of them within a half block of Concepcion’s apartment after Ramon left. “What kind of cars do you drive?”

“Matching Lexus SUVs.”

It still doesn’t place either of them in Concepcion’s apartment. “Your husband was coming home from work, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he drove right by the back of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment building, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible he may have gone into Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I can place her husband within striking distance of Concepcion’s apartment after Ramon left, but that’s as far as I can go. I probe for another minute, but she can’t provide any additional details regarding his whereabouts that night. McNulty passes on cross-exam.

The judge asks me to call my next witness.

Time to rock and roll. “The defense calls Eduardo Lopez.”

CHAPTER 49

“MUTUAL DECISIONS GENERALLY DON’T INVOLVE BASEBALL BATS”

“Defense attorneys for Father Ramon Aguirre have placed Eduardo Lopez in the alley behind Maria Concepcion’s apartment on the morning she died.”

— KGO-Radio. Monday, December 15. 3:00 p.m.

Eduardo Lopez strokes his neatly trimmed beard and nods politely to the judge after he’s sworn in. He could pass for a lawyer at Shanahan’s firm. The silk shirt and designer tie have been replaced by an executive ensemble from Brooks Brothers. He exudes a serene self-confidence as he sits in the witness box, and I approach him with caution. He’s been lurking outside the courtroom. I wanted to question him before he got debriefed by his attorney, an equally-dapper man named Alex Schwartz, who is sitting in the back row of the gallery. Everybody involved in this case has a designated spy.

I try to get him to lower his guard by starting with an easy one. “You’ve operated Eduardo’s Latin Palace on Mission Street for almost thirty years, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” No elaboration. He’s been coached to keep his answers short.

“You’ve been quite successful, haven’t you?”

I catch the hint of a proud smile behind the goatee. “My competitors seem to think so.”

His attempt to sound disarming falls flat. “Mr. Lopez, we heard testimony earlier today from Ms. Mercedes Trujillo.”

“She’s an excellent employee.”

In many ways. “Is she also excellent in bed?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

It’s also insulting, but that isn’t one of the prescribed legal grounds for an objection.

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I approach Lopez. “You and Ms. Trujillo were involved in a romantic relationship earlier this year, weren’t you?”

No response.

“Mr. Lopez, you’ll have to answer my questions.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Daley.”

“I’m saying Ms. Trujillo admitted that you were having an affair with her and with another woman–Maria Concepcion. Your wife testified that she hired a private investigator who discovered that you were cheating on her. The PI was gracious enough to confirm it.”

Still no response.

“Mr. Lopez, this isn’t your restaurant where you call the shots. In business, you may call it bluffing, but in court, we call it perjury–and you can go to jail for it.”

His jaws clench. “It is no secret my wife and I have had our differences and we are getting divorced. The circumstances are regrettable. I can assure you that’s all I intend to say about it.”

And I can assure you it’s nowhere near what you’re going to say about it. “Are you denying that you had an affair with Ms. Concepcion?”

“No.”

“Are you denying that you also had an affair with Ms. Trujillo?”

“No.” Lopez tries to take the offensive. “I fail to understand how this is remotely relevant to the issue of whether your client murdered Ms. Concepcion.”

I turn to the judge and strike a patient tone. “Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer my questions?”

Lopez pleads his case. “Your Honor, my personal relationships are nobody else’s business.”

“Answer the questions, Mr. Lopez.”

“I had relations with Ms. Concepcion and Ms. Trujillo.”

The negotiations in his divorce settlement just became stickier. “Mr. Lopez, Ms. Concepcion terminated your relationship when she found out you were also seeing Ms. Trujillo, didn’t she?”

“It was a mutual decision.”

No, it wasn’t. “Mutual decisions generally don’t involve baseball bats.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your wife’s private investigator was keeping your office under surveillance. He told us Ms. Concepcion broke up with you and she took a swing at you with your Orlando Cepeda autographed model.”

“My office has no windows. There is no way he could have seen inside.”

“Your office was bugged, Mr. Lopez.”

He studies my face to see if I’m bluffing, but doesn’t offer a response.

I add, “And so was your phone.”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down and he glares at me through slitted eyes. If he lies, I’ll trot out Nick Hanson and make Lopez look like a buffoon.

Now that I have his undivided attention, it’s time to rumble. “Just so we’re clear, Ms. Concepcion broke up with you in early September after she found out you were also seeing Ms. Trujillo, didn’t she?”

“The situation was complicated.”

“Not to mention the fact that Ms. Trujillo dumped you a short time later.”

McNulty finally makes his presence felt. “Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we are trying to establish the circumstances surrounding a very traumatic event in Ms. Concepcion’s recent past that will have direct bearing on this case.” Especially if I want to try to pin the blame on Lopez. “I would be grateful for a little leeway.”

The judge isn’t entirely convinced, but he isn’t prepared to pull the plug. “Proceed.”

I turn back to Lopez. “You were very upset when Ms. Concepcion terminated your relationship, weren’t you?”

“It wasn’t the conclusion that I had hoped for. I was very fond of her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She came into the restaurant a couple of weeks ago.”

“Was she still angry?”

“She didn’t want to talk to me.”

I’ll bet. “How did you feel when you saw her?”

“Sad.”

“Angry?”

“A little.”

“Jealous?”

“There was nothing to be jealous about, Mr. Daley.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“She didn’t mention it.”

“Were you concerned that you might be the father of her unborn child?”

“I just told you that I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

I’ve made him look like an ass, but I haven’t gotten any closer to finding a motive for murder or placing him at her apartment. “You’re planning to run for office, aren’t you?”

“I have made no secret of the fact that I intend to run for the Board of Supervisors.”

“If word got out that you were having an affair or were the father of an illegitimate child, it would have been a huge setback for your political aspirations, not to mention your marriage, right?”

“My personal life is not a public issue, and it has nothing to do with this case. A lot of people get divorced.”

Tell me about it. “Did Ms. Concepcion know any deep, dark secrets that could have adversely impacted your political ambitions?”

“No.”

“Was she trying to blackmail you?”

“Absolutely not.”

It’s as far as I can go. “What time did you leave work last Tuesday morning?”

“Approximately twelve-thirty a.m.”

“Why didn’t you stay until closing time?”

“I had an appointment at the planning commission early the next morning.”

“Did you drive home?”

“Yes.”

“You drive a Lexus SUV, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. It was parked in the alley behind my restaurant.”

“The same alley that runs behind the back of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment building?”

“Yes.”

“So you drove by her building after you left work, didn’t you?”

“It’s on my way home.”

“Did you stop at her place?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you see anybody in her apartment?”

“I wasn’t looking.”

“Were the lights on?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Was anybody else in the alley?”

“Just the guy down the block who restores cars in his garage.”

That would be Preston Fuentes. “Did you see anybody else that night?”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “Ironically, as I was preparing to turn onto Twenty-fifth Street, I came within a foot of barreling into my wife’s car.”

Ordinarily, I would be skeptical when the testimony of a husband and wife match up so perfectly–one might suspect they compared notes to alibi for each other. In this case, I find it unlikely that he and Vicky got together to swap stories. Moreover, the fact that they almost collided doesn’t place either of them inside Concepcion’s apartment. “Mr. Lopez, did you kill Maria Concepcion in the early morning hours of Tuesday, December second?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

There’s nothing else that I can do. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

“What now?” Ramon asks. The air of resignation in his tone has been replaced by the sound of abject fear as we’re meeting during the afternoon break.

“It’s only a preliminary hearing. We’re still in the game.”

“Barely.”

“We have two options, Ramon. Plan A is that we shut down now and put on a full defense at the trial.” I explain to him that delay is frequently a defense attorney’s best friend. “The upside is that this will allow us to interview witnesses and gather additional evidence in an orderly way. The downside is that nothing will be resolved for a year or two, perhaps longer.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“We’ll put the San Francisco Archdiocese on trial right now.”

CHAPTER 50

“YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO WIN”

“The best trial lawyers are masters of improvisational theater.”

— Legal Analyst Mort Goldberg. Channel 4 News. Monday, December 15. 4:05 p.m.

Dennis Peterson is wearing his Big-Firm-Hardass-Trial-Lawyer costume as he eyes me from the stand at four o’clock on Monday afternoon. The ace litigator from Shanahan’s law firm isn’t used to being on the receiving end of this drill, and his demeanor suggests that he isn’t going to be especially pleasant about it.

I go right after him. “Your marriage broke up three years ago, didn’t it?”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“My ex-wife and I found it was extremely difficult to live and work together.”

There was a little more to it. “Was infidelity involved?”

McNulty pops up. “Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “the circumstances surrounding Ms. Concepcion’s divorce are essential to an analysis of her psyche at the time of her death.”

“It was three years ago,” McNulty whines.

“I was divorced eleven years ago, and I can assure you the psychological scars take a long time to heal.” Just ask Rosie.

Judge Tsang agrees with me. “Overruled.”

Peterson responds immediately. “My ex-wife erroneously believed that infidelity was involved, but I can assure you it was not.”

Right. “Can anybody corroborate your claim?” It’s an unfair question–he can’t prove a negative.

“You know there is no way I can do that. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

It’s the right answer. “Your ex-wife had psychological and emotional problems that included depression, didn’t she?”

“Correct.”

“And she sought the help of a therapist who prescribed antidepressants, right?”

“Correct.”

McNulty up again. “Your Honor, we covered this territory with Ms. Concepcion’s therapist. Unless Mr. Daley is prepared to offer new information, I would suggest that he move on.”

Judge Tsang eyes me. “Mr. Daley, you need to get to the point now.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Peterson. “You and your ex-wife were opposing counsel on a high profile case that was about to go to trial, weren’t you?”

“It would be a violation of the attorney-client privilege to discuss it.”

“I’m not going to ask you about any substantive legal or evidentiary issues, but I would like to know about your ex-wife’s mood. You were communicating with her frequently in the weeks leading up to her death, weren’t you?”

“That’s always true before a significant trial is about to start.”

“And the days leading up a high profile trial are very stressful, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

I walk up to Peterson. “In general terms, how was the case going?”

“From our standpoint, very well.”

“You were confident your client would prevail?” He can’t very well say they were about to lose.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“That suggests Ms. Concepcion’s case was weak, doesn’t it?”

“That would be the flip side.”

“You thought you were going to win, didn’t you?”

“I still do.” If he’s smart, he’ll shut his mouth, but his ego gets ahead of his judgment. “We were extremely confident a judgment in our favor would be the likely result.”

Perfect. “Yet you attempted to settle the case, didn’t you?”

“We discussed the possibility, but we didn’t think settlement was a likely outcome.”

“But you did proffer one or more settlement proposals, didn’t you?”

“Only in an attempt to terminate the case without incurring additional legal fees. We never rule out any option. We were confident we would prevail on the merits at trial.”

“And how did Ms. Concepcion react to your proposals?”

“She rejected them.”

“Because they were too low?”

“Because she had unrealistic beliefs about the strength of her case.”

The same might be said of you. “Mr. Peterson, your ex-wife was suffering from severe emotional distress and she had a difficult, if not unwinnable case against an excellent lawyer, right?”

He can’t deny it. “Correct.”

“Do you think the strain was so severe that her emotions got the better of her and she decided to take her own life?”

McNulty’s up again. “Objection. Mr. Daley is asking the witness to speculate.”

Yes, I am.

“Sustained.”

It isn’t the last time I’m going to ask him to speculate. “Mr. Peterson, did your ex-wife appear distraught or unhappy to you?”

“Both.”

“As unhappy as she did around the time of your divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Unhappy enough that she may have considered desperate options?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I’d be objecting like mad if I were in McNulty’s shoes. “Mr. Peterson, you were at a settlement conference with Ms. Concepcion on Monday, December first, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How was her demeanor?”

“Agitated. She was unwilling to discuss our final settlement offer in a rational way, and she had difficulties controlling her emotions. I think she had a panic attack. She spent a long time in the bathroom. She said her stomach hurt.”

It could have been the pregnancy. “Did you sense Ms. Concepcion was out of control?”

He measures his words carefully. “She was under a lot of pressure, but she conducted herself in a professional manner. Maria had her faults, but she was a fighter. She was also desperate to have a child. She wouldn’t have hurt an unborn baby. It is inconceivable to me that she committed suicide.”

It’s the answer I expected. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

“Nine-fifteen last Monday night. I had received authorization from my client to tender a final settlement offer. She rejected it.”

“How was her mood?”

“She was tired.”

I ask if he had any additional communication with the archdiocese that night.

“I reported on my conversation to Father Quinn. He said he was disappointed, but not surprised.”

“Did you speak to anybody else about it?”

“I briefed my partner, John Shanahan. He wasn’t surprised either.”

“What time did you go home?”

“Around midnight.”

“Why so late?”

“I was preparing for trial.”

“Did you drive anywhere in the vicinity of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

I didn’t expect him to admit that he went down to Twenty-fifth and Capp and committed murder. “Mr. Peterson, what kind of car do you drive?”

“A Lexus SUV.”

Of course. “What color?”

“Black.”

I give Edwards a knowing look. “No further questions.”

CHAPTER 51

“I AM THE ARCHBISHOP’S CHIEF ADVISOR ON ALL MAJOR LEGAL MATTERS”

“We have to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

— F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.

F.X. Quinn places his hand on the Bible and swears that he will tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God. If God’s busy, I’m sure Quinn would be willing to provide the same assurances himself. In response to the bailiff’s request that he state his full name and occupation, he says, “Father Francis Xavier Quinn.” He struggles to maneuver his torso into the narrow wooden chair. “I am the archbishop’s chief advisor on all major legal matters.”

And you wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

The courtroom is hushed at four-fifteen. All eyes are glued to the commanding figure of the archdiocese’s chief legal eagle. Quinn is glaring at me with contempt, giving new meaning to the concept of a hostile witness.

I start slowly. “Father Quinn, did you know an attorney named Maria Concepcion?”

“Yes. We had a professional acquaintance. We were on opposite sides of several legal matters involving claims against the archdiocese.”

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“She was a tenacious, if misguided, adversary.”

“Yet she was successful, wasn’t she?”

He invokes a fake apologetic tone. “The attorney-client privilege doesn’t allow me to discuss the details of the matters she handled.”

And if it didn’t, you’d find another reason. “Ms. Concepcion did, in fact, obtain several meaningful victories on behalf of her clients, didn’t she?”

He turns to the judge. “This information is privileged and confidential.”

“I can’t expect you to talk about any matter that is pending or the subject of an appeal, but the resolution of a particular case is a matter of public record, subject to any relevant protective orders or seals.”

“But Your Honor–,”

“You’ll have to answer Mr. Daley’s question, Father Quinn.”

It’s the first time in years that somebody made Quinn do something he didn’t want to do. He sucks it up. “We reluctantly agreed to settle several minor matters to avoid the costs of protracted litigation. The claims were without merit and the amounts are confidential.”

I ask, “Then why did you settle them?”

“I just told you–we wanted to avoid the costs of litigation.”

“And adverse publicity?”

“That’s one of the factors we consider, but it isn’t an important one.”

The hell it isn’t. “Who has the final authority to decide if a case should be settled?”

He pauses to consider his options. If he tries to kick it upstairs, I’ll put the archbishop on the stand and ask him the same question. “I have the final say on all litigation matters.”

Sure. It’s akin to suggesting that the chairman of the board of a public company would delegate the final decision on a “bet-the-company” lawsuit to his general counsel. It’s indicative of how far he’s willing to go to keep the archbishop out of the line of fire. “Father Quinn, are you saying Archbishop Keane has no input on the resolution of major legal matters that could cost the archdiocese millions of dollars?”

“I consult with him, of course, but he’s delegated the primary responsibility for concluding such matters to me.”

“That makes you the most powerful person in the archdiocese.”

“I am aware of the responsibility that goes along with this job, but I like to think moral and theological issues still take precedence over legal ones.”

They do until the archdiocese is hit with a huge judgment. “Father Quinn, what was the magnitude of the settlements in the matters Ms. Concepcion had brought against the archdiocese?”

“That’s confidential, Mr. Daley.”

The judge doesn’t help me this time. I ask Quinn about the nature of the claims brought by Concepcion on behalf of her clients.

“She alleged unsubstantiated misdeeds by employees of the archdiocese.”

Parsing works in politics, but it isn’t terribly effective in court. “Would that include allegations of financial and sexual improprieties by certain priests and members of the archdiocese staff?”

“Ms. Concepcion was never able to prove any such claims.”

“And now she’ll never have the chance to try.” On to the good stuff. “Ms. Concepcion had brought a major case alleging illicit sexual acts by a priest named Father Patrick O’Connell, hadn’t she?”

“There was no proof of any of the alleged acts.”

“His accuser was murdered, wasn’t she?”

“So it appears.”

“As a result, she can’t testify at Father O’Connell’s trial, can she?”

“No, she can’t.”

“And she can’t testify in this matter, either, can she?”

McNulty tries to slow me down. “Objection, Your Honor. These matters have already been addressed.”

Judge Tsang nods. “Please move along, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I’ve been standing at the lectern at a respectful distance, but now it’s time to turn up the heat. I approach Quinn. “Do you have any information concerning the death of the plaintiff in the O’Connell case–a woman known as Jane Doe?”

“No. The police tell me the investigation is ongoing.”

“You would acknowledge that her death will have a material bearing on the direction of the O’Connell case, right?”

“Of course. She was the plaintiff.”

“And it is helpful to your client that she is no longer available to testify, right?”

McNulty’s up again. “Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “any information about Ms. Doe may be relevant in determining who is responsible for the death of Ms. Concepcion.”

“Answer the question, Father Quinn.”

“Ms. Doe’s unavailability is a factor that we will have to consider if her survivors elect to pursue her claims.”

It’s a perfect answer that says absolutely nothing. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Concepcion?”

He confirms that he was present at the settlement conference at Shanahan’s office. “I can’t discuss the details without violating the attorney-client privilege.”

I give the judge a hopeful look, but his glare suggests this topic is not open for discussion. “You put a settlement offer on the table, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how much?”

“No.”

“What was Ms. Concepcion’s response?”

“She rejected it.” He waits a beat and adds, “Emphatically.”

“Why?”

“Presumably, it wasn’t enough money.”

“Did she have a figure of her own in mind?”

“It was far beyond anything we would have considered.”

“Millions?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Tens of millions?”

McNulty interjects. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“He hasn’t answered,” I say.

“And he isn’t going to,” the judge snaps. “The information is confidential. The objection is sustained.”

I didn’t think he’d give me that one. “How was Ms. Concepcion’s demeanor?”

“Agitated.”

“Was she acting rationally?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation as to state of mind.”

“Sustained.”

I try another adjective. “Was her behavior erratic?”

“She was always strident, but she seemed unusually distracted.”

“Was that the last time you spoke to her?”

“No. I called her at a quarter to ten last Monday night.”

This jibes with the phone records. “What did you discuss?”

“I wanted to see if we could bridge the gap in our settlement discussions.”

“Does that mean you made another offer?”

“A generous one.”

I ask him why he upped the ante.

“Litigation is expensive, Mr. Daley.”

“Especially when you lose.”

His jaws clench. “We weren’t going to lose. We receive excellent advice from our regular outside counsel at the firm of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke.”

I could ask him to speculate about whether she was suicidal, but that line of questioning hasn’t been a winner. “How did Ms. Concepcion react to your offer?”

“Badly. I explained to her that it was our last and best offer, and she rejected it.”

“How long did she consider it?”

“About two seconds. I didn’t speak to her again.”

“You didn’t go over to her apartment to make one final plea to her better judgment?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

I ask him if he informed the archbishop of break-off in settlement negotiations.

“Yes. He expressed his disappointment and said he would pray for an equitable result.”

* * *

Pete finally makes his entrance at four-thirty. He’s been going all night and lends just the right touch of dignity to the defense table when he saunters in wearing faded jeans and his bomber jacket.

“You’re late,” I whisper.

He pulls up the chair next to mine. “I’ve been busy, Mick.”

Just another day in the life of a PI. I turn to the judge. “If we might have just a moment to confer with our investigator, Your Honor.”

“Make it quick, Mr. Daley.”

We adjourn to the consultation room where I ask Pete if he found anything.

“Maybe.”

“We don’t have time to play twenty questions. Spill it.”

“One, the guy from the fertility clinic is willing to testify that Ramon donated sperm on two occasions.”

The issue of whether Ramon is the father is no longer in question. It’s helpful that we can show it wasn’t a one-night stand, but it won’t get the charges dropped.

“Two, Vince said there was nobody on your tail this morning.”

I’m glad to hear it, but I’m not prepared to let my guard down.

“Three, the cops found an abandoned green Impala in an alley behind Moscone Center. It was stolen a week ago in South City and stripped clean.”

I hope Jeff Pick isn’t involved. I guess this qualifies as good news, but it’s possible that the driver simply switched cars. “Is it the Impala?”

“I don’t know for sure, but the odds are pretty good.”

The odds are also pretty good that the driver is long gone. “Were they able to lift any prints?”

“No way. It was cleaned by a pro.”

“Can they connect the car to Doe’s killing?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the fire at our office?”

“I talked to one of my moles down at the fire department. There wasn’t anything in the car that tied it to the fire, but he told me that there’s a good chance it was arson.”

“To get to us?”

“More than likely. To be on the safe side, I’ve asked Vince to stay on your tail.”

This isn’t making me feel better. “What else is on your list?”

“Fuentes wants to meet us at ten o’clock tonight. He says he may have something.”

My heart starts beating faster, but I try to keep my hopes under control. “Anything else?”

“I was able to obtain some information about the Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke trust account.” Pete opens a battered manila envelope and removes a printout filled with numbers.

“How’d you get it?”

“Legally. You’d be amazed what you can access if you know what you’re doing. I can tell you how much Judge Tsang is worth if you’re interested.”

“That won’t be necessary. Is there anything in this report that might help us?”

“Maybe.” He points at a column of numbers toward the bottom of the first page. “A cashier’s check was drawn on this account on Monday, December first.”

“To whom?”

“Cash.”

Which means it could have been converted into cold, hard currency at any bank. “How much?”

“Five million bucks.”

“Why did they pull so much money out of the trust account?”

“My guess is that they were trying to settle the O’Connell case.”

“Maybe. Who authorized the withdrawal?”

“Shanahan.”

CHAPTER 52

DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

“While we anticipate that Father Aguirre will be fully exonerated, our firm’s primary loyalties lie with our good client, the San Francisco Archdiocese.”

— John Shanahan. San Francisco Chronicle.

As always, John Shanahan’s appearance is one of understated elegance as he sits in uncharted territory–the witness box–at five minutes to five. Judge Tsang has made it clear that we will adjourn as soon as I’ve completed my direct exam, and my hopes for a stunning grand finale have faded.

Shanahan invokes the grandfatherly tone. “I am the senior partner of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke. We have over six hundred lawyers in twenty offices in California and other major metropolitan areas. We have been the primary outside counsel for the San Francisco Archdiocese for over four decades.”

I’m impressed. “Mr. Shanahan, your firm is defending the archdiocese in a lawsuit alleging certain misdeeds by a priest named Father Patrick O’Connell, isn’t it?”

“Correct.”

“That lawsuit is currently on hold, isn’t it?”

Shanahan turns to Judge Tsang. “Your Honor, we cannot comment on pending legal matters relating to the archdiocese without violating the attorney-client privilege.”

“You can address issues that are a matter of public record.”

“But Your Honor–,”

“Answer the question, Mr. Shanahan.”

I like the show of control.

Shanahan sighs melodramatically. “The O’Connell case is in abeyance because the plaintiff and her attorney are no longer available.”

No kidding. “Why is that, Mr. Shanahan?”

“They’ve passed away.”

“You mean they’re dead.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. They’re dead.”

“The plaintiff was shot to death behind the Mitchell Brothers Theater, wasn’t she?”

“That’s been reported in the papers.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“Just what I’ve read in the papers.”

“And it’s been alleged that Ms. Concepcion was murdered.”

“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Daley.”

Yes, it is. “It’s certainly convenient for your client’s case that neither the plaintiff nor her attorney is available to testify, isn’t it?”

“It’s highly unfortunate.”

I can see that you’re heartbroken. I approach the witness box. “Mr. Shanahan, Ms. Concepcion started her career at your law firm, didn’t she?”

“Correct.”

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“She was competent and very conscientious.”

“Did your opinion of her legal skills change after she left the firm and began initiating lawsuits against the archdiocese?”

“She was still competent and very conscientious.” He should stop right there, but he can’t resist a swipe. “For some reason, she decided to devote her time to bringing spurious lawsuits against the archdiocese. She was unsuccessful.”

I wouldn’t expect you to admit otherwise. “It’s been reported that Ms. Concepcion had negotiated lucrative settlements in several of those cases.”

“The press exaggerates.”

I point out that Peterson and Quinn confirmed that the archdiocese settled several suits.

Shanahan holds firm. “We never lost a case to Ms. Concepcion. It is inaccurate to state that the settlement of a couple of cases for modest sums was anything other than an attempt to avoid the costs of protracted litigation.”

He certainly has his lines down. “How did you feel about the O’Connell case?”

“Our position was very strong.”

“But the charges have not been dismissed, have they?”

“No.”

“You were at a settlement conference with Ms. Concepcion on Monday, December first, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And you made a settlement offer there, didn’t you?”

“It was rejected.”

“And Mr. Peterson made another settlement offer later that evening, didn’t he?”

“Also rejected.”

“If you had such a strong case, why did you try so hard to settle it?”

“Trials are fraught with uncertainty, Mr. Daley. Settlements are not.”

It isn’t a bad answer. “A moment ago you said you were certain of the outcome. Now you seem to be saying you weren’t.”

“I said we made an economic determination that we would be willing to settle for a modest amount in order to avoid the costs of litigation–nothing more.”

“And any settlement would have included an agreement in which neither the archdiocese nor Father O’Connell would have admitted any culpability, right?”

“Those are customary terms in settling civil cases.”

“And the terms would have been strictly confidential, right?”

“Correct.”

“Which would have avoided adverse publicity.”

“We take many factors into account.”

“Did you have any other contact with Ms. Concepcion?”

“No. I provided a status report to Father Quinn later the same evening. He was disappointed, but not surprised.”

“Did you speak to Archbishop Keane?”

“No. Father Quinn indicated to me that he would inform the archbishop.”

I glance at Pete, who has taken a seat next to Ramon at the defense table, then I turn back to Shanahan. “Your law firm maintains a client trust account, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.” I catch a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. “It’s required by law, Mr. Daley.”

“Can you explain its purpose?”

McNulty is up. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”

In response to the judge’s inquisitive look, I say, “I’ll tie this together in the next two minutes, and I promise that this is the last subject on my list of questions for today.”

“Overruled.”

Shanahan folds his arms and lectures. “It’s a bank account maintained by our firm to hold funds in trust on behalf of our clients. We are frequently asked to advance filing fees, court costs, and other expenses. On rare occasions, we hold advances of our legal fees.”

“Sometimes you hold larger amounts to expedite the payment of settlements, don’t you?”

“From time to time, it’s easier to facilitate the mechanics of a closing or a settlement if all funds are placed in our trust account.”

“You have several sub-accounts for the archdiocese, don’t you?”

“It facilitates bookkeeping. Many of our clients ask us to provide detailed reports on advances and expense reimbursements.”

McNulty finally runs out of patience. “Your Honor, this line of questioning is highly educational and very interesting, but I still fail to see the relevance.”

Judge Tsang gives me a stern look. “I’m going to give you one more minute to show some relevance, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn to Rosie, who hands me four copies of the account information Pete obtained, and I distribute them to the judge, McNulty, and Shanahan. “Your Honor, the defense would like to introduce this bank account information into evidence.” He studies the paperwork as I keep talking. “This document shows the transactions in a sub-account maintained by Mr. Shanahan’s law firm on behalf of the archdiocese.”

McNulty reacts immediately. “Where did you get this?”

“An information service that may be accessed by payment of a fee. Our private investigator would be happy to provide details if necessary.”

In reality, the only people who should have any objection are Shanahan and Quinn. McNulty mutters, “No objection, Your Honor.”

All eyes turn to Shanahan, who recognizes that his firm’s trust account records will be on the front page of the Chronicle in the morning. The experienced spin doctor makes the correct call. “Your Honor, our firm has nothing to hide. We have no objection if Mr. Daley wishes to have this document admitted into evidence. We’re prepared to confirm that it shows transactions in a sub-account that we maintain on behalf of the archdiocese.”

Either he truly has nothing to hide, or he doesn’t want to look evasive. I notice a wry grin on Edwards’s face. The judge enters the document into evidence, and I turn back to Shanahan and ask him to describe the purpose of the sub-account.

“It was established to facilitate payment of miscellaneous expenses.”

“Sort of a slush fund for contingencies?”

He repeats, “It was established to facilitate payment of miscellaneous expenses.”

“Do you have any other secret accounts to settle matters for the archdiocese?”

“If it were a secret, Mr. Daley, I wouldn’t be discussing it with you. I can assure you that Father Quinn is well-aware of its existence. In fact, he’s the only person who can authorize deposits into the account.”

Probably true. “And what is the current balance of that account?”

He puts on his reading glasses and studies the statement. “About twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Is that generally the balance maintained in the account?”

“More or less.”

“Mr. Shanahan, this document indicates that five million dollars was moved into this account on Friday, November twenty-eighth, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It appears the same amount was withdrawn from this account on the afternoon of Monday, December first, in the form of a cashier’s check made payable to cash.”

“Correct.”

“The same amount was re-deposited into the account the following day, and the funds were moved to another sub-account the same day.”

“Also correct.”

It confirms that a big chunk of money was moved around his firm’s trust account for a couple of days, but tells us nothing else. I ask, “Who has signature authority over this account?”

“I do. So does my partner, Dennis Peterson.”

“Did you or Mr. Peterson authorize the five-million-dollar withdrawal?”

“I did.”

“A cashier’s check made payable to cash is essentially the same as cash, right?”

“It will be honored by any bank in readily available funds.”

“Would you mind explaining why you decided it was necessary to have such a large amount of cash on hand?”

“We were in the process of trying to resolve several matters, and we wanted to be sure we had sufficient funds to cover all contingencies.”

“Including a settlement with Ms. Concepcion on the O’Connell case?”

“I can’t comment on any specific case.”

“Does that mean you were prepared to offer up to five million dollars to settle the O’Connell case?”

“I told you I can’t comment on any specific case. I am prepared to say we wanted to have enough cash on hand to handle any contingencies that arose at the time, which may have included the O’Connell case.”

Sure. “You were sitting around in your conference room at the Russ Building with a negotiable instrument worth five million bucks?”

“It was in our safe deposit box at the bank.”

“And it’s purely coincidental that the money was withdrawn from your account just before the start of the O’Connell case and re-deposited immediately after Ms. Concepcion’s death?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. I resent any suggestion that the transfer of these funds was in any way related to Ms. Concepcion’s death.”

I push him, but I can’t prove anything beyond the fact that there was a significant withdrawal and redeposit of cash around the time Concepcion died. I ask, “Did you have any further conversations with Ms. Concepcion that night?”

“No.”

“Did you go to her apartment that night with the financial equivalent of a briefcase full of bills to try to persuade her to settle the O’Connell case?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you use the money from your slush fund to try to fix a matter that still promises to be highly embarrassing and potentially very expensive for the archdiocese?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

I still can’t place him in the vicinity of Concepcion’s apartment. “Are there any other dirty little secrets relating to the O’Connell case that you’d like to share with us?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

Judge Tsang looks at the clock. “We’re adjourned until nine a.m. How many witnesses do you plan to call, Mr. Daley?”

Time to up the ante again. “Just one, Your Honor. The Archbishop of San Francisco.”

* * *

Rosie is furious when we meet in the consultation room a short time later. “That was complete crap. Senior partners at big law firms don’t have unfettered access to that kind of money.”

“Evidently, this one did.”

“Shanahan is lying. Anybody with half a brain would realize they were going to use the money to try to settle the O’Connell case or to buy off Concepcion.”

“We have no proof. A cashier’s check isn’t a smoking gun.”

“It’s the same as five million dollars of unmarked bills.”

Pete’s tone turns practical. “We still need to place somebody else at Concepcion’s apartment that night.”

“Then that’s precisely what we’ll have to do.”

* * *

The green numerals on the digital clock on my dashboard indicate that it’s nine p.m. Rosie and I are driving toward the Mission when I punch the familiar number on my cell phone.

Roosevelt picks up on the first ring. “What’s up, Mike?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Spy phone.”

“I have an unlisted number.”

“I have a really good spy phone.”

Sometimes it’s fun to be a cop.

His voice is tired. “What do you need?”

“To see if you’re prepared to exercise some degree of rationality and reopen the investigation in the Concepcion case.”

“You need more rest, Mike.”

“I won’t get it until Tommy is in high school.”

“The issues become more complicated when they become teenagers.”

“Something to look forward to. Have you made any progress on Doe’s murder?”

“Nothing solid yet.”

“I’ll take wild, unsubstantiated speculation.”

“Off the record, it looks professional. It was a quick hit from a Saturday night special. It was carefully executed, and the killer was gone in seconds.”

“Did you find the murder weapon?”

“In a dumpster. The serial number and all other identifying marks were removed.”

“Prints?”

“Forget it.”

“Witnesses?”

“None.”

“Suspects?”

“The usual.”

“Chances?”

“Slim.”

I ask him if there might be a connection to the disappearance of Doe’s former colleague.

“I don’t know.” He says he can’t connect the Impala to Doe’s killing, either. “The car was wiped clean. It doesn’t mean that there isn’t a connection. It just means that we haven’t found it yet.”

“Any chance I can persuade you to take a look at the records for the trust account for Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke?”

“I’ll give it a look, but if Shanahan was really trying to hide something, he wouldn’t have talked about it.”

“He had no choice. He would have looked evasive. Maybe we caught him red-handed with his fingers in the cookie jar.”

“A cashier’s check doesn’t add up to murder, Mike.” He exhales heavily. “Let me give you some free advice.”

His advice is usually very good.

“If you really want to crack this case, you’re going to have to find an eyewitness who can place somebody other than your client in Concepcion’s apartment after twelve-thirty last Tuesday morning.”

Tell me something I don’t know. “That’s going to be tough.”

“You’re a good lawyer.”

I ask him if he’s going to be at work for a while.

“Yes. What do you need?”

“Protection. We’re going to be talking to some people tonight. If we find a witness who knows something, I want to be sure he or she doesn’t end up like Jane Doe.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, but I may need you later.”

“I always keep my cell phone on.”

CHAPTER 53

“LUIS DOES NOT EXIST”

“The black market for illegal auto parts has skyrocketed thanks to a lack of resources and lax enforcement.”

— San Francisco Chronicle.

Rosie, Pete, and I are standing a respectful distance from Fuentes, who is sitting on a stool next to his workbench. The Corvette is conspicuously absent, but Fluffy is not. She’s straining against at the choke collar in the corner of the garage, and our escape options are nonexistent if she chooses to pounce. A clock bearing a Giants logo tells us it’s ten minutes after ten. The door is closed. An acrid combination of cigarette smoke and paint fumes fills the cluttered space. This garage could go up like a sheet at any moment.

Rosie insisted on accompanying us this time to be sure we didn’t do anything stupid. She says to Fuentes, “Does this mean you sold the Corvette?”

He takes a long pull on a cigarette. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to see it.”

“It turned out nice.”

I try to engage him. “Did you do pretty well on the deal?”

“I did okay.”

“Pick’s carburetor worked?”

“Never underestimate the value of good auto parts.”

Enough. “Pete you said you had something for us.”

“I found somebody who was in the alley last Tuesday morning.”

Yes! “When can we meet him?”

“He’s waiting for my call.”

“Whatever it takes.”

Fuentes drops his cigarette on the floor and snuffs it out with his boot. He pulls out an iPhone and conducts a brief and rather heated conversation in Spanish. I’m fluent enough to understand that the other party is expressing a degree of reluctance. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ve persuaded him to talk to you.”

“Great.”

“There are some conditions.”

Not so great. “What are they?”

“No cops.”

“Agreed.”

“No wires.”

“Agreed.”

“No photographs.”

“Agreed.”

“No names.”

For the moment, I have no choice. “Agreed.”

He holds up a finger. “This last one is a deal-breaker.”

“What?”

“No testimony.”

No way. “He’s useless to us.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“We got you a carburetor on short notice.”

“It isn’t negotiable.”

Dammit.

Rosie steps forward. “Tell him we’ll talk to him.”

“Does that mean you’re accepting his conditions?”

“For now.”

Fuentes scowls and puts the phone back up to his ear. He speaks in Spanish for another moment and presses the Disconnect button. “He’s on his way.”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“He works for me.”

“An employee?”

“An independent contractor.”

“What does he do for you?”

“Whatever I ask.”

“Does it involve procuring auto parts?”

“Whatever I ask.”

“What’s his name?”

“I told you no names.”

“Give us just his first name.”

“Luis.”

“Why is he so paranoid?”

“Luis does not exist.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s an illegal alien with a criminal record and several outstanding arrest warrants who has no interest in getting involved in a police matter.”

CHAPTER 54

“I WAS GOING TO STEAL

THE CAR”

“Neighborhood patrols in the Mission have done little to stem the tide of auto thefts.

— San Francisco Chronicle.

The wiry young man with the shaved head, wisp of a mustache, and tattoo of a serpent on his right arm looks at us through darting eyes. He’s sporting a sleeveless black shirt with the logo of a hip-hop group whose name I don’t recognize and faded Levi’s that are shredded at the knees. A single stud punctures his left ear. His muscular hands are clenched. “Who are you?” he asks me in lightly accented English.

“We’re representing Father Aguirre.”

“Why?”

It’s a fair question. “He’s a friend and a classmate. And because he’s innocent.”

A nod of silent approval.

“Can you help us?”

“Maybe.”

“Were you here late last Monday night and early Tuesday morning?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you see anybody in this alley after twelve-thirty in the morning?”

“Maybe.”

I get his drift. “What will it take to get the whole story?”

“I have some legal problems with the immigration authorities.”

Rosie jumps in. “I’ve handled dozens of immigration cases. I’ll take care of you.”

“I have no money.”

“Father Aguirre isn’t paying us. We’ll handle your case pro bono if you’re willing to cooperate.” It’s all we have to offer.

“I need protection from the cops and ICE.”

“I’ll get a judge to sign a court order prohibiting anybody from deporting you. I’ve done it before.”

The judge is our old law partner and my ex-girlfriend. It is doubtful that an order issued by a California Superior Court judge would be binding against a federal agency like the ICE, but we’ve successfully stalled the bureaucracy from time to time.

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, and Rosie responds with a warm smile. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Luis Alvarado.”

It’s a start. “Before we talk about what happened last week, why don’t you tell us about your problems with the immigration service.”

“It’s a long story.”

Rosie’s smile broadens. “We have time.”

* * *

Alvarado’s story takes only a few minutes and is not atypical. He was born in Tijuana and slipped over the border five years ago. He did farm labor in the Central Valley and eventually worked his way up to San Francisco, where he tapped into the Mission District community and made enough money–legal or otherwise–to rent a ramshackle room above a garage near St. Peter’s. Life became more complicated when he was diagnosed with high blood pressure and diabetes, and he had to turn to stealing to pay for his medication. His health has improved, but his medicine is expensive, and he can’t apply for food stamps, welfare, or other benefits because he’ll get a one-way ticket back to Mexico. It’s the ultimate Catch-22–he can only avail himself of our safety net if he turns himself over to the authorities, who will send him packing.

“Nobody is going to send you anywhere,” Rosie assures him.

His eyes turn hopeful. “Thank you, Ms. Fernandez.”

“It’s Rosie.” They shake hands and she gives him a business card. “You can reach me on my cell phone. Our office is being remodeled.”

“Thank you, Rosie.”

“You’re welcome.” Down to business. “Were you here last Tuesday morning?”

“Yes. I dropped off some parts at Preston’s, and I was on my way home.”

“What time was that?”

“A quarter to one.”

Right after Nick the Dick left. Rosie asks him what he saw in the alley.

“A black Lexus RX 350.”

This helps. “Was anybody inside?”

“No.”

This doesn’t. “Where was it parked?”

“Down the alley.”

“Show us.”

He directs us to the area just outside the back gate of Concepcion’s building. He gives us a sheepish look. “Is this conversation covered by the attorney-client privilege?”

“Of course,” Rosie says.

“I had a standing order for a Lexus. I was going to steal the car. It was just business.” His tone fills with disappointment. “The driver came back just as I was about to hot wire the ignition.”

Bad timing. “Where did he come from?”

He points at Concepcion’s building. “I didn’t want to be seen, so I ran. He got into the car and drove away.”

“Why didn’t you take him down and take the keys?”

“I just steal cars. I never hurt anyone.”

It’s a good policy. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“It was dark, but I might be able to identify him.”

Might isn’t good enough. I ask, “Did he say anything to you?”

“He told me to get away from his car. I was scared and I got the hell out of there.”

“Do you think you can identify his voice?”

“Maybe.”

He’s the only person on the face of the earth who might be able to identify Concepcion’s killer. “Luis, we need you to testify. You can help us solve a murder.”

“I’m not going to do anything unless I get some protection.”

“We have friends in the SFPD who will take care of you.”

“No cops.”

“I have a friend who’s a homicide inspector. He worked with my father for thirty years. You can trust him, Luis.”

“I want to meet him first.”

“That’s fair.” I pull out my cell phone and punch in the familiar number.

“Johnson,” the voice says.

“Daley.”

“What?”

“I may have something for you, but I need you to be discreet. Can you meet me in twenty minutes?”

“Where?”

I need someplace safe, public, and relatively inconspicuous. “St. Mary’s. Come by yourself. We’ll be on the far right side in the back.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“You might say we’re going to have a ‘Come to Jesus Meeting.’”

CHAPTER 55

A FINAL CONFESSION

“Kindly respect the dignity of this institution by maintaining appropriate levels of decorum at all times.”

— The Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption.

It takes a lot of arm twisting, but I’m able to persuade the brain trust of the San Francisco Archdiocese to assemble in front of the modern altar in the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption at eleven-thirty on Monday night. F.X. Quinn is standing between John Shanahan and Archbishop Keane, and Dennis Peterson has positioned himself a couple of paces to one side. The massive sculpture above them symbolizes the channel of love and grace from God. Its sheer size suggests that God has a lot of love and grace to give. It’s made up of fifteen stories of triangular aluminum rods suspended by gold wires, and it weighs more than a ton. Nobody is admiring the architecture.

The contemporary white building is the third St. Mary’s to serve the archdiocese. The first was erected in 1854 and still stands at the corner of California Street and Grant Avenue in what is now Chinatown. The second was built on Van Ness Avenue in 1891, but it burned down in 1962. The existing structure was completed in 1970 and was the subject of immediate controversy because of its dramatic, modern architecture. It was derisively dubbed “God’s Maytag” when construction was finished. Its striking design flows from the geometric principal of the hyperbolic paraboloid, in which four corner pylons support a huge cupola rising nineteen stories above the floor. Expansive windows at each corner provide spectacular views of the city of Saint Francis.

I’m sitting by myself in the third row of the hushed cathedral that seats over two thousand people. I used to love to sit in church late at night when I was a priest. There was a serenity that is difficult to reproduce during the daylight hours. It was a spiritual time for me–perhaps the only time of the day when I felt truly connected to God. I look up at the magnificent vaulted ceiling, then I walk up to the altar and make the sign of the cross.

Quinn breaks the silence. “You said it was an emergency, Michael.”

“It is.” I address the archbishop. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for Father Aguirre.”

“Our prayers are with him.”

I’m sure they are.

Quinn hasn’t taken his eyes off mine, and he tries to direct the discussion. “Why did you call us here?”

“To hear a final confession.”

“I don’t understand.”

I look up at the cupola and then toward the back of the cathedral, where Rosie and Pete are standing. Luis Alvarado and Roosevelt are out of sight behind the mammoth northwest pylon. Rosie touches her right ear and I address the archbishop. “Out of respect for you and for the Church, I wanted to give you a last chance to tell the truth tonight.” And I want to conduct this exercise in a setting where the California Rules of Evidence don’t apply. “If you and your attorneys aren’t interested, we can discuss this in open court tomorrow.”

The archbishop is undaunted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Michael.”

“Your legal team let you down, Archbishop Keane.”

The charismatic priest isn’t going to take my word for it. “I have full faith and confidence in Father Quinn, Mr. Shanahan, and Mr. Peterson. They’ve served the archdiocese well for many years.”

“They’ve bent the rules to avoid embarrassment to the archdiocese and to yourself.”

“That isn’t true, Michael.”

“Are you aware that Father Quinn testified that he has complete authority to settle major cases on behalf of the archdiocese without first getting your approval?”

“He was attempting to protect me. In fact, he does have the authority to settle major matters without my approval.” He clears his throat. “And if you are serious about calling me as a witness tomorrow, I’m prepared to testify that the buck stops with me.”

He’s good. “I appreciate your willingness to take the stand, but there are other issues that may not be so easy to dispose of.”

“What issues?”

“Your general counsel and your chief outside counsel admitted in open court today that they maintain a slush fund to dispose of litigation matters involving the archdiocese.”

“I’m well-aware of that sub-account, Michael, and it’s hardly a slush fund. There is nothing illegal about it, and we have nothing to hide.”

“Did you know Father Quinn moved five million dollars into the trust account at Mr. Shanahan’s law firm?”

“I found out about it earlier today. I was a bit surprised by the magnitude of the amount, but I knew we were attempting to settle some difficult matters. There is nothing wrong with defending the Church against unfounded charges.”

“And you had no problem spying on Father O’Connell and his attorney?”

“It isn’t an ideal situation, but it’s an accepted strategy in litigation. We trust Mr. Shanahan to solve our legal problems.”

“You still believe Father O’Connell was innocent?”

“Yes.”

“You realize the media will view this as the equivalent of having withdrawn five million dollars of unmarked bills?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time the media has misconstrued the evidence.”

Quinn steps forward and tries to protect his boss. “Michael, I’m not sure why you’re so intent on lambasting us for attempting to settle a difficult case and for conducting some legitimate financial transfers. If that’s all you have, we’ll call it a night and see you in court in the morning.”

I can’t back down now. “I think you were more concerned about the O’Connell case than you’ve admitted. That’s why you authorized a five-million-dollar transfer to the trust account at Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke.”

“That’s nonsense, Michael. We had several cases in settlement negotiations. We wanted to have enough funds on hand to resolve all of them.”

“Why did you need a cashier’s check?”

“We wanted readily available funds.”

“Was it because Ms. Concepcion wouldn’t accept a check written on the account of the archdiocese?”

“Ms. Concepcion was not acting rationally. She erroneously believed we had reneged on a settlement of an earlier case and was insisting on a cashier’s check.”

“Perhaps you had the money issued in the form of a cashier’s check to make the funds more difficult to trace.”

“Obviously, that ploy didn’t work. I think we’re done.”

No, we’re not. “I believe Ms. Concepcion rejected Mr. Peterson’s offer when they spoke at nine-fifteen last Monday.” I look at Shanahan and Quinn in turn. “He reported on his discussion to both of you, and you discussed it with each other.” I turn to Peterson. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Quinn says, “He was doing his job. We’re the attorneys for the archdiocese.”

“Then you called her again at nine-forty-five and told her you were going to make one last offer to settle–I don’t know what the amount was, but I’d guess maybe a million bucks. She turned you down flat, and that was supposed to be the end of it.”

“That was the end of it,” Quinn insists.

“If I were a betting man, I’d guess that you talked to each other again after Ms. Concepcion rejected your offer, didn’t you?”

Quinn doesn’t deny it. “I called John to inform him that he needed to get ready for trial.”

Shanahan doesn’t say anything.

“You talked about more than that, didn’t you?” I say. “You guys must have spent a few minutes strategizing.”

“We did.”

“And you even talked about what it might take to settle the case, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And like all good lawyers, you discussed the upper and lower limits on what might be a suitable resolution for this case, didn’t you?”

“That’s what good lawyers, do, Michael.”

It’s true. Here goes. “And you decided to approach Ms. Concepcion with one final offer–one magnanimous gesture to try to avoid protracted litigation and severe embarrassment to the archdiocese–something you were going to have trouble explaining to the archbishop.”

Quinn shakes his head with authority. “No, Michael.”

“Coincidentally, you happened to have a five-million-dollar cashier’s check sitting around just waiting to be handed over to Ms. Concepcion to make all of your problems go away once and for all. You’d already discussed the limits on what you were willing to pay to make this case disappear. It was a five-million-dollar insurance policy. You knew you could sell it to Archbishop Keane–you’ve always done so in the past and you would have looked like heroes on the eve of trial.”

“No, Michael.”

I didn’t expect him to budge. I point at Shanahan. “You went over to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at a quarter to one to make your final offer. You parked in the alley behind her apartment and went inside to talk to her, and she was still very much alive at the time. You offered her the five million dollars. It was the ultimate win-win-win situation–you were going to settle a contentious and potentially devastating case, Ms. Concepcion would get a bundle of dough for her client, and the archdiocese would avoid the public humiliation of having a renegade priest’s record held up for public inspection.”

“That’s preposterous,” Shanahan says. He picks up his briefcase. “And utterly insulting.”

I’m not finished. “Everything went wrong because you overestimated your ability to persuade her to settle and you underestimated her principles. Unlike most lawyers you’ve faced, you couldn’t buy her off. She turned you down and sent you packing.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You had a high-profile case you couldn’t win. You knew the archbishop would be unhappy–perhaps so unhappy that he would have sent his business to another firm. You knew your cozy little financial arrangement with the archdiocese would become a matter of public record–everybody would know that you and Father Quinn had set up a system to pay off witnesses and buy off plaintiffs. Who knows how many other people you’d bought off–or tried to. You had a situation that was spinning out of control. You couldn’t let that happen, so you had to go to Plan B. You took matters into your own hands and you knocked her unconscious. You knew very well she had been experiencing emotional problems, and you tried to make it look like a suicide by putting her into the bathtub and slitting her wrists. You even went to the trouble of putting skin cream all over her body. It wasn’t a bad plan–especially if you were making it up on the fly. If my guess is correct, you were probably wearing gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints.”

“You’re insane,” Shanahan says.

“It might have worked, except you left a small bruise on her shoulder that Dr. Beckert correctly identified, and you carelessly put her body in the tub facing the wrong direction. This time Dr. Beckert got it right–it wasn’t a suicide. You got lucky because Father Aguirre had been to her apartment earlier that evening, and he was kind enough to leave his fingerprints all over the bathroom and the murder weapon. They were even able to lift his prints off her body. You were going to be involved in his defense–in fact, you tried to control his defense–until Father Aguirre hired us. You did everything in your power to persuade him to fire us, and if my guess is correct, you tried to intimidate us by hiring a man who was driving a stolen Chevy Impala. Coincidentally, the same car was seen behind the Mitchell Brothers Theater right after Jane Doe was shot and behind our office on the night that it was set on fire.”

“I don’t have to listen to this. If you raise any of this in court, I’ll bring you up before the State Bar. I was never anywhere near Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night. You don’t have a shred of evidence that any of this fantasy ever happened.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What are you talking about?”

My eyes bore into his. “You drive a Lexus RX 350, don’t you?”

“So what?”

“It was parked in the alley at the rear of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment building when you went inside to see her last Monday night.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“We have a witness, John.”

He stops cold.

“A man tried to steal your car while you were inside Ms. Concepcion’s apartment. We found him. He’s prepared to testify.” I can’t resist a swipe. “You should be more careful when you spend time in the Mission.”

“You’ll never be able to prove any of this.”

I turn to the back of the cathedral, where Luis Alvarado appears, flanked by Rosie, Pete, and Roosevelt. I turn back to Shanahan. “Do you recognize that man?”

Shanahan’s eyes lock onto Alvarado’s. “Of course not.”

“Well, he recognizes you.” I turn to the archbishop. “Before we leave tonight, you might want to escort Mr. Shanahan to one of the confessional booths. I think you and he will have some interesting things to talk about.”

The archbishop turns to his outside counsel. “If any of this is true, John, I am shocked and absolutely appalled.”

“It isn’t true,” he insists.

The archbishop glances at the altar and makes the sign of the cross. He pauses for a moment to recite a silent prayer, then he turns back to Shanahan. “We need to talk, John.”

The color leaves Shanahan’s face and he turns to Peterson. “I want to talk to my lawyer,” he says.

CHAPTER 56

“LIFE HAS CONSEQUENCES”

“Prominent San Francisco attorney John Shanahan has been charged with first degree murder in connection with the death of Maria Concepcion. District Attorney Nicole Ward is attempting to determine whether charges will also be brought against Father Francis Xavier Quinn. It does not appear that charges will be filed against Archbishop Albert Keane.

— San Francisco Chronicle. Tuesday, December 16.

“It’s nice to be home,” Ramon whispers. His voice is filled with a combination of relief and exhaustion as we’re sitting in the front pew at St. Peter’s at eight o’clock the next night. The flickers of the votive candles are reflecting off the ceiling, and I’m reminded that it was less than two weeks ago when our little adventure started. It seems much longer. “It was nice of the children to come out and greet me.”

“Yes, it was.” There was a makeshift sign on the front steps welcoming Ramon back to the church, and a large gathering in the social hall that was more somber than celebratory. The kids welcomed him with open arms, but the adults were more subdued. “Things take time. People forgive.”

He shrugs. “But they never forget.”

I look up at the murals on the ceiling and think of the times I came here with my parents when this church was a haven. I remember the comfort it brought me when my brother was lost in Vietnam. I think of the pain when I came to the conclusion that I was ill-suited for the priesthood. It’s still a sanctuary full of hope and wonder, but it’s tempered by a half-century of experience. “It’s over, Ramon.”

“I can’t believe John Shanahan killed Maria.”

“He probably thought he was going to settle the case and look like a hero to the archbishop. He couldn’t buy her off, and he lost his temper. He was trained as a Marine. He reacted when he thought he had no other options.”

“I guess it goes to show just how far people will go to avoid losing a big case.”

“Or to avoid giving bad news to their meal-ticket client. Who knows what other hanky-panky was going on with the funds in his trust account? It wouldn’t surprise me if he was skimming some money off the top as a gratuity.”

“Desperate people do desperate things. He has a lot of lawyers to feed. A bad result in a big case for the archdiocese would have been a disaster for his firm. A revelation of financial improprieties involving funds belonging to the archdiocese would have put him out of business.”

“You’re more understanding than I am.”

“You learn humility when you’re accused of murder.”

“It still doesn’t justify Shanahan’s actions.”

“Of course not, but it may help to explain them.”

We watch the dancing lights from the candles. He turns to me. “Are they going to charge Francis Quinn?”

“Probably not. Roosevelt said they think Quinn gave Shanahan authorization to try to settle the case for up to five million dollars, but he didn’t tell him to kill her.”

“What about the death of Jane Doe?”

“It was a professional job. They’re trying to find a connection between the transfer of funds from Shanahan’s trust account and several other cases, including the disappearance of another dancer from the Mitchell Brothers and the fire at our office. So far, they haven’t been able to connect the dots.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Probably. They’ll use it as a bargaining chip to get Shanahan to agree to a plea. Roosevelt is tenacious.”

My old friend nods and his tone turns thoughtful. “Do you think you made the right move?”

“In talking to Shanahan and the archbishop last night?”

“In leaving the Church.”

That’s a tougher call, and I go with an old standby. “It was the right move for me.”

“No regrets?”

“None.” I reconsider for a moment. “Maybe a few.”

“Such as?”

“I used to have time to sit in church and think.”

“You still can.”

“It isn’t the same. I’ve gotten too old and cynical.”

“It’s never too late.”

“It may be for me.”

“You’re a good lawyer, Mike.”

“Thanks. You’re a good priest. Do you buy the old line that everything happens for a reason?”

“Most of the time.”

“Maybe the reason you became a priest was because you knew Rosie and I would need you, and maybe I became a lawyer because I knew you were going to need me.”

“Maybe you became a lawyer because you weren’t happy being a priest.”

“Maybe you’re still a priest because you’re more perceptive than I am.”

He smiles. “You lawyers always have to have the last word.”

He’s right. “What are you going to do next?”

“I’m going to take some time off.”

“Vacation?”

He frowns. “They’re going to make me resign.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I was charged with murder. I had inappropriate relations with a parishioner. I acted as a sperm donor and lied about it.”

“We can fight it, Ramon.”

“I don’t think so, Mike.”

“You didn’t do anything illegal.”

“Maybe not, but I did a bunch of stuff that falls somewhere between bad judgment and flat-out immoral.”

“That’s why we go to confession, Ramon.”

“Confession doesn’t always wipe the slate completely clean. I try to teach the children that life has consequences. The same standard should apply to me.”

“Do you regret trying to help Maria?”

“No. I saw a desperately unhappy woman. I did what I could.”

“Are you prepared to accept the consequences even if it means leaving St. Peter’s?”

“Yes.”

Impressive. “Let me ask you again. What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still committed to doing God’s work.”

“There are a lot of ways to do God’s work without being a priest.”

“You aren’t suggesting that I go to law school, are you?”

“I like to think it’s one way of helping our neighbors.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll try another way. Maybe I can find something in the nonprofit sector. I love this community. I’ve always wanted to put together a business to develop affordable housing.”

“You may have some stiff competition from Eduardo Lopez.”

“After his testimony yesterday, I think it may be difficult to find anybody who will do business with him.” He turns somber. “I decided to devote myself to doing good works. I think I can find a way to do that without being a priest–or a lawyer.”

“It might open up some new options for you. Who knows? Maybe you could settle down and get married.”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards. I’m more interested in spiritual issues. The whole sex thing is vastly overrated, and it always seems to get me into trouble.”

Me, too. “Does that mean you’ll stop bugging me about getting married again?”

“Not a chance.”

CHAPTER 57

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

“Only one more shopping day until Christmas.”

— San Francisco Chronicle. Wednesday, December 24.

Pete’s collar is turned up as he’s sitting in the second row of the otherwise-empty bleachers next to the home dugout at the Big Rec baseball field near the Academy of Science in Golden Gate Park. I pitched on this field when I was on the St. Ignatius varsity, and I once threw a two-hit shutout against Galileo. It brings back good memories. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve and a blanket of fog is rolling in. “Nice to have a chance to play hooky, Mick,” he says.

I zip my ski jacket and pull my knit hat down a little tighter. “Can’t we play hooky somewhere inside?”

“You said you wanted to meet him.”

“I did. Can we do it soon?”

“As soon as this inning is over.”

I feel the biting wind on my face. “Why are these guys playing in December?”

“It’s their last tune-up before a big semi-pro tournament in Phoenix next week.”

“It’s forty-four degrees. It feels like a night game at Candlestick.”

“You can go watch them play in Arizona if you want warm weather.”

A team called SFPD’s Finest is thrashing a bunch of firefighters from Daly City. The cops are led by a good looking ringer who is six-six and a chiseled two-hundred forty pounds. The overmatched firemen can’t touch his slider, and he strikes out the side for the third straight inning. He carefully avoids touching the foul line as he leaves the mound and heads for the dugout.

Pete motions to the pitcher, then he nudges my arm. “Come on, Mick.” We walk over to the bench, where the pitcher is donning a down jacket. Pete approaches him cautiously and says, “Hey, Pick.”

The behemoth turns around and nods. “Hey, Pete.”

A man of few words. Pete points at me. “Mike.”

Pick nods. “Hey, Mike.”

I extend my hand, but he doesn’t take it. “Hey, Pick. Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome.” I’m about to lavish him with praise for helping us solve Concepcion’s murder when he says, “Gotta get back to work.” Without another word, he heads toward the far end of the bench and sits by himself to watch his teammates bat.

Pete turns to me and says, “He liked you, Mick.”

“He wouldn’t even shake hands with me.”

“He doesn’t shake hands.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t let anybody touch his pitching hand.” My all-knowing younger brother gives me a wry grin. “No kidding, Mick. He really liked you.”

“How could you tell?”

“He spoke to you.”

“He didn’t say two words to me.”

“If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t have said anything at all.”

* * *

The heater in my Corolla is trying as hard as it can as I’m driving Pete home. It’s working better since Preston Fuentes fixed my window. “Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Sure, Mick.”

“Who’s Vince?”

“The catcher on Pick’s semi-pro team.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He was at the game. I should have introduced you to him, too.”

“Does that mean–”

“Yeah. He’s a cop. We used to work together at Mission Station. We help each other out every once in a while. I figured I’d better have somebody keep an eye on you who knew what he was doing.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

“You’re welcome. I gotta make sure nothing happens to you, Mick. You’re my best referral source for non-paying clients.”

“And it doesn’t bother him that he’s catching a guy who deals in stolen auto parts?”

“It’s just baseball, Mick. He was all-conference at Sacred Heart and played in the A’s organization for a couple of years.”

We drive in silence down Nineteenth Avenue. As we turn right onto Kirkham. Pete says, “Did you hear that F.X. Quinn resigned? He’s being investigated for using Church funds for payoffs.”

Doesn’t surprise me. “I heard.”

He gives me a sly grin. “What is it with lawyers and priests?”

“Trouble seems to follow us everywhere.” I take a deep breath. “What are you up to tonight?”

“Donna and I are going to put up the tree.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Nah.”

“You want to come over to Rosie’s for a while?”

“I think we’ll stay home tonight.”

We head west toward the bungalow that’s been Daley family headquarters since we moved out of the Mission more than forty years ago. Pete is taking better care of it than our mom did. She was battling Alzheimer’s for the last few years of her life, and she didn’t have the capacity to deal with it. I pull up in front of the old place, which has a fresh coat of paint and a mountain of memories. Sometimes I think we should sell it, but Pete is attached to it, and the mortgage was paid off thirty years ago.

I turn off the ignition. “Sure I can’t persuade you to come over?”

“Not tonight, Mick.”

“You’ll be over for Christmas dinner tomorrow, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“And you’ll bring Donna?”

“Yeah. She’s a little under the weather, but she’ll be there.” He starts to open the door and then he stops. “I have some news, Mick. I was going to tell you about it tomorrow, but I’d better let you know so you’ll be prepared.”

Uh-oh. I hope this doesn’t mean he and Donna are on the outs. “Good news?”

“Yeah.”

I wait.

His tone is even, almost apologetic. “Donna and I are getting married.”

Yes! “That’s terrific, Pete.” I see the ambivalent look on his face and add, “Isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

Something’s up. “You don’t seem to be wildly enthusiastic.”

“It came up kind of suddenly. I’m still getting used to the idea.”

“I think it’s great.”

“If you thought it was so great, you and Rosie would have gotten remarried by now.”

I don’t want to go there. “It didn’t work out very well the first time.” I quickly shift back to the matters at hand. “Have you set a date?”

“Yes. Are you free next Saturday night?”

Huh? “Do you want me to help you look at a banquet room or check out a band?”

“No, I want to invite you to our wedding.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Seems a bit sudden.”

“We aren’t the most patient people in the world.”

Uh-huh. “Where is the wedding going to be held?”

“St. Peter’s. Immediate family only. Ramon is going to officiate.”

Excellent.

He adds, “It may be his last official duty as a priest for a while.”

Or forever.

His face breaks out into a sheepish grin. “There’s something else I need to tell you. I’m going to be a daddy.”

Whoa. “Really?”

“Yep.” He cocks his head to one side. “You aren’t going to give me any grief about pre-marital sex, are you?”

“Nope.” It’s a Daley family tradition. I give him a broad smile. “When is the baby due?”

“July.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“We’ve got plenty of baby stuff you can have.”

“I appreciate it, Mick.”

“Is Donna okay?”

“Except for puking every morning, she’s fine.”

I give my kid brother a light punch on the shoulder. “It’s gonna be great, Pete.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

* * *

“Why are you still awake?” I ask Rosie.

She’s looking at the blinking lights of the Christmas tree as she’s sitting on the sofa in her living room. “I was just trying to figure out how to organize our new office.”

“Here?”

“No. I found some temporary space on Howard Street.”

I’m glad we won’t be practicing law next to Tommy’s playpen for much longer. “Why are you really up?”

“It’s four a.m. Tommy will be up any minute.”

I wink. “I talked to him about it. He’s giving us the night off.”

“I don’t think so. He’s more reliable than the trains in Switzerland.”

“He’s giving us an early Christmas present.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

I walk across the room and sit down next to her. “Is everything ready?”

“I think so. It’s Tommy’s first Christmas. I want to be sure it’s a memorable one.”

“He won’t remember anything by this time tomorrow.”

She smiles.

“You should go to bed,” I tell her. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“It’s nice to have a little quiet time. Besides, I’m still getting used to the idea of your brother getting married again.”

“I think it’s going to work out this time.”

“So do I.” She yawns and stretches out on the sofa with her head resting in my lap. “You don’t think we should revisit our situation, do you?”

“Not at four o’clock in the morning.”

“How about after we get a good night’s sleep?”

“I’m willing to consider it.”

“I’m serious, Mike.”

“So am I.”

If past history is any indication, this discussion won’t last long.

She isn’t letting it go. “At the very least, I think we should take a little break from work until the end of the year. We can get back to work in January.”

“You can take a break. I have a full plate.”

“Ramon’s case is over. You aren’t planning to represent Shanahan, are you?”

“Believe it or not, he hasn’t asked me.”

Another smile.

“Besides, my other clients are keeping me very busy.”

“What other clients?”

“Luis Alvarado came in today. He got his temporary visa and wanted to express his gratitude. And Anna Moreno called. I found her a new job and a new apartment.”

“Where is she working?”

“She’s a hostess at Lopez’s restaurant.” I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t worry–he’s adopted a hands-off policy.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I told Lopez that if he didn’t hire a few of my friends, I was going to bring the mother of all sexual harassment suits on behalf of Mercedes Trujillo. He promoted her to evening manager. Anna is working for her.”

“You’re good, Mike.”

“I know.”

She gives me a knowing look. “You realize we were able to solve Ramon’s case because we traded legal services and stolen auto parts for information.”

“Good lawyers find practical solutions to real-world problems.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“This isn’t figure skating, Rosie. They don’t give style points. At the end of the day, we got a good result for Ramon and we found the real killer. That’s all that matters.”

She gives me a serious look. “We didn’t get a good result for Jane Doe.”

“We can’t fix everything.”

“We can try. Is Roosevelt going to be able to find the killer?”

“I think so. He’s relentless.”

“Do you think it’s the same guy who torched our office?”

“Probably.”

We sit in silence and look at the blinking lights. Finally, Rosie says, “Tommy was trying to walk yesterday.”

“How’d he do?”

“He’s starting to get the hang of it.” She swallows hard. “I want to spend more time with him.”

I think about all of the landmark events in Grace’s life that we’ve missed because of commitments to our clients. “So do I.”

“Then we’re going to have to make a few adjustments.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Job-sharing is very trendy nowadays. I can work Monday and Wednesday, and you can work Tuesday and Thursday. We can trade off Fridays and cover for each other.”

“Can we afford it?”

“Probably not, but we can operate like the government––deficit spending.”

“Will we be able to afford my apartment?”

“It will be tight.”

“You aren’t thinking I should move over here, are you?”

“Let’s start with job-sharing. We can work our way to more complicated issues.”

Not a bad idea. I touch her cheek. “Let’s give it a try for a few months and see how it goes.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll make it work.”

“We may not be able to take any vacations for a few years.”

“I get bored in Hawaii.”

“We won’t be able to take on any big cases if we’re both working part-time.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay away from big cases for a while.”

“Are you prepared to turn down a murder trial if it lands on our doorstep?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. I’d like to watch Tommy grow up, and I’d like to spend more time with Grace before she becomes a teenager and doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

“Did I tell you she got invited to a New Year’s party next week?”

“You did.”

“Did I mention the party is at a boy’s house?”

“You didn’t.”

“Did I mention the boy really likes her?”

And so it begins. “Do you think we should hire Nick the Dick to check him out?”

“It isn’t a bad idea.” The crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes crinkle as her smile broadens. “Are you really willing to slow down a bit, Mike?”

“Yes.”

She reaches up and gently touches my cheek, then she pulls her face up to mine and kisses me.

“What’s that for?”

“Merry Christmas, Mike.” Her lips transform into a warm smile. “Do you hear that?”

The house is completely silent. “Hear what?”

“The sound of quiet at four o’clock in the morning.”

I touch a finger to her lips, then I lean over and kiss her softly. “Merry Christmas, Rosie.”

THE END

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Thanks for reading my story!  I’d love to hear from you. You can email me at  Sheldon@SheldonSiegel.com. Find out more about the making of The Confession at www.SheldonSiegel.com.

Continue on to the next Mike & Rosie Story (#6)… JUDGMENT DAY

JUDGMENT DAY

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. “WELCOME TO THE ROW”

2. THE PATRON SAINT OF HOPELESS CAUSES

3. “MURDERERS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES”

4. “IT WAS A LEGITIMATE CONVICTION”

5. “LOOKS LIKE WE’RE FLYING SOLO”

6. MORT THE SPORT

7. “NOTHING WAS PROVEN”

8. “HIS LIPS WERE MOVING”

9. “THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING”

10. BIG JOHN

11. FITZ

12. “HE’S MADE A FORTUNE IN GARBAGE”

13. “THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS”

14. “MY HUSBAND IS NOT A MURDERER”

15. “YOUR CLIENT MURDERED MY FATHER”

16. “ALL I KNOW IS WHAT I’VE READ IN THE PAPERS”

17. “I WAS AN OLD-FASHIONED COP”

18. DR. DEATH

19. “I WAS GOING TO CALL YOU TONIGHT”

20. “SOMEBODY KNOWS WHERE WE LIVE”

21. “I’M GOING TO FIND OUT”

22. MY COUSIN VINNY

23. NICK THE DICK

24. “IT WAS A VERY BRIEF ASSIGNMENT”

25. “THAT’S WHY YOU CALLED AT THIS HOUR?”

26. “SHE WAS SCARED”

27. “I PREFER TO THINK OF THEM AS UNSUBSTANTIATED AND BASELESS ACCUSATIONS”

28. “HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMEBODY TO HANDLE A ‘DELICATE MATTER’ ”

29. “HE’S AT SAN QUENTIN”

30. “YOUR COOPERATION WILL NOT GO UNNOTICED”

31. “I WOULD RATHER NOT BASE OUR FINAL APPEAL ON THE TESTIMONY OF A CONVICTED FELON”

32. “IT ISN’T ENOUGH”

33. “ARE YOU THREATENING US?”

34. “I WANT TO MAKE THEM NERVOUS”

35. “THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA WAS WRONG”

36. “I WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR DINNER”

37. “YOU’RE WAY OVER YOUR HEAD”

38. “WE FOUND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS OF HEROIN IN HIS TRUCK”

39. “WHAT’S IT REALLY LIKE?”

40. “THIS CASE IS RUINING MY LIFE”

41. “SOMETHING’S WRONG”

42. “YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE”

43. “I GOT MY BROTHER SHOT”

44. “SHE WASN’T ALONE”

45. “THIS COULD GET A LITTLE CHIPPY”

46. “WE WAIT”

47. “GOOD LUCK”

48. “ALL RISE”

49. “INDEED I DO”

50. “NOT AN ACCIDENT”

51. “I WAS AFRAID”

52. “MONEY TALKS”

53. “HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT I COULDN’T GIVE HIM”

54. DENY DENY DENY

55. “DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR PRIOR TESTIMONY?”

56. “I WANT TO TALK TO MY LAWYER”

57. “YOU DID EVERYTHING YOU COULD”

58. JUDGMENT DAY

59. “GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT”

CHAPTER 1

“WELCOME TO THE ROW”

Friday, July 10. 11:03 a.m. 8 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

The oldest man on death row eyes me from his wheelchair. Despite his frail appearance, his grip is firm and his baritone is still forceful. “Welcome to the Row, Mr. Daley. We need your help. We’re running out of time.”

More than seven hundred inmates are awaiting lethal injections on California’s death row. Every one of them is running out of time.

His voice is confident. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Did you have any trouble getting inside?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. Sometimes it seems harder for lawyers to get into San Quentin than it is for our clients to get out. It took me an hour to fill out the stack of forms, sign the multiple releases, and pass through the two metal detectors before I was locked inside one of a dozen windowless six-by-six-foot cells separated by interlaced steel bars covered by scuffed Plexiglas. The death row visitors’ area is just a stone’s throw from the little green chamber where the State of California conducts its executions. It’s a dark reminder of the burdens borne by the denim-clad prisoners who pass their time going about the mundane business of being incarcerated while their lawyers try to prolong their lives. “Mr. Fineman––,”

“It’s Nate,” my host insists in a genial manner.

Fine. “I’m Mike.” Nate Fineman may be confined to a wheelchair, but I’ve learned the hard way never to let my guard down. The first client I ever visited on the Row was a remorseless psychopath who had stabbed his ex-girlfriend twenty-seven times with an ice pick. Instead of shaking my hand, he introduced himself by slamming me against the wall. His hands were clasped around my throat when the guards finally wrestled him to the floor. He never got around to thanking me for getting his death sentence commuted. Every lawyer who handles death penalty appeals has a similar story. “I’m flattered that you’d like us to help with your defense, but practically speaking, it’s really too late to replace your lawyer.”

He strokes his trim gray goatee. “I have no intention of replacing my lawyer,” he assures me. “That would be crazy.”

Crazy as a fox, perhaps. At seventy-seven, Nate Fineman has been on the Row for ten years. This bootlegger’s son doesn’t fit the usual demographics of his neighbors, most of whom are poor, undereducated, and African-American. He’s the last of a long line of flamboyant San Francisco legal legends whose ranks included Joseph Alioto, Melvin Belli, Jake Ehrlich, and Nate Cohn. Known as a street-smart hustler with a glib manner and a photographic memory, Nate “the Great” finished first in his class at Hastings Law School, married the daughter of a superior court judge, then went to work at the public defender’s office, where he developed a reputation for courtroom histrionics and self-promotion. He also won a lot of cases. He earned a spot in the San Francisco Legal Hall of Fame when the DA took a swing at him on the steps of the Hall of Justice after he manipulated the California Rules of Evidence to convince an overmatched judge to dismiss a murder charge against a man who had shot a police officer four times at point-blank range in front of two witnesses. That incident cost the DA his job and made Nate a household name.

An inveterate publicity hound and savvy opportunist, Nate parlayed the notoriety to open his own shop in the graceful Russ Building on Montgomery Street. He used his father-in-law’s connections to become the head of the Jewish Community Federation. He became a regular contributor to Herb Caen’s legendary gossip column, which ran for years next to the Macy’s ad in the middle section of the Chronicle. He was also one of the ringleaders of the fabled Calamari Club, a group of businessmen, politicians, labor leaders, lawyers, and influence peddlers who have been meeting for lunch in the back room of Scoma’s at the Wharf every Friday afternoon for a half century.

Over the years, Nate represented many of San Francisco’s most notorious mobsters and drug dealers. He was never apologetic in expressing his view that it was his job to do whatever it took to keep them out of jail. He proudly boasted that his most famous client, Danny “the Meat Hook” Cortese—a dapper man-about-town who also happened to be the longtime boss of the San Francisco mob—never spent a day in prison over the course of a criminal career spanning a half century. Never one to shy away from controversy, Nate defended three thugs who ran the Griffith Housing Projects and were accused of distributing bad heroin to local high school kids—three of whom died. Through a series of creative (some would say questionable) legal maneuvers, Nate persuaded a judge that a cache of drugs found in the apartment of the ringleader of the “Bayview Posse” had been obtained through an illegal search and seizure. This led to the dismissal of the charges—much to the chagrin of the DA and the SFPD. Paradoxically, Nate also garnered numerous community-service awards for setting up San Francisco’s first legal aid clinic and donating millions to charity. Depending on who was telling the story, he was either a principled crusader who stood up for the underprivileged and the unpopular, or a highly paid mercenary who was as much a part of the drug and underworld culture as the criminals he represented.

Ten years ago, Nate was at the top of his game when he was charged with killing three people in a back room of the Golden Dragon Restaurant in Chinatown during a summit conference of drug dealers on a rainy night. One of the victims was Nate’s own client. The second was a competitor and the third was the competitor’s lawyer. Nate was found unconscious in the alley behind the restaurant with a semiautomatic pistol under his arm. Ballistic tests proved the slugs had been fired from that gun. Nate steadfastly claimed the weapon had been planted. He had fallen off a fire escape while leaving the building following the shootings and sustained the injury that cost him the use of his legs. The prosecutors argued he was attempting to flee. Nate insisted he was only trying to dodge the bullets.

He hired an all-star lineup of San Francisco’s best-known criminal defense attorneys to represent him. His legal team was led by his law school classmate and card-playing buddy, Mort “the Sport” Goldberg, a theatrical showman who presided over a carnival-like trial that drew almost as much national media attention as the O.J. Simpson case. The prosecutors portrayed Nate as a man who had spent his career helping mobsters and crack dealers stay out of jail—a charge that Nate never denied and Goldberg couldn’t refute. Goldberg trotted out a dozen character witnesses to testify that Nate was a doting husband and father who had raised millions for charity and never turned away a potential client just because he couldn’t afford to pay. Nate even took the stand in his own defense. Throughout intense questioning that lasted for days, he insisted the shootings were part of a coup by disloyal members of his client’s organization. Without a witness to corroborate Nate’s claim that he was ambushed by a masked assailant, it took the jury less than three hours to convict him of first-degree murder—much to the delight of the SFPD. The legal system has played its course and Judgment Day is fast approaching.

Unlike most death row inmates, who view attorney visits as an opportunity to vent their frustrations and plead their innocence, Nate’s tone is professional. “I want to hire you as special co-counsel. I think you can provide some additional perspective on my case.”

He needs more than perspective. He’s scheduled for a lethal injection a week from Sunday at 12:01 a.m. By law, a death warrant must be carried out on a specified date. California conducts its executions at one minute after midnight at the very beginning of the twenty-four-hour window to provide the maximum amount of wiggle room if there are any glitches and to reduce the number of protesters who gather at the gates of San Quentin. By my watch, that gives us eight days, twelve hours, and fifty-two minutes to do what his dream defense team couldn’t do in ten years. Am I nuts to be in this room?

The third person in the cramped cell clears his throat. Louis Cohen is an eloquent former public defender who looks like Joseph Lieberman. One of California’s top appellate specialists, he grew up a few doors from Nate in the Richmond District. He’s been fighting the good fight on behalf of his childhood friend for the past decade. “We’ve filed new habeas petitions with the California Supreme Court, the Federal District Court and the Ninth Circuit. If they turn us down, we’ll take it up to the U.S. Supreme Court. We’ve also asked the governor for clemency.”

Despite countless well-intentioned attempts by our legislators to speed up the system, the Byzantine appellate process in death penalty cases remains excruciatingly slow. You start with a mandatory direct appeal to the California Supreme Court––a fine idea with limited practical value. The California Supremes have time to hear just a handful of these cases, and you may only assert claims arising from the trial record itself. It took them four years to turn down Nate’s appeal––which had no chance from the start. It took the Feds three more years to come to the same conclusion.

After you’ve exhausted your direct appeals, you file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus in state and then in federal court. Cutting through the legalistic mumbo jumbo, it means you claim your client has been imprisoned in violation of his constitutional rights. The good news is it’s the first time you can introduce evidence that wasn’t presented at trial. The bad news is you have to prove “freestanding innocence,” which means the new evidence must be so clearly and convincingly exculpatory that no reasonable jury could have convicted your client in the first place––a standard that’s almost impossible to prove. It’s customary to file successive habeas petitions right up until the very end, but your chances of prevailing become slimmer as the execution date gets closer. The final judicial recourse is to the U.S. Supreme Court, which rarely soils its hands with death penalty cases. There’s also a possibility that the governor will grant clemency. Given the current political climate in Sacramento, your chances are about the same as winning the California lottery.

If your client manages to live long enough to exhaust all of his appeals, he will be executed in accordance with a tightly scripted procedure. First he’ll get an injection of Sodium Pentothal, which causes a loss of consciousness. Next they’ll administer a dose of pancuronium bromide, which leads to paralysis of the voluntary muscles. Finally, he’ll get a shot of potassium chloride, which induces cardiac arrest and finishes the job. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be nearly as dramatic as an execution carried out by hanging, the guillotine, the firing squad, the electric chair, poison gas, or the other methods of killing that mankind has developed over the centuries. The process should be concluded in about fifteen minutes, but it frequently takes longer. Sometimes it takes the technicians several tries before they can get the needles in the right spots to allow the chemicals to flow properly.

“What’s the likelihood of a stay?” I ask.

“Slim,” Cohen says.

“And clemency?”

“About the same.”

I’m not surprised. I was a priest for three years before I went to law school. I still believe in miracles, but the Row is a place for cold-eyed pragmatism. “What do you expect me to do in eight days?”

Nate responds for him. “Prove the police withheld evidence and covered up the identity of the real killer.”

“You couldn’t do it. “You’ve had ten years to try.”

“That’s why we need you.”

“What makes you think I’ll be able to find any new information?”

“Roosevelt Johnson headed the investigation.”

The legendary homicide inspector is a meticulous man of unquestioned moral authority who began his career walking the beat with my father a half century ago. They were the first integrated team in the SFPD, and their partnership turned into a lifelong friendship. Pop was thrilled when Roosevelt moved up the ranks and became the first African-American in the homicide division. My dad was a lifelong beat cop who turned down several promotions to stay on the street. He died of lung cancer a few months after Nate was convicted.

I shrug. “I know Inspector Johnson well enough to get a meeting, but he isn’t going to reopen the investigation just because he used to work with my father.”

“There was a police conspiracy.”

Every convicted murderer thinks he’s Oliver Stone. “What about the pistol they found under your arm with a perfect set of your fingerprints?”

“It was planted.”

“By whom?”

“The cops. It was payback for getting the charges dropped in the Posse case.”

“The jury didn’t buy it.”

“They were wrong. The cops covered up and closed ranks.”

“What were you doing at the Golden Dragon in the first place?”

“I was representing a Bayview heroin distributor who was at war with a Chinatown drug ring. I was negotiating a truce.”

Nate’s trial was the top story on the news for weeks. From what I recall reading in the papers, that part of his story hasn’t changed.

He’s still talking. “We had everything worked out. Then a man came in and started shooting. I jumped out a window and ran down the fire escape, but I slipped. That’s the last thing I remember.”

He fell two stories and landed on his back. “Do you have any idea who the shooter was?”

“He was wearing a mask.”

“Did you bring a gun into the restaurant?”

“Of course not. Everybody was searched when they entered the building. It was a stolen gun. The serial number had been removed.”

“You’re still saying somebody else brought in the gun and killed three people?”

“I was lucky they didn’t kill me too.”

And all I have to do is prove it in the next eight days. “You didn’t pick my name out of the Yellow Pages. There are other lawyers who have contacts with Inspector Johnson and the SFPD.”

“We want you and we’re prepared to make it worth your while.” Nate nods to Cohen, who reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulls out a white envelope, and places it on the table. “That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer,” Nate says. “It should cover your fees and costs for the next eight days.”

It should cover us for the next six months, and there might be something left over for Christmas presents. I can feel my eyes opening wide, but I don’t take the envelope. Our firm has only two lawyers. We spend most of our time representing small-time drug dealers and petty criminals who frequently have to choose between paying us or making bail. Most opt for the latter. It’s a big day when some poor soul charged with driving under the influence gives us a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer. “It might make more sense to spend your money on a private investigator.”

“We’d also like to hire your brother.”

He’s done his homework. My younger brother, Pete, was a beat cop at Mission Station before he and some of his colleagues broke up a street fight in the plaza adjacent to the Sixteenth Street BART station with a little too much enthusiasm. When one of the participants filed the inevitable police-brutality claim, the city caved. Pete and two of his buddies were summarily dismissed. He’s been justifiably bitter about it ever since. Now he works as a PI.

“His rate is a thousand dollars a day plus expenses,” I say. It’s a slight exaggeration.

“We’ll pay him two thousand.”

He’s serious about hiring us or he’s desperate—or both. Pete recently became a father for the first time. This may be an opportunity to make amends for the times I’ve strong-armed him into helping me for free. “I’ll call him as soon as we’re finished, but I still need to talk to my partner.”

“What’s there to discuss?”

How much time do you have? Rosita Fernandez and I have been working together for almost two decades, first in the PD’s office, then for the last seven years in private practice. Rosie is the managing partner of Fernandez and Daley. I defer all financial decisions to her. It’s an important reason why our law partnership has lasted longer than our marriage, which began after a highly enthusiastic romance while we were at the PD’s office, and was called a few years later on account of irreconcilable living habits. Our daughter, Grace, just turned fourteen. Our son, Tommy, is two. Tommy’s arrival was a pleasant and unplanned surprise long after Rosie and I had split up. Old habits––we can’t live with each other, yet we can’t seem to get enough of each other. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

“We never take on new matters without discussing them first,” I say.

Grace and Tommy live with Rosie in a rented bungalow a couple of miles from here. I have my own apartment three blocks from them. Life with a teenager and a toddler presents logistical and financial challenges. Recently we decided to cut back our workload to give parenthood more focus.

The wily old trial lawyer flashes a confident smile. “We’re willing to bet fifty grand that you’ll give it your best shot.”

“I still have to talk to Rosie.”

He shifts to flattery. “We’re cut from the same cloth, Mike. We became lawyers to help people. You have a reputation as somebody who is more interested in finding the truth and doing what’s right than making a bundle of dough.”

My bank account attests to the fact that he’s right. Rosie and I also agreed to avoid capital cases until Tommy is out of diapers. A fifty-thousand-dollar retainer causes me, at least, to revisit that policy. Rosie may be somewhat more flexible too. She recently persuaded her landlord to remodel her fifties-era kitchen, which will undoubtedly lead to a commensurate increase in her rent. There is also the reality of Grace heading to college in four years.

Nate isn’t finished. “We both cut our teeth at the PD’s office. We’ve represented unpopular clients. We’ve handled more than our share of pro bono matters. That makes us kindred spirits––even colleagues.”

Except I’ve never been convicted of murder.

His tone turns somber. “I believe everybody is entitled to die with self-respect. Being strapped to a gurney and injected with poison for a crime I didn’t commit isn’t the way I want my wife, children, and grandchildren to remember me. That’s not the legacy I had in mind. Besides, you have a personal interest in the case.”

What? “How’s that?”

“Your father was part of the police cover-up.”

CHAPTER 2

THE PATRON SAINT

OF HOPELESS CAUSES

Friday, July 10. 1:05 p.m. 8 days, 10 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

My ex-wife’s dark brown eyes stare intently into mine as she taps her fingers on her IKEA desk piled high with file folders. Rosie rarely raises her voice and never pulls any punches. “So, Nate Fineman and his lawyer think your father was part of a police cover-up?”

“So they say.”

“That’s preposterous. Who are they insinuating he was trying to protect?”

I pause to gather my thoughts as I look up at the bare walls of the cramped space that doubles as Rosie’s office and the conference room of Fernandez and Daley. We work in a thirties-era walk-up at 84 First Street. It’s above the El Faro Mexican restaurant and down the block from the Transbay Bus Terminal in what might charitably be described as the pre-gentrified portion of San Francisco’s South of Market area. It’s one of the last downtown structures where the windows still open––a concept that’s more charming in theory than in reality. Our building is in one of the few corners of San Francisco with warm summer weather, and we don’t have an air conditioner. We spend July and August trying to decide whether it’s preferable to wilt from the heat or asphyxiate from the fumes emitted from the El Faro’s exhaust fan. “That’s what they want us to find out,” I finally say.

Rosie’s shoulder-length jet-black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. A cream-colored blouse and a pair of faded Levi’s complement a toned figure that reflects a torturous daily regimen at the gym. Her full lips, chiseled cheekbones, and glowing olive skin belie forty-seven years and the birth of two children. A native of the Mission District and a graduate of San Francisco State and Hastings Law School, she’s fought countless wars with prosecutors, judges, cops, and me. Her toughest struggle came four years ago when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She battled through a mastectomy and radiation treatments with stoic determination. We don’t talk about it much, but I can tell you that she’s been cancer-free for three years, nine months, and four days.

“Come on, Mike,” she says. “For all of his faults, your father was probably the most honest cop in the SFPD.”

It’s only a slight exaggeration. We rarely agreed on political or social issues and he had a multitude of shortcomings as a father. Still, he never gave me a reason to question the direction of his moral compass.

She isn’t finished. “I trust you’d agree that Fineman’s allegations are untrue?”

“Yes, I would.”

Arguing with Rosie is like undergoing an intense cross-exam. She frames her questions in a manner that elicits the response she wants.

“Then why are we having this discussion?” she asks.

“I can think of fifty thousand reasons.”

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly. “I have nothing against being paid, but it’s too late for Fineman to change lawyers.”

“This isn’t some nutcase who walked in off the street.”

“He made a career out of representing scumbags like Danny Cortese and the Bayview Posse. Not to mention the fact that he was convicted of murdering three people at the Golden Dragon.”

“Maybe the jury was wrong.”

She looks up at the ceiling. “Why did I decide to practice law with the patron saint of hopeless causes?”

“It’s just one of the many ways that I bring excitement to your life.”

I get the smile I was hoping for. “Hopeless causes aren’t exciting. Did you ever consider the possibility that I like boredom?”

“Not a chance.”

Her lips turn down. “I don’t like it, Mike.”

I’m not crazy about it either, and I’m really not in the mood for a catfight on a Friday afternoon when I have tickets for the Giants game tonight. Though we’ve had our share of high-profile cases over the years, ours is still a nickel-and-dime operation. Our only employee is a former heavyweight boxer and small-time hoodlum named Terrence “the Terminator” Love, who works as our receptionist, secretary, process server, photocopier, and bodyguard. He had also been one of my most reliable customers at the PD’s office. Standing seven feet tall and weighing 320 pounds, the soft-spoken giant retired after four unsuccessful professional bouts to pursue a more lucrative career in theft. He became quite adept at breaking and entering, but he was less accomplished at escaping. His rap sheet ran well into its third printing.

The proceeds from Terrence’s criminal activities went to buy enough booze to keep a three-hundred-pound man in a drunken stupor for the better part of two decades. There was little left over for necessities such as food, housing, and clothing. Things came to a head a couple of years ago when he was facing a life sentence under California’s so-called three-strikes laws. Rosie and I persuaded the judge to reduce the charges, subject to the condition that we would find him gainful employment and treatment for his alcohol addiction. There wasn’t a huge market for the services of a third-rate prizefighter and second-rate shoplifter, so we hired him with the understanding that we would fire him immediately if he showed up late or started drinking again. He hasn’t missed a day of work and he’s made enough money to ditch his room in the flophouse on Sixth Street for a tiny apartment in the Bayview. In our line of work, we measure progress in baby steps.

I try an appeal to Rosie’s practical side. “You’re always on my case for not bringing in enough paying clients.”

“Obviously, that isn’t a problem here. I can’t even get a countertop for my kitchen in eight days and you want to try to free a man on death row?”

“It will enhance the visibility and reputation of our firm.”

“I’d rather not get a high profile for a lost cause. We’ll have to go around the clock. There isn’t a realistic chance we’ll be able to do anything for him. It’s a waste of our time and his money.”

“He wants to die with dignity.”

“It smells.”

“We’ve handled smellier stuff. He was one of the best lawyers who ever worked at the PD’s office. He started the Legal Aid Society. His reputation was stellar until that night at the Golden Dragon.”

“He’s no saint, Mike. He played fast and loose when he represented Cortese. They said he was paying people to intimidate witnesses during the Posse case.”

“Those charges were never proven.”

“Get real, Mike.”

“We’d be out of business if we start ducking cases because we think our clients are scum.”

She responds in the sanctimonious tone that I’ve found profoundly irritating for two decades. “I’m well aware that it’s our job to represent scumbags. On the other hand, they found his prints on the murder weapon. He admitted that he organized a meeting of a couple of drug bosses. Nobody bought his story about a phantom masked shooter who disappeared into the night. What makes you think the jury was wrong?”

“I’m prepared to work through the process to try to find out.”

“Don’t be naive, Mike.”

“Don’t give up so easily, Rosie.”

“It’s a case we can’t win.”

“That’s never stopped us.” I think of the faded citation hanging on the wall of my office. The Nathan Fineman Award used to be given by the San Francisco Bar Association to an attorney who demonstrated exemplary commitment to community service. Though the commendation is no longer named after Nate, it’s still one of my most prized possessions. “I used to admire him.”

“So did I.” Rosie glances down at the engraved gavel that her colleagues gave her as a going-away present when she left the PD’s office––another tradition that Nate started. “This couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m buried with other work. There will be contractors at my house for the next two weeks. My life is a zoo right now.”

Every home-improvement project takes on a life of its own. Her weeklong kitchen-remodel job is already into its second month. She declined her landlord’s offer to put her up in a hotel for a couple of weeks because she didn’t want to uproot Grace and Tommy––a decision she now regrets.

I offer a morsel. “I’ll help with your caseload. We’ll eat out. We could use the extra money. You know your rent will go up as soon as the new appliances are in.”

“If my landlord doesn’t sell it to the highest bidder, which isn’t going to be us unless we win the lottery or we get a substantial infusion of cash from another source.”

“All the more reason to do it. There’s an unwritten rule that new clients only call when it’s hopelessly inconvenient. It isn’t as if we have a lot of prospective cases to choose from right now.”

“A last-minute death penalty appeal isn’t exactly what I had in mind, Mr. Rainmaker.”

“Do you have anything more interesting in the pipeline?”

“At the moment, no.”

“Then I think we should go for it.”

Her scowl becomes more pronounced. “Lou Cohen is bringing us in for a reason. Maybe he’s trying to set us up to take the fall in a last-minute IAC claim.”

Asserting an “Ineffective Assistance of Counsel” claim is a standard legal tactic in death penalty cases. If you have nothing more convincing, you argue that the attorneys screwed up. It’s one of the reasons trial lawyers rarely handle appeals for their clients––it puts them in the awkward position of having to assert IAC claims against themselves.

“There isn’t enough time,” I say. “It won’t fly in a habeas petition.”

“Lou is a smart lawyer.”

“He also admitted that we aren’t going to stop the execution with esoteric legal theories.”

“Which means our only hope is to prove freestanding innocence in the next eight days. As a practical matter, that means we’ll have to find the real killer––assuming it isn’t our potential new client. That isn’t going to happen unless we find some guilt-ridden soul who pops out of the woodwork and confesses.”

“Not necessarily. We just need to find enough new evidence to persuade the California Supremes or the Ninth Circuit to order an evidentiary hearing.” Easier said than done. “If we can delay the execution, we might be able to come up with something more substantial.” Or Nate could die of natural causes before they can get around to rescheduling his execution.

This elicits the all-too-familiar eye roll that I’ve always found so infuriating––and infatuating––since our days at the PD’s office. “Come on, Mike.”

“I know it’s a long shot. You have to admit, though, that if we pull off a miracle, we’ll be heroes. If we don’t, Fineman is no worse off than he is today. Either way, we’re fifty grand to the happy side. Plus we might be able to save a dying man’s life.”

She acknowledges that I may have a point, then treads into murkier water. “Did you ever talk to your father about the case?”

“Not much. Fineman was arrested during one of our non-communicative periods.”

We had many of them. Thomas James Charles Daley Sr. was born seventy-eight years ago at St. Mary’s Hospital. He grew up on Garfield Square in the Mission. Pop married his high school sweetheart the week after they graduated. The newlyweds moved into a furnished one-bedroom apartment two doors from her parents. My dad joined the SFPD on his twenty-first birthday. My mom stayed home to take care of us.

When I was ten, we moved to a bungalow in the Sunset, where our family dynamics were closer to the Osbournes than the Brady Bunch. My older brother, Tom Jr., was a star quarterback at St. Ignatius and Cal before he volunteered to go to Vietnam and never returned. I was the rebellious second son who protested the war in Berkeley. When the antiwar movement didn’t provide enough answers after Tommy died, I ended up in the seminary. My father didn’t talk to me for a year after I left the priesthood to attend law school. We made an uneasy peace when I graduated. We took another hiatus from communication when I joined the PD’s office. My mom spent years conducting shuttle diplomacy between the two of us. Pete was the diligent third son whose greatest transgression was that he wasn’t a jock like Tommy or an excellent student like me. He became a cop to show our old man that he was just as tough as he was.

“My dad was one of the first officers at the scene, but he didn’t testify at the trial. Evidently, they had more than enough evidence without him.”

“What did your father think of Fineman?”

“Every cop in San Francisco hated his guts—especially after the Posse case.”

“Didn’t Fineman’s lawyers make some allegations of police misconduct?”

“They claimed the cops had planted the murder weapon. The charges were never substantiated. Internal Affairs did an investigation after the trial was over. Everybody was cleared—including my father.”

She isn’t satisfied. “Would he have lied to protect another cop?”

“Absolutely not.” I try not to sound too defensive. “He was old-school, but he was his own man. He did what he thought was right. It’s one of the reasons he was never one of the more popular guys on the force.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “If we take this case, we’ll have to revisit his involvement.”

“There’s no legal conflict of interest. It’s part of our job.”

“How do we figure out if he was telling the truth?”

“We’ll talk to Roosevelt.”

“He has a vested interest in protecting the conviction––and himself.”

And maybe my father too. Loyalty runs deep at the SFPD. “Roosevelt wouldn’t cover up evidence if somebody was about to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Are you prepared to attack your father’s reputation to defend our client?”

Rosie always goes straight to the heart of it. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Sure you will.” She glances at the framed photo of our daughter that sits on the corner of her desk. “What about our promise to Grace that we wouldn’t take on another death penalty case?”

“The circumstances are unusual.”

“You’re absolutely sure about this, Mike?”

“Yes.”

My pragmatic ex-wife starts reciting her conditions. “You and your brother will not play cops and robbers.”

“Agreed.” It’s a long-standing bone of contention. I like to tag along with Pete when he’s working. Rosie thinks we take unnecessary chances.

“You will also let the police handle any matters involving illegal activities.”

“Understood.”

Her eyes turn to cold steel—it’s the sign that she’s ready to go to war. “Okay. I’m in.”

When push comes to shove, she’ll never back down. That’s why I will always love her––no matter what.

There is a knock on the door. My brother saunters in with his thumbs tucked inside his pockets. Pete is five years younger than I am. He’s a stockier version of the standard Daley family model, but there isn’t an ounce of fat in the two hundred pounds he carries on his five-eight frame. His slicked-back hair was once a darker brown than mine. It’s still thick, yet now almost completely gray. A two-day stubble covers his pockmarked face. His silver mustache is neatly trimmed. Ever a slave to fashion, he’s wearing black jeans and a faded orange Giants T-shirt with Dusty Baker’s picture on the front. He’s never forgiven the team for letting his favorite manager go to the Cubs.

He’s spent the last week doing round-the-clock surveillance on an unfaithful husband. He’s in no mood for pleasantries. “What’s the big emergency, Mick?” he rasps.

“We have to talk to you about a new case.”

“Are we still going to the Giants game tonight?”

First things first. “That may be a bit of a problem.”

Not the answer he wanted. He turns to Rosie. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been asked to work on Nate Fineman’s appeal.”

Pete’s expression indicates that he thinks we’ve lost our minds. “Isn’t his execution a week from Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Next you’ll say we have a week to find the real killer.”

“Essentially.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“We know the odds.”

My brother takes a seat on the windowsill. “Why are you doing this?”

It’s my turn to respond. “It’s what we do.”

“The guy is pure slime.”

“He’s entitled to a defense.”

“He defended the guys who sold bad heroin to a bunch of kids.”

“Allegedly sold.”

“Gimme a break, Mick.”

“They were entitled to a defense.”

“It doesn’t bother you that three kids died from that stuff?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Then why do you want to represent the scum bucket who defended them?”

“Somebody has to.”

He shakes his head with disdain. “How much is he paying you?”

“Fifty grand up front.”

“So you’re willing to sell your soul for fifty grand?”

“We’re willing to represent a client who is prepared to pay us.”

He turns to Rosie. “You’re okay with this?”

“For now.”

His annoyed expression gives way to an inquisitive look as he turns back to me. “Where do I fit into this picture?”

“They’ve asked for your help.”

“Does that mean I’m getting paid too?”

“Two thousand dollars a day, plus expenses––in advance.”

“They’re serious.”

“Yes, they are.”

He stares out the window.

I wait a long beat. “Are you in?” I ask.

My brother’s response is equal parts surprising and troubling. “I wouldn’t touch it.”

CHAPTER 3

“MURDERERS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES”

Friday, July 10. 1:32 p.m. 8 days, 10 hours, and 29 minutes until execution.

Pete and I have had our share of brotherly issues over the years, though we get along reasonably well nowadays. Nonetheless, Rosie correctly surmises that we may get more out of him if she initiates this discussion.

“How much did your father tell you about the Fineman case?” she asks him.

“A little.” My brother inherited our dad’s proclivity for short answers. “He said he was guilty.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Pop was genetically hardwired to tell the truth.”

So is Pete. His expression indicates he’s prepared to leave it there, but I’m not. “I met with Fineman earlier today. He didn’t strike me as your garden-variety murderer.”

“Maybe he’s your garden-variety sociopath.”

“Gimme a break, Pete. He was a defense lawyer.”

“Same thing. He spent his life hanging out with drug dealers and mobsters. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes.”

“Pop could have been wrong.”

“He was never wrong.”

“Sure he was.”

He jabs his finger in my direction. “About parenthood, yes. About murder, no.”

Pete was always more protective of our parents than I was. He also spent more time with them. After our father died, he moved back home to take care of our mother when her Alzheimer’s got worse. Pete lives with his wife and daughter in the little house at Twenty-third and Kirkham that my parents bought over forty years ago––back in the days when cops could afford them. I’ve suggested that it might be healthier if he moved somewhere with fewer memories. He insists he’s staying put.

“Pop was losing interest in police work toward the end,” I say. “Remember that stakeout in the Tenderloin?”

Pete chased a couple of crack dealers into a roadblock set up by our father and his partner, but they weren’t able to stop them. Pop insisted it was bad luck. Pete said our dad lost his nerve.

His tone turns testy. “What does that have to do with the Fineman case?”

“Pop told me he wasn’t going to get his ass kicked before he collected his pension.” Ironically, he died within months after he retired. “Maybe he wasn’t at the top of his game when the Fineman case came down.”

“Easy for you to say. You never worked on the street.” My brother divides people into two categories: those who have experience in law enforcement and those who don’t. Pete was always the first to come to Pop’s defense on police matters. “He wouldn’t have let Fineman rot in prison if he knew he was innocent. Neither would Roosevelt.”

“Pop was near the end of the line. Roosevelt was interested in getting a conviction.”

“Are you saying they covered for each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t like to mix business with family.”

Neither do I. “Pop’s gone. He didn’t testify.”

“He was one of the first officers at the scene. There were allegations that the cops planted the murder weapon. Lou Cohen is no dummy. He’s bringing you in for a reason.”

“You think he’s using us?”

“Call me a cynic.”

Or a realist.

“Besides,” he adds, “Fineman is a first-rate asshole.”

“Says who?”

“Says Pop. He spent years working on the task force that finally pieced together enough evidence to bring charges against the Bayview Posse. It was dangerous work. They were really bad guys. They had a rock-solid case, and then Fineman found a way to weasel them out of jail.”

“Just because he represented gang bosses and drug dealers doesn’t mean he committed murder. He started the San Francisco Legal Aid Society. He raised a ton of money for charity.”

“Spoken like a defense attorney. He was a mob lawyer who made a mint manipulating the legal system to keep drug dealers out of jail.”

Spoken like an ex-cop. “Drug dealers are entitled to representation too.”

“They aren’t entitled to sleazebags who will do anything to get their clients off. He was paying people down in the Bayview to intimidate witnesses in the Posse case. There’s a fine line between defending criminals and becoming one yourself. Fineman crossed it. He wasn’t just a lawyer––he was part of the problem. It wasn’t just dirty clients or shady courtroom tactics. The word on the street was that he wasn’t just representing the drug dealers––he was helping them run their operations. There were also allegations that he was getting things fixed at the Hall of Justice.”

“Who?”

“You name it: cops, judges, bailiffs. Maybe even some of the ADAs. The head brass wanted him so badly that we had him under surveillance. We knew there were payoffs, but the money was always laundered through an intermediary. We never had enough to nail him until he killed those guys at the Golden Dragon.”

“Can any of this be corroborated?”

“Not a chance, Mick.”

“Is there a chance the cops nailed Fineman as payback?”

“Pop wasn’t that kind of a cop.”

“He wasn’t the only one involved in this case.”

“I know.”

I ask him straight up. “Do you think Fineman killed three people?”

“Pop thought so.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Is there a chance he may be innocent?”

“There’s a chance he didn’t kill the guys at the restaurant, but he’s far from innocent.”

I need to lower the volume. “What did Pop do that night?”

“He and Joey D’ helped secure the scene.”

Our father’s last partner was a punk from the Excelsior District with anger-management issues, a gambling problem, and a Napoleon complex who also happened to wear a uniform. “Little Joey” D’Amato placed a higher priority on making arrests than observing legal niceties. There were rumors that he extracted protection money from the businesses on his beat. Later, he was “asked” to take early retirement after he was accused of shaking down some pimps in the Mission to cover his gambling debts. The allegations were dropped when he agreed to retire.

“What’s Joey up to nowadays?” I ask.

“He’s running a currency exchange in the Tenderloin.”

“Is it legit?”

“As legit as any business that gouges people to cash their welfare checks. Some people whose opinions I respect think it’s a front to launder drug money.”

“Is he still playing the ponies?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t the cops nail him?”

“Joey is still one of the smartest assholes you’ll ever meet—especially when it comes to looking out for himself.”

He also hated my dad’s guts––a sentiment that was reciprocated in kind. They came at police work from opposite ends of the spectrum. Pop did things by the book. Joey believed in expedience—even if it meant stretching the rules and taking a few bucks on the side.

“What do you know about the three victims?” I ask.

“Fineman’s client was a guy named Terrell Robinson. He operated out of the Sunnydale projects. He was a construction contractor who controlled the heroin trade down to South City. He came from the Saddam Hussein School of Management––he killed anybody who disagreed with him.”

“Not a consensus builder.”

“Nope. Robinson was at war with a Chinatown gang run by a man named Alan Chin, who was every bit as ruthless. He controlled everything north of Market Street. The third victim was Chin’s attorney. His name was Lester Fong.”

I recognize the name. Fong was Chinatown’s most flamboyant contribution to the San Francisco criminal defense bar. The cagey lawyer was a regular at the Hall of Justice, where he had a reputation as a zealous advocate for his clients. He was also a well-known spokesman for political interests in Chinatown at city hall.

“Why would Fineman have killed the lawyer?” I ask.

“Maybe he was the only witness. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Maybe.”

Pete adds, “They all died of gunshot wounds from bullets fired from the pistol found on Fineman.”

You need a scorecard to keep track of all the drug dealers. “What made them think Fineman was involved?”

His voice fills with sarcasm. “It may have had something to do with the fact that they found his fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

Fair enough. “Look at it this way. It’s two weeks of work for a fat paycheck. You may get some good publicity. You may even help save a man’s life. What’s the downside?”

“For one, I was still on the force when this case came down. Fineman and his lawyers took a bunch of potshots at the cops. Nobody down at the Hall of Justice was heartbroken when he was convicted––including me. Some people are going to be unhappy if the execution is delayed.”

“Since when did you start worrying about hurt feelings at the Hall?”

“I still have friends down there.”

Pete won’t duck a case just because a few people might get their noses out of joint.

“For two,” he continues, “Mort Goldberg made a big stink that the murder weapon was planted. Pop said it was a bunch of crap, but they still brought in IA to investigate. All things being equal, I’d rather not work on a case where we may have to smear Pop’s reputation to help a client.”

His point is well-taken––even though neither of us had an especially warm and fuzzy relationship with our father. “Aren’t you remotely interested in trying to find out what really happened?”

“I’m willing to give Pop the benefit of the doubt. So should you.”

“If he was telling the truth, we have nothing to worry about.”

He looks intently at Rosie for an interminable moment, then he turns back to me. “You really want to do this, don’t you, Mick?”

“Yes.”

“Are you prepared to pay for backup for me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to second-guess everything I do?”

He knows me too well. “Probably.”

His mouth turns up slightly. “It’s just a couple of weeks of my life that I’ll never get back. I’m in if you are.”

Swell.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asks.

“With the victims. We need everything you can get about Robinson, Chin, and Fong. Then I want you to track down Joey D’Amato.”

“Okay.”

Rosie stands up. “I’ll start looking at the trial transcripts and the appellate briefs.

“Where are you going first?”

“To talk to Roosevelt.”

CHAPTER 4

“IT WAS A LEGITIMATE CONVICTION”

Friday, July 10. 9:05 p.m. 8 days, 2 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

Original Joe’s is a mecca of California Cuisine––of sixty years ago. It was opened in 1937 by a Croatian immigrant named Ante “Tony” Rodin as a fourteen-stool diner with a narrow counter and sawdust on the floor. It expanded into a larger space in a groaning building smack-dab in the middle of the teeming Tenderloin District just west of Union Square. After the old building was damaged by fire in 2007, Original Joe’s moved into the heart of North Beach across the street from Washington Square Park. Tony’s place should have gone belly-up when the Tenderloin went from dicey to outright dangerous in the sixties, but it didn’t. The trend toward lighter fare should have killed it in the eighties, but it couldn’t. Generations of locals still make the pilgrimage to consume twenty-five-ounce porterhouse steaks, pan-fried local sole, and huge portions of chicken parmigiana. If you want artisan cheese, baby greens, and arugula, you’re in the wrong spot.

The mist of grease from the frying calamari hangs heavily in the air. Massive burgers and chops are broiling over the white-hot coals. Many people erroneously believe the open restaurant kitchen was invented by the designers of stylish eateries such as Boulevard and Chez Panisse. The concept was actually pioneered by Tony Rodin. He didn’t have room for a full kitchen, so he set up a small assembly line behind his cramped counter and let his patrons enjoy the show. He opted to use mesquite charcoal because it was cheaper, hotter, and longer-lasting than regular briquettes. Thus an entire genre of cuisine––such as it is––was born.

Tony presided at Original Joe’s until he was well into his nineties. Declining health finally forced him to grudgingly turn over the reins to his daughter, Marie Duggan, who still bucks the trends with a similarly capable iron hand. Tuxedoed waiters who have worked here for decades continue the tradition of serving slightly uptown steaks and chops to loyal customers who squeeze into the burgundy booths. Legend has it that when a snooty food critic had the audacity to point out that the menu hadn’t been updated in decades, Marie responded with a single-digit salute. My dad used to order the mile-high filet, a twenty-ounce slab of tenderloin that was hand-cut in the basement at the old location. I’ve always been partial to the often-imitated Joe’s Special, a concoction of ground beef, scrambled eggs, spinach, Parmesan cheese, olive oil, and whatever other leftovers happen to be available in the kitchen. Trendy it isn’t, but the smart money says they’ll be serving oversize burgers and Joe’s Specials a hundred years from now.

I take a deep breath of the aroma of mesquite-grilled steak as I look across the starched white tablecloth at the imposing figure of my father’s first partner. Roosevelt Johnson is a dignified African-American with a noble presence and a lyrical baritone. A half century ago, he and my dad used to eat burgers and drink Budweisers at Original Joe’s after their shifts had ended. Times have changed. Roosevelt and this restaurant haven’t. We arrived at nine o’clock on Friday night without a reservation. We were immediately escorted to a booth in the back, away from the raucous counter area. For years, Roosevelt’s every whim was catered to by Angelo Viducic, who sweated it out in his ill-fitting tux day in and day out for four decades. He was Joe DiMaggio’s favorite waiter. Angelo finally retired a few years ago, so his cousin, Gianrico, brought Roosevelt his gargantuan plate of liver cooked medium and smothered with onions and crispy bacon.

The homicide inspector takes a sip of scalding coffee from a plain white mug. Roosevelt doesn’t drink decaf. He’s tried to retire three times, but he keeps getting drawn back to work on unsolved cold cases as only he can. He insists he’s going to retire for good at the end of the year. I have doubts. His commanding voice is tempered slightly by seventy-five years of experience as he talks about his children and grandchildren––an exercise that takes him a good half hour. He operates at his own pace and he’s doing me a favor, so I try not to push too soon. Eventually, he finishes his liver and turns to business. His tone is purposefully indignant. “What is possessing you to represent a convicted murderer like Nathan Fineman?”

“He hired me. He’s entitled to a lawyer.”

He adjusts the cuffs of his blinding white shirt. He still wears a dark suit and a subdued tie to work every day. He dresses conservatively in deference to the victims whose cases he investigates. Pop used to say that he also does it to set an example for his younger subordinates who have the audacity to wear business casual. He believes their clothing choices reflect a lack of respect for the sanctity of their jobs. “Why are you really doing this?”

“He was one of the most respected defense attorneys in the Bay Area.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m more forgiving than you are.”

“That’s why you’re a defense lawyer and I’m a cop. He defended Danny Cortese and the Bayview Posse. He wrote the book on keeping mobsters and drug dealers out of jail. Doesn’t it bother you that you’re being paid with drug money?”

It’s my turn for a little indignation. “You don’t know that for sure. Besides, I never ask my clients where they get the money to pay me.”

“Perhaps this would be a good time for you to start.”

He’s a little testier than usual tonight. “Nate had a thriving law practice. He made a lot of money legitimately.”

“He also made a fortune representing drug traffickers and pimps.”

“That isn’t illegal.”

“Some people think he was doing more than providing legal services.”

“Then you should have arrested him.”

He wipes his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re as obstinate as your father.”

I wink. “I got my independent streak from my mom.”

This elicits an amiable smile as he tugs at the perfect Windsor knot in his tie. I’m willing to duck the few live shells that he’ll lob in my direction in exchange for information. He gestures to Gianrico, who freshens his coffee. “Have you looked at the files?”

“Briefly.” It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. I start with sugar. “As far as I can tell, it was a clean conviction.”

He’s pleased. “So why are we having this conversation?”

“Because you’re the only person who might be willing to talk to me.” I wait a beat. “And because I’m family.”

He knows I’m saying it for effect. It also happens to line up with the truth. His family lived a few blocks from us. They used to come over for dinner every Sunday night. He taught my older brother how to throw a spiral. He showed me how to grip a changeup. Out of respect for my father, he’s helped me on several cases over the years.

His mouth turns down. “Lou Cohen had ten years to appeal. You aren’t going to change the outcome in eight days.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that they’re going to execute a seventy-seven-year-old man who can’t walk?”

“You know I’m more interested in finding the truth than executing people in wheelchairs.” He shoots another glance at Gianrico, who returns with a traditional zabaglione, served as always in a sixteen-ounce beer schooner. Roosevelt looks at the frothy concoction that the waiters call “honeymoon sauce” for its alleged restorative properties. “It was a legitimate conviction. If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll drop it. I’m trying to save you some time and aggravation.”

“I have plenty of time and I like aggravation.”

This gets another smile. “Just like your father. We’re off the record.”

“Fair enough.” I want to see if he’ll tell me who was there and what led to the allegations that the murder weapon was planted. Realistically, he’ll tell me exactly what he wants me to know—and nothing more. I ease into the discussion slowly. “I understand my father and his partner helped secure the scene at the Golden Dragon.”

“They did. Dave Low got there first.”

Low was an undercover cop who earned a Medal of Valor for busting a Chinatown drug ring. He was killed in the line of duty about five years ago while making an arrest a few blocks from the Golden Dragon. He left a wife and three young kids. A thousand cops showed up at his funeral. “Any chance he was involved?”

Roosevelt shakes his head. “He didn’t get a Medal of Valor for writing parking tickets. He had a stellar reputation.”

“Was anybody with him?”

“He worked alone.”

“Were there other undercover cops in the area that night?”

“We always had undercovers in Chinatown. If you’re asking if anybody else was watching the Golden Dragon that night, the answer is no.”

“I understand there were claims that the murder weapon was planted.”

He responds with a well-practiced look of disdain. “Every defense lawyer tries that one to see if it will stick. There wasn’t a shred of evidence.”

“Then why was Internal Affairs called in?”

“Standard procedure.” He places his coffee mug in its saucer and measures his words. “IA conducted a full investigation. Everybody was cleared.”

That’s all he intends to tell me. “Who handled the IA investigation?”

“Kevin Fitzgerald.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah. Solid cop.”

“Would he have covered for his friends?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What about Joey D’Amato?”

“What about him?”

“It’s no secret that my father didn’t like him.”

“He and your father didn’t see eye to eye, but Joey was a good cop, too.”

“Why did they make him take early retirement?”

“He liked to spend time at the track.”

“I heard he liked to shake people down.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Roosevelt is old-school. He isn’t going to rip another cop unless he has the goods. “What do you know about the victims?” I’m looking for anything that wasn’t revealed at the trial.

“Read the record.”

“I will. I was hoping you might give me the highlights.”

He plays with the handle of his coffee cup as he tries to decide how much he wants to tell me. “There were four people in the room. Fineman, his client, another drug dealer, and his lawyer. Fineman was the only one who came out alive.”

“Bodyguards?”

“We think there were some other people in the building, but it should come as no surprise that we couldn’t place anybody else there. Security people for mob bosses are reluctant to testify at murder trials.”

“Who took over the drug-distribution channels after Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin were killed?”

“It never takes long to fill a void in the drug-distribution business.”

He’s being uncharacteristically coy. It suggests to me that he may be holding something back. “You got any names?”

“I’m afraid not, Mike.” He finishes his coffee and abruptly reaches for the bill, signaling that this conversation is coming to an end. “My treat tonight.”

“Hand it over. You’re doing me a favor.”

“Forget it.” He places his credit card on top of the check.

“Thanks, Roosevelt.” I shoot up a final flare. “If you were in my shoes, where would you go first?”

“Mort Goldberg.”

I’ve worked with Fineman’s trial attorney a couple of times. The experiences weren’t always pleasant, but they were never dull. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“The Jewish Home.” His expression turns somber. “He may not be of much help. He had a stroke that’s affected his memory.”

* * *

“Fitz was a lazy ass-kisser,” Pete says.

Suffice it to say Pete’s take on Lieutenant Kevin Fitzgerald is slightly different than Roosevelt’s. Then again, his experience with Internal Affairs wasn’t especially positive. I’m standing in the doorway of Original Joe’s with my cell phone pressed against my ear at eleven-thirty on Friday night. “Was he a good cop?”

“His record was clean. He worked as hard in IA as he did on the street.”

“Meaning?”

“He knew how to play the system. He did his job––and nothing more. Let’s just say that nobody ever sweated too much when Fitz was handling their case.”

“Did he protect other cops?”

“He would have given them the benefit of the doubt.”

Got it.

“There’s one more thing you should know. Fitz went to the academy with Little Joey D’Amato. They were friends.”

“Good enough friends that he may have been willing to cover for Joey?”

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.” He pauses. “You realize that if he was covering for Joey, he may have been doing the same for Pop.”

* * *

The call comes in to my cell phone at ten minutes after midnight. “Where are you?” Rosie asks.

“The bridge.” I’m mid-span on the Golden Gate in a light fog. I can make out the Alcatraz beacon, but the Berkeley Hills are covered by the mist. The sun-hardened windshield wipers on my ancient Corolla provide little assistance.

“Can you stop at my place on your way home?”

“Sure. What’s wrong, Rosie?”

“I just got an emergency call from Lou Cohen’s office. Our co-counsel is dead.”

CHAPTER 5

“LOOKS LIKE WE’RE FLYING SOLO”

Saturday, July 11. 1:04 a.m. 7 days, 22 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

My ex-mother-in-law puts a finger to her lips. She motions me into Rosie’s living room, which is cramped with the kitchen table and chairs. It’s been this way since the remodel project started. Except for her gray hair and the crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes, Sylvia Fernandez could pass for Rosie’s older sister. She celebrated her seventy-seventh birthday earlier this year, and she moves at a speed that would put people half her age to shame. Sylvia still lives in the white bungalow in the Mission that’s served as Fernandez family headquarters for more than a half century. Luckily for us, she spends much of her time here in Larkspur with her grandchildren. She’s wearing her customary beige velour jogging suit and Reebok running shoes. She gets up every morning at four-thirty and starts her day with a brisk two-mile walk. The unpredictable logistics of our criminal defense practice would be impossible to navigate without her help.

“Rosita is on the phone,” she whispers.

Telephone conversations in the wee hours are in the job description when you handle death penalty appeals. The aroma of fresh coffee is mixed with tile and sawdust from the remodel work. The ten-by-twelve room with a brick fireplace serves triple duty as Rosie’s living room, home office, and breakfast room. The area is unlikely to be used in a Sunset magazine spread. The eclectic chaos reflects the lifestyle of a working mother in the new millennium. The furnishings include a small color TV, an overworked mahogany desk, two mismatched steel file cabinets, a tired green sofa, and a soon-to-be-retired playpen. The DVDs in the rack range from Barney the Dinosaur to Britney Spears to Breaking Bad. The gutted kitchen is stripped to the bare two-by-fours and the plywood under-floor. A new refrigerator, dishwasher, stove, and sink are in crates on the back porch.

Rosie is sitting on a card chair behind her desk. She’s pressing her call phone against her right ear. Her hair is pulled back. Wire-framed reading glasses have replaced her contacts. Her navy blue sweatshirt bears the logo of Hastings Law School. She holds her left thumb a half inch from her index finger––the signal that she won’t be long.

I turn back to Sylvia. “Is Tommy asleep?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Did Grace go out with Jake?”

“They went to a movie.”

Our daughter has a budding romance with an older man who lives around the corner. He’s a good-looking honor student who is the ripe old age of sixteen. They met five years ago in the traditional way––she was the star pitcher on their Little League team and he was a weak-hitting outfielder. Since then, he’s grown a foot and his fastball tops eighty miles per hour. He pitches for the Redwood High School varsity. Grace is the starting shortstop on the softball team. As far as we can tell, their relationship––such as it is––has been pretty tame. I’m hopeful they’ll continue spending most of their time talking about sports. I get nightmares, though, worrying about the various meanings of getting to second base. Our ability to control matters is likely to become increasingly difficult after Jake obtains his driver’s license. At that point, he and I will have the long talk that I’ve been rehearsing in front of the mirror every night for the last fourteen years. I plan to do most of the talking. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll agree with everything I say.

“What time did they get home?” I ask.

“Around eleven.”

Too late. “Did they spend any time on the porch?”

“A little.”

Too much. I’m going to be a wreck by the time she leaves for college. I gesture toward Rosie. “Who’s she talking to?”

“Carolyn.”

Carolyn O’Malley used to be our law partner. She was appointed to the superior court bench three years ago, leaving a gaping hole in our firm. She provides a unique resource on state- and federal-jurisdiction issues at all hours of the night. The fact that she’s a judge lends credibility to her views, but we must obtain her advice off the record. We seek it judiciously.

Rosie thanks her profusely and presses the Disconnect button. She turns to me. “Looks like we’re flying solo.”

I hold my palms up. “There must be some grounds for delay if the lead attorney dies seven days before an execution.”

“Not necessarily. It isn’t as if he’s without representation. We can argue it to the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit. Carolyn says there’s no authority on point.”

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get up to speed in time.”

“We’re going to have to try. Cohen’s associate is going to walk me through the record. I’ve already spoken to the CAP attorney who is working on the case.”

The California Appellate Project, or CAP, is a nonprofit organization that’s been providing counseling on capital cases for two decades. It was organized to provide a “buddy” for court-appointed appellate lawyers who frequently had limited experience handling death penalty appeals. The lawyers at CAP help brainstorm strategies and prepare briefs. I derive a modest level of comfort knowing they’re available.

“What happened to Cohen?” I ask.

“His associate called and said he had a heart attack. One minute he was there, the next he was gone.”

Sylvia puts it into perspective. “All things considered, if your time is up, it isn’t a bad way to go.”

I ask Rosie if anybody has informed our client about his lawyer’s untimely demise.

“He’s probably heard about it by now. Cohen’s associate is going to see him in the morning.”

“We should go with her.”

Grace makes her entrance from the hall that leads to the bedroom she shares with her grandmother when Sylvia stays here. The resemblance to her mother is striking. The braces on her teeth are gone, her figure is filling out, and her long black hair cascades down her back. She’s wearing a T-shirt for a hip-hop band whose music could sterilize small animals.

My voice is nonchalant. “How’s Jake?”

Her tone is guarded. “Fine.” She quickly changes the subject. “Are you here about the Fineman case?”

Rosie answers for me. “Yes, honey.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do any more death penalty cases.”

She inherited her mother’s propensity for directness.

“Mr. Fineman’s attorney had a heart attack,” Rosie says. “He’s dead.”

Grace correctly points out that we started working on the case yesterday afternoon. “He was still alive then.”

“We’re all that he has left.”

Our daughter folds her arms in the same manner that Rosie always does. Except for the differences in their ages, it’s like watching someone standing in front of a mirror. “You’re going to work round the clock, aren’t you?”

Grace could open her own law practice right now.

“It won’t be long,” Rosie says.

“How long?”

“Eight days.”

Grace tugs at her ear. “So much for our agreement.”

“I’m sorry, Grace. It’s a special situation.”

“It’s always a special situation. They said on the news that Nate Fineman represented the Bayview Posse.”

“He did. Where did you hear about that case?”

“At school. They warned us about buying bad drugs.”

High school has changed since I was fourteen.

Grace’s eyes narrow. “Doesn’t it bother you that you’re representing a guy who defended those people?”

Yes. “It’s part of being a lawyer, Grace,” I say.

She pushes out a melodramatic sigh. “You aren’t public defenders anymore. You’re choosing to take this case.”

She’s right. “We might be able to help him.”

“As if there aren’t a zillion other lawyers out there.” She looks over my shoulder for an instant, then her eyes lock back onto mine. “They said on the news that Grandpa was the arresting officer.”

“Actually, he was the first officer at the scene.”

“Does this mean you’re going to try to prove that he screwed up?”

Rosie and I exchange a quick glance. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” I say.

“But you have to look into it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And if you find that he did, you have to report it, don’t you?”

“If it would help our client.”

“Am I the only one who has a problem with this?”

It will serve no useful purpose to offer a platitude or be disingenuous. “You aren’t.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Good lawyers take on tough cases.”

She waits a long beat, then decides it isn’t worth a fight. “Fine. I’ll deal with it. Can I still go to the Giants game with Jake next Saturday?”

“Of course.”

As she’s moved into her teens, she’s spending more time with Jake and her other friends. Intellectually, I knew this transition was inevitable. Emotionally, I miss my baby daughter.

Grace turns to Sylvia. “Looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, Grandma. Maybe we can take Tommy to the mall tomorrow.”

She never invites me to the mall. I try not to be jealous. There is something special about the relationship between a grandmother and a granddaughter.

Sylvia smiles. “Sounds fine, honey.”

Grace is starting to make her way toward her room when she turns around. “Was Grandpa a good cop?” she asks.

“One of the best,” I say.

“Did he ever get into trouble?”

“Only with Grandma.”

She isn’t amused. “Is Nate Fineman guilty?”

The question catches me off guard. I exchange silent glances with my ex-wife and ex-mother-in-law. It’s Rosie who answers her. “We’ll know more after we look through the files.”

Grace takes my nonresponse in stride. “Just wondering,” she says, walking away.

* * *

Rosie and I are sitting at opposite ends of her sofa at 4:00 a.m. We’ve spent the last three hours poring over appellate records, trial transcripts, and police reports. It’s a tedious slog that will continue all weekend. Time is not on our side, but we can’t afford to miss something important. My capacity for all-nighters dropped substantially when I turned forty, twelve years ago.

I hear a familiar high-pitched voice behind me. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Tommy.” This elicits a gleeful smile as our energetic son bounces into the living room and onto my lap. Except for the fact that Rosie and I are divorced and we have less than eight days to save a condemned man’s life, we could be reenacting a scene right out of Ozzie and Harriet. “Why are you up?”

“There’s a monster in my room.”

This is his stock answer for his frequent appearances in the wee hours. When I used to have nightmares as a kid, my dad always came into my room to chase the bad guys away. It was reassuring to have a father who was a cop. It was also some of the only quality time that we spent together. After he cleared the room of imaginary creatures, we retreated to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Pop wasn’t much of a talker, but he always seemed to enjoy eating Cheerios with me in the middle of the night.

“What kind of monster?” I ask.

He holds his arms out wide. “A big one.”

It’s always a big one. “I saw him a little while ago. He went outside to play with the owls.”

Tommy’s big blue Daley eyes open wider. He still buys everything I say. This certainly isn’t the case with his sister. He gives me the grin that always gets him what he wants. It won’t work nearly as well when he’s sixteen. “Did you go to work today, Daddy?”

Now I’m sure he’s filibustering. “Yes, Tom. I worked very hard.”

“I played very hard.”

“So, we’re even.”

The smile transforms into a thoughtful look. “Do you ever get to play, Daddy?”

Not in the middle of a death penalty appeal. “Sometimes.” For the next eight days, I’ll settle for a few minutes of sleep. “It’s more fun to be a kid, when you can play all the time. Why don’t you get back in bed and I’ll come in and check on you in a minute?”

“Okay, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Tommy hops off my lap and practically sprints to the bedroom he’ll be sharing with Rosie until the remodel is finished. Two-year-olds move at only one speed––fast.

“I wish it were that easy with Grace,” Rosie says.

“At least she’s out of diapers. Wait until Tommy turns fourteen.”

“There’s always military school.”

“It isn’t a bad option.” I close a black binder filled with appellate briefs. “Did you find anything that might be grounds for a stay?”

“Lou Cohen found the stronger appealable issues.” Her eyelids flutter as she yawns. “We’ll come up with a few creative arguments for another habeas petition. You know what it’s like with last-minute death penalty appeals. We’ll just keep throwing stuff at the courts.”

It’s true. In the final days before an execution, you argue anything and everything that you can think of and hope a sympathetic judge will bite. The odds are always stacked against you.

“In the meantime,” she adds, “it would make our lives a lot easier if Pete can find something—even if it’s just some credible evidence of police misconduct.”

“He’s already looking.” The pedal is about to hit the floor.

Rosie leans over and kisses me softly.

“What’s that for?”

“For getting us into this mess.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yes, you will.”

I pull her toward me and kiss her back. “How’s that?”

“Not nearly good enough.” I lean forward and try again, but she pulls away. “I don’t think so,” she says. “We have to stay focused.”

I wink at her. “I am.”

“We have to think about our client’s best interests. You’re a better lawyer when you’re desperate for a little action.”

“I’m plenty motivated, Rosie.”

She squeezes my hand. “We’ll continue this discussion after the case is over. By then you’ll have even greater motivation to think about my best interests too. There may be something extra in it for you.”

I may be having a second birthday this year.

Her smile disappears as she turns back to domestic matters. “Grace is handling this pretty well.”

“So far.”

“She’s more interested in hanging out with Jake than with us.”

“Don’t count us out just yet.”

She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Do you think she’ll ever become more communicative with me?”

“Maybe after she gets out of college. I’m told that parents tend to get a lot smarter when their kid turns twenty-five.”

I get another smile. “Where are you going to start later this morning?”

“With Mort the Sport.”

CHAPTER 6

MORT THE SPORT

Saturday, July 11. 11:07 a.m. 7 days, 12 hours, and 54 minutes until execution.

“How the hell have you been?” Mort “the Sport” Goldberg rasps. His customary greeting hasn’t changed in sixty years, though his once-authoritative voice is now a hoarse whisper.

“Fine, Mort,” I say.

His tired gray eyes are hidden behind huge aviator-style glasses as his attendant wheels him into a sun-drenched atrium in the sprawling Jewish Home for the Aged. The inveterate glad-hander was once among the most dynamic defense attorneys in the Bay Area. His face is now drawn, his complexion pasty. At seventy-six, he’s one of the younger residents in a facility where the average age is eighty-eight. His right hand convulses uncontrollably. His left arm doesn’t move. The legs of the onetime expert skier are limp appendages that must be delicately hand-lifted onto his wheelchair. They’re covered by a red and gold 49ers blanket.

His tone turns melancholy. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.” It’s also been a long morning. Rosie and I started the day at San Quentin, where Nate took the news of Lou Cohen’s death with grim resignation. Rosie went to the office to meet with Cohen’s associate. I came here to see Mort.

“I expected to see you last night,” he tells me point-blank.

“We weren’t hired until yesterday afternoon.”

“That was almost twenty-four hours ago. You don’t have time to screw around.”

He hasn’t lost his edge. “I just saw your old client. He’s holding up pretty well under the circumstances.”

“This isn’t the Ritz, but it still beats the hell out of the Row.”

The Jewish Home’s bright hallways lack the pungent odor typical of similar facilities. Located in four reasonably cheerful buildings at the corner of Mission Street and Silver Avenue just south of the 280 Freeway, it was founded in 1871 as a residential care center for a dozen seniors in a neighborhood that once had a significant Jewish population. The Jews fled to the suburbs decades ago. The Jewish Home didn’t.

Mort cuts to the chase. “How are you going to stop the execution?”

“We’re already looking for new information. At the moment, we’re focusing on claims that the cops may have planted the murder weapon.”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t prove it.”

“We’re going to try. If that fails, we’ll need to find another way to prove freestanding innocence.”

“Good luck. That isn’t going to happen unless somebody steps forward and confesses.”

The years and the ailments haven’t dulled his lawyerly instincts. “We’ll throw everything into the next round of habeas petitions.”

“Maybe.” His right eyebrow darts up over the top of his thick glasses. “You’ll come up with something. As I recall, you used to be a pretty good lawyer.”

Ever the schmoozer. His ancestors came to San Francisco during the gold rush. They started a successful men’s clothing business that was bought by the prominent Magnin family. He grew up in the Richmond District and became the president of Temple Beth Sholom at Fourteenth and Clement, where he and Nate served together on the board. The childhood friends became genial rivals and occasional collaborators who ran competing law practices at opposite ends of the sixteenth floor of the Russ Building. They could be seen lunching together on petrale sole in a booth at Sam’s a couple of times a week.

Mort mellowed considerably with age. Eventually, he developed a reputation as a “pleader”––a defense attorney who was more interested in cutting deals than trying cases. Ultimately, he became a full-time TV commentator on Channel 4. “Mort’s Torts,” as his daily segment was known, was a freewheeling cross between Court TV and David Letterman. It gave him a platform to expound upon everything from political issues to the Niners’ quarterback. He pretended to have an ongoing flirtation with the attractive young traffic reporter even though it was common knowledge that he’d been married to his childhood sweetheart for more than fifty years. He worked at Channel 4 until he suffered the stroke that paralyzed his left side. His wife died a short time later. The long time benefactor of the Jewish Home took a room in the wing that bears his name.

I move in closer. “We had some sad news last night. Lou Cohen passed away.”

His pained expression indicates that he hadn’t heard the news. He struggles to clasp the unlit Cuban cigar attached to his wrist by an elastic cord. He isn’t allowed to light up, but they can’t deprive him of his favorite prop. His tone is somber. “That’s bad. Too many of my friends are dying. When’s the service?”

“Monday.”

He glances at his attendant. “Let’s see if we can make arrangements to go.”

The young man nods.

Mort jabs the cigar in my direction. “I spend a lot of time going to funerals. I’m going to fool my doctors. I’m going to outlive them all.”

He just might. Mort stormed the corridors of the Hall of Justice for more than a half century. After hours, he held court at the legendary Cookie’s Star Café, a dive on Kearny Street where prosecutors, defense lawyers, cops, judges, politicians, criminals, and reporters used to gossip, make book, and dole out informal justice over beers, dice, and cigars. Its colorful and profane proprietor, Lawrence “Cookie” Picetti, provided a needed demilitarized zone for the warring factions in San Francisco’s criminal justice system. A dwindling group of Cookie’s old regulars still gather on his birthday every year to hoist a few beers in his memory. Like Cookie’s place, Mort the Sport is a part of San Francisco that’s fading into history. There are good lawyers who will pick up the gauntlet. But there are few bigger-than-life characters left in our profession.

I’ve been warned that his memory fades in and out, so I have to get what I can during his lucid moments. I start by easing him into a discussion of his favorite topic––himself. “How are you feeling, Mort?”

The frustration in his voice is palpable. “I can’t hold my cigar without a spotter.” He shoots an appreciative smile toward his attendant. “If I light up, he’s supposed to light me up. You’d think the doctors would understand that I’m not going to die young.”

The young man touches his arm gently. “You know the rules, boss. Do you want some tea?”

Mort playfully pretends to burn his finger with the unlit cigar. “I’d like some scotch.”

“It’s a little early.”

“I suppose. Let me have a moment with Mr. Daley.”

The attendant gestures at a woman whose wheelchair is parked down the hall. “I’m going to check on your girlfriend. I’ll be right here.”

“Thanks.” Mort turns back to me. “He’s a sophomore at City College. I’m trying to convince him to go to law school. I promised to teach him everything I can remember. Hell, if I can find my Rolodex, I can get him some clients.”

I take a seat on the bench next to him. “How are you really feeling?”

He looks down at his useless legs. “I have a few good days and a lot of bad ones. First it’s cataracts, then it’s a stroke, then your kidneys quit.”

I offer a weak platitude. “You have to keep plugging.”

“You’re still a kid. I’m in worse shape than they’re telling me. It’s always a bad sign when your doctors whisper to each other.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

He forces a chuckle. “It’s always something, Mike. If you’re living here, you aren’t going to get better. You just hope you don’t get worse too quickly and you pray for a painless end. I try not to dwell on it. Sometimes I think Nate has a better deal. We’re getting to the finish line––at least he knows when the race is going to end. The only saving grace is that half the time I can’t remember what it was like to be healthy. You caught me on one of my good days. If you come back tomorrow, I might not recognize you.”

“My mom used to say that getting old isn’t for sissies.”

“She was very wise.” His eyes light up. “You want some free advice?”

I’d like some free information, but I can’t possibly stop him. “Sure.”

“You’ll want to write these down.”

I prepare to take notes. “I’m listening.”

“Mort the Sport’s three rules to live by. Number one, don’t get old. Number two, don’t get sick. Number three, don’t get old and sick at the same time. It’s bad for your health.”

I’m glad I caught him on one of his good days.

“So,” he says, “I presume you’re here to talk about Nate’s appeal.”

“I am.”

The affable expression disappears. “His case didn’t make my personal highlight reel.”

It was the only murder trial that he ever lost. “The execution is a week from tomorrow. I was hoping I might persuade you to help us.”

His scowl becomes more pronounced. “I haven’t talked to Nate in years. I didn’t appreciate it when Lou Cohen filed that IAC claim against me.”

He can remember every slight from a half century ago. “It was a legal strategy. It wasn’t personal.”

“It was a losing argument and a gratuitous swipe. If I’d been running the case, Nate would have gotten a new trial by now.”

“You can help us remove the only blemish from your otherwise perfect record.” I give him a sly grin. “It would also give us a chance to work together again.”

“I’m no longer licensed to practice law.”

“We’ll hire you as a consultant.”

His tired eyes twinkle. “Are you really willing to pay me for my time?”

“Sure.” I can be magnanimous with a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer. Besides, he doesn’t need the money.

“You can’t expect me to remember the details of Nate’s case.”

“I think you can remember the details of every case you ever tried.”

He gives me a knowing look. “Lou brought you in to take the blame if the last appeal fails.”

“I prefer to think he hired me because I have a long-standing relationship with Roosevelt Johnson––and with you.”

“He should have done it sooner.”

I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Better late than never.”

The wheels start turning. “Can you persuade a judge to delay the execution because of Lou’s death?”

“We’re going to file papers on Monday morning.”

“On what grounds?”

“Among other things, ineffective assistance of counsel.”

“Against Lou?”

“Against ourselves.”

His quivering lips transform into a smile. “Is there any legal authority?”

“Not really.”

“You’re still going to have to prove freestanding innocence.”

I give him an admiring nod. Mort didn’t get to be one of the best hired guns in town on his good looks and family connections. “I’m in a tough spot. You know this case better than anybody. I could really use your help.”

He pretends to sniff his cigar––which is still wrapped in cellophane. “Why the hell not? What do you want to know?”

“Did Nate kill those people at the Golden Dragon?”

He shakes his head. “We had our differences, but he isn’t a murderer.”

“Was he trying to take over Terrell Robinson’s heroin-distribution business?”

“No.”

“Then how did he end up in an alley with the murder weapon?”

“It was a setup.”

“By whom?”

“The cops.”

“Which ones?”

“If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t have lost the case in the first place.”

Perhaps. “Maybe we can start with what happened that night.”

He uses the cigar to gesture as he lays out a story that jibes with Roosevelt’s.

“How did Nate get a gun inside the restaurant?” I ask.

“The cops said he’d planted it in the bathroom down the hall. That was crap.”

“Nate admitted that he used the bathroom just before the shooting started.”

“It doesn’t mean he planted a gun. He was searched when he entered the building and when he returned to the meeting. Roosevelt claimed they didn’t frisk him carefully enough or the bodyguards were paid off. That was another load.”

“Where was Nate when the shooting started?” I already got this information from Nate. I want to see if Mort can fill in any additional details.

“He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room. He pushed it over when the shooting started. It was riddled with bullet holes and probably saved his life. He ran to the window and jumped onto one of those old-fashioned iron fire escapes that you see in Chinatown. It was slick from the rain. He fell two stories into the alley. It’s a miracle that he wasn’t killed on the spot.”

This is consistent with Nate’s version. “They found a gun under his arm.”

“I know. Somebody put it there.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened to Alan Chin’s operations after he was killed?”

“I don’t know. Chin’s family got out of the drug business. His son runs a bank in Chinatown.”

“What about Terrell Robinson’s business?”

“A guy named Marshawn Bryant took over Robinson’s construction firm.”

“Did he also take over Robinson’s drug business?”

“You’ll never be able to prove it. Bryant is a big success story. He grew up in the projects in the Bayview. He worked his way up to vice president in Robinson’s operation. Now he’s the head of one of the largest minority-owned contracting firms in the Bay Area. He’s given a lot back to the community.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Of course. We talked to everybody who worked for Robinson.”

“Where was he on the night of the shootings?”

“With his girlfriend. She backed up his story.”

“She could have been protecting him.”

“We couldn’t refute her alibi. She isn’t going to change her story. They got married a few years ago. It was all over the papers. She runs a hotshot design firm.” He grabs his cigar and twirls it. “For what it’s worth, the cops found a witness who saw a black man in the alley behind the Golden Dragon around the time of the shootings. The description loosely fit Bryant. Then again, it also fit about a million other men in the Bay Area.”

“Does the witness have a name?”

“Eugene Tsai. He worked nights at the Chinese Hospital. He was on his way home from work.”

“Did he testify at the trial?

“He never had a chance. He was stabbed to death in an armed robbery a couple of days after the shootings at the Golden Dragon. The cops never figured out who killed him.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. He was killed before we had a chance.”

It has to be more than a coincidence. “Did you get this information from the cops?”

“No, we got it from Tsai’s brother, Wendell.”

“Is the brother still alive?”

“As far as I know. He used to work at Brandy Ho’s.”

It’s a Hunan restaurant on Columbus Avenue. “Did Wendell testify at the trial?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“He refused to get involved after his brother was killed.” He shrugs. “He wouldn’t have been a strong witness. His English was poor and he was scared to death. Besides, his testimony would have been inadmissible hearsay.”

“Did you consider the possibility that Eugene’s death was more than a coincidence?”

“Of course. We had no proof.”

I press him, but he has no additional details. “What can you tell me about the claims that the cops planted evidence?”

“The crime scene looked like it was staged by somebody who knew what they were doing. They found a pristine set of Nate’s prints on the gun—too clean, if you ask me. It was pouring rain. At best, they would have been smeared.”

“Anything else?”

“There was no gunpowder residue on Nate’s hands.”

“It was raining.”

“The cops said it washed away. Not a chance. They should have found traces—even in a rainstorm.”

“You really think the cops planted the gun?”

“It was no secret that they were out to get Nate after the disaster in the Posse case.”

“You got any proof?”

“Nope.”

“Was anybody else involved?”

“An undercover cop named David Low was the first officer at the scene. I went after him at the trial, but I couldn’t nail him. He had a clean record and a Medal of Valor. The rest of the cops closed ranks.”

“Did you hire a PI to look into it?”

“Yep. We used Nick Hanson.”

The entertainment value of this case just went up exponentially. Nick “the Dick” Hanson is an octogenarian PI who is a throwback to simpler days. His agency in North Beach employs four generations of Hansons. In his spare time, he writes mysteries that are slightly exaggerated recountings of his most colorful cases. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Yeah. He looks good. He stops in every couple of weeks. He had arthroscopic surgery on his knee after he ran the Bay to Breakers.”

Every May, seventy-five thousand costumed runners trudge seven and a half miles from downtown to Ocean Beach in a festive bacchanalia that’s one part race and ten parts street party. Nick has finished it sixty-nine times.

“We’ll talk to him,” I say.

CHAPTER 7

“NOTHING WAS PROVEN”

Saturday, July 11. 12:02 p.m. 7 days, 11 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Rosie says. “Mort the Sport hired Nick the Dick to work on Nate the Great’s case?”

“More or less,” I say.

“Priceless.”

It would have greater practical value if the guys with the colorful nicknames could help us find the real killer––assuming it isn’t our client.

I’m pressing my cell phone tightly against my ear as I stand in the entrance alcove to the Jewish Home. A warm breeze is whipping down Mission Street. Rosie takes in the description of my conversation with Mort without comment. Good lawyers are good talkers. Great lawyers are excellent listeners.

“I just got off the phone with Roosevelt,” I tell her. “He confirmed that a man named Eugene Tsai told him that he saw a young African-American male in the alley behind the Golden Dragon around the time of the shootings. He also confirmed that Tsai was killed in an armed robbery a few days later. That case was never solved.”

“Why didn’t Roosevelt mention it sooner?”

“Tsai didn’t make a positive ID.”

I can hear the skepticism in her voice. “Did Roosevelt pursue the lead on the African-American man?”

“Yes. He said they turned up empty.”

“Tsai’s death had to be more than a coincidence.”

“Maybe. He promised to send over a copy of the case file. He said there wasn’t much in it. I’ve asked Pete to try to track down Tsai’s brother—if he’s still alive. Did you subpoena the IA file?”

“Yes. I prepared a subpoena for Fitz too.”

She’s always a step ahead. “Did you get anything useful from Lou Cohen’s associate?”

“She started walking me through the police reports, trial transcripts, and appellate briefs, but we still have a long way to go. I contacted the clerks at the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit. We’ll start by filing papers on Monday to request a stay based upon Cohen’s death. Don’t hold your breath.”

I ponder our options for a moment. “I think our best bet is pursuing the possibility that the cops planted the gun.”

“Nobody in the SFPD is going to talk to us about it. It might also implicate your father.”

“I know.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“We need to find Tsai’s brother. Maybe there was somebody else in the alley. Maybe we can persuade a judge to let him testify about what his brother told him.”

“That would be inadmissible hearsay.”

She’s right. “Then we’ll have to persuade a judge that it’s better to bend the rules of evidence than to execute an innocent man.”

* * *

My brother greets me with a terse “What took you so long to get here?”

“I was meeting with Mort Goldberg.”

Pete’s tone softens. “The Jewish Home isn’t so bad—as nursing homes go.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Pete and I had what we called “The Nursing Home Conversation” when our mother’s Alzheimer’s got worse, but she lived at home until she died.

His eyes move constantly as we stand on the sidewalk at the busy intersection of Market, Jones, and McAllister, where the epicenter of the Tenderloin pulses with an edgy energy at twelve-thirty on Saturday afternoon. The area around United Nations Plaza is a crowded melting pot of the disenfranchised and the destitute. Working-class immigrants are walking to the nearby farmer’s market. Ill-smelling homeless people are panhandling the few misguided tourists who took a wrong turn when they left their posh hotels at Union Square.

The sticky sidewalks reek of urine and garbage. Drug dealers are conducting business openly despite a significant police presence. A four-plex cinema on the south side of Market shows X-rated movies. A crumbling old bank across the street was converted into a makeshift police station a few years ago after the drug wars became especially ugly. The city has put up colorful banners in an unconvincing effort to persuade the uninitiated that we’re standing in an area known only to civic propagandists as Little Saigon. It feels like a third world country.

Joey D’Amato’s currency exchange occupies the ground floor of a Depression-era three-story structure that needs a sandblaster. The upper floors house a residential hotel that will never be mistaken for the gold-trimmed jukebox Marriott two blocks down Market. It appears that Joey and his neighbors have developed certain economic synergies among their respective businesses. Some of the residents cash their welfare checks at Joey’s place, then quickly turn over the proceeds to the huge man with the tattoos selling crack in the doorway.

I ask Pete if he got anything useful from his sources at the Hall of Justice.

“I felt like an insurance salesman. The room cleared out as soon as I started asking questions about the Fineman case. I’m going to check with a couple of other people.”

“May I ask who?”

“You may not.” Working with Pete is always a need-to-know deal. “Joey got here a little while ago. He’s a little hotheaded, so you might want to let me do the talking.”

* * *

Little Joey D’Amato doesn’t look the part of your typical financial mogul. Then again, managing a currency exchange in the Tenderloin isn’t quite the same as running the Bank of America. The diminutive, hyperactive former street cop is dressed in generic khakis and a navy polo shirt. His mustache is a dignified shade of silver. His slick hair, on the other hand, is the victim of an atrocious dye job. It looks as if he stuck his head in a bottle of black ink. It’s hard not to stare.

Our father’s last partner is sitting at a beat-up desk in the corner of his fine establishment. He’s clutching a stained copy of the Daily Racing Form and glaring at us through the scuffed Plexiglas that separates Joey and his two employees from the unwashed masses who pay his exorbitant fees to get their welfare checks cashed. “Why the hell are you here?” he barks.

The low-overhead operation with the barred windows isn’t much larger than Rosie’s living room. Plywood counters and chipped walls are painted mismatched shades of prison gray. The furniture is bolted to the floor. Hand-lettered signs in a dozen languages instruct his customers to present two photo IDs to initiate any transaction. Two muscle-bound armed guards stand adjacent to the iron front door. When your business involves the exchange of significant amounts of cash, the best defense is the conspicuous display of firepower.

Pete attempts to soften him up with small talk. He has to raise his voice to be heard through the Plexiglas. “How’ve you been, Joe?”

“Terrific.” He makes no attempt to hide his contempt.

Pete tries again. “How’s business?”

“Terrific.”

So much for chatting him up. Joey’s elocution is just a cut above grunting. His voice sounds as if he massages his vocal cords with sandpaper every night before he goes to bed. My dad grudgingly agreed to work with him when nobody else was willing. Pop always got the short straw on partners after Roosevelt moved up the ranks.

Joey’s rat-like eyes form narrow slits. “Let’s cut the crap. “What do you want?”

Pete plays it straight. “Information about the Fineman case.”

“I don’t talk about old cases.”

“Come on, Joey.”

“Your client was guilty. End of story.”

My brother feigns exasperation. “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you answer our questions, we’ll get out of your hair. Otherwise, we’ll come back with a subpoena and the same conversation will become significantly more unpleasant.”

“I don’t know anything.”

I finally make my presence felt. “You haven’t even heard our questions.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Asshole. “What happened that night?”

“Read the record.”

“We have. I want to hear your side of the story.”

He flashes irritation. “Your father and I went to the Golden Dragon as soon as we got the call. Fineman was unconscious in the alley with a loaded piece. We helped Dave Low secure the scene. Reinforcements got there right away. Roosevelt took over when he arrived. That’s it.”

“There were allegations that the murder weapon was planted.”

“Nothing was proven. We did everything by the book.”

“Why did they call in IA?”

“It was a high-profile case. Every defense lawyer tries to prove the cops screwed up. Mort Goldberg tried to pin it on us years ago. He was wrong then. He’s wrong now. If you believe him, you’re wrong too.”

Helpful. “We understand an eyewitness saw an African-American man in the alley around the time of the shootings.”

“You’ll have to talk to Roosevelt about it.”

“I already did. What about bodyguards?”

“You’ll have to talk to Roosevelt about that too.”

I feel like pounding my fists on the stained Plexiglas. “There’s something about this case that I don’t understand. Fineman had a thriving law practice. He was rich. There was nothing in it for him.”

“Money.”

“He didn’t need it.”

“You think Fineman was the only lawyer on the face of the earth who got greedy? He wanted a bigger piece of Robinson’s action. Robinson told him to go to hell. Fineman got pissed off. End of story.”

I lean forward and place my hands on the window. “I heard Fitz did the IA investigation.”

“He did.”

“I heard you guys were buddies.”

“We went to the academy together.”

I raise the stakes. “Your pal was in a position to smooth things over.”

“There was nothing to smooth over. Besides, Fitz wasn’t that kind of cop.”

“Maybe he was that kind of friend.”

“It was a clean arrest and conviction.”

“Prove it.”

“We did––a long time ago.”

“Maybe we’ll lean on Fitz. Maybe we’ll look at the IA report.”

“Be my guest.” He runs his stubby fingers through his greasy, badly dyed hair. “Just remember this: if you try to drag me through the mud, I’ll drag your father with me.”

CHAPTER 8

“HIS LIPS WERE MOVING”

Saturday, July 11. 1:05 p.m. 7 days, 10 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

“That was bullshit,” Pete says.

My ever-so-judgmental brother. “What makes you think so?”

“His lips were moving.”

We’re walking up Grove Street past the new library toward Civic Center Plaza. His irritation is exacerbated by a lack of sleep and the gale-force winds hammering us as the city hall rotunda comes into view.

He’s still expounding. “What a crock. The cops couldn’t come up with a real motive, so they played the greedy lawyer card. It might have made sense if Fineman was a small-time schmuck like you.”

I ignore the dig. I trust his instincts and I want him to keep talking.

“Fineman was a prominent attorney with great connections. He had a house in St. Francis Wood, a couple of Jags in the garage, and a condo in Maui. Do you really think he would have been stupid enough to pop a couple of drug bosses?”

“The jury bought it.”

“Juries are made up of idiots.”

I let it go. “Does that mean you think he’s innocent?”

“It means I think Joey wasn’t giving us the whole story. Did you see the weasel look in his eyes when you asked him about a planted gun? He was covering his ass.”

“Or Pop’s.”

“Pop said Joey was the biggest asshole he ever worked with.”

Our dad expressed similar feelings about all of his partners after Roosevelt. His animosity toward Joey turned into outright hostility when Joey failed to watch his back after Pop tackled a gunman who had knocked over a convenience store in the Mission.

I keep my tone measured. “We need to find something besides the possibility of some crooked cops. It’s going to be impossible to find anybody in SFPD who will break ranks—especially for Nate.”

Pete holds up his hands. “Where does that leave us?”

“We have to find Tsai’s brother.”

“I’ll see what I can do. We should also try to track down the guy who took over Robinson’s heroin distribution business. Maybe he had a grudge.”

“Or maybe he was the black guy in the alley.”

“Maybe.”

We turn into the alley behind the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, where Pete illegally parked his old police-issue Chrysler. He comes to an abrupt stop and glares at the smashed windows of the gray car. “Goddamn it,” he mutters.

I survey the wreckage. “Did they take anything?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t check.”

“There was nothing to steal. I never keep anything in the car except water bottles and energy bars.”

The diet of a PI. “It was probably some punk trying to steal your car.”

“You lawyers don’t have a clue about life on the street. It takes an experienced thief about ten seconds to hot-wire an ignition. A rookie would have smashed just one window. It’s tough to drive without windows––even criminals don’t like to get cold and wet.”

“What are you saying?”

“Somebody is trying to tell us to mind our own business.”

* * *

Rosie plants her tongue firmly in her check. “So, did you have a nice day, dear?”

“A great day to be a lawyer,” I say.

Pete is in no mood for banter. “Are you guys done?”

It’s four-fifteen on Saturday afternoon. Rosie’s cramped office smells of a combination of coffee and Friday’s lunch special downstairs at the El Faro. My head feels like somebody hit me with a two-by-four. My gray polo shirt is sticking to my back, and I’m in desperate need of a shower. The extra shirts that I keep at the office are at the cleaner’s. Still, I’m in better shape than Pete, whose mood turned outright foul after we had his car towed to his favorite repair shop in the Mission. He’s very possessive about that old Chrysler. His disposition got worse after we spent the afternoon talking to some of his old friends at Mission Station, all of whom gave us a decidedly cold shoulder.

Rosie is sitting behind her desk. Her arms are folded as she looks at us over piles of manila file folders and black binders. She listens intently as Pete and I describe our less than enlightening conversations with Mort the Sport and Little Joey. She spent the day in a marathon session with Cohen’s associate. Her prognosis is as depressing as it is succinct. “Realistically, unless we can show the SFPD planted the murder weapon, our only prayer is to find new evidence that would prove freestanding innocence.”

I’d put our odds at a thousand to one.

Rosie holds up a palm in frustration. “What about Joey’s claim that Nate wanted to take over Robinson’s business?”

“I asked Nate about it,” I say. “He denied it.”

“You didn’t expect him to admit it, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you get anything that might be remotely useful?”

“We’re trying to locate Eugene Tsai’s brother. I also put in a call to Nick Hanson. He promised to meet with me Monday night.”

“That’s all you have?”

“We were hired yesterday afternoon.”

“We only have a week. We need to make every second count.”

I’m all-too aware of that. “Did you get the subpoena served for the IA file?”

“Yes.”

“When do you expect to get a copy?”

Rosie’s lips form a tight line across her face. “I don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the file is missing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. It was in a box at an off-site facility. They found the box, but the file was gone.”

“How could that have happened?”

“The bureaucrat who runs the records division didn’t know. He’s only been working there for about six months. The box was sent to storage ten years ago. He had no idea if the file was stolen, misplaced, or purged.”

My mind shifts into overdrive as I speculate about who had access to it. Fitz prepared it. Little Joey may have looked at it. “Somebody must have taken it.”

“We shouldn’t rule out the possibility.” She clears her throat. “There’s another problem.”

“Which is?”

“If you’re the subject of an investigation, you can review your file in the IA office. You can’t take it with you or make photocopies.”

“Did they keep a checkout log?”

“Yes. They found it. Roosevelt looked at the file. So did Joey D’Amato.”

No big surprise. “So what’s the problem?”

“Your father was the last person who checked it out.”

CHAPTER 9

“THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING”

Saturday, July 11. 4:22 p.m. 7 days, 7 hours, and 39 minutes until execution.

“Did he check it back in?” I ask Rosie, desperately trying not to jump to conclusions.

“According to the log, yes.”

“Then they can’t point a finger at him. Somebody must have been watching him when he looked at it.”

“Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure. The guy who was running the records division at the time died a few years ago.” She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “This changes everything. We have seven days to try to exonerate Nate Fineman. Now we may have to clear your father too.”

Pete isn’t buying it. “Just because Pop’s name was on the log doesn’t mean he took it.”

“Then who did?” I ask.

“How the hell would I know, Mick? It doesn’t mean it was stolen. Stuff gets lost all the time at the SFPD.”

True enough. I’ve gotten acquittals in capital murder cases when key pieces of evidence have disappeared into the SFPD’s black hole. “Have you come across any SFPD files at the house?”

“No.”

“Just checking. Did he ever say anything to you about looking at the IA file?”

“Nope.”

Our job just got harder. “Who might know something about this?”

“Big John,” Pete says.

“Big John” Dunleavy runs a saloon in the Sunset that’s been our family’s second home for decades. He was married to our mother’s sister for forty-seven years before she died, which makes him our uncle and Pop’s brother-in-law. They were more like brothers than in-laws. “What makes you think Pop would have talked to Big John about it?”

Pete responds with a knowing look. “Because he talked to Big John about everything.”

CHAPTER 10

BIG JOHN

Saturday, July 11. 5:25 p.m. 7 days, 6 hours, and 36 minutes until execution.

The genial bartender extends a massive hand across the bar. “What’ll it be, lad?”

Big John Dunleavy was born at St. Francis Hospital seventy-five years ago. He’s never set foot outside the United States, but he can turn on a lilting Irish brogue at will. He always says that if you run an Irish pub, you have to sound the part.

“The usual, Big John,” I say.

My uncle was “Big John” even when he was little––which he never really was. He weighed in at almost thirteen pounds at birth. He was already six-two and a muscular two hundred pounds by the time he finished eighth grade at St. Peter’s. He developed his strong hands by lugging beer kegs up from the basement of his father’s saloon. He was an all-city tight end at St. Ignatius. He would have played at Cal if he hadn’t blown out a shoulder catching the winning touchdown pass in the city championship game almost sixty years ago.

A wide smile crosses his ruddy face. His large jowls shake as he squeezes my hand. His full head of hair is now more gray than red, yet he retains an infectious youthful exuberance. I pull up a stool as he sets a pint of Guinness on the worn wooden bar that his father built when Big John was in grammar school.

Dunleavy’s Pub hasn’t changed much over the years. The original dark paneled walls are covered with photos of County Galway. The aromas of Guinness, cod, burgers, and fries waft through the narrow room. You can make out the stench of cigarette smoke baked into the walls from the old days. Smoking is now permitted only on the small outdoor patio. The clientele hasn’t changed much either. The neighbors are eating fish-and-chips at their regular spots as they watch ESPN on the TV above the bar. A couple of people are shooting pool in the back room. Later, a three-piece band will come in to lead the crowd in Irish standards and a few bawdy folk songs.

The old building on Irving Street line would fetch well over a million bucks if Big John were inclined to sell it. He isn’t––not now or in the future. It would be tantamount to selling his heritage. His youngest son, known as “Little John” even though he stands six-four and was a star defensive lineman at St. Ignatius, is beginning to take over the day-to-day operation of the neighborhood icon. The saloon is an extension of every home in the vicinity. Big John relishes his role as everybody’s uncle.

He wipes the bar with a worn dish towel. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”

It’s his standard lament. I stop in to see him at least once a week. He longs for the days when Pete and I used to come by on our way home from school. “Tommy and Grace are keeping us pretty busy.”

“I never should have let you move to the suburbs, Mikey.”

He’s the only person on the face of the earth who calls me by my childhood nickname. He’s earned the right. He was in the waiting room with my father on the day I was born.

“I see a lot more of your brother,” he says.

“He lives around the corner.” Big John lives in an identical house two blocks from Pete.

He won’t let it go. “It’s only a fifteen-minute drive for you.”

“Across the bridge.”

“That’s no excuse.”

No, it isn’t. He inquires about Rosie and Grace. I assure him that they’re fine. “How’s your son?” he asks. He still finds it difficult to mention Tommy by name. To Big John, there will always be only one Tommy Daley––my dad.

“Tommy’s fine too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He means it.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from one of my favorite nephews?”

“I’m working on a new case.”

“I know.” He nods at the TV. “I saw you on the news. Why are you getting involved in a death penalty appeal for a slimy lawyer who defended a bunch of lowlifes who were selling bad heroin to kids?”

“Because he asked. He’s actually planning to pay us.”

He glances at the Dunleavy family crest, which hangs from the ceiling. My uncle has an endearing habit of trying to communicate with deceased relatives. “Tommy,” he says to my father, “I don’t know where you went wrong with this one.”

No reply.

Big John gives me a skeptical look. “What do you think you’re going to do in a week?”

“Stop the execution.”

“Sure, Mikey. What brings you here?”

Sometimes my lawyerly bravado gets a step ahead of my judgment. “Paying a visit to my favorite uncle.”

“I’m your only uncle, Mikey.”

“You’re still my favorite.”

His eyes dart toward the ceiling again. “I know I promised to look after him, Tommy, but there’s only so much I can do.”

Still no response from above.

He draws himself a Guinness and sets it on the bar between us. “I’m not a lawyer, but I might have started with the convicted man’s attorney.”

“I already talked to him.”

“You think a tired old saloon keeper can get your client off?”

“You aren’t tired and you aren’t old. Pop used to stop here almost every night on his way home from work. He must have told you something about the case.”

“Not much.”

“He told you more than he told me.”

He squeezes his dish towel. “Sorry, Mikey. Your dad used to come here to unwind. He didn’t like to talk about work. We spent most of our time talking about our wives and our kids.”

I start treading gently. “Fineman’s lawyer suggested that the murder weapon may have been planted by the cops.”

The genial bartender’s tone quickly disappears. “No way, Mikey. You defense lawyers are always trying to point fingers at the cops. I never saw your father so angry, and I don’t blame him. He was a good cop. Internal Affairs did a full investigation. The matter was dropped. You should do the same.”

I’ve touched a nerve. “Sometimes good cops make mistakes.”

“Not your dad.” He leans forward and places his elbow on the bar. “Let it go, Mikey. He was family.”

The police Code of Silence is nothing compared to our family’s. “Family members make mistakes too.”

He moves a little closer to me. “Not your dad. He said your client was guilty. That was plenty good enough for me.”

“The cops didn’t like Fineman.”

“With good reason. He has no conscience.”

“Did they dislike him enough to set him up for murder?”

His massive right hand tightens around his pint of Guinness. “I can’t speak for the entire SFPD, but I can speak for your father. He wasn’t that kind of a cop.” He snaps his dish towel. “There wasn’t any funny business, Mikey. Drop it.”

“Then there’s no reason to drop it.”

He bites his lower lip. “Your dad always said you were the smartest one.”

He never mentioned it to me.

“He also said that sometimes you got a little too smart for your own good.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said you never knew when to let things go.”

He had a point. “I’m just trying to find out what really happened.” And maybe save a man’s life.

He holds up a huge hand. “I don’t know anything that would help you.”

“Would you tell me if you knew something, but you couldn’t say what it was?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

“You can take it any way you’d like. Are we done?”

Despite his outgoing nature, my uncle can also be a stubborn cuss. “The IA file is missing. Pop was the last one who checked it out.”

He waits a beat. “Are you saying he stole it?”

“No, I’m just saying it’s missing.”

“Things get lost.”

I place my mug on the bar. “Did Pop tell you that he was going to look at it?”

There’s a slight hesitation. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“It was the only time he was investigated by IA. He was getting close to retirement. He wanted to be sure that there wasn’t anything in the report that he needed to worry about. It was no fun for him––I can tell ya that, lad.”

“They couldn’t have taken away his pension.”

“He didn’t care about his pension, Mikey. After all those years, he cared about his reputation.” He points a finger at me. “At the end of the day, that’s all you really have.”

So true. “How was he after he looked at the file?”

“Relieved. He said everybody was cleared. It was a big load off his mind.”

That’s good news for my father, but not for my client. “Did he mention anything else about the file?”

“Nope.” He finishes his Guinness and taps the bar to signal that our conversation is coming to a close. “Unless you’re better than I am a talking with people who’ve passed on, you’re never going to find out.”

* * *

My cell phone rings as I’m leaving Dunleavy’s at six-thirty on Saturday night. Pete’s raspy voice is tired. “Where have you been, Mick?”

“With Big John.”

“Did he know anything about the IA file?”

“He said Pop looked at it and was cleared.”

“Anything else we can use?”

“Nope. What have you got, Pete?”

“Meet me at the corner at Thirty-fifth and Clement at nine o’clock tonight.”

“Did you find Eugene Tsai’s brother?”

“No, but I found Fitz.”

CHAPTER 11

FITZ

Saturday, July 11. 9:04 p.m. 7 days, 2 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

“What are we waiting for?” I ask Pete.

I can see my breath as the summer fog begins its nightly creep over the Richmond District between the Golden Gate Bridge and Land’s End.

“Let’s give him another minute,” he says.

His eyes are fixed on a carefully tended green Victorian wedged between two apartment buildings across Clement Street from the eighth tee of the picturesque Lincoln Park Golf Course. San Francisco’s oldest public links were laid out a hundred years ago, when this area was covered by sand dunes. It’s showing signs of age. The greens need sod. The rusted fence is too short, but the city lacks the funds to erect a net. As a result, Fitz and his neighbors occasionally find stray Titleists in their front yards.

I tap the dashboard of my old Corolla and force myself to remain patient. I’ve learned to defer to Pete when it comes to finding witnesses. “Why don’t we just ring the doorbell?”

“I want to catch him as he’s leaving. He’s less likely to slam the door in our faces.”

Perhaps. “What makes you think he’ll be leaving anytime soon?”

“He walks his dog at this time every night.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re paying me to know things like that.”

On cue, the door opens. A fit man with perfect military posture and a silver crew cut leads an energetic German shepherd across the street to the fence separating the golfers from the neighborhood. Fitz is better dressed than your average retired cop. He’s wearing an Eddie Bauer work shirt, an REI vest, and a pair of top-of-the-line Nike running shoes. He’s also better preserved. His chiseled face has a healthy tan from a vacation somewhere sunnier than the Richmond.

Pete and I get out of the car and approach him cautiously from behind. “Lieutenant Fitzgerald,” I say, “can we have just a moment of your time?”

He turns around and flashes a half smile. “Tommy Daley’s boys. I heard you were working on the Fineman appeal. I figured you might show up on my doorstep sooner or later.”

“I guess this means it’s sooner. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“You’ll have to walk with me.”

“That’s fine.”

As he’s leading us at a brisk clip through the weeds along the fence, he turns to Pete. “You still a PI?”

“Yes.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you got a bum deal. Let me know if you ever decide to apply for reinstatement. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thanks.” Pete will ask for his old job back a couple of days after they’re ice-fishing in hell.

We’re still making our way along the fence when I say to Fitz, “We understand you handled the IA investigation for the Fineman case.”

“I did.” He slows his pace slightly. “In fact, I got a call from the records office about it earlier today. They said you subpoenaed the case file.”

“We did. It’s missing.”

“So I understand. I understand your father was the last person who checked it out.”

“According to the log, he was.”

He shifts to a patronizing voice. “It doesn’t mean he took it, Mike.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He’s a little too anxious to tell us what we want to hear when he adds, “It was a long time ago. It probably got lost.”

“Probably.”

“For what it’s worth, there was nothing in it that would help your appeals. Mort Goldberg made the usual wild claims about mishandled evidence. At one point, he even suggested that our guys planted the murder weapon. Everybody knew he was just blowing smoke. The guys who secured the scene were some of our best people. Everybody was cleared—including your father.”

“You knew him?”

“Of course. He was a good cop with a spotless record. It was the only time he ever was investigated by IA.”

Pete has been taking this in while studying every nuance of Fitz’s body language. “The same can’t be said for his partner,” he says, trying to elicit a reaction.

Fitz doesn’t bite. “Joey was a good cop too.”

Pete isn’t backing down. “Then why was he forced out?”

Fitz shakes his head a little too forcefully. “He took early retirement. You know I’m not allowed to talk about personnel matters. Department policy.”

Weasels always try to hide behind procedural subterfuge. “Roosevelt told us that you and Joey were pals,” I say.

“We went to the academy together.”

“Wasn’t there a conflict of interest when you were asked to handle the investigation in the Fineman case?”

“Not really.” Pete and I follow him as he leads his dog across the empty street. “Cops in IA are allowed to go out for a beer with their friends every once in a while.”

“They aren’t allowed to investigate them.”

He holds up a dismissive hand. “We weren’t that close.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to the file?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“When I closed the investigation and sent it to storage.”

“You didn’t keep a copy?”

“Nope.”

“Are you willing to testify as to its contents?”

“If I have to.” He waits a beat. “You’ll have to pull a subpoena.”

“We will.”

“Fine.” He comes to an abrupt halt and squints at me through the fog. “Every time a big case comes down, the lawyers try to foist the blame over to the cops. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they’re cleared.”

And in cases that you investigated, they were cleared every time.

He isn’t finished. “There wasn’t any dirt in that file.”

“At the moment, they can’t even find it.”

The genial tone turns testy. “I can’t help you there. All I can tell you is that everybody was cleared. I’m prepared to testify to that effect if you insist on sending me a subpoena, but I can assure you that my testimony won’t help your client.” He gives me another snarky glare. “Unless you have any other questions, I need to get home.” Without waiting for a response, he and his dog make their way into the foggy night.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Pete and say, “It’s about what I expected.”

His take is slightly more cynical. “He’s an asshole.”

* * *

At eleven-thirty on Saturday night, I’m back in my office going over a draft of the first of several habeas petitions that we’ll be filing over the course of the next seven days. Rosie is down the hall. Pete is parked in front of his laptop outside my office. He’s surfing the Internet for information about Eugene Tsai.

There is a knock and the imposing figure of Terrence “the Terminator” Love fills my doorway. Our receptionist’s gentle eyes have an uncharacteristically serious cast. “You have a call.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Jerry Edwards is on hold.”

My day is now complete. Edwards is the Chronicle’s self-appointed watchdog on real and imagined issues relating to morals, ethics, graft, and corruption. He uses his daily segment on Mornings on Two as a bully pulpit to whine about depravity in local government and the justice system. Our rocky relationship dates back twenty years, when he accused Rosie and me of manufacturing evidence in a murder trial when we were PDs. The accusations were dropped only after Rosie and I were put on leave for three excruciating months. The last time we were in his crosshairs was a couple of years ago when he raked us over the coals until we grudgingly agreed to take on the pro bono representation of a dying man accused of killing a hotshot venture capitalist who was buying drugs on Sixth Street.

“What does he want?” I ask.

“To congratulate you on your new case.”

For a man with no formal education who used to beat the daylights out of people for a living, Terrence has a fairly advanced sense of irony. I punch the blinking light on my speakerphone. “This is Michael Daley.”

I’m greeted by an emphatic smoker’s hack. “Jerry Edwards, San Francisco Chronicle.”

“Nice to hear from you, Jerry,” I lie.

“Long time since we last talked.”

Not long enough. “What can we do for you?”

“I understand you’re taking over Nate Fineman’s appeals.”

“We are.”

“You have no qualms about representing the guy who manipulated the system to get the charges dropped against the Bayview Posse?”

I know better than to engage. “No comment.”

“Are you going to get a stay?”

“Yes.”

“You seem pretty confident.”

“I am.”

His guffaw is interrupted by a cough. “I sat through your client’s trial. He was guilty as hell.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You really think you’re going to get an appellate court to overturn the jury?”

“Yes.” Enough. “Why did you call, Jerry?”

“I got an interesting call from Lieutenant Kevin Fitzgerald. I understand you’re looking for the IA file on the cops who were involved in the investigation of the Fineman case.”

“We are.” Fitz isn’t wasting any time trying to control the spin.

“Lieutenant Fitzgerald also told me that the file is missing.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Sorry.”

“Lieutenant Fitzgerald also informed me that your father was not only one of the subjects of the investigation, but he was also the last one to check out the file.”

“Also true.”

He clears his throat. “You have to admit that’s quite a coincidence. I was hoping you might care to provide a comment.”

“That’s all it is, Jerry—a coincidence. It’s a matter of public record that my father was one of the first officers at the scene. He signed out the file legitimately.”

“Does that mean you’re denying the obvious implication that he took it?”

“That’s correct.” I can feel my throat starting to tighten. “He had no reason to keep it. There isn’t a shred of evidence that he did.”

“Then what happened to it?”

“I don’t know. That’s a question for Lieutenant Fitzgerald.”

“He said he didn’t know either.”

“Maybe he took it. Maybe he’s trying to hide something.”

“Like what?”

“Evidence that proves the cops planted the murder weapon in the Fineman case.”

“That’s a very serious accusation. Do you have any evidence to corroborate it?”

“We’re still investigating.”

“Are you suggesting your father may have been involved in a cover-up?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lieutenant Fitzgerald told me that he concluded there was no wrongdoing by the SFPD.”

“So I understand.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I am absolutely certain that there was no wrongdoing by my father. Otherwise, I have no way of making any other determinations because the file is missing. We’re also looking into the conduct and scope of Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s investigation.”

“Can I quote you for the record on that?”

“You bet.” I decide to stir the pot. “Incidentally, our sources in the SFPD have refused to talk to us about the case.”

“Are you saying they’ve been instructed not to discuss it?”

Not exactly. “It appears that way.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Report it.” I can feign moral indignation with the best of them. “The public has a right to know about corruption within the SFPD—especially when it may result in the execution of an innocent man.”

“You’re blowing smoke.”

Yes, I am. “We’re trying to find the truth, Jerry.”

His voice fills with sarcasm. “How admirable.”

“My investigator’s car was also vandalized after he started asking questions.”

“San Francisco is a big city. Random acts of vandalism happen all the time.”

“We believe it was a blatant attempt to intimidate us.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Not yet.”

“That isn’t news. It’s speculation.”

So is your daily column. “If you help us find the real killer, that would be news.”

“If I agree to make a few calls, are you willing to give me exclusive access to your client?”

“Sure.”

“Deal.”

“Was there some other reason that you called me at this hour, Jerry?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I finally figured out why your client killed those people at the Golden Dragon.”

CHAPTER 12

“HE’S MADE A FORTUNE IN GARBAGE”

Saturday, July 11. 11:37 p.m. 7 days and 24 minutes until execution.

I’m still staring at my speakerphone. “What’s the motive?” I ask Edwards.

“Money.”

Oh, please. “Couldn’t you come up with something a little more original than the old saw about the greedy lawyer?”

“I have. Your client owed a developer a million bucks on a project in Vail.”

My airless office is silent. There is no traffic on First Street. The blinking fluorescent ceiling light is the only source of sporadic illumination. It’s hard to read the notes that I’ve been scribbling on the legal pad in my lap. “A million dollars is pocket change for a guy like Nate.”

“He was fronting the costs for a couple of big cases. Cash got tight.”

It isn’t uncommon for defense attorneys to advance thousands of dollars in investigation costs. Still, it seems like a stretch. “His wife has family money. She lives in St. Francis Wood. They were loaded.”

“Evidently, she was unhappy about the deal and didn’t want to pony up. The developer was one of his clients. A default would have brought more than a nasty letter from a collection agency.”

“You’re saying his own client threatened him?”

“Maybe.”

“What happened to the debt?”

“Fineman’s wife paid it after he was arrested.”

“Who was the client?”

“Alexander Aronis. He’s made a fortune in garbage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Aronis’s company has a monopoly on trash collection from Vallejo to San Jose. He’s used his garbage money to fund real estate investments.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“A source in the Alameda County DA’s office. Aronis is under investigation for allegedly trying to bribe a member of the Oakland City Council. The DA’s investigator found some old correspondence about the Fineman investment. He remembered that I had covered the trial for the Chronicle and he called me.”

“Is your source willing to testify?”

“Probably. I can’t imagine it will help your client’s case.”

Neither can I. “Are you planning to publish this information?”

“It’s news. I was hoping you’d be willing to comment.”

“You had to ask me about it in the middle of the night?”

“I also wanted to ask you about the IA file. I was guessing you might still be at the office. That seems to be standard operating procedure for death penalty specialists the week before an execution.”

“You guessed right. We have no comment.”

“Then I’ll just have to run it as is.”

Something doesn’t add up. “Are you saying Nate intended to take over his client’s heroin distribution business to cover a debt to the Garbage King of Oakland?”

“Not exactly. According to a second source, it may have been a quid pro quo deal. Aronis was going to forgive the debt if Fineman popped Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin.”

“That makes no sense. Robinson was his client.”

“My source tells me Aronis also controls several major heroin distribution channels in the East Bay. He wanted to move into the San Francisco market. In lieu of paying the debt, Fineman agreed to kill two of the big players in the city.”

I’m staring at the phone in disbelief. “He didn’t need the money,” I repeat.

“Yes he did, and the other pieces fit. Fineman had access to Robinson and Chin. Aronis had a track record for this sort of thing. He was once investigated for allegedly offering a hit man a hundred grand to kill one of his competitors.” His voice fills with smug satisfaction. “Guess who Aronis hired to represent him? Guess who got the charges dropped?”

“Nate?”

“Correct.”

Seems Nate has represented every scumbag in the Bay Area. “Do you have any hard evidence that Aronis talked to Nate about setting up the hit?”

“Just the word of my source.”

“Was your source present when this alleged conversation took place?”

“No.”

“Then how the hell would he know?”

“Let’s just say my source was close to the situation.”

“Nate never mentioned it.”

“Do you think he was going to admit somebody offered him a million bucks to pop his own client?”

Now he’s starting to sound like Pete. “Who’s your source?”

“I can’t reveal it.”

“You mean you won’t reveal it. The execution is in a week. You have an obligation to come forward.”

“I have an obligation to my source.”

“An innocent man is going to be put to death.”

“You’re the one who claims he’s innocent—not me.”

“You have to give us something, Jerry.”

“No I don’t.”

“I’ll go to a judge and get a court order.”

“Be my guest. My newspaper has an army of lawyers who are very good at First Amendment cases.”

We’ll be arguing those legal issues long after Nate is executed.

* * *

First Street is empty at one o’clock on Sunday morning. Rosie went home a half hour ago. Pete and I are walking through a shroud of cool fog. The sound of our footsteps echoes off the dark buildings around us.

“Do you think Pop took the file?” he asks me.

“He wasn’t the kind of guy to cover his tracks by stealing a file.” He was, however, the kind of guy who would have done everything in his power to put away a lawyer who represented San Francisco’s most notorious heroin dealers.

Pete nods. “What about Edwards’s claim that Fineman was paid to kill Robinson and Chin?”

“I find it hard to believe. We’ll need to ask our client about it. And his wife.”

“Where are you starting in the morning?”

“The deputy attorney general who is handling the case has agreed to meet with us about the IA file.”

“Is the missing file enough to get a stay?”

“I doubt it.”

My car comes into view as we approach my usual parking space in a cheap pay lot around the corner from the bus terminal. My eyes struggle to focus through the thick, moist air. It takes me a moment to realize that the windows of my Corolla have been smashed.

Pete gives me a knowing nod. “Do you think this is just a coincidence too?”

CHAPTER 13

“THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS”

Sunday, July 12. 9:03 a.m. 6 days, 14 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

Deputy Attorney General Irwin Grim is a small, intense man in his late fifties who has represented the state in more death penalty appeals than any other lawyer in California history. The aptly named capital-punishment zealot has been dubbed “Dr. Death” by his colleagues. He has the thankless job of responding to everything we throw at him for the next six days. Dr. Death seems to enjoy the battle.

“You are overreacting, Mike,” he lectures me.

“You’ve lost a critical file in a capital murder case, Irwin.”

He strokes his gray hair, which is combed straight back. “I didn’t lose it.”

“Either way, a key piece of evidence is missing.”

He exhales heavily. Grim has turned sighing into a higher art form. “You’re blowing things out of proportion.”

“No we aren’t.”

We’ve attracted a crowd to the SFPD file center in the bowels of the Hall of Justice on Sunday morning. The current director of Internal Affairs, an assistant chief, and the head of the records division are here. So is Fitz. Despite his attempts to downplay the situation, the presence of the assembled masses suggests Grim may be more concerned than he’s letting on.

After less than four hours of sleep, I’m running on empty. I’m also in no mood for diplomacy. “The execution is in a week. You need to find that file.”

“We will,” Grim assures me.

“I sure as hell hope so.” Then again, maybe I don’t. The California Supremes or the Ninth Circuit may be more amenable if we can demonstrate that a critical piece of evidence has vanished. “This is a matter of life and death.”

Grim responds with another sigh. It’s frustrating to argue with him because he never raises his voice. “It isn’t that critical. It will turn up sooner or later.”

He’s content to try to run out the clock. “It had better be sooner or we’re going to have a serious problem.”

“We’re doing everything we can. If all else fails, Lieutenant Fitzgerald is prepared to submit a sworn statement as to the file’s contents.”

Fitz can’t contain a smug nod. “I’d be happy to do a full debriefing,” he offers.

He’ll solemnly swear that he prepared his report with utmost care and diligence and was able to clear the hardworking and dedicated members of the SFPD. I turn to Grim and try to play to his fears. “This creates a major appealable issue.”

“Be practical, Mike.”

“I am, Irwin. You’re going to look terrible if you can’t produce that file.”

“You know as well as I do that no appellate court is going to stop the execution because of a missing file.”

“It reflects sloppy police work.”

“No judge will buy it.”

“We’re going to file papers first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That’s your prerogative. We will respond as quickly as possible.” He knows that we’re going to file a new appeal tomorrow and every day thereafter. That’s the way death penalty cases work. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I understand your father was the last person who checked it out.”

This was going to come up at some point. “According to the log, that’s true.”

“You understand that we will have to mention that in our papers.”

“That’s your prerogative.”

“Do you have any information about its whereabouts?”

“Of course not. My father followed the procedure to look at the file. If you’re suggesting he kept it, you’re dead wrong.”

Dr. Death responds with a sigh.

* * *

Rosie and I are back at the San Quentin visitors’ area two hours later. During our drive over here, we agreed to take a more direct approach with Nate. There isn’t enough time to be diplomatic.

Rosie leans forward on the heavy table and addresses our client. “At the moment, we’re focusing on an argument that the cops planted the gun and then tried to cover it up. That’s why Internal Affairs was called in.”

The bags under Nate’s eyes have grown visibly larger and his voice has become raspier since yesterday. “You got any proof that the fix was in with the cops?”

“We were hoping you could give us some ammunition.”

“The IA report was crap. Fitz did a quick and dirty investigation. He went through the motions and papered the file.”

“Which is now missing,” Rosie says. “We’re going to file papers in the morning to argue for a stay because a key piece of evidence is missing.”

“Do you think it will fly?”

“Hard to say. Fitz is prepared to testify that he did everything by the book and everybody was cleared.”

“Which means we need more.”

“It would help. Did you find any evidence that the cops covered for each other?”

“Nope. They closed ranks.”

Rosie keeps pushing. “Did you find anything to suggest Fitz was protecting Little Joey?”

“Nope.”

“How about Dave Low?”

Nate’s jowls vibrate as he shakes his head. “That’s going to be even harder. You won’t find another cop who will say anything bad about him.”

“He isn’t around to defend himself.”

“We’ll need more than unsubstantiated accusations to get to freestanding innocence.”

He’s right. “Was anybody else out to get you?” I ask.

He makes no attempt to mask his frustration. “The entire SFPD.”

Time for full disclosure. “My father was the last person who checked out the file.”

Nate temples his fingers in front of his face as he chooses his words. “He probably wanted to see what was written about him. It doesn’t mean he took it.”

I’m grateful for the show of support, but it doesn’t help our case. “Nate, did you have an overdue debt of a million dollars on a development in Vail?”

He gives me a circumspect look. “What does that have to do with a missing IA file?”

“Nothing. We’re looking into some other possibilities.”

“Did my wife tell you about it?”

His defensiveness is cause for concern. “No. Jerry Edwards at the Chronicle did.”

He holds up a hand. “I owed a million bucks to one of my clients. I paid it off after I was arrested.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“From my bank account.” He quickly corrects himself. “More precisely, it came from my wife’s trust fund. I’m using the same account to pay you.”

A trust fund––it must be nice. “We understand she wasn’t happy about the deal.”

“That’s true. I didn’t mention it to her until after I’d signed the papers.” He shrugs. “We worked it out.”

She may have a different take. “Edwards said she didn’t trust the promoter.”

“She didn’t. My client, Alex Aronis, let me invest in the project as a favor after I got the charges dropped when he was accused of offering to pay somebody to take out one of his business associates.”

I already knew that much. “Was Aronis guilty?”

Nate’s chin juts out and he points a stubby finger in my direction. “People are innocent until proven guilty. The charges were dropped.”

Amazing. After all these years, he’s still talking like a lawyer. “You didn’t answer my question. Was Aronis guilty?”

He summons his remaining strength to find his best lawyer voice. “Guilt is determined by a jury. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

I get into his face. “You aren’t his lawyer anymore, Nate. You don’t have to defend him. Saving your life trumps the attorney-client privilege.”

He sits back in his wheelchair. “Let’s just say the accusations were not entirely without merit.”

Rosie lowers her voice to a notch just above a whisper. “Any truth to the rumor that Aronis was also distributing heroin in the East Bay?”

Nate shakes his head. “The cops were never able to nail him. You won’t either.”

I don’t believe this. I respond in a testy tone. “We aren’t trying to nail him. We’re trying to save your life. Is he involved in the sale of drugs in the East Bay?”

“Let’s just say that some people whose opinions I respect seem to think so.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes. Has he ever been convicted?”

“Nope.”

“Did he really threaten you?”

“We had a few pointed telephone conversations about payment.”

“Why are you protecting him?”

“I’m not.”

“Edwards said Aronis wanted to move into the San Francisco heroin market.”

“There may be some truth to that statement.”

“That would have given him a motive to set up a hit on Robinson and Chin.”

“That would be a logical conclusion.”

I’m getting frustrated. “We don’t have time for games, Nate.”

“I’m telling you everything I know.”

“Edwards also claims he has a source who is prepared to testify that Aronis approached you to do it.”

“That’s preposterous. I was a lawyer, not a hit man.”

Some might argue that the two professions are, in many respects, quite complementary. “I take it that means you’re denying it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Edwards also suggested that you were pissed off at Robinson because he wouldn’t give you a piece of his action.”

Nate is becoming more agitated. “That’s insane. Who’s feeding him this stuff?”

“He wouldn’t give us a name,” Rosie says. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Because Aronis was your client.”

Nate doesn’t reply.

Rosie places her long fingers on the table in front of her and lays it on the line. “If you want us to help you, then you need to help us. You’ve been living with this case for ten years. We’ve been living with it for two days. We don’t have time for all of this shucking and jiving. You’re in line for a needle in less than six days. That means you need to tell us the truth right now—straight and fast. I’m going to ask you once more and I want a straight answer. Who is Edwards’s source?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “It might have been Patty Norman.”

“Who’s she?”

“Aronis’s ex-wife. Last I heard, she was running one of those new age bookstores in Petaluma.”

“Why would she be making these accusations now?”

“To make her ex-husband look bad.” He grimaces before he adds, “And because she hates my guts.”

CHAPTER 14

“MY HUSBAND IS NOT A MURDERER”

Sunday, July 12. 11:35 a.m. 6 days, 12 hours, and 26 minutes until execution.

“What did you do to her?” I ask Nate.

“Long story.”

“We aren’t going anywhere.”

He leans forward in his wheelchair. “I got in the middle of the ugliest divorce I’ve ever seen.”

“How bad could it have been?”

“As bad as it gets. Alex and Patty had known each other since they were kids in Piedmont. Both families were loaded. His father made a mint in trash collection. Her father made a bundle in cement.”

“What happened?”

“Everything started out great. They bought a nice house. Their kids went to the best schools. He coached Little League. She ran the PTA. He was promoted to the chairman of the board of East Bay Scavenger when his father died. She became a vice president of Alameda County Cement.”

“What went wrong?”

“Patty’s father had mob connections. The Feds were after him for years. They finally nailed him for supplying lousy cement when a freeway overpass almost collapsed. He cut a deal to plead guilty to fraud charges. He didn’t do any jail time, but it bankrupted the company. They took every penny. Patty wasn’t charged, but she lost her job and a boatload of money.”

“I take it there were adverse consequences at home?”

He nods. “Around the same time, Alex hired me when he was being investigated for trying to hire somebody to kill one of his business associates. The charges were dropped, but it created a lot of tension at home. Neither of them handled it very well. He started staying out late. She was drinking. He ignored their kids. She ignored him. It was a mess.”

“It sounds like something out of a bad soap opera.”

“It got much worse. She hired a PI to watch him. He hired one of his own to watch her. Her PI caught him in bed with his secretary. His PI caught her in bed with her tennis instructor. Counseling didn’t work. A trial separation didn’t help. Things spiraled out of control.”

“These situations generally don’t end well.”

“This one certainly didn’t. They spent a year ripping each other to shreds. They spent another year fighting about custody. It got really nasty.”

Rosie hasn’t said a word. I’m sure she’s doing a mental calculation of how much psychological damage we’ve already inflicted upon Grace and Tommy.

I keep my voice even. “I can understand why she’s still angry at her ex-husband, but you didn’t handle the divorce. Why is she mad at you?”

“I had to pick sides. I chose Alex.”

Rosie finally breaks her silence. “There has to be more to this than taking sides in an acrimonious divorce. What did you really do to her?”

Nate takes a deep breath. “I became more involved in the divorce case than I ever intended. Alex’s divorce lawyer lacked imagination. I offered a few creative suggestions during the custody hearings.”

“Like what?”

He gives us a sheepish look. “I came up with the idea of hiring a couple of good-looking guys to pick her up at bars and get her drunk. We had a PI take a bunch of pictures of her in compromising positions. Then we filed papers to have her declared an unfit mother because of her drinking.” His grimace reflects a hint of remorse. “It wasn’t the proudest moment of my legal career.”

Rosie’s lips turn down. “The court bought it?”

“Patty didn’t have the money to fight us. She couldn’t pay her lawyers. She couldn’t afford experts. We overwhelmed them with paper. We paid an army of shrinks to testify that she was a danger to herself and her kids. We were able to get her committed for a year of rehab.” He gives me a thoughtful look. “To her credit, she came out sober.”

“And without her children.”

“Alex got custody.”

“How did she find out that it was your idea to have her committed?”

“I brought it up during a settlement conference. I was playing the ‘bad cop.’ I tried to justify it at the time by telling myself that I was helping a client. In hindsight, I wish I’d never gotten involved. When Alex first asked me to help with the divorce negotiations, Patty was already in bad shape. By the time it was over, she was destroyed. So was her relationship with her kids. It took her years to get back a small degree of self-respect.”

“Did any of this come up at your trial?”

“No. Patty was still in rehab. The prosecutors knew she would have made a lousy witness.”

“Why would she bring this up now? She certainly has no reason to help us.”

“Maybe she thinks it’s a chance to finally nail Alex.”

The chickens always come home to roost at precisely the wrong time.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, Nate’s wife is sipping coffee from a bone china cup in the understated living room of her home in St. Francis Wood. This custom-built houses just west of Twin Peaks were constructed as part of the post-earthquake building frenzy beginning in 1908. The results were most distinguished. The gated entrance to the community is enhanced by fountains designed by John Galen Howard and Henry Gutterson. By edict of the local neighborhood organization, the homes on the tree-lined streets were required to be in the Mediterranean Revival style. Most have picturesque Spanish grillwork, tile roofs, and ornamental windows and brickwork.

In a tribute to Ilene Fineman’s perseverance, her home has been painstakingly maintained. The colorful red tiles have been freshly scrubbed. The elaborate ironwork has been buffed and polished, and the textured stucco walls have a fresh coat of white paint. Sculpted bushes surround a lush green lawn highlighted by blooming red roses and climbing bougainvillea.

Ilene is wearing a light blue cashmere sweater, a gray skirt, and a touch of makeup. Now in her mid-seventies, Nate’s wife is the former chair of the symphony, ballet, and library boards. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Barbara Bush. She has the former First Lady’s outspoken streak too. Her confident smile was once a regular feature on the Chronicle’s society page. Her public presence receded after Nate’s arrest. Nevertheless, she’s been her husband’s most unwavering and outspoken supporter, despite the overwhelming public perception that Nate was guilty.

She struggles to keep her hands from shaking as she grasps her coffee cup. Rabbi Neil Friedman is sitting in one of the antique armchairs next to her. He reaches over and touches her hand. The charismatic community leader has been holding court at Temple Beth Sholom for three decades. “Everything is going to be fine,” he whispers. “Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez are here to help.”

Ilene sets the cup in a saucer on the antique end table. The walnut-paneled walls are covered with photos of her three grown children and eight grandchildren. Through the picture window I can see her seven-year-old grandson and her four-year-old granddaughter playing on a swing set in the yard. Their gleeful voices are a stark contrast to the somber mood inside the house. A wedding photo of Ilene and Nate is on the mantel, their youthful smiles are frozen in time. There is no indication that Nate hasn’t been home in almost a decade.

Rosie’s touch is softer than mine. We agreed that she would take the lead. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Fineman.”

Ilene nods. “I’m ever so grateful for your assistance. ” Her diction has the clipped inflection of a woman educated at boarding schools. Her lips tighten and she wills herself to maintain her composure as she tells us that the retainer was intended to cover only our initial costs. She assures us that she’s happy to provide additional resources. “Whatever it takes to save Nate.”

Rosie’s voice fills with genuine compassion. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been going through.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fernandez.”

Rosie folds her hands. “We need to ask you some questions about Nate’s case.”

“Of course.”

She’s interrupted gently by the rabbi. “We appreciate your efforts on Mr. Fineman’s behalf. He devoted countless hours to the Jewish community. I am appalled that the legal system has treated a distinguished citizen with such callous disdain.”

His views have been documented in several op-ed pieces published in the Bay Area Jewish Bulletin. His opinions are unlikely to influence the course of the legal system.

“We’re doing everything we can, Rabbi.”

“I hope that’s going to be enough.”

So do I.

Ilene holds up a hand. “It’s all right, Neil. Nate spoke very highly of Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez.”

I suspect that relatively few members of Rabbi Friedman’s synagogue call him by his first name. More important, I hope we can justify her faith in us and somehow match her grace under the most trying of circumstances.

Rosie starts slowly by asking about her family. Ilene paints a picture of a tightly knit group that’s held together through difficult times. She tells us that two of her children are lawyers. The third is a teacher. All of them have been unfailingly supportive of Nate. Her grandchildren range in age from eight months to nineteen years. The eldest is a sophomore at Stanford; the youngest is a freshman at nursery school. Ilene looks out the window at the children on the swing set. “The younger children have never met their grandfather. It’s a terrible loss for them––and for Nate.”

I catch a glimpse of Rosie’s eyes. Her father never got to spend time with Grace or Tommy.

Ilene’s voice flattens as she provides a somber description of the night Nate was arrested. She’s been through this exercise countless times, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Her tired eyes take a downward cast when Rosie shifts the discussion to her husband. Ilene tries to mask the cracks in her voice. “He’s a lot sicker than he’s letting on. It’s hard for me to watch. He’s more worried about us than himself. He’s putting up a good front.”

So is she. In the Daley household, we handled our problems through a cathartic process of yelling, followed by days of recriminations leading to grudging apologies. I can’t imagine how we would have handled the circumstances she’s been facing.

Her anger and frustration finally bubble to the surface. “I don’t know why they’re so obsessed with killing my husband. His kidneys are failing. He needs round-the-clock medical care. The doctors have told us he won’t live longer than a year. Even if by some miracle he’s released from jail, he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a nursing home. It isn’t enough that they took away the last ten years. Now they want to take away his last shred of dignity.”

The words of comfort I learned at the seminary are escaping me now.

The rabbi tries to soothe her frayed nerves with a gentle pat to her shoulder. Seeming irritated by the gesture, she pulls away. “What are his chances of a stay?” she asks bluntly.

Rosie answers her honestly. “Not so good, I’m afraid. We’re trying to prove the police planted the murder weapon, but we haven’t been able to find anybody who can corroborate that theory. We’re also looking for new evidence that might lead to the identification of the real killer. We’re in regular contact with the California Supreme Court, the Federal District Court, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and the U.S. Supreme Court. They understand our urgency.”

Ilene leans forward in the high-backed blue velvet chair. “Is this just a rote exercise for them to paper the file?”

“The people who handle the final stages of death penalty appeals are very conscientious,” I say in hope of providing some comfort. It’s a high-pressure, low-reward endeavor––not unlike being a public defender. People seek out the positions because they have strong feelings about the death penalty. The courts try to recruit qualified people because there is no margin for error. I suspect my message rings a bit hollow, though, when I add, “We can’t give up hope.”

Ilene’s tone fills with frustration. “Why are they doing this to my husband?”

Rosie responds with a truthful, albeit highly unsatisfying answer. “It’s the law.”

“It says you should execute a dying man who has spent ten years in a wheelchair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s the law.”

We all sit in stark silence for a surreal moment where the only sound is from the high-pitched voices of Ilene’s two grandchildren as they play outside on the swings.

Rosie tries to refocus Ilene back to Nate. “Was he a good husband?”

The question elicits a bittersweet smile. “The best. He is a kind, thoughtful, and funny man who never missed any of our children’s Little League games or birthdays. Nate was a fighter in court, but he has a gentle soul.”

“Did it ever bother you that he chose to represent drug dealers?”

“All the time. It reflected his personality. He came from modest beginnings. He started as a public defender. He always fought for the underdog. It was his nature. In the end, it became his undoing.”

Some of us might not consider drug dealers and mob bosses to be underdogs. Rosie’s eyes are still locked onto Ilene’s. “It’s been suggested that Nate wanted to take over his client’s operations.”

This elicits an indignant expression. “That’s nonsense.”

“But you would acknowledge that he liked nice things?”

“So do I.” Ilene looks around at the tasteful furnishings. “Nate had a successful practice. I come from an affluent family. We didn’t need the money.”

“Were you having any financial difficulties or personal problems?”

“No.”

Rosie tries another approach. “Mike and I have two children. We’ve represented some tough characters. We know about some of the issues that you faced. Did you ever fear for Nate’s safety, or the safety of your children or grandchildren?”

“Sometimes. Things were very tense when he represented the Bayview Posse.”

“Is there any chance Nate might have felt threatened by any of the people who were killed at the Golden Dragon?”

Ilene’s tone fills with indignation. “Absolutely not.”

To me, her responses are starting to sound a little forced.

Rosie shifts subjects. “We were contacted by a reporter named Jerry Edwards last night. He said Nate owed a million dollars to a man named Alex Aronis in connection with a real estate deal. Evidently, Aronis needed the money in a hurry.”

We get another hint of impatience. “I paid the debt. What’s your point?”

“Edwards claimed you were unhappy about it.”

“I was, but it was a legitimate debt. If Edwards is suggesting Nate killed those people because he needed money, he’s wrong.”

“He also suggested that Aronis may have offered to forgive the debt if Nate agreed to kill Robinson and Chin.”

“That’s beyond preposterous.”

“Why didn’t any of this come up at the trial?”

Ilene now has a stranglehold on the arms of her chair. “Because it had nothing to do with the case. Nate and I weren’t trying to hide anything.”

I wonder if there is anything else that she and Nate have tried to conceal.

Rabbi Friedman signals his irritation by holding his palms face out. “I think that’s probably all the questions Mrs. Fineman has time to answer today.”

Ilene overrules him. “I am not just going to sit here and play the role of the hand-wringing widow, Neil. We have to do something. As uncomfortable as it might be for me, I am prepared to answer any questions and to do whatever it takes to save Nate’s life.” She turns back to us and it all comes pouring out. “I tried to be supportive, but his career made my life a living hell. Nate is right where I told him he would be if he didn’t stop representing those lowlifes. He couldn’t stop himself. He never wanted to turn away a client—especially the high-profile mobsters and drug dealers. It wasn’t about money. He lived for the adrenaline rush in court. He loved the attention from the press. He was like a kid in a candy store during the Bayview Posse case.

“I started thinking about divorcing him even before he was arrested. The stress was unbearable. Do you know how many nights I stayed up late with the children while he was attending a meeting with a mobster or a drug dealer? Do you know what it’s like when you have no idea if your husband is going to come home alive? To have your children ask you when you’re putting them to bed, ‘Why can’t Daddy be here now?’”

Kind of. My father was a cop.

Ilene’s hands are now balled up into fists. “On the night Nate was arrested, I was certain they were calling to tell me that he had been killed. What sort of life was that?” Her eyes shift from Rosie to me. “I talked to a lawyer several times before Nate was arrested. I got so angry that I had him draw up divorce papers. Nate never knew about it. A few years after he was convicted, I went to San Quentin and told him that I wanted to start a new life. He said I should divorce him and that he would let me keep everything except a few stocks to cover his legal fees. That’s Nate.”

“You’re still married,” I whisper.

“After all these years, I’ve never filed the papers. I couldn’t leave him. I still love him and I always will. Nobody could replace him––not for me.”

Rosie notices the tears welling in Ilene’s eyes and hands her a tissue. “We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

“I know.” The room fills with an awkward silence. Finally, Ilene Fineman wipes the tears from her eyes and speaks softly. “My husband is not a murderer. If you can stop this execution, you’ll be getting two people out of prison: Nate and me.”

CHAPTER 15

“YOUR CLIENT MURDERED MY FATHER”

Sunday, July 12. 2:17 p.m. 6 days, 9 hours, and 44 minutes until execution.

“Johnson,” the familiar baritone says.

I called Roosevelt’s cell phone. “Daley,” I say.

“Where are you?” Roosevelt asks.

“On our way downtown.” Rosie is driving––her car still has windows. We left Ilene fifteen minutes ago. We’re heading down Market past Castro. The fog has lifted. It’s a spectacular summer afternoon. Holding the cell phone, I’m also trying to shave with an electric razor plugged into the cigarette lighter. Death penalty cases require creative multitasking. I turn off the razor. “Are you at work?”

“Why would I want to be anywhere else on a beautiful Sunday?”

I knew it. “Have you ever heard of a man named Alexander Aronis?”

“He runs a big trash-disposal business in the East Bay. He’s also a reputed heroin distributor.” His tone is businesslike.

“Did his name ever come up during the Fineman investigation?”

“Just once.” He waits a beat. “His ex-wife claimed he wanted to hire somebody to take out Robinson and Chin.”

“That would be Patty Norman?”

“That would be correct.”

“I didn’t see her name in the trial transcripts.”

“She didn’t testify.”

“Why not?”

“Her story wasn’t credible. She had an ax to grind against her ex-husband. She was spinning out of an ugly divorce and rehab.”

“Why didn’t you mention it to me when we talked?”

“It was irrelevant.”

No it wasn’t. “Aronis had a huge motive to take out Robinson and Chin.”

“So did every other drug dealer in the Bay Area. It doesn’t mean that he did.”

“Are you holding anything else back?”

He turns testy. “I’m a cop, Mike. It isn’t my job to help you defend Nate Fineman.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“You can take it any way you want.”

He knows more than he’s telling me. “Did you happen to see Jerry Edwards’s column in this morning’s Chronicle?”

“I did.”

“Why is Patty Norman making these accusations about her ex-husband now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she sees it as an opportunity to settle some old business.”

“Is there any chance Aronis was involved in the events at the Golden Dragon?”

“Not that I could prove. I leave the rumors and innuendos to lawyers.”

The only currency Roosevelt accepts is hard evidence that will stand up in court. “Why didn’t you arrest Aronis for selling drugs?”

“That’s up to the law enforcement authorities in the East Bay. He operates outside my jurisdiction.”

I feel like throwing my razor through the windshield. “Let me ask you about something else. It seems the IA report on the Fineman case has disappeared.”

“So I’m told.”

“My father was the last person whose name appeared in the log.”

“I’ve heard that too. It doesn’t mean that he took it, Mike.”

We can agree on that. “Did you ever read it?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to make a stink about it. Was there anything in it that will make my father look bad?”

“No. Everybody was cleared––including your father.”

“And the allegations that the cops planted the murder weapon?”

“Completely unfounded.”

“Did you have any reason to question the conclusions in the report?”

“It isn’t my job to second-guess IA investigations.”

That’s all I’m going to get. “Did I mention that the windows on my car were broken?”

“You didn’t.”

“I think somebody involved in the Fineman case is trying to intimidate us.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Your people aren’t investigating it with a great deal of enthusiasm.”

“We have limited resources. Perhaps you should ask the mayor to put a few more uniforms on the street.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, we haven’t gotten an especially warm reception from the cops we’ve interviewed.”

“Your client is guilty, Mike. You shouldn’t expect any extra cooperation from the highly trained and hardworking professionals of the San Francisco Police Department.”

I punch the Disconnect button. My head throbs as I lean back and close my eyes.

Rosie senses my frustration. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Roosevelt isn’t giving you the full story, is he?”

“He’s still a cop, Rosie. Realistically, there’s only so much that he can do for us. He doesn’t want to blow a conviction or implicate any other cops after all these years.”

“Even if it was a bad conviction?”

“That’s up to us to prove.”

“Where does that leave us?”

My mind races. “We can’t expect to get a stay just based on the missing file. We need a backup.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“There is none. You know as well as I do that death penalty cases are improvisational theater. We need to keep pounding until we find somebody who might give us something that would convince a judge to stop the execution.”

“Snapping at me isn’t going to make this exercise any easier.”

I feel like a jerk. “Sorry, Rosita.”

“Forget it. The next six days will be hard enough without us going at it with each other. I take it that means you want to talk to Patty Norman and Alex Aronis?”

“I do. And I want to talk to Marshawn Bryant and anybody else who might have known something about Robinson’s operations. I want to see what we can find out about Alan Chin’s business, too. Pete is down in Chinatown looking for Eugene Tsai’s brother.”

My cell phone rings. Pete’s name appears on the display. “Did you find Tsai’s brother?” I ask him.

“Not yet. I’ve run his name through all of the usual databases. No phone—listed or unlisted. No driver’s license. No listed address. I’m going to try to track him down at Brandy Ho’s later today.”

Wendell Tsai isn’t the only person who lives in the shadows in Chinatown. “Why did you call?”

“I need you to meet me at Rincon Center. I found Alan Chin’s son.”

* * *

The best spot in San Francisco for dim sum isn’t in Chinatown. The place to go for the traditional appetizers and tea cakes is in a cavernous space in the old post office on Rincon Hill, just north of the Bay Bridge, in what has become a trendy residential neighborhood. The mail-sorting room was remodeled in the eighties into a mixed-use property with office space surrounding a five-story atrium that houses a dozen restaurants. Rincon Center is especially lively during weekday lunch hours, when a pianist plays show tunes and contemporary standards on a baby grand adjacent to a man-made waterfall that flows down from the glass-covered ceiling. It’s a little like eating your burritos at Nordstrom’s, but the overall effect is a significant upgrade from your typical shopping mall food court.

Yank Sing is a neatly appointed, white-tablecloth, Hong Kong–style dim sum emporium, where weekend brunch is in full swing at two-forty-five on Sunday afternoon. Extended families in their Sunday best come to sample handcrafted dumplings, barbecued pork buns, and crab delicacies. Waitresses clad in white uniforms are pushing double-deck carts loaded with the exquisitely prepared dishes.

Rosie and I wait in the atrium. Pete went inside the restaurant to look for Chin’s son, who had a two o’clock reservation.

My brother scowls as he walks out of the packed restaurant. “He’s inside with his wife and four kids and a couple of aunts and uncles.”

Swell. “I take it this wouldn’t be an opportune time to approach him?”

“Good thinking, Mick. His car is probably in the garage. There’s no way he’s going to make the kids and relatives traipse down there. He’ll pick them up outside.”

“So, all we have to do is find his car and wait for him?”

“Correct.” He pulls out a piece of paper with a few handwritten notes. “He drives a black Mercedes.” He recites the license number.

Pete’s attention to detail is unmatched. “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

“That’s where we’ll need your silver tongue.”

* * *

“Excuse me, Mr. Chin?” My tone is respectful as Pete, Rosie and I follow him into the Rincon Center garage.

A middle-aged man with black hair and a custom-tailored Hong Kong suit turns around to face me. At five-five and 130 pounds, Jeffrey Chin isn’t an imposing physical specimen, although the intensity in his eyes transcends his slight build.

It will serve no useful purpose to be antagonistic or disingenuous. “My name is Michael Daley. We’re representing Nathan Fineman. We would appreciate a moment of your time.”

His wiry body tenses. “You’ll have to call my office. My family is waiting for me.”

“Is there a possibility that we might be able to meet in the next couple of days?”

He remains polite. “I’m afraid not. My schedule is completely filled.”

It could be true. In addition to running the largest independent bank in Chinatown, he’s the president of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, commonly known as the Six Companies, a legendary community group that dates back to the 1860s. Its membership includes representatives of each of the six traditional huiguans, or Chinese social organizations. Originally formed to protect Chinese immigrants from discrimination, it has evolved into one of the great social institutions in Chinatown.

“Please, Mr. Chin,” I say. “This will take just a minute.”

The politeness turns to pointed anger. “Your client murdered my father.”

Instinctively, I hold up my hands in a defensive posture. “I’m terribly sorry. I know it must have been very difficult for you and your family.”

There’s more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone when he says, “Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

I have to push forward. “Mr. Fineman’s attorney died suddenly on Friday night. Our firm was just hired to assist with his final appeals. As you’re probably aware, the execution is scheduled for a week from today.”

“So you decided to shortcut the process by accosting the victims’ survivors in parking lots?”

It’s a fair point. “We tried to reach you at the office. We need just a few moments of your time.”

“Your client shot three people––including my father––in cold blood.”

I’m not going to convince him otherwise. “Were you anywhere in the vicinity of the Golden Dragon that night?”

“Are you suggesting I was involved?”

“No, Mr. Chin. We’re simply trying to figure out who was there.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Do you know anybody who was working at the Golden Dragon that night?”

He ponders for an instant before he decides to throw us a bone. “Vince Hu is the manager. He’s also my cousin.”

Which means he’ll tell us precisely what Chin tells him to say. Nevertheless, we’ll talk to him. “Do you know why your father was meeting with Mr. Robinson?”

He measures his words. “It has been well documented that they were trying to resolve certain disputed matters relating to the distribution of illegal substances. My father was involved in some endeavors that brought great embarrassment to our family. I have never condoned what he did to provide for us.”

This would not be an ideal time to point out that his hands may not be squeaky clean either. It’s possible that he used some of the money his father earned from drug sales as seed capital to start his bank. “I’ve been through the record in detail,” I lie. “I haven’t found any suggestion of your involvement in your father’s business activities.” We will, of course, continue to look.

“The reason you found no such evidence is because there is none.” His eyes remain locked onto mine. “My relationship with my father was strained. The media coverage about his death was very difficult for our family. The revelations about his illegal activities were also very hard on all of us.”

And I thought it was tough living with a father who was a cop. “I can’t begin to imagine how difficult it must have been for you.”

“No, you can’t. In my mother’s memory and in an attempt to rehabilitate our reputation, I started a community bank that focuses on providing funding for small businesses in Chinatown. I’m very proud of our work. It has taken our family almost ten years to try to put this terrible episode to rest. Now you show up unannounced and want to reopen all of the bad memories. Is this a new form of ambulance chasing? Are you so desperate for new clients or cheap publicity?”

I backpedal quickly. “You have an excellent reputation in the community.” I try not to sound too defensive when I add, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You must be able to appreciate why I am reluctant to talk to you about this subject.”

“I do. I’m sure it brings back difficult memories for you.”

“It does.”

“We simply want to be sure that our client gets a fair hearing.”

He adjusts the sleeve of his blue oxford shirt. “We aren’t interested in retribution, Mr. Daley, and we aren’t planning to attend the execution. I believe it is better to have justice than revenge. I am absolutely certain of Mr. Fineman’s guilt. I would also acknowledge that it would be highly unfortunate if the wrong man is put to death.”

Yes, it would. “Do you know if anybody had a grudge against your father?”

“I wasn’t involved in the business. However, I was told that my father and Mr. Robinson were having difficulties dividing the market for their products.”

Even drug lords worry about market share. “What can you tell me about Lester Fong?”

“His death was almost as devastating to me as my father’s. He was my father’s lawyer and best friend. I regarded him as my uncle.” There’s a hint of a reserved smile. “Living in Chinatown, we adopted many aunts and uncles over the years.”

“Is it possible that somebody may have been out to get him?”

“That isn’t what happened, Mr. Daley.” I’ve worn out his patience. He pulls his keys from his pocket and pushes the remote door opener.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Alexander Aronis?”

He turns to me and gives me a look as if to say, “Are you clueless?” He gets into his car and puts his key in the ignition. “He was one of my father’s competitors.”

“We’ve heard that he was attempting to procure the services of a professional killer.”

“I read that in the paper this morning. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Do you know if your father had any contact with Mr. Aronis?”

“Whether it’s banking, law, or drug trafficking, the players tend to know each other––at least informally. Most likely, the answer to your question is affirmative.”

I shoot a frustrated look at Rosie, then I turn back to Chin. “Did Mr. Aronis want to take over your father’s business?”

He starts the Mercedes. The automatic window descends an inch. “Every drug dealer in the Bay Area wanted to take over his business. Instead of bothering me, you should be talking to the man who took over my father’s drug distribution business.”

“Was that Aronis?”

“No. It was the same man who took over Robinson’s construction business: Marshawn Bryant.”

CHAPTER 16

“ALL I KNOW IS WHAT I’VE READ IN THE PAPERS”

Sunday, July 12. 4:37 p.m. 6 days, 7 hours, and 24 minutes until execution.

Marshawn Bryant stands at mid-court in the spacious gym of the recently completed Yvonne and Marshawn Bryant Community Center in the heart of the Bayview. The new facility boasts two full-size gyms, a pool, a weight room, five classrooms, a library, and several meeting rooms. The gleaming glass structure provides a hopeful contrast to the crumbling housing projects across the street.

“Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” I say to him. Rosie is with me. Pete went back to Chinatown to try to find people who were in the vicinity of the Golden Dragon on a rainy night ten years ago.

“Not a problem,” Bryant says. The owner of Bayview Construction is a tall, athletic man whose meticulously cropped black hair, chiseled shoulders, and unblemished skin make him appear younger than forty-one. Clad in a Nike sweatshirt and state-of-the-universe Air Jordans, he looks as if he could hold his own against the Warriors’ starting backcourt. He flashes an engaging salesman’s smile. “Give me just a minute.”

He blows his whistle and a dozen enthusiastic eight-year-old girls surround him. Their eyes open wide as the charismatic Bryant towers over them like the pied piper. He tells them to break up into small groups to practice free throws. He takes an extra moment to give the smallest girl a few pointers on how to grip the ball. She gives him a passionate high five and joins her teammates.

A glowing Bryant joins Rosie and me back on the sidelines. “That’s my daughter,” he says. “She isn’t the tallest player, but she has the biggest heart.”

As a veteran of six seasons managing Grace’s baseball and softball teams, I give him credit for being involved. “Do you have any other kids?”

“Our son just turned three.”

I gaze up at the electronic scoreboard. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks. We’ve needed something like this in the community for a long time. Yvonne and I grew up across the street. We think it’s important to give something back.” He explains that the city donated the land for the facility. His firm donated time, labor, and materials. “We’re very happy with the way it turned out. It gives the kids someplace to go after school.”

“Do you still live here in the neighborhood?”

“We live over in Noe Valley.”

It’s a couple of miles north of here. It’s also considerably more affluent. I keep my tone conversational. “We understand your wife runs an interior design firm.”

“Yes, she does.” He flashes another proud smile. “Yvonne was written up in San Francisco Magazine last month.”

Quite the power couple. She obviously had something to do with the design of this building too. “How long have you been married?”

“Nine years.”

“Congratulations.” Better than me by a long shot.

“Thank you.” We exchange banal pleasantries for another moment before his smile disappears. “So, what brings you here on a Sunday afternoon?”

“We were hoping you could provide a little information. We understand you used to work for Terrell Robinson.”

“I did. He was my mentor. He gave me my first job when I was seventeen. He taught me everything I know about the construction business.”

“How long did you work for him?”

“Thirteen years. I started as an apprentice carpenter. I had just been promoted to vice president when he was killed. It was a devastating loss.”

It’s a thoughtful sentiment, but his delivery is a tad melodramatic. “What kinds of projects are you working on nowadays?”

He slips effortlessly into sales mode. “Mostly design and build. We have relationships with several prominent architects. Most of our work involves commercial space. We also handle residential projects from time to time, which is nice because I can get the wife involved––if you see what I’m saying.”

I do. He constructs and she remodels. “Would you be interested in helping us renovate our offices?” We aren’t planning to remodel. I’m curious to see if he would work for a small-time operation like ours.

“It depends on the scale of the project.”

“Sounds like you have more work than you can handle.”

“We do. We’re a qualified minority contractor. We’ve done several significant office projects for the city.”

That’s nice work if you can get it. Every major construction project for the city requires participation by one or more minority-owned firms. In theory, it’s supposed to spread the work around. In practice, certain politically connected companies frequently get more than their share of the pie.

He adds, “We try to hire people from the Bayview. We think it’s important to provide opportunities for the children in this corner of town.”

Even though he’s moved to a more upscale neighborhood like Noe Valley.

His eyes narrow and the engaging tone disappears. “Why did you really come all the way down to the Bayview today?”

Rosie is more than ready to get down to business. “We wanted to ask you a few question about the Fineman case. We were brought in to help with the final appeal. Unfortunately, our co-counsel had a heart attack on Friday. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sure you are.

“When did you take over Mr. Robinson’s operations?” Rosie asks.

“A few weeks after he passed away.”

“It’s very impressive that you were able to raise the financing to acquire his business so quickly.”

Bryant tries for an offhand tone. “Mr. Robinson’s bank gave me a loan. Most of his clients asked me to finish their projects. I was familiar with their needs. I appreciated their trust.”

“Mr. Bryant,” Rosie continues, “it’s been documented that Mr. Robinson had other business interests besides his construction firm. In fact, he ran a lucrative heroin-distribution operation, didn’t he?” She’s looking for a reaction.

“All I know is what I’ve read in the papers. Those charges were never proven.”

“He never mentioned it to you?”

The first hint of defensiveness creeps into his voice. “No, he didn’t. I’m a legitimate businessman. I was not involved in any matters beyond the scope of his construction business. My wife and I have funded several anti-drug programs in this building. It’s a huge problem. We’re trying to do our part to stop the flow of illegal drugs into this community.”

I didn’t expect him to admit that he took over Robinson’s drug cartel. Then again, his denial sounds a little too rehearsed for my taste—especially for a natural salesman like Bryant.

Rosie glances my way and I take the cue. “Have you ever met our client?”

“Once, when he visited Mr. Robinson’s office.”

“Weren’t you concerned that your boss was meeting with a criminal defense lawyer?”

“It isn’t uncommon for people in the construction business to face civil litigation or even criminal charges from time to time. It’s a cost of doing business. The fact that he was never convicted is a testimonial to his honesty and integrity.”

Or that he hired a smart lawyer. “Some people think Mr. Fineman was involved in Mr. Robinson’s heroin operation. In fact, it’s been suggested that Mr. Fineman killed Mr. Robinson because he wanted to take over his business.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Rosie reenters the discussion. “Would you mind telling us where you were on the night Mr. Robinson was killed?”

His polished facade shows a hint of impatience. “I cooperated with the police ten years ago. Do we really have to go through this again?”

Rosie keeps her tone measured. “If you wouldn’t mind. We’re just trying to fill in some details.”

“You can find them in the police reports.”

“We were hoping you might be willing to give us the highlights.”

He exhales melodramatically. “Yvonne and I were working late on a design project at the office.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “Then, well, if you must know, we ended up at her place. Those were our dating days, as she called them.”

I might have used a slightly more colloquial term.

“Were you anywhere near the Golden Dragon that night?” she asks.

“Of course not.”

Rosie ups the ante. “The police told us that a witness saw you in the alley behind the restaurant right after the shootings.”

“It wasn’t me,” he says calmly. “People make mistakes.”

“Do you really think he would have been mistaken about seeing an African-American man in an otherwise empty alley in Chinatown at one o’clock in the morning?”

Still no discernible reaction. “It wasn’t me,” he repeats. “I was with Yvonne. You can ask her about it if you’d like.”

She isn’t going to change her story. I decide to push him a little harder. “Mr. Bryant, it would make our lives––and yours––a lot easier if someone else could corroborate your whereabouts that night.”

He pulls his whistle out of his pocket and walks toward his team. “This conversation is starting to sound a little too much like a cross-examination. I don’t appreciate your tone or your implication, Mr. Daley.” He blows his whistle and tells the children to line up on the end line. “We have to finish practice.”

* * *

Rosie takes a deep breath of the heavy summer air. “You’re smelling a bit raw, Mike.”

“Sorry, Rosita.” You don’t always get a lot of time to address some basic human needs when you’re trying to stop an execution. We’re driving down Mariposa Street toward downtown at five-fifteen on Sunday afternoon. The good news is that the Giants won. The bad news is that we’re sitting in an un-air-conditioned car in gridlocked ballpark traffic. “I’ll grab a shower back at the office.”

She holds a finger to her nose. “A clean shirt and some deodorant might be nice too.”

“Duly noted.”

Her eyes never leave the road. “Bryant knows more than he told us.”

“Yes, he does. So does Chin.”

“I think Bryant is a better bet. Chin didn’t seem like a guy who would have killed his father.”

I pull out my cell and hit the speed dial. Pete picks up on the first ring. “Are you still in Chinatown?” I ask him.

“Yes. Did you get anything from Bryant?”

“A bunch of denials. I want you to have someone keep an eye on him.”

“I will.”

“Anything else, Pete?”

“Maybe. I found a retired cop named Carl Yee who was working undercover in Chinatown on the night of the shootings.”

“Was he anywhere near the Golden Dragon that night?”

“We’ll find out. I persuaded him to meet us for dinner tonight.”

CHAPTER 17

“I WAS AN OLD-FASHIONED COP”

Sunday, July 12. 11:00 p.m. 6 days, 1 hour, and 1 minute until execution.

Pete’s eyes move rapidly as he devours a plate of roast squid with salt and pepper, the house specialty at Yuet Lee, one of the city’s finest and least pretentious seafood restaurants. As always, the squid arrived piping hot with a little dish of green peppers and two slices of lemon on top. The nondescript restaurant isn’t big on atmosphere. It’s located at the corner of Stockton and Broadway, where Chinatown meets North Beach. The fluorescent lights and lime green interior make everyone look twenty years older, but once you start eating, you don’t care. Open until 3:00 a.m., it’s been a hangout for cops, writers, and night owls for years. The place is packed at eleven o’clock on Sunday night.

You have to make certain accommodations when you have dinner with a couple of ex-cops. First, you have to let them sit at a table where they can see all of the entrances and exits. Second, you have to deal with the fact that they’re watching everybody around them with unusual scrutiny. Third, you have to chow down quickly, because they eat fast.

My brother places a piece of his squid onto a small plate and pushes it over to our dinner companion. “Try it.”

Carl Yee demurs with a polite but firm “No thanks.” The former undercover cop is a compact man in his mid-fifties with intense eyes, large hands, and a prominent scar running from the bridge of his nose across his forehead and under his closely cropped gray hair to his left ear. He picked up the souvenir three decades ago in a drug bust. He adjusts the sleeves of his black leather bomber jacket and pushes the plate back to Pete. Then he continues to poke at a bland stir-fry vegetable concoction that the kitchen made up specially for him. “Bad stomach,” he explains.

“We appreciate the fact that you came tonight,” I tell him.

“Roosevelt said you’re okay.”

Glad to hear it. “How long were you on the force?”

“Twenty-six years.” He takes me through his curriculum vitae in clipped police dialect. Born in Chinatown; attended Galileo High; joined the SFPD when he turned twenty-one; spent much of his time undercover in Chinatown; lives in the Sunset; took early retirement eight years ago to start his own security firm. He and Pete could hold an entire conversation consisting of three-word sentences.

“Did you ever work with my dad?”

“Yep. Solid cop.”

I’m not about to disagree with him. I ask him if he was working undercover on the night Nate was arrested.

“Yep.” He says he was monitoring a delivery of amphetamines in an alley off Stockton Street. He found out about the events at the Golden Dragon the next day.

“Was anybody else working in the vicinity that night?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

He picks at his vegetables. “Don’t know.”

“You must have known about Chin’s organization.”

“Yep.”

“Did you know Dave Low?”

“Yep.” The admiration in his eyes is genuine. “Good cop. Huge loss.”

“Any black marks on his record?”

There is an almost-imperceptible pause. “Nope.”

“Was he watching the Golden Dragon that night?”

“Don’t know.”

“There were some questions about the handling of the evidence.”

“That was crap.”

“The defense claimed the murder weapon was planted.”

“More crap.” He places his chopsticks on the table. “IA dealt with it.”

“We’ve been told that Kevin Fitzgerald wasn’t the most tenacious guy in IA.”

“He did his job.”

“Did you ever talk to him about the case?”

“Nope.”

“The IA file is missing.”

“I heard.”

“Do you have any idea who may have taken it?”

“Nope.”

Pete puts his chopsticks down. “You know that they found a witness who was in the alley that night, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

“You heard he got popped a couple of days later?”

“Yep. It was a robbery.”

“Is that what really happened?”

“As far as I know.”

It’s a more equivocal answer than I expected.

Pete studies his former colleague’s eyes. “Let me ask you something. Off the record, ex-cop to ex-cop. Why did you really come down here tonight?”

Yee tenses. “What do you mean?”

“You could have told us everything you’ve just said in a two-minute phone conversation. Why did you come all the way here to see us?”

He quaffs his ice water. “I was an old-fashioned cop.”

“So?”

Yee’s jaws tighten. “Look at it like this. Two drug bosses and a mob lawyer get popped in Chinatown. They find the accused in the alley with a gun in his hand. A potential witness goes down a couple of days later. Call it an old cop’s intuition, but it didn’t feel right.”

That may be the most words that Carl Yee has strung together in years. Then again, we’ll need more than an old cop’s intuition if we’re going to persuade the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit to stop Nate Fineman’s execution in the next six days.

CHAPTER 18

DR. DEATH

Monday, July 13. 12:34 a.m. 5 days, 23 hours, and 27 minutes until execution.

“Nice shirt,” Rosie says.

“Thanks. It isn’t new.”

“It’s reasonably clean.” She winks. “That’s progress.”

While Pete and I were eating squid with Carl Yee, Rosie was busy working on our habeas petition. I stopped at her house on my way home to read it. We’re arguing two theories: first, that Lou Cohen’s death will make it impossible for Nate to have adequate representation; second, that the missing IA file brings the integrity of the investigation—and Nate’s conviction—into question.

I hold up the petition with admiration. “This is good.”

“Thanks. We’ll get it on file when the courts open later today.” Her expression doesn’t change when she adds, “After it’s rejected, we’ll file another one tomorrow.”

It’s a realistic assessment. For the next five days, we will be engaged in a procedure known as “successive petition litigation.” It means we’ll be filing a new habeas petition every day until the end. The process will continue until hours or even minutes before the execution. We’ll challenge everything from the handling of the evidence to the inherently cruel nature of the death penalty. Since we are no longer allowed to dispute errors from the original trial record or matters previously raised on appeal, our best bet is to raise the possibility of new evidence. It would of course enhance our position considerably if we actually find some new evidence. The rules now require us to go directly from the California Supremes to the Ninth Circuit without an intervening stop at the Federal District Court. If the Ninth Circuit buys our story, they may send us back to the district court for further proceedings. If they turn us down, we’ll go directly to the U.S. Supreme Court, where our chances are almost nonexistent.

“Did you get anything from Yee?” she asks.

“He said there were undercover cops in the area.”

“We already knew that, Mike. Any specifics?”

“Pete’s looking.”

“He needs to look fast. They’ve already asked Nate what he wants for his last meal.”

* * *

At six-fifteen on Monday morning, I drag myself over to the Channel Two studios in Oakland for a live one on one with Jerry Edwards. I feign indignation at the suggestion that Nate was offered money to murder Robinson and Chin. I try not to come off as defensive or arrogant when Edwards tries to bait me. We volley back and forth as he tries to pin the blame for the missing file on my father. He mugs into the camera and cuts to a commercial just as I’m pleading for new information that might lead us toward identifying another suspect.

* * *

At the stroke of nine o’clock on Monday morning, our messenger files our papers with the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit. At ten-thirty, we get a call from Ted Prodromou, who was the smartest guy in Rosie’s law school class. Now he’s the smartest staff lawyer at the California Supreme Court. He’s also the designated death penalty attorney for our case. It’s always better to work with a bright lawyer––even if he’s on the other side. The Ninth Circuit and the U.S. Supreme Court have each assigned a point person as well. They’ll have the thankless task of coordinating the distribution of our papers to their respective bosses on short notice. By contemporary bureaucratic standards, the system is reasonably efficient.

“We received your papers,” Prodromou tells us in his soft-spoken manner. “I already got a call from Irwin Grim.”

We’re required to give Grim a copy of everything we file with the courts. I can picture Dr. Death studying our papers in his windowless office. “What did the distinguished deputy attorney general have to say?”

I can hear the laid-back chuckle in Ted’s voice. “He sighed.”

True to form. “I take it this means he plans to respond?”

“He already has.”

Impressive. He anticipated our filing and spent the weekend preparing a reply brief. “Did he have any other reaction after he finished exhaling?”

“Sure. He said your claim was without merit.”

Big surprise. “Do you agree with him?”

“Hey, not my decision.”

“Any hints from the folks in the black robes?” The big guys will make the final call, but they will rely heavily on the opinions of Ted and his cohorts to shape their views. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the staff attorneys get it right.

“I’ll know more in a couple of hours. I understand the urgency.”

Ted is astute enough not to show his cards.

He adds, “I was hoping you might be available to sit down with Irwin and me at one o’clock. I want to make sure everyone is on the same page.”

It can’t hurt to see what Dr. Death has to say. “We’re in.”

“I have to ask you for another favor.”

“Which is?”

“You and Rosie have to promise not to sigh.”

* * *

Deputy Attorney General Irwin Grim exhales with a melodramatic flourish at one o’clock on Monday afternoon. His thin tie is wound so tightly around his neck that it’s hard to imagine any oxygen can reach his brain. As always, Dr. Death’s nasal voice is flat. “I am duly sympathetic about Lou Cohen’s death,” he intones. “However, there is no legal authority to delay an execution just because the convicted murderer’s attorney died shortly before it was scheduled. Furthermore, the missing IA file has no bearing on this case.”

We’re meeting in a workmanlike conference room on the third floor of the Earl Warren Building, a six-story masterpiece on the north side of Civic Center Plaza, where the California Supreme Court has conducted business since 1923. The classic granite edifice is a stylish mix of architectural elements inspired by the Italian Renaissance. Corinthian pilasters and cartouches embellish its southern facade, which is subtly bowed about eighteen inches at either end, thereby giving the optical illusion that the building is flat in elevation. Severely damaged in the Loma Prieta earthquake, the Warren Building underwent a two-hundred-million-dollar restoration that was completed almost ten years later, in 1998. The interior is still utilitarian, although the Supreme Courtroom, on the fourth floor, was restored to its original understated brilliance.

“You understand there’s no way to correct a mistake if you execute an innocent man,” I say to Grim.

“I do.” He leans across the oak conference table. “That has no bearing on our interpretation of the law as long as your client is represented by competent counsel.”

“This isn’t a purely academic exercise. A man’s life is at stake. You can choose to interpret the law to meet the needs of justice and fair play.” He can’t possibly argue with justice and fair play, right?

Wrong. “It is my policy to leave those decisions to the courts.”

There’s no convincing Dr. Death.

Ted Prodromou takes a sip of black coffee as he studies his notes. His unblemished features and trim, athletic build make him look younger than fifty. “The purpose of this meeting is to discuss the status of the pending habeas petition,” he says to nobody in particular. “I am not in a position to comment on the substance of your arguments at this time. I want to be sure this case is handled in an orderly manner.”

We nod in unison.

Grim asks, “When are you going to rule on the petition they filed this morning?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?” I ask.

“Very soon. The standard is quite clear: we need to be sure that your client is adequately represented by competent counsel. I know for a fact that the attorneys in this room are all highly qualified.”

As hard as I might try, it will be difficult to persuade him that I’m an idiot. He can’t say it out loud, but he’s telling us that our argument is a loser.

Prodromou consults his notes. “You’ve been through the drill. We will make every effort to accommodate you. I can’t stop you from pleading your case to the media. However, I would remind you that only the courts and the governor can rule upon this matter.”

“What about the missing file?” I ask.

“As far as I can tell, there was no evidence of any irregularities in the investigation. Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s agreement to provide a sworn summary of its contents mitigates the damage.”

“It’s going to be impossible for us to do anything meaningful in five days.”

“Legally, your client’s position hasn’t changed significantly since Mr. Cohen’s death. Your petition is under submission. The fact that a new defense team will be handling the final stage is largely irrelevant to the legal ramifications of his case. Of course, our justices will take into account the seriousness of the charges and the finality of the consequences.”

This time Grim doesn’t sigh. In fact, a barely perceptible sideways grin crosses his face. He knows his cards are better than mine. He’s perfectly content to run out the clock.

CHAPTER 19

“I WAS GOING TO CALL YOU TONIGHT”

Monday, July 13. 3:30 p.m. 5 days, 8 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

Mort the Sport is holding court from his wheelchair, which is perched on the front steps of Temple Beth Sholom, at Fourteenth and Clement. Despite more pressing matters, Nate insisted that Rosie and I attend Lou Cohen’s funeral. The overflow crowd represented a multigenerational cross section of everybody who has ever been anybody in the San Francisco legal, political, and Jewish communities over the last half century. Rabbi Friedman delivered a heartfelt eulogy. Lou was the type of lawyer that I aspire to be. The rabbi is the type of clergyman that I never was.

Mort gestures to me with his unlit cigar. “Come over here, Mike. I need to talk to you.” Despite the post-funeral setting, Mort pulls me down close to his face and starts firing questions. “Tell me quick––have you figured out a way to stop the execution?”

I don’t want to have this conversation on the front steps of a synagogue fifteen minutes after the conclusion of a funeral service. “We’re working on it.”

“Work faster.”

Thanks for the advice.

We watch in silence as Cohen’s family walks past us. We have a full agenda, and I’m desperately looking for a polite way to make a fast exit. Cohen’s son, Ben, looks like his father. He helps his mother into the limo, then he moves toward us. He leans over Mort’s wheelchair and extends his hand. “Thanks for coming, Mort.”

“You’re welcome, Ben.” Mort grips his hand more tightly. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a fine human being and a superb lawyer.” The old warhorse never quite got around to burying the hatchet with Lou. This is the best that he can do.

Cohen’s son is a noted attorney in his own right. He swallows hard. “Thanks, Mort. It would have meant a lot to him.”

Rosie and I stand in silence as Mort and Ben exchange a quiet word. I can’t help glancing at my watch. It’s already three-thirty. We still have a very full day ahead of us. A moment later, Ben turns and politely shakes Rosie’s hand, then mine. “Thank you for coming today. I know you’re busy.”

“We’re so sorry,” I say.

“Thanks for stepping in to handle the Fineman appeal. My father always spoke very highly of you.”

“He was an excellent lawyer.” I mean it.

He nods. “I was going to call you tonight.”

“Not necessary.”

“It may be.” He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I found this phone number on a pad in my dad’s study on the night he died. It’s the number for the Shanghai Residential Hotel in Chinatown.”

“And?”

Mort answers for him. “Wendell Tsai used to live there.”

CHAPTER 20

“SOMEBODY KNOWS

WHERE WE LIVE”

Monday, July 13. 4:35 p.m. 5 days, 7 hours, and 26 minutes until execution.

An hour later, Pete and I are standing at the door to Wendell Tsai’s single-room apartment in a dilapidated tenement on Waverly Place, a lightless alley in the historical heart of Chinatown that runs parallel to Grant Avenue. A century ago, Waverly was a commercial and residential hub. It was also the home of numerous bordellos, known as parlor houses. The whorehouses are long gone, but the faded brick walk-ups with rusting ornamental grillwork are still crowded with low-income residents, most of whom only speak Chinese.

The aroma of sweet spices wafts through the dim hallway as Pete raps on Tsai’s worn wooden door. “Mr. Tsai,” he says gently, “could we talk to you for a minute?”

The door opens a crack. A slight man eyes us cautiously from behind large sunglasses. He’s dressed in a black polo shirt and gray polyester pants. He speaks to us in halting English. “Sorry. I go to work.”

Pete leans in front of the narrow opening. “This will just take a moment.”

“Can’t help.”

“We have some information about your brother. We just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

There is a hesitation before the door opens a little wider. Tsai quickly surmises that we’ll never make the list of America’s Most Intimidating People. “What you want?”

Pete’s tone is soothing. “We’re sorry to trouble you. We’re representing a man named Nathan Fineman. We’ve just taken over the case from Mr. Louis Cohen. I believe you may have spoken to Mr. Cohen.”

Tsai freezes. “Eugene is dead.”

“We know. We’re very sorry. I hope Mr. Cohen explained to you that our client had nothing to do with your brother’s death.”

Tsai nods.

Pete lowers his voice to a whisper. “Mr. Cohen died on Friday. We’ve been asked to help with the final appeals for his client.”

Tsai’s lips turn down, but he doesn’t reply.

Pete tries again. “Would you mind telling us what you and Mr. Cohen talked about?”

Silence.

I invoke my priest voice. “Please, Mr. Tsai. This is a matter of life and death.”

More silence.

Pete steps closer to the door and plays a hunch. “Did someone threaten you, Mr. Tsai?”

There’s a pause. “Someone break into my room.”

“When?”

“Last Thursday.”

Maybe it’s the same person who smashed the windows of our cars. “Did they take anything?”

“Picture of Eugene.”

My heart starts beating faster. “Mr. Tsai, we want you to be safe. I’ve been a lawyer for more than twenty years. I have excellent contacts with the police. We can get you protection.”

This elicits a cynical eye roll. “Police promise to protect Eugene.”

“Things are different now.”

“Not true.”

Pete tries to reassure him. “A man named Carl Yee used to be a police officer in the neighborhood. He now owns a security firm. We’ll hire him to protect you.”

“You pay?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

Again no response.

I try again. “Mr. Tsai, it is very disturbing to me that somebody broke into your room. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Your brother was very brave. In his memory and in the interests of justice, I hope you’ll be willing to help us. We would like to find out who was responsible for killing your brother just as much as you would.”

He thinks about it for an interminable moment. Then he opens the door.

* * *

“Eugene was seventeen when we come here,” Tsai tells us. He’s sitting on a worn sofa in the dark room. The furnishings include a Formica table, two card chairs, and a three-drawer dresser. The walls were painted off-white long ago. Now they’re dull gray. Across from the sofa is a noisy mini-refrigerator and a hot plate. The only hint of modern technology is a small TV with rabbit ears, which is tuned to a Chinese-language station. The bathroom is down the hall. The telephone is down the stairs. The laundry is down the street.

Tsai tells us that he and his younger brother came to San Francisco from Taiwan with their father after their mother died. Two years later, their father was killed in an accident in the clothing factory where he worked as a janitor, leaving the brothers to fend for themselves. They shared the rent for this single room. Wendell found a job as a busboy at Brandy Ho’s Restaurant. Eugene worked nights in the laundry at the Chinese Hospital.

“Eugene very smart,” he says. He tells us that his brother took English classes during the day and worked at night. He used to walk home through the alley behind the Golden Dragon. He was only nineteen when he died.

“Did Eugene talk to you about what happened in the alley on the night of the shootings at the Golden Dragon?” I ask.

Tsai’s eyes dart over my left shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Did he hear any shots?”

“No.”

“Did he see anyone?”

Tsai looks down. “He see black man.”

The mere presence of an African-American man in an alley in Chinatown in the middle of the night is suspicious. “What was the man doing?”

“Running.”

“Where?”

“Out of alley.”

“When did your brother tell you about this?”

“When he got home.”

“Did he get a good look at the man?”

“No. The man stop for just a second.”

“I understand that Eugene talked to the police.”

Tsai nods. “I tell him not to. Eugene do it anyway.”

Which may have gotten him killed. “Did you go with your brother to the police station?”

“No. Was working.”

“Did the police show him any photos?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he recognize anybody?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “No.”

Hell. “And he was killed two days later?”

“Yeah.” His tone turns adamant. “Stabbed.”

“And the police never found the man who killed him?”

“No. Police said it was robbery. No witnesses.”

“Do you think they were right?”

“No. I think it was man from alley.”

“How did he know that your brother had talked to the police?”

His eyes narrow and his English becomes clearer. “No secrets in Chinatown.”

I would give anything to prove that Tsai saw Marshawn Bryant in the alley. “Did your brother walk home by himself on the night of the shootings at the Golden Dragon?”

He’s becoming more engaged—as if he’s been waiting for the opportunity to tell somebody his story. “No. He walk home with his friend. She live in apartment in the alley. She work at hospital too.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Jasmine Luk. Very pretty girl.”

This could be huge. “Were they still together when Eugene saw the man in the alley?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Did Jasmine see him too?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever talk to her about it?”

“No.”

Pete and I exchange a glance. “Did she talk to the police?”

He scowls. “Don’t know.”

Roosevelt never mentioned any of this. “Do you know where we can find her?”

“No. She gone.”

“Where?”

“Don’t know.”

“When did she leave?”

“Day after Eugene was killed. She got scared.”

“Do you have any idea where she went?”

“No. Maybe back to China. Hard to find her now.”

We’re going to have to try.

* * *

“Did you get anything from Tsai?” Rosie asks.

“His brother saw an African-American man in the alley.”

I’m standing on the corner of Waverly and Washington at six o’clock on Monday night. Pete, Tsai, and I just finished a meeting with Carl Yee, who agreed to watch Tsai for the next week at a slight premium over his standard rates.

“Any chance it might have been Bryant?” she asks.

“He couldn’t make a positive ID.”

“That isn’t going to get us to freestanding innocence.”

“Tsai walked home with a young woman named Jasmine Luk, who also worked at the hospital. They were together when Tsai saw the man in the alley. She must have seen him too.”

“Did she talk to the cops?”

“I don’t know. I put in a call to Roosevelt.”

“Can you find her?”

“Pete is already looking.”

“So, we just need to find a phantom woman who may or may not exist and who may or may not be able to identify a man she may or may not have seen for a second or two in a dark alley on a rainy night ten years ago.”

That covers it. “It may be our best chance.”

“At the moment, it may be our only chance.”

Rosie is always the voice of unyielding realism. “I take it this means the news isn’t good on the appellate front?”

“Correct. The California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit ruled against us on the papers we filed this morning. We’ll try the U.S. Supreme Court, but we aren’t going to win.”

“How are you doing on the next round of petitions?”

“They’ll be ready to file first thing in the morning.”

“What are we going to talk about this time?”

“I won’t know until I start writing our papers, Mike.”

We’ll be having the same discussion every night for the next week. “When do we tell them about Jasmine Luk?”

“Not yet. Let’s hold off until we see if we can find her.” She clears her throat. “There’s something else.”

I can tell from her tone that something is wrong. I brace myself. “What now?”

“My mother just called. A man in a UPS uniform rang our doorbell and Grace answered. She thought he was delivering handles for our kitchen cabinets. He wasn’t.”

Uh-oh. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah.”

“But?”

“Inside the package there was a photo of Grace and Jake that was taken in the last couple of days.”

I can feel the back of my neck starting to burn. “Did she talk to him?”

“No. He left the package and ran.”

“Did she call the cops?”

“Of course. They haven’t found anyone in the area.”

“Was there a note?”

“No, but the message is quite clear: somebody knows where we live.”

CHAPTER 21

“I’M GOING TO FIND OUT”

Monday, July 13. 6:45 p.m. 5 days, 5 hours, and 16 minutes until execution.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Roosevelt says to Grace. They’re sitting on the sofa in Rosie’s living room. The homicide inspector’s melodious voice is calming. He’s taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. His arm rests on her shoulder. He’s the closest thing Grace has to a living grandfather.

Our daughter’s hands are shaking as she tugs nervously at the sleeves of a black Giants sweatshirt. “I should have called you sooner,” she tells him.

Roosevelt hasn’t taken his eyes off her since he walked in the door. “You did everything you could, honey.”

“It wasn’t enough. I should have followed him.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. There’s nothing you could have done, Grace. He may have been very dangerous. You did exactly the right thing.”

“He’s still out there.”

“It’s my job to find him. In the meantime, I want you to be extra careful.”

“I will.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I didn’t get a good look at him. He rang the bell and left the package outside the door. Grandma was in the bedroom with Tommy. I saw him for just an instant. African-American. Wearing a UPS shirt and hat. Didn’t say anything. I’m sorry, Roosevelt.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Grace.”

It is unusual for a San Francisco homicide inspector to take a police report in Marin County. But Roosevelt isn’t a conventional cop. A Larkspur police officer is at his side. A sheriff’s car sits in the driveway. I expect a battalion of San Francisco cops in riot gear to show up at any moment.

“How tall was he?” Roosevelt asks.

“About six-two. Probably about two hundred pounds.”

“What time was he here?”

“A little over an hour ago.” She says she called Rosie first, her boyfriend second, the Larkspur police third, and Roosevelt last. I feel left out of the loop. The Larkspur cops arrived within minutes. Their search of the area turned up empty.

“Do you think it was a real UPS driver?”

“I doubt it. I didn’t see a truck.”

The intruder undoubtedly had a car, which means he has a good head start. We have no idea what type of vehicle he was driving.

Roosevelt strokes his chin and addresses all of us. “It is extremely important that each of you act with great caution. I don’t have to tell you to be very careful. It’s obvious. Call me right away on my private cell if you see anything unusual––no matter what time it is. Understood?”

We nod in unison.

“The Larkspur police will have a squad car in your driveway. We are doing the same for Jake and his family. Furthermore, I am assigning a San Francisco police officer to watch this house. You will have twenty-four-hour protection until this matter is resolved.”

Rosie is demonstrably agitated. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

“I’m going to find out.” He turns and gives Grace a grandfatherly hug. “I need to talk to your parents for a few minutes, Gracie. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Is it okay if I call Jake?”

“Sure,” Roosevelt says.

She heads toward her bedroom. I turn to Roosevelt and struggle to keep my tone even. “We’re depending on you,” I say, feeling helpless and guilty that my family is now a target.

“I’ve assigned my best people. They’ll take care of you.”

I can feel my throat constrict. “Is it okay for Grace to talk to Jake?”

“I’ve already talked to his parents. They understand the gravity of the situation. It’s a bad idea not to let her talk to her boyfriend.”

Probably true. “This isn’t just a coincidence.”

“It’s obvious that somebody is trying to distract you from the Fineman case.”

“They’re trying to do more than that.”

He turns to Rosie. “Call me right away if Grace says anything else about the man who delivered that package.”

“I will. I don’t want our daughter to be caught in the middle of this exercise.”

Roosevelt sighs. “I’m afraid she already is.”

I ask, “Should we take her away until this case is over?”

It’s Rosie who answers. “I’m not going to let somebody chase me out of my own house.”

Roosevelt agrees. “We’ll have plenty of cops outside. You’ll be fine if you’re careful.”

I hope so.

He examines the grainy photo of Grace and Jake as they were walking in front of Rosie’s house. It’s been carefully placed inside a clear plastic evidence baggie and tagged. “We won’t find any prints on this picture. You may want to hire somebody for backup.”

Pete is already on the phone with one of his best operatives.

Roosevelt addresses Rosie. “I’m going to arrange for an escort for you too. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Roosevelt.”

* * *

Roosevelt and I are standing outside on Rosie’s front porch a few minutes later. “I talked to Eugene Tsai’s brother,” I tell him. “I understand Eugene saw an African-American man in the alley behind the Golden Dragon shortly after the shootings.”

“He did, but he couldn’t identify him.”

“I take it this means you couldn’t identify him either?”

“Correct.”

“It could have been Marshawn Bryant.”

“Bryant had an alibi.”

“From his girlfriend.”

“There was no way to refute it.”

“You didn’t try very hard.”

“Yes I did.”

“Why are you being so defensive, Roosevelt?”

“I did everything I could, Mike.”

It wasn’t enough. “Did you ever talk to a young woman named Jasmine Luk?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

“It was irrelevant. She didn’t provide any useful information.”

“Tsai’s brother said she walked home with Eugene and saw the same black man in the alley.”

“Not according to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She said she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“She was so scared that she fled.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mike.”

I can feel my right hand squeezing into a tight fist. “You aren’t telling me everything, Roosevelt.”

“I’ve told you everything that I can.”

“What haven’t you told me?”

“Nothing.”

My face is turning red. “There were two witnesses in the alley who saw the same black man. You didn’t mention either of them to me.”

“They provided no evidence that we could use.”

“How can you withhold information less than a week before an execution?”

He folds his arms. “You can’t expect me to do your job for you, Mike.”

“Did the police plant the murder weapon?”

“Absolutely not.”

We stare at each other in silence for a long moment. “Do you have any idea what happened to Jasmine Luk?”

“No.”

“She just disappeared into thin air?”

“As far as we could tell.”

I look into the eyes of my father’s old partner. “Doesn’t this bother you?”

“We did all that we could, Mike.”

We haven’t. “Any chance you could spare an unmarked car to keep an eye on my backside?”

“Probably. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. Just as soon as your people are in place to guard this house.”

“Is Rosie okay with that?”

“She doesn’t want me hovering around here. It makes everybody nervous.”

“Where are you going?”

“Pete and I are having dinner at the Golden Dragon.”

CHAPTER 22

MY COUSIN VINNY

Monday, July 13. 7:38 p.m. 5 days, 4 hours, and 23 minutes until execution.

“Party of two?” Vincent Hu asks in a modulated voice, looking at us over the top of a pair of thin Calvin Klein reading glasses. Jeff Chin’s cousin is a meticulously dressed man of indeterminate middle age whose custom navy suit, powder blue shirt, and pressed kerchief exude understated professionalism. He’s standing behind the ornate podium inside the entrance of the restaurant that used to be known as the Golden Dragon, and is now called the Imperial Palace. The name has changed, but the food and the décor have not.

“Yes, please,” I say.

The glasses come off. “Right this way.”

He escorts us through the inviting space decorated with intricate figurines of mythological winged beasts. Pete and I are enveloped by the aroma of spring rolls, broccoli beef, shrimp in lobster sauce, and Peking duck. The Golden Dragon is one of San Francisco’s finest Cantonese restaurants. It’s also its most notorious––a reputation that evolved long before the deaths of Terrell Robinson, Alan Chin, and Lester Fong. In 1977, a long-standing feud between two Chinatown gangs––Joe Boys and Wah Ching––boiled over into a botched assassination attempt in this very room. The dispute erupted after the Wah Ching had vandalized the graves of members of the Joe Boys. The surviving Joe Boys descended on the Golden Dragon––a Wah Ching stronghold––seeking vengeance. None of the Wah Ching was injured, but five innocent bystanders were killed and eleven others were hurt. The incident came to be known as the Golden Dragon Massacre. The attendant publicity took a significant toll on the restaurant’s business and Chinatown’s tourist trade. It led to the formation of the SFPD’s Gang Task Force, which has been a model for similar units in other cities.

The dinner crowd is beginning to arrive as Pete and I take our seats in a red booth in the spacious dining room on the ground floor. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily,” Hu tells us in unaccented English. He undoubtedly also speaks several dialects of Chinese. We accept his offer of tea. He quickly motions to a busboy to bring us water. “Would you care for forks?” The clientele is made up mostly of locals, but it also caters to the tourist crowd.

“No thank you,” I say. “Jeff Chin said you might be able to help us.”

The mention of his cousin’s name elicits a wary look followed by a rehearsed smile. “I am always happy to help friends of my cousin.”

Well, if you’re offering. “My name is Mike Daley. This is my brother, Pete. We’re handling the final appeal for Nathan Fineman.”

The smile disappears. “It is my pleasure to meet you,” he lies. “Welcome to our restaurant.”

Ever the consummate host. “We were hoping you would show us where Mr. Fineman met with Mr. Chin’s father.”

Hu purses his lips for an instant. “There is nothing of interest in that room. It has been used as a storage area for many years.”

I’d still like to see it. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we’d appreciate it if you’d let us take a quick look.” I can’t imagine he’s going to make us get a subpoena.

He glances at the line forming at the podium. “This is our busy time. I would be happy to show it to you a little later.”

It seems unlikely that he’ll run upstairs and rearrange the room. I opt for politeness. “Thank you, Mr. Hu. If you have just a moment, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions about what happened that night.”

His eyes dart toward the line and then back to us. He’s savvy enough to understand that it would be unwise to appear unhelpful. There is also the matter of seating his patrons. “It was a long time ago.”

It was also an event that he would prefer to forget. “Please, Mr. Hu?”

He responds with a slight grimace. “Very well.”

“Were you here when the trouble started?”

“No. I left around midnight. Mr. Chin arrived a few minutes before I went home. I asked him to lock up for me after his meeting was concluded.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“Just Mr. Fong.”

I ask him if it was his policy to entrust his business to non-employees.

“Mr. Chin was my uncle and a cousin of the former owners. He dined here regularly. He used the room upstairs for meetings. We always obliged him when he requested access to the restaurant after hours. As family, he was afforded some special privileges. He brought us a substantial amount of business. So did Mr. Fong.”

Sort of like the high rollers in Vegas. They also undoubtedly provided substantial gratuities to the owners and the staff for their service. On to the matters at hand. “Are you aware that your uncle was suspected of engaging in illegal activities?”

The first hint of defensiveness creeps into his voice. “I am not a lawyer, Mr. Daley. Those charges were never proven.”

“Were you familiar with his operations?”

“He had banquets and family celebrations here.”

Not the answer to my question. “Did you know that he was meeting another drug dealer that night?”

“I read about it in the papers.”

It’s another evasive answer. “Did you know about it beforehand?”

He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “My uncle valued his privacy. We respected his wishes. I really must take care of our customers. I will take you upstairs after you enjoy your dinner.”

“Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “It would be my pleasure to order for you. Our chef does an exquisite Peking duck.”

It would be impolite to refuse. “Sounds great.” I hope he can put it together quickly. Despite the lovely surroundings, Pete and I have no time for a leisurely dinner.

I watch him closely as he returns to the podium. He ignores the line that now extends out the door. He picks up the phone, punches a number and glances in our direction as he speaks. He listens intently and nods several times. His expression turns somber. Then he hangs up the phone and begins to seat his patrons.

Pete and I wolf down our five-course feast in twenty minutes. Hu reappears as we’re finishing our Peking duck. “I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Thank you very much. It was superb. We’ll take the check please.”

“That will not be necessary. Your dinner is courtesy of Mr. Chin.”

It’s been a long time since the son of a man who was allegedly murdered by one of my clients bought me dinner. I protest to no avail. “Please express our deepest gratitude.”

“I will. He also asked me to extend his regrets for his abrupt behavior when you met him yesterday. He hopes he did not offend you.”

We accosted him in a parking lot to question him about the man who was convicted of murdering his father. Now he wants to apologize to us? Interesting. “There are no hard feelings.”

“I will inform him.”

“Did you speak to the police officers who secured the scene?”

“Yes. We cooperated fully.”

“Did you know any of them?”

“Yes. Many of the officers who work in the area are regular customers.”

My dad used to say that you can always tell a good restaurant by the number of black-and-whites parked outside. “Do you recall seeing any of them in the restaurant earlier that night?”

“I am afraid not, Mr. Daley.”

“Did you notice anything suspicious in the days leading up to the meeting?”

There’s a hesitation. “No, Mr. Daley.”

I probe for a few more minutes. He has precious little information to share. Finally, I say, “Would you mind showing us the room upstairs?”

He responds with another practiced smile. “Of course, Mr. Daley.”

Way too easy. “Thank you, Mr. Hu.”

* * *

“What was that all about?” Pete asks.

At nine-thirty on Monday night, we’re standing beneath the fire escape from which Nate Fineman fell and broke his back. The only illumination in the alley comes from a single streetlamp that casts an eerie glaze on the heavy fog. If Nate had fallen today, he would have landed in a Dumpster emitting a putrid smell of leftovers from tonight’s dinner.

“Hu was too accommodating,” I say.

“I’m well aware of that. The question is why.”

In addition to giving us a free dinner, he took us for a guided tour of a packed storage room on the third floor where three people––including his uncle––met a violent end. It was jammed full of old kitchen equipment, tables and chairs, sacks of rice, and the remnants of a remodeling project that was finished years ago. He showed us the painted-over window through which Nate leapt to the fire escape. He pointed out the still-functional bathroom down the hall where Nate supposedly planted the gun. Finally, he took us down the narrow stairway that led from the meeting room to the alley. He said it was customary for Chin’s guests to arrive through the back door.

“He wanted to appear cooperative,” I say. “He knows we’ll be back if we think he’s trying to hide something.”

“Why did Jeff Chin buy us dinner?”

I plant my tongue firmly in my cheek. “He’s a generous soul who is trying to appear forthcoming.”

“Yeah right.”

I ask Pete if he thinks Hu was working for Chin’s organization.

“He didn’t strike me as the type who would have been selling drugs on the street. He probably made the restaurant available to Chin whenever he asked. Drug lords have a lot of free time. I’m sure he was getting a nice gratuity for being discreet.”

No doubt. “Did you notice anything about the meeting room?”

“The door opened directly into the hallway leading to the back stairway. It means the murderer––assuming it wasn’t our client––probably came in the back door and left the same way. Presumably, the door would have been guarded unless somebody paid off the security people.”

It’s always helpful to get the impressions of a former cop. “What about the bathroom?”

“It had an old-fashioned toilet with a small tank. There was no cabinet under the sink. It would have been very difficult for Fineman to have hidden a gun.”

CHAPTER 23

NICK THE DICK

Monday, July 13. 10:00 p.m. 5 days, 2 hours, and 1 minute until execution.

Antonio LaTona was born in Palermo more than seven decades ago into a family that cooked on Italian ocean liners. At the age of seven, he was apprenticed to a master art restorer who specialized in churches. He moved to San Francisco as a young man and opened Caffé Sport in the heart of North Beach in 1969. Antonio furnished the two narrow rooms with his own artistic creations. He painted and carved every table and chair, tiled surface, and enameled pot. Majolica tiles and brightly colored paint cover the walls. He brings the same perfectionism to his cuisine. His seafood and handmade Sicilian pastas are covered with carefully selected Italian cheeses, shrimp, scallops, lobster, zucchini, and, most important, garlic.

Over the years, the curmudgeonly Antonio has become a Sicilian version of Seinfeld’s fabled Soup Nazi. His mercurial management style has filtered down to his waiters, who have developed their own reputation for surliness. In fairness to Antonio and his people, it’s all a matter of understanding the context in which the restaurant operates. For more than thirty years, Antonio has created, selected, and prepared the entire menu. The waiters––fellow Sicilians and protective family members––know how much attention he gives to each and every dish. If Antonio can’t find the ingredients or the time on a given evening to prepare a dish on the menu to his demanding standards, the waiters simply tell their patrons it isn’t available. You can never go wrong if you listen to them.

Nick “the Dick” Hanson and I are sitting at his regular table in the corner of Caffé Sport at ten o’clock on Monday night. The diminutive octogenarian’s rubbery face rearranges itself into a wide smile. He’s chewing a prawn on the left side of his mouth as he speaks to me out of the right. “Nice to see you again, Mike,” he croaks in a voice that is somewhere between Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart. He looks a little like Robinson, only he’s considerably thinner. We had no reservation. We got in just the same because Nick isn’t just a regular––he’s an icon who has been patronizing Antonio’s establishment since day one. He may be the only person outside Sicily who truly comprehends the proprietor’s moods.

“Same here, Nick,” I say. I tried to persuade him to meet me at his office over on Columbus Avenue. He wouldn’t hear of it. I just finished my first dinner of the night at the Golden Dragon. If you want to meet with Nick, you have to eat with Nick. Pete got the better end of the deal. He went home to check on his wife and daughter and to make sure his operatives are keeping Rosie’s house under guard. True to his word, Roosevelt arranged for a police officer to keep an eye on me. Antonio wasn’t too happy about the black-and-white parked in the valet zone in front of his restaurant. It won’t be there for long––this dinner will have to be short. It’s late and there is still so much to do.

“You’re looking a little ragged,” Nick says. His meticulous attire is always perfect. I must look like a charity case.

“It’s part of the drill when you’re in the last week of a death penalty appeal.”

“Indeed it is.”

“How’ve you been?” I ask. It’s an essential part of the rite. I have to give him an opportunity to expound upon his latest accomplishments, his medical report, and his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, most of whom work for him.

“Just fine, Mike. I had a little surgery on my knee after I ran the Bay to Breakers. It’s going to be okay. I just started working out at the Bay Club again.”

I find it hard to picture the nattily dressed man sitting in front of me chugging away on a StairMaster at the upscale gym across the street from the Fog City Diner. My spies tell me he’s there four days a week. Nick used to play ball with Joe DiMaggio on the North Beach Playground, and he’s still a remarkable physical specimen. As always, he’s sporting a custom-tailored Brioni business suit with a fresh boutonniere on his lapel. His new toupee is more serviceable than stylish, though still reasonably attractive. It’s closer in hue to his black suit than to the few remaining strands of his natural hair. In traditional San Francisco style, he’s pulled his large cloth napkin up over his chartreuse tie and starched white shirt.

He takes a long drink of the house red wine, then he powers down the remnants of his Scampi Prawns all’Antonio. He looks at the small plate piled high with prawns that he just passed over to me. “Aren’t you going to eat them?”

“I’m not that hungry.”

He points a chubby finger at me. “Your body takes care of itself for the first fifty years. After that, you have to make an effort.” He gulps down his wine and adds, “You need protein.”

I shovel down a few of the prawns. Then he asks our waiter to bring out a platter of Calamari all’Antonio that’s big enough for six. He castigates me until I eat my share. I’m about to explode from my second helping when Nick finally decides it’s time to turn to business. “How’s Nate?”

“Not so good. Putting aside the fact that he’s scheduled to be executed in a week, he’s in a wheelchair and his kidneys are failing.”

“Why the hell are they so hot to execute a dying man?”

“It’s the law.”

“It’s idiotic.” He motions to the waiter to bring him an espresso and a piece of strawberry cheesecake. “I’m trying to get my strength back after my surgery.”

“With cheesecake and coffee?”

“They’re two of the major food groups.”

A few minutes later, it’s time to turn to business. “I understand that you were the PI on the Fineman case.”

“Indeed I was.” His eyes light up. “Mort Goldberg hired me. He was still a real lawyer back then. That was before he decided to become a talking head on TV. What a waste of talent.”

“I had a long talk with him yesterday. He thinks Nate is innocent.”

“Maybe.” He uses his fork as a prop to gesture. “It never made sense to me. Nate was a great lawyer. Not a popular guy, but somebody you’d call if you got in serious trouble. He didn’t need the money. He didn’t want to run a drug ring. The cops went after him because he made them look bad in the Posse case. There’s no way that he killed those people.”

I get the message. “He had some debts.”

“He owed some dough to the Garbage King of Oakland. Big deal. His wife paid it. He didn’t kill three people for the money.”

“Jerry Edwards claims Aronis was going to forgive Nate’s debt if he agreed to blow away his competition.”

The piece of calamari that’s been sticking to his right cheek for the last ten minutes finally falls harmlessly to his plate as his face transforms into a pronounced frown. “Edwards doesn’t know what he’s talking about. If Aronis really wanted to kill those guys, he would have hired a professional hit man. Lawyers are notoriously unreliable killers.”

I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a dig. “Aronis’s ex-wife has a different take.”

“Patty Norman is a nutcase. It was all a setup.”

I always feel like the straight man when I’m talking to him. “By whom?”

“If I knew the answer, Nate would be home playing with his grandchildren.”

I got a similar response from Mort. “We’re trying to prove the cops planted the gun.”

“So did we, but we didn’t get very far. They closed ranks.”

“Do you think it’s possible?”

“Indeed I do. Over the years, I’ve learned that almost anything is possible.” He takes a long drink of his wine. “Unfortunately for you, it will be almost impossible to prove.”

“I hear Aronis isn’t such a solid citizen either.”

“Indeed he is not. He supplemented his garbage business with real estate investments. Some of them went south, so he supplemented them with drug money. He was a small-time drug runner who wanted to break into the big time. He hated Robinson and Chin.”

“Did he know about the meeting at the Golden Dragon?”

“Everybody who was anybody in the drug world knew about it. They were waiting to see how Robinson and Chin would split the pot.”

“You’re saying Aronis had motive?”

“Absolutely.”

“Was he anywhere near Chinatown that night?”

“Absolutely not. He was in Vegas.”

“He could have contracted it out.”

“Anybody could have contracted it out. You have five days to prove it.”

“Did Aronis ever use muscle in his trash business?”

“Indeed he did.”

“Any chance he sent one of his enforcers to the Golden Dragon?”

“There’s a chance.”

“Any idea where we might start to look?”

“Take your pick: San Quentin, Folsom, Pelican Bay, Chino.” He takes a sip of his espresso. “Lots of luck. First, you have no evidence that Aronis sent somebody over there. Second, even if he set it up, your chances of finding the triggerman are nonexistent. Third, the crime scene wasn’t the work of some punk from East Oakland. Some idiot off the street would have killed Nate too.”

“Are you saying somebody was trying to frame Nate from the start?”

“Seems unlikely. There’s no way the killer could have known that Nate was going to jump out the window and go down the fire escape. A more likely scenario is that it was a crime of opportunity.”

“By whom?”

“Somebody who knew how to stage a crime scene. They found a perfect set of prints on the gun that was carefully placed underneath his body to avoid contamination.”

“Does that mean you think it was the cops?”

He arches a bushy gray eyebrow. “It means you’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Why didn’t Aronis take over the San Francisco heroin business after Robinson and Chin were killed?”

“He got pushed out by Marshawn Bryant. He took over Robinson’s business and muscled out Chin.”

“Why haven’t the cops busted him?”

“He’s smart.”

“We talked to him yesterday. He said he was an honest businessman who was nowhere near the Golden Dragon that night.” I’m looking for a reaction.

“He’s a liar. He’s one of the biggest heroin distributors in town.”

“Do you think he’s also a murderer?”

“I couldn’t prove it.”

“Did he know about the meeting at the Golden Dragon?”

“He must have. He was Robinson’s right-hand man.”

“Is there any way of placing him in Chinatown that night?”

“Not likely, Mike.”

“A man named Eugene Tsai told the cops that he saw an African-American man in the alley behind the Golden Dragon. Did you ever talk to him?”

“No, but I talked to his brother, after Eugene was killed. The brother told me that Eugene saw an African-American man in the alley, but he couldn’t identify him. The brother also told me that a woman named Jasmine Luk was in the alley.”

“Did you ever talk to her?”

“Nope. According to my sources, she told the cops that she didn’t see anybody in the alley. She disappeared after Eugene was killed. We tried to find her, but she vaporized.”

And Nate was convicted of capital murder. “Do you think Luk was killed too?”

“Maybe. They never found a body.”

I lay it on the line. “Do you think Bryant was involved in Tsai’s death and Luk’s disappearance?”

“Maybe. We couldn’t prove it.”

Which takes us back to square one. “Lou Cohen recently contacted Tsai’s brother.”

He finishes his espresso. “I know.”

Huh? “How do you know?”

“Because Lou asked me to track him down.”

“You were working for Lou?”

“Indeed I was.”

CHAPTER 24

“IT WAS A VERY BRIEF ASSIGNMENT”

Monday, July 13. 11:30 p.m. 5 days and 31 minutes until execution.

“How long were you working for Lou?” I ask Nick.

“It was a very brief assignment.” He’s powering through his second piece of cheesecake. “He called me a few days before he died. He asked me to get him an address and phone number for Wendell Tsai.”

It explains how Cohen got Wendell’s address and phone number. “Did you talk to Tsai?”

“Nope.”

“Did Lou also ask you to try to find Jasmine Luk?”

“We never got that far.”

“Why didn’t they call Wendell Tsai as a witness at the trial?”

“He had nothing to offer. His brother couldn’t identify anybody in the alley.”

“He could have talked about Luk.”

“She was already long gone. Besides, she told the cops that she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”

Even if we track her down, there is no guarantee that she’ll be willing or able to identify anybody in the alley ten years later. “Do you have any idea where we might find her?”

“Not a clue.”

It may be another dead end. I ask him if he knew anything about the IA investigation.

“Everybody was cleared.”

“Do you think there is any realistic possibility that the cops planted the murder weapon?”

He pulls off the napkin that’s been hanging around his neck. “I don’t know, Mike.”

“Do you think the cops covered for each other?”

“I wouldn’t know. I understand they investigated your father.”

“They did.”

“I read that he was also the last guy who had his hands on the IA file.”

“He was. It doesn’t mean he took it.” I realize I sound defensive as I say it.

“I didn’t say he did. You have to admit, though, that it doesn’t look so good.”

“I know.”

“For what it’s worth, he had a reputation as a solid cop.”

“That’s true.”

“The same can’t be said about his partner at the time.”

“So I’ve heard. Did you get anything on Little Joey?”

“He was a cowboy.”

“Enough of a cowboy that he would have set up Nate?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t get to the Golden Dragon until after the shooting was over.”

“He could have been involved in a cover-up.”

“Be careful. If you make that accusation, it will also implicate your father.”

We sit in silence for a long moment. Our waiter brings over the check. Nick reaches for it, but I pull it away from him. “Dinner is on me,” I say.

“You’re a good man.”

Some people still think so. I take a sip of coffee and send up a final flare. “My brother is stretched a little thin. Any chance you might be willing to help us for a few days?”

“Standard rates?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiles. “Indeed I am.”

“Do you know anybody else who spoke to Jasmine Luk?”

“Just Carl Yee.”

What? “The undercover cop?”

He corrects me. “The retired undercover cop. He went with Roosevelt when he interviewed Luk.”

Neither Yee nor Roosevelt mentioned it.

CHAPTER 25

“THAT’S WHY YOU CALLED AT THIS HOUR?”

Tuesday, July 14. 12:45 a.m. 4 days, 23 hours, and 16 minutes until execution.

Roosevelt answers his cell phone on the first ring. “Is something wrong at home?”

“No,” I say.

“Is Grace okay?” The concern in his voice is genuine.

“Yes.” I’m trying to juggle my cell phone, a bottle of water, and the steering wheel. I’m heading north on Doyle Drive toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “I just talked to Nick Hanson. He said Carl Yee was with you when you talked to Jasmine Luk.”

“That’s why you called at this hour?”

“My client has an appointment with a needle in four days.”

“I brought Carl along to interpret, but Luk spoke English.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“It was irrelevant.”

“She saw an African-American man in the alley running away from the crime scene.”

“No she didn’t.”

“She couldn’t have missed him. She was standing next to Eugene Tsai.”

“Evidently she did.”

“She lied to you because she was scared.”

“I had to accept what she told me.”

“How do you know that she wasn’t killed like Tsai?”

There’s a pause. “I don’t.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need more from you, Roosevelt. She may be the key to proving that an innocent man is going to be executed on Sunday.”

I hear him take a deep breath. “She outran a full-blown police dragnet. We finally concluded that she was an illegal alien who was afraid she’d be deported if she came forward. Obviously, we were disappointed that we couldn’t find her.”

So are we.

* * *

“It’s 1:00 a.m.,” Yee snaps.

“I knew you’d be up,” I say. I’m paying you to be awake and guarding Wendell Tsai at this hour.

“Where are you?”

“The Golden Gate Bridge. Where are you?”

“Tsai’s room.”

Right where he’s supposed to be. “All quiet on the western front?”

“Yep.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Somebody was watching Tsai at Brandy Ho’s tonight. Middle-aged Asian male. Dark hair. Medium build.”

“That covers half of Chinatown.”

“I know.”

“I understand you talked to a witness named Jasmine Luk.”

“I did.”

“I’m told she was with Eugene Tsai on the night of the shootings.”

“She was.”

“And that she saw an African-American man running through the alley.”

“Nope.”

“Tsai’s brother said she saw him.”

“That isn’t what she told me.”

Damn it. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“She said she didn’t see anything.”

“You told me you weren’t involved in the Fineman case.”

“I wasn’t. Roosevelt asked me to come along to interpret. It turned out that Luk spoke English. She said she didn’t see anybody in the alley. That’s all I know.”

It’s consistent with Roosevelt’s version. “Then why did she leave town?”

“She was friends with Eugene. She got scared.”

“Didn’t you offer her protection?”

“Yep. She bolted anyway. May have been here illegally.”

“Did she have any relatives or friends in the area?”

“She had an aunt in Oakland. The aunt didn’t know where she went.”

Or the aunt was trying to protect her. “Did you consider the possibility that the aunt withheld information?”

“Yep.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Do you recall the aunt’s name?”

“Nope.”

If she’s out there, we’ll find her.

* * *

A moment later, I hit the speed dial on my cell phone. I’ve already pissed off Roosevelt and Yee. I might as well add one more name to the list. My night can’t possibly get any worse and I can’t worry about hurt feelings.

“Jerry Edwards,” the tired voice answers.

“It’s Mike Daley.”

The Chronicle’s finest coughs ferociously. “Did you find the file?”

“No. Did you?”

“Of course not. Why the hell are you calling at this hour?”

You called me at the same time last night. “Does the name Jasmine Luk mean anything to you?”

“Supposedly she was with Eugene Tsai in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.”

“Why didn’t you mention her when we talked?”

“She never testified.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Nope.”

“Eugene Tsai saw an African-American man in the alley just after the shooting stopped. So did she.”

“That isn’t what she told the cops.”

“Nick Hanson thinks she lied.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

I can do without the sarcastic tone. “Maybe we can get her to change her story.”

“You’ll have to find her first.”

“I understand she may have been an illegal alien.”

“I heard the same thing.”

“Is that why she disappeared?”

“Could be. It may also have had something to do with the fact that her friend Eugene got stabbed a dozen times after word got out that he had talked to the cops.”

True enough. “Evidently, she had an aunt in Oakland.”

“She did.”

“Did you ever try to track her down?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have a name?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“The knowledge that you’ve fulfilled your duties of journalistic integrity.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’ll give you an exclusive interview with my client.” I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. It may be the fastest way to find Luk’s aunt. As a practical matter, I can always renege on the deal.

“The aunt’s name was Amanda Wong. She ran a print shop in Oakland.”

If she’s out there, we’ll find her. “I’ll make the arrangements for the interview,” I say.

* * *

“This case is a nightmare,” Rosie says. She’s sitting on her sofa at one-thirty on Tuesday morning. The combination of stress and fatigue is starting to take its toll. She’s eating leftover pizza as she proofreads a draft of yet another habeas petition. In a conspicuous show of firepower, a Larkspur squad car is sitting in her driveway. An unmarked SFPD cruiser is in the alley. One of Pete’s best operatives is in a car down the block next to the plainclothes cop who Roosevelt assigned to follow me. A smaller crew has assembled around the corner in front of Jake’s house. “We’re living on Domino’s and working on a case we can’t win in a house that’s an armed fortress––without a kitchen. This is insane.”

I’m sitting at the opposite end of her couch. A flip response will not play well. “It’s the best we can do for now.”

“I want to find the guy who took that picture. We can’t do it sitting here.”

“We aren’t going to play cops and robbers. Roosevelt will find him.”

“He sure as hell better. I hate this.”

“So do I.

Sylvia walks in from the kitchen, a heavy frying pan in her right hand. “How much longer are we going to be prisoners in this house?”

“Less than a week,” I tell her.

“And if you actually manage to get a stay of the execution?”

“We’ll figure it out when the time comes.” Maybe we’ll start digging a moat.

“What if I want to go to the store?”

“The cops will escort you.”

“We’re giving in to the bad guys.”

“It’s better to play it safe.”

“And if Grace wants to see Jake?”

Rosie answers her. “We’ll talk to the cops about it.”

“She isn’t going to like it.”

“I know.”

Sylvia swings the pan ominously. “If anybody tries anything, I’ll nail him.”

It isn’t an entirely idle threat. Sylvia knocked a man unconscious when he tried to break into her house about ten years ago. It made the Mission District paper and got her a little airtime on Channel Seven. Nobody’s tried it again.

I keep my voice even. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.”

My ex-mother-in-law gives me a defiant look. “Bring them on.”

Rosie shakes her head in bemused disbelief. “We all feel much safer now, Mama.”

Sylvia smiles triumphantly. “In that case, I’m going to bed.” She makes a dramatic display of swinging the lethal pan as she walks down the hall toward Grace’s bedroom.

I turn back to Rosie. “I wouldn’t mess with her.”

“Neither would I.”

“Are you all right?”

She frowns. “Somebody is taking pictures of our daughter and smashing the windows of our cars. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. I’m most definitely not all right.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Her eyes flash. “Remind me to rip your lungs out the next time you bring in a last-minute death penalty appeal.”

“Deal.” I take her hand. “Do you want to withdraw?”

She responds with the resolute expression that I’ve found intimidating and irresistible for the last twenty years. “No, I want to find out what really happened at the Golden Dragon. Somebody is going to a lot of trouble to try to keep us from doing that. I want to know why.”

“Maybe we should pick another battle, Rosie.

“We’re taking this one to the finish, Mike.”

That’s the end of the discussion.

She closes the brief. “We’ll file with the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit at nine o’clock. We’ll have papers ready to go to the U.S. Supremes if we’re rejected.”

“What are we arguing this time?”

“That the Sodium Pentothal doesn’t always work properly, which could lead to excruciating pain. Bottom line: death by lethal injection is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Is there any hope they’ll buy it?”

“A little. There are some new studies suggesting that the Sodium Pentothal doesn’t always make the defendant lose consciousness completely. We’re also going to claim that it’s illegal to kill a dying man. We’ll argue that he’s entitled to reasonable medical care.”

“Our theory is that by killing him, they’re depriving him of medical attention?”

“Essentially, yes. Unfortunately, there isn’t any case law on point.”

It’s a creative, albeit somewhat circular argument.

“Realistically,” she says, “our appeals are going to be long shots unless we can find some new evidence or the courts decide they’re in the mood to make some new law.”

“Not likely.”

“Did you and Nick have a good dinner?”

“Indeed we did.”

“Knock it off.” She listens attentively as I fill her in, then she pronounces her judgment. “There’s nothing that will get us a stay.”

“What about Tsai’s claim that his brother saw an African-American man in the alley that night?”

“There was no positive ID and it’s uncorroborated hearsay.”

“We’ll have to try.”

“We will. It doesn’t prove freestanding innocence by itself.”

“We’ll also try to find Jasmine Luk.”

She glances at her watch. “Where are you planning to start?”

I’m going to try to track down Luk’s aunt. Then I’m going to meet with Alex Aronis and his ex-wife.”

Rosie nods. “It would help if we could place Bryant in the alley that night.”

The unyielding voice of reality. “There are only about a hundred thousand African-American men in the Bay Area who fit his description.” I look around her silent living room. “How is Grace?”

“She’s more worried that she won’t be able to spend time with Jake than she is about getting herself killed. I talked to Jake’s parents. I suggested that their son may want to steer clear of our house for a few days. Maybe you can explain the gravity of the situation to our daughter. I can’t make her listen.”

“She’s fourteen, Rosie. She’s just doing her job.”

“Believe me, I know. Nowadays, I get a lot more out of Tommy than I do from her.”

“That’s what being the parent of a teenager is all about.”

“I’m trying to keep things low-key. If all else fails, we could ground her––it’s for her own good.” She yawns. “She thought she heard somebody outside her window about an hour ago. The cops descended upon our backyard with everything they had.”

“Did they find anything?”

“My neighbor’s kitten.”

“I trust they let her go with just a warning?”

“They did.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Nobody is going to intimidate us.” A sideways grin crosses her face. “Besides, if anybody tries something funny, they’ll end up on the business end of my mother’s frying pan.”

CHAPTER 26

“SHE WAS SCARED”

Tuesday, July 14. 9:30 a.m. 4 days, 14 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

It doesn’t take long for Pete to track down Jasmine Luk’s aunt. Sunshine Printing is a high-tech operation housed in a forties-era building on Webster Street in Oakland’s Chinatown. It publishes Chinese-language phone directories, menus, and coupons for the local businesses. A dozen employees are manning state-of-the-art computers and noisy, industrial-strength printers. The smell of photocopier ink hangs in the cold, dry air.

The petite woman with the short gray hair eyes me suspiciously from behind the counter. She strikes me as the sort who hasn’t missed a day of work or taken a vacation in forty years. She’s wearing a tidy blue house dress. Her reading glasses hang from a simple gold chain. I’d guess she’s in her sixties, from the depth of the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes.

“How may I help you?” she shouts over the sound of the machines.

I extend a hand. “My name is Mike Daley. This is my brother, Pete. We’re looking for the owner.”

“I’m Amanda Wong.”

I look around. “How long have you been in business?”

Her voice fills with pride. “My family started this business seventy-five years ago.”

Oakland’s crowded Chinatown is a modest step cousin to its more famous counterpart across the bay. The working-class community is a combination of mom-and-pop businesses, restaurants, low-rise tenements, and modern apartment buildings, all within a few blocks of the 880 Freeway. Except for the computers and a fresh coat of bright blue paint, Sunshine Printing probably hasn’t changed much since World War II. It fends off competition from larger, national operations by focusing on the needs of the Chinese-speaking community.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” she asks in perfect English. She was giving instructions to her staff in Chinese when we walked in.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

A burly young man appears from behind a row of printers. He surveys the situation and responds with protectiveness. “Is there a problem, Mother?”

She touches his arm. “Let me handle this, George.”

The dutiful son takes the hint and returns to the printers. The fact that she spoke to him in English suggests she has nothing to hide. In all likelihood, it also means she has nothing useful to tell us.

I spot a collection jar packed with bills on the counter. A handwritten note in English and Chinese says that an effort is under way to raise money for medical treatment for the girl whose photo is taped to the jar. I pull a twenty from my wallet and stuff it inside. It’s a good faith gesture of concern and an attempt to curry favor.

I get the grateful nod from Amanda that I was hoping for. She reminds me of Sylvia. “That’s very kind of you. Now, what can I do for you?”

“We represent Nathan Fineman.”

“I recognized you. I saw you on TV last night.”

So much for the element of surprise. “We were hoping you might be able to help us locate a woman named Jasmine Luk. We understand she was your niece.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Actually, she was my great-niece.”

I gingerly ask, “When was the last time you saw her?”

Her eyes dart toward Pete, and then back to me. “Why do you want to know?”

“We think she may have some information about the Fineman case.”

Her lips form a small ball as she measures her words. “I can’t help you.”

“Could you tell us the last time you saw her?”

She absentmindedly fidgets with the ballpoint pen that she’s been clutching since we arrived. “Almost ten years ago.”

There’s no way to ask the next question delicately. “Do you know if she’s still alive?”

Her eyes fill with a pronounced sadness. “I’m not sure, Mr. Daley.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“What can you tell us about her?”

“Jasmine was a beautiful, intelligent girl who was born in China. She was only twelve when we brought her to America with her mother.”

“And her father?”

“He never made it here.” She doesn’t elaborate. “Jasmine and her mother stayed with me for a short time when they first arrived. Then they moved to San Francisco next door to my cousins. Jasmine’s mother worked at my cousin’s grocery store on Stockton Street. Jasmine picked up English quickly.”

“Can we talk to her mother?”

“No. She took sick shortly after Jasmine graduated from high school. She passed away a few months later.”

“How about your cousins?”

“I’m afraid they’re gone too, Mr. Daley.”

“I’m so sorry. Did Jasmine move in with your cousins after her mother passed away?”

“No, she kept the apartment. We offered to help her with the rent, but she was very independent. She found a job at the Chinese Hospital and took classes at State. She wanted to be a nurse.”

“We understand she knew a man named Eugene Tsai.”

“They worked together at the hospital.” She anticipates my next question and quickly adds, “They were just friends.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No. Jasmine was more interested in school than boys. She spent most of her time working and studying.”

I start fishing. “We’ve been told that her apartment was across the alley from the Golden Dragon Restaurant.”

“It was.”

“We understand she walked home with Eugene on the night that three people were killed at the restaurant.”

“She did.”

“We’ve also been told that they saw an African-American man in the alley who may have been involved in the shootings at the restaurant.”

Her tone turns more adamant. “She didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“The police asked her about it. She told me that she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”

“We understand she left the area shortly after the events at the restaurant.”

“Jasmine left after Eugene was killed. She was scared. I don’t blame her. Somebody must have threatened her.”

“Who?”

“She never told me.”

Or you won’t tell us. “Any idea where she went?”

There is a hesitation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley.”

“Any guesses?”

“We had some cousins back in China.”

“How would she have gotten there?”

“She was very resourceful.”

It will be almost impossible to find her there. “Do you still keep in touch with the cousins?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley. I was terribly upset when she left. We hired a private investigator to try to find her. He couldn’t.”

“Would you mind giving us the name of the investigator?”

“He’s dead, Mr. Daley.”

I try another angle. “The police told us that there were problems with Jasmine’s papers.”

She tenses. “Jasmine came into this country legally. You can look up the records.”

We will. “Was she a U.S. citizen?”

“No.”

“Did she have any other relatives in the Bay Area?”

“Just my cousins in San Francisco.”

“Our client is scheduled to be executed on Sunday. Do you have any idea where we might find her?”

There is a quiver in her voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Daley.”

“We can protect her.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

Pete leans across the counter and plays a hunch. “Ms. Wong, has anybody else been asking about her lately?”

Her thin lips turn down. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He pushes a little harder. “Did somebody threaten you?”

“No.”

“We can protect you too.”

She’s now visibly agitated. “That won’t be necessary.”

He slides a business card toward her. “If anybody asks about her, would you mind giving me a call?”

She stares at the card for a long moment. “Yes.”

* * *

“That didn’t help,” I say to Pete. We’re standing in front of his rented white Ford Taurus, which is parked around the corner from Sunshine Printing.

“You weren’t paying attention,” he says.

“You think she knows where her great-niece is?”

“I think she knows more than she told us.”

“Then why didn’t she say something?”

“Somebody got to her, Mick. Or maybe she was trying to protect her great-niece.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a hunch.”

Rosie believes Pete is endowed with supernatural powers. In my opinion, he’s just an astute observer of human nature. “How do we find out if you’re right?”

“Let me watch her.”

“We have only four days until the execution. I need you to watch Bryant.”

“I’ll have somebody else take care of him.”

“You’re supposed to be helping Nick Hanson look for witnesses in Chinatown.”

“Nick can take care of it himself. Give me twenty-four hours.”

“You aren’t going to do anything illegal, are you?”

He responds with a crooked smile. “Of course not, Mick. That would be wrong.”

CHAPTER 27

“I PREFER TO THINK OF THEM AS UNSUBSTANTIATED AND BASELESS ACCUSATIONS”

Tuesday, July 14. 10:02 a.m. 4 days, 13 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

“Nice place you have here,” I say to Alex Aronis. I’m trying to sound reasonably genuine.

“Thanks, Mr. Daley.” The garbage king of the East Bay is a big, gregarious man who once played offensive line at Cal. He now leads cheers on the sidelines at the football games. His wide face, flat nose, full head of gray hair, and enormous jowls evoke a grandfatherly air.

The world headquarters of East Bay Scavenger Service is on the twentieth floor of one of several nondescript steel-girder office towers that sprang up in downtown Oakland in the eighties and nineties. The new buildings obliterated much of the character of the once-thriving shopping and business district adjacent to Lake Merritt, an urban oasis for over a century. Entire blocks have been bulldozed to make way for hermetically sealed office towers that are surrounded by asphalt parking lots.

“It’s Mike,” I tell him.

He extends an enormous paw. “Alex. “You a Cal guy?”

“You bet.” It couldn’t hurt to soften him up with a little rah-rah.

“Good man, buddy.”

I’m always leery of people who pepper their speech with words such as buddy and pal. “Go Bears,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

“Go Bears.”

I’m as much of an Old Blue as the next guy, but I’m relieved when he doesn’t break into a rousing rendition of “Sons of California.” I sit back in my chair and admire his expansive office—a testimonial to trash collection, sports, and himself. The walls are lined with photos of Aronis with Reggie Jackson, José Canseco, Mark McGwire, Tony La Russa, Billy Beane, and Al Davis. His immaculate mahogany desk is reserved for pictures of his two sons and six grandchildren. Conspicuously absent are shots of his ex-wife. Also missing are photos of his father and grandfather, who built the company he inherited.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask. It won’t take much to get him started. He’s a talker.

“Since I was a kid, Mike.” He looks like a basset hound trying to please. “My family is the living embodiment of the American Dream. My great-grandfather emigrated from Greece. He started this company in the early part of the last century. He ran it for fifty years, then my grandfather took over. My dad followed him. I’m an only child. It was a foregone conclusion that I would run the business. Both of my kids work here too.”

Putting aside the smarmy clichés and the jingoism, the essence of the message is probably true. “I take it you grew up around here?”

“In Piedmont. I still live there.”

The leafy enclave on the north side of Lake Merritt became a separately incorporated municipality in 1907 when its wealthy residents decided they didn’t want to fraternize with the common folk in Oakland and Berkeley. By the 1920s, it had more millionaires per capita than any other city in America. The affluent burg still maintains its own schools, firefighters, and police force. Though most of the original estates have been subdivided, it still boasts some of the most expensive homes in the Bay Area.

I resist the temptation to ask him if his company sells heroin to the students at Piedmont High. I look at the fully stocked wet bar and the polished conference table. I nod with feigned awe toward the life-size portrait of himself that he’s had mounted on the wall opposite the flat-screen TV. “When did you move into this office?”

“Shortly after my father died, about fifteen years ago.”

“So he ran the business from the garage?”

“Yeah. He always said it was important to keep an eye on things. Nowadays, we have too many employees to run the operation from there.” He winks. “Besides, my kids like to work in more pleasant surroundings––if you know what I mean.”

I smile. People who inherit their businesses frequently don’t like to get their fingernails dirty.

He’s still talking. “In order to remain competitive in the new millennium, I try to focus on strategic goals and new markets. I think it’s important to do some forward thinking. Since I took over management of the company, most of our growth has come from branching out into nonconventional areas.”

I wonder if he’s referring to the sale of heroin. He sure talks a good game. I’ll bet he likes to quote pithy articles from airplane magazines. “Ever thought about selling the company?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “I have no intention of retiring, Mike. I think it’s important for my children to work hard and develop a sense of personal responsibility.”

It’s a refreshingly old-fashioned sentiment––even if it’s complete crap. I sometimes wonder how my dad would have reacted if I’d told him I wanted to become a cop. It probably would have killed him on the spot. I don’t have time to reminisce. “We’re representing Nate Fineman.”

“I know.” He pours himself a Perrier. “Nate was one helluva lawyer. I still can’t believe he killed those people.”

His admiration seems genuine enough—for now. “How well did you know him?”

“Pretty well. We had him on retainer. He helped us with several cases.”

“Criminal cases?”

“I prefer to think of them as unsubstantiated and baseless accusations.”

So do all of my clients. “What were the charges?”

He dismisses me with the back of his huge hand. “People in the garbage business get hit with bogus claims all the time. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they’re completely false.”

And every once in a while, they turn out to be true. I try again. “What were the charges?”

His jowls quiver as he starts shaking his head again. “You name it, pal: money laundering; check kiting; financial fraud; tax evasion; payoffs; kickbacks; intimidation. Once they tried to get me for trying to hire somebody to kill someone. That was a bunch of crap.”

“How about drug dealing?”

“That’s more recent and equally baseless.”

Of course. “I take it nothing was ever proven?”

“None of the cases ever got to trial. The charges were bogus and Nate was an excellent lawyer.”

Clients judge defense attorneys by a single criterion: whether we get them off. “I understand you’re currently under investigation by the Alameda County DA.”

“More crap, bud. They’re saying I tried to buy off a couple of members of the Oakland City Council. I make plenty of money without doing that kind of stuff. Besides, they’ll never be able to prove it.”

To guys like Aronis, you haven’t done anything wrong until somebody proves it beyond a reasonable doubt in court, they lead you off to San Quentin, and your appeals are exhausted. “I understand you’re also a real estate entrepreneur.”

“You bet.” His chest pumps out as he glances at a large schematic drawing of a condo complex in Aspen. “It’s like playing Monopoly with real money.”

I wouldn’t know. “Nate told us that he invested in one of your projects in Vail.”

“He did.” He’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t volunteer any information.

“He almost defaulted, didn’t he?”

“He paid his debt. That was the end of it.”

Not quite. “We heard you had to lean on him.”

“We had a couple of telephone conversations. Guys like Nate can’t be intimidated.”

“I understand Nate’s wife wasn’t happy about the deal.”

The semi-permanent frat-boy smile finally disappears. “She paid it just the same.”

“Do you know anything about the events at the Golden Dragon?”

“Just what I’ve read in the papers.” He quickly adds, “I was in Las Vegas that night.”

“Did you know about the meeting beforehand?”

He laughs a little too hard. “Are you kidding? Guys like Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin didn’t consult me about their business operations.”

“There aren’t a lot of secrets,” I observe.

“I’m not in the loop, I guess.”

I ask him if he ever met Marshawn Bryant.

“I’ve known him for years. He managed the build-out of these offices. He’s an excellent contractor.”

It’s a connection. I didn’t realize they had a long-standing professional relationship. “Was he working for Robinson when you first met?”

“Yes. Terrell was one helluva contractor.”

Evidently, he was also one helluva heroin dealer. “Did you know that he was also in the drug business?”

He tries to impress me with a solemn nod. “Not until it all came out during Nate’s trial.”

He’s lying. “You know that Bryant took over Robinson’s contracting business.”

“Of course.”

“Some people whose opinions I respect think he also took over Robinson’s drug distribution operation.” They also think you tried.

He shakes his head emphatically. “Can’t help you there, bud. I don’t know anything about it.”

On to the main event. “I understand you were married to a woman named Patty Norman.”

“I was. We both grew up in Piedmont. Her family was in the cement business. Our parents were friends.”

“How long were you married?”

“Eighteen challenging years.”

“I’ve been reading a lot about you in the papers the last couple of days. Your ex-wife has made some serious accusations.”

The last vestiges of gregariousness disappear. “Patty is a frustrated, angry woman who needs to move on with her life.”

“What caused the breakup?”

“We grew apart. It happens.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. “Nate tells me you had her committed to rehab.”

“I had no choice. Her drinking got out of control. It was very difficult for all of us––especially the kids.”

“She claimed you hired somebody to take out Robinson and Chin.”

He flashes an incredulous look. “Absolutely false. It’s ridiculous. It’s a last-ditch attempt to smear my name. I thought she had finally put the past behind her when she opened the bookstore––now she pulls this stunt. I’m thinking of bringing legal action against her for slander.”

“And her insinuation that you’re involved in the drug business too?”

“Also absolutely false. I’ve helped set up several drug-education programs here in the East Bay. Our company has mandatory drug testing for our employees that’s far more rigorous than the steroid-testing program in professional baseball. I’ve had offers to sell this company that run into nine figures. I don’t need to do anything illegal to make big money.”

Forgive me if I’m skeptical. “So you’ve never been convicted of a crime?”

“Not even a parking ticket.”

“How about your employees?”

He pushes out a derisive sigh. “We’re in the garbage collection business, Mike. We can’t afford to hire people with doctorates from Stanford. We have a firm policy that we terminate any employee who is convicted of a crime––no questions, no discussion.”

“Have you ever been sued in a civil case?”

“Everybody gets sued. It’s a cost of doing business.”

That much is true. I’m fishing for somebody with a grudge who might be willing to talk to us. “Have you ever lost one?”

“What does that have to do with your case?”

“Nothing. I was just curious if Nate ever lost a civil case for you.”

“Nope. That’s why we hired him—he won.”

Yes, he did. It also gives me an idea.

* * *

“I have a hunch about Aronis,” I tell Rosie. My cell phone is plastered against my ear. The sun is hitting my face as I walk down Franklin Street in downtown Oakland, toward the lot where I left my rental car. “Let’s see if we can find somebody who might be willing to give us some inside skinny about his organization.”

Her voice is uplifted. “You’re looking for a snitch?”

I might have used a slightly more diplomatic term. “Yeah.”

“That would rule out Aronis’s children.” She loves this stuff.

“It doesn’t rule out former employees. Aronis said his company has been sued a couple of times. Let’s check the filings against East Bay Scavenger to see if any employees were named. Maybe somebody got fired and has a grudge. We should also cross-reference the names of the former employees against the inmate rosters at some of California’s nastier prisons.”

“Why would they talk to us?”

“Have you ever known an inmate who wouldn’t talk to a defense lawyer?”

“We can’t swap legal services for testimony.”

“There’s nothing that would prevent us from talking to a potential new witness.”

“Right, Mike.”

I switch gears. “Did you get our papers filed?”

“Yes. According to my sources at the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit, the current betting is that the courts aren’t crazy about the argument that death by legal injection is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“We’ll see. Did you hear anything from Dr. Death about the missing file?”

“He hasn’t found it, but he sent over a sworn statement from Fitz describing its contents. Bottom line: Internal Affairs found no evidence of any wrongdoing. For the record, everybody was cleared.”

Big surprise. “Did you hear anything from Nick Hanson?”

“He’s scouring Chinatown for leads on Jasmine Luk.”

The law-abiding citizens of Chinatown are being subjected to a full frontal attack from Nick the Dick and his offspring.

“Where are you going next?” Rosie asks.

“To find Patty Norman. I want to see how her story lines up with her ex-husband’s.”

CHAPTER 28

“HE WAS LOOKING FOR

SOMEBODY TO HANDLE

A ‘DELICATE MATTER’ ”

Tuesday, July 14. 12:37 p.m. 4 days, 11 hours, and 24 minutes until execution.

I extend a hand to Aronis’s ex-wife. “I’m Mike Daley.”

Patty Norman responds with a firm handshake and a feisty attitude. “I know who you are. What took you so long? I thought you’d be here two days ago.”

She’s sitting behind the counter of her tiny bookstore in downtown Petaluma, a bucolic burg about thirty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Its main drag, Kentucky Street, looks much the same as it did fifty years ago, except the feed stores have given way to boutiques, restaurants, and a popular multi-plex movie house.

When I opened the door to Iron Woman Books, I expected to find a meek librarian-type wearing a cable-knit sweater. Instead, I found a statuesque brunette who stands six-two and looks as if she could do laps around people half her age. Her long brown hair cascades down her back. Her skin is creamy. Her trim figure has the toned muscles of a professional athlete.

Iron Woman Books is squeezed inside a tight storefront where the floor-to-ceiling stacks are jammed with an eclectic assortment of new and used volumes emphasizing women’s issues, physical fitness, and new age topics. Somehow, she’s managed to fend off the chain stores in the vicinity. The walls are covered with photos of Patty as she’s finishing various grueling triathlons all over the world. In a less than modest attempt at self-promotion, her window display has a poster of her recently released self-published memoir, the cover of which shows her arms upraised as she finishes the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii last year.

“I’d like to buy a copy of your book,” I tell her.

She sits up taller. “You’d like to talk about the Fineman case.”

“That too. Can I still buy a book?”

She flashes a charismatic smile. “Of course.”

“Will you sign it for me?”

“Absolutely. How would you like it inscribed?”

It wouldn’t be a good idea to ask her to write a note to Nate. I hand her the cash and say, “To Mike and Rosie.” She signs a copy and gives it to me. “What made you decide to write a memoir?”

Her expression turns thoughtful. “I had something to say to women in abusive relationships.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t take any crap from anybody.”

“Good advice. I understand you went through some hard times with your ex-husband.”

“I did. After what Alex and your client put me through, it’s a miracle that I’m here. Doing triathlons is cathartic. Writing the book was therapeutic.”

“Tell me about your ex-husband.”

“He’s an asshole.” Her long hair moves rhythmically as she talks. “It’s a wonder our marriage lasted as long as it did. He made my life a living hell. I should have left him before things got out of hand.”

She certainly seems willing to sling arrows at her ex. Hell, she wrote an entire book about it. My goal is to keep her talking long enough to see if she’ll reveal anything that we can use. “What caused the breakup?” I ask.

“How much time do you have?”

“I’m not in any rush.” Although I have a client who’s scheduled to die in four days.

“He was possessive and jealous. You can add manipulative and mean-spirited to the list. He cheated. He lied. He was abusive to the kids. Do you want more?”

“I get the idea.”

“I’m not sure you do. When my father lost his business, I lost my job and my mother had a nervous breakdown. Alex’s idea of being supportive meant having an affair with his secretary. A divorce wasn’t enough. He wasn’t satisfied until he had me locked up. The truly sick part is that he seemed to enjoy it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Your client wasn’t any better. He came up with the idea of having me put away. I was dealing with depression and alcoholism when he hired a couple of male hookers to flirt with me so they could get some compromising photos. How low can you get? Compared to Nate Fineman, Alex’s divorce lawyer was Mother Teresa.”

“You seem to be doing okay nowadays.”

“I am. I’m proud of this store. It’s helped me regain my dignity. It’s a meeting place for people who are trying to work their way through destructive relationships. I’m donating the profits from my book to the Sonoma County Women’s Shelter.”

“That’s very generous.”

“There’s more to life than money.”

Tell me about it. “Do you have any contact with your children?”

“A little. Alex did everything he could to turn them against me. He convinced them that I was a drunk and an unfit mother. He took them into his business. He pays them a lot of money—in part to keep them away from me.” She exhales heavily. “Despite his influence, they’ve turned out pretty well. I always see them on Mother’s Day. I’m proud of them. I just wish I could have had a bigger part in their lives.”

I genuinely feel for her. “I understand your ex was involved in the distribution of heroin in the East Bay.”

There is no hesitation. “He still is. I’ve been waiting for the cops to nail him for years.”

“I talked to him earlier today. He denied any involvement in the drug business.”

“What did you expect? He’s an accomplished liar.”

I need to push her. “He’s never been convicted.”

“He’s always hired good lawyers––especially your client.”

“How do you know that he’s still involved in the drug business?”

“Money and power are like drugs to him.”

“Jerry Edwards claims you told him that your ex was looking to hire somebody to take out Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin at the Golden Dragon.”

“That’s true. It was before our marriage really went to hell and we were still on reasonably civil terms.”

“Didn’t it bother you?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you do something about it?”

She gives me an incredulous look. “What was I supposed to do? Call the cops and tell them my husband was going to hire a hit man to take out two competing drug dealers?” She pauses to regain her composure. “In that respect, maybe I was part of the problem too. I could have done something to stop him. I’m not especially proud of it.”

“Exactly what did he tell you?”

“He said he was looking for somebody to handle a ‘delicate matter.’”

“I take it that was a euphemism for committing a crime?”

“A murder.”

I stand corrected. “Are you saying he killed three people?”

“Absolutely not.” She laughs derisively. “He never would have done it himself. Alex hates to get his hands dirty.”

“But he was prepared to pay somebody else to do it?”

“You bet.”

“That’s a very serious accusation.”

“It was a serious matter.” Her voice fills with resignation. “You’ll never be able to prove it. Alex was very good at covering his tracks.”

“Why did he come to you for the name of a hit man?”

“His contacts in organized crime weren’t interested. He was looking for someone in disorganized crime––punks, hoodlums, and thugs.”

Not unlike most of the clientele of Fernandez and Daley.

“I worked for my father’s cement business where I met some pretty marginal characters. I knew some people who were willing to do anything for the right price.”

“But you didn’t help him?”

“Of course not. I told Alex that I wasn’t interested in getting involved in some half-baked murder-for-hire scheme.”

“And that was that?”

“Not entirely. He told me that he was going to talk to your client about working out an arrangement.”

“What sort?”

“He didn’t say, but reading between the lines, it was clear to me that he intended to talk to him about killing Robinson and Chin.”

“How much was he willing to pay for it?”

“A million dollars.”

“Was he serious?”

“Alex never joked about money.”

She’s clearly prepared to implicate her ex-husband, but it’s still a decidedly mixed bag for us. We could use her to show that Aronis had motive, money, and a propensity for murder. Unfortunately, she’s also likely to further implicate Nate—unless we can show that Aronis hired somebody else. We’ll also have to deal with significant credibility issues. Dr. Death will undoubtedly paint her as a bitter alcoholic out to get her ex-husband. Ultimately, it will be Alex’s word against hers.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” I ask.

The pride in her eyes is evident as she looks around her store. “I finally thought it was time to clear the air.”

“This isn’t just some cheap publicity stunt to sell books?”

“I wrote a self-published memoir with a limited audience. All the free publicity in the world isn’t going to put it on the New York Times list.”

“Would you be willing to testify about what you just told me?”

“Sure. How would that help you?”

It might not. “It raises the possibility that he paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin.”

“I will also have to testify that he was going to hire your client to do it.”

It’s a risk we may have to take. “We’ll try to show that he paid somebody else.”

“Lots of luck.” Her eyes narrow. “More important, why in God’s name would I want to help you?”

That’s a more difficult question. “Because you strike me as someone who is interested in the truth.”

This elicits a sarcastic glare. “You lawyers are completely full of crap, aren’t you?”

For the most part. “You also seem more interested in justice than seeing an innocent man put to death––even if his behavior toward you was abhorrent.”

She quickly corrects me. “I didn’t say your client was innocent.”

“Does that mean you think he did it?”

“I don’t know.”

I have only one arrow left in my quiver. “It may be an opportunity to nail your ex-husband.”

She ponders the possibility for an interminable moment before the corner of her mouth turns up into a wicked smile. “I think we might be able to work something out.”

Never underestimate the motivational value of revenge.

CHAPTER 29

“HE’S AT SAN QUENTIN”

Tuesday, July 14. 2:27 p.m. 4 days, 9 hours, and 34 minutes until execution.

“Where are you?” Rosie asks.

“On my way to the office,” I tell her. “Is everything calm at home?”

There’s an edge to her voice. “My mother called and said Grace, Tommy, and Jake are watching Netflix.”

“That’s fine. Anything out of the ordinary?”

I can hear the exasperation in her tone. “My house is surrounded by cops. My kitchen is filled with contractors. Other than that, it’s life as usual.”

I’m driving south on the 101 Freeway past the Marin Civic Center. We’ll be going around the clock for the next four days. The struggle will only intensify as the hours wind down.

“Has anybody been following you?” she asks.

I glance in my rearview mirror at the unmarked San Francisco police car that’s been following me all day. “Not as far as I can tell. What about you?”

“I don’t think so.”

My relief is tempered by weariness. It will take a while before my paranoia dissipates.

She asks, “How did it go with Aronis’s ex-wife?”

“She’s willing to testify that her ex-husband talked about taking out Robinson and Chin. She said he was prepared to pay for it.”

“That helps.”

“Maybe. She also said that he was going to approach Nate about hiring him to kill Robinson and Chin.”

“That doesn’t help. Did she have any proof that he cut a deal with Nate?”

“No.”

“Can she provide any direct link between her husband and the killings?”

“No. And there are other issues. Her credibility is questionable and her motives are suspect. She may be doing this just to get back at her ex-husband.”

“Or to get publicity for her book.”

“It’s a self-published memoir, Rosie. It’s never going to sell a lot of copies.”

“Sounds like a mixed bag. Besides, it doesn’t get us any closer to freestanding innocence.”

Rosie is the poster child for cold, hard reality. I ask if she’s heard anything from the courts.

“The California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit are about to reject our latest petitions. Our papers are already on their way to Washington to the U.S. Supremes.”

It is customary to make an anticipatory filing with the U.S. Supreme Court when you file your papers in the lower courts. The U.S. Supremes won’t rule officially until the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit have handed down their decisions.

“The odds are long at the U.S. Supreme Court,” she says. “We have time to file a couple more habeas petitions. We need something new.”

Swell. “Is there any good news?”

“Two things, actually. First, they finished my kitchen counter this morning. I have a faucet and a sink. I may have running water by tomorrow.”

“That’s great. What was the second thing?”

“I did a search of the civil cases brought against East Bay Scavenger. The company was sued by one of its former employees on a wrongful-termination claim. Aronis testified against him. The company ultimately prevailed.”

Which means the former employee may be looking to get back at East Bay Scavenger or Aronis. “Can you find him?”

“I already did. His name is Floyd Washington. He’s at San Quentin for selling heroin.”

It’s a potential connection to Aronis’s drug-distribution business. We need to follow up right away. “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

“I think he’ll appreciate the company of a couple of defense attorneys who might be in a position to try to make his life a little easier.”

“Didn’t you remind me that we can’t swap legal services for testimony?”

“We can still talk to him, Mike.”

“When can we see him?”

“This afternoon. He isn’t going anywhere.”

“How much longer does he have?”

“The rest of his life.”

CHAPTER 30

“YOUR COOPERATION WILL NOT GO UNNOTICED”

Tuesday, July 14. 4:32 p.m. 4 days, 7 hours, and 29 minutes until execution.

A dozen news vans are parked haphazardly in the driveways along the narrow road leading to San Quentin as I inch my way toward the east gate. The locals make a few extra bucks by selling their parking spots to the highest bidders. The most desirable locations are the driveways that are free from overhanging branches, which could interfere with satellite transmissions. The media mob has set up an encampment outside the gate. The dearth of hard news has left most reporters with little to do except speculate and take turns filming background footage in front of the grimly photogenic San Quentin State Prison sign, which is conveniently placed directly in front of the building that houses the execution chamber.

Rosie and I meet in the parking lot. Despite the lack of sleep, she still looks great as we shove our way through the crowd of reporters and shout the usual platitudes about Nate’s innocence, then go through the time-consuming procedures to gain entrance to the prison grounds. Inside the walls, the days leading up to an execution feel like the week before the Super Bowl. The air is filled with tense anticipation. In reality, little happens unless you’re one of the direct participants in the big event. The prisoners must endure lockdown conditions until the process plays its course. Rumors about final appeals and last-minute clemency deals become a form of entertainment. Certain inmates with a morbid streak and an entrepreneurial bent go so far as to make book on the possibility of a stay––with bets being paid in cigarettes. Such activities are strictly forbidden, of course. But the authorities have more important concerns and often cast a blind eye. One of my clients once collected a year’s supply of Marlboros when an execution was called off at the final hour. It didn’t do much for his health, but the win left him in good spirits.

We’re escorted to the visitors’ area for the general population, which is separate from the space reserved for the condemned. The guards express surprise when we tell them that we’re here to see Floyd Washington instead of Nate. The dreary room with gray walls and a cracked linoleum floor has the same ambiance as Little Joey’s currency exchange. One of my clients once observed that the Plexiglas windows and mismatched chairs resemble the private viewing area in the adult theater that he frequented.

We have to communicate with Washington through the Plexiglas divider via a marginally functional wall phone. Our conversation will be conducted under the steady gaze of two armed guards and may be recorded.

Washington glares at us through the bulletproof shield. Aronis’s former employee is an angry African-American man whose rippled muscles and massive torso place a significant strain on his tattered jeans and tight-fitting cotton shirt. Prisoners at San Quentin wear jeans instead of uniforms. His head is shaved. His arms are covered with tattoos. It comes as no surprise that our reception is somewhat south of cordial.

“Who the hell are you?” he barks into the phone.

“My name is Michael Daley. This is my law partner, Rosita Fernandez.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Nice. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“I want to talk to my lawyer.”

He probably hasn’t spoken to an attorney in years. “What’s his name?”

“Forget it. He won’t return my calls.”

“He might if we call him. We’re representing Nate Fineman.”

He grips the phone more tightly. Attorneys for the condemned have a slightly higher stature in the prison hierarchy in the weeks leading up to an execution. Such fame tends to be short-lived. Your stock can plummet precipitously if your client is executed.

He invokes a marginally more civil tone. “What do you want?”

“Information.”

“I don’t know anything about Fineman.”

“We want to ask you a few questions about Alex Aronis.”

He pauses. “What’s in it for me?”

“We’ll put in a good word with the warden. Your cooperation will not go unnoticed.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t talk? Throw me in jail?”

We have limited leverage. “You know we can’t make any promises.”

“I’m stuck in this dump for the rest of my life. You want something from me, but you can’t make any promises?”

That’s the gist of it. “We’ll try to find somebody to help you.”

“Not good enough.”

“We have a client who is scheduled to be executed on Sunday morning.”

“Then you’d better come up with something for me before then.”

Rosie takes the phone from me––just the way we’d planned it. A man who has been incarcerated for a decade may be somewhat more likely to listen to reason when it’s articulated by an attractive woman.

“We’ll find someone to help you,” she tells him calmly.

Washington becomes engaged. Rosie is pressing the phone to her ear and I can barely make out his words. “Why the hell should I trust you?” he asks.

“When was the last time you had a visitor?” she says.

“Six months ago.”

“It’ll be another six months unless you help us.”

“Your partner said you can’t make any promises.”

“Let’s cut the crap, Floyd. We have a client who has an appointment with a needle on Sunday morning. I looked at your case file. You may have some legitimate grounds for appeal. You can take a chance with us, or you can wait for a lawyer who doesn’t return your calls.” She leans toward the glass. “We’re the only game in town.”

His eyes dart from her face down to her breasts and then back up. “Are you really going to talk to somebody?”

“Yes.”

He considers his options for a long beat. “Not good enough.”

Rosie nods to me and we stand, then she turns back to Washington. “We don’t have time, Floyd. The warden knows where to find us if you change your mind.” With that, she places the phone into its cradle. She turns and walks toward the door.

Her hand is on the doorknob when we hear banging against the Plexiglas. I can’t hear him through the divider, but I can read his lips. “Wait!” he shouts.

Rosie takes her own sweet time walking the three steps back to the Plexiglas. She picks up the phone and begins speaking quietly to him. They talk for a couple of minutes. Then the guard comes up from behind Floyd to cuff him and lead him away. I give Rosie an inquisitive look. Fully aware that the room and the phones are wired for sound, she leans forward and places her lips against my right ear. “I’ll tell you about it outside.”

CHAPTER 31

“I WOULD RATHER NOT BASE OUR FINAL APPEAL ON THE TESTIMONY OF A CONVICTED FELON”

Tuesday, July 14. 5:15 p.m. 4 days, 6 hours, and 46 minutes until execution.

“All right,” I whisper to Rosie. “Give.”

We’re standing in the landscaped area outside the oddly shaped building that houses the execution chamber. It’s hard to imagine that the nondescript structure made of locally hewn limestone can generate the level of anger, controversy, and division that it does.

Rosie glances at the armed guards who are awaiting authorization to let us enter the Row to see Nate. “We have to find Washington a lawyer,” she whispers to me.

“Do you really think he has a chance on appeal?”

She arches an eyebrow. “I have no idea.”

Huh? “You just told him you’d read his case file.”

“Where would I have gotten it?”

“You lied?”

“I needed to get him to talk. I’ll try to find somebody who can look into filing an appeal for him.”

“And if you can’t?”

“I’ll deal with it myself.”

This isn’t an ideal time to reprimand her for taking on work for a client who can’t afford to pay us. “What did he tell you?”

“He was a crew chief for Aronis.”

“Trash or drugs?”

“Both.

“Who supplied them?”

“Terrell Robinson.”

“Aronis wouldn’t have arranged a hit on his own supplier.”

“They had a falling out. Aronis had to find a new guy.”

“Anybody whose name I would recognize?”

“Marshawn Bryant.”

Hello again. It’s another connection—if we can somehow fit the pieces together. “The guy who looked us straight in the eye and insisted he’s never been involved in the drug business?”

“One and the same.”

“You were able to get a lot from Washington.”

She winks. “I can be very persuasive—especially when I’m talking to a desperate man.”

I’m familiar with her powers. “Bryant worked for Robinson. You’re saying he went into competition with his boss?”

“Evidently, he was doing some freelancing on the side.”

All’s fair in love, war, politics, and drug dealing. “Is it possible that Aronis and Bryant got together to set up the killings?”

“They already knew each other, but they’ll deny it. We have no hard evidence.”

“What about Aronis’s ex-wife?”

“She still thinks Aronis approached Nate. She can’t finger Bryant. Besides, her motivation and credibility are questionable.”

Terrific. I ask her if Washington is willing to testify.

“I think so. I would rather not base our final appeal on the testimony of a convicted felon who will be here for the rest of his life.”

Neither would I. “Why didn’t Washington cut a deal to testify against Aronis?”

“Because Aronis had already made his own deal to testify against Washington. Evidently, Washington was pocketing some of the drug money that he was supposed to pay over to Aronis. Guys like Aronis don’t like to get ripped off by their own people, so he decided to teach Washington a lesson.”

“Did it involve broken limbs?”

“He came up with something more creative. Aronis set up a bogus heroin sale. He made sure the cops were tipped off.”

“He set up his own guy?”

“Yeah. It was brilliant. He turned Washington in and was the star witness at his trial. He made sure everybody knew that he’d crossed him. Washington got fired and went to jail. He still believes Aronis bought off the cops and the prosecutors.”

“Did Aronis think of this scheme by himself?”

“Nope. According to Washington, our client did.”

CHAPTER 32

“IT ISN’T ENOUGH”

Tuesday, July 14. 5:30 p.m. 4 days, 6 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

“Did you find anything?” Nate asks. His staccato delivery reflects a higher sense of urgency. His hair is disheveled and his face is red.

“We’re looking into some new possibilities,” I say. He listens attentively as I brief him on our plans for another round of habeas petitions. “We’re going to try to prove the current procedures aren’t administered uniformly.” I purposefully leave out any use of the words execution, death penalty, and capital punishment. “We’re also going to claim that Wendell Tsai has new and exculpatory information based on his discussions with his brother.”

“It’s inadmissible hearsay.”

“We’re still going to try.”

“Do it faster.”

Duly noted. A somber Ilene Fineman is sitting next to her husband. Rabbi Friedman stands and gives us a pensive look. Rosie is next to the door. I’m sitting at the table.

I address the rabbi. “I think it may be better if we speak to Nate in private.”

Nate answers for him. “I keep no secrets from my rabbi.”

“There are privilege issues.”

The rabbi removes his glasses and uses them to gesture. “I am not going to testify against Nate.”

“The prosecutors can send you a subpoena.”

His large chin juts forward. “They can’t make me testify.”

“They can hold you in contempt.”

“I already hold them in contempt. I’m prepared to deal with the consequences.”

Nate can’t pace, so he starts rocking in his wheelchair. He’s been unfailingly upbeat every time I’ve spoken to him. Now the facade is showing a few cracks.

“I need to ask you some hard questions,” I say.

Nate shoots a quick glance toward Ilene, then he turns back to me. “Fire away.”

“Aronis’s ex-wife claims Aronis was going to offer to pay you a million bucks to kill Robinson and Chin.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She pulled this whole story out of thin air?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Alex never talked to me about it. He may have discussed it with her, but he never discussed it with me.”

I don’t have time for parsing. “Why, pray tell, did she come forward now?”

“It’s a golden opportunity to nail her husband—and me.”

“She may be willing to testify that her husband was trying to hire somebody to kill Robinson and Chin. That could help us.”

“She’ll also point a finger at me. I’ll be left hanging out to dry.”

“Unless we can prove he paid somebody else to do it.”

“Like who?”

“Bryant.”

“Do you have any evidence that he did?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’d better find some.”

“We were hoping you might be able to point us in the right direction.”

“If I had the goods on Bryant, I wouldn’t be here.”

I take a deep breath. “We also talked to one of your neighbors.”

“Somebody from St. Francis Wood?”

“Somebody from the West Cell Block. Does the name Floyd Washington ring a bell?”

He nods. “He worked for East Bay Scavenger. He was convicted of selling heroin from his truck.”

“He told us he was dealing for Aronis, who got his inventory from Robinson and then Bryant.”

His face twists into a frown. “Alex has never been convicted of dealing drugs.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not. I’m just stating the facts.”

My hands start shaking in frustration. “Aronis is a bad guy. He wouldn’t hesitate to throw you under a bus to save his own ass. I don’t understand why you’re covering for him. He sure as hell wouldn’t do the same for you.”

He lifts himself up to his full sitting height. “Alex was never convicted of selling drugs. I have no evidence that he had anything to do with the events at the Golden Dragon.”

“Give us something to work with, Nate.”

“I’m not going to make some wild accusations about a former client and friend. Besides, the courts aren’t going to accept the word of a woman who has a grudge against her ex-husband and me, or a convicted felon who will say anything to get out of here.”

“It’s new information.”

“It isn’t enough to prove freestanding innocence.”

That much is true. The room fills with intense silence. Ilene takes her husband’s hand and whispers softly to him. The resignation in his colorless face says more than any words.

* * *

Rosie and I regroup in my rented car in the San Quentin parking lot at six-thirty on Tuesday evening. The local TV stations have completed their early newscasts. The reporters and cameramen mill around a short distance from where we’re sitting. I can see the fog rolling toward Berkeley. My mood matches the gray sky.

Rosie punches the Disconnect button on her cell phone. Her voice sounds fatigued. “My mother says everything is quiet over at the house.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is.” She gets a serene look in her eyes as she watches the seagulls fly overhead. I’m always amazed by her ability to notice simple beauty during moments of great stress. She snaps back to reality. “I’m not going to be able to sleep until we find the person who delivered that picture of Grace and Jake to my house.”

“Neither will I.” My cell phone rings and I answer it. It’s Pete.

“How soon can you get across the bridge?” he asks.

“Twenty minutes. Why?”

“I just got a call from one of my operatives. Marshawn Bryant just walked into Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

CHAPTER 33

“ARE YOU THREATENING US?”

Tuesday, July 14. 7:02 p.m. 4 days, 4 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

Rosie and I drive separately from San Quentin to the nearby Larkspur ferry terminal, where I park my rental car and get into Rosie’s Civic. Traffic is heavy as she weaves southbound on the 101 Freeway through Corte Madera. An unmarked San Francisco police cruiser is keeping its distance behind us. I use the opportunity to eat an energy bar and gulp down a bottle of water. For the next few days, my diet will consist of products that you can purchase at your local gas station.

“Why is Bryant at Little Joey’s office?” Rosie asks.

“He isn’t there to cash a check.”

My cell phone rings again as we’re heading down the Waldo Grade. “It’s Tony Popovich,” the husky voice says. The Mission District cop was an all-city offensive guard when I was a running back at St. Ignatius. He moonlights as a subcontractor for Pete. “Bryant and D’Amato left the currency exchange a few minutes ago. Bryant was heading toward his office. Joey went over to Shalimar for dinner.”

I tell him that we’ll be there as soon as we can, then I hit the Disconnect button. I turn to Rosie. “Got a taste for Pakistani food?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

The traffic gods smile upon us and our trip to the Tenderloin takes only twenty-five minutes. We find a parking space on Jones, two doors from Shalimar, a scruffy hole-in-the-wall with rock-bottom prices and the ambiance of a truck stop. Rosie and I nod to Popovich, who is hunkered down in his dented Dodge van across the street. The unmarked police car that’s been following us pulls in behind him.

We push open Shalimar’s metal door and are met by the aroma of exotic spices. The floor is checkered linoleum, the tables are better suited for poker than dining, and the chairs are secondhand Wal-Mart specials. Modern Pakistani music blares from the open kitchen. You place your order at the counter and carry your food to your table––if you’re lucky enough to find one. The customers range from a Pakistani softball team to a group of tech nerds trying to appear hip by dining downscale on lamb chops, skewered chicken, and flatbreads stuffed with onion and potato. I order the palak aloo methi, a stew with spinach and herbs. Rosie opts for the chicken korma, a spicy curry with tender meat that falls off the bone.

Little Joey is leaning over a plate of skewered lamb at a table in the corner. “What now?” he snaps as we approach him.

“Nice to see you, Joe,” I say.

“I thought you were trying to stop an execution.”

“We still have to eat.”

His rodent-like eyes gleam. “How long have you been watching me?”

“What makes you think we’re watching you?”

“I saw Tony Pop outside. I know he works for your brother.”

Busted. Rosie and I pull up a couple of chairs. “Mind if we join you?” I ask.

“Do I have any choice?”

“No.”

He sets down his fork. “Why are you harassing me?”

“You were one of the first officers at the scene. You’re the only person who can give us firsthand information.”

“Your father and I got there after the shooting stopped.”

“Then give us the name of somebody else who got there before you did and we’ll get off your back.”

“Dave Low was already securing the scene.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know.” He tries to change the subject. “Did they find the IA file?”

“No.”

“Did your father take it?”

“Of course not. The log said he checked it back in.”

“It doesn’t prove that he did.”

“It doesn’t prove that he didn’t. Your name was on the log too. What did the report say?”

He shoves another helping of lamb into his mouth. “The charges that somebody planted the gun were crap being spread by the defense lawyers. We were cleared.”

Rosie takes a bite of bread and tries another direction. “How long have you known Marshawn Bryant?”

“About eight years.”

“We understand you got together with him earlier this evening.”

“I did.” He looks down at his plate for an instant, then he looks back up. He starts talking faster. “He handled the build-out of my business. I’m expanding my space. I asked him to submit a bid. He’s a good contractor.”

It’s a convenient explanation. I decide to see if I can get a reaction from him. “Were you guys talking about our case?”

“Nope.”

“Some people think Bryant is involved in drug dealing.”

He’s becoming more agitated. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Have you ever met a man named Alex Aronis?”

“Nope.”

“His ex-wife claims he’s running a big-time heroin-distribution operation in the East Bay. He was hot to break into the San Francisco market. She claims he was looking for somebody to take out Robinson and Chin. She said Aronis was going to talk to Nate about it.”

“You really think Aronis paid Fineman to pop Robinson and Chin?”

“We think he paid somebody else to do it—like Bryant.”

He takes a big bite out of a roll. “It didn’t happen.”

“You sure about that, Joe?”

His beady eyes form tiny slits. “Yes.”

“Did you ever meet a guy named Floyd Washington?”

“Nope.”

“He used to work for Aronis. He was convicted of selling heroin from the back of his garbage truck. He told us Aronis was trying to move into San Francisco. He also claimed Aronis was prepared to pay big money to take out Robinson and Chin.”

“I don’t know anything about it. You guys must be really desperate if you’re trying to get an execution stopped with the testimony of a jailhouse snitch.”

We are.

Little Joey wipes his lips with a greasy paper napkin. “Anything else?”

Rosie never loses her composure, but her balled fist indicates that she’s as frustrated as I am. “Washington told us that Bryant was supplying Aronis with the heroin that was being distributed by the employees of East Bay Scavenger. He claimed Bryant was competing with Robinson.”

“So you think Bryant was competing with his boss?”

“According to Washington, yes.”

“Lots of luck proving it. If you ask me, that’s nuts. At this point, you guys will say anything to try to stop the execution.”

Rosie’s eyes are locked onto Joey’s. “We think Aronis paid Bryant to set up the hit on Robinson and Chin.”

He responds with a patronizing smile. “Marshawn isn’t a drug dealer or a killer.”

His heartfelt endorsement has a hollow ring. I try a measured bluff. “A witness saw Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon right after the shootings.”

He shakes his head. “Eugene Tsai said he saw a black man in the alley. That description fits thousands of people in the Bay Area.”

“It was Bryant.”

“There was no positive ID. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Marshawn is a legitimate businessman.”

“Who deals heroin.”

“Prove it.”

“We will. Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“He’s a reputable businessman. That’s all.”

Rosie pushes her tray toward Joey and points a long finger at him. “I want you to pass along a message to your friend Marshawn. We’re watching both of you. If we see any funny business, we’re going straight to the DA. Understood?”

The left side of Joey’s mouth turns up into a smug half grin. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m making a promise.”

He gives her a mocking smile, crumples his napkin in his fist, and slithers out of the restaurant without saying another word.

CHAPTER 34

“I WANT TO MAKE THEM NERVOUS”

Tuesday, July 14. 8:05 p.m. 4 days, 3 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

“Do you think it was a good idea to antagonize him?” I ask Rosie. We’re sitting in her car down the street from Shalimar.

“We don’t have time to be subtle. I want Pete to have his people watch Little Joey and Bryant. I want to know if they talk again.”

“What if they do?”

“We’ll know they’re in on something. I want to make them nervous.”

“You’re making me nervous.”

She glances in her rearview mirror at the unmarked police car. “That’s why we have an army of cops watching us. It can’t be a coincidence that one of the first cops at the Golden Dragon met with a drug dealer who may have been spotted near the restaurant that night. They had to be talking about more than blueprints.”

* * *

I’m in my office at ten o’clock on Tuesday night, pacing. I just got off the phone with Rabbi Friedman, who left San Quentin a few minutes ago. He had spent a sobering evening with Nate going over the wrenching details associated with his impending death: updating his will and funeral plans. The rabbi said Nate was showing the first significant signs of accepting the inevitable. Even heavyweight fighters start to break down in the final rounds.

First Street is silent except for the tolling of the Ferry Building clock. I sit on the edge of my desk and punch in the number to Roosevelt’s cell phone. He answers on the first ring. “Sorry to call you so late,” I say. “Are you at the office?”

“Yes, I am. How is the family doing?”

“They’re okay.” I quickly reconsider. “Actually, they’re doing amazingly well. Rosie comes from a strong gene pool.”

“How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“God, you need to get some rest, Mike. I can tell by your voice that you’re running on empty.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right. So, what is the purpose of your call?”

“Did you ever talk to Aronis about Nate’s case?”

“Yes. We talked to several of Fineman’s clients. Aronis didn’t provide any relevant information.”

I play my cards face up. “Did you seriously consider the possibility that he paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin?”

“Yes. We had no evidence pointing in his direction.”

“He admitted to me that he knew Marshawn Bryant.”

“As far as we could tell, it was purely professional. I take it these questions aren’t coming out of thin air?”

“We met a guy named Floyd Washington at San Quentin today. He used to work for Aronis. He was convicted of dealing heroin from his garbage truck. He said Bryant was supplying the heroin to Aronis. He also thought Aronis might have paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin.”

“You believed him?”

“I had no reason to disbelieve him.”

“We found no evidence that would support your theory, Mike.”

* * *

Rosie and I spend another long and sleepless night at the office, generating yet another set of papers. The pressure and fatigue finally overtake our better judgment as I’m sitting on the corner of Rosie’s desk and reviewing a draft of the latest habeas petition at two-fifteen on Wednesday morning. “They aren’t going to let Wendell Tsai testify about what his brother told him,” I say.

Rosie gives me a sideways look. “He has new information. He can talk about Jasmine Luk.”

“It’s hearsay.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mike.”

“You asked me what I thought.”

Her dark eyes flash anger. “I asked you for constructive comments. That wasn’t.”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“Then come up with something better.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder. What’s your plan?”

Anger, exhaustion, and frustration are finally taking their toll. “The plan is to continue filing new petitions every day until 12:01 a.m. on Sunday. You know how it is with death penalty cases. This isn’t like a trial where we have months to talk about strategy and prepare witnesses. We’ll keep looking for anybody who might be able to cast some doubt on Nate’s guilt. We’ll take whatever we can find and throw it into a brief and hope we can persuade some overworked judge who has no incentive to help us to grant a stay.”

Rosie takes off her reading glasses and slowly sets them down on her desk. Her tone is patronizing when she says, “Are you finished?”

I take a moment to regain my composure. “Yes.”

“Do I really need to remind you that it will serve no useful purpose to snipe at each other?”

“No.”

“Good. In that case, where does it leave us?”

I set the brief down in my lap. “We’ll file this brief in the morning. In the meantime, Pete has people watching Aronis and Bryant. Our best bet is to try to foist the blame over to them. It would help if somebody can affirmatively place Bryant behind the Golden Dragon.”

“How do we do that?”

“We need to find Jasmine Luk.”

“She disappeared ten years ago.”

“Pete is watching her great-aunt. Nick Hanson is still looking for people in Chinatown who may have seen her.”

“It’s beyond a long shot.”

“Death penalty appeals always are.”

“It’s time to get real, Mike.”

“That isn’t helpful,” I snap.

Terrence the Terminator walks into the office and interrupts us with a peace offering in the form of some cold pizza. “You might find a way to channel your energy more productively,” he says. “Go home and get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”

* * *

My cell phone rings as Rosie and I are driving home through a thick blanket of fog at two-forty on Wednesday morning. “Where are you, Mick?” Pete asks.

“The bridge.”

“Same old story. You’re packing it up while I’m working.”

Enough with the jokes. “What is it?” I ask.

“Something’s going on at Amanda Wong’s place.”

“I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

“A guy in a Ford Escort has driven around her apartment building a couple of times. The driver is staying low and wearing sunglasses.”

“You think it’s a cop?”

“I doubt it. He’s too conspicuous. It isn’t professional.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll call you back when I find out.”

CHAPTER 35

“THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA WAS WRONG”

Wednesday, July 13. 3:04 a.m. 3 days, 20 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

I get the answer when my cell phone rings as I walk into my apartment. “False alarm,” Pete says. “Edwards was in the Escort. I followed him back to the Chronicle.”

Not exactly a smoking gun. “Why is he watching Wong?”

“For the same reasons we are, Mick. He must think she knows something about the whereabouts of Jasmine Luk.”

“Maybe.” I shift gears. “Can you pull the bank-account records for Aronis and Bryant around the time of the shootings?”

“Sure, but it may take a little time. I take it this means you think Aronis paid Bryant to take out Robinson and Chin?”

“Maybe.” I think about it for a moment. “While you’re at it, why don’t you pull up the financial records for Little Joey’s business.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Be discreet, Pete.”

“I will.” He waits a beat. “You got something, Mick?”

“I’m just playing hunches now. It’s all that we have left.”

* * *

I’m awakened from a brief and uneasy sleep by my ringing cell phone at five-thirty on Wednesday morning. I can tell that it’s Edwards as soon as I hear the hacking smoker’s cough. “Where the hell are you?” he barks.

“In bed.” Don’t you ever sleep? “Where the hell are you?”

“At the east gate to San Quentin. You promised me a live interview with your client this morning. I’m over here with a crew. Get your ass in gear.”

* * *

“What were you doing at Wong’s apartment last night?” I ask Edwards.

He plays it coy. “What makes you think I was there?”

“My brother saw you.”

“You guys are so desperate that you’re keeping reporters under surveillance?”

“He was watching Wong. Evidently, so were you.”

It’s a few minutes after eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. Edwards is gathering his belongings in the makeshift studio area where he just finished a live interview with Nate. Though Nate’s hands were shaking uncontrollably throughout the session, he summoned every remaining ounce of strength to plead his innocence.

The wily reporter ponders for a moment. “I think Ms. Wong may know something.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure.”

For the first time, I hope he’s right. “I don’t have time for this, Jerry. I had to pull a lot of strings to get you an interview with a man who is scheduled to be executed in three days. We know what that will do for your ratings.”

“It isn’t that I’m not appreciative. On the other hand, your client didn’t say anything except he was wrongly convicted. That isn’t what I would call breaking news.”

“What did you expect him to say?”

“He might have started by apologizing to the families of the victims.”

“He has nothing to apologize for.”

“Not according to the State of California.”

“The State of California was wrong.” I ask again. “Why were really you watching Wong?”

“Just a hunch. I think she knows what happened to her great-niece.”

“Hunches are inadmissible in court. What haven’t you told me?”

He pulls out a cigarette, but doesn’t light up. “Wong’s business used to sell phony immigration papers for people who were trying to get out of China.”

“How do you know?”

“One of my former colleagues did a series about it twenty years ago.”

“You’re suggesting she prepared false papers to help her great-niece disappear?”

“It’s just a theory, Mike.”

* * *

My cell phone rings again as I’m driving into San Francisco a short time later. “How did Nate’s interview go?” Rosie asks.

“Fair. Edwards was hoping for a last-minute apology to the families, but Nate didn’t accommodate him. Edwards also told me that he thinks something may be going on with Amanda Wong.” I tell her about Edwards’s claim that Wong’s print shop used to produce phony immigration papers.

“Does he have any proof?” Rosie asks.

“Not yet. What’s going on at home?”

“Things get tense when your house is surrounded by cops. My mother heard something outside last night. The cops came out in full force with their guns drawn. Fortunately, it was a false alarm.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s a little shaken up, but she’ll never admit it.”

“What about Grace and Tommy?”

“About the same.”

“And you?”

She waits a beat before she responds. “I’ll be fine.”

“I mean it, Rosie. Are you okay?”

I hear her take a deep breath. “I’ll be glad when this is over, Mike. Then we’ll have a long talk about how we got ourselves into this mess and how we can avoid it in the future.”

“Rosie, I agree. Anything from the courts?”

“Another day, another habeas petition. I filed first thing with the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit. The Supremes have already said no to our request for a hearing to allow Wendell Tsai to testify. According to my sources, the Ninth Circuit will probably come to the same conclusion later this afternoon.”

I’m glad somebody is doing the real legal work. “I’ll be there with you as soon as I can.”

“Do what you have to do, Mike. Let’s focus on moving ahead.”

I hit Disconnect. My phone rings again a moment later.

“It’s Pete. I should have the bank statements for Aronis and Bryant soon.”

“Great. What about the financial information for Little Joey?”

“I’m hoping by the end of the day.”

We’re running out of time and options. “Are you still watching Wong?”

“Yeah. That’s why I called you. At the moment, she’s in San Francisco.”

“Doing what?”

“Meeting with Jeff Chin.”

Huh? “Where?”

“The office of the Six Companies.”

What’s this? “Why is she meeting with the son of one of the victims?”

“Beats me.”

“Don’t take your eyes off her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

CHAPTER 36

“I WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR DINNER”

Wednesday, July 15. 10:04 a.m. 3 days, 13 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

“Thanks for seeing me on short notice,” I say.

Jeff Chin is sitting behind his cherrywood-inlaid desk. His understated office at the Six Companies has matching bookcases and a console. The walls are covered with subdued artwork from China. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies. “I only have a few minutes. What brings you here?”

“First, I wanted to thank you for dinner the other night.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “It was my pleasure. I must apologize for my behavior the last time we met.”

No, you mustn’t. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“There is no excuse for rudeness.”

Instead of debating whose manners were worse, we agree to call it a draw.

He rearranges a stack of papers and stands up, signaling that our conversation is coming to an end. “It was generous of you to come down to express your gratitude. It was also well beyond the call of duty. I know your schedule is very busy. If there is anything else that I can do for you, please feel free to call me.”

He intended it as a token gesture, but it creates an opening. “Actually, there is.”

He starts backpedaling. “I need to leave for a meeting.”

“This will take just a moment. A young woman named Jasmine Luk lived behind the Golden Dragon. We’ve been told that she and a man name Eugene Tsai were walking in the alley around the time of the events at the restaurant. We think she saw somebody in the alley shortly after your father was killed. Unfortunately, she disappeared a few days later.”

He holds his palms up. “I don’t know anything about it. I’m sorry.”

So are we. “Do you have any idea where we might find her?”

“I’m afraid not.”

I raise the stakes. “Ms. Luk’s great-aunt is Amanda Wong.”

He looks down at the gold letter opener on his desk. Now he knows that we’ve been watching Wong—and perhaps him. He considers his response carefully. “That’s quite a coincidence. I just met with Ms. Wong here in my office.”

I decide to play it straight. “I know. We’ve been watching her.”

“Why?”

“We think she might know more than she’s told us about the whereabouts of her great-niece.”

“You’ll have to ask her about it.”

“We already have.”

“She’s a very respected member of the community.”

“I know.”

“Are you suggesting that she had something to do with my father’s death?”

“No. We were simply hoping to discover what happened to her great-niece.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re really quite desperate, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we are. Would you mind telling me why Ms. Wong came to see you?”

“Certainly, but it had nothing to do with the events at the Golden Dragon.” He clears his throat. “She came to us for assistance in raising money for the treatment of a girl in Oakland who needs a heart and a lung transplant. The girl’s parents are dead. She’s living with her grandparents. They have no medical insurance.”

I feel like a jerk as I recall the contribution jar on the counter at Sunshine Printing. “What’s her prognosis?”

“It depends on how soon they can find a donor. They’re trying to raise a hundred thousand dollars.”

Now I feel like a bigger jerk. I flash back to the three nights that Grace spent in the intensive care unit at Marin General after she got hit in the head by a batted softball during practice last summer. The doctors described it as a mild concussion with a slight bruise to her brain. I found it incomprehensible that anybody could have described any injury to the brain as slight. Thankfully, Grace recovered and our insurance took care of most of the costs. “Will you be able to help them?” I ask.

“I believe so.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but our community takes care of its own.”

It’s the answer I should have expected. “Do you know anything about Ms. Wong’s great-niece?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

It’s another dead end. I’m still curious about one thing. “Why did you really buy us dinner the other night?”

Chin adjusts his tie. “You were just doing your job. I have no hard feelings toward you—even if you’ve chosen to represent Nathan Fineman.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly when he adds, “And perhaps to get you off my back.” His expression turns serious. “My father and I had our differences, yet he was still my father. If your client murdered him, then I believe he deserves to die. If he didn’t, it would only compound the injustice.”

It is becoming clear to me that he had no involvement in his father’s operations or the events at the Golden Dragon. Aronis and Bryant are more promising options. As I’m leaving the elegant offices of the Six Companies to try to find Bryant, I silently berate myself for wasting an entire morning drilling another empty well.

CHAPTER 37

“YOU’RE WAY OVER YOUR HEAD”

Wednesday, July 15. 12:03 p.m. 3 days, 11 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

Marshawn Bryant greets me tersely: “I’m busy. You’re going to have to make this quick.”

“That’s fine.”

I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome. We’re standing in a hard-hat zone just south of the Transbay Bus Terminal at the corner of First and Folsom, where the metal skeleton of a thirty-story office tower rises into the clear summer sky. Bayview Construction lost the “beauty contest” to become the general contractor on the project. However, it got a multimillion-dollar consolation prize when it was tapped to handle the build-out of the interiors.

The air smells of cement and debris. My khaki slacks and polo shirt are covered with dust. Somehow, Bryant’s double-breasted pin-striped suit is spotless. The hard hats are working around-the-clock shifts to complete the exterior before the rains start in November.

After spending the morning fighting with Edwards at San Quentin and hitting a wall with Chin at the Six Companies, I’m anxious to get something—anything—from Bryant. At the moment, he appears to be our most promising alternate suspect—unless he can produce somebody other than his wife to verify his whereabouts on the night all hell broke loose at the Golden Dragon. I’m prepared to mount a full-blown frontal attack. As a practical matter, this probably means this will be my last chance to talk to him.

A huge crane revs its engine. I lean forward to shout into Bryant’s right ear. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

He gestures toward a temporary structure near the street. I follow him past the warning signs that admonish us to wear our helmets at all times. The windowless trailer is filled with tools and blueprints. We sit down at a card table. My eyes water from the dust.

“We’re behind schedule,” he says. “What do you want now?”

I get right to the point. “We’ve found a witness who saw you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon shortly after the shootings.” I’m stretching Wendell Tsai’s description to suit my purposes. I’m also looking for a reaction.

This elicits an eye roll. “We’ve covered that issue. It wasn’t me.”

“What would you say if I told you there was another witness?” It’s another bluff.

He dismisses me with a wave of the back of his hand. “It wasn’t me.”

“Then who was it?”

His tone turns acerbic. “Beats the hell out of me. Go ahead and bring out your witness. Either they’re mistaken or they’re flat-out lying.”

“We talked to a man named Floyd Washington. He says you’ve met.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Is he in the construction business?”

“No, he’s in the incarceration business. He’s at San Quentin.”

He takes a deep breath of the heavy air. “You pulled me away from a busy work site to ask about some low-level hoodlum with an ax to grind?”

“He mentioned you by name. He used to work for Alex Aronis. Now do you remember him?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know Aronis?”

“I’ve known Alex for years,” he says with feigned nonchalance. His eyes drift over my shoulder. “I was the construction manager on the build-out of his company’s office space in Oakland.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t remember exactly. I was still working for Terrell Robinson. It was probably about fifteen years ago.”

It lines up with Aronis’s story. “Do you keep in touch?”

“Sure.” His eyes are still dancing. “A couple of years ago I did some work on his house. What does this have to do with the guy at San Quentin?”

“Washington said your old boss used to supply heroin to Aronis, which was then distributed from the garbage trucks operated by Aronis’s company. He also told us that Aronis got into a fight with Robinson and needed to find a new supplier.” My eyes bore into his. “That’s when he turned to you.”

“That’s crap.”

“So you’re saying he’s lying?”

He stretches to his full intimidating height and folds his arms. “Damn right.”

I’m just starting. “Washington also said you and Aronis were trying to get a piece of the heroin trade in San Francisco.”

The volume of his voice goes up as he becomes more agitated. “No way. It’s obvious that he’ll say anything to get out of jail.” He points a finger at me. “If you’re going to make these wild accusations, I’ll have my lawyers call you.”

I’ve always found it effective to respond to bullies with an even tone. “Are you threatening to sue me now?”

“Nope.” He shifts to the dialect of the hood. “I’m talkin’ straight.”

“Have you been smashing the windows of our cars?”

“Nope. You should be more careful where you park.”

I move in closer to him. “Did you have a package delivered to my ex-wife’s house with a photo of our daughter and her boyfriend?”

“Of course not.”

“You and Aronis are partners in the drug distribution business, aren’t you?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Why have you been spending so much time with a former cop who was one of the first officers at the Golden Dragon?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We know that you and Joey D’Amato are pals.”

“He’s a customer.”

“I hear he’s more than a customer.”

He shakes his head with authority. “That’s insane.”

“Are you paying him off to keep his mouth shut about seeing you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon?”

“Of course not. I’m helping him remodel his business.”

I jab a finger in his face. “Look, Marshawn, everybody in town knows you and Aronis are dealing heroin. You’re living on borrowed time. The cops are going to put it together and you’re going to be in a world of trouble.”

“You’re way over your head.”

“You’re in deeper.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“We’ll see you in court.” My heart races. Next time, I’ll be back with Terrence the Terminator to serve a subpoena.

* * *

“Did you get anything from Bryant?” Rosie asks.

“Deny deny deny.”

“That’s helpful. Are you coming back to the office?”

I press my cell phone against my right ear as I walk up First Street toward Market. My head throbs. “Not yet. I’m going over to Oakland to take another run at Aronis.”

CHAPTER 38

“WE FOUND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS OF HEROIN IN HIS TRUCK”

Wednesday, July 15. 2:05 p.m. 3 days, 9 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

Aronis is unrepentant. “Floyd Washington was a small-time thug,” he insists. “The experience made us realize the importance of doing background checks on new hires.”

We’re sitting in a rarely used office in a barracks-style structure adjacent to the maintenance yard of East Bay Scavenger. The walls are a faded oatmeal color. The metal desk is government issue. The dented furniture looks as if it came straight from a Salvation Army thrift store. A small black-and-white photo of the company’s founder is mounted on the wall next to a tiny window, soiled by decades of exhaust fumes. Aronis’s great-grandfather ran a multimillion-dollar operation from this dingy headquarters that resembles the back room of your average gas station. I can understand why Alex prefers to work in his hermetically sealed office tower in downtown Oakland.

“How long did Washington work for you?” I ask.

“About ten years. He was never any trouble until he decided to run a pharmaceutical business from his truck.”

“He’s made some pretty significant accusations about you.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. We turned him over to the police after we found fifty thousand dollars of heroin in his truck.” His right eyebrow darts up for emphasis. “We had no choice. I testified at his trial.”

It begs the question of where Washington got his hands on the stockpile in the first place. “He claimed it was a setup.”

He can’t conceal a phony smile. “What did you expect him to say, bud?”

I lean forward and place my hands on the dented desk. “He also told us you were supplying the heroin.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

I push harder. “He told us that you were getting your inventory from Marshawn Bryant.”

His large mouth transforms into an emphatic scowl. “That’s not true either.”

“And that you were planning to take over Terrell Robinson’s operations in San Francisco.”

He sits up as tall as he can and gestures with two stubby fingers. “Washington is lying.”

* * *

“Where are you?” Rosie asks.

“Sitting in traffic at the Bay Bridge toll plaza.” The sun is high in the summer sky over Treasure Island as I drum my fingers on my steering wheel. I tell her about my conversation with Aronis. “I’d rip him to shreds if I could get him in court under oath.”

She’s less sanguine. “That isn’t going to happen unless we come up with some new evidence. The California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit have rejected our petitions. I expect the U.S. Supremes to follow suit any minute now.”

Damn it. “Have you heard anything from Sacramento?”

“The governor is down in L.A. shooting a public service announcement to encourage businesses to stay in California. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

A photo op trumps a death penalty appeal. “Did you get any hints from his people?”

“They say not to get our hopes up.”

Big surprise. It’s bad politics for the governor to interject himself into the middle of a death penalty appeal. “Any other news?”

“Nick Hanson left a message on our machine. He wants you to call him right away.”

* * *

“How the hell are you?” the ever-cheerful Nick Hanson chirps.

“Just great.” I’m inching forward through the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island in the middle of the Bay Bridge. The upper deck of the two-level structure once carried three lanes of auto traffic in each direction. The lower deck was reserved for trucks and electric trains. The trains were dismantled in the fifties. Five lanes of westbound traffic are grinding at a snail’s pace. I wish the trains were still rolling.

“You got news?” I ask.

“Indeed I do.” The master storyteller pauses for effect. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mike?”

I’m in no mood for banter. “What are you talking about, Nick?”

“I talked to one of Jasmine Luk’s former coworkers at the Chinese Hospital. He said he thought he saw her in Chinatown about a month ago. She disappeared into a crowd.”

“Was he sure it was Luk?”

“Pretty sure.”

Not good enough. “Absolutely sure would be better.”

“We aren’t there yet.”

“What was Luk doing there?”

“Beats me.”

“Did he have any idea where we might find her?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Chinatown is a place where somebody like Luk could hide in plain view.”

* * *

My next call goes to Pete. “Where are you?” I ask.

“My car.”

He loves to give me that answer. “You already got your windows fixed?”

“Yeah. I have people who take care of that kind of stuff for me.”

I wish I had people. “And where is your car?”

“Oakland. I’m still following Amanda Wong.”

I tell him about my conversation with Jeff Chin. “He probably called Wong. She must know that we’re watching her.”

“Doesn’t matter, Mick. I’ll be discreet.”

He will. “Is anybody behind you?”

“Probably.” He listens intently as I describe my conversation with Nick the Dick. “Do you think Luk is still somewhere in the area?”

“Don’t know.”

“She disappeared ten years ago, Mick.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“I’ll stay with Wong.”

I put the cell phone into the drink holder and drive to the city in silence.

CHAPTER 39

“WHAT’S IT REALLY LIKE?”

Wednesday, July 15. 7:07 p.m. 3 days, 4 hours, and 54 minutes until execution.

Nate’s puffy red eyes are locked onto mine. He isn’t getting any sleep. Ilene is sitting next to him as he leans forward in his wheelchair in the cold, silent visitors’ area. Rosie is standing by the door. San Quentin’s thick stone walls provide a backdrop of eerie calm. Nate’s mood is decidedly somber. The tired voice of the trial lawyer reappears for what may be his final appeal. “Did they find the IA file?”

He’s starting to forget things. We talked about this yesterday. “No,” I say. “They refused to grant a stay just because it’s missing.” As a practical matter, the cops have no incentive to keep looking. We’ve sent a team of investigators to search the massive storage warehouse. Not surprisingly, they’ve come up empty.

He grimaces. “Was Pete able to pull the bank records for Aronis and Bryant?”

“Yes.” The news isn’t good. “We couldn’t identify any pattern of cash transfers around the time of the shootings. Pete’s trying to get his hands on some recent financial records for Joey D’Amato.”

“What are you looking for?”

I answer him honestly. “I’m not sure. Anything we might be able to use.”

“Damn it.” The old warrior heaves a resigned sigh. “It’s over.”

“Not until 12:01 on Sunday morning.”

He reaches across the small table to grasp his wife’s hand. “We have to finish making arrangements.”

“It isn’t going to happen, Nate,” she says.

“It’s going to happen sooner or later. It looks like it’s going to be sooner.”

“We’re going to file another round of petitions in the morning,” I tell him.

His frustration manifests itself in the form of sarcasm. “What brilliant legal theory have you concocted this time?”

“That it’s impossible to tell whether somebody is completely unconscious after they administer the Sodium Pentothal.”

His rubbery face vibrates as he shakes his head vigorously. “It isn’t going to work. They’ve already turned down our argument that the death penalty is cruel and unusual punishment. I appreciate your efforts, but we need to start turning our attention to concluding these proceedings with a shred of dignity. It’s time to be realistic. The deck has been stacked against me from day one.”

“We still have time for more appeals.”

“The courts aren’t going to listen.”

“Then we’ll have to make them listen.”

There is a mawkish silence. “What’s it really like?” he whispers.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean—when they do it.”

I dart a glance to Rosie, whose lips form a tight line across her face. “You don’t want to go there,” I tell him.

“Yes I do.”

I’ve been dreading this moment. I had to sit through the excruciating experience of watching the execution of a client named Lonnie Felton a dozen years ago. It was the only time I ever lost a death penalty case. It’s also something that I wouldn’t want to repeat. Though I am generally opposed to capital punishment, I would be hard-pressed to suggest justice was not served in that case. Lonnie was a remorseless gangbanger from Hunters Point who broke into the house of a young couple in search of drug money. He shot the husband at point-blank range, then he tied up the wife and two young daughters and systematically raped and tortured them for the next eight hours. He then shot the children in full view of the mother before turning the gun on her. Lonnie was still sitting triumphantly in the bedroom, surrounded by death, when the police arrived. I was the last in a series of lawyers who fended off his execution for eighteen years.

I take a deep breath. “The guards will be very polite. They’ll escort you inside the chamber. They’ll help you lie down on the table. They’ll strap you in and insert some needles.”

“Will you be there?”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

“Can the witnesses see everything?”

“Yes.”

He cringes. “How long does it take?”

“Just a few minutes.” I don’t mention that it took the guards fifteen minutes to find a usable vein in Lonnie’s arm.

“Does it hurt?”

“They tell me it’s no worse than drawing blood.” Except you die.

“Then what?”

“You’ll go right to sleep as soon as they start the Sodium Pentothal. You won’t feel anything after that.” At least that’s the idea. Lonnie flailed around for a couple of minutes before he finally succumbed.

“Will I vomit?”

“Probably not.” Maybe.

“Will I . . . soil myself?”

“Probably not.” Lonnie did.

“Will I twitch?”

“That’s unlikely.” Lonnie looked like a two-hundred-pound vibrator.

An exasperated Ilene finally stops him. “Why are you talking about this?”

Nate pushes out a heavy sigh. “I want to know what happens.” He holds up a hand to his wife. “I don’t want you and the children to see me die.”

“We’re allowed to be there. I want you to see the face of someone who loves you.”

“I want you to remember me the way I am today––not the way I’m going to look after they’ve injected me with poison.”

She grasps his hand tightly. “We’ll talk about it again later, Nate.”

“No we won’t.”

I try to find a more positive subject. “We’re still going to file the new petitions in the morning.”

“They’ll be rejected by noon.”

“Then we’ll file another set on Friday.”

“They’ll reject those even faster. Judges hate to work weekends.”

“I’m not that cynical.”

“I am.”

I look for a hint of hope. “Nick Hanson talked to somebody in Chinatown who may have seen Jasmine Luk a few weeks ago.”

His eyes perk up. “Were they sure it was Luk?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure isn’t good enough.”

“Pete is still watching Amanda Wong. Maybe she’ll try to contact her great-niece.”

“It would be helpful if she did before 12:01 a.m. on Sunday.”

Yes, it would. “We’re working on an alternate version of our next habeas petition. It will say that we’ve located a key new witness.”

The damp room fills with another cool silence before Nate raises a hand. “Let me give you some advice. When your client is three days from an execution, you’d better come up with something more than a phantom witness whose name will be inserted into a generic brief. Death penalty cases are a zero-sum game. Your success or failure will be measured by whether I’m still breathing at 12:02 on Sunday morning.”

He’s right.

“Keep the papers short,” he adds. “Judges like you to get straight to the point.”

We have no other choice.

* * *

Rosie and I meet with Ilene outside the visitors’ area at eight-fifteen on Wednesday night. Ilene’s voice is filled with a grim resignation. “Mr. Daley, I want to thank you and Ms. Fernandez for everything.” We’ve told her repeatedly that she can call us by our first names. She isn’t a first name person. Nate is inside with Rabbi Friedman for a few moments of the sort of spiritual counseling that I was never very adept at providing when I was a priest.

“Everything is going to be all right,” Rosie tells her.

Ilene hands me an envelope. “This is a check for another fifty thousand. I know you and your team have been working around the clock. I want to be sure that everybody is paid.”

It’s the last thing on my mind. “Thank you.”

Her eyes are red. “I take some comfort knowing that Nate won’t be suffering much longer.”

“This fight isn’t over,” Rosie insists.

“I want my husband to die in peace.”

“We don’t want him to die at all.”

Ilene takes out a tissue and wipes her eyes. The former society matron repeats her mantra in a tone that reflects a dignified inner strength. “My husband is not a murderer,” she says simply. “Now he’s going to pay the price for keeping murderers out of jail for all those years. I don’t know how I’m going to live with it.” Then she summons the guard to take her back to her husband and her rabbi.

* * *

“They’re giving up,” Rosie says.

I’m sitting in front of the fireplace in her living room at a quarter to twelve on Wednesday night. I’m trying to focus on proofreading our latest petitions. The quiet setting is a stark contrast to my churning stomach. You can’t afford to question yourself in the final stages of a death penalty appeal. “We can’t let them lose hope.”

“Easy for you to say.”

I feel my cell phone vibrate. I hit the Talk button. Mort Goldberg apologizes for not returning my call sooner. He says he had a little kidney problem. “Why did you call?” he asks.

“I wanted to ask you something about the trial. Did you ever raise the possibility that Aronis and Bryant somehow got together to take out Robinson and Chin?”

I can hear him wheezing. “We looked. We never found anything we could use.”

“Aronis is clearly a player. Bryant took over Robinson and Chin’s operations.”

“It wasn’t that easy, Mike. Aronis has never been convicted of anything. Bryant has never even been arrested.”

“We think our best bet—and maybe our only hope—is showing a connection between them.”

“If you can do it, you’re a better lawyer than I am.”

“Is there anybody else we can talk to?”

The line goes silent. I can envision him rolling his unlit cigar between his fingers. I’m about to say good-bye when I hear his voice again. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

CHAPTER 40

“THIS CASE IS RUINING MY LIFE”

Thursday, July 16. 12:30 a.m. 2 days, 23 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

“How much longer?” Grace asks impatiently.

“Until 12:01 on Sunday morning,” I tell her.

My response is not well received. I think back to the times my father came home from a long shift bone-tired. I always resented the fact that he gave more time to his job than to us. I’ve come to understand him a little better as I’ve gotten older.

My daughter and I are sitting at opposite ends of Rosie’s sofa. Grace’s legs are crossed. She’s wearing a gold Cal sweatshirt that once belonged to me. When I was her age, I was focused on making the freshman football team at St. Ignatius. By the end of my sophomore year, it was apparent that I was going to have to get by on brains. I got straight As my junior and senior years and a ticket to Cal. Grace is compulsive about her grades. She wants to get into the super competitive UC system. I never would have gotten into Cal today. She’s a little young to be obsessing about it. That’s the way she’s drawn––just like her mom.

She tosses her long black hair away from her face. Her full lips form an exaggerated pout. “Does that mean I’m grounded until Sunday?”

“More or less.” I take a sip of Diet Dr Pepper. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Sure you are.”

Rosie is sitting at her desk, reworking our latest brief. She looks up over her laptop. “We’ve talked about this a couple of times, Grace.”

“Jake has tickets for the Giants game on Saturday.”

“You can go later in the season.”

“It’s fireworks night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What if the cops come with us?”

Everything is a negotiation. “I don’t think so.”

“How about a movie?”

Rosie’s patience is not unlimited. “Next week.”

Grace isn’t going down easy. “Nobody has bothered us for a few days. There are a zillion cops outside.”

“We don’t want to take any chances.”

“You should have thought of that before you took this case.”

It’s a classic standoff between two strong-willed people who are used to having the last word. It’s difficult to argue with someone who can mimic your entire repertoire of facial expressions.

“We’ll consult you next time,” Rosie tells her.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Our daughter’s language tends to turn a bit salty when she’s angry. Rosie doesn’t react. It’s a bad idea to wallow in the mud with an angry teenager.

Grace’s anger bubbles to the surface. She heaves a melodramatic sigh that would make Irwin Grim proud. “This case is ruining my life!”

Rosie tries a patient tone that Grace will almost certainly interpret as patronizing. “It’s almost over. We’ll take a break after it’s done.”

“Sure you will.” Grace drops her chin and her nostrils flare in a dead-perfect imitation of the annoyed expression that Rosie has honed over forty-seven years. She makes it a point to say good night to her grandmother, but not to Rosie or me. In some respects, I will be greatly relieved when she leaves for college.

* * *

“She isn’t happy,” Sylvia says with characteristic understatement.

“She’ll be okay,” Rosie says.

“Take it easy on her.”

“We will, Mama.”

Sylvia isn’t quite finished. “I mean it, Rosita. It isn’t her fault.”

Her implication is more than clear: it’s ours.

“Is there something else?” Rosie asks her mother.

Sylvia touches her daughter’s cheek. “Nothing.”

“Come on, Mama.”

The Fernandez family matriarch arches an eyebrow. “She reminds me of you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“For the most part.”

* * *

“Are we crappy parents?” Rosie asks me. Her question is not merely a rhetorical one. We’re sitting a few feet from each other at opposite ends of her sofa at one ten on Thursday morning.

“At times,” I whisper. I try to avoid asking myself those types of questions, because I rarely like the answers. I pull a couple of pages from the printer that’s perched on a card table next to Rosie’s couch. Her house is silent. We’ve been editing for the last hour. Sleepless nights are not conducive to writing pithy briefs. We have to keep our voices down because Tommy is sleeping soundly on a blanket on the floor. He came out for his nightly visit about a half hour ago, and he promptly fell asleep in front of the TV.

“What percentage of our parental time falls into the ‘crappy’ category?” she asks.

I glance at Tommy. “The last few days have been pretty bad for our approval ratings. Generally, I’d say just a couple of hours a week. We make it into the exceptional category for about the same amount of time.”

“I’m serious, Mike.”

“So am I.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“I’d say we’re about average.”

“That’s all?”

“Maybe a little above. I didn’t want to brag.”

“Do you ever stop making wisecracks?”

“Not if I can help it. It keeps me going.”

Her tired eyes show the hint of a twinkle. “Do you think we have much to brag about?”

I lean over and peck her on the cheek. “Given our inherent limitations and the fact that we manage to eke out a living representing criminals, I think we’re doing okay.”

“But we could do better.”

“You can always do better. Grace and Tommy are pretty well-adjusted in spite of us.”

“How do we take it to the next level?”

“It might help if we stopped taking on last-minute death penalty appeals. In the meantime, we shouldn’t dwell on our shortcomings––at least until this case is over.”

She acknowledges that it isn’t a great idea to reevaluate your major life decisions two days before an execution.

I tap the completed petition. “I think we’re finished.”

“Then we’re set to file at nine o’clock this morning.” She yawns. “We need more time.”

Time is not on our side. Nick Hanson called a little while ago and said he hadn’t been able to locate anybody else who may have seen Jasmine Luk. He correctly noted it seemed unlikely that he’d find her walking the empty streets of Chinatown at this hour. Pete is parked across the street from Amanda Wong’s apartment. Her doors were locked and her lights were out. I’m starting to measure time in hours and minutes instead of days.

* * *

I’m about to turn out the light in my musty bedroom at two-thirty on Thursday morning when Pete calls from Oakland. “Something’s up,” he says. “Amanda Wong just drove over to a building beneath the 880 Freeway. The lights are off.”

“What the hell is she doing there at this hour?”

“Beats me.”

“Is anybody else there?”

“I can’t tell.” The reception from his cell phone starts to break up. I can hear the unmistakable sound of tension in his voice when he says, “Somebody’s coming, Mick. I gotta go.” He quickly gives me an address. I can barely make out his voice when he says, “How soon can you get here?”

Something bad is happening. The line is dead by the time I say “I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 41

“SOMETHING’S WRONG”

Thursday, July 15. 2:35 a.m. 2 days, 21 hours, and 26 minutes until execution.

The first call is always to Rosie, who answers immediately. “Something’s wrong,” I say. I tell her about the call from Pete.

There is no hesitation. “I’ll pick you up in five minutes.” There is also no discussion about who is going to drive us. Rosie could race at Daytona.

My second call is to Nick Hanson. “How the hell are you?” he chirps.

I’m not sure. “Pete may have found something. Can you meet us in Oakland?”

“Indeed I could.”

The final call goes to Roosevelt. “I’ll meet you there,” he says.

* * *

Rosie and I are speeding across the Richmond Bridge when my cell rings. “Any word from Pete?” Roosevelt asks.

“Not yet.”

“He’ll call.”

I hope so.

“Is there a black Dodge van behind you?” he asks.

I turn around and look. “Yes.”

“It’s one of our guys.”

Doesn’t surprise me. “Thanks for the escort.”

“You’re welcome. Could you ask Rosie to slow down to seventy-five? If my guy gets stopped, you’ll have no cover.”

“Sure.” I ask him if he’s found out anything about the building where Pete saw Wong.

“Title is held in the name of Sunshine Printing. We think it’s used as a storage facility for Wong’s business.”

I don’t ask him how he managed to obtain this information in the middle of the night.

* * *

My mind is playing tricks on me as we’re heading south on the elevated 880 Freeway near downtown Oakland. This stretch replaced the infamous two-level Cypress Structure that collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and crushed dozens of people. The new single-level roadway is wider and easier to navigate––especially when there is no traffic, at three o’clock in the morning. I’m concerned about Pete, who still hasn’t checked in. I’m trying to play out the ramifications if he’s found some new information about Jasmine Luk. I keep thinking we need to find a connection between Aronis and Bryant. I’m still wondering what happened to the IA file, and whether Little Joey is somehow involved with its disappearance.

Finally, and perhaps inevitably, I keep flashing back to my dad. The memories are like old snapshots now. I think of all the late-night calls that used to send my mom into a state of abject fear. The time he got rolled by a car while he was making an arrest in the Mission. The trips to Las Vegas, the football games at St. Ignatius, and the wild celebration after Cal beat Stanford in my older brother Tommy’s last game. The look on his face when the two Marines came to our house to inform us that Tommy was missing in action. Pop was never the same. I think of how hard he pushed us––not so much because he could, but because he wanted us to have more than he did. With the benefit of age and parenthood, I’ve started to appreciate the fact that my father, Officer Thomas Daley Sr., was a complex man who saw the world in black and white. I’m a simple man who sees the world in shades of gray. There was plenty of room for both of us. Time has made me more forgiving of his real and perceived shortcomings. For sure it would have been great to have more time together. Little Tommy is sleeping back at Rosie’s house. I wonder how he’ll remember me in another forty years.

I call Pete’s cell number again, but I get his voice mail. “Why doesn’t he answer?” I ask, frustrated.

Rosie tries to reassure me. “He will.”

We drive in silence to the Broadway off-ramp. We make our way to Sixth Street, which runs adjacent to the freeway at the edge of Chinatown. It’s poorly illuminated. Homeless people sleep in abandoned vehicles. The once-thriving residential neighborhood near the Alameda Tube was bifurcated when the freeway was built a half century ago. We drive past a dilapidated playground called Railroad Square Park, where children must avoid broken bottles as they play on rusted equipment.

Rosie drives slowly down the empty street toward the only remaining structure on the block, a boarded-up two-story building. A single streetlight throws off a spooky glow through the heavy fog.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” I tell her.

“Try Pete again.”

I punch in his cell number. Once again, the computer-generated voice asks me to leave a message. Roosevelt doesn’t answer. Neither does Nick.

We inch toward the entrance to an alley, where I spot Pete’s gray Chrysler. The lights are off. There is no sign of my brother.

“Do you want to wait for Roosevelt?” Rosie asks.

“No.” I motion toward the two plainclothes cops who are getting out of the Dodge behind us. “We have reinforcements.”

She parks next to Pete’s car and kills her engine. We get out of the car. The street is eerily silent. There is no sign of Wong or Pete. “Where the hell did he go?” she asks.

I walk past the passenger side of Pete’s car toward the building, when I hear Rosie’ voice from behind me. “Oh shit,” she hisses.

I spin around and see her standing next to the driver’s side door of Pete’s car. “Call nine-one-one!” she screams. “Pete’s in the car. He’s been shot!”

CHAPTER 42

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE”

Thursday, July 16. 3:30 a.m. 2 days, 20 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

Roosevelt’s expression is grim as he kneels down on the rutted sidewalk next to the bullet-riddled door to Pete’s car. “The ambulance will be here in a minute,” he says.

“Tell them to hurry,” I snap.

I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat, trying to keep my baby brother warm. His face is pale. He’s fading in and out of consciousness. I’m pressing a blood-soaked blanket against his left hip to try to control the bleeding. I’m trying to stay calm as my heart races. Pete could bleed out before the ambulance arrives. Rosie stands a few steps away. She’s on her cell, talking to Pete’s wife. Nick Hanson arrived a few minutes ago. He’s helping the cops search for the shooter. The blinking lights of the four Oakland squad cars that Roosevelt summoned create a surreal strobe light feel as they reflect off the facade of the freeway through the fog.

Pete labors to take a breath. “Are you going to give me the last rites?” he whispers.

“No. I got out of that line of work. You’re going to be fine.”

“When did you become a doctor?”

“I watch ER reruns on cable every night.”

“Son of a bitch hurts more than when I broke my collarbone.”

He ended up on the wrong side of a Pontiac when he and his partner were chasing down a pimp. This one’s much worse.

“Is it only the leg?” I ask.

His face contorts into a grimace as the pain shoots through him. He struggles to catch his breath. “Yeah,” he finally manages to say.

All things considered, this may be reasonably good news if I can keep him from bleeding to death. Then again, a shattered hip isn’t a walk in the park, either.

Roosevelt leans inside the car and squeezes Pete’s hand. “What happened?”.

Pete struggles to find his voice. “Wong had just gone into the building across the street.” He gasps for air. “A black panel van pulled around the corner. The guy in the passenger’s seat started shooting. African-American. Left-handed.”

Always a cop.

“He shot low,” Roosevelt observes. “Maybe he was just trying to scare you.”

“He succeeded. Didn’t get a good look at him. Didn’t see license plates.”

“Had you seen the van before?”

Pete coughs. “No.”

“Why didn’t you answer your cell?” I ask.

“Couldn’t reach it. I messed up.”

“It’s okay, Pete.”

“Good cops never let their guard down.”

“It happens.”

“Not to me.”

Most cops aren’t put in life-threatening situations by their idiot brothers.

“Did you call Donna?” he asks.

“Yes. She’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

“How did she take it?”

“She’s okay,” I lie. “She said she’s going to kick your ass as soon as you’re healthy.”

He forces a chuckle that quickly transforms into a cough. Then his expression turns into one of abject panic. “What about Margaret? I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Donna’s sister is going to stay with her.”

There is a hint of relief in his eyes. His breathing is coming in short spurts. “You can’t let me die, Mick.”

“I won’t. I still have a pipeline to God. I use it only on special occasions—like now.”

He squeezes my hand. “I’m going to take a little rest, Mick.”

“I need you to stay awake with me.”

“I’ll try.” His eyelids flutter. He summons his remaining strength to point a finger at Roosevelt. “Somebody has been breaking our windows,” Pete says to him. “Somebody has been taking pictures of my niece.” Pete fights to catch his breath. “I must have been getting close to something. You need to find out what really happened before somebody else gets hurt.”

Roosevelt swallows hard. “I will. You need to take care of yourself.”

Pete doesn’t respond. The ambulance pulls up. Paramedics leap out. It takes them only a moment to pull Pete out of the car and lift him onto a stretcher. The IVs go in. His eyes close.

“Where are you taking him?” I ask.

“Highland.”

The hospital in north Oakland is the nearest trauma center. “I’m coming with you.”

“Are you family?”

“I’m his brother.” And I’m not going to let him die.

CHAPTER 43

“I GOT MY BROTHER SHOT”

Thursday, July 16. 5:00 a.m. 2 days, 19 hours, and 1 minute until execution.

“You look like hell,” Rosie says.

At five in the morning after a sleepless night from hell, I look as good as anybody can. We’re sitting in the worn plastic chairs in the dreary waiting room of Highland Hospital, which makes the visitors’ area at the Row look cheerful. Pete has been in surgery for the last hour. They’re trying to stop the bleeding and piece together his hip.

I shake my head. “I got my brother shot trying to save a guy who has spent his life defending people who sold drugs to kids. What the hell was I thinking?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was. Our daughter has been threatened. Your house is a prison. We never should have taken the case.”

Her dark eyes narrow. “Don’t beat yourself up. We made the decision together.”

“It was my call.”

“There’s plenty of blame to go around.”

I’m ready to accept most of it.

My sister-in-law walks in from the hallway. Donna Andrews is an energetic woman in her early forties with shoulder-length blond hair, striking blue eyes, and an unwavering calm demeanor. She runs the accounting department of a big law firm. She manages to keep a reasonably positive outlook even though she spends most of her time providing adult supervision to a group of pit bulls whose reputation for winning cases is exceeded only by their penchant for boorish behavior. I’ve known her for more than a decade. This is the first time I’ve seen her come close to losing her composure. Given the circumstances, it’s entirely understandable.

She pulls at her hair nervously. “He’s going to be okay.” She’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to assure us. “He has to be.”

“If there’s anything we can do––,”

“I’ll let you know. I’m glad Margaret is too young to understand what’s going on.”

Me too. Grace isn’t, of course. Rosie spoke to her a few minutes ago. The children of criminal defense lawyers learn that phone calls in the middle of the night are part of the program. She took the news with stoic concern. It will give her additional ammunition in our ongoing war of disapproval.

Donna tugs at the strings of her gray sweatshirt. “I just want Pete to be able to watch Margaret grow up.”

“He will,” I assure her.

The minutes turn into an hour. An hour turns into two. Donna keeps glancing at her watch. Rosie and I try to help her pass the time by keeping her engaged in strained small talk. In an effort to do something productive, I donate a pint of blood for Pete. It makes me woozy, but I can’t possibly sleep now. I try to reach Roosevelt and Nick several times. Neither of them answers. I still don’t know if they talked to Amanda Wong or why she drove over to a dark building under the freeway.

I close my eyes and my mind starts to wander. I think back to the days when Pete and I used to throw a football at the foggy Sunset Playground, a few blocks from our house; his graduation from St. Ignatius; and his first day in uniform. I think of his strained relationship with our father––a man he couldn’t please, though he never stopped trying. There was something in their wiring that wouldn’t allow them to breathe. Maybe they were too much alike. I fast-forward past his dismissal from the SFPD and the subsequent opening of his PI agency. Past the cases we’ve worked on together. I chastise myself for asking him to help me for free on countless occasions. My mind flashes to his smiling face in the wedding photo on my living room wall, next to Margaret’s baby picture. Like all brothers, we’ve had our differences. Pete’s fundamentally a good man who deserves another opportunity. I have my own selfish interests too––I don’t want to lose my only living brother.

At seven-thirty in the morning, a young surgeon wearing a light green gown enters the waiting area, accompanied by an officious-looking nurse. My heart is pounding. They always come with a nurse when the news is bad. I take Donna’s hand.

The doctor removes his mask. He looks at us through wire-framed glasses. “I’m Dr. Nguyen.”

“How is he?” Donna whispers.

I’m holding my breath.

“Stable, but not out of the woods,” the doctor says. “If we can keep the bleeding under control and avoid infection, he should be okay.”

Donna lets out a deep breath. She hugs the doctor, the nurse, Rosie, and me. Then she bursts into spontaneous tears. I hold her gently as her emotions pour out.

I squeeze Rosie’s hand as we try to focus on Dr. Nguyen’s quiet voice. He explains that Pete has a broken leg and a shattered hip socket. He’s lost a substantial amount of blood. The leg will heal. The hip will require replacement. The blood loss may create complications, so the doctor has ordered him into intensive care. If all goes well, he’ll start light physical therapy in a few weeks. Dr. Nguyen nods. “All things considered, he’s very lucky.”

So are we.

“Can we see him?” Donna asks.

“He’s going to be in recovery for a while. He’ll be under heavy pain medication when he wakes up. We’ll let you know when you can go in for a few minutes.”

I fight back tears and offer a silent thanks to the Almighty. It’s the closest I’ve come to praying in a long time. Life is too short and frequently unfair. We just caught an enormous break.

* * *

“Hey, Mick.” My brother’s whisper is barely audible.

“How are you feeling, Pete?”

“I’ve been better.” His left leg is immobilized in layers of bandages. An IV is attached to his arm. He’s wearing an oxygen mask. “I’m thirsty.”

I pour him a cup of water from the hospital-issue plastic pitcher. He drinks it slowly through a straw.

“Thanks for donating the blood,” he says. “They told me I may need it.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from. You would have done the same for me.”

This gets the hint of a smile. He glances down at his leg. “Look at that mess.”

“You’re going to be fine.”

“Damn right. I told the doctor that my brother is a hotshot lawyer who will shut this place down if I’m not up and running in a couple of weeks.”

That very same brother almost got him killed. “It may take a little longer.”

“I’m patient.”

No you’re not.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Ten after ten.”

“Where’s Donna?”

“Rosie took her down to the cafeteria to get some breakfast. They’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you need anything?”

“A new hip.”

“The doctor is working on it.”

“How about a corned beef sandwich?”

“I’ll talk to the nurse.”

“Get your ass over to Saul’s.”

“I’ll get right on it, Pete.”

This elicits a weak smile. “I can still guilt-trip you into doing anything.”

“You can work me all you want.”

He grimaces. “Remember the time Pop took that bullet?”

“Yeah.” I was twelve when our dad took one in his foot while he and Roosevelt were trying to stop a liquor-store robbery. It wasn’t life threatening, but it was certainly more than a flesh wound. “Remember when he insisted on going to work the next day?”

“The next day? Hell, he refused to let them take him to the hospital.”

“And then he passed out. Remember how he wouldn’t use the cane that they gave him? He was as stubborn as they come––just like you.”

Pete smiles. “Stubborn guys make good cops.” He points at his leg. “What do you think he would have said about this?”

“That you’re a hero.”

“Come on, Mick.”

“No kidding, Pete. In Pop’s book, anybody who got hurt in the line of duty was a hero––no questions asked.” I touch his shoulder. “He was proud of you. He thought you were a good cop.”

“He never mentioned it to me.”

“He mentioned it to me––a lot.”

My brother’s tired eyes open wide. “Really?”

After all these years, he’s still looking for that elusive fatherly affirmation. “Really.”

He thinks about it for a long moment. “What are you going to do about the case?”

“We’ll ask for a continuance.”

“Do you think they’ll agree to it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” It doesn’t seem quite as important at the moment.

“Did you talk to Roosevelt?”

“I left a message.”

“Did he talk to Amanda Wong?”

“I don’t know. By the way, he’s posted a uniform outside your door just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Somebody decides to finish what he started earlier this morning. “Just in case.”

“Did he find the shooter?”

“Not yet.”

“So, I got myself blasted for nothing.”

“He’ll find the shooter. Besides, you were trying to save somebody’s life.”

“It would have been pretty ironic if I’d gotten myself killed trying to save a dying man who is set to be executed in two days.”

True enough.

Pete’s frown becomes more pronounced. “This was no random shooting, Mick. Somebody was following Wong—or me. I must have been getting close to something.”

“Who?”

“It’s got to be Aronis or Bryant. Maybe both of them.”

“How can we prove it?”

He glances down at his bandaged leg. “That’s up to you now, Mick.” Pete’s eyes close and I think he’s drifting off to sleep. Then they reopen suddenly and he tries to sit up. “Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“Be sure to go down to the impound lot and get my car.”

“Don’t worry about it, Pete. The insurance will pay for the repairs.”

“I’m not worried about the damage. There was an envelope in the trunk.”

“What was in it?”

“Bank account information for Aronis and Bryant.” He quickly adds, “And Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

“Anything we can use?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to look at it.”

Pete’s eyes light up when Donna and Rosie return a few minutes later. He points at Donna’s coffee. “Is that for me?”

“Maybe a little later, honey.”

“Is Margaret okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s going to stay with my sister so I can be here with you.”

“Are the people at your office going to be okay with that?”

God forbid she should miss a day of work.

“They understand, Pete.”

They talk quietly for a few minutes. Then the nurse shoos us out. Pete’s spirits are reasonably good, but his stamina is not. He’s drifting to sleep as we make our way to the waiting area, where Donna excuses herself to use the phone.

Rosie and I sit next to each other in silence. The TV is on, but neither of us is watching. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

She means it. “What do we do about Nate’s habeas petitions?”

“They’re already filed.”

What? “How?”

“I e-mailed them to the office last night. Terrence filed them this morning.”

I don’t know how we practiced law without the former prizefighter with a criminal record a mile long. “They weren’t signed.”

“He signed them for us. He’s very adept at forging our signatures.”

“Technically that’s illegal.”

“Feel free to turn yourself in. I don’t think Nate is going to sue us for malpractice.”

I turn to more disturbing matters. “We could be next on somebody’s hit list.”

She remains resolute. “Roosevelt is still providing round-the-clock police protection.”

“He couldn’t protect Pete.”

“Pete was flying without a net.”

I ask if she talked to Grace again.

Her chin juts forward. “Yes. She now has a greater appreciation of the gravity of our situation. She’s planning to spend the day at home.”

“Swell.” My head is throbbing. “I don’t want to leave Pete.”

“There isn’t much that we can do. Donna’s parents are here too. They’ll call if anything changes.”

The ICU’s volunteer comes in a moment later. “You’ve had two more messages from Inspector Roosevelt Johnson,” she says. “He said you should call him right away.”

* * *

“How’s Pete?” Roosevelt asks me.

“It looks like he’s going to be okay.” I’m standing outside the main entrance to Highland. I’m holding my cell phone against my right ear.

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is. Have you figured out who shot him?”

“We’re working on it.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Roosevelt. Somebody involved in the Fineman case went after him.”

There is an interminable pause before he says, “I’m beginning to think you may be right.”

I was hoping for more. “You need to help us fix this, Roosevelt.”

“I will.”

“Did you find Amanda Wong?”

“Yes. Can you come down to the Hall of Justice?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s up?”

“We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

CHAPTER 44

“SHE WASN’T ALONE”

Thursday, July 16. 12:02 p.m. 2 days, 11 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

“How’s Pete?” The concern in Ted Prodromou’s voice is genuine.

I press my cell phone tightly to my ear. “It looks like he’s going to be okay.” The wheels of justice are still spinning rapidly as Rosie and I drive across the Bay Bridge. Donna promised to call us immediately if there is any change in Pete’s condition. “Did you get the petition we filed this morning?”

“I did.” He clears his throat. “It may be my imagination, but your signatures looked a little different than in your last filing.”

It would be a bad idea to lie to a staff attorney for the California Supreme Court. “We had our secretary sign for us.”

“I wasn’t planning to report you. I would suggest that you not make it a habit.”

“Thanks, Ted.”

“You’re welcome.” There is a pause. “I was impressed by your argument about the reliability of the Sodium Pentothal. The new study that you cited was prepared by a well-respected doctor at Stanford.”

All of which is well and good. “But?”

“The decision isn’t going your way.”

It’s been that kind of day. “We’re going to file another one as soon as we can.”

“On what grounds?”

“Change of circumstance. Our defense has been irreparably impaired because our investigator has been incapacitated.”

“I don’t know if there’s any authority on point. I’ll look at it as soon as it comes in.”

It’s his polite way of saying it’s another loser.

“Have you talked to Ken Conroy?” he asks.

Conroy is the respected staff attorney at the Ninth Circuit who is assigned to our case.

“He’s my next call.”

* * *

The response from Conroy is essentially the same. He expresses polite concern about Pete. Then he assures me in no uncertain terms that the Feds were unimpressed by our filing.

“We’re going to file another habeas petition,” I tell him. “Pete’s situation substantially impairs our capacity to handle this matter.”

“I’m sympathetic. On the other hand, I don’t know if that’s per se grounds to delay an execution.”

“You can do better, Ken.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. You know the death warrant is good for just one day—Sunday. If the execution doesn’t happen then, it could be months.”

It’s true. This isn’t a question of trying to sway public opinion in order to halt an execution. Legally, a death warrant has a twenty-four-hour shelf life. “You can’t fix the mistake if you execute an innocent man.”

“I’ll present your arguments to the judges.”

* * *

“Glad to hear Pete’s going to be okay,” Roosevelt says. I find him sitting behind his cluttered metal desk in the bullpen area that houses the SFPD’s homicide division. Except for the wanted posters on the walls and the guns worn by each of the plainclothes inspectors, it looks like the back office of an insurance company. “It reminded me of the time your father got shot. I had to carry the old cuss to the car after he passed out. He couldn’t believe it when he woke up at San Francisco General with a cast on his foot.”

“Pete’s the same way.”

“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” His eyes narrow. “He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“That’s fair. Do you have any idea who shot him?”

“Not yet. Oakland PD found a stolen panel van near Jack London Square. The plates were missing. No identifiable prints.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“A contractor in East Oakland. He’s very happy to have his truck back.”

“Does he have a criminal record?”

“No. He’s clean.”

“What about gunpowder residue?” Rosie asks.

“They found traces. They can’t do anything unless Pete can identify the shooter.”

Which he can’t.

“The investigation is ongoing,” Roosevelt says. “I intend to exert as much pressure as I can on Oakland PD.”

It’s his way of saying that he isn’t going to rest until he finds the shooter. “Did you have a chance to inventory everything in Pete’s car?”

Roosevelt nods. He opens his top drawer and hands me a manila folder. “We found this in the trunk of his car. I made you a copy of everything.”

“Thanks.” I open the file and glance at the contents. “What is it?”

“Bank account information for East Bay Scavenger and Bayview Construction.” He quickly adds, “There’s also some stuff for Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

“Anything that might be helpful to our appeal?”

“I don’t know, Mike. It just came in. I haven’t had a chance to go through it.”

I will. “Did you talk to Amanda Wong?”

“Yes.”

“What was she doing at a building under the freeway in the middle of the night?”

He looks around to make sure that nobody is within earshot. “Have you talked to Nick Hanson?”

“He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“That’s because he’s sitting down the hall.”

What the hell? “Is he under arrest?”

“Of course not. He helped our guys canvass the area. They found Amanda Wong down the block from where Pete was shot. She wasn’t alone.”

CHAPTER 45

“THIS COULD GET A LITTLE CHIPPY”

Thursday, July 16. 12:30 p.m. 2 days, 11 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

We find Nick the Dick chatting amiably with a uniformed officer outside an interrogation room down the hall. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” he says to me. “Is Pete going to be okay?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” He points at the door. “There’s a couple of people you’ll want to meet in there.” He arches an eyebrow. “This could get a little chippy.”

Roosevelt opens the door and leads Rosie and me inside. When Nick tries to follow us, Roosevelt stops him. “Official police business.”

Nick tugs at the rose on his lapel and smiles broadly. “Come on, Roosevelt. We go back a long way.”

Roosevelt is in no mood for banter with the talkative PI. “Outside.”

“Whatever you say.”

The claustrophobic room is furnished with a table and four chairs and smells of a rank combination of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. Rosie and I take the two open seats. Roosevelt stands guard by the door.

I nod politely to Amanda Wong. “Nice to see you again.”

She responds with guarded nod. She turns to Roosevelt. “Can we leave now?”

“Not yet.”

A petite young woman is sitting in the other chair. She’s staring intently at the wall. Her black hair is cut short. Her eyes have a soulful sadness.

“I’m Mike Daley,” I tell her.

“Heather Tan.”

Roosevelt interrupts her. “With Nick’s help, our people found Ms. Wong and Ms. Tan while I was with you and Pete. Ms. Tan lives in an illegal residential unit on the second floor of the building. Ms. Wong went to see her last night.”

I say to Tan, “Are you in the habit of receiving visitors in the middle of the night?”

She looks straight down. “It was an emergency.”

Roosevelt picks up again. “Ms. Tan used to be known by another name.”

“Would that be Jasmine Luk?” I ask.

“Yes.”

My heart beats faster. Pete was right after all. It may be the break we’ve been hoping for. I turn to Wong. “I take it that you went to warn your great-niece that we were looking for her?”

“Yes, I did.”

It’s a little cloak-and-dagger for my taste. “Why didn’t you just call her?”

“Telephones can be bugged, Mr. Daley.”

* * *

It takes the former Jasmine Luk just a few minutes to give us an abbreviated version of her autobiography. She did in fact assume a new identity after the events at the Golden Dragon, using counterfeit papers provided by her aunt. She’s been living under her new name in the apartment on the second floor of the Sunshine Printing warehouse ever since. She says she’s paid her bills by working as a bookkeeper for her great-aunt’s company.

Rosie summons a maternal tone. “Why did you run?”

“They killed my friend Eugene.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know. I was scared. I couldn’t stay in the city.” She shoots a glance at her great-aunt. “There were other issues.”

“What kind?” Rosie asks.

No response.

I turn to Wong. “What’s going on?”

“We can’t talk about it.”

Rosie summons a sympathetic voice. “You’re only going to make it worse if you don’t cooperate.”

“It’s complicated.”

“We’re prepared to represent you and Ms. Tan. Everything you tell us is covered by the attorney-client privilege.”

The stuffy room is silent as Amanda Wong ponders her options. She looks at Roosevelt and says, “I’m not comfortable talking about this in front of Inspector Johnson.”

“Everything we say here is off the record,” Roosevelt replies.

“No it isn’t,” I say. “Could you excuse us for a minute? We’d like to talk to our client.”

Roosevelt scowls. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as the door is closed, Wong speaks for her great-niece. “There were some issues with Heather’s immigration papers when she came over from China.”

“What kind of issues?” Rosie asks.

“They were phony. We got quite adept at putting together counterfeit paperwork. I want to assure you that we only did it to help our family. We never made a profit from selling counterfeit papers.”

Of course not.

Wong nervously fingers the small pendant hanging from a gold chain around her neck. “Heather and her mother came to this country illegally. We were afraid Heather would be deported if she talked to the police. It was too dangerous for her to stay in San Francisco. That’s when we brought her over to Oakland.”

“Why weren’t the police able to figure this out?”

Wong gives us a knowing look. “We gave her a new identity.” She shoots a loving glance at her niece. “Heather was also very careful.”

Or the cops didn’t try very hard. Or maybe they didn’t try at all.

Rosie offers a practical way out. “We’ve handled a number of immigration cases. We’ll make sure Heather isn’t forced to leave the country, but there’s something we’ll need from you.”

“Which is?”

“Full cooperation––including her testimony––in the Fineman case.”

Wong raises her hands in a defensive posture. “That’s out of the question. We aren’t going to put Heather in danger again.”

Rosie addresses Tan in a softer tone. “You have to trust us.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no choice. There are some very bad people out there who know where you live. They’ve been following us and they’ve already shot our investigator. We’ve been threatened and we’re living with police protection. We can protect you if you cooperate. No one can protect you if you try to run now.”

The former Jasmine Luk looks to her great-aunt for guidance. The street-smart Wong realizes the game is over. “We have no choice, honey. You’ll have to tell them everything.”

The former Jasmine Luk–turned–Heather Tan swallows hard.

Rosie doesn’t miss a beat. “You walked home with Eugene Tsai on the night that three people were killed at the Golden Dragon, didn’t you?”

Luk’s eyes are looking straight down at the table. “Yes.”

“Did you hear any shots?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone in the alley that night?”

She doesn’t respond.

Rosie mentally counts to three before she tries again. “You and Eugene saw a man in the alley, didn’t you?”

Tan pauses. “Yes,” she whispers.

Yes!

“Where were you when you saw him?”

“Standing in the doorway of my apartment building.”

“Was Eugene with you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get a good look at the man in the alley?”

She closes her eyes and nods.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No.” Her hands are shaking. “He stopped right in front of me and pointed his finger. He made a threatening gesture.”

“What type?”

“He pretended to slit my throat.”

“Then what did he do?”

“He ran out of the alley.”

That’s memorable. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a dog-eared photo of Bryant that I’ve been carrying with me for the last couple of days. “Was this the man?”

She studies it for a moment. “It could have been,” she finally decides.

I was hoping for something more definitive. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. It was a long time ago.”

It’s the best we can do. “You talked to the police, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell them?”

She takes a deep breath. “That I didn’t see anyone.”

“You lied?”

“I was scared.”

I can understand why.

Rosie touches Tan’s shaking hand. “We need you to testify.”

There are tears in Tan’s eyes. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Our client has been on death row for ten years. He’s going to be executed in two days. You can change the outcome.”

“The man who killed Eugene is still out there.”

“Give me just a moment,” I say. I open the door and find Roosevelt standing in the hallway. I shut the door behind me. “We’ll need protection for Ms. Tan.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’ll have to do more. She’s prepared to ID Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon. I need to be sure that she lives long enough to do it.”

He eyes me steadily. “Do you believe her?”

“Yes.”

His worn face transforms into a pronounced frown. “I want to talk to her.”

He starts to walk around me and I stop him. “No,” I say. “She’s my client. I will instruct her not to say anything to you unless you agree to protect her.”

“I can’t provide protection until I evaluate her credibility.”

“I’m not going to let her talk to you or anybody else until you provide protection. I need you to fix this right now.”

“I’m doing everything that I can, Mike.”

“No you’re not. You’ve been dragging your feet from the day we were hired. I don’t know who you’re protecting, or if you’re just trying to cover your ass. Either way, I’ve had more than enough.”

“Calm down, Mike.”

“I’m not going to calm down, Roosevelt. My brother has been shot. My family has been threatened. I’ve been working around the clock and I’ve just found a witness who can place Bryant at the scene.” I point to my watch. “You need to decide if you’re going to do the right thing. If somebody else gets hurt, it’s going to be on your conscience.”

The old warhorse inhales the stale air. His eyes turn to steel. “We’re going to fix this right now.”

I open the door and follow him inside.

“Ms. Tan,” Roosevelt says, “I understand that you have some important information concerning the events at the Golden Dragon ten years ago.”

Tan looks toward her great-aunt, who nods. “Yes,” Tan says softly.

“Is this information different than the statement you gave me when we last spoke?”

“Yes.”

“So you lied to me?”

Tan looks down. “I’m sorry, Inspector.”

“Are you prepared to testify?”

Wong responds for her. “Only if you’re prepared to provide protection.”

“I am.”

Tan isn’t convinced. “You promised the same thing to Eugene.”

“As long as you promise to testify truthfully, you will remain under my protection. I will personally guarantee your safety.”

Most homicide inspectors don’t double as bodyguards.

Tan’s eyes show tentative signs of interest. “Where?”

“We can find you a place to stay here at the Hall of Justice.”

“No way.”

Roosevelt considers his options. “You can stay in the spare bedroom at my house. There will be at least two officers with you at all times, and a police car in front of the house twenty-four hours a day. You’ll have a police escort to court.” He nods to Wong. “You can keep your great-niece company.”

“I will.”

Tan asks another practical question. “What happens after this is all done?”

Rosie answers. “We’ll work out your issues with the immigration authorities.”

“Then what?”

It’s Roosevelt who responds. “Your great-aunt and I will arrange for you to disappear again. This time, not even Nick Hanson will be able to find you.”

* * *

A convoy of squad cars escorts Tan and Wong to Roosevelt’s house in the Sunset. Rosie and I head back to Oakland to visit Pete and Donna at the hospital. His spirits rise noticeably when I tell him that he found Jasmine Luk.

Rosie and I return to the office late Thursday night to put the finishing touches on a new set of habeas petitions that will reflect the discovery of a new witness. We alert Ted Prodromou and Ken Conroy to be on the lookout for our filings on Friday morning. We hint that we have big news, but we provide no details. They promise to begin their reviews as quickly as possible. We’re down to the final forty-eight hours.

It’s almost midnight when Rosie walks into my office. Her hair is disheveled and her eyes are tired, but she still looks beautiful to me. “Finished with the petitions?” she asks.

“I want to go through them once more.”

“You’re going to be up all night, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Her lower lip juts out. “It’s been quite a day.”

“Yes, it has. At least it looks like Pete is going to be okay.”

“Thank goodness.”

“And we now have a witness who can place Bryant at the scene—if she’s telling the truth and if she can maintain her composure on the stand.”

Rosie allows herself a hint of cautious optimism. “We might have a chance after all.”

“Maybe. Her ID is still pretty tentative. It was a long time ago on a rainy night in a dark alley. It’s awfully hard to prove freestanding innocence.”

“Yes, it is. Do we have anything else?”

I point at a large manila folder on my desk. “Those are some bank statements for East Bay Scavenger and Bayview Construction around the time of the shootings. There’s also some financial information from Little Joey’s business. They were in the trunk of Pete’s car.”

“Anything we can use?”

“I’m going to look at them tonight.”

CHAPTER 46

“WE WAIT”

Friday, July 17. 8:00 a.m. 1 day, 16 hours, and 1 minute until execution.

“Long time no talk,” Edwards wheezes.

Not long enough. “I’ve been busy.”

I’m standing outside the main entrance of Highland Hospital. I stayed up all night reworking our habeas petition, then I came over to see Pete. He’s improving. I took the opportunity to use his bathroom for a shower and shave. The cup of bitter hospital coffee in my hand won’t stop the ringing in my ears or cure my sore throat.

He starts with sugar. “I’m glad your brother is going to be okay.”

As if you really care. “I got a message that you were trying to reach me.”

“I hear you’re filing a new petition this morning.”

“That isn’t a news flash. We’ve filed papers every day this week.”

“Is this about the missing file?”

“It’s still missing.” At this point, nobody is looking for it. Realistically, it isn’t going to be a factor in our investigation.

“I heard you found a new witness in Oakland on Wednesday night.”

“We did.”

The phony engaging voice disappears. “What’s going on?”

I want to pique his interest, but I don’t want to identify Jasmine Luk. It was hard enough to persuade her to testify. She may change her mind if a horde of reporters starts hounding her. “We’re filing new habeas petitions at nine o’clock.”

“On what grounds?”

“We have compelling new evidence that was not revealed at the trial.”

“What evidence is that?”

“We’ve found a witness who is going to place Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.”

“Does this witness have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

“No.”

“You found Jasmine Luk, didn’t you?”

“In due course, Jerry.”

* * *

“How’s your houseguest?” I ask Roosevelt.

He isn’t amused. He’s sitting at his desk in homicide at ten-fifteen on Friday morning. He takes a sip of cold coffee and responds with a terse “Fine.”

I take a seat in the beat-up swivel chair opposite his desk. “Did Jasmine have a good night?”

“Yes. I now live in the safest house in the Bay Area.”

“I need to talk to her again.”

“If it’s absolutely necessary.”

“It is. I have a client who is set to receive a needle in less than two days.”

“Understood.” His voice fills with frustration when I ask him if he has anything about the guy who shot Pete. “I just got off the phone with Oakland PD. No leads yet, but they tell me that they’re looking hard.”

I open my briefcase and hand him a peace offering in the form of a grainy old photo that I brought from home in which Roosevelt is standing next to my father on the steps of the Hall of Justice. Roosevelt was wearing a business suit. Pop was in uniform. “It was taken during the Fineman trial,” I tell him. “You were good-looking guys.”

His expression turns melancholy as he looks at the picture. “Your father was a fine cop.”

Pop always said Roosevelt was the best cop he ever knew. “So are you.”

“I just work behind a desk.”

“You know that isn’t true, Roosevelt.” I point at the photo. “Do you remember what you were talking about?”

He’s still staring intently at the old black-and-white––almost as if he’s trying to get his old friend to talk to him. “It was a long time ago, Mike. I don’t recall.”

He tries to hand it back to me, but I stop him. “Keep it.”

“Thanks.”

I pull out a manila file folder. “These are copies of the bank statements that were in Pete’s car.”

“Anything useful?”

“I couldn’t find any direct financial link between Aronis and Bryant around the time of the shootings. It’s possible that they were smart enough not to leave a trail.” I hand him a stack of printouts tabbed with yellow Post-its. “These are from Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

He studies the paperwork with the tiny numbers. “So?”

“I spent half the night going through this stuff.” I point to an entry on the first page. “There’s a recurring monthly deposit of ten grand that comes in by wire transfer from an unidentified source. The payments started right after Joey opened his business.”

“It’s probably from one of Joey’s customers.”

“Maybe. Ten grand a month seems like a lot of money in a nickel-and-dime business like Joey’s.”

“You think somebody is bankrolling Joey?”

“Maybe.”

“What does this have to do with your case?”

I answer him honestly. “Maybe nothing. I’d like you to find out where the money was coming from. Can you do it?”

“Probably.” He waits a beat. “You’re grasping.”

Yes, I am. “Please, Roosevelt.”

He looks down at the file again. “Let me see what I can find out.”

* * *

“Now you think Little Joey was involved?” Rosie asks.

“I’m not sure. All I know is that he’s been getting ten grand a month from somebody.”

“It doesn’t mean it had anything to do with Nate’s case.”

“True enough.”

It’s two-fifteen on Friday afternoon. Rosie’s office is stuffy as we wait for a response from the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit on the petitions we filed this morning.

Rosie looks intently at the bank statements from Little Joey’s currency exchange. Finally, she takes off her glasses and sets them down. “Joey didn’t open his business until a couple of years after Nate was convicted. How could this be relevant now?”

“I don’t know, Rosie.”

“What did Roosevelt think?”

“He didn’t know either.”

“Maybe he knows something, but wouldn’t tell you.”

“He wouldn’t have been that coy—especially so close to an execution.”

“Or maybe the cops really planted the murder weapon. Maybe Roosevelt doesn’t want to point the finger at another cop.”

“He wouldn’t hesitate to point the finger at Little Joey.”

“Unless it also meant pointing a finger at your father.”

* * *

“Where are we?” Nate asks me.

We’ve regrouped in the airless visitors’ area at San Quentin at four o’clock on Friday afternoon. Rosie is sitting next to me. Ilene is waiting outside.

“We’ll call the governor again,” I tell him. “Then we wait.”

Nate is agitated. “For how long?”

We’ve been hounding the death penalty clerks at the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit every half hour since ten o’clock this morning. The fact that they’ve waited this long may suggest they’re considering our petitions seriously. Then again, it could mean somebody decided to take a long lunch.

I look at the ancient analog watch that my father wore for forty years while he walked the beat in some of San Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods. He gave it to my older brother when he was accepted at Cal. Tommy gave it to me for safekeeping when he left for Vietnam. He never had a chance to reclaim it. “They promised to respond by the end of business. We’ll try again at four-thirty.”

“What’s your gut?”

“Somebody is going to bite.”

“What makes you think so?”

Because I’m an incurable optimist. “Jasmine Luk is a legitimate new witness.”

“We still have to demonstrate that her testimony would have caused the trial court to have reached a different conclusion. Freestanding innocence is a lot harder to prove than reasonable doubt. We need to show that somebody else did it.”

He’s right. “We laid it out in our petition. She can place Bryant at the scene. That refutes his alibi. It also proves that the man who took over Robinson’s operations was at the Golden Dragon that night. The courts will be able to put the pieces together.”

At least I sure as hell hope so.

* * *

We’re summoned to the guard station at 4:20 p.m. to take an emergency call from Ted Prodromou. I can tell immediately from his tone that the news is bad. “They were very impressed that you found Ms. Luk, but they didn’t think her testimony would provide sufficient evidence to have caused a different result at trial.”

In plain English, it means the California Supreme Court has rejected our habeas petition.

He adds, “For what my two cents are worth, I think you made a legitimate argument.”

In this instance, his two cents aren’t worth much. The color drains from Nate’s face when I return to the visitors’ area and break the news to him. We’ve been living on adrenaline and hope for the last week. I remind him that the Ninth Circuit is still considering our latest petition. We sit in silence as we wait.

The call from the Ninth Circuit finally comes in an hour later. I hold my breath as Ken Conroy speaks in a somber monotone. “I am calling to inform you that a three-judge panel of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals has ordered an emergency evidentiary hearing at ten o’clock tomorrow morning in the Federal District Court before Judge Robert Stumpf. The purpose is to hear the testimony of a woman named Jasmine Luk. You may call other witnesses to corroborate her testimony. We will expect you to submit a witness list by nine o’clock tonight.”

“We will.” My heart beats faster. “Any chance we can do it a little sooner?”

“No. I would encourage you to use your time wisely. Judge Stumpf expects you to finish by noon.”

It’s good news. It also means that we’re going to get only one chance to convince Judge Stumpf to grant a stay.

* * *

For the first time since we were hired, we allow ourselves a brief moment of guarded optimism. There are hugs and high fives when we regroup in the visitors’ area.

There is a newfound sense of purpose in Nate’s voice as he reverts to lawyer mode. “Where do we start?”

“Nick Hanson is going to muster his army of relatives to serve subpoenas to a laundry list of potential witnesses,” I tell him. “Roosevelt has agreed to testify if we need him. So has Patty Norman. It may take a little more persuasion for Floyd Washington. We’ll serve subpoenas on Aronis and Bryant. We’re going to spend the evening trying to prep Tsai and Luk.”

Nate the Great leans back in his wheelchair. The old trial lawyer’s mind kicks into gear. “We have to plan this out carefully. We don’t have much time.”

It’s a diplomatic way of saying that we’ll have two hours in court tomorrow morning to save his life. There will be no second chances.

“What’s our strategy?” he asks.

“We need to deal with the fact that this hearing will be different than a full-blown trial. It’ll be short, so we’ll have to watch our time. We’ll be making our presentation before Judge Stumpf, so we won’t need to dummy things down. He’s very bright and he doesn’t have to worry about a jury. He may give us a little more leeway in our questioning.”

“On the other hand,” Rosie says, “he has a reputation for being a stickler on procedure. He isn’t going to give us carte blanche.”

“Neither will Irwin Grim,” I add.

Nate watches intently as Rosie and I finish each other’s sentences. Finally, he holds up a hand. “Are you going to put Jasmine Luk on first?”

I look around at the drab walls and consider our options. “I think we should start with Fitz.”

Nate responds with a puzzled look. “Why?”

“I want to establish that the investigation was so hopelessly botched up that they called in IA to investigate.”

“But everybody was cleared.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is theater. I want the judge to understand that the cops were accused of planting the murder weapon. After we hammer Fitz, we’ll put up Nick Hanson. He’ll testify that Wendell Tsai told him that his brother saw an African-American man in the alley. Now he can also say that Luk identified Bryant as the man in the alley.”

“That’s inadmissible hearsay.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everybody loves Nick. He’s a strong witness. I’ll get him to ID Bryant.”

“That’s still inadmissible.”

“The judge will pretend to ignore it, but he won’t be able to purge it from his mind.”

“Judge Stumpf is too smart to fall for a cheap trick like that.”

“Judge Stumpf is as human as the rest of us. He can’t totally disregard the fact that the newspapers will report that the legendary Nick the Dick testified that Bryant was in the alley. He doesn’t want to be second-guessed by Jerry Edwards on Mornings on Two.”

Nate isn’t entirely convinced. “Then what?”

“We’ll put up Tsai’s brother to confirm what Nick said.

“That’ll be hearsay too.”

“We’ll argue that the judge should make an exception to the hearsay rule because of the compelling nature of the testimony. Even if he decides it’s inadmissible, the more times he hears it, the more likely he’ll be to believe it.”

“And after Tsai?”

“We’ll put up Luk to close the deal. I want her to ID Bryant and get off the stand as fast as possible.”

Nate does a brief calculus. “You need more than reasonable doubt to prove freestanding innocence. You need to show that somebody else did it.”

“Then we’ll try to push the blame over to Aronis and Bryant. They’re our best options.”

“How?”

“Floyd Washington and Patty Norman will testify that Aronis was trying to move into the San Francisco heroin market. We’ll put Aronis on the stand and lean on him.”

“He’ll deny everything. Besides, we can’t place him at the Golden Dragon.”

“But now we can place Bryant there. We’ll put Bryant up after Aronis.”

“He’ll deny everything too.”

“Then I’ll hammer him.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

I’ll have to wing it. “We’ll throw everything we can think of at the judge and see if anything sticks.” I don’t say it out loud, but in reality this is going to be two hours of high-stakes improvisational theater.

CHAPTER 47

“GOOD LUCK”

Saturday, July 18. 1:07 a.m. 22 hours and 54 minutes until execution.

“Are you ready?” Rosie asks. Her voice is tired. Her eyes are red as she looks at me through the reading glasses that replaced her contacts a couple of hours ago.

“Ready as I’m going to be.”

It’s the calm before the storm. We’re sitting at opposite ends of her sofa. Sylvia is in the kitchen, preparing a fruit salad. Grace is in her bedroom, talking on the phone with Jake. We’re pretending not to hear her. Tommy is asleep down the hall. He’ll reappear for his nightly visit in a couple of hours.

We’ve had a frantic night serving subpoenas and preparing Jasmine Luk and Wendell Tsai for their testimony. The degree of difficulty of our task was compounded by the fact that Luk is terrified and Tsai speaks limited English. Rosie and I won’t say it aloud, but we know that their direct exams tomorrow will be a crapshoot. Their ability to withstand Grim’s cross is an even bigger question. All things considered, we’re still in better shape than Nate, who is spending what may be his last night in a holding cell next to the execution chamber.

Rosie is wearing a sweatshirt and no makeup—and she still looks beautiful to me. She studies the handwritten list of witnesses. “You’re absolutely sure that you want to start with Fitz?”

“Yes.” I’m not absolutely sure about anything. If I can’t persuade Judge Stumpf to grant a stay, I’ll be second-guessing myself for the next twenty years. “I want to establish that the cops were accused of planting the murder weapon.”

She responds with a skeptical look. “There’s nothing new about that claim. Besides, Fitz isn’t going to roll over. He’ll testify that he conducted a full investigation and everybody was cleared.”

“I’ll go after him.”

She bites her lower lip. “And tell me again how will that prove freestanding innocence?”

“It won’t. It will give the judge a little more ammunition to grant a stay.”

“He’s going to follow the law.”

“He’s also human. At the end of the day, he’s going to have to decide whether Nate lives or dies. I want him to think about how it will play in the papers if he sentences Nate to death after we’ve shown that the cops botched the investigation.”

Rosie shakes her head. “It’s nowhere near enough.”

“It isn’t intended to win the case. It’s just setting the table.”

The dark circles below her eyes become more visible as she scowls. “You’ll need to cut it short if you can’t get to him in a hurry.”

“I will.”

She looks down at her list again. “Then you want to put up Nick?”

“Yes.”

“He has nothing new to add.”

“He’s a strong witness who is credible and engaging.”

“He wasn’t there.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want him to prime the pump. I’ll get him to testify that Wendell told him that his brother saw an African-American man in the alley. Then he’ll testify that Jasmine recently confirmed it was Bryant.”

“That’s all hearsay. The judge won’t allow it.”

“We went through this with Nate. We’ll argue that the interests of justice trump the technical provisions of the hearsay rules.”

“There’s no assurance that Judge Stumpf will agree with us.”

“All we can do is try. In any event, I want the judge to hear from three different people that Bryant was in the alley: first from Nick, then from Wendell, then from Jasmine. By third time, he might actually start believing it.”

“It doesn’t get us to freestanding innocence.”

“Floyd Washington and Patty Norman will smear Aronis. We’ll put Aronis on the stand and pound on him. Then we’ll ask Bryant what he was doing in the alley on the night of the shootings.”

“They’ll deny everything. Besides, it doesn’t place Bryant inside the Golden Dragon.”

I glance at my watch. “We’re going into court in less than nine hours. I’m well aware of all of the potential holes in our case.”

She doesn’t respond. Neither of us will verbalize the cold, harsh reality: the odds of proving freestanding innocence are still very long.

I reach across and take her hand. “I’m going home to try to get some sleep,” I tell her, knowing that I’ll be up all night again.

“That’s a good idea,” she whispers, knowing that she won’t be sleeping either.

We’re still looking at each other when Grace walks in and takes a seat on the floor. She’s wearing a pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Her voice is melancholy. “So, it will all be over by this time tomorrow.”

“Yes, it will,” Rosie says.

Our daughter tugs at her hair as her voice fills with genuine concern. “Are you ready?”

Rosie’s voice is barely audible. “Yes.”

Grace turns to me. “What about you?”

“As ready as I’m going to be, honey.”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you going to be able to stop the execution?”

I answer her honestly. “I don’t know, Grace.”

“They said on the news that you found a witness who might be able to place somebody else at the scene.”

She’s been following this case more closely than she’s let on. “That’s true.”

“Does that mean you know who the real murderer is?”

“We aren’t sure.”

She eyes me closely. “You have no idea how this is going to go down, do you?”

I hold my palms up. “Nope.”

She responds with a shrug, then she stands and heads toward her room. As she’s about to disappear from sight, she turns around and says, “Good luck.”

“Thanks, honey.” We’re going to need it.

CHAPTER 48

“ALL RISE”

Saturday, July 18. 10:00 a.m. 14 hours and 1 minute until execution.

“All rise,” the bailiff intones.

The Honorable Robert J. Stumpf Jr. walks purposefully to the bench in his workmanlike courtroom on the nineteenth floor of the Federal Building at precisely ten o’clock on Saturday morning. The native of southern Indiana is a lanky man in his mid-fifties who played high school basketball against Larry Bird. A consummate professional with boyish good looks, a businesslike tone, impeccable academic credentials, and a nearly perfect judicial temperament, he takes his responsibilities seriously. He also injects healthy doses of self-deprecating humor into his courtroom. Widely regarded as one of the finest wordsmiths on the federal bench, his name comes up every time there is an opening on the Ninth Circuit. He takes his seat in a tall leather swivel chair between the Stars and Stripes and the California state flag, taps his gavel, and motions us to sit down. With only fourteen hours until Nate’s execution, the final chapter in this story is going to be written this morning.

Unlike the artfully restored California Supreme Court and the majestic Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, the unremarkable building that houses the Federal District Court typifies the mundane architecture of the fifties and sixties that gave our city such uninspired landmarks as Candlestick Park and the Bank of America Building. Judge Stumpf and his colleagues dispense justice in a drab, boxy structure that resembles a steroid-laden PG&E substation. The building’s appearance became even more Stalinesque when the Feds erected unsightly concrete barriers on the entrance plaza to reduce the threat of terrorist attacks.

It’s a slow news day in the middle of a slow news summer, but the stuffy courtroom is packed. There is nothing like a two-hour hearing to decide whether a man will live or die to get people up early on a Saturday morning. The fourth estate is well represented by reporters from the usual local and national TV and radio outlets. Jerry Edwards is sulking in the first row. The strident woman from Court TV is sitting next to the bellicose lawyer who represented Scott Peterson’s mistress. They’re competing for seating space with the beautiful former ADA who used to be married to our former mayor. She now works for Fox News.

The legal establishment is here in force too. The attorney general came down from Sacramento to garner some sound-bite time. Ted Prodromou and Ken Conroy are sitting together in the third row. The ADA who lost the Bayview Posse case is sitting stoically near the door. His colleague who put Nate away in the first place is sitting in front of Mort Goldberg, whose wheelchair is parked behind the back row. They haven’t said a word to each other.

Jasmine Luk is sequestered in an office down the hall, under Roosevelt’s watch. Our other witnesses are lined up outside the prying eyes of the media. They won’t be allowed inside the courtroom until it’s their turn to testify.

Nate sits at the defense table between Rosie and me. He has a legal right to be here and he’s hardly a flight risk. He looks like a retired law professor, in a subdued charcoal suit, but his demeanor is closer to that of a caged tiger. Ilene sits behind him, flanked by her children and Rabbi Friedman. Pete is, of course, conspicuously absent. I talked to him again this morning. His recovery is progressing.

Irwin Grim stands at the prosecution table. It seems appropriate that he’s dressed in a black business suit. Dr. Death will try to poke holes in our presentation. Then he’ll drop back into a prevent defense and try to run out the clock.

Judge Stumpf glances at his watch, flips on his computer, and asks the bailiff to call our case. After that ceremonial task is completed, the judge looks out over his wire-rimmed bifocals at the silent courtroom. “We’re on the record. This is a hearing to consider petitioner’s request for a writ of habeas corpus. Unlike a full trial, our sole charge is to determine whether there is sufficient new evidence to prove petitioner’s ‘freestanding innocence.’ In other words, petitioner must demonstrate this evidence clearly proves he did not commit the crime for which he was convicted. Are counsel ready to proceed?”

Grim and I respond in unison. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Daley, I take it you will be addressing the court on behalf of Mr. Fineman?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Dr. Death adjusts his gold cuff links and addresses the judge without an invitation. “Irwin Grim on behalf of the attorney general. We will be speaking for the people of the State of California.”

All forty million of them. Judge Stumpf is unmoved by Grim’s inflated self-importance. “This hearing is the only matter on my docket today. Everyone here understands its magnitude. I have read counsel’s papers and I won’t need a rehash in the form of opening statements. We must conclude by noon. Please call your first witness, Mr. Daley.”

Showtime. “We call Lieutenant Kevin Fitzgerald.”

The deputy at the rear of the courtroom opens the door. Fitz walks deliberately down the center aisle, is sworn in, and takes his place in the witness box. He’s testified in hundreds of trials. He’s in his element. Having ditched his upscale outdoor wear for a stylish Italian suit, he could pass for an investment banker or the president of a Fortune 500 company.

Fitz responds in an even tone when I ask him about his occupation. “I worked for the SFPD in various capacities for thirty-four years.” Everybody wants to believe the distinguished veteran with the ruddy good looks and the commanding voice. “I taught at the police academy for five years after my retirement from active duty.”

I invoke a respectful tone. “Lieutenant, you spent much of your career investigating cases of alleged misconduct by other police officers, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

I’ll try to control the pace and direction of his testimony by eliciting short answers. “You were asked to conduct an official inquiry into police misconduct in the Fineman case, weren’t you?”

He corrects me. “Alleged misconduct, Mr. Daley.”

Fine. “You were asked to conduct such an investigation, right?”

“Yes.”

Okay. “Would you agree that Internal Affairs is called in only in the most serious of circumstances?”

“Generally.”

“So the allegations in the Fineman case were serious, right?”

Grim tries to break up my rhythm. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

No problem. “I’ll rephrase.” I haven’t taken my eyes off Fitz. “Lieutenant, were there allegations of serious police misconduct in the Fineman case?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, Mr. Fineman’s attorneys alleged that the police planted the murder weapon, correct?”

Fitz calmly adjusts the microphone. “That allegation was never substantiated.”

“Please answer my question, Lieutenant. Isn’t it true that you were asked to investigate allegations that the police had planted the murder weapon?”

He doesn’t fluster. “That allegation was never substantiated.”

Like a good politician, he’s going to stay on message. “Yes or no, Lieutenant. Did you investigate allegations that the murder weapon had been planted?”

“Yes.” He repeats his mantra: “That allegation was never substantiated.” The experienced pro continues deliberately. “Mr. Fineman’s attorneys made some wild accusations. There was no evidence of any misconduct by our officers.”

He’s good. I shift gears. “Did the police find any evidence of gunpowder residue on Mr. Fineman’s hands or clothing?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “This was covered at trial.”

“Your Honor, Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s testimony on this subject is directly related to the information that our new witness will provide shortly.” It’s a bald-faced lie. I’m simply trying to plant another seed with the judge that the cops screwed up.

“I’m going to give you a little leeway, Mr. Daley, but I want to hear something new very soon.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I turn back to Fitz. “Did the police find any gunpowder residue on Mr. Fineman’s hands or clothing?”

He eyes me warily. “No.”

I move in closer to Fitz. “The weapon found underneath Mr. Fineman was shown to be the one that fired the fatal shots at the Golden Dragon, right?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you have expected to find gunpowder residue on the hands and the clothing of an individual who had just fired that gun?”

Grim pops up. “Objection. Again, this was covered at trial. In addition, Lieutenant Fitzgerald is being asked to testify as to matters for which his expertise has not been established.”

“Your Honor, Lieutenant Fitzgerald spent thirty-four years in high-ranking positions with the SFPD. He spent several years thereafter teaching at the academy. Surely he is qualified to provide an expert opinion with respect to a basic issue about the residue left by an expended firearm.”

“Overruled.”

Fitz invokes a clinical tone. “Ordinarily, one would expect to find such residue.”

Was that so hard? “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“I’m not quite finished,” he says.

“You’ve answered my question.”

This time the judge interjects. “Let him finish, Mr. Daley.”

Fitz can’t hold back a smile. “It is likely that any identifiable traces of gunpowder residue were washed away by the rain.”

“But you don’t know that for sure.”

“No, I don’t. However, my investigation revealed no wrongdoing on the part of our highly professional officers.”

“It is also possible that no gunpowder residue was found because Mr. Fineman never fired the weapon, isn’t it?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “Speculative. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I ask, “Which officers did you talk to?”

“Everyone who helped secure the scene.”

“That would have included David Low, Joseph D’Amato, and Thomas Daley?”

“And several others.”

“Did you consider the possibility that they covered for each other?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “Speculation.”

I’m trying to plant the idea that the cops invoked the Code of Silence. “Your Honor, I’m not asking the lieutenant to speculate as to whether they actually did cover for each other. I’m merely asking if he considered the possibility.”

“Nice try, Mr. Daley. The objection is sustained.”

It’s the right call. Time to move on. “When did you conduct your investigation?”

“After the conclusion of the trial.”

“How long did that take?”

“About a week.”

I invoke a skeptical tone. “You were able to get statements from all of the relevant witnesses and complete a full investigation in just a week?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very efficient.”

He responds with a patronizing smile. “I like to think so.”

“You prepared a report on your findings, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That report was placed in a permanent confidential file within the Internal Affairs Division, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“We subpoenaed a copy of that report, didn’t we?”

“Yes, you did.”

“But you were unable to provide it to us.”

“That’s correct. The file is missing.”

“The file is missing,” I repeat. “So we’ll never have an opportunity to review its contents, will we?”

“It appears that way.” He can’t contain a smirk. “According to the records, the last person who checked out the file was Officer Thomas Daley.”

“You’re referring to my father?”

“Yes.”

“The record also indicated that he checked in the file, didn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

“Are you suggesting he had something to do with its disappearance?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” His smirk broadens. “I’m simply noting that he was the last person who checked out the file.”

Gimme a break. “And neither you nor the records division has been able to locate it?”

“No, but I was asked to provide a written summary of its contents.”

“Which means you’re asking us to take your word for it.”

He nods with authority. “Yes.”

“Which also means my client’s life rests on whether you did your job back then and whether you’re telling us the truth now.”

Grim stands. “Objection. Argumentative. I must also object to this line of questioning. Lieutenant Fitzgerald has provided a written statement under oath as to the contents of the file. Courts at the state and federal level have already concluded that Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s written statement is an adequate substitute for the file.”

Not good enough. “Your Honor, the information in that file has direct bearing on the issue of whether my client is going to be executed in less than fourteen hours.”

Grim sucks up to the judge. “Your Honor, we’re prepared to waive any objections if Mr. Daley wishes to call additional witnesses who have knowledge of the contents of that file.”

It’s a hollow gesture. “Your Honor, we can’t possibly know who to call, because we can’t examine the file.”

Grim fires back. “We’ve made every possible effort to locate that file. Lieutenant Fitzgerald has provided a comprehensive list of every person that he interviewed.”

“We’ll never know if that list is complete. If we find a new witness tomorrow, it will be too late.”

“Lieutenant Fitzgerald submitted the statement under oath. If Mr. Daley believes he’s committed perjury, he can bring charges. In the meantime, we are offering the testimony of the man who prepared it––Lieutenant Fitzgerald.”

Who is going to repeat himself until he’s blue in the face: everybody was exonerated; everybody was exonerated. “Your Honor,” I say, “it is an egregious miscarriage of justice to proceed with my client’s execution without giving us an opportunity to review the investigative file concerning this case. We will never be able to know all of the facts unless we obtain that file.”

Judge Stumpf has been taking in our sniping contest with his chin resting in the palm of his right hand. “The objection is sustained,” he decides. “The best evidence that we have with respect to the contents of that file now comes in the form of Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s sworn statement, which I have already admitted into evidence.”

“Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Daley. Anything else for this witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Fitz and bore in. “Lieutenant, isn’t it true that several of the officers who secured the scene at the Golden Dragon had been involved in an investigation of a group of drug dealers known as the Bayview Posse?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “That investigation has nothing to do with this case.”

“Your Honor, I will show a direct connection in a moment.”

“Overruled.”

Fitz nods. “Several of the officers who secured the scene at the Golden Dragon were also involved in the Bayview Posse investigation.”

“That would have included an undercover officer named David Low?”

“Yes.”

“And Officers Joseph D’Amato and Thomas Daley?”

“I believe so.”

“The investigation of the Bayview Posse led to the arrest of several individuals in connection with the deaths of three students at Galileo High School from heroin overdoses, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Were those defendants ever convicted?”

“No.” Fitz takes a deep breath. “The charges were dropped.”

“Why?”

His voice fills with contempt. “Legal technicalities.”

“The Posse hired Mr. Fineman to represent them, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Fineman got the charges dropped when he convinced the court that the police had conducted an illegal search of a house owned by the Posse’s leader, didn’t he?”

Fitz’s nostrils flare. “The judge made a mistake. He set a group of killers free.”

Grim stands again. “I fail to see the relevance, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I was just getting to the most important part.”

“Proceed, Mr. Daley.”

“Lieutenant Fitzgerald, isn’t it a fact that the officers involved in the Posse investigation were extremely upset that their efforts did not result in a conviction?”

“That investigation had nothing to do with this case.”

“Answer the question please.”

“Everybody involved in the investigation was disappointed.”

“In fact, they blamed Mr. Fineman for the disaster, didn’t they?”

Grim is up again. “Objection. Lieutenant Fitzgerald isn’t a mind reader.”

“Sustained.”

I keep pushing. “Isn’t it true that the police who investigated the Posse held a grudge against Mr. Fineman?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I’m just starting to ask speculative questions. “Isn’t it also possible that the police framed Mr. Fineman for murder and closed ranks as a payback for the botched investigation several years earlier?”

Grim is still standing. “Objection. This line of questioning is pure speculation.”

Yes, it is.

“Sustained.”

I make one more blatant play to the gallery. “It’s possible, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve done everything that I could to plant the seed of police misconduct. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

“Just one question, Your Honor.” Grim addresses Fitz from his seat. “Just so we’re absolutely clear about this, did you find any evidence of any wrongdoing of any kind on the part of the hardworking officers who helped secure the scene at the Golden Dragon and who helped put a vicious murderer in prison?”

It’s my turn to stand. “Objection to Mr. Grim’s characterization of my client as ‘vicious.’

“Sustained.”

A smug Grim rephrases the question. “Lieutenant, did you find any wrongdoing on the part of any of the officers involved in securing the scene?”

“No.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

The table is set. It’s time to go on the offensive. “We call Nicholas Hanson, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 49

“INDEED I DO”

Saturday, July 18. 10:17 a.m. 13 hours and 44 minutes until execution.

Nick the Dick stretches to his full height in the back of the courtroom. He tugs at the lapels of his navy suit and begins a slow saunter down the center aisle in a dead-on imitation of Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar. Any lingering effects of his recent knee surgery are not discernible. He sports a broad grin as he works the room like a seasoned politician, pausing to shake hands with people seated along the aisle. I gesture to him to speed up. Evidentiary hearings aren’t like soccer games, where extra time is added at the end to compensate for minutes lost during stoppages of play.

When he reaches the front of the courtroom, he greets the bailiff by name and raises his right hand. The bailiff recites the words that every devotee of Law and Order can repeat by heart: “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“Indeed I do.” Nick climbs into the heavy wooden chair in the witness box. He pours himself a glass of water. He leans forward in anticipation as I button my jacket.

“May we approach the witness?” I ask the judge.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I’m halfway to the witness box when I hear Grim’s voice from behind me. “A word, Your Honor?”

“Yes, Mr. Grim?”

I haven’t started and he’s already whining. In fairness, it isn’t a bad strategic move. The clock is running in his favor.

Grim takes a deep breath. “As I mentioned during Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s testimony, the sole legal purpose of this hearing is to bring forth new evidence that was not introduced at trial or during prior appeals. There is nothing in Mr. Daley’s papers to suggest Mr. Hanson has anything new to add. His testimony therefore has no place in this proceeding.”

The only way to respond to this sort of bellyaching is with a tone of unquestionable reason. “Your Honor, “Mr. Hanson is here to offer brief testimony as to new information that was not addressed at the trial.”

“Mr. Hanson’s testimony is never brief,” Grim grumbles.

Now that’s gratuitous. “It will be today.” It has to be.

The judge silences the smattering of chuckles in the back of the courtroom with an upraised hand. “I will hear Mr. Hanson’s testimony. I will also expect you to show some new information immediately.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I resist the temptation to give Grim a sarcastic glare for being a niggling ass. I place my right hand on the edge of the witness box. “You’ve been a private investigator for many years, haven’t you, Mr. Hanson?”

A jumpy Grim is up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

I don’t have time for a sniping contest. “I’ll rephrase the question.” I ask Nick how long he’s been a PI.

“Seventy years.”

“Did Mr. Fineman’s attorney hire you to assist his defense team?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “This material was covered at trial.”

Come on. “Your Honor, I’m simply allowing Mr. Hanson to explain his role in this case.”

“Overruled.”

I repeat the question. Nick nods respectfully toward Mort. “Indeed he did.”

“When did he hire you?”

“The day Mr. Fineman was arrested.”

“What was your assignment?”

“I was asked to locate witnesses who had information about the case.”

“Did the witnesses include a man named Eugene Tsai and a woman named Jasmine Luk?”

“Yes.”

I need to phrase the next question in a manner that will give Nick a chance to place Bryant in the alley before Grim can lodge a hearsay objection. “Mr. Hanson, what can you tell us about them?”

The corner of Nick’s mouth turns up and he delivers the goods. “Mr. Tsai and Ms. Luk were employed at the Chinese Hospital. They were walking home together in the alley behind the Golden Dragon Restaurant immediately after the shootings occurred, when they were accosted by an African-American man named Marshawn Bryant.”

Perfect.

As expected, Grim is up immediately. “Move to strike. The trial record indicates that Mr. Hanson never spoke to Eugene Tsai or Jasmine Luk. That means he must have obtained this information from a third party. As a result, this testimony is inadmissible hearsay that should be stricken from the record and disregarded.”

I keep my tone even. “Your Honor, Mr. Hanson obtained the information with respect to Eugene Tsai from Mr. Tsai’s brother. In addition, while Mr. Hanson didn’t speak to Ms. Luk at the time of the original investigation, he did in fact speak to her on Thursday.”

Grim is still standing. “It’s still hearsay.”

He’s right. The purpose of this charade is to plant the idea with the judge and the gallery that Eugene and Jasmine saw Bryant in the alley. Even if Judge Stumpf decides to strike Nick’s testimony—which he probably will—I’m hoping that he won’t be able to strike it completely from his memory. I will have Wendell and Jasmine repeat the same story in a few minutes.

Judge Stumpf addresses Nick directly. “Mr. Hanson, did you interview Eugene Tsai?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Where did you obtain the information about what he saw?”

Nick answers him honestly. “From Mr. Tsai’s brother.”

“Did you interview Ms. Luk?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Two days ago.”

Grim interjects, “Classic hearsay in both cases, Your Honor.”

Indeed it is. We’ll have the same issue when Wendell takes the stand and describe what his brother told him, unless I can persuade the judge that an exception to the hearsay rule should apply. Here goes. “Your Honor, as we delineated in our papers, among other things, Mr. Hanson’s testimony is admissible under Rule 807 of the Federal Rules of Evidence.”

Rule 807 is sometimes called the “catchall” or “residual” exception to the hearsay rule. It allows the admission of statements by an unavailable witness if the information goes to a material fact and has substantial evidentiary value, and there is no other reasonable way to present it. Rule 807 also makes reference to the “interests of justice,” a wonderfully vague notion that allows lawyers to serve up high-sounding platitudes without offering any real substance. Judges are generally reluctant to invoke Rule 807 because nobody really knows what it means.

“Your Honor,” I continue, “Mr. Fineman’s execution is less than fourteen hours from now. We have no time to engage in a lengthy appellate process. Rule 807 is intended to ensure that a rote reading of the hearsay rule does not lead to a gross miscarriage of justice. In this case, that would result in the ultimate penalty––Mr. Fineman’s death.”

Grim fires back. “Your Honor, with all due respect to Mr. Daley and the interests of justice, it is well established that the residual exemption should be used sparingly because its parameters are not well defined. A jury weighed the evidence. The appellate process has played its course. It would be an even greater miscarriage of justice to overturn the will of a jury by admitting unreliable hearsay ten years later.”

Judges are loath to overturn jury decisions. I try again. “Your Honor, just because Rule 807 is invoked infrequently doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be invoked at all––especially in circumstances where the stakes are high and the ramifications are irreversible.”

“That doesn’t address the inherent unreliability of this testimony,” Grim says.

Nick leaps back into the fight. “Who are you calling unreliable?”

The judge reminds him that this is an issue for the attorneys to resolve.

We volley for five more precious minutes before Judge Stumpf finally makes the call. “I’m generally reluctant to invoke Rule 807. However, there appears to be no realistic alternative. Given the graveness of the penalty and the lateness of the hour, I am prepared to admit some limited hearsay testimony.”

I turn and catch Rosie’s eye for an instant. This is a victory for our side.

The judge is still talking. “I want to set some ground rules. It is settled that such testimony should be proffered by a person who has the greatest credibility with respect to the unavailable witness. Mr. Hanson never spoke to Eugene Tsai and only recently spoke to Jasmine Luk. I am therefore ruling that Wendell Tsai should testify as to what his brother told him, and Jasmine Luk should testify as to what she saw.”

It isn’t ideal, but I can get what I need from them. “That’s fine with us, Your Honor.”

It isn’t fine with Grim. “Your Honor, the circumstances surrounding this case do not change the inherently unreliable nature of this testimony. It is still inadmissible hearsay that may be highly prejudicial. It should be disregarded.”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Grim.”

He slumps back into his chair. “Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge looks over the top of his glasses at me. “Do you have any further non-hearsay questions for Mr. Hanson?”

“Just one, Your Honor.” I turn back to Nick. “Mr. Hanson, did Mr. Eugene Tsai and Jasmine Luk testify at Mr. Fineman’s trial?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He turns and speaks directly to the judge. “Mr. Tsai was killed a few days after the shootings at the Golden Dragon. Ms. Luk disappeared shortly thereafter.”

CHAPTER 50

“NOT AN ACCIDENT”

Saturday, July 18. 10:32 a.m. 13 hours and 29 minutes until execution.

Wendell Tsai’s body language makes it clear that he’d rather be having a root canal than sitting in the witness box. He tugs at the sleeves of an ill-fitting black suit that he must have borrowed for the occasion. He gulps down his second glass of water. It is difficult to elicit convincing testimony from a terrified witness. It’s even trickier when he speaks halting English. I’ll have to keep the questions simple and lead him one step at a time.

I start slowly. “Your brother was only seventeen when you came to America, wasn’t he?”

I’ve told him to look at me, but he’s staring straight down. “Yes.”

“He found a job at the Chinese Hospital?”

“Yes.”

“He went to school to study English during the day?”

“Yes.”

“Eugene was a bright young man, wasn’t he?”

Grim starts to stand, then reconsiders. It’s another blatantly leading question and Tsai hardly qualifies as an expert on Eugene’s IQ. Nevertheless, he correctly surmises that he’ll look petty if he objects.

Tsai takes a drink of water and gives me a confused look. “Repeat question.”

“Your brother was a bright young man, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And ambitious?”

“Yes.”

“He picked up English quickly, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He wanted to be a doctor?”

“Yes.”

I play for a little emotion. “He never had a chance, did he?”

He swallows hard. “No.”

The courtroom is stone-cold silent.

“He was killed ten years ago, wasn’t he?”

Tsai folds his arms as if he’s trying to find a place to hide. “Yes.”

“How old was he at the time?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen.” I pause to let it sink in. “Did the police ever find the person who killed him?”

He shakes his head vigorously. “No.”

The warm-ups are over. “Your brother used to walk home from work through an alley behind the Golden Dragon Restaurant, didn’t he?”

Grim finally decides to stop the flow. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

I rephrase. Tsai confirms that his brother used to cut through the alley. I ask him if Eugene took that route on the night three people were killed at the Golden Dragon.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He tell me.”

Grim tries again. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Overruled.” The judge sternly reminds Grim that he’s already ruled on the admissibility of Wendell’s testimony.

I hold up a hand to reassure my bewildered witness. “Mr. Tsai, did Eugene see anyone on his walk home through the alley that night?”

Grim is still standing. “Objection. Foundation. There is nothing in the record to establish that the witness knows if his brother saw anyone on his walk home that night.”

“Overruled.” The judge addresses Tsai in a soft tone. “Please take your time and answer Mr. Daley’s question.”

His eyes dart around the courtroom. “He see black man in alley.”

Good. I ask, “Did the man say anything to him?”

“No.”

“Did your brother talk to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Was he able to identify the man?”

He shakes his head from side to side. “No.”

“Is it possible that the man’s name was Marshawn Bryant?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I knew that was coming. I’m still trying to burn Bryant’s name into the judge’s mind. “Your brother was quite sure that it was an African-American man?”

Grim is back up. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

Grim isn’t satisfied. “Your Honor, I must protest this line of questioning. Not only is Mr. Daley leading this witness, there isn’t a shred of evidence that a man named Marshawn Bryant was in the alley behind the Golden Dragon on the night in question.”

He’s overreacting. He’s also doing me a favor by repeating Bryant’s name. I decide to tweak him. “Your Honor, we will be calling another witness in a moment to provide further proof that Marshawn Bryant was in the alley. At this time, we are simply pointing out that Eugene Tsai also saw him.”

Grim’s voice rises. “There was no such evidence. Mr. Tsai did not make a positive ID. Moreover, Mr. Bryant was questioned by the police and his alibi was verified. Mr. Daley is attempting a last-ditch effort to save his client by introducing uncorroborated hearsay testimony from an unreliable witness at the eleventh hour.”

That’s the whole idea of a habeas petition. “Your Honor, Mr. Grim is now calling Mr. Tsai a liar.”

“No I’m not,” Grim says.

“Yes he is.” It’s my turn to make a speech. “Mr. Grim’s behavior is inappropriate and disrespectful. Mr. Tsai’s brother was tragically killed after he had the courage to come forward with information about the events at the Golden Dragon. Mr. Tsai should be commended for showing the same type of bravery by testifying today. If Mr. Grim wishes to question his credibility, he will have an opportunity to do so on cross. In the meantime, he should limit his comments to legally recognized objections.”

“Your Honor,” Grim whines, “Mr. Daley is testifying.”

Yes, I am.

Judge Stumpf goes my way. “The objection is overruled.”

So there. I’m scoring points, but I haven’t hit one out of the park and the clock is running. I turn back to Tsai. “Did your brother walk home by himself that night?”

An emboldened Tsai sits up a little taller. “No.”

“Who was with him?”

“Pretty girl live in alley in back of restaurant. Name Jasmine Luk. She work at hospital with Eugene.” He nods. “They walk home together a lot.”

“Eugene told you that they walked home together that night?”

Grim starts to stand, then changes his mind.

“Yes,” Tsai says.

“Was Ms. Luk with your brother when he saw the man in the alley?”

“Yes.”

“Did she see the man too?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Eugene told me.”

“Did she talk to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Did Ms. Luk testify at the trial?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Got scared after Eugene was killed. Left town.”

I take a step back and lower my voice. “Mr. Tsai, why didn’t your brother testify at the trial?”

His eyes turn downward. “Was killed.”

“When?”

“After he talk to police. Somebody find out.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“No.”

“Was his murder ever solved?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t the police provide protection?”

“They try.” He purses his lips with contempt. “Do bad job.”

So it would seem. I move directly in front of the witness box. “Do you believe his death was an accident?”

“Objection,” Grim shouts. “Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

My eyes are still locked onto Tsai’s. “Do you have any information regarding the circumstances surrounding your brother’s death?”

He starts to shake and his voice cracks as it gets louder. “Not an accident. Not an accident.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

“Just one question, Your Honor.” Grim addresses Tsai from his seat. “Mr. Tsai, did your brother positively identify the man that he supposedly saw in the alley?”

Tsai shakes his head. “No.”

“No further questions.”

“Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

On to the main event. “We call Ms. Jasmine Luk, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 51

“I WAS AFRAID”

Saturday, July 18. 10:40 a.m. 13 hours and 21 minutes until execution.

The conventional wisdom says a trial lawyer should never ask a question unless he already knows the answer. That rule isn’t going to apply to our direct exam of Jasmine Luk. The good news is that she speaks fluent English. The bad news is that we have little idea what she’s about to say––or how convincingly she’ll say it. Our goal is modest: to place Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon. Then we want to get her off the stand as fast as we can.

Rosie has a softer touch, so we’ve agreed that she’ll handle Luk’s direct exam. She stands a respectful distance from the witness box and starts with an easy one. “Would you please state your name for the record?”

“Jasmine Luk.” Amanda Wong’s great-niece is uncomfortable using her given name. It’s been a while. She stares straight down as she tugs at a silk scarf that she borrowed from her great-aunt. If she were wound any tighter, she’d explode.

Rosie shoots a reassuring glance at Wong, who is seated behind me. Rosie asks the judge for permission to approach Luk, then she moves in cautiously. “Jasmine, you were born in China, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You came to this country when you were just twelve, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you lived in an apartment in Chinatown?”

“Yes.”

“And your mother passed away shortly after you graduated from high school?”

Grim finally offers a halfhearted objection. “She’s leading the witness, Your Honor.”

Yes, she is. Luk isn’t exactly a hostile witness, but she isn’t going to be wildly helpful either. “Your Honor,” Rosie says, “Ms. Luk is a reluctant witness who is here at great personal sacrifice. I would appreciate some latitude to make this easier for her.”

In other words, she wants permission to lead her shamelessly.

“I’ll give you a little leeway, Ms. Fernandez. However, the objection is sustained.”

There are no surprises as Rosie takes Luk through the highlights of her life story, which Luk delivers in a detached monotone with her eyes trained on her toes. She came here from China with her mother with assistance from her great-aunt. She found a job at the Chinese Hospital after she finished high school. That’s where she met Eugene Tsai. She stayed in the apartment in the alley behind the Golden Dragon after her mother died.

“You were still living in that apartment when three people were killed at the Golden Dragon, weren’t you?” Rosie asks.

“Yes.”

“You walked home from your job at the hospital that morning?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave work?”

“A few minutes before one.”

“Were you alone?”

She glances at her great-aunt. “I was with Eugene Tsai. He also worked at the hospital.”

“What time did you get to the alley?”

“About ten minutes after one.”

“Were you with Eugene the entire time?”

She nods a little too forcefully. “Yes.”

“Did he walk with you all the way to your apartment?”

“Yes.”

Rosie gives her a reassuring nod. “Did you hear any gunshots?”

Luk’s delicate features contort into a pronounced grimace. “No.”

“Did you see anyone in the alley?”

“Police and paramedics.”

I can see a hint of frustration in Rosie’s eyes. “Did you see anyone before the police and the emergency personnel arrived?”

My heart starts beating faster when Luk hesitates. “A black man,” she finally says.

“Was Eugene still with you when you saw this black man?”

Luk clamps her mouth shut tightly as she nods. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Did Eugene see him too?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you standing when you saw him?”

“In front of the door to my apartment building.”

Rosie moves in closer and cuts off Luk’s view of Grim. “What was this man doing in the alley?”

“Running.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do when he saw you?”

“He stopped.”

“How far away from you was he when he stopped?”

“I’d say about five feet.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

Luk shoots another look at her aunt. Her voice is barely audible. “Yes.”

“Did you see his face clearly?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Did he gesture at you?”

Her eyes close as she nods. “Yes.”

“Can you show us what type of gesture he made?”

Luk swallows hard and then painstakingly pantomimes the act of slitting her throat.

Rosie turns to the court reporter. “The record will reflect the fact that the man threatened to slit Ms. Luk’s throat.” While Luk regains her bearings, Rosie approaches the bench and introduces into evidence an enlarged photo of Bryant. Grim has already seen it and doesn’t object. Rosie then holds the picture up in front of Luk and says, “Was this the man?”

Luk’s petite body tenses. Her voice cracks when she whispers, “I think so.”

Rosie turns to the court reporter and says, “Let the record reflect that Ms. Luk has identified a photo of a man named Marshawn Bryant.”

There are a few scattered whispers in the gallery. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jerry Edwards writing furiously in his notebook. We’ve done what we’ve set out to do: placed Bryant in the alley––albeit tenuously.

Rosie tries to neutralize Grim’s cross by providing a reason why Luk didn’t come forward ten years ago. “Ms. Luk, I understand that you talked to the police a couple of days after you saw the man in the alley.”

Luk’s eyes turn downward. “I did.”

“But you told them that you didn’t see anyone in the alley that night.”

Luk forces out a heavy sigh. “That’s true.”

“I guess that means you didn’t exactly tell the truth.”

Her voice cracks. “No, I didn’t.”

“Could you please explain to Judge Stumpf why you chose to do that?”

Luk dabs her eyes. “They killed Eugene. I was afraid.”

“Is that when you decided to leave town and change your identity?”

“Yes. My great-aunt helped me. I moved to Oakland.” She shoots a helpless look at Wong. “I wanted to be safe.”

“Why did you decide to come forward now?” Rosie asks.

Luk closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them. “I wanted to tell the truth. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” Rosie takes her seat at the defense table, but her eyes remain locked onto Luk’s. Her testimony lasted less than three minutes.

Grim jumps up and looks like a tiger on the prowl as he heads for the witness box. “Ms. Luk, had you ever seen the man in the alley before?”

“No.”

“Was it dark outside?”

“Yes, but––,”

“And raining?”

“Yes, but––,”

“Objection,” Rosie says. “Mr. Grim is not allowing the witness to answer.”

“Sustained.” The judge instructs Grim to let her have her say.

An emboldened Luk juts her delicate chin forward. “As I explained to Ms. Fernandez, the man stopped right in front of me and threatened to kill me. I could see him very clearly. I will never forget that face.”

Grim pushes forward. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“A black jacket.”

“Do you remember the color of his eyes?”

“Brown.”

“How long was his hair?”

“He had an Afro.”

“How tall was he?”

“Over six feet.”

“Are you pretty sure about that?”

“Objection,” Rosie says. “Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

Grim leans forward. “Ms. Luk, exactly how long was he standing in front of you?”

Luk shrugs. “A couple of seconds.”

“Two seconds? Five seconds? Ten seconds?”

“Objection,” Rosie says. “Asked and answered. The witness has already said a couple of seconds.”

“Overruled.”

Luk shoots a helpless glance our way, but we can’t help her now. “A couple of seconds,” she whispers.

“You mean two seconds?”

“Probably.”

Grim spreads his arms and invokes a sarcastic tone. “You’re absolutely sure it was the same man even though you saw him for only two seconds on a dark and rainy night ten years ago?”

I nudge Rosie, but she holds up a hand. It will undercut Luk’s credibility if we try to protect her. Rosie’s instincts are rewarded when Luk doesn’t fluster.

“I know what I saw, Mr. Grim,” she says.

A frustrated Grim takes her in another direction. “Ms. Luk, you said you were born in China.”

“Yes.”

“And you came to this country when you were a child, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There were some problems with your immigration papers, weren’t there?”

“Objection,” Rosie says. “Relevance. This has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of this hearing.”

“Your Honor,” Grim says, “this has direct bearing on Ms. Luk’s credibility.”

Judge Stumpf’s raised eyebrow signifies his skepticism. “How’s that, Mr. Grim?”

“Ms. Luk is in this country illegally. We think she intentionally misled the police in order to avoid drawing attention to herself. We believe that Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez have offered her legal assistance in order to elicit testimony that will help their client.”

Rosie is still on her feet. “Your Honor, Ms. Luk’s immigration status is irrelevant to this case. She did, in fact, talk to the police shortly after the events at the Golden Dragon. She’s already acknowledged that she misled the police about what happened that night because she was afraid that she would have been killed like her friend Eugene.”

Grim holds up a hand. “Your Honor—,”

A visibly annoyed Judge Stumpf interrupts him. “Ms. Luk’s immigration status has nothing to do with the matters at hand. The objection is sustained.”

Grim moves within two feet of the front of the witness box. “Ms. Luk, did Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez agree to help you with your immigration problems in exchange for your testimony today?”

Rosie jumps up again. “Objection. Your Honor has already determined that Ms. Luk’s immigration status has no bearing on this hearing.”

“Sustained. Anything else for this witness, Mr. Grim?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Grim turns back to Luk. “Did you see the African-American man inside the Golden Dragon Restaurant that night?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you have any personal knowledge as to whether he was inside that establishment that night?”

There’s a hesitation before she whispers, “No.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Redirect, Ms. Fernandez?”

“No, Your Honor.” It will only open the door to more abuse from Grim.

Nate leans over and whispers to me, “Is it enough?”

“Not yet.” Luk’s ID might have been enough to establish reasonable doubt at the trial. It isn’t enough to prove freestanding innocence.

“What next?”

“We’re going to start slinging mud at Aronis and Bryant.”

The corner of Nate’s mouth turns up. The old warrior suddenly seems to be enjoying the battle. “Lou said you were a fighter.”

“I’m just warming up.”

CHAPTER 52

“MONEY TALKS”

Saturday, July 18. 11:05 a.m. 12 hours and 56 minutes until execution.

Floyd Washington beams as he struts to the stand. He’s pleased to be out of San Quentin for a few hours. Dressed in khaki pants and one of my light blue dress shirts, he now contains the anger that he displayed at San Quentin. He seems to view this as an opportunity for some form of vindication. I’ve told him to keep his expectations low and his answers short.

“How long have you been incarcerated?” I ask.

His left eye twitches nervously. “Twelve years.”

“For what?”

His shoulders hunch forward slightly. “Selling heroin.”

“Did you sell the drugs from your house?”

“No, I sold them from my garbage truck. I used to work for a company called East Bay Scavenger.”

So far, so good. “Would you please tell us the name of the person who provided the heroin that you were selling?”

His gold teeth gleam as he smiles triumphantly. “Alexander Aronis.”

Perfect. “The chairman of the board of East Bay Scavenger?”

The grin broadens. “Yeah.”

“He actually furnished the heroin directly to you?”

“No, but his people instructed us where to pick it up and where to drop it off.”

The whispering in the gallery stops when Judge Stumpf taps his gavel.

I move up in front of Washington. “When you were arrested, did you tell the police about Mr. Aronis?”

“Yeah.” He wiggles his head like a football player getting loose during pregame warm-ups. “He hired a sleazy lawyer who cut him a deal with the prosecutors.”

“Move to strike,” Grim says. “Mr. Washington couldn’t possibly have any personal information about such matters.”

“Sustained.”

“Who was Mr. Aronis’s lawyer?” I ask.

He looks over my shoulder at Nate. “Your client.”

The whispers in the gallery turn to murmurs as I let his answer hang. “Did Mr. Aronis testify at your trial?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he asked if he supplied the drugs that you sold?”

“Yeah. He lied.” His upper body starts shaking in anger. “Money talks, Mr. Daley.”

“Move to strike,” Grim says. “Foundation.”

“Sustained.”

I keep my tone conversational. “Mr. Washington, are you suggesting Mr. Aronis bribed the prosecutors to drop any charges against him?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “Foundation.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Washington. “Do you know where Mr. Aronis obtained the heroin that you were selling?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “Mr. Washington has no firsthand knowledge of such alleged distribution channels.”

“Yes he does,” I say. “He worked for Mr. Aronis for many years. He was very familiar with all aspects of Mr. Aronis’s operations.”

“Overruled.”

Grim sits down in frustration.

Washington is starting to enjoy the attention. He shoots a condescending look at Grim, then his voice turns forceful. “Aronis got the heroin from a man named Terrell Robinson. Then they got into a fight, so he started getting the stuff from a guy named Marshawn Bryant.”

“Mr. Bryant used to work for Mr. Robinson’s construction company, didn’t he?”

He nods emphatically. “Yeah.”

Hang with me, Floyd. We’re almost done. “So Mr. Bryant and Mr. Robinson were running competing drug-distribution businesses?”

“Yeah.”

“In other words, Mr. Bryant was in competition with his own boss?”

“Objection. Asked and answered. Furthermore, there isn’t a shred of evidence in support of these wild accusations.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we have already established that Mr. Washington was familiar with Mr. Aronis’s operations.”

Grim isn’t backing down. “There is no evidence that he was familiar with Mr. Robinson’s operations.”

“Overruled.”

“Yeah,” Washington says triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying: Bryant was competing against his boss.”

“And then his boss was killed at the Golden Dragon?”

“Right.”

“Are Mr. Aronis and Mr. Bryant still involved in the distribution of heroin?”

Grim tries again. “Objection. Mr. Washington has been incarcerated for many years. He has no personal knowledge of what’s currently going on in the drug world outside San Quentin.”

He probably knows more about the drug world than the SFPD does.

“Sustained.”

I’ve gotten everything I can from him. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

Grim can’t wait. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Here it comes.

Grim moves to a spot within three feet of Washington’s face. His voice fills with unvarnished contempt. “You currently reside at San Quentin State Prison, don’t you?”

Washington’s bravado disappears. “Yeah.”

“You’ll be there for the rest of your life, won’t you?”

He slinks back into his chair. “Yeah.”

“You were promised special treatment by Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez if you agreed to testify today, weren’t you?”

Enough. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

Grim rephrases. “Did Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez promise to help you with your legal problems if you testified today?”

Washington darts a concerned look my way, then locks eyes with Grim. “They said they would look into it.”

“In other words, they’ve offered you legal help if you testify a certain way today, right?”

I need to stop the bleeding. “Objection. We would never exchange legal services for testimony.”

The judge eyes me suspiciously. “Sustained.”

Grim tugs at his lapels and continues in a condescending tone. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Washington. You have a substantial vested interest in testifying in a manner that will assist Mr. Daley’s client, don’t you?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

Washington gives Dr. Death his own version of a Death Stare and summons his best prison-yard voice. “I’m telling the truth. Alex Aronis is a liar and a drug dealer.”

Sometimes you get help from unexpected sources.

Grim astutely realizes that he isn’t going to like the answers if he asks any more questions. “Nothing more for this witness.”

“Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

Not a chance. “No, Your Honor.” We need to pile on Aronis a little more, and I have just the person to do it. “We call Patty Norman.”

CHAPTER 53

“HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT

I COULDN’T GIVE HIM”

Saturday, July 18. 11:10 a.m. 12 hours and 51 minutes until execution.

Patty Norman is wearing a beige cardigan sweater when she takes her place in the witness box. Her hair is pulled back into a French twist. A pair of reading glasses hangs from a silver chain around her neck. It’s a subdued look for a mud-slinging party.

I’m standing at the lectern, pretending to study my notes while Patty gets her bearings. The purpose of this exercise is to have her confirm Washington’s testimony that Aronis and Bryant were involved in the drug business. I will also have her testify that her ex-husband wanted to hire somebody to take out Robinson and Chin. Any additional editorial comments that she might like to offer about her ex-husband’s upstanding character will also be gratefully accepted.

I start with an easy one. “What do you do for a living?”

“I own a bookstore in Petaluma. I do triathlons in my spare time.”

Here we go. “Ms. Norman, were you married to a man named Alexander Aronis?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Eighteen long years.”

“He runs a trash-collection company in Oakland, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” Her right eyebrow darts up. “He is also one of the most successful heroin distributors in the Bay Area.”

Just the venomous tone I was looking for. It also gets Grim’s attention. “Move to strike,” he says. “There is no evidence that Ms. Norman has any expert knowledge of her husband’s business.”

Oh yes she does. “Your Honor, Ms. Norman just testified that she was married to Mr. Aronis for eighteen years. She knew everything about her husband’s operations.” And it’s payback time.

“Overruled.”

“Ms. Norman, did your ex-husband’s drug-related activities adversely impact your marriage?”

“Yes. It was very difficult being married to a heroin dealer. It was even worse being married to a serial adulterer.”

We may not get a stay, but we’re going to settle some scores. “Why did you decide to come forward now?”

“I thought it was time that somebody told the truth.”

Few people have an opportunity to slaughter their ex-spouse in front of a live audience. She’s clearly going to enjoy it. “Was your husband ever arrested for selling drugs?”

“He was arrested, but never convicted. The police were never able to gather enough evidence.” She turns and glares at Nate. “He hired a smart lawyer named Nathan Fineman, who was prepared to do anything to keep my ex-husband out of jail.”

I don’t want to give her a chance to take any more shots at Nate. “Did your ex-husband ever mention the names of some of the other prominent Bay Area drug dealers?”

“Yes. They all know each other.”

How cozy. “Did those names include Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin?”

“Yes.”

She’s fearless. My only regret is that she won’t have a chance to stare down her ex-husband in court. He has to wait outside until it’s his turn to testify. “Did your ex-husband ever express an interest in expanding his operations into San Francisco?”

She smiles broadly. “Many times. He made several inquiries to Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin to see if they were interested in combining their organizations. They weren’t.”

“When was that?”

“Shortly before he had them killed at the Golden Dragon.”

“Move to strike!” Grim shouts. “There isn’t a shred of evidence for these wild accusations.”

“Sustained.”

The courtroom is intensely quiet as I soldier on. “Ms. Norman, do you know why Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin didn’t want to join forces with your ex-husband?”

She flashes a wicked grin. “They thought Alex was a small-time thug.”

Sounds about right. “How did he feel after they rebuffed his advances?”

Grim is up. “Objection. Speculative. Mr. Daley is asking Ms. Norman to read her ex-husband’s mind.”

No I’m not. “Your Honor, I’m simply asking Ms. Norman to describe his reaction.”

“Overruled.”

“He was upset,” Norman says.

That would be an understatement. “How did he react when he was upset?”

“Badly.”

“Did he get angry?”

“Yes. He also got even.”

“Was he ever violent?”

“Yes.”

“Toward you?”

“No.” Her eyes gleam. “He knew better.”

I like it. I shoot a glance toward Aronis’s two lawyers, in the back row, who are writing furiously on their legal pads. It’s their job to brief their client about Patty’s testimony. “Did he ever talk about putting together a plan to move into the San Francisco market?”

“On several occasions. At one point, he asked me for assistance, but he was looking for something that I couldn’t give him.”

The same could be said of their marriage. “Which was?”

“The name of a professional killer.”

Grim has been on his feet throughout Norman’s testimony. “Move to strike. This testimony lacks foundation.”

Judge Stumpf is listening intently. “Overruled.”

“Ms. Norman,” I say, “did he mention why he wanted to procure the services of a hit man?”

“He wanted to take out Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin.”

I wonder what Dr. Phil would have to say about this. I still have a little more business. “Ms. Norman, did your ex-husband ever mention a man named Marshawn Bryant?”

“Oh yes. He was a Robinson’s flunky.”

“Did they know each other?”

“For years. They met when Robinson’s firm handled the build-out of my ex-husband’s offices. Bryant took over Robinson’s construction business after he was killed.”

“Was Mr. Bryant also involved in the drug business?”

Grim tries to stop the bleeding. “Objection. While Ms. Norman may be familiar with her husband’s business, we have no reason to believe that she has any familiarity with Mr. Bryant’s operations.”

Judge Stumpf stares him down. “Overruled.”

Norman smiles triumphantly. “Bryant took over Robinson’s heroin distribution business after Robinson was killed.”

“Do you know if your ex-husband and Mr. Bryant had any involvement in the deaths of Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

I go for broke. “Did he hire Mr. Bryant to kill Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I was hoping for a little more. “Is it possible that your husband and Mr. Bryant pooled their resources to kill Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I shoot a glance at Rosie, who closes her eyes—the signal to wrap up. If I push Patty, she might turn on Nate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He barrels through the well of the courtroom toward the witness box. “Ms. Norman, you and your ex-husband had a very acrimonious separation, didn’t you?”

She leans forward to meet him head on. “Yes.”

“In fact, he had you committed to a mental institution, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he got full custody of your children, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Rosie and I exchange a helpless glance. We can’t stop the onslaught.

“You contacted the newspapers recently and made some very serious accusations about your ex-husband, didn’t you?”

“They weren’t accusations, Mr. Grim. They’re the truth.”

“So you say.”

I try to slow him down. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

Grim is parked right in front of her. “You’re still angry at your ex-husband for taking away your children, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you would do or say anything to get back at him, wouldn’t you?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

Grim has made his point. ‘Ms. Norman, do you know for certain that your ex-husband hired someone to kill Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that your ex-husband told you that he was going to hire Nathan Fineman to kill Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin at the Golden Dragon Restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

The judge scowls. “Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

I have to try to undo the damage. “Just one question, Your Honor.” I address Norman from my chair. “Do you have any evidence that your ex-husband did in fact contact Mr. Fineman about killing Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

“Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

Patty’s ex-husband is entitled to equal time. “We call Alexander Aronis, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 54

DENY DENY DENY

Saturday, July 18. 11:27 a.m. 12 hours and 34 minutes until execution.

A supremely self-assured Alex Aronis takes the stand and immediately tries to portray himself as a titan of industry. “I am the chief executive officer and majority shareholder of one of the largest waste management companies in the country,” he says.

I didn’t think he’d say that he inherited a trash-collection operation from his father. I also don’t expect to hear the words pal or buddy during his testimony. Dressed in a tailored Armani suit, a monogrammed white shirt, and a pink tie, he takes his fashion cues from Donald Trump. His blue eyes are locked onto mine. A well-rehearsed sneer crosses his wide face. Aronis may be an overgrown frat boy, but he’s a smart one.

I’m working against the clock and an individual who has no reason to help me. Washington testified that Aronis was in the drug business with Bryant, but he will be perceived as a jailhouse snitch who would say anything to shorten his prison term. Norman said that Aronis knew Bryant and was trying to hire somebody to take out Robinson and Chin, but her credibility is tainted by her disdain for her ex. All of which isn’t likely to get us to freestanding innocence unless I can somehow find a way to connect the dots from Aronis to Bryant to the Golden Dragon.

Unlike some of the earlier witnesses, where I started with a few easy ones, there will be no grace period for the Garbage Czar of Lake Merritt. “Mr. Aronis, do you know a man named Floyd Washington?”

“Yes.”

Experienced witnesses never volunteer anything. “Where did you meet him?”

His tone is patronizing. “He drove a truck for our company. We fired him for selling drugs. We have a zero-tolerance policy for employees who engage in criminal activities.”

I look away from him and mutter, “Except for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” I turn back and look squarely into his condescending eyes. “You testified at his trial, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You cut a deal to testify against him in exchange for immunity, didn’t you?”

Aronis darts a glance at Grim, who could object on the grounds that it’s a leading question, but doesn’t move. Grim is in an awkward position—it’s his job to defend a man who he undoubtedly believes is a drug dealer. He also probably figures Aronis can take care of himself. There’s a hesitation before Aronis finally says, “No.”

“Did you hear my question?”

“Yes.” The vestiges of the gregarious man who leads cheers behind the Cal bench at home football games are gone. “We cooperated fully with the police and the district attorney. No charges were filed against us.”

I hate it when people use the “royal we.” I want to see if I can get a rise out of him. “But they originally planned to file charges against you too, didn’t they?”

“We had discussions about certain ancillary claims in connection with the Washington case. Those charges were dropped.”

Nice try. “That’s because you agreed to roll over on Mr. Washington, right?”

His jowls wiggle as he shakes his head. “No, Mr. Daley. It was because they didn’t have any evidence.”

He parses better than most politicians. “Just because they didn’t bring charges against you doesn’t mean there wasn’t any criminal behavior on your part.”

He smirks. “I can’t prove a negative, Mr. Daley. I’m not going to play semantic games with you.”

It’s a good answer. He’s more polished in court than he was at the garage. “Where did Mr. Washington obtain the heroin that he was selling from his truck?”

“I don’t know.”

Sure you do. “Are you aware that Mr. Washington testified at this hearing?”

“I was told that he was on your witness list.”

And his two flunkies in the gallery undoubtedly gave him a blow-by-blow of Washington’s testimony while his ex-wife was on the stand. I point an accusatory finger at him. “He said you supplied the heroin that he sold from his garbage truck.”

He dismisses me with an upraised hand. “Mr. Washington is a convicted felon. He would say anything to cut a deal to get out of jail sooner.”

“Perhaps the same could be said about you.”

Grim stands. “Objection, Your Honor. There wasn’t a question there.”

No, there wasn’t. “Withdrawn.”

Grim isn’t finished whining. “Your Honor, we’re spending an inordinate amount of time discussing unsubstantiated accusations about Mr. Aronis. This is completely irrelevant to the subject matter at hand.”

“Your Honor, we’ve already shown a direct connection between Mr. Aronis and Mr. Bryant, who has now been placed at the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings.”

“Allegedly placed there,” says Grim.

“Mr. Grim had had a chance to question Ms. Luk. Her testimony speaks for itself.”

“She wasn’t credible,” Grim insists.

Judge Stumpf cuts in. “I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Grim.” He points to his watch. “We’re wasting time, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Aronis. “Do you know a man named Marshawn Bryant?”

He nods with confidence. “Yes. I’ve known him for years.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He used to work for a man named Terrell Robinson, whose construction firm handled the build-out of our offices. Mr. Bryant took over Mr. Robinson’s operations after Mr. Robinson was killed. He’s handled several other projects for us. He’s an excellent contractor.”

“Is he also an excellent drug dealer?”

“Objection, Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I have to keep going. “Mr. Aronis, Mr. Washington testified that Mr. Bryant was supplying heroin to you, which you provided to your drivers for resale.”

“That’s absolutely false.”

“Mr. Washington also testified that you were anxious to expand your operations into San Francisco.”

His voice fills with contempt. “That’s also absolutely false.”

“You’re under oath, Mr. Aronis.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Daley. It’s still false.”

He isn’t going to budge, so I move on to some post marital counseling. “You were once married to a woman named Patty Norman, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She recently made some serious public accusations about your participation in the events at the Golden Dragon, didn’t she?”

He places an elbow on the edge of the witness box and uses his hand to punctuate his response. “My ex-wife is an angry, bitter woman. There isn’t a shred of truth in what she said.”

“She also testified that you were involved in the distribution of heroin in the East Bay.”

He flashes anger. “How many times do I have to say this? That’s false.”

“And she said you were interested in moving into the San Francisco heroin market.”

This time he jabs his finger at me. “That’s false too.”

Deny deny deny. “Your ex-wife also testified that you asked for her assistance in finding someone to kill Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin.”

He makes no attempt to mask his disdain for me. “That’s ludicrous.”

“A lot of people seem to be telling lies about you, Mr. Aronis.”

He responds with a smirk. “I can’t control what other people say about me.”

“In fact, she suggested that you and Mr. Bryant may have pooled your resources to take out Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin.”

“False.”

I bore in and fire away. “You paid Mr. Bryant to take out Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You wanted to take over their operations, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re saying it was just happenstance that Mr. Bryant was in the alley behind the Golden Dragon immediately after three people were shot to death?”

He takes a deep breath as he sits up straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley. I am not involved in the drug business in any way, shape, or form. Neither is Mr. Bryant. I can assure you that Mr. Robinson and Mr. Chin were not my competitors. I know absolutely nothing about what happened at the Golden Dragon ten years ago.”

I fire away for five more minutes, but he doesn’t budge. Grim correctly surmises that there is nothing to be gained by engaging in cross.

“Please call your next witness,” the judge says.

Our last chance is to tee it up against Bryant. “We call Marshawn Bryant.”

CHAPTER 55

“DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR PRIOR TESTIMONY?”

Saturday, July 18. 11:47 a.m. 12 hours and 14 minutes until execution.

Bryant exudes an understated self-confidence as he sits with his arms folded in the witness box. Sporting a gray suit and a dignified rep tie, he could pass for a partner at a downtown law firm. His two equally well-dressed lawyers are sitting in the gallery and preparing to take copious notes. For the next few minutes, we’ll be going toe-to-toe. In the best-case scenario, I will get him to confess to murder—an unlikely prospect except on Perry Mason reruns. At a minimum, I need to paint him as a lying drug dealer who will say anything to save his ass—no small task either.

When I ask him to state his name for the record, he invokes a forceful tone. “My name is Marshawn Bryant. I want to make it absolutely clear that I wasn’t at the Golden Dragon Restaurant on the night that your client murdered Terrell Robinson, Alan Chin, and Lester Fong.”

I expect him to head straight for the door. I address the judge. “Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer my questions without embellishment?”

“Please limit your responses to the questions asked.”

Bryant feigns contrition. “Yes, Your Honor.”

I move in closer. “Mr. Bryant, a short time ago, we heard testimony from a witness who said you were in the alley behind the Golden Dragon immediately after three people were shot and killed at the restaurant.”

His eyes are locked onto mine. His demeanor is ice-cold. “That’s false.”

“You’re saying that witness was lying?”

He carefully enunciates each word. “They were mistaken.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Eugene Tsai?”

He closes his eyes and reopens them as he shakes his head. “No.”

He’s lying. “He saw you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did. In fact, he was prepared to testify that he saw you.”

“He was mistaken.”

I move in a step closer. “Are you aware that Mr. Tsai was unable to testify because he was stabbed to death shortly after he spoke to the police?”

The right side of his mouth turns up. “That was quite unfortunate, but he was still mistaken.”

I try to rattle him. “You found out that he was going to testify, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know anything about it.”

“And you killed him, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you know that Mr. Fineman’s attorneys attempted to introduce testimony from Mr. Tsai’s brother about your presence in the alley that night?” It’s a bluff. Wendell was deemed too unreliable to put on the stand. Any testimony about what Eugene may have told him would have been hearsay.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you know that the trial judge didn’t allow his testimony because of some technical evidentiary rules?” This isn’t true either. I’m looking for a reaction.

He doesn’t fluster. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Daley.”

“Well I am, Mr. Bryant.” I glare straight into his condescending eyes until he blinks. “I was able to persuade Judge Stumpf to allow Mr. Tsai’s brother to testify. He told us that his brother saw you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.” It’s a bluff—in reality, Tsai testified that Wendell saw a man who may have resembled Bryant in the alley. “Would that information cause you to reconsider your story?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

I get right into his face. “Eugene Tsai saw you, Mr. Bryant.”

His smug expression never changes. “He was mistaken.”

“I’ll bet you figured you were off the hook after you killed him.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’ll feel a lot better if you finally get this off your chest and tell the truth.”

“That’s absurd.”

Grim gets to his feet and invokes a respectful tone. “Your Honor, Mr. Daley is intentionally mischaracterizing prior testimony and badgering the witness. Mr. Bryant has answered his questions. There is nothing to be gained by repeating these baseless accusations. We therefore respectfully request that you instruct Mr. Daley to move on.”

The judge nods. “Please, Mr. Daley.”

I come back swinging. “Mr. Bryant, does the name Jasmine Luk mean anything to you?”

He makes no attempt to mask another condescending smirk. “I’m afraid not.”

“She lived in an apartment behind the Golden Dragon. She walked home with Eugene Tsai on the night that three people were killed. She testified that she and Mr. Tsai saw you in the alley behind the restaurant immediately after the shootings. Ring any bells?”

He doesn’t move. “She was mistaken, too, Mr. Daley.”

“A lot of people seem to be mistaken about you, Mr. Bryant.” I turn my back to him and take a couple of steps toward the defense table, then I stop and spin around and face him. “Let me fill you in on some of the details. Ms. Luk and Mr. Tsai saw you running down the alley. You stopped right in front of them and threatened them. In fact, you showed Ms. Luk precisely how you planned to slash her throat. Is any of this coming back to you, Mr. Bryant?”

“She was mistaken, Mr. Daley.”

I can feel the back of my neck starting to burn. “It turns out that you caught another break. After Mr. Tsai was killed, Ms. Luk got scared and left town. Conveniently for you, she never had a chance to testify in this case—until today.”

Bryant repeats his mantra: “She was mistaken too.”

“We have a witness, Mr. Bryant.”

“She was mistaken or she was lying.”

“She was not mistaken, Mr. Bryant. And she had no incentive to lie. In fact, she was so terrified of you that she left town and changed her identity.”

Judge Stumpf’s courtroom is deathly silent as Bryant wags a menacing finger at me and gets up on his soapbox. “You defense lawyers will say anything to get your clients off. I’m the biggest employer in the Bayview. I’ve built a community center and baseball fields in a place where people like you never come. I am not about to let you or anyone else take shots at my reputation.” He takes a deep breath. “Your accusations are completely false. I wasn’t at the Golden Dragon that night. In fact, I was home with my wife. She would be happy to testify on my behalf. Are we done with this blatant attempt at character assassination?”

He might as well stand up and scream, “Catch me if you can!” I glare into his arrogant eyes. “You understand that perjury carries serious penalties?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“Last chance. Do you wish to reconsider your prior testimony?”

His right fist is clenched in a tight ball. “No, Mr. Daley. I told the truth back then. I’m telling the truth today.”

“You were lying back then and you’re lying today.”

“Objection,” Grim shouts.

“Sustained.” Judge Stumpf is glaring at me. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Daley. Move on.”

I walk to the defense table to take a moment to gather my thoughts. I look down at a note that Rosie has written on a pad that she’s placed where I can see it. It simply says “Nail him.”

I wheel around and walk forcefully across the well of the courtroom until I’m standing inches from the witness box. I start asking questions in rapid succession. “You used to work for a contractor named Terrell Robinson, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He was one of the victims at the Golden Dragon, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“You were a vice president in his business, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“He was also involved in drug trafficking, wasn’t he?”

“No.”

My tone is incredulous. “You didn’t know that he was one of the biggest heroin distributors in San Francisco?”

“Correct.”

“You took over Mr. Robinson’s business after his death, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you get the money to buy out a successful contracting business?”

“Our bank gave me a loan.”

“Which you supplemented with money that you earned when you took over his heroin operation, didn’t you?”

“No.”

I keep pushing. “You’ve benefited quite handsomely from Mr. Robinson’s death, haven’t you?”

“I never intended things to happen the way that they did.”

“Of course not. Do you know a man named Alexander Aronis?”

“I’ve known him for years.”

“You know that he’s also a heroin dealer, don’t you?”

“That’s not true.”

“You knew that he wanted to take out Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin and move into the San Francisco heroin market, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

“I think you do.”

“Objection. Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

His icy demeanor never cracks. He’s going to deny everything until they walk Nate into the execution chamber. I have nothing to lose. “You and Mr. Aronis pooled your resources and killed Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Or maybe Aronis paid you to set up the hit so he wouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

“No.”

“And you and Mr. Aronis planned to split the San Francisco market, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“And that’s precisely how everything worked out, isn’t it, Mr. Bryant?”

“Objection. Asked and answered. Argumentative. Foundation.”

All of the above.

“Sustained.”

I haven’t moved from my spot in front of the witness box. As far as I’m concerned, Bryant and I are the only two people left on the face of the earth. “What were you doing at the Golden Dragon that night, Mr. Bryant?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Yes you were.”

“No I wasn’t. You can’t prove it.”

“We already have. You aren’t going to be able to talk your way out of it this time.”

Bryant is now sitting ramrod straight with his fists clenched. He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “This is obviously nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to save your client’s life.”

I level a final desperate blast. “This is nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to deny the truth. You were at the Golden Dragon that night. You killed three people. You set up Nate Fineman. You killed Eugene Tsai. You threatened Jasmine Luk. You may have gotten away with it ten years ago, but you aren’t going to get away with it now.”

“Objection! Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

My hands are shaking. “No further questions.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

“No, Your Honor.”

As I trudge back to the defense table, I’m already starting the postmortem on what else we could have done. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to extract a confession from Aronis or Bryant. As a practical matter, all they had to do was sit back and deny everything—which they did. With little hard evidence against them and almost no time to prepare, the deck was stacked against us from the start. It still provides little solace as I take my seat next to Nate, who is staring straight ahead with his arms crossed.

Judge Stumpf is looking at me. “Any other witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

“One moment, Your Honor.” I huddle with Rosie and Nate at the defense table.

“You got anything else?” Nate asks.

I don’t say it out loud, but we’re down to Hail Mary passes. I look at Rosie. “What’s left?”

Rosie glances around the courtroom for an instant, then she hands me a note written on a yellow Post-it. “A uniform handed this to me a few minutes ago. It’s from Roosevelt.”

I look down at it and recognize Roosevelt’s meticulous handwriting. It says that the ten-thousand-dollar monthly payments to Little Joey’s currency exchange came from an account controlled by Bayview Construction. I reach for the folder containing the bank statements from Joey’s business that we found in the trunk of Pete’s car.

“What does it mean?” Rosie asks.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I’m going to find out.” I look at the prosecution table, where Roosevelt has taken a seat next to Grim. He gives me a subtle nod, then he turns away.

The next thing I hear is Judge Stumpf’s voice from behind me. “Any other witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

I can feel my palms sweating as I turn around and face him. “Just one, Your Honor. The defense calls Joseph D’Amato.”

CHAPTER 56

“I WANT TO TALK TO MY LAWYER”

Saturday, July 18. 12:09 p.m. 11 hours and 52 minutes until execution.

My adrenaline is pumping as I carry the file containing Little Joey’s bank-account information to the front of the courtroom. Judge Stumpf has already informed me in no uncertain terms that Little Joey will be my last witness. I look down at the file for an instant when I reach the witness box, then I look up at Little Joey. “Mr. D’Amato, what do you do for a living?”

He’s dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with a gaudy polyester tie. “I run a currency exchange in the Tenderloin.”

“How long have you operated that business?”

“About eight years.”

“What did you do prior to that time?”

His tone fills with pride. “I was a San Francisco police officer for twenty-four years.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I took early retirement to open my business.”

It will serve no useful purpose to delve into the circumstances of his departure from the force. “Mr. D’Amato, you were one of the first officers at the scene on the night that three people were killed at the Golden Dragon Restaurant almost ten years ago, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There was an investigation into your actions that night, wasn’t there?”

Joey’s eyes narrow. “The charges were dropped.”

“Those allegations included planting the murder weapon, didn’t they?”

A sneer crosses his face. “The charges were dropped,” he repeats.

I glance down at the bank statements for an instant, then I move in another direction. “Mr. D’Amato, are you acquainted with a man named Marshawn Bryant?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s done some work for my business.”

“When did you meet him?”

“About eight years ago. He handled the remodel work on my business.”

“That was after the events at the Golden Dragon?”

“Yes.”

I shoot a quick glance toward Roosevelt. I turn back to Joey and ask, “Did you happen to see Mr. Bryant anywhere near the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

“You’re sure about that, too?”

“Quite sure.”

“You didn’t see him in the vicinity when you were on your way to the restaurant?”

“Objection,” Grim says. “Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Bryant, would your testimony change if I told you that another witness testified earlier today that she saw Mr. Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings?”

Little Joey’s tone turns patronizing. “No, Mr. Daley.”

I push him harder. “Why are you protecting him?”

“I’m not.”

“But you would acknowledge that you have an ongoing relationship.”

He scowls. “He’s a reputable contractor.”

“Is he also a reputable drug dealer?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I turn to the judge and hand him the bank statements. “Your Honor, we would like to introduce these bank statements from Mr. D’Amato’s business into evidence at this time. We have already provided copies to Mr. Grim.”

I turn around and see Roosevelt whispering into Grim’s ear. “No objection,” Grim says.

“You may proceed, Mr. Daley,” the judge says.

I hand the papers over to Joey, who puts on a pair of cheap reading glasses and pretends to study them intently. “Where did you get these?” he asks.

“From your bank.” Precisely how Pete got his hands on them is a topic for another forum. “Would you please confirm that these are copies of the statements for the checking account of your currency exchange for the last eight years?”

He’s trying to speed-read the documents. “I think so.”

Grim offers a halfhearted objection. “I fail to see the relevance, Your Honor.”

“I was just getting to that, Your Honor.”

“Proceed, Mr. Daley.”

Trial lawyers will tell you that there is nothing more exhilarating and terrifying than following your gut instincts in open court. I move in closer to Joey and point to an entry on the first bank statement. I realize that I’m speaking faster than usual when I say, “There appears to be a recurring monthly deposit.”

Joey nods grudgingly. “Yeah.”

“They seem to have started eight years ago.”

Joey curls his lip. “Yeah.”

“Would you mind telling us how much it is?”

He swallows his words when he says, “Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand dollars,” I repeat. “Would you please tell us who has been paying you ten grand a month?”

No answer.

My voice is filled with sugar. “Mr. D’Amato?”

Still no answer. Joey is now squeezing the rail tightly.

“Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer?”

“Mr. D’Amato, you’ll have to answer Mr. Daley’s question.”

Joey responds by pouring himself a cup of water.

“Mr. D’Amato?” the judge says.

Joey’s narrow eyes are now staring straight ahead.

I crowd him. “Mr. D’Amato, you’ve been receiving these payments from an offshore account controlled by a company called Bayview Construction, haven’t you?”

He clamps his mouth shut.

“Mr. D’Amato, we’ve subpoenaed the wire-transfer information. You can save us a lot of time if you’d simply answer my question.”

Little Joey bites his lower lip. “It is against our policy to reveal confidential information concerning our clients.”

“It’s also against the law to commit perjury.”

“I can’t help you, Mr. Daley.”

“Your Honor?”

“Answer the question, Mr. D’Amato.”

“But Your Honor—,”

“Answer the question or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Yes,” Joey grunts. “It’s from Bayview.”

“That would be the firm owned by your good friend, Marshawn Bryant?”

He hunkers back in his chair. “Yeah.”

“A moment ago, you testified that Mr. Bryant’s firm had performed construction contracting services for you.”

“Yeah.”

I arch an eyebrow. “If he was doing work for you, wouldn’t it follow that you should have been paying him?”

The courtroom is silent as Joey tugs at his garish tie.

“Mr. D’Amato, why has Mr. Bryant been paying you ten thousand dollars a month for the last eight years?”

“For financial services.”

Please. “Multimillion-dollar contracting businesses like Bayview don’t use small-time currency exchanges like yours to handle their banking needs. They certainly don’t pay them over a hundred grand a year for the privilege.”

Joey doesn’t respond.

“Mr. D’Amato, I’m going to ask you once again. Why has Mr. Bryant been paying you ten grand a month for the last eight years?”

Every eye in the courtroom is fixed on Little Joey. He makes the tactical error of trying to stonewall again. “For financial services,” he repeats.

“You know that isn’t true, Mr. D’Amato.”

No answer.

“And as a former police officer, you are undoubtedly well aware of the penalties for perjury, aren’t you, Mr. D’Amato?

Little Joey is no longer smirking.

My mind flies into overdrive. “Mr. D’Amato, you saw Mr. Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings, didn’t you?”

No answer.

“And you didn’t report it, did you?”

Still no answer. Grim could object, but he’s choosing to sit on his hands. Clearly, he’s prepared to let the chips fall where they may—perhaps after a discussion with Roosevelt.

I move within two feet of Joey’s face. “Bryant killed Terrell Robinson, Alan Chin, and Lester Fong, didn’t he?”

Joey shakes his head. “No.”

“He’s paying you to keep your mouth shut, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“You helped them plant the gun and frame my client for murder, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“That makes you an accessory after the fact.”

“No.”

Grim finally stands and tries to slow me down. “Objection. This is pure speculation on Mr. Daley’s part.”

“Overruled.”

I haven’t moved from the front of the witness box. “Mr. D’Amato, you decided to blackmail Mr. Bryant about the events at the Golden Dragon, didn’t you?”

His eyes are now darting. “No.”

“And you’ve been taking ten grand a month from him ever since, haven’t you?”

“No. You have no evidence.”

“How about a million dollars of payments over the last eight years?”

His voice turns defensive. “You can’t prove anything.”

“I already have. You’re already in for obstruction of justice, extortion, and maybe even murder, Mr. D’Amato. If you come clean now, you might be able to avoid adding a perjury charge.”

Little Joey slinks back in his chair. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

I shoot a look at Roosevelt, who closes his eyes. I turn back to the judge and say, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

“Just a few questions, Your Honor.” He walks up to the witness box. “Mr. D’Amato, do you have any evidence placing Marshawn Bryant inside the Golden Dragon Restaurant on the night that three people were killed ten years ago?”

“No.”

“Do you have any information suggesting Mr. Bryant was involved in a scheme to kill three people?”

“No.”

“Do you have any proof that Mr. Bryant was involved in payoffs in connection with the killing of three people?”

“No.”

“Were you involved in planting evidence or any sort of cover-up in connection with the events at the Golden Dragon Restaurant?”

“No.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Judge Stumpf strokes his chin as he looks at the clock on the wall in the back of his courtroom. “We’ve already gone over our allotted time, but I’m willing to give each of you a moment to make a very brief closing statement. You’re first, Mr. Grim.”

Grim keeps it succinct. “Your Honor, in order to grant a stay, the law requires the appellant to prove freestanding innocence. While we have heard some interesting testimony and raised some new possibilities, the fact remains that appellant has not met that threshold. In such circumstances, the law requires that the petition for a writ of habeas corpus be denied.”

The judge’s stoic expression hasn’t changed. “Mr. Daley?”

“Your Honor, we have placed Marshawn Bryant at the Golden Dragon Restaurant on the night in question. We have heard testimony that Mr. Bryant has paid Officer D’Amato over a million dollars to buy his silence.” I look over at Nate, whose eyes are fixed on mine. I turn back and face the judge. My voice starts to crack as I offer a final plea. “You get to play God today, Your Honor. You get to decide whether Nate Fineman will live or die.” I swallow hard and fight to maintain my composure. “I don’t know for sure if we’ve succeeded in proving freestanding innocence precisely in accordance with the letter of the law. I do know for sure that the testimony we’ve heard this morning would make it a tragic and unconscionable and . . . immoral miscarriage of justice if you permit this execution to proceed.”

The judge takes off his glasses and folds his hands. His tone is solemn. “I understand the gravity of the situation. I am going to take this matter under advisement. I will rule later today.”

CHAPTER 57

“YOU DID EVERYTHING YOU COULD”

Saturday, July 18. 5:15 p.m. 6 hours and 46 minutes until execution.

It takes us more than an hour to get back to San Quentin, where the narrow road outside the east gate is jammed with news vans, placard-waving advocates, and idealistic clergy. The turnout is overwhelmingly anti–death penalty. The surreal, carnival-like atmosphere also includes the ever-present group of gawkers and hangers-on who seem to materialize at every significant public event, as well as a few mercenaries who are peddling anti–capital punishment T-shirts and bumper stickers. It’s sometimes difficult to discern where the protests end and the parties begin. The crowds will get larger as midnight approaches.

Nate is in a philosophical mood when we finally get back to the Row. He, Ilene, Rosie, Rabbi Friedman, and I regroup in the somber holding cell adjacent to the execution chamber. “It was nice to get out for a while,” Nate says. “It’s been a long time.”

Almost ten years. We can hear the solemn chants of the demonstrators outside through the thick prison walls. “We aren’t done yet,” I say.

He takes a deep breath. “Before all hell breaks loose, I want to thank you. We knew the odds were long when we brought you in. Freestanding innocence is a lot tougher to prove than reasonable doubt. It’s damned near impossible unless somebody confesses.”

“We gave the judge a lot to work with. We placed Bryant at the Golden Dragon. The payments to Little Joey showed the cops knew something—or that they were in on it.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“We still have more than six hours. We aren’t giving up yet.”

“You did everything you could. How did you figure out that Bryant was paying Little Joey?”

“Roosevelt.”

His tired eyes open wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Let’s see if Judge Stumpf buys it.”

“I think he will.” In reality, I’m not sure.

Nate gives me a thoughtful look. “You got us a lot closer than I ever imagined. I never figured we’d get a hearing.”

“Judge Stumpf has enough to grant a stay. We still have a chance with the governor too.”

“At least we’re going down swinging.”

“We haven’t gone down yet.”

“We’ll see. You guys reminded me of my favorite lawyer today.”

“Perry Mason?”

“Nathan Fineman.” He chuckles heartily. “For a moment, I thought you were going to accuse everybody in the courtroom of murder.”

I can feel a lump in my throat as I return his smile. “I didn’t accuse the judge.”

“Maybe you should have. We had nothing to lose.”

He has six hours to live and he’s trying to make us feel better. The banter stops and the cramped cell goes silent. I look straight at my client. “Can you tell us anything else about what happened at the Golden Dragon that night?”

“Jews don’t do confessions.”

“I’m not looking for that. I want to know if there’s anything else we can use before we call the governor again.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Not when I know I’m right.”

“It’s a fair question. I guess Judgment Day is here.”

“So it would seem.”

He holds up a tired hand. “I didn’t kill those people, Mike. With God as my witness, I’m telling you the truth.”

* * *

A clean-cut young guard knocks on the door at seven o’clock. “You had a call from Judge Stumpf’s clerk.”

“Good news or bad news?” I ask.

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he say?”

“The judge wants to meet with you in his chambers as soon as possible.”

CHAPTER 58

JUDGMENT DAY

Saturday, July 18. 7:45 p.m. 4 hours and 16 minutes until execution.

“I’m sorry for the short notice,” Judge Stumpf says to us.

Rosie and I are sitting on a leather sofa in his cramped chambers in the Federal Building. Irwin Grim scowls at his notes as he sits in an antique armchair. Roosevelt stands near the door. It is impossible to discern whether the news is good or bad from the impassive expressions on the faces of everybody in the stuffy room.

My heart pounds as Judge Stumpf studies a legal pad on which he’s scripted notes in an elegant cursive. He chooses his words with judicial care. “Based upon today’s testimony and additional information provided by Inspector Johnson, I am issuing a stay of Mr. Fineman’s execution. I am ordering him released immediately.”

I can feel Rosie squeezing my hand. My breaths come faster. It’s a complete victory.

The judge is still speaking. “Mr. Grim and I just got off the phone with the San Francisco district attorney. At my request, she has just concluded confidential negotiations with Mr. D’Amato and his attorney. In exchange for the DA’s agreement not to press charges against him, Mr. D’Amato will testify that he saw Mr. Bryant walking down Broadway when he and your father were driving to the Golden Dragon. Neither Mr. D’Amato nor Officer Thomas Daley reported it.” He looks over at Grim, who nods. “While it may not constitute freestanding innocence precisely within the letter of the law, it certainly complies with the spirit of the statute. Mr. Grim and I have therefore concluded that it would be unconscionable to proceed with Mr. Fineman’s execution under these circumstances.”

I’m not inclined to quibble about the fact that it merely places Bryant at the scene. Nor does it prove that he pulled the trigger. What matters is that Nate Fineman is going to live. In fact, he’s going to be released from jail. “Did my father see Bryant?” I ask.

“Mr. D’Amato said he did. We’ll never know for sure.”

“It didn’t appear in the IA report.”

“We now believe that the IA investigation was flawed.”

And the file is gone. “Does that mean Bryant killed three people?”

“No.” The judge takes off his glasses. “Inspector Johnson and I went over the timeline again. We now believe that Mr. Tsai and Ms. Luk saw Mr. Bryant in the alley immediately prior to the moment the first shots were fired. We further believe that Mr. Bryant could not have killed three people, planted the gun under Mr. Fineman’s body, and gotten to the corner of Columbus and Broadway in time for Mr. D’Amato––and perhaps your father––to have seen him as they were making their way to the Golden Dragon. There simply wasn’t enough time. We therefore have concluded that he could not have fired the fatal shots.”

“Then it had to be Officer David Low,” I say.

Judge Stumpf nods. “Based upon the information now available to us, I think it is very likely that you are right. Inspector Johnson has provided us with Officer Low’s bank-account records. In addition to paying a monthly stipend to Mr. D’Amato, Mr. Bryant also paid Officer Low a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars in cash shortly before the shootings. Though we have no hard evidence, we believe it is likely that Mr. Bryant obtained the funds from Mr. Aronis.”

“Was Low that desperate for money?” I ask.

It’s Roosevelt who responds. “It was an open secret within the SFPD that he had a gambling problem. There were rumors that he was on the payroll of the drug lords he was investigating––including Robinson and Chin.”

It means that Nate walked into a setup. “If Aronis and Bryant were working together, how did Bryant end up with control of the San Francisco heroin market?”

“Aronis got everything else. He controls everything from Daly City south to San Jose, as well as the entire East Bay. All’s fair in love, war, and drug dealing. Bryant is still his primary source of heroin.”

Washington was telling the truth. “Why didn’t Bryant do it himself?”

“Maybe he couldn’t get a gun inside the Golden Dragon. Maybe he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Low was also smart enough to spread the risk. We think he made Bryant clear out the bodyguards himself. That left him with an unobstructed path to Robinson and Chin. We think Low went upstairs and blew everybody away, except for Fineman, who dove out the window onto the fire escape.”

“Why didn’t he kill Nate too?”

Roosevelt gives me a knowing look. “It may have been a crime of opportunity. Low was an experienced undercover cop with an aptitude for improvisation. When he found Fineman unconscious in the alley, he realized he had another option. He planted the gun in Fineman’s hand. He told everybody––including Joey and your father––that he got there right after the shooting had stopped. He was a decorated hero. Nobody wanted to question him about it. There was a lot of history between the SFPD and your client after the Bayview Posse case went south. Low was able to pin the murder of two drug dealers on the most infamous mob lawyer in the Bay Area and collect a pile of cash––not a bad result for him. Bryant got control of the San Francisco heroin market and Robinson’s best construction contracts. Aronis got the rest of the Bay Area heroin market. Low knew that Bryant and Aronis couldn’t rat him out without implicating themselves.”

It was the proverbial “win-win” situation. “And Eugene Tsai and Jasmine Luk?”

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s likely that Bryant killed Tsai or had him killed. I may never be able to prove it.”

“Why didn’t he kill Luk too?”

“She left town before Bryant could get to her.”

“Which means the only loose ends were Joey and my father.”

“Bryant didn’t know that until later. Now we know that D’Amato––and perhaps your father––withheld evidence. It now appears that Joey and perhaps some of the other officers who secured the scene at the Golden Dragon also took the opportunity to settle some old scores from the Bayview Posse case.”

“Was Joey really blackmailing Bryant?”

“That’s the only logical explanation. When Joey was forced to take early retirement, he needed money to open his currency exchange. He had the goods on Bryant. He took advantage of the situation.”

“Was my father involved in the blackmail scheme?”

“It seems unlikely. Bryant started making payments to D’Amato after your father died.” He waits a beat. “If you must know, I checked your father’s bank records too. There was no evidence of any payments to him.”

My relief is tempered by the knowledge that he may have withheld crucial evidence in a murder trial. “It still means he and Joey let Nate take the rap.”

Roosevelt nods. “I’m sorry, Mike. Your client may not be a murderer, but he was no Boy Scout either.”

Neither was my dad. “Did Bryant shoot Pete?”

“If I were a betting man—which I’m not—I would say the chances are pretty good that he ordered the hit.”

“Why?”

“He probably thought Pete was getting close to something.”

He was.

Rosie asks, “What about the photo of Grace and her boyfriend that was delivered to my house?”

“We’re going to lean on Bryant’s people to trace it back to him.”

And hopefully our lives will now return to some semblance of normal.

Roosevelt takes a deep breath. “I have to give you credit. You put the pieces together to stop an execution in less than two weeks.”

“We had a lot of help.” I’ve also probably ruined my father’s reputation along the way.

He adds, “For what it’s worth, please tell Nate that I’m sorry.”

“I will.” I turn back to Judge Stumpf. “Where does this leave us?”

“At this point, it’s up to the DA to decide whether she’s going to file new charges against your client. I intend to discourage it.”

We will also be bringing a civil action on Nate’s behalf for wrongful imprisonment. “What about Bryant and Aronis?”

“They’ve been detained for questioning. The investigation will be headed by Inspector Johnson.” Judge Stumpf holds up an authoritative hand. “The system got the wrong result ten years ago. We were less than five hours away from executing an innocent man. We can’t possibly make up for the losses suffered by Mr. Fineman and his family, but I want to be sure that we get it right this time.”

“Will charges be brought against anybody else?”

“Probably not. The DA would have brought murder charges against Mr. Low, but he’s dead.”

“What about Joey D’Amato?”

“The DA has agreed to grant him limited immunity from extortion, obstruction of justice, and perjury charges in exchange for his testimony against Mr. Bryant and his agreement to shut down his business.”

“And my father?”

“We are unsure of his precise role in the cover-up––if any. The fact that he is deceased means that no charges will be brought against him.”

For the first time in a week, a sense of calm envelops me. We may never be able to demonstrate for certain that Dave Low pulled the trigger. It will take years of legal maneuvering to make any charges stick against Aronis and Bryant. Nevertheless, after ten long years, there finally may be some modest degree of justice for Nate Fineman.

CHAPTER 59

“GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT”

“Your deal,” Nate says.

I lean back in my card chair. “You cleaned me out.”

“I can spot you a few extra bucks.”

“I’d have to put up my Corolla as collateral.”

“Suit yourself.”

A week ago, it was inconceivable to me that I’d be playing five-card stud with Nate the Great, Mort the Sport, and Nick the Dick in the sunny courtyard of the Jewish Home under the smiling gaze of Ilene Fineman. Nate was released from San Quentin late last night. There was a celebration up at St. Francis Wood. This morning, there was a brunch at Temple Beth Sholom. Rabbi Friedman led the community in prayers of thanksgiving. Then we drove Nate to the Jewish Home, where he moved into a room not far from Mort. After all these years, they’ll be down the hall from each other once again.

Nate holds up his cigar. “You got a light?”

“Afraid not. Since when do they let you smoke here?”

“I cut a deal with the board. I get one cigar a week.”

I look over at Mort. “Aren’t you on the board?”

“Yes I am. I have the same deal.”

I might have known. The raucous poker game continues for a few minutes, then Nate looks around at his old compatriots. “A toast to all of us. We’re finally back together. We’re going to start making up for lost time right now.” He raises a glass. “L’Chaim.”

Ilene beams. Nate will spend much of his time over here. He will also have regular visits to St. Francis Wood.

Nate pulls me aside a few minutes later. “I’m sorry Rosie couldn’t make it.”

“She wanted time with Grace and Tommy.” She’s also trying to negotiate a final schedule with her contractor to finish the work on her kitchen.

“You’ll bring her over here so that I can properly express my gratitude?”

“Of course.”

“When is Pete coming home?”

“Hopefully soon. I’ll bring him over as soon as he’s able.”

He winks. “Do you think you guys could have cut it any closer?”

“We had four hours to spare.”

The old lawyer’s eyes turn melancholy. “I owe you big-time.”

“I knew you weren’t a killer, Nate.”

“I’m glad somebody thought so. You’ll send me a final bill?”

“You’re all paid up.”

He takes a deep breath of the warm breeze. “I’m an old man. I’m not in a position to offer much. If there is anything I can do for you, just name it.”

“It isn’t necessary, Nate. We did our job. You paid our bill.”

“You saved my life.”

I’m not the type to call on favors, but I’m prepared to make an exception in this case. “First, there’s a girl in Oakland who needs a heart and lung transplant. Her parents are gone and she’s living with her grandparents. They have no insurance.”

“How much?”

“A hundred grand. Jeff Chin and Amanda Wong are raising the money.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Good. “Second, I’d like you to hire our firm to handle your civil case for wrongful imprisonment.”

“I wouldn’t think of hiring anybody else. I want you to take them for every penny.”

“I have a condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want you to donate a portion of the judgment to the California Appellate Project.”

“Done.”

“Third, I was wondering if your son still has seats next to the Giants’ dugout.”

His eyes light up. “When do you want them?”

“The Dodgers are in town in a couple of weeks.”

“How many do you need?”

* * *

“The usual?” Big John asks.

“Thanks.” Two weeks later, Pete and I are sitting at one of the worn wooden tables along the wall at Dunleavy’s.

My uncle hands me two pints of Guinness. “When did you get home?” he asks Pete.

“This afternoon.”

“You came over here on your first night home?”

“This is home, too. Donna needed a little break, so I made my big brother take me out for a beer.”

“I’m honored.” Our genial host gives him a bartender’s smile. “How long are you going to be in that wheelchair?”

“A couple more weeks.”

“Are you supposed to be drinking beer?”

“Nope.”

“You want another one?”

“Absolutely.”

Big John heads back to the bar. I turn to Pete, who is wearing a Giants jacket and cap. “How’s it feel?”

“Better than it did two weeks ago.” His doctors want him to heal a little before they start talking about hip-replacement surgery. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay out of hospitals for a while.”

“Anything I can do?”

“You can keep an eye on Donna and Margaret. You can take me out for a beer every once in a while.”

“Deal.”

His eyes brighten when I offer him a field-level seat to the Giants-Dodgers game next week, then his expression turns serious. “I may have to close the agency. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not quite as mobile as I used to be. I would also like to do something where the hours are a little more regular.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions for a while. Give it some time. See how you’re feeling.”

“I already have another offer.”

“From whom?”

“Nick Hanson.”

“Are you serious?”

“Indeed I am.”

Dear God. “Are you going to work for Nick?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Does that mean you’re going to talk like Nick?”

He smiles. “I haven’t decided that either.”

We watch the Giants on TV game for a few minutes. Pete downs his beer and wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. His tone is somber when he asks the question that I’ve been expecting for the last two weeks. “Why didn’t Pop say something?”

It’s the first time we’ve talked about it. “Maybe he was trying to protect Low and D’Amato. Or himself.”

“Do you really think Pop bought into the Code of Silence?”

“He was a pretty old-fashioned guy.”

“He wasn’t old-fashioned enough to let Nate rot in jail for ten years.”

“Maybe he really didn’t see anything. Maybe he really was trying to settle an old score with Nate after the Posse fiasco. We’ll never know for sure. Frankly, it doesn’t matter anymore.” As I say it, I realize that I’m trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince him.

“You’re in an awfully forgiving mood.”

“He’s gone, Pete. There’s nothing we can do about it. Rosie says I should let it go.”

“Doesn’t it bug you?”

“Yeah.”

“But?”

“I guess sometimes you discover that your heroes have feet of clay.”

He gives me a thoughtful look. “Was Pop really one of your heroes?”

“In a way, yes.”

“You guys were at each other’s throats for forty years.”

“I still respected him as a cop.”

“How about as a father?”

“I thought he needed a little work there.”

“So did I.” He arches an eyebrow. “Do you think Margaret will be saying the same thing about me in twenty years?”

“Not a chance.”

“You don’t seem to have big problems with Grace.”

“She reserves most of her venom for Rosie.” I tap my brother’s arm. “Are you going to be able to deal with this?”

“Eventually.” His scowl becomes more pronounced. “Donna and I have been talking about making some changes.”

Uh-oh. “What kind?”

“We’re thinking about selling the house and moving out to the burbs. It’s probably a good time to cash in our chips. We saw a little place in San Anselmo that we liked.” He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

“Of course. Why now?”

“I’ve been living in the same house for more than forty years. I’m tired of the fog. Besides, it will be better for Margaret. The schools are better in Marin.”

We’ll also be neighbors. “Are you sure about this?”

“I think it’s time to move on.”

It’s a big change for Pete. If you ask me, it’s also the right one. There are too many memories in our parents’ house—good and bad. He’s overdue for a fresh start. I point at the bar. “Have you cleared this with Big John?”

“Not yet.”

“He isn’t going to be happy about it.”

“I’ll break the news to him gently.”

Big John returns with another round of beers, including one for himself. The bar is empty and he’s a talker. He pulls up a chair. “These are on the house.”

“I’d feel better if you’d let me pay for them.”

He waves his huge paw. “Your family kept us in business in the lean times. The least I can do is spot you a couple of beers.”

“Thanks, Big John.”

He gives me a sideways look. “Are you lads okay?”

“We’re fine.”

“You don’t look so fine. Bartender’s intuition.”

His is finely tuned. “It’s been a couple of long weeks.”

“You got a good result for Nate Fineman.” He turns to Pete. “You’re out of the hospital.”

Pete nods. “That’s true.”

“So what’s the big deal?”

I take a long drink of my beer. “We discovered that our father may have withheld information during the original trial that could have changed the result. It’s possible that he did it to try to settle some old business with Nate.”

“You mean the Bayview Posse case?”

“Yeah.”

He responds with a bartender’s knowing half smile. “Does that have anything to do with the arrest of Marshawn Bryant and Alex Aronis?”

“It does.”

“So what?”

“We’re having a little trouble dealing with the fact that some things we thought about our father may have been untrue. Did he ever say anything to you about seeing Bryant on the night of the shootings?”

“Afraid not, lad.”

I take another sip of my Guinness. I look my uncle straight in the eye. “Now that everything’s said and done, maybe you can tell us what really happened to that IA file.”

He gives me a sideways look. “What makes you think I know something, Mikey?”

“Lawyer’s intuition.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Is this conversation covered by the attorney-client privilege?”

“It’s also covered by the bartender-customer privilege and the uncle-nephew privilege.”

“Good enough.” There’s a long pause. “He took it, Mikey.”

“He stole it?”

“You might say that he borrowed it.”

“Why?”

“He said he didn’t intend to keep it. He didn’t trust Fitz and the guys in IA. He wanted to make a copy in case somebody started asking questions down the road. He never quite got around to returning it. After a while, I guess he figured nobody was going to ask about it.”

Until now. “Did you see it?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I’m sure it’s long gone, lad.”

He’s undoubtedly right.

“Don’t look so sad, Mikey. Fitz told you the truth about what was in the report––everybody was cleared.”

“Which was completely wrong.”

“It was a fitting testimonial to Fitz’s investigative prowess.”

Amen.

Big John straightens out a faded black-and-white photo of Juan Marichal that hangs on the wall above our table. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Did you know that my father went to the seminary?”

Pete and I exchange a glance. Big John’s dad was a world-class carouser. “He never mentioned it.”

“Do you know how close he came to being ordained?”

“Nope.”

“One day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep. If he hadn’t changed his mind at the last minute, I never would have been born.” He winks and adds, “Your aunt used to say that sometimes she wished he’d decided to go ahead and become a priest.”

It sounds like her. “The priesthood isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”

His expression turns serious. “You were a good priest, Mikey.”

“You may be the only person who thinks so. What does that have to do with us?”

Big John glances up at the Dunleavy crest. “My dad and I didn’t always get along real well, but I always figured I owed him something for giving up the priesthood. Whenever I got really mad at him, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“So?”

Big John sets his mug on the table. “I don’t know for sure what your daddy knew about the what happened at the Golden Dragon or the Fineman case. I don’t know anything about a grudge against Nate Fineman. I sure as hell don’t know what possessed him to lift that file. I will grant you that it wasn’t the smartest thing he ever did. What I do know for sure is that Tommy Daley was my brother-in-law, my best friend, and the most stand-up guy that I ever knew. You lads can choose to remember him any way you’d like. If I were in your shoes, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.”

* * *

“What time is Grace coming home?” I ask Rosie. Our daughter went to a movie with Jake.

“I told her that she could stay out until midnight. She’s had a couple of tough weeks.”

So have we. We’re sitting in front of Rosie’s fireplace, both of us relieved that we’re no longer living in an armed camp. I just put Tommy to bed for the third time tonight. We’re enjoying a glass of merlot and a quiet moment.

“How’s Pete?” she asks.

“All things considered, not bad.”

“Donna called and said she appreciated that you took him out tonight.”

“They’ve had a couple of tough weeks too.”

“Yes, they have.” The fire reflects off her eyes. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’m fine, Rosie.”

She leans over and kisses me. “You’re a lousy liar. You’ve been in a different world for the last two weeks.”

“Death penalty appeals are exhausting.”

“Maybe we should go away.”

“I’d like that.”

“Where do you go with a teenager and a toddler?”

“Disneyland.” It isn’t my first choice, but our options and finances are limited.

“I’ll check it out.” Her tone turns serious. “What’s bugging you, Mike?”

“The case.”

“I think everything turned out pretty well. Nate was released. Bryant and Aronis were arrested. Roosevelt may have enough to prove that Low was the triggerman. If everything works out, we’ll collect a pile of fees in Nate’s civil case. That isn’t bad for less than two weeks of work, Mike.”

“That’s great. You might even finish the remodel job on your kitchen before Grace goes to college.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Pete got shot.”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“We destroyed the reputations of some good cops.”

“Dave Low was a murderer. Joey D’Amato was a blackmailer.”

“I was talking about my dad, too.”

“I know.” She takes a sip of her merlot. “He wasn’t perfect, Mike.”

“I thought he was a perfect cop.”

“It turns out that he wasn’t.” She cups my face in her hand. “It’s a tough job. Maybe he had a problem with Nate. He was getting close to retirement. He made some bad decisions. Give him a break.”

“Tell that to Nate.”

“He was no saint either. Think about the parents of the kids who died from the drugs they bought from the Bayview Posse. You’re always looking for perfect justice. You need to accept the fact that we live in an imperfect world. There are things that lawyers just can’t fix.” She pulls me toward her and kisses me.

“What’s that for?”

“For never changing. If I to take you to Disneyland, will you promise to let it go?”

“Yes, Rosie.”

“If you don’t behave, I’ll make you ride the flying Dumbos until you puke.”

“I get the message.”

Her eyes twinkle. “I need to show you something.” She hands me a large manila envelope. “This came in the mail from Ilene Fineman. It’s addressed to both of us.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I was waiting for you to get here before I opened it.”

“Go ahead.”

She tears open the envelope and looks at the first of two stacks of neatly bundled papers. She studies the first pile for a moment. I can see her blinking back tears.

“What?” I ask.

She hands the papers to me. “Look.”

They are the divorce papers that Ilene mentioned when we first met. The handwritten note expresses her gratitude and indicates that she won’t be needing them. I can feel a tear in the corner of my eye. “That’s very nice.”

“Very nice indeed.” She pulls out the second stack. Her eyes get wider. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?”

She stares at the papers in disbelief. “The deed to this house.”

“What are you talking about?”

She swallows hard. “Nate and Ilene bought it for us. We’re now the proud joint owners of a 950–square foot palace with no kitchen and a leaky roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“We can’t possibly accept it.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t right.”

“They’ve insisted. Besides, it’s already a done deal.”

“Come on, Rosie.”

“You come on, Mike. Get off your high horse. How much is Nate’s life worth? We busted our butts for them. We stopped an execution. We’ve been harassed and threatened. We just accepted a hundred grand in legal fees from them. If they want to give us a gratuity, we shouldn’t deprive them of the pleasure.”

“It still isn’t right.”

“For once in your life, swallow your pride. Accept a gift graciously.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’m going to accept it myself. If you want to be pigheaded about it, that’s your business. If Ilene Fineman wants to share part of her trust fund with me, I’m prepared to accept it—woman-to-woman.”

“Are you sure you really want to do this?”

“I’ve never been surer about anything in my life.”

I glance down at the papers. “Did you notice that they put the deed in both of our names?”

“I did.”

“Do you think they’re suggesting something?”

“Like what?”

“That we should move in together?”

“I think they’re giving us the option.”

Here we go again. “How do you feel about it?”

She gives me the knowing smile that I’ve found irresistible for almost two decades. “We seem to do better when we have a little separate space.”

“I agree.”

“I still think we should accept their gracious gift. I can continue to live here and you can keep your half as an investment.”

I look around at our new estate. “Why not? It isn’t St. Francis Wood, but it isn’t bad.”

THE END

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Continue on to the next Mike & Rosie Story (#7)… PERFECT ALIBI

PERFECT ALIBI

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. “YOU AREN’T A CIVIL LAWYER”

2. “YOUR DAUGHTER IS AS STUBBORN AS MY DAUGHTER”

3. “THAT ISN’T WHAT HE TOLD ME”

4. “I DIDN’T KILL ANYBODY”

5. “NOTHING WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM”

6. “I WANT TO SEE MY SON RIGHT NOW”

7. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

8. “IT’S AN OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE”

9. “NO DEAL”

10. “ONE MORE TIME”

11. “MOTHER’S INTUITION”

12. “DOES YOUR CLIENT UNDERSTAND THE CHARGES?”

13. “THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING”

14. “NO, IT DOESN’T”

15. “I THOUGHT ROOSEVELT TOLD YOU”

16. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BAD THIS LOOKS?”

17. “HE COULD DO BETTER THAN A GIRL FROM THE BARRIO”

18. “HE NEVER SHOWED UP”

19. “WHERE DID HE GO?”

20. “I DEFENDED MYSELF”

21. “THIS GETS A LITTLE WEIRD”

22. “ARE YOU THUNDER?”

23. “WE’RE A FULLY LICENSED FACILITY”

24. “IT’S A CHOP SHOP”

25. “I’M GETTING TOO OLD FOR ALL-NIGHTERS”

26. “WE RUN A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS”

27. “ARE YOU CALLING OUR DAUGHTER A LIAR?”

28. “I HAVE NO LEGAL OBLIGATION TO TALK TO YOU”

29. “WE’VE BEEN THROUGH THIS, DAD”

30. “GOOD TIPPER”

31. “NOW I NEED YOU TO HELP ME”

32. “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING ON THE STREET?”

33. “WE FOUND SOME DISTURBING NEW EVIDENCE”

34. “HAVE YOU BEEN SLEEPING WITH OUR DAUGHTER?”

35. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

36. “IT’S BEEN A SLOW NIGHT”

37. “THEY’RE PLAYING IT BY THE BOOK”

38. “I’M NOT SURE I CAN DO THIS”

39. “I’M FINE”

40. “ARE YOU PLANNING TO PRESS CHARGES?”

41. “IS YOUR CLIENT ABLE TO PROCEED?”

42. “DID YOU PERFORM THE AUTOPSY ON JUDGE FAIRCHILD?”

43. “HE TOLD HIM HE WAS GOING TO MAKE HIM PAY”

44. “HOW MANY HOMICIDES HAVE YOU INVESTIGATED?”

45. “IT WASN’T MINE”

46. “DID YOU CONSIDER ANY OTHER SUSPECTS?”

47. “DR. FAIRCHILD WAS SUSPICIOUS THAT HER HUSBAND WAS CHEATING”

48. “MY NAME IS LEONARD STONE”

49. “YOU NEED TO DECIDE WHOSE SIDE YOU’RE ON”

50. THE PERFECT ALIBI

51. “DO YOU LOVE BOYFRIEND?”

52. “YOUR CLIENT IS LYING TO YOU”

53. “FAMILY”

54. “YOU LIED TO US”

55. “I SWEAR TO GOD”

56. “IT JUST HAPPENED”

57. “YOU HAVE MY WORD”

58. “IT WAS MY RESPONSIBILITY”

59. “I WANT TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY GRANDCHILDREN”

60. “THE CIRCLE IS NOW COMPLETE”

CHAPTER 1

“YOU AREN’T A CIVIL LAWYER”

Friday, June 17, 2:34 p.m.

The Honorable T.J. Putnam Chandler exhales with melodramatic disdain. The Presiding Judge of the San Francisco Superior Court–Civil Division can feign exasperation as convincingly as any jurist in Northern California. “Mr. Daley,” he bellows, “why are you wasting this court’s time on a beautiful Friday afternoon?”

As if I had anything to do with the scheduling of this hearing. I summon an appropriately deferential tone. “Your Honor, we are here to contest the defendant’s motion for summary judgment.”

The three-hundred pound Brahman responds with another pronounced sigh. The fifth-generation San Franciscan firmly believes his appointment to the bench was an entitlement bestowed upon him by birthright. To those of us who have the privilege of appearing before him, it’s common knowledge that Putty Chandler is well into the back nine of a thoroughly undistinguished judicial career. The dour bureaucrat has to go through the motions for six more months before he can start collecting his pension and retreat to a cushy corner office in a private mediation firm where he can work a couple of days a week for triple his current salary—as if he really needs the money. His more immediate concern is that he may be late for his regular three-thirty tee time at the Lake Course at the Olympic Club.

Judge Chandler leans forward in the custom leather chair he had to buy on his own dime. The state budget covered the construction costs of the workman-like civil courthouse across McAllister Street from City Hall, but there wasn’t much left over for furniture. His bushy right eyebrow shoots up toward his mane of uncombed gray hair. The Einstein look is better suited to physicists. His voice fills with its customary scorn. “You’re a criminal lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I prefer the term defense attorney.

“That means you spend your time representing criminals, doesn’t it?”

It will serve no useful purpose to remind him that everybody who watches Law and Order knows we’re supposed to pay lip service to the concept that you’re innocent until proven guilty. The Putty Chandlers of the world draw no substantial distinction between people who are accused of crimes and those who are actually convicted—or, for that matter, the attorneys who represent them. “We take on pro bono civil matters from time to time. This case was referred to us by the Haight-Ashbury Legal Aid Clinic.”

He’s unimpressed. “As I recall, the last time you were in my courtroom, you were trying to make the world safe for panhandlers.”

“Something like that, Your Honor.” A couple of years ago, I filed a civil suit for false arrest on behalf of a homeless man on the theory that the cops had violated his constitutional right of free speech. It wasn’t precisely what the Founding Fathers had in mind when they drafted the Bill of Rights, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Not surprisingly, Judge Chandler ruled against me. That case is still working its way up the appellate ladder.

He points his gavel in my direction. “Mr. Daley, I trust you understand that we try to conduct ourselves with greater professional decorum over here in the civil courts?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.” I don’t care how many of your inbred ancestors are living off their trust funds in Pacific Heights—you’re still a pompous jackass.

I shoot a glance at my law partner and ex-wife, Rosita Fernandez, who is providing moral support from the front row of the otherwise empty gallery. I met Rosie at the Public Defender’s Office two decades ago. I was fresh out of Boalt Law School after a brief and unsuccessful attempt at being a priest. She was fresh off an acquittal in a capital murder case after a brief and unsuccessful attempt at being married. After a string of victories, the State Bar Journal boldly proclaimed we were the best PDs in Northern California. Then we made the tactical error of trying to transform a successful working relationship into a more intimate one. We quickly discovered we were more adept at trying cases. The wheels fell off our marriage two years after it started. After a five-year cooling-off period, we formed the tenuous law partnership that we’ve operated slightly north of the subsistence level for the past decade.

Judge Chandler’s tone turns even more impatient. “Mr. Daley, I understand the plaintiff is claiming she was injured by a product manufactured by the defendant.”

“That’s correct, Your Honor.” That’s why it’s called a product liability case.

I steal a look at the plaintiff’s table, where my client is staring intently at her jet-black fingernails. Andrea Zeller is a sullen young woman whose closely cropped pink hair, twin nose rings, and gothic tattoos project an acceptable professional image for her day job as a sales clerk at Amoeba Music, a cavernous store in a converted bowling alley in the Haight. When she isn’t peddling CDs, she plays bass guitar for a heavy metal band known as Death March. She prefers to be called by her stage name, Requiem. I’ve tried, without success, to explain to her on several occasions that patrician judges like Putty Chandler tend to have little empathy for people who exercise their right of free expression through body piercings and tattoos.

Here goes. “Your Honor, we have fulfilled our obligation to provide prima facie evidence that Ms. Zeller’s injuries were caused by a defective product. The defendant’s motion for summary judgment therefore should be denied.”

This gets the attention of my worthy opponent. The aptly named Gary Winer is a cloying, owl-eyed man with horn-rimmed glasses, a horrific comb-over, and a grating nasal voice. He’s spent the past thirty years trying to make the world safer for insurance companies. He has also perfected a legal strategy that may be summarized in three words: delay, delay, delay. He nods reassuringly to his client, a greasy, middle-aged man whose ill-fitting black suit matches the bad toupee that he probably bought on eBay.

Winer stands and addresses Judge Chandler. “Your Honor, the plaintiff wouldn’t have been injured if she had followed the easy-to-understand instructions included with my client’s product.”

“She did,” I insist. Well, more or less. “The on-off switch didn’t work properly.”

“Your Honor,” Winer drones on, “my client has rigorous quality control standards. Nobody has ever complained about the switch.”

“There’s always a first time.”

Winer won’t let it go. “This is what happens when criminal lawyers bring civil cases. They don’t understand our procedures.”

Now that’s a cheap shot. “Your Honor, the Civil Code isn’t that much more complicated than the Penal Code.”

“Nevertheless,” Winer continues, “if Mr. Daley insists on proceeding with these unsubstantiated charges, we will need additional time to conduct a full structural analysis of this product.”

He’s stalling. “Your Honor, we don’t need to take up this court’s valuable time with expensive experts to prove Ms. Zeller was injured when the defendant’s product malfunctioned. We’ve submitted an affidavit from a reputable engineer attesting to the design flaws in the switch. We’ve provided a sworn statement from her doctor and copies of her medical bills. Unless Mr. Winer’s client is prepared to reimburse Ms. Zeller for her medical bills and lost wages, this case should move forward to trial.” So there.

Putty Chandler’s chin is resting in his right palm. “Mr. Daley, what can you tell me about the product in question?”

“It might be more appropriate to have that discussion in chambers.”

“Denied.”

Have it your way. “If I might ask the bailiff to bring it over to you.”

Judge Chandler’s bailiff is a world-weary African-American woman with the unenviable job of trying to keep her boss from making an ass of himself—no small assignment. “Your Honor,” she says, “counsel’s point might be well taken.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “Is it offensive?”

“Not really.”

“Pornographic?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then please deliver it to the bench.”

Her eyes dart toward the ceiling, then she dutifully hands him a shoebox marked with an evidence tag. The judge removes a device that’s the size of a screwdriver. He takes off his glasses and examines it. “Mr. Daley, is this some sort of power tool?”

You might say that. “It’s a marital aid, Your Honor.”

“What does it do?”

The same thing as Viagra. “It stimulates erotic feelings.”

He quickly sets it down on the bench. “How was your client injured?”

How do I say this? “The on-off switch jammed as Ms. Zeller was, uh, gratifying herself. She sustained bruises in certain sensitive areas.”

“I see.”

He’s getting the idea. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask for additional details. A reasonable argument could be made that Requiem didn’t use the product in precisely the manner contemplated by the easy-to-understand instructions.

Winer decides to make his presence felt again. “Your Honor, Mr. Daley has not provided any evidence our product is defective.”

I try to repress a smile. “I’d be happy to show you.”

“Your Honor—” Winer implores.

The judge stops him with an upraised hand. “Approach the bench, gentlemen.”

We do as we’re told.

The judge puts a huge paw over his microphone. “We’re off the record. It seems to me the most expedient way to decide this matter is to have a demonstration of the allegedly defective equipment.”

Sounds good. “Fine with me.”

“That would be highly irregular,” Winer says.

Judge Chandler’s tone turns emphatic. “I want a demonstration, Mr. Winer.”

It’s my cue. “It works just like a flashlight.” I slide the switch to the “On” position and it springs to life.

Judge Chandler’s interest is piqued. “How do you turn it off?”

“That’s the problem.” I keep my tone clinical. “It’s supposed to shut down when you slide the button back to the ‘Off’ position. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.”

Winer tries to stop me. “Your Honor—”

I cut him off. “I don’t expect you to take my word for it, Mr. Winer.” I hand him the pulsating equipment. “Move the button to the ‘Off’ position.”

Gary Winer has many talents, but manual dexterity isn’t one of them. He corrals the bucking bronco and holds on for dear life. He makes a heroic, but ultimately futile, attempt to manipulate the switch. “I can’t get it to stop”

“Neither could Ms. Zeller,” I say.

Winer loses the handle and inadvertently flips the merchandise in my direction. I snag it just before it hits the floor.

The judge can’t contain a smile. “Nice catch, Mr. Daley.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I make a big display of pretending to jimmy the switch. “I think we’re going to have to remove the batteries.”

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Daley.” Putty Chandler turns to his favorite page in the judicial playbook: trying to broker a quick settlement. “Did Ms. Zeller sustain any permanent injuries?”

I answer him honestly. “No, Your Honor.”

“How much were her medical bills?”

“About ten thousand dollars. Her lost wages were another five grand. I’ve told her she’s unlikely to collect punitive damages.”

“So you’re willing to dispose of this case for fifteen thousand dollars?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Are you prepared to keep the settlement terms confidential?”

“Absolutely.” Requiem isn’t interested in making a statement—she just wants the cash.

Judge Chandler’s pleased expression suggests he may make it to the Olympic Club after all. He turns his attention back to Winer. “You can make this go away for fifteen grand.”

“If we admit liability, we will be inundated with frivolous lawsuits.”

“Mr. Daley has agreed to keep the terms confidential.”

“But Your Honor—”

“Let me put it this way, Mr. Winer. If you don’t settle this matter in the next ten seconds, I’m going to rule there is sufficient evidence to move forward and that Ms. Zeller may assert claims for punitive damages. A full-blown trial will run your client at least six figures in legal fees—not to mention the possibility a jury may come back with a verdict for a lot more than fifteen grand. You know how unpredictable juries can be, don’t you, Mr. Winer?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You’re going to make this go away, aren’t you, Mr. Winer?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I’m not inclined to quibble about whether Judge Chandler is trying to serve the interests of justice or the interests of getting in eighteen holes before the sun goes down. Either way, Requiem comes out ahead.

“Step back, gentlemen,” the judge says to us. He turns to his court reporter. “I have good news. Mr. Winer and Mr. Daley have agreed to a confidential settlement of this case. Have a nice weekend, everybody.”

* * *

“Nice work,” Rosie says to me.

“Requiem was very appreciative.”

“I’ll bet.” Rosie’s cobalt eyes twinkle as we’re standing in Judge Chandler’s empty courtroom. “You just made the world a safer place for consumers of sex toys.”

“It will be my lasting legacy to the justice system—and mankind.”

Her right eyebrow shoots up in a manner I still find irresistible. “Did you tinker with the switch to make sure it wouldn’t turn off?”

“That would have been dishonest.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I trust you appreciate the irony of an ex-priest representing a client named Requiem in a case involving a sex toy?”

“I wasn’t planning to tell the Archbishop.” Enough gloating. “Is Grace going out with Bobby again tonight?”

“Yes.”

Our sixteen-year-old daughter was one of the few positives to emerge from our marriage. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

“Yes, they have.”

Bobby Fairchild isn’t Grace’s first boyfriend. He is, however, her most serious. They met at a high school science fair last October. As far as we can tell, their relationship has been reasonably tame. He’s the sort of kid that I’d like Grace to marry—in another twenty years. He graduated last week from the prestigious and very private University High School in Pacific Heights. He’s on his way to Columbia in the fall. His father is a Superior Court judge who is on the fast track to the federal bench. His mother is a neurosurgeon at UCSF.

“You need to start dealing with it like an adult,” Rosie says.

“I’m trying. Is your mother staying with Tommy tonight?”

“Yes.”

Our energetic four-year-old son was an unplanned surprise long after Rosie and I split up. Around the same time, we decided to move forward as a permanent—albeit unmarried—couple. Life is full of compromises. “Does that mean we have time for an early dinner to celebrate my great victory?”

“Absolutely.”

The door swings open and San Francisco’s newly elected Public Defender strides forcefully down the center aisle. After three decades of toiling in the trenches, Robert Kidd finally got his chance to fill the top spot of the office he’s served capably for so long.

“What brings you to the civil courthouse?” I ask him.

“Slumming.”

“Us, too.”

In a modest accommodation to the realities of modern political campaigning, our former mentor has ditched his Men’s Wearhouse suits for a more polished Wilkes Bashford look. Nevertheless, the charismatic sixty-year-old still embodies the working-class values of his upbringing in the Mission District. His hair is thinner and his jowls are larger, but his clear blue eyes still radiate the same intensity I first saw when he was promoted to the head of the felony division. At six-two and a lean two hundred pounds, he starts every morning with a six-mile run across town to the functional building a half-block south of the Hall of Justice that houses the PD’s Office.

“I just saw Putty Chandler heading to his car,” he says.

“Did he have his golf clubs?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. He said you’re developing a new specialty in the law of sex toys.”

“It was a cameo appearance on a pro bono case. On Monday, we’ll be back in the trenches fighting the good fight on behalf of drug dealers, pimps, and other small-time crooks.”

“Glad to hear it.”

My ever-practical ex-wife interjects. “You didn’t come looking for us on a Friday afternoon just to give us a hard time for taking a civil case.”

“I wanted to see if you’ve had a chance to consider my very attractive offer.”

He’d asked us to take over his old job as head of the felony division at the PD’s Office.

“We’re still thinking about it,” I say. “We’ve been busy.”

“Working on civil cases.”

It’s the ultimate put-down to a defense lawyer. “We take a few pro bono referrals from the Bar Association. Ninety-nine percent of our work is criminal.”

“One hundred percent of our work is criminal. You aren’t a civil lawyer.”

“I’m a very civil lawyer. We just don’t handle many civil cases.”

“We don’t handle any.”

“We like to pick our clients,” Rosie says.

“Most of whom are flaky or deadbeats—or both. Not to mention the long hours, the little thanks, and the lousy pay.”

“That’s no different from the PD’s Office.”

“True enough, except you’d be working for me—that should count for something.” He turns serious. “I’m trying to upgrade the quality and reputation of our office. I need competent people like you to train the next generation.”

“We’re flattered,” I say, “but we’re trial lawyers. We don’t want to spend the next ten years shuffling paper.”

“I’ll get you help with the admin stuff. I’ll let you try some cases. We have decent health benefits and a good retirement plan. You aren’t going to get rich, but you won’t starve. It’s a pretty good deal when you have one kid heading to college soon and another who’s starting grammar school. I might even be able to offer you some flexibility in your hours.” He flashes the recently developed politician’s smile that’s still a work in progress. “What’s it going to take to get your answer today?”

“You sound like a used car salesman, Robert.”

“Cars. Lawyers. It’s all the same.”

“We understand the urgency. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco nods and heads toward the door.

“What do you think?” Rosie asks me as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“It may be a chance to work on some interesting cases for a good guy. We’d get to train some talented young lawyers. It would be a regular paycheck and decent benefits. He’s even willing to let us work part-time.”

“But?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to cash in our chips to go back to a job that we left fifteen years ago. It’s a step backward.”

Rosie gives me a thoughtful look. “Maybe it’s a step forward.”

* * *

I’m lying in bed, thinking about Robert Kidd’s offer, when my cell phone rings. I can tell immediately from the tone of Rosie’s voice that something is terribly wrong. “I need you to come over right away,” she says.

“Are Tommy and Grace okay?”

“They’re fine.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s fine, too.”

I flip on the lamp in the bedroom of the tiny fifties-era apartment where I’ve lived since Rosie and I split up. There’s just enough room for a sagging double bed, a worn oak dresser, and a couple of mismatched nightstands. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light as I squint at the watch my grandfather acquired for a sack of potatoes in Galway City over a hundred years ago—or so our family legend goes. Gramps was also an accomplished pickpocket. Either way, I know for a fact that my father wore the same watch as he walked the beat in San Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods when I was born fifty-four years ago.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I say.

“If you wanted to work regular hours, you shouldn’t have become a defense lawyer.”

True enough. It would be a serious tactical error to elevate this discussion into a full-blown argument. “What is it?”

“Bobby called. It’s his father.”

“Is Judge Fairchild sick?”

Rosie takes a deep breath. “No, Mike. He’s dead.”

CHAPTER 2

“YOUR DAUGHTER IS AS STUBBORN AS MY DAUGHTER”

Saturday, June 18, 2:04 a.m.

“Did he have a heart attack?” I ask Rosie.

“No. He was beaten to death. Bobby found the body when he got home. It may have been a botched robbery.”

Dear God. “What else did Bobby tell you?”

“I didn’t talk to him. He called Grace on her cell. I tried to call him back, but he didn’t answer.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Savage case?”

“I don’t know.”

Judge Fairchild recently presided over the highly charged racketeering trial of the owner of San Francisco’s most notorious towing company. George Savage is a warm and fuzzy guy who cut a sweetheart deal with the City to rid our overcrowded streets of illegally parked cars. In performing this valuable public service, his highly trained professionals developed a propensity for cruising upscale neighborhoods and towing vehicles seemingly at random, with a particular affinity for high-end sports cars. When Savage’s people took your car hostage, you had to find a cabbie who was willing to risk his life to drive you down to the impound lot in the most dangerous corner of the Bayview, where you had to pony up three big bills plus a highly recommended gratuity in cold, hard cash to liberate your vehicle. If you were lucky, your car was missing only its side mirrors and hubcaps. If you were unlucky, it was stripped clean. If you were really unlucky, you never saw it again.

A zealous investigative reporter at the Chronicle (with the assistance of a couple of our City’s erstwhile auditors) determined that Big George had also developed a proclivity for lining his pockets with millions of dollars that rightfully belonged to the hardworking taxpayers of the City and County of San Francisco. Our media-savvy DA filed charges, and our well-trained prosecutors spent six months going toe-to-toe in a bloody war of attrition against Savage’s well-paid army of defense lawyers. During the trial, Savage made no secret of his contempt for the prosecutors, the jury, and especially Judge Fairchild. Rumors of intimidation and jury tampering were rampant. After three long weeks of deliberations, the jury convicted Savage of a single count of failing to pay his local business taxes and levied a million dollar fine. Most people considered it a slap on the wrist. His well-oiled operation never missed a beat.

“Is Bobby still at his father’s house?” I ask.

“As far as I know.”

Bobby’s mother and father separated acrimoniously about six months ago. Their respective barracudas have been trying to divvy up the spoils and work out support and custody arrangements ever since. At Bobby’s graduation last week, his parents sat in separate corners and didn’t say a word to each other. His mother, Julie, still lives in what used to be the family home in Cole Valley, a quiet neighborhood wedged between the UCSF Medical Center, Golden Gate Park, and the Haight. His father rented a remodeled Victorian a few blocks away. Bobby and his younger brother, Sean, have been shuttling between the two houses.

“Were you able to reach Julie?” I ask.

“Not yet. I paged her and left a message. The hospital said she was in surgery.”

Hell. “What about Sean?”

Bobby’s brother just finished his freshman year at the exclusive Urban High School in the Haight. He’s a shy, sensitive kid who has borne the brunt of his parents’ separation.

“He didn’t answer his cell,” Rosie says. “Grace said he was spending the night at a friend’s house. I would assume the cops—and Julie—are looking for him.”

No doubt. “Where did Grace and Bobby go last night?”

“To dinner and a movie.” She waits a beat before she adds, “In the City.”

“I thought we agreed that they would stay closer to home.”

“Yesterday was Bobby’s eighteenth birthday. Grace politely asked for permission.”

“Which you granted?”

“You don’t get to second-guess my parental decisions if you aren’t available for a consultation.”

That’s never stopped me. “What time did they get home?”

“One o’clock.”

“That’s way too late, Rosie. She’s only sixteen.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mike. I made my feelings known to them.”

So will I. “The cops are going to want to talk to him. And to Grace.”

“I know.”

“Am I the only person who sees a potential problem here?”

Rosie invokes the sanctimonious tone I’ve always found infuriating. “Bobby graduated third in his class at University High. He was an all-conference baseball player and the editor of the school newspaper. He got early admission to Columbia.”

“To the cops, he’s also a person of interest.”

“It doesn’t make him a suspect.”

“I didn’t say he was. It’s also no secret that he and his father weren’t getting along.”

“It isn’t uncommon for teenagers to have strained relationships with their parents—especially during a divorce.”

Tell me about it. “How strained was theirs?”

“Bobby wouldn’t hurt anyone, Mike. Besides, he has a perfect alibi.”

Our daughter.

* * *

“Come in, Michael,” my ex-mother-in-law whispers.

Sylvia Fernandez is standing inside the doorway to Rosie’s house. Except for her gray hair and crow’s feet, she could pass for Rosie’s older sister. She celebrated her seventy-ninth birthday last month by having her left hip replaced so she could keep up with Grace and Tommy. At times, I think she can outrun them. She recently instructed her doctors to accelerate her rehabilitation program. If they’re smart, they’ll do exactly as she says.

“Is Tommy asleep?” I ask.

She gives me the knowing smile of a grandmother. “Not anymore.”

I see my four-year-old son’s wide brown eyes peeking out from behind his grandmother. Tommy’s cherub-like face breaks into an enthusiastic smile. Sporting his trademark San Francisco Giants pajamas, he gives my right leg a tight bear hug. “Hi, Daddy,” he shrieks with glee.

It’s been a while since I got a similarly warm welcome from his sister. “Hi, Tom. What are you doing up so late?”

“I heard Mommy talking to Grace.”

He’s a happy kid, but he’s also a worrier—a trait he inherited from me. “It’s no big deal. Everything is going to be fine.”

He smiles. “No worries?”

I’m not sure if he picked up the line from me or Barney the Dinosaur. “No worries.”

I take off my jacket and look around at the cluttered space serving as Rosie’s living room, home office, and playroom. Rosie, Grace, and Tommy live in a post-earthquake era cottage in Larkspur, a quiet burg about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge where the neighborhood is safe and the schools are good. Their house is three blocks from my apartment behind the fire station. From time to time, we talk about trying to cohabitate under one roof. Invariably, we find the buffer zone allows us to diffuse our occasional differences of opinion. It also means that Rosie takes the brunt of living with a teenage daughter. When Grace directs her angst my way, I try to remind myself she’s an honor student and the starting shortstop on the Redwood High School varsity softball team. She’s also a mercurial soul who inherited my propensity for stubbornness and Rosie’s independent streak—traits that are not always becoming in a teenager.

“Why are you here so late?” Tommy asks.

“Lawyer stuff.” It’s my standard answer. Tommy has no real comprehension of what Rosie and I do. He understands our work frequently requires us to go downtown in the middle of the night to help people who get into trouble.

His face transforms into a concerned expression. “Do you have to go to work?”

“Maybe for a while. We’ll be home soon.”

“Can we go to the park tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

This elicits a smile. If it were only so easy with Grace. “Is Grandma going to stay with me?”

“Of course.” I squeeze his small hand. “You go back to bed, Tommy. I’ll come in and say goodbye before we leave.”

“Okay, Daddy.” He squeezes my leg again before he sprints down the hallway to his bedroom. Four-year-olds move at only one speed—fast.

I turn to Sylvia. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Talking to your daughter.”

Translation: they’re arguing. I can hear the muffled sounds of a heated debate through the thin walls. I’ll get a blow-by-blow from Rosie later. “What are they fighting about?”

“Whether Grace is going to go with you to see Bobby.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“No. Your daughter is as stubborn as my daughter.”

* * *

“Talk to us, Grace,” I say.

No answer.

Rosie is behind the wheel of her Toyota Prius—a recent upgrade over her ancient Honda Civic. We’re barreling down the 101 Freeway toward the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m riding shotgun. Grace is in the back seat. Her lips form a pronounced scowl as she stares out the window.

“Grace?” I say.

“What, Dad?”

Until last year, I was still Daddy. When Bobby arrived on the scene, I became Dad. “What did Bobby tell you?”

“This isn’t a cross-exam.”

Every question is a personal affront. “We’re just trying to help, honey.”

“You’re going about it the wrong way.”

Nowadays, we go about everything the wrong way. “What did Bobby tell you?”

“That his father’s dead.”

“Was he able to reach his mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Sean?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Did Bobby call the police?”

“Of course. They were on their way to his house.”

They’re undoubtedly already there. “They’re going to want to know what he was doing tonight.”

“He was with me.”

“They’ll want details.” So do I.

“Can you stop talking like a lawyer?”

“I’m talking like a parent.”

Rosie cuts in using her best maternal tone—though she would readily admit it isn’t nearly as effective as it used to be. “Where did you and Bobby go last night?”

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again. Please, Grace.”

Our daughter responds with a sigh that would make Putty Chandler proud. “We went out for dinner at Zazie.”

It’s a neighborhood bistro on Cole Street, around the corner from Judge Fairchild’s house. “Where did you park?” I ask.

“On Grattan Street next to Bobby’s father’s house.”

“Was the judge at home?”

“No.”

“Did you go inside?”

“No. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Where did you go after dinner?”

“To see Waiting for Guffman at the Red Vic.”

The Red Vic Movie House is San Francisco’s Anti-Multiplex. It was opened by a group of film buffs in 1980 in a funky red Victorian at the corner of Belvedere and Haight. A few years later, it moved down the street to its current location between Cole and Shrader. It was recently remodeled, and its latest iteration includes a juice bar, coffee shop, and co-op bakery. Instead of serving stale popcorn with fake butter, they offer organic treats.

“What time did the movie start?” Rosie asks.

“Nine o’clock. It ended at eleven. We went for a walk down Haight Street.”

The Haight has gentrified substantially since the days when my high school buddies and I used to go there to see real live hippies during the Summer of Love—much to the chagrin of my parents and my teachers at St. Ignatius. There are still a few head shops and incense stores interspersed among the upscale boutiques, but the neighborhood is largely unrecognizable from the flower-child days. The corner of Haight and Ashbury is now home to the Gap and a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream store. There is still a modest drug and counter-culture presence as well as a significant homeless population that spills over from nearby Golden Gate Park. It’s perfectly safe in the daylight, but things get dicier after dark. It isn’t a place where an eighteen-year-old boy should be hanging out with his sixteen-year-old girlfriend late at night—especially when she’s my daughter.

I ask Grace if she and Bobby stopped at any of the stores.

“We looked at CDs at Amoeba Music.”

I’m tempted to ask her if she knows a clerk named Requiem who plays with a band called Death March, but I let it go. “Did you buy anything?”

“Nope.”

Rosie asks, “What time did you go back and pick up the car?”

“Around twelve-fifteen.”

“Was Judge Fairchild at home?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t go inside the house.”

Rosie pushes a little harder. “Not even for a minute?”

“No, Mother. Bobby and his father weren’t getting along. Things get tense when people are getting divorced.”

Grace’s pronounced sigh indicates that this discussion is coming to an end. At the moment, Rosie and I are more interested in our daughter’s welfare than in recriminations. After things calm down, I will have a fatherly chat with Grace and Bobby about the advisability of hanging out in the Haight after the sun goes down.

* * *

The fresh-faced young cop looks like he’s fourteen years old. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says to me. “You’ll have to remain outside the restricted area.”

“We’re friends of the Fairchild family.”

“This is a crime scene, sir.”

No kidding. “I’m aware of that, Officer.”

Police lights flash off the trees in front of Judge Fairchild’s remodeled blue Victorian on the southwest corner of Belvedere and Grattan. It’s three a.m. The neighbors are huddled in small groups outside the yellow tape. Despite its proximity to the Haight, Cole Valley has a low-key character of its own. The closely knit community of refurbished houses and low-rise apartment buildings is bisected by the N-Judah street car line. The businesses along the three-block shopping district on Cole Street are of the mom-and-pop variety. The neighborhood’s southern boundary is Tank Hill, named for a 500,000-gallon water tower that survived the 1906 earthquake. A ring of eucalyptus trees was planted around it after Pearl Harbor in an ill-conceived effort to camouflage it from enemy bombers. The tank was removed in the fifties, but the trees and the cement base remain. The rarely used public space has some of the best views in the City.

I try again. “Officer, Bobby Fairchild has asked to see us.”

“I’m not authorized to let anybody in, sir. It isn’t my decision.”

“It is now.” I pull out my trump card. “My name is Michael Daley. This is my law partner, Ms. Fernandez. We’re Bobby Fairchild’s attorneys.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to. We need to see our client immediately.”

“I’m not authorized.”

“Then I need to talk to your sergeant.”

“He can’t help you, either. Mr. Fairchild isn’t here.”

“Where is he?”

“At the Hall of Justice.”

What? “They didn’t need to take him downtown to get his statement.”

“They took him downtown because he’s been arrested for murdering his father.”

CHAPTER 3

“THAT ISN’T WHAT HE TOLD ME”

Saturday, June 18, 3:10 a.m.

“When did they leave?” I ask the cop.

“Ten minutes ago.”

A difficult situation has transformed into a full-blown disaster. Rosie struggles to keep Grace calm while I pump the cop for information. “Who made the arrest?”

“Roosevelt Johnson.”

The dean of San Francisco homicide inspectors has handled every high-profile murder investigation in the City for forty years. A half-century ago, he and my father formed the SFPD’s first integrated team. The good news is he’ll proceed with competence and professionalism. The bad news is he doesn’t arrest anybody unless he has the goods. “Is Inspector Johnson still here?”

“No, sir. He accompanied Mr. Fairchild downtown.”

“Was he able to reach my client’s mother?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Damn it.

Grace breaks free of Rosie’s grasp. “We have to do something, Dad!” she shouts.

“Stay calm,” I hiss, immediately regretting the harshness in my tone. Rosie and I quickly escort her out of the young cop’s earshot. “I know this is hard,” I say to her, “but you have to keep your composure.”

Tears are welling up in her eyes. “I’m trying, Dad.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.” TV news vans are beginning to assemble down the street. I turn to Rosie. “We need to start damage control.”

She hands me her car keys. “Go down to the Hall of Justice and tell Bobby to keep his mouth shut. Grace and I will find his mother and his brother. We’ll meet you as soon as we can.”

“I want to come with you,” Grace says to me.

“They won’t let you inside.”

“Then I’ll wait outside.”

“No, you won’t,” Rosie says. She invokes the unequivocal Don’t-Even-Think-About-Arguing-With-Me tone I’ve heard countless times in court, at the office, and in bed. “You’ll end up sitting by yourself in the corridor for hours. I need your help.”

In addition to Rosie’s independent streak, Grace is also imbued with her mother’s sense of cold, hard reality. She surrenders without another word.

* * *

“What do you need, Mick?” the raspy voice asks. My younger brother, Pete, became a cop to prove he was just as tough as our father. He spent ten years walking a beat out of Mission Station before he was forced to resign after he and his partner allegedly broke up a gang fight with a little too much enthusiasm. He’s still legitimately angry the City hung him out to dry when the so-called victims threatened litigation. Nowadays, he earns his keep by tailing unfaithful husbands.

Driving Rosie’s car down Oak Street through a heavy fog at three-thirty on Saturday morning, I wedge the cell phone between my right shoulder and ear. “Are you working?”

“Margaret has to eat.”

My five-year-old niece is a charmer. I’m convinced she and Tommy compare notes about new ways to drive their respective parents insane. “Where are you?”

“St. Francis Wood.”

He’s working upscale tonight. “Cheating husband?”

“Cheating wife.”

“Can you break away for a few minutes?”

“Anything for my big brother. Does this have anything to do with Judge Fairchild?”

“How did you know?”

“I just heard it on the police band. What the hell happened?”

“That’s what I need you to find out.”

“Is Grace okay?”

“She’s fine. Her boyfriend isn’t.”

“Bobby’s a nice kid.”

“He’s been arrested for killing his father.”

“Geez. Is Roosevelt handling the investigation?”

“Yes.”

His silence confirms what I already know—Bobby is in serious trouble.

I ask, “How soon can you get to Cole Valley to start asking questions?”

“Ten minutes.”

* * *

“I need to see my client,” I say.

Inspector Roosevelt Johnson eyes me through wire-rimmed, aviator-style bifocals. The former college tight end has dropped some weight since he underwent radiation treatments for throat cancer last year. Nevertheless, the seventy-five-year-old legend still carries over two hundred pounds on his imposing six-foot-four-inch frame. The warhorse has fought the cancer to a standstill, but his lyrical baritone has developed a gravelly edge. He’s tried to retire three times, but he keeps getting drawn back to work.

“Since when did you become Bobby Fairchild’s lawyer?” he asks.

“Since now.”

Four o’clock on Saturday morning is not the Hall of Justice’s busy hour. We’re standing in the new jail wing’s high-tech intake center. Known to the cops as the “Glamour Slammer,” the Plexiglas edifice was unceremoniously shoe-horned between the Stalinesque old Hall and the I-80 Freeway in a heavy-handed response to a court order to relieve overcrowding in the San Francisco jails. It isn’t much to look at, but the utilitarian facility is cleaner and more user-friendly than the original Hall, a maze-like structure combining the architectural elements of a medieval dungeon with a third-world street bazaar.

“How’s Rosie?” he asks.

“She’s fine.” He’s genuinely interested in my law partner’s well-being. He also never asks a question without a purpose. He wants to see if he can get me to let my guard down. “I need to talk to Bobby.”

He holds up a hand. “He’s still in processing. I’ll bring him up as soon as he’s done.”

“You have a legal obligation to let me see my client.”

“As soon as he’s done,” he repeats.

I up the ante. “If you try to introduce anything he’s said to you, I’ll get it excluded.”

“Dial it down, Mike. For the record, I conducted all of my conversations with your client within the letter of the law.”

It’s undoubtedly true. He’s also holding the face cards, so I soften my tone. “As a matter of professional courtesy, I would appreciate it if you would expedite booking.”

“He’s been arrested for a serious crime. He’ll be processed like everybody else.”

Which means Bobby is being subjected to an unpleasant search, showered with cold disinfectant, given a perfunctory medical exam, and issued a freshly pressed orange jumpsuit. I try again. “As a personal favor, I would be grateful if you would arrange for Bobby to be housed in his own cell until we can straighten out this misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding. We take the killing of a judge very seriously.”

“Come on, Roosevelt. He just graduated with honors from University High.”

“He told me his father got precisely what he deserved.”

“Teenagers say a lot of things. That doesn’t mean he killed him.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point. The investigation is ongoing. I can’t talk about it, Mike.”

“You mean you won’t talk about it.” I lower my voice. “Please, Roosevelt. He’s Grace’s boyfriend.”

He looks around the cold intake area as he ponders how much he’s willing to tell me. “Judge Fairchild was bludgeoned to death in the laundry room adjacent to the garage of his house. Your client was holding a bloody hammer when the first officer arrived.”

“That proves he picked up a hammer. It doesn’t mean he used it.”

“There was blood on his hands.”

“Obviously, he tried to help his father. Or the hammer was bloody when he picked it up.”

“He was angry. His behavior was erratic. He showed no signs of remorse.”

“He had just found his father’s body. He was in shock.”

“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that point, too.”

“Did you consider the possibility this is related to the Savage case?”

“There’s no evidence.”

“Savage made no secret of his disdain for the judge.”

“I have no more love for Savage than you do. On the other hand, he’s smart enough not to pop a sitting judge.”

“Maybe he paid somebody to do it.”

“We will conduct a full investigation.”

“I understand the house was vandalized. It could have been a botched robbery.”

“A couple of pieces of furniture were knocked over. There were no signs of forced entry.”

“Maybe the killer had a key. Maybe somebody left a door open.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you suggesting Bobby trashed his father’s house to make it look like a break-in?”

“There were no signs of a struggle or defensive wounds. That suggests Judge Fairchild was killed by somebody he knew.”

“Maybe the killer sneaked up on him.”

“It’s a tight laundry room, Mike.”

“Maybe the killer hit the judge as he was coming in the door.”

“I’ll let you make that argument when the time comes.”

“Have you come up with a motive?”

“Too soon to tell. Maybe your client was angry about his parents’ divorce. Maybe they got into a fight because he came home so late. Maybe the judge wasn’t happy his son was going out with your daughter. Any way you cut it, Judge Fairchild is dead—and your client was holding the murder weapon when we arrived.”

“Alleged murder weapon.”

“Have it your way.”

“Bobby called 911. He would have tried to get away if he was guilty.”

“Not necessarily. He’s a smart kid. He knew it would have looked suspicious if he ran. It sounded more plausible to say he found the body.”

I probe for additional details, but he isn’t forthcoming. Finally, I look into the eyes of the man my father always described as the best cop he ever knew. “Did he mention that he was with Grace last night?”

“Yes. That’s something else we need to discuss. I expect her full cooperation—immediately.”

“You’ll get it. They didn’t get back to Rosie’s house until one o’clock.”

“That’s consistent with his story. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be thrilled that my sixteen-year-old daughter was out so late.”

“I’m not. We’ve already talked to her about it. It also means Bobby didn’t get back to his father’s house until sometime after two.”

“That information will help me establish a timeline.”

“Bobby couldn’t have killed his father if the autopsy puts the time of death before two.”

His mouth turns down. He knows I’m trying to back him into a corner while eliminating any suspicion of Grace. “I am not in a position to rule out the possibility he killed his father sometime earlier in the evening.”

“That’s impossible. Bobby wasn’t there earlier in the evening.”

“That isn’t what he told me.”

CHAPTER 4

“I DIDN’T KILL ANYBODY”

Saturday, June 18, 4:12 a.m.

“What exactly did Bobby tell you?” I ask Roosevelt.

“He parked on Grattan Street, on the side of his father’s house, before he and Grace went out for dinner. They came back to get the car after they went to a movie at the Red Vic.”

This is consistent with Grace’s story. “So what?”

“It places him at his father’s house.”

Along with my daughter. “It doesn’t place him inside.”

“Not yet.” He invokes the fatherly tone I heard countless times in our back yard when I was a kid. “Let me give you some advice—off the record—friend-to-friend.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, you should find somebody else to represent this kid. You’re too close to him and your daughter was with him last night.”

It’s good advice. “Anything else?”

“You’d better get the full story from Grace—and convey it to me ASAP. I love her like she’s my own daughter, but if she lies or withholds information, her boyfriend isn’t the only one who is going to be in serious trouble.”

* * *

Bobby’s desperation manifests itself in the form of a plaintive wail. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he pleads. “You have to believe me, Mike.”

“I do.” For now.

It’s jarring to see Grace’s boyfriend so far outside the usual context. Three hours ago, he was just another good-looking, athletic high school graduate with trendy clothes and a future with limitless potential. Now, clad in an orange prison jumpsuit, he’s sitting with his arms at his sides in a claustrophobic consultation room in the bowels of the Glamour Slammer, where the heavy air smells of cleaning solvent. He looks as if he’s aged ten years under the harsh glare of the unforgiving fluorescent light. His puffy red eyes stare blankly at the dull green wall—almost as if the life has been sucked out of him.

My first instinct is parental. “Are you hurt?”

He struggles to maintain his composure. “No.”

The initial meeting with a new client frequently evokes many of the same dynamics as a first date. It takes on magnified importance because it establishes the direction and tone of the relationship. Conventional wisdom says you shouldn’t represent somebody you know because your lawyer’s judgment may be impaired. At the moment, I can’t tell Grace that we won’t help her boyfriend because conventional wisdom says it’s a bad idea.

I go to my priest voice. “I’m so sorry about your father, Bobby. We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

“Thanks, Mike. Is Grace okay?”

“Yes.” I’m appreciative of his concern for my daughter. However, it’s a rather abrupt shift in the topic. “She’s having a long night, too.”

“I don’t want to get her involved in this mess.”

“She already is.”

“When can I see her?”

“Not for a while.” We have more important issues at the moment. “They’ll only let you see your lawyers and immediate family.”

“Where is she?”

“With Rosie. They’re looking for your mother.”

“She’s probably up at the hospital. I tried her cell. She was on call.”

“What about Sean?”

“He was staying with one of his classmates.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kerry Mullins.”

I’ll call Rosie in a moment to pass along the information. First, I need to cover some essentials. “I know this is the worst night of your life, but we need to talk about some lawyer stuff for a minute.”

“Does that mean you’re my lawyer?”

“For the moment. I wanted you to have somebody to talk to right away.” More important, I wanted to make sure he didn’t talk to anybody before I arrived. “It would probably be a good idea for you to hire somebody who doesn’t have an existing personal relationship with you.”

“I trust you, Mike. I want you to be my lawyer.”

“I appreciate that, but it may not be the best thing for you.” It may not be the best thing for Grace, either. “It would be better if you brought in somebody with more professional detachment.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to be my lawyer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then I want you to be my lawyer.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“Then it’s settled—at least for now. I may reconsider after I talk to Rosie.” And he may reconsider when he realizes he’ll have to reveal some deep, dark secrets to his girlfriend’s father. His mother may reconsider when she finds out her son wants to hire a lawyer who works in a walk-up building across the street from the Transbay bus terminal.

“I need to talk to my mother about paying you,” he says. “She’s been a little hard up for cash. You know—the divorce.”

“We’ll worry about that later.”

We’ll get paid. I’m more concerned about having access to some quick cash to post bail—assuming I can persuade a judge to allow it. Julie’s assets may be tied up. From what I’ve gathered, she’s burning through her spare cash to subsidize the lifestyle of her divorce lawyer. If all else fails, we can call Rosie’s cousin Sal, a bail bondsman who plies his trade in dingy quarters across Bryant Street. He’s one of our best sources of referrals.

“Now that I’m your lawyer,” I say, “I need to explain a few ground rules. First, everything you tell Rosie and me is absolutely confidential. We won’t repeat anything you say to us—not even to your mother and Grace—unless you give us permission. Understood?”

He nods.

“Second, I don’t want you to say a word to anybody in this building. Not the cops. Not the guards. Especially not the other prisoners. Nobody here is your friend. You only talk to Rosie and me. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Third, you have to be absolutely straight with us. We can’t represent you effectively unless you tell us the truth. Rosie and I have been doing this for a long time. It’s our only hard-and-fast rule. I know this sounds harsh, but if you lie to us or you withhold anything, we’ll withdraw.”

His voice is barely audible. “Understood.”

Now for the hardest one. “You and Grace were together last night. That makes her your alibi—and a person of interest to the police. It is essential that your stories match up.”

There’s an almost imperceptible hesitation. “They will.”

I hope so. “Grace may be called as a witness. It is also possible—albeit unlikely—that they may bring charges against her.”

“For what?”

Aiding and abetting—or worse. “It doesn’t matter. For now, you just need to know that if her interests conflict with yours, we’re going to represent her.”

“I understand.”

“Any questions?”

“How soon can you get me out of here?”

That’s always at the top of the list, and the answer is always unsatisfying. “I can’t tell you for sure. Maybe a few hours. Maybe a few days. Maybe longer. If they charge you with murder, bail will be more difficult.”

He takes a moment to process the first mention of the word murder. “How difficult?”

“It depends.” Almost impossible if they go for first degree. Absolutely impossible if they ask for the death penalty—which is unlikely for someone with no criminal record who is as young as Bobby. Then again, our DA may view this as an opportunity to get some easy TV time and political traction on a high-profile case. “Let me worry about it.”

“You aren’t in a cell with rapists and drug dealers.”

“I’ve asked them to keep you separated. I need to call Rosie to tell her where she can find your mother and your brother. When I get back, you’re going to tell me everything that happened last night—minute by minute—from the time you picked up Grace until the cops arrived at your father’s house. Don’t embellish and don’t sugarcoat. Every single detail could be important.”

CHAPTER 5

“NOTHING WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM”

Saturday, June 18, 4:22 a.m.

“I picked up Grace at six o’clock last night,” Bobby says. “We drove to Cole Valley and had dinner at Zazie.”

I’m studying his body language intently and listening for any hints of equivocation in his voice. “There are restaurants in Marin County closer to Grace’s house.”

“Rosie said it was okay.”

And I was asleep at the switch. “Where did you park?” I ask, already knowing the answer. It’s an opportunity to see how the details of his story will match up with Grace’s version.

“On Grattan Street, next to my father’s house.”

Good answer. “You couldn’t find anything closer to the restaurant?”

“It’s only a couple of blocks away. Parking is tight in Cole Valley.”

“Why didn’t you leave it in your father’s garage?”

“There’s only room for one car. That’s where he keeps his Jag.”

You mean that’s where he kept it. “What about the driveway?”

“He would have given me hell if I blocked the garage.”

It’s one of the few perks of being the parent of a teenager: we trump their parking privileges. “Did you go inside your father’s house before dinner?”

“No.” He’s a little too adamant when he adds, “We were running late. We went straight to the restaurant.”

“Was your father home?”

“No. He went to the Bohemian Club for dinner.”

The Bohemian Club was formed in the 1870s as a gathering place for newspaper reporters and men of the arts and literature. Nowadays, it’s an all-male bastion of the powerful and the famous. Many of its two thousand members are directors of Fortune 1000 companies, corporate CEOs, and top-ranking government appointees. Admission is highly selective and priority is given to artists, authors, musicians, and people with boatloads of cash. Its social activities revolve around member-produced musical and variety shows performed at the Club’s historic headquarters on Taylor Street, near Union Square.

The Club derives much of its notoriety from its annual encampment in a grove of old redwoods along the Russian River about seventy-five miles north of San Francisco, near the hamlet of Monte Rio. Spanning three weekends in August, the epic event has evolved into a summer camp for aging white Republican elites, who jockey for cots in the most prestigious “camps” based on their wealth, power, and status. Every spring, many of the Bay Area’s second-tier social climbers try to pull strings to score a guest invitation for a weekend of elbow-rubbing with the first-tier social climbers up at “The Grove.”

The supposedly hush-hush rituals are some of the worst-kept secrets in the Bay Area. The festivities begin with a ceremony known as the “Cremation of Care,” a pageant in which hooded members conduct a mock sacrifice complete with music and fireworks. Other highlights include an elaborate play called the “High Jinx,” and musical comedies known as the “Low Jinx,” where the female roles are, of necessity, played by men in drag. The campers spend the rest of their time listening to political lectures (dubbed “lakeside chats”), working out the details of multi-billion dollar mergers, and consuming copious amounts of food and alcohol. At night, the frivolity includes singing light-hearted camp songs around the fire with cheery guys like Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld, and Henry Kissinger, and talking about uplifting subjects like the end of Western Civilization.

“Was your father coming straight home from the Club?”

“No. He had a date.”

This is news. Rosie and I met Jack Fairchild only twice. While he was cordial enough to us, you could tell he was intensely driven. We’ve carefully avoided asking Bobby personal questions about his parents. “I didn’t know your father was seeing somebody.”

“He didn’t talk about it.”

“What’s her name?”

“Christina Evans. She’s a law clerk at the court.” His tone turns acerbic. “He’s old enough to be her father.”

It clearly violated the court’s anti-fraternization rules. It also exemplified profoundly bad judgment. “Did your father tell you about this relationship?”

“Nope. My mother did.”

“How did she find out?”

His tone remains even. “She hired a private investigator to help with the divorce case.”

All’s fair in love, war, and divorce. “How long had they been seeing each other?”

“About six months.”

“Did your father know that you knew about his relationship with Ms. Evans?”

“Yes. He was unhappy my mother told me about it.”

He was undoubtedly angrier that his relationship was discovered in the first place. “Was Ms. Evans your father’s only girlfriend?”

“I doubt it.”

“Did she ever go to the Club with your father?”

“Nope. Except for the Christmas show, the only women allowed inside the Club are the ones who serve food in the dining room.”

I should have known.

“Besides,” he adds, “they never went out together in public. That was part of their deal.”

Lovely. “What was the rest of their deal?”

“He spent every Friday night at her place.”

“Even the Fridays when you and Sean were staying at his house?”

“Most of the time.”

It sent a clear message to Bobby and Sean about their father’s priorities. “Was he planning to stay at her house last night?”

“He told me not to wait up for him.”

“Evidently, he decided to come home early.”

“I think they were having problems.”

“What kind?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is she married?”

“Not anymore.”

We’ll talk to her. “Where did you and Grace go after dinner?”

“We walked over to the Red Vic to see Waiting for Guffman.”

“What part did you like the best?” I’m not interested in a review. I want to confirm they did, in fact, go to the movie.

“The song, ‘Nothing Ever Happens on Mars.’”

It’s a good bet he saw the movie. “Any chance you have your ticket stub?”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do. It would also be helpful if we can prove you weren’t anywhere near your father’s house before two o’clock. If the Medical Examiner says the time of death was earlier, their case will fall apart and you can go home.”

“I don’t have the ticket, Mike. I’m really sorry.”

“No worries.” I’ll ask Grace. “Would anybody remember seeing you at the theater?”

“I doubt it.”

“I understand you went for a walk after the movie.”

“We did.” He reads my look of displeasure. “It probably wasn’t a great idea to be hanging out on Haight Street that late.”

“No, it wasn’t.” My fatherly instinct to read him the riot act is trumped by my lawyerly training to remain calm. “Where did you go?”

“We walked over to Amoeba to look at CDs. It’s a big place. We lost track of time.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“No.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until they closed at midnight.”

“Did you go straight back to your car?”

“Yes.” He says it was about a fifteen-minute walk.

“So you got back to the car around twelve-fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go inside your father’s house when you got back to the car?”

“No.”

“Was he home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see his car?”

“No, but it could have been inside the garage.”

“Did you drive straight back to Rosie’s house?”

“Yes.” He says they arrived a few minutes before one.

“Did you spend any time in the car after you got there?” It’s my unsubtle way of asking whether they spent any time making out.

“Just a minute,” he says quickly. “We knew we were in trouble.”

Yes, you were. “Did you see Rosie?”

“Yes. She wasn’t happy we got back so late.”

Neither am I. I ask if he drove straight back to his father’s house.

“Yes. I got there a few minutes after two. I parked around the corner, on Clayton.”

“Grace tells me you and your father haven’t been getting along so well.”

He shifts uneasily. “What did she say?”

I get to ask the questions. “Not much. We don’t gossip as much as we used to. She’s been spending a lot of time with her boyfriend.”

The corner of his mouth goes up slightly, but he doesn’t respond.

“Is it fair to say you and your father have had your share of disagreements lately?”

He flashes the first sign of anger. “I didn’t kill him, Mike.”

I’d rather hear a vehement denial than a mealy mouthed explanation. Guilty people try to massage their story to fit the circumstances. Innocent people get mad. “You promised to be straight with me.”

He swallows. “We were barely talking.”

“Why?”

“For starters, I didn’t like the way he cheated on my mother.”

“I take it you blame him for their divorce?”

“There was plenty of blame to go around, but the answer is yes. I wasn’t crazy about the way he treated me, either. I’m a straight-A student. I’m an all-city baseball player. I’m the editor of the student paper. I got into Columbia. I look out for Sean. That wasn’t good enough for him. Nothing was good enough for him.”

Grace undoubtedly feels the same way about me sometimes.

Bobby’s words flow faster as he becomes more agitated. “My father believed there were two sets of rules. The first applied to him. The second was for everybody else. It was bad enough when he was a lawyer. It got worse when he became a judge. Everybody kissed his butt. He expected the same at home.”

“Did he ever hit you?”

“No.”

“What about Sean?”

“No, but he was very hard on him. Sean likes to push the limits. He grew his hair. He wears grungy clothes. He got his ears pierced. He hangs out on Haight Street with the Goth kids from Urban High.”

I can understand why Judge Fairchild may have been somewhat less than enthusiastic about his fifteen-year-old son wearing black clothes and sporting Satanist tattoos while loitering with his pals in the Haight. My parents expressed similar sentiments when I grew my hair to my shoulders and wore tattered jeans and psychedelic shirts in the sixties. “How far did Sean push the limits?”

His voice fills with brotherly affection. “Just far enough to tweak my father.”

Certain elements of the parent-teenager relationship never change. “Drinking?”

“A little. Everybody does it.”

So did we. My teachers at St. Ignatius must have known what was going on behind the bleachers at our football games. “What about drugs?”

“He smokes a little weed, but he isn’t into anything serious. Sean looks like an anarchist, but he’s pretty careful. He gets good grades. He’s never gotten into trouble.”

“Did you talk to him last night?”

“No. Like I said, he was staying at Kerry’s house. He lives down the street from the old Grateful Dead House. He looks like a freak, but he’s a nice kid.”

We’ll talk to him. “How are things with your mother?”

“Okay.” He thinks about it and adds, “She’s already been through a lot with the divorce. This is going to be hard on her, too.”

His concern seems genuine enough. “How were you and your mother getting along?”

“Better than I got along with my father. She’s just as intense, but she’s a little nicer about it. Things got better after my father moved out and they started communicating through their lawyers.”

“Was he abusive to her?”

“He never hit her, but he gave her a lot of grief. They tried counseling, but that didn’t work. Things got progressively worse until my mother decided she’d had enough.”

I probe for additional details, but his relationship with his parents is clearly a difficult subject for him. “What happened when you got to your father’s house?”

“I knew something was wrong right away. The front door was open.”

“Did he have a security system?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t turned on. Sean was the last one at the house. He doesn’t always remember to turn it on. It drove my father nuts.”

Teenagers. “What did you do after you went inside?”

“I flipped on the light. A small table and a coat rack were knocked over in the front hall.”

“Was anything else vandalized?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Was anything missing?”

“I don’t know. I called out to my father, but he didn’t answer. I found him in the laundry room. He must have been coming in from the garage when somebody hit him in the head with a hammer. There was blood everywhere.”

“Was it your hammer?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just wondering.” A professional killer probably would have brought his own equipment.

“Yes, it was ours,” he says.

“Did you touch it?”

“I moved it when I tried to help my father. I picked it up and tried to give it to the cops when they arrived. They told me to put it down on the floor.”

Which means his prints are probably on the murder weapon. “When did you call 911?”

“As soon as I found him.” His eyes turn down. “The cops and the paramedics came right away, but my father was already gone. I tried to reach my mother, but she didn’t answer her cell or her pager, so I left a message. She may have been in surgery. I tried Sean’s cell, but he didn’t answer, either. Then I called Grace.”

“Inspector Johnson said you were uncooperative.”

“I was upset.”

“He also said there was blood on your hands.”

“I told you I tried to help my father.”

“What else did you tell him?”

“The same thing that I just told you.”

“He said you told him your father got what he deserved.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did anybody have a grudge against your father?”

“He got death threats from people he’d put away. Things got bad during the Savage case. They put a police car in front of our house during the trial.”

“Any threats in the past couple of weeks?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t always tell us.”

“Did you notice anything different in his behavior?”

“Not really.”

“What else can you tell me, Bobby? Any detail may be important.”

“During the Savage case, my father got a permit to carry a gun.”

“Are you serious?”

“A lot of judges pack.”

Given the number of recent attacks on judges, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. “Did he know how to use it?”

“Of course.”

“Did he have it with him last night?”

“Yes.”

“Loaded?”

“They’re generally more effective that way.”

I’ll say. “He took a loaded gun to the Bohemian Club?”

“Do you think they were going to strip-search a judge?”

“Nope. And he took it to his girlfriend’s house?”

“He took it everywhere.”

I can see the headline in tomorrow’s Chronicle: Murdered Judge Was Packing Heat. “Did he have the gun when you found him?”

He nods. “It was still in the shoulder harness. The police took it as evidence.”

“Had he fired it?”

“Nope.”

“Why didn’t he use it?”

“Maybe he didn’t have a chance.”

Or maybe he was killed by somebody he knew. “Is it possible the killer sneaked up on him?”

“Maybe. The laundry room is pretty tight, but somebody could have hidden behind the door.”

There’s a knock. A clean-cut deputy lets himself inside. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “your law partner and your client’s mother are here. They’d like to see you right away.”

CHAPTER 6

“I WANT TO SEE MY SON RIGHT NOW”

Saturday, June 18, 4:38 a.m.

Dr. Julie Fairchild’s voice fills with maternal desperation. “Where’s my son?”

“I’ll take you inside to see him in a minute,” I say. “We need you to stay calm.”

“How can you expect me to stay calm?”

“I know you’re upset, Julie. But if you lose it, he will, too.”

The neurosurgeon wills herself to be composed. “Understood.”

We’re standing in the vestibule outside the intake center of the Glamour Slammer. Julie is wearing a black Nike windbreaker over her surgical scrubs. From her short, highlighted blonde hair to her chiseled facial features, she’s a study in precision. She attacks every aspect of her life with the same intensity that she approaches complex microsurgeries.

“How is he?” she asks.

“Okay.” Except he’s in jail and he’s been charged with murdering his father. “Did you find Sean?”

“Yes. We took him over to my house. My sister is staying with him. Grace is there, too.” She quickly returns to the matter at hand. “How soon can you get the charges dropped?”

“It may take a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days.” Or maybe not at all.

Her voice gets louder. “You have to get my son out of here, Mike.”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“Do it faster.”

I hold up a hand. “You may want to consider bringing in another attorney who doesn’t have a personal relationship with Bobby.”

“I want you to handle Bobby’s case.”

I quickly describe the possible conflicts of interest that may arise because of Grace’s potential involvement in the case.

“Bobby trusts you,” she says. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“We’ll talk about it again later.”

“That’s fine.” She moves full speed ahead. “It may take some time to get you a retainer. Money’s been a little tight since we started the divorce proceedings.”

“We’ll worry about that later. It would help if you could put your hands on some funds for bail.”

“Does that mean they’ve agreed to bail?”

“It means we’re going to start looking for a judge.”

Her eyes fill with disappointment. “Let me know how much you need. Whatever it takes.”

“Bobby said he tried to call you.”

“He did. I was up at the hospital handling an emergency surgery. I tried to call him as soon as I was finished, but he didn’t answer.”

“He was probably already on his way over here. What time did you go to the hospital?”

“Eleven o’clock. The surgery started at one-fifteen.”

“Were you there the entire time?”

This elicits an icy glare. “What are you suggesting?”

“You’ve watched enough cop shows to know they always start with the victim’s spouse.”

“I was at the hospital the entire time. Satisfied?”

“Yes.” We’ll double-check. “Bobby told me things were pretty tense between you and Jack.”

“We hadn’t spoken in months. We were handling our communications through our lawyers.” She doesn’t elaborate.

“Is there life insurance?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“Did Jack change the beneficiaries after you filed divorce papers?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Rosie and I exchange a glance. The cops are going to want to talk to her, too.

I say, “Bobby told me Jack was carrying a gun last night.”

“Do you see why I was trying to get custody of the boys? Jack was getting more paranoid every day.”

“Why didn’t he use it?”

“Maybe he didn’t have the chance.”

“The police are going to say it was because he knew the killer.”

Julie’s eyes narrow. “Let me make this very easy for you. You can rule out Bobby, Sean, and me. I want to see my son right now.”

I turn to Rosie. “I’m going to take Julie inside. Why don’t you start looking for a judge.”

“I will.” As I’m about to escort Julie toward the intake center, Rosie pulls me aside and whispers, “Meet me in the lobby as soon as you can. Julie didn’t tell you everything.”

CHAPTER 7

“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

Saturday, June 18, 5:06 a.m.

Rosie is waiting for me in the cavernous lobby of the Hall after I return from an emotional meeting between Bobby and his mother. During the daytime, this area is crowded with police, attorneys, judges, jurors, witnesses, and other hangers-on. At the moment, it’s eerily silent. “Where’s Julie?” she asks.

“On her way to see Sean. There’s nothing she can do here.”

“How did it go with Bobby?”

“Not great. They didn’t say much. It’s hard to have a meaningful discussion through a Plexiglas divider with a guard breathing down your neck. Did you find a judge?”

“Yes. Betsy McDaniel was on call.”

This is reasonably positive news. Judge Elizabeth McDaniel is a conscientious and good-natured Superior Court veteran who attends yoga classes with Rosie. “Is she willing to consider bail?”

“She said we can talk about it at the arraignment. It’s set for ten o’clock this morning.”

“That’s quick.”

“Nicole smells blood—and TV time.”

Nicole Ward is a strident publicity hound and photogenic law-and-order zealot who doubles as the District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. Nowadays, our resident media darling is devoting much of her energy to a divisive and mean-spirited re-election campaign. The latest polls show her running neck-and-neck against a former subordinate whom she unceremoniously canned after he committed the unforgivable political sin of endorsing her opponent in her last divisive, mean-spirited—and ultimately successful—run for DA. For those of us who view San Francisco politics as a spectator sport combining the most entertaining elements of roller derby, pro wrestling, and reality TV, it doesn’t get any better.

“Did you talk to her?” I ask.

“Get real, Mike. Media stars like Nicole don’t talk to peons like us. She’s called a press briefing in a little while. She’ll be the lead on the morning news shows.”

Ward has a knack for finding media time. “Did you get anything from Betsy?”

“They’re going to charge Bobby as an adult. We can fight it, but we’ll lose.”

She’s right. Bobby picked an inconvenient time to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. “Did Betsy know the charge?”

“First degree murder.”

“It’s a bluff.” Prosecutors frequently overcharge as a negotiating ploy to extract a plea bargain for something less. “Nicole will never be able to prove premeditation. She’ll go down to manslaughter.”

“Not for killing a judge in an election year.”

“Maybe Betsy is trying to push us to cut a deal.”

“Betsy McDaniel isn’t Putty Chandler. She isn’t going to play games or pimp Nicole’s case just to get a quick resolution or lighten her workload.”

Rosie’s instincts are usually right. “Bobby told me Julie hired a PI who found out Jack was rolling around with his law clerk.”

“That’s true. Among his many qualities, Jack was a highly accomplished and insatiable philanderer. Julie dropped almost a half million bucks in legal fees on the divorce—and they aren’t any closer to a settlement.”

In hindsight, Rosie and I handled our separation with greater finesse than I originally realized. We weren’t being magnanimous; we didn’t have more than a handful of assets worth fighting about.

Rosie is still talking. “In some respects, Jack and Julie were mirror images of each other. Jack was a hardass who became a high-powered lawyer and then an even higher-powered judge. Julie’s a super-achiever who became a heavy-hitter at UCSF. They’re used to having things their own way. The divorce has turned into a clash of egos exacerbated by serial adultery.”

Not a pretty combination. “Julie can afford any defense lawyer in the Bay Area. Why is she so adamant about hiring us?”

“Because we’re good.”

“Come on, Rosie. Hotshot surgeons don’t hire defense attorneys who practice law in an office above a Mexican restaurant.”

“For one, she knows us. For two, we’re available immediately. For three, Bobby trusts us. For four, we come highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

The corner of her mouth turns up. “Jack.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. He told Julie that he wouldn’t invite us for a drink at the Bohemian Club, but he’d call us first if he ever got into serious trouble.”

You never know.

“There’s more,” she says. “Guess where Julie was before she went to the hospital last night.”

“I would assume she was at home.”

“Then you would be wrong. She was at her boyfriend’s house. Evidently, Jack wasn’t the only one getting a little action on the side.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A couple of months. I’m guessing it wasn’t her first extra-marital relationship, either.”

Jack and Julie were more alike than I realized. “Bobby didn’t mention it.”

“He doesn’t know about it. Neither does Sean. Julie figured it would come out now. It’s another reason she wants us to handle it. We’ll be discreet.”

“We can’t be that discreet. They’re going to find out. It would be better if Bobby and Sean heard about it from her.”

“I promised I wouldn’t say anything until she had a chance to talk to them.”

“When is she planning to do that?”

“Soon.”

“It had better be very soon. Does the boyfriend have a name?”

“Dr. Derek Newsom. He’s doing a fellowship in neurosurgery at UCSF.”

“He’s one of Julie’s students?”

“Yes. Before you ask, he’s a lot younger than Julie.” Rosie flashes a knowing smile. “It’s very fashionable for mature women to date younger men.”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“I’m perfectly happy with my current boy toy.”

“Was this some sort of twisted tit-for-tat thing to get back at Jack for doing his clerk?”

“Probably.”

“Is he married?”

“Divorced. No kids. He lives on Willard, down the hill from UCSF.”

“Did he go up to the hospital with her?”

“No. Julie said he’d just gotten home from a long shift. He was exhausted.”

“Evidently, he still had enough energy to have a roll with her. Can anybody corroborate his whereabouts after she left?”

“Probably not. He lives by himself.”

Except when he’s busy with Bobby’s mother. “I presume there could be consequences at UCSF for Julie and young Dr. Newsom if this becomes a matter of public record?”

“That’s not our problem, Mike. It’s our job to represent Bobby—even if his mother has decided to turn her life into an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

“We need to check out her Dr. McDreamy. Did you get the name of her PI?”

She can’t contain a smile. “Kaela Joy.”

Kaela Joy Gullion is a statuesque former model and ex-Niners cheerleader who used to be married to an offensive lineman. We’ve worked with her on a couple of cases. It has never been dull. Her career as a PI got off to an auspicious start when she caught her husband in bed with another woman in a French Quarter brothel the night before a Niners-Saints game. She knocked him unconscious with a single punch in the middle of Bourbon Street. A tourist caught it on video. “The Punch” is still one of the most widely viewed items on YouTube.

“Any chance she was watching Jack last night?” I ask.

“We’ll find out. I left her a message.”

My mind races as I try to sort out this new information. I measure my words carefully. “Sure you want to do this?”

“Bobby wants us. So does Julie.”

“We barely know them.”

“Grace wants us to help him. She was a basket case when we drove over to get Sean.”

“She was also with Bobby last night. There could be a conflict of interest.”

Rosie turns defensive. “Are you saying she was involved?”

“She was there. That makes her a person of interest and a potential alibi witness.”

“That doesn’t create a legal conflict.”

“That doesn’t make it a good idea. This could get ugly if we represent Bobby and things go sideways.”

Rosie’s full lips turn down. “Do you really think it’s possible Bobby killed his father?”

“We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t consider the possibility. We can’t ignore the fact that Grace is going to be involved in this investigation in some capacity. That’s where our primary loyalties lie.”

“I agree. That doesn’t mean we can’t take the case.”

“I have a gut feeling we’re looking for trouble.”

“That’s what lawyers do. Bobby wants us to represent him. Grace was begging me to help him. How can we say no?”

“Because it may be the right thing to do.”

The managing partner of Fernandez and Daley takes a deep breath as she considers our options. “We’ll withdraw if there’s a conflict of interest.”

“You know that’s easier said than done. I still think it’s better to have Bobby hire somebody else.”

“We’ll pull out if things start to go off the rails.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I’m not. “Okay. I’m in.” For now.

The door to the nearby stairwell swings open and Roosevelt Johnson’s commanding presence appears. “I thought I might find you here. Our District Attorney would like a word with you.”

CHAPTER 8

“IT’S AN OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE”

Saturday, June 18, 5:28 a.m.

Our mediagenic District Attorney flashes the slightly worn but still radiant Julia Roberts smile that’s served her admirably for more years than she would care to admit. Nicole Ward is a capable prosecutor. She’s a truly gifted politician. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” she purrs.

“Inspector Johnson said you wanted to see us.”

“I did.” She tosses her long auburn locks over her right shoulder and places her hands together as she sits behind her inlaid rosewood desk in her sterile office in the southwest corner of the third floor of the Hall. Her Calvin Klein ensemble is always perfectly accessorized. Rosie says Ward can leap into designer pumps faster than Superman can put on his cape. “I’ve heard rumors you’re going back to the PD’s Office.”

There are no secrets in the Hall. “That one’s been making the rounds for years.”

“Any chance it’s true this time?”

“We’re here to talk about Bobby Fairchild.”

“That doesn’t sound like a denial.” Her voice oozes pure cane sugar. “It would be a good move for you and a great addition to the PD’s Office.”

“That’s very flattering.” It would be even more so if I thought she meant it. “From what I’ve read in the papers, it looks like you’re going to win another term.”

“That’s the hope,” she coos. The fake smile broadens. “I trust I can count on your vote.”

“Sorry. We’re registered in Marin.”

“Tell your friends who live on this side of the Golden Gate that I would appreciate their support.”

I think I’m going to puke.

“So,” Ward continues, “given your potential career change, will you have time to deal with the Fairchild case?”

“Absolutely. Given the demands of your campaign, will you?”

“Of course. I’ve already assigned Bill McNulty to take the lead. I believe you’ve worked with him several times.”

“We have.” This news comes as no surprise. McNulty is the combative and highly effective head of the felony division who has earned the moniker “McNasty” from the defense bar. What he lacks in charisma he makes up for in tenacity and thoroughness. He’d bang his head against a brick wall a thousand times if Ward asked him to do it.

Ward glances at her watch. “I can’t chat for long. I’ve promised to do a media briefing.”

You wouldn’t want to keep your public waiting. “Mind giving us a few hints on what you plan to tell them?”

The fake smile transforms into an expression of feigned empathy. “This is a great tragedy. I knew Jack Fairchild. I tried several cases before him. He was a thoughtful and conscientious judge. His son has committed a very serious crime. Regrettably, we’ll have to file first degree murder charges.”

I can tell you’re heartbroken. “You can’t be serious. He’s a kid.”

“I’m afraid I am. We have more than enough evidence to move forward to trial.”

“Could you be a bit more specific?”

“You’ll get everything in due course.”

This tap dance is one of the least-satisfying elements of my job. “You have a legal obligation to provide us with evidence that might exonerate our client.”

“In due course,” she repeats. She arches an eyebrow. “There is one piece of information I wanted to pass along right away. We’ve found a witness who heard your client and his father arguing quite heatedly yesterday morning.”

“Does the witness have a name?”

“For purposes of this discussion, no. As a matter of professional courtesy, however, I feel obligated to inform you they were fighting about your daughter. Evidently, Judge Fairchild thought your client and your daughter were spending too much time together.”

So do I. “Are you suggesting Grace is involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing out she may be involved in this case. You may wish to consider whether it would be advisable to bring in another attorney who doesn’t have a personal relationship with any of the participants.”

She’s trying to squeeze us. “Thanks for bringing it to our attention.”

“You’re welcome. Our witness also told us your client threatened his father.”

“What did he say?”

She makes little quotation signs with her fingers. “That he was going to make him pay.”

“Teenagers argue with their parents all the time. Judge Fairchild had a lot of enemies. He got death threats during the Savage trial. He was so concerned that he got a permit to carry a gun.”

“He wasn’t the only judge in town who carried a weapon.”

“The others are still walking around.”

“Judge Fairchild would be, too, if your client hadn’t killed him. The gun was still in its holster when the police arrived.”

“The killer obviously took him by surprise.”

“Or he knew the killer—his own son.”

I push back. “It could have been a robbery. The house was vandalized.”

“There was no evidence of forced entry.”

“The killer could have stolen the key or jimmied the lock.”

“Look at the evidence, Mike. Your client was holding the murder weapon when the police arrived. His hands were covered with blood. He was uncooperative.”

“He tried to help his father. He was upset.”

“I’ll let you try that story on the jury.”

“Did you consider the possibility this might be related to the Savage case?”

“We have no evidence pointing in that direction at this time.”

Rosie finally decides to make her presence felt. “You didn’t call us down here to argue about the evidence. Why did you really want to see us?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

I figured this was coming.

Ward’s kitten voice reappears. “I’m prepared to go down to second degree murder. Given your client’s youth and lack of a criminal record, I’ll recommend a light sentence.”

“How light?”

“You know I can’t go for less than fifteen years.”

It’s the minimum for second degree murder. “Not a chance,” I say. “I’ll never be able to sell it to him.”

“You mean you won’t try to sell it. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

In my experience, when a prosecutor says a case is open-and-shut, it isn’t. “No deal.”

“It’s in everybody’s best interests—including your client’s and your daughter’s—to resolve this matter quickly. It will serve no useful purpose to put your client and his family through the ordeal of a long trial. Not to mention the fact that it will save the taxpayers a lot of money.”

“And it’s good politics,” I say.

“This has nothing to do with the election. Maybe your client got angry and panicked. Maybe it happened so fast he didn’t realize what he was doing. He’s still a young man. If he pleads, he’ll be out when he’s in his early thirties. It’s a good deal, Mike.”

“We may have something to talk about if you’re willing to go down to manslaughter.” It’s a bluff.

“Not for killing a judge. That’s bad politics.”

“The victim’s job title has nothing to do with the appropriateness of the charge. What you just laid out was classic manslaughter. Give us something to work with.”

“I can’t go below second degree. You have a legal obligation to take it back to your client. This offer will stay open only until the arraignment. After that, all bets are off.”

CHAPTER 9

“NO DEAL”

Saturday, June 18, 5:42 a.m.

“No deal,” Bobby says. “I’m not going to plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit.”

The consultation room’s drab green walls haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the Carter Administration. “We might be able to persuade the DA to reduce the charges to manslaughter,” I say, looking for a reaction.

“I don’t care if they drop it to jaywalking. I didn’t do it.”

It’s the type of response I was hoping for. “Did they give you your own cell?”

“Not yet.”

Damn it. A clean-cut kid like Bobby will be an easy target among the career felons, drug dealers, and pimps in the lockup at the Glamour Slammer. “I’ll talk to them as soon as we’re done.”

“You have to get me out of here, Mike.”

“I will.”

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. “Is Sean all right?”

“He’s okay,” I lie. I have no idea. “He’s at your mother’s house.”

“How’s Grace?”

“She’s okay, too. She’s with Sean.”

He swallows. “Tell her I say hi.”

I’m impressed by his concern for his brother and his girlfriend. “I will.”

“What happens next?”

“They’ve scheduled an arraignment at ten o’clock.” I explain that it’s the perfunctory proceeding that starts the legal process. “I want you to look the judge right in the eye and plead not guilty in a clear and respectful voice.”

“Can you get the charges dropped?”

“We’ll try, but it’s unlikely.”

“What about bail?”

“It depends.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “If the DA charges you with first degree murder, bail will be more difficult.”

His voice starts to rise. “Then what?”

“They have to schedule a preliminary hearing within ten court days.”

“Can you ask for bail again?”

“Yes.” The chances won’t be much better at the prelim.

He starts drumming the tabletop with his fingers. “Can you get the charges dropped at the prelim?” His tone is turning more agitated.

“Maybe, but it will be a battle. The DA just has to show there’s a reasonable basis to suggest you committed a crime. We’ll try to show there isn’t. The judge will give the prosecutors the benefit of the doubt.”

“Do you think we’re going to trial?”

“Too soon to tell. We have to be prepared for the possibility.”

“How soon would that happen?”

“We can ask for a trial within sixty days. It’s usually better to waive that requirement to have more time to prepare.” And to stall.

“So if we don’t get bail, I could be here for months?”

Welcome to the criminal justice system. “Hopefully not.”

“I can’t be in here for months, Mike. I’ll never make it to trial. If you don’t get me out of here, they’re going to kill me.”

* * *

The sun is coming up, but Rosie and I are glum as we hustle down the front steps of the Hall at twenty after six. We just sat through Ward’s beautifully orchestrated media briefing. Shamelessly pandering to the cameras, she offered easily digestible sound bites about the uncontroverted evidence proving beyond any shadow of a doubt that Bobby killed his father. Give her credit—she knows how to work the press. Her face will be the lead on every news outlet in the Bay Area for the next couple of days. After the show, Rosie and I tried not to sound too smarmy as we mouthed the usual defense lawyer platitudes about the unsubstantiated charges and the rush to judgment taking place before our very eyes.

A familiar face is waiting for us when we arrive at Rosie’s car. “I thought you held your own at Nicole’s briefing,” Roosevelt says.

“Defense lawyers always end up on the short end of the battle of the sound bites.”

“The cops generally don’t fare any better.”

The wisdom of experience. “I take it this isn’t entirely a social call?”

“I need to talk to your daughter.”

“In due course.”

“Due course is now.”

Rosie gives him the Glare. “We’ll bring Grace down at the right time,” she says.

“The right time is right now. Don’t put us in a position where we have to take legal action to bring her in.”

“Don’t put us in a position where we have to take legal action to stop the harassment of our daughter.”

Roosevelt glances around to make sure nobody is watching us. “I got a call from a patrol car in Cole Valley. Julie Fairchild returned home a little while ago.”

“You had somebody follow her?”

“Honestly, no.”

“This is more than a coincidence, Roosevelt.”

“She lives a few blocks from her husband. We have people in the vicinity. If my guess is correct, Grace is there with Sean.”

There is nothing to be gained by lying. “She is.”

“As a matter of professional courtesy, I have instructed our officers not to knock on the door until after I talked to you. As a matter of personal courtesy, I’m prepared to wait until you’ve spoken to Grace and Sean—as long as you promise to let them talk to me as soon as you’re finished.”

He’s holding the cards. “Fair enough,” I say.

CHAPTER 10

“ONE MORE TIME”

Saturday, June 18, 6:27 a.m.

“Where are you?” Pete asks.

“On our way to Julie’s house,” I tell him. The reception on my cell phone fades as Rosie and I drive up Market Street. “Have you been able to get inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Not yet. The cops are still working the scene. I talked to a couple of the neighbors. As far as I can tell, the judge kept to himself.”

“Did anybody see him come home last night?”

“Nope. Nobody saw a murder, either.”

Great. “According to our distinguished District Attorney, somebody heard Bobby fighting with his father yesterday morning.”

“Nobody mentioned it to me.”

“It also seems Jack and Julie weren’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet.” He listens intently as I fill him in. “We need to verify that Julie was up at the hospital after eleven o’clock last night. We also need to confirm the whereabouts of her boyfriend.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He shifts gears. “I know a guy who tends bar at the Bohemian Club. He said Judge Fairchild had dinner at the Club and left around ten-forty-five.”

“By himself?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know where the judge went?”

“No.”

* * *

“We’re so sorry about your father,” Rosie says to Sean.

Bobby’s younger brother looks at her through glassy, lifeless eyes. “Thanks,” he whispers.

He’s a more slender version of Bobby, with softer features, unkempt sideburns, and shoulder-length hair that’s a half-shade lighter than his torn black T-shirt and tattered black jeans. He’s sitting at the glass table in his mother’s high-tech kitchen, which looks out of place in her refurbished Victorian on the corner of Seventeenth and Shrader, four blocks from Judge Fairchild’s house. Grace is upstairs watching TV with Julie’s sister. Roosevelt is waiting impatiently in an unmarked car on the street.

Rosie starts slowly. “We’re here to help. I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you a few questions.”

Sean nods. “Okay.”

“Did you see your father last night?”

“Nope.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Nope.”

This process will be excruciatingly slow if he insists on responding with one-word answers. “When was the last time you spoke to him?” Rosie asks.

“Yesterday morning. I told him I was going to stay at Kerry’s house last night.”

“That was okay with him?”

“He didn’t care. It isn’t as if he spent a lot of time with us.”

“What time did you go to Kerry’s house?”

“Around eight.”

“Did you come from home?”

“Yep.”

“Was anybody else at home when you left?”

“Nope.” His arms are crossed. Still no eye contact.

“Had you been home all evening?”

“Yep.”

Julie has been sitting across from him throughout this discussion, her intense eyes locked onto his. He hasn’t acknowledged her presence.

I ask, “Do you remember if you turned the alarm on when you left?”

He scowls. “Probably not. Is that a problem?”

“It’s okay, Sean. Did you go straight to Kerry’s house?”

“Yep.”

“Were his parents home?”

“He lives with his mother. She didn’t get home until one.”

This gets Julie’s attention. “You were by yourselves until one o’clock?”

“It’s fine, Mother.”

In my experience, when a teenager describes something as “fine,” it usually isn’t.

Julie’s tone turns acerbic. “It isn’t the first time Kerry’s mother has been asleep at the switch.”

Sean gives her a look as if to say, The same could be said about you. “She’s a nurse, Mother. She was at work. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yes, it was.”

Rosie tries to keep the discussion on point. “What did you do at Kerry’s?”

“We played video games and listened to music.”

“Did anybody else come over?”

“Nope.”

“Did you go out?”

“Nope.”

“Not even for dinner?”

“Nope. We ordered pizza.”

Rosie leans in closer. “Sean, did you and Kerry do any funny stuff?”

“What do you mean?”

“Beer? Wine? Booze?”

Sean darts an almost imperceptible glance at his mother. “Nope.”

“What about dope?”

Sean responds with an indignant, “I don’t do that stuff.”

“Does Kerry?”

“Nope.”

Julie’s protective instincts kick in. “Is this necessary?”

Rosie nods. “The police are going to ask him a lot of questions. I want to avoid any surprises.”

She’s also looking for a reaction.

Sean shakes his head a little too emphatically. “I don’t do that stuff,” he repeats. “Neither does Kerry.”

Rosie takes his response in stride. “Did you talk to Bobby last night?”

“I sent him a text that I was at Kerry’s.”

“He said he tried to call you after he found your father.”

“I was asleep. I didn’t get the message until after he had been taken downtown.”

“Will Kerry confirm everything you just told us?”

“Yep.”

“Are we finished?” Julie asks.

“For now.”

* * *

“Where did you go after the movie?” Rosie asks Grace.

“How many times do we have to go through this?”

“Once more.”

Rosie and I are sitting on the black leather sofa beneath two rows of framed diplomas in Julie’s immaculate home office. Grace is sitting on a matching side chair. Sean is hunkered down in his room. Julie is with him. Roosevelt is still outside chomping at the bit.

Grace exhales heavily. “We went for a walk.”

“Where?”

“I already told you. We went to Amoeba, then back to the car.”

Rosie shoots a glance in my direction, then her eyes lock onto Grace’s. “We understand Sean sent Bobby a text about a party at Kerry’s house.”

This is a decidedly different spin on Sean’s story. Rosie is playing a hunch.

Graces shakes her head. “There was no party, Mother. Sean texted Bobby that he was staying at Kerry’s house. That’s it.”

“You didn’t mention it earlier.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“You should have told me about it.”

“Nothing was going on, Mother.”

“Did you go to Kerry’s house?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to get mad at you, Grace.”

“We didn’t go to Kerry’s house, Mother.”

“If there’s anything else that we should know, this would be an excellent time to tell us.”

“There’s nothing, Mother.”

Rosie’s stilted nod indicates she isn’t satisfied. She looks my way for help.

“Grace,” I say, “did you notice anything unusual around Bobby’s father’s house when you went to get the car?”

“Not really.”

“Think hard, honey.”

She ponders for a moment. “Some idiot parked his car very close to Bobby’s. It was practically touching Bobby’s front bumper. It was parked in front of the fire hydrant.”

“Was there a ticket on the windshield?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you remember what kind of car it was?”

“A big, boxy American car.”

“Do you remember what make?”

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying attention.”

CHAPTER 11

“MOTHER’S INTUITION”

Saturday, June 18, 7:22 a.m.

We’re sitting at Julie’s kitchen table, where Roosevelt is questioning our daughter with the gentleness of a grandfather. He was equally patient with Sean.

“What color was the car?” he asks.

“Gray,” Grace says.

“Did you notice anything unusual about it? Was it dented or missing a light?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Did you happen to pick up any part of the license plate?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, honey. You’re doing fine.”

I interject politely. “Any chance it was an unmarked police car?”

“No,” Roosevelt says, never taking his eyes off Grace. “What time did you see this car?”

Grace swallows hard. “About twelve-fifteen.”

“Was anybody in it?”

“No.”

“Was Judge Fairchild home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were the lights on inside the house?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you see Judge Fairchild’s car?”

“No, but it may have been in the garage.”

“Did you see anybody inside the house?”

“No.”

“Did you see anybody leave the house?”

“No.”

Roosevelt sighs. “Gracie, did you or Bobby go inside Judge Fairchild’s house when you got back to the car?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Roosevelt waits an interminable moment. “Anything else you want to tell me, Gracie?”

“I’ve told you everything, Roosevelt.”

He gives her one more chance. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

* * *

“What did you make of that?” Rosie asks as soon as Roosevelt leaves.

“Grace handled herself with poise. Roosevelt handled himself with discretion.”

“I agree.”

“Is there a but coming?”

“Roosevelt knows more than he’s letting on,” she says.

“What makes you think so?”

“Lawyer’s intuition.” Her expression changes to one of concern. “Grace hasn’t told us everything.”

“How can you tell?”

“Mother’s intuition.”

CHAPTER 12

“DOES YOUR CLIENT UNDERSTAND THE CHARGES?”

Saturday, June 18, 10:01 a.m.

“All rise.”

The sweltering workman-like courtroom on the second floor of the Hall of Justice comes to life as Judge Elizabeth McDaniel walks purposefully to her high-backed leather chair. She’s a thoughtful jurist whose maternal nature and soft-spoken drawl complement an intense intellect and an unyielding desire to be fair. She expects the lawyers who appear before her to be prepared and concise—a standard she applies even more rigorously to herself. She doesn’t need to bang her gavel to silence her courtroom. All it takes is a raised eyebrow.

“Be seated,” she says.

The standing-room-only crowd settles into the five rows of hard-backed seats. The local news outlets are well-represented. The sketch artists in the back row have their pencils poised.

Rosie and I take our seats at the defense table. Bobby is sitting between us. His hair is combed, but his orange jumpsuit makes him look guilty of something. Julie is sitting behind us in the gallery. She’s surrounded by the always-tactful members of the fourth estate. Grace and Sean are at Julie’s house. We decided to minimize the chances of an outburst.

Bobby leans over to me. “You have to get me out of here,” he whispers. There is no sense of entitlement in his voice. It’s pure desperation.

“We’re doing everything we can.” I realize my answer isn’t especially reassuring.

Judge McDaniel dons her reading glasses. She looks at the prosecution table, where a radiant Nicole Ward is sitting next to a grim Bill McNulty. It’s hard to find two lawyers with more contrasting—yet effective—styles. The charismatic Ward is a shameless grandstander. The owlish McNulty is a meticulous craftsman. “Is the prosecution prepared to proceed?”

Ward stands. “Yes, Your Honor. I will be addressing the court on behalf of the People.”

She never misses a photo op. McNasty will undoubtedly sit first chair at the trial—if we get that far. Ward wants to stay focused on her campaign, and McNulty has both the expertise and the stamina for trial work. More important, she can lob the blame over to him if things go south.

The judge turns to me. “Mr. Daley, does your client understand the charges?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“How does he plead?”

“If we might take a moment to discuss a couple of preliminary issues.”

Ward is still standing. “Your Honor, the sole purpose of this proceeding is for the defendant to enter a plea. We can address other issues at the appropriate time.”

“Your Honor—” I say.

Judge McDaniel cuts me off. “I need your client’s plea, Mr. Daley.”

I nudge Bobby. As he stands, I whisper, “Be respectful, but firm.”

He clears his throat and musters a barely audible, “Not guilty.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Fairchild?”

He’s a little too loud the second time. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Thank you.”

Bobby sits down as the judge recites the standard catechism to record the plea. Several reporters quickly head to the door to file the first news reports—as if the not-guilty plea was any surprise.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we would like to take a moment to discuss bail.”

Ward pops up again. “The People oppose bail.”

“Your Honor, my client is an exemplary young man with substantial ties to the community. He has lived here his entire life and will stay with his mother. He recently graduated with honors from University High School and will attend Columbia University in the fall. He is prepared to surrender his passport and wear an electronic monitoring device. In the interests of justice and fair play, we respectfully request that bail be set in a reasonable amount.”

Ward is still on her feet. “Your Honor, the defendant stands accused of murdering a sitting judge. Bail is inappropriate in a first degree murder case.”

I fire back. “The judge always has discretion to set bail.”

Ward isn’t giving an inch. “The defendant has the means and the wherewithal to flee. It’s also a matter of public safety to keep a murderer off our streets.”

“Alleged murderer,” I correct her.

“Alleged murderer,” she repeats with sarcasm. “Your Honor, it is more than just a bad idea to set bail in this case. It’s illegal.”

Judge McDaniel raises an eyebrow. “How do you figure, Ms. Ward?”

“Section 1270.5 of the Penal Code prohibits bail in connection with a capital case.”

What the hell? “Who said anything about a capital case?”

“I just did.”

I turn to my left and see the panic in Bobby’s eyes. I turn back to the judge. “May we approach the bench, Your Honor?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

We make the pilgrimage to the front of the courtroom, where Judge McDaniel turns off her microphone. “What is it, Mr. Daley?”

“Nobody said anything to us about this being a capital case.”

“He killed a judge,” Ward says. “He was lying in wait. That’s a special circumstance.”

It’s California’s euphemism for a death penalty case. “He’s a kid.”

“He’s no longer a minor. He’s therefore eligible for the death penalty.”

“He just turned eighteen. No jury is going to impose the death penalty on a young man with no criminal record.”

Ward won’t let go. “It is within our prosecutorial discretion to file a first degree murder charge with a special circumstance even if a jury elects not to impose the death penalty. We believe Your Honor will see the benefit of sending a clear message that we take the killing of a judge very seriously.”

Ward’s predecessor was voted out of office after she didn’t ask for the death penalty in a cop killing case. Ward isn’t going to make the same mistake—especially in an election year.

I strike an indignant tone. “This is just a grandstand play. It’s a blatant attempt to try to squeeze us into a plea bargain.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” Ward insists.

Judge McDaniel stops us with an upraised hand. “For the purposes of this proceeding, I am required to resolve all ambiguities in favor of the prosecution. For now, the defendant stands charged on a first degree murder count with a special circumstance. The defense is entitled to file motions in due course to contest the appropriateness of the charges.”

“But, Your Honor—”

“I’ll look forward to reading your papers, Mr. Daley.”

Her signal is clear: she can’t do anything about it today, but she isn’t happy about Ward’s attempt to turn this into a capital case.

“Your Honor,” I say, “that still leaves open the possibility of bail.”

“Not in a capital case,” Ward says. “Section 1270.5 of the Penal Code says a defendant charged with an offense punishable by death cannot be admitted to bail when the proof of his guilt is evident or the presumption thereof is great.”

“Your Honor, this offense is not punishable by death.”

“It is until you file your papers, Mr. Daley.”

“The proof of his guilt is not evident and the presumption thereof is not great.”

Judge McDaniel gives me a sympathetic look. “You’re free to make that argument in your papers. I have no choice, Mr. Daley. For now, bail is denied.”

My anger is exacerbated by Ward’s smug grin. “Your Honor, my client’s life has been threatened in the San Francisco County Jail. We request that you order the Sheriff’s Department to house him in a separate cell.”

“Your Honor,” Ward says, “I can assure you the Sheriff’s Department will take all necessary steps to ensure the defendant’s safety.”

Judge McDaniel throws us a bone. “That’s going to include his own cell, Ms. Ward.”

“But, Your Honor—”

“Listen to me carefully, Ms. Ward. I am holding you personally responsible for the defendant’s safety. You’re going to make arrangements with the Sheriff’s Department to ensure that he is detained separately from the rest of the prison population. He will have a guarded escort whenever he leaves his cell for meals and exercise. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

It’s a small victory. “Your Honor, we further ask you to impose a complete media blackout on all parties involved in this case.” It’s a blatant attempt to tweak Ward. A gag order in an election year is almost as bad as an acquittal.

Ward can barely contain herself. “Your Honor, the public has a right to be fully informed of developments in this case.”

“They aren’t going to hear about it from you.”

“But, Your Honor—”

“Let me make this simple for you, Ms. Ward. I am imposing a gag order on everyone involved in this case. If I see either of you talking to the press or appearing on TV, I’m going to fine you and send you to jail. Period.”

“But, Your Honor—”

“Don’t push me on this issue, Ms. Ward. Anything else, Mr. Daley?”

“We would like to schedule a preliminary hearing as soon as possible.”

“I understand the urgency, but I want you to have adequate time to prepare.”

“Bobby Fairchild shouldn’t be forced to stay in jail on these egregious and unsubstantiated charges. He has a statutory right to a preliminary hearing within ten court days. We’d like to schedule it sooner if possible.”

The judge takes a moment to study her calendar. “I might be able to squeeze you in at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning.”

That’s quick. “We’ll be ready.”

Ward’s voice goes up a half-octave. “Your Honor, we’ve just started our investigation. It will strain the resources of our office to prepare for a preliminary hearing on such short notice.”

“It didn’t strain your resources when you filed charges and demanded this proceeding on short notice, Ms. Ward.”

“A prelim requires more preparation than an arraignment.”

“That’s why I’m giving you until Wednesday.”

* * *

Julie’s frustration bubbles to the surface in the empty courtroom after Bobby is led out. “That was a disaster.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” I tell her.

“You’re doing great so far. You couldn’t get the charges dropped. You didn’t get bail. You couldn’t stop Ward from turning this into a death penalty case.”

“She’s playing to the press. She’s overreaching to try to get us to consider a plea bargain.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“I agree.” I lower my voice. “The prosecutors have the advantage at this stage. The special circumstance will never stick.”

“The murder charge better not stick, either.”

“It won’t.”

“You’d better be right.”

“You have to trust us, Julie.”

“Then get your asses in gear and get Bobby out of jail.”

Enough. “We’ve already told you it might be a good idea to hire another lawyer. For what it’s worth, this would be a good time to do it. Bobby won’t be back in court until Wednesday.”

“Bobby and I want you to handle this case.” Her anger is replaced by the steely eyed calm of a surgeon. “What do we do next?”

I’m already beginning to tire of the whole passive-aggressive thing. “We have until Wednesday morning to gather as much information as we can for the prelim. I want you to go back to our office with Rosie and tell her everything you can about your husband. We need a list of his friends, neighbors, colleagues, co-workers, lovers, and, most important, enemies—especially anybody who may have had a grudge. We’ll feed the information to Pete, who is already talking to people in Cole Valley. We should also consider the possibility of bringing in a psychiatrist to do some testing.”

“You think Bobby is crazy?”

“No, but we may want to consider one or more psychological defenses.”

“My son isn’t going to plead insanity.”

“But, Julie—”

“It’s out of the question. It would ruin his future. What else?”

“We need to talk to your boyfriend and your private investigator.”

“I’ll tell them to cooperate. Where are you going now?”

“To talk to the Chief Medical Examiner.”

CHAPTER 13

“THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING”

Saturday, June 18, 12:15 p.m.

The Chief Medical Examiner of the City and County of San Francisco strokes his trim gray beard. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies politely.

“Same here, Dr. Beckert,” I reply with comparable feigned sincerity.

Dr. Roderick Beckert has been examining corpses in a cluttered, windowless office in the basement of the Hall of Justice for almost forty years. The dean of big-city coroners is also an emeritus professor of pathology at UCSF. He wrote a widely used treatise on forensic science and is called upon frequently as an expert witness in other jurisdictions. He’s announced his retirement effective at the end of the year.

I look around at the rows of test tubes and the bookcases lined with medical texts. Framed snapshots of his grandchildren sit atop medical journals stacked neatly on his overburdened credenza. A life-sized model skeleton smiles at me from under a Giants baseball cap.

Good manners are always essential in dealing with Beckert. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“You’re welcome.” He absentmindedly adjusts the sleeves of his starched white lab coat. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to have an opportunity to work with you on another case.”

I sense your profound disappointment. “Are you really going to retire?”

“Yes.” He looks at the photos of his grandkids. “I’ve spent a lot of time with dead bodies over the years. I’d like to spend more time with the living.”

“They grow up fast.”

“Yes, they do.” He arches an eyebrow. “Are you really going back to the PD’s Office, Mike?”

We’ve been on opposite sides of a dozen cases over the years. It’s the first time he’s ever addressed me by my first name. I answer him honestly. “I don’t know. My career plans seem to be a hot topic around here.”

His brown eyes twinkle. “Most of the people in this building are horrendously overworked and ridiculously underpaid. Gossip is the only thing they can’t take away from us.” The sincerity in his voice is genuine when he adds, “You were a good PD.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. I haven’t always agreed with your tactics, but the system needs people like you and Rosie. You keep Nicole honest.”

Now I know he’s serious about retiring. “Thanks, Dr. Beckert.”

He gives me a grandfatherly smile. “From now on, it’s Rod.”

Go figure. “Thanks, Rod.”

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“I understand you’ve completed the Fairchild autopsy.”

“I’m still waiting on some lab results, but I don’t think they will alter my conclusions.”

“And?”

“You know I’m supposed to tell you to read my report.”

Some things never change. “For old times’ sake, I thought you might be willing to share the highlights, Rod.”

“Judge Fairchild died of a single blow to the side of his skull by a heavy blunt object.”

“Such as a hammer?”

“Such as the one your client was holding when the police arrived. The judge died in the laundry room inside the door leading to his garage. There were no defensive wounds. He didn’t draw his weapon. This indicates he was attacked by somebody he knew—such as his son.”

“Or the killer was able to sneak up on him.”

“That would have been very difficult, Mike. It’s a tight space.”

“But not impossible.”

“I’m going to miss dealing with defense lawyers.”

“What about time of death?”

“I was called to Judge Fairchild’s house quickly enough to take detailed measurements of body temperature, lividity, rigor mortis, and the state of digestion of the food in his stomach. This allowed me to make a very precise estimate.”

“Which is?”

“Between eleven-forty-five p.m. and twelve-thirty a.m.”

Bingo.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks.

“That changes everything. Bobby wasn’t there.”

“You might want to talk to Inspector Johnson again before you jump to any hasty conclusions.”

CHAPTER 14

“NO, IT DOESN’T”

Saturday, June 18, 12:42 p.m.

“Dr. Beckert put the time of death between eleven-forty-five and twelve-thirty,” I say to Roosevelt. “That changes everything.”

He’s sitting at his desk with his arms folded. “No, it doesn’t.”

I’m seated in a cracked swivel chair in the cluttered bullpen area on the fourth floor of the Hall that houses San Francisco’s sixteen homicide cops. The aroma of stale coffee wafts through the thirty-by-thirty foot space that’s slightly roomier than their old digs downstairs. The metal desks are arranged in pairs and buried in stacks of papers and black binders. There are no dividers or cubicles. Homicide cops like to talk to each other.

“This case is over, Roosevelt.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“How do you figure?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

Either he knows more than he’s letting on or he’s bluffing. It’s more likely to be the former, so I push harder. “Are you saying Beckert is wrong?”

“He hasn’t been wrong in forty years.”

“Bobby didn’t get home until two o’clock. He couldn’t have done it. End of story.”

He wipes his wire-rimmed bifocals with a small cloth, even though his glasses were spotless. I’ve seen this gesture countless times. He’s taking an extra moment to choose his words. “You need to talk to your client.”

“About what?”

“Telling the truth. There’s more evidence—a lot more.”

“Come on, Roosevelt.”

He lowers his voice. “You aren’t doing him any favors by letting him lie. I can assure you that there is no way the charges will be dropped between now and the prelim.”

“Can you place Bobby at the scene before two o’clock?”

“I can’t talk about it now. You need to sit down with your client and find out what really happened. It’s in his best interests—and your daughter’s.”

* * *

Pete calls my cell as I’m walking down Bryant Street toward Rosie’s car. “I heard things didn’t go so well at the arraignment,” he says.

“You got that right. No bail. They’re trying to turn this into a death penalty case.”

“That’s crap, Mick. Ward is playing to the media.”

“And doing it very well. Not to mention the fact that our client’s mother is profoundly pissed off at us.”

“Comes with the territory, Mick. You got any good news?”

“Maybe. Beckert put the time of death between eleven-forty-five and twelve-thirty.”

“That’s great. Bobby wasn’t there. We can go home.”

“Roosevelt said they have other evidence.”

“Did he happen to mention what it is?”

“He isn’t talking.”

“Do we have any reason to disbelieve our client?”

“Not yet.”

“If Bobby is lying, so is Grace.”

“I’m well aware of that, Pete.”

“I take it you want to continue the investigation?”

“Absolutely.”

“In that case, how soon can you get over here?”

“Twenty minutes. Why?”

“I’ve persuaded the cops to let us take a look inside Judge Fairchild’s house.”

CHAPTER 15

“I THOUGHT ROOSEVELT TOLD YOU”

Saturday, June 18, 1:27 p.m.

Officer Philip Dito is an imposing veteran patrolman who has worked out of Park Station for almost three decades. He’s standing ramrod straight inside the front door of Judge Fairchild’s remodeled Victorian. He speaks in clipped police dialect. “Roosevelt said I could show you around. If you touch anything, I will kill you instantly.”

I believe him. I played football with Phil at St. Ignatius. I was a back-up running back and he was an undersized linebacker who made All-Conference on tenacity and guts. Those qualities came in handy dealing with his six older brothers, five of whom were cops. They were even more helpful during his two tours of duty in Vietnam. The leather-faced vet is the living embodiment of a competent, professional cop. Then again, he was trained by one of the best—my father.

“Were you the first officer here?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Pete and I put on the obligatory shoe coverings and rubber gloves, then Phil ushers us through the narrow foyer and down the path carefully laid out by the evidence techs, who are still at work. Judge Fairchild recently moved in. He may not have been planning to stay here for long, judging by the utilitarian furnishings. Unpacked boxes are piled on the dining room table. The bare walls are freshly painted. The window coverings are more functional than decorative. There are no family photos.

We walk carefully around an overturned table and coat rack that block our path. “I take it these items were already knocked over when you arrived?”

Dito nods. “Yes. For the record, our evidence techs found your client’s prints on both of them.”

“Those prints could be months old.”

“I know.”

“Did you find anybody else’s prints?”

“Too soon to tell.”

“Is anything missing?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“Was anything else vandalized?”

“Nope. No signs of forced entry.”

“The perp could have stolen a key or jimmied the lock.”

“I’ll let you lawyers argue about that.”

“What about the security alarm?”

“Judge Fairchild’s younger son told us he turned it off when he got home at six o’clock last night. He said he forgot to turn it on when he left to go to a friend’s house at eight. We confirmed the timing with the security company.”

That much of Sean’s story checks out. It also explains why the intruder—if there was one—didn’t set off the alarm. “It means somebody could have broken into the house any time after eight o’clock without triggering the alarm.”

“We’re well aware of that, Mike.”

“Did you talk to Sean’s friend?”

“Yes. A young man named Kerry Mullins confirmed that Sean arrived at his house at eight-fifteen last night. He was there until Judge Fairchild’s wife came over to pick him up at three o’clock this morning.”

“Any chance he may have been covering for Sean?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him.”

I will. “Would you mind showing us where you found the body?”

He walks us around the coat rack and stops at the doorway to a small laundry room wedged between the stairway and the garage. There is barely enough space for a blood-spattered washer and dryer, a sink, and a built-in shelving unit jammed with laundry supplies and small tools. He points at the chalk outline on the gray linoleum floor that’s covered in dried blood. “Right there.”

Pete leans across the yellow crime scene tape. “Mind if I take a closer look?”

“Sorry. That’s as close as you can get.”

Pete takes it in stride. “Was the garage door open or closed when you got here?”

“Closed.”

“What about the door leading from the garage into the laundry room?”

“The body was propped up against the door. It kept it from closing.” Dito says the judge parked his Jag and probably closed the garage door using the remote. “It looks like he was attacked as he entered this laundry room.”

Pete takes another long look around cramped, blood-stained room. “Pretty tight space.”

Dito nods. “No place to hide.”

Pete looks at the corner of the room. “The perp could have hidden behind the door.”

“That would have been really tight,” Dito says.

“But not impossible. The perp could have nailed the judge as he was coming in from the garage.”

Dito shakes his head. “The judge would have seen it coming”

“Not if the lights were off. He probably never knew what hit him. That would also explain the lack of defensive wounds.”

It’s always helpful to have an ex-cop at the scene.

Dito isn’t convinced. “I’ll let the lawyers argue about that, too. We found your client’s bloody fingerprints on the washer. We found his shoe prints in the blood on the floor.”

Pete shrugs. “He admitted that he tried to help his father.” He scans the room again. “There’s something missing. If Bobby attacked his father, you would have found blood on his clothes.”

“We did,” Dito says. “I thought Roosevelt told you.”

Uh oh. “Told us what?” I ask.

He points at the washer. “We found your client’s clothes in there. He had run them through the wash cycle, but we were still able to determine that they were soaked in blood.”

CHAPTER 16

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BAD THIS LOOKS?”

Saturday, June 18, 2:18 p.m.

“Do you have any idea how bad this looks?”

Bobby is hunkered down in an uncomfortable chair in the consultation room. His voice fills with contrition. “I’m sorry, Mike. I wasn’t thinking.”

Evidently not. “They’re going to say you were trying to destroy evidence when you put your clothes into the washer.”

“I wasn’t.”

“It still looks terrible.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He tries to collect himself. “I got blood on my clothes when I tried to help my father. I put everything in the washer while I was waiting for the cops.”

“Your father was on the floor bleeding and you were washing your clothes?”

“It was making me sick.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Bobby.”

“It’s the truth, Mike.”

“You aren’t making things any easier.”

“I’m really sorry, Mike.”

The remorse in his voice sounds genuine. “Bobby, the people working on this case are very good. They’re using the best homicide cops and the top forensics people. If there’s anything else at your father’s house, they’re going to find it—and use it against us.”

“There’s nothing else, Mike. I swear to God.”

* * *

Rosie makes no attempt to hide her exasperation. “Does Bobby appreciate how serious this is?”

I press my cell phone tightly to my ear. “He gets it.”

“I sure as hell hope so. Do you believe him?”

“I think so.”

She doesn’t sugarcoat her feelings. “If he’s lying, we’re dead.”

“Thanks for bringing that to my attention.” I hit Disconnect and take a moment to get my bearings in the empty hallway in the basement of the Glamour Slammer. My phone vibrates again a moment later.

“How soon can you get back to Cole Valley?” Pete asks.

“Twenty minutes. Why?”

“I found the neighbor who heard Bobby fighting with his father yesterday morning.”

CHAPTER 17

“HE COULD DO BETTER THAN A GIRL FROM THE BARRIO”

Saturday, June 18, 3:17 p.m.

“This is a quiet neighborhood,” the retired teacher says. She’s tugging absentmindedly at the gold chain that holds her reading glasses. “Nothing like this has ever happened.”

Evelyn Osborne taught first grade at nearby Grattan Elementary School for four decades. Her sensible shoes and polka-dot housedress evoke a simpler era long before the Summer of Love.

I invoke my priest-voice. “Thank you for taking the time to see us, Mrs. Osborne.” I haven’t slept in thirty hours and my head is splitting. “I know it’s been a difficult day for you.”

“It has, Mr. Daley.”

“It’s Mike.”

There is no reciprocal invitation to address her by her first name.

Pete and I are standing on the sidewalk in front of the neatly tended white bungalow where Mrs. Osborne lives by herself. A warm afternoon sun is shining down on the mature oak trees forming a canopy over the street. Except for the yellow tape surrounding Judge Fairchild’s house next door, a sense of normalcy is returning to Belvedere Street.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“Forty-seven years. We were here before the hippies. Back then, working-class people could afford houses in Cole Valley. My husband taught at Lincoln High.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “It’s a lovely neighborhood.”

“When did your husband pass away?”

“Five years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.”

I give her a moment to get her bearings. “Mrs. Osborne, how well did you know Judge Fairchild?”

“Not that well. He moved in next door a few months ago after he and his wife separated. He kept to himself. He sent the boys over to help me from time to time.”

“I understand things got pretty tense during the Savage case.”

“A police car was parked in front of his house for a while. Things calmed down after the trial ended. At my age, there isn’t much that frightens me anymore.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual in Judge Fairchild’s behavior recently?”

“I didn’t see him much. He worked hard. He always had a smile and a kind word.”

He was also packing a gun. “How well do you know the boys?”

“They seem like fine young men. Bobby was very excited when he got into Columbia. Sean is a little quieter. They play their music a little too loud sometimes.”

“Teenagers.”

“I raised three of them.”

“Were you home last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice anything suspicious?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did you happen to see Judge Fairchild come home?”

“No.”

“What about Bobby or Sean?”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I go to bed early. I didn’t see either of them.”

Pete summons his gentlest cop voice. “Mrs. Osborne, you told me that you heard Bobby and his father arguing yesterday morning.”

“I did.”

“Are you sure it was Bobby and his father?”

“Yes. I was having breakfast. Their kitchen looks right into mine.”

“Do you know what they were fighting about?”

She considers how much she wants to reveal. “The judge was angry because Bobby has been staying out late with his girlfriend. He didn’t like her.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he could do better than a girl from the barrio.”

I can feel my skin starting to burn. Pete keeps his tone soothing. “How did Bobby respond?”

She frowns. “He told his father to go to hell. I couldn’t believe he talked that way to his father.”

I can’t believe his father talked that way about my daughter.

Mrs. Osborne clasps her glasses more tightly. “The judge told Bobby that he would ground him for a month if he didn’t break up with his girlfriend. Bobby told his father that he would stop seeing her as soon as the judge stopped seeing his girlfriend. The judge went through the roof. I don’t blame him.”

What a lovely parental moment. I ask, “Do you recall if Bobby said anything else?”

“Yes. Bobby told his father that he was going to make him pay.”

“He used those exact words?”

“Yes. I remember it quite specifically.”

Swell. “I take it you told the police about this?”

“Yes.”

I go to the confessional voice. “Mrs. Osborne, do you really think Bobby would have hurt his father?”

She fumbles with her glasses. “I taught school for forty-two years. I raised three children. I have seven grandchildren. People say things they don’t mean when they’re angry.”

“Do you think this was one of those situations?”

“Bobby wouldn’t have hurt anybody.”

I hope she’s prepared to testify to that effect.

* * *

“She’ll be a strong witness,” Pete says. “She’s incapable of telling a lie. They’ll use her testimony to try to show that Bobby had motive.”

He has a good feel for how things will play to a jury. “Her testimony could be very damaging. Especially when you combine it with the discovery of the bloody clothes in the washer.”

“It still doesn’t place Bobby at the scene before two a.m.” He gives me a thoughtful look. “Did you know the judge felt that way about Grace?”

“Nope.”

“Aren’t you pissed off?”

I’d like to scream. “Yep.”

“Are you planning to do anything about it?”

“There’s nothing I can do now.”

His tone turns practical. “Notwithstanding the fact that Jack Fairchild was a philandering, racist pig, we still have Grace to provide an alibi for Bobby.”

True enough. “It would help if we could find somebody to corroborate their story. I want you to track down Julie’s boyfriend. Then I want you to figure out what George Savage was doing last night.”

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To meet Rosie. We’re going to have a little talk with Judge Fairchild’s girlfriend.”

CHAPTER 18

“HE NEVER SHOWED UP”

Saturday, June 18, 4:10 p.m.

“Are you sure this is it?” I ask Rosie.

“Yes.”

Judge Fairchild’s girlfriend, Christina Evans, lives in a remodeled two-flat down the street from the Palace of Fine Arts, a short hike from the Presidio and the Golden Gate Bridge. The Marina District is a yuppie enclave of stucco houses and low-rise apartment buildings where spandex-clad single professionals exchange texts in the produce aisle at the upscale Safeway. Its shopping area, Chestnut Street, is lined with coffee houses, pick-up bars, and trendy cafes. The last remnant of the neighborhood’s working-class roots is an iconic saloon called the Horseshoe Tavern run by an outgoing six-foot-eight-inch giant named Stefan Wever, whose major league career was cut short when he blew out his rotator cuff in his first start with the Yankees.

“Where’s Julie?” I ask.

“She’s at home with Sean.” Rosie pushes out a sigh. “She’s also making the funeral arrangements for Jack. Somebody has to do it.”

“Does he have any other family?”

“Nope.”

How painful. “And Grace?”

“She’s at home with my mother.”

“Is she okay?”

Rosie scowls. “Given the circumstances, she’s holding up pretty well.”

“And Tommy?”

“He has no idea what’s going on. I’m trying to act normal around him.”

It’s all we can do. We watch a young mother pushing a thousand-dollar stroller on her way to the Marina Green. “Feeling old?” Rosie asks.

“Yep.”

“I have a priest question for you. What’s the appropriate way to express your condolences to a grieving mistress?”

“We’re very sorry for your loss.”

“I guess all those years in the seminary didn’t go to waste.”

* * *

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I say to Christina Evans.

“Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

“It’s Mike.”

She tosses her flowing blonde hair and smiles. “Christy.”

If she’s heartbroken about her boyfriend’s untimely demise, she isn’t showing it. She’s wearing a pastel jogging suit and sipping iced tea from a designer tumbler. Judge Fairchild liked them young. And tall. And leggy. And athletic. And stacked. Her clear blue eyes surround a model’s prim nose. Her muscles have a personal-trainer tone. We’re seated around a redwood table on the rooftop deck of her upscale flat. The leafy enclave smells of jasmine and has an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate. It’s a nice set-up for a young law clerk.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” I say.

“I’ve already spoken to the police. I want to find out what happened to Jack just as much as you do.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A couple of years. My ex-husband works for one of the investment banks downtown. I got the condo and the dogs in the divorce. He got the Beemer and the retirement money.”

Seems fair. We exchange stilted small talk for a few minutes before we turn to business. “How long were you and Jack seeing each other?” I ask.

“About six months. It was casual.” There isn’t a hint of remorse in her tone. “Jack’s marriage was imploding. I was spinning out of a divorce. We were working late one night. One thing led to another.”

“I presume this sort of thing was frowned upon at work?”

“We’re adults. We understood the implications.”

“You continued to see each other.”

“It wasn’t as if we were going to get married.”

“Did the people at your office know about it?”

“Probably. We tried to be discreet, but San Francisco is a tough place to keep a secret.”

“Julie found out.”

Her voice fills with contempt. “She hired a private investigator to get dirt on Jack for the divorce case.”

“The boys knew about it, too.”

“Julie told them. She was doing everything in her power to turn the boys against Jack. It was unfair to put them in the middle. Jack was a terrific father who worshipped his kids. He would have done anything for them.”

Bobby and Sean have a slightly different take on that subject. “We understand Jack was supposed to come over to see you last night.”

“He was.”

“Did it bother you that he left his teenage sons home alone when he came over to see you?”

“We talked about it. Jack said that the boys would be fine. They were his kids, not mine.”

Nice. “What time did he get here last night?”

“He didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“He was supposed to come over after he left the Bohemian Club. He never showed up.”

CHAPTER 19

“WHERE DID HE GO?”

Saturday, June 18, 4:25 p.m.

“Where did he go?” I ask Christy.

“I presume he went home.”

“He didn’t call?”

“Nope.”

“Text?”

“Nope.”

I’m no expert on the protocols of extra-marital relationships, but it seems to me that basic courtesy would entitle a mistress to a phone call. “Weren’t you concerned?”

“Not really. It wasn’t the first time. I figured he got stuck at the Club.”

“Were you here the rest of the night?”

She pauses. “I went out for a drink around midnight.”

Christy gets around. “Where?”

“The Balboa Café.”

The hotspot on Fillmore is located in an area known as the “Bermuda Triangle,” where the City’s beautiful young singles congregate to hit on each other. “When did you get home?”

“Eleven o’clock this morning.”

Evidently, her relationship with Judge Fairchild was even more casual than I thought.

She gives me a knowing look. “I’d be happy to give you the name of a gentleman who can verify my whereabouts.”

“That would be helpful.”

Her tone turns indignant. “It isn’t as if Jack was the only one cheating on his spouse. Julie’s sleeping with one of her students.”

“How do you know?”

“She wasn’t the only one who hired a PI.”

I guess this shouldn’t come as any surprise. “We’re aware of that relationship.”

“Did Julie also mention that her squeeze threatened Jack?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Young Dr. Newsom caught Jack’s PI rummaging through his garbage on Tuesday night. He got pissed off and confronted Jack in the parking lot at the Hall of Justice. I saw the whole thing. Newsom told Jack that he would get him if he didn’t leave Julie alone. Then he took a swing at Jack. Fortunately, he missed.”

Perhaps he connected the second time.

* * *

Rosie shakes her head in frustration as we’re walking down Chestnut Street a few minutes later. “Why do bright, talented young women waste their time sleeping around with older married men?”

“Is that question intended to be a rhetorical one?”

“No, it isn’t. What did Christy Evans see in a man old enough to be her father?”

“You mean a man like me?”

“Yes.”

I smile. “The same things that you see in me. Maturity. Wisdom. Experience.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

My cell phone vibrates. Pete’s name appears on the display. “Where have you been?” I ask him.

“UCSF. I talked with a couple of the doctors who were here last night. Julie’s story checked out.”

“You’re unclear on the concept, Pete. The idea is to identify potential suspects, not rule them out.”

“It’s usually more helpful if I tell you the truth instead of what you want to hear. Besides, I find it hard to believe you’d want to foist the blame for this fiasco on Bobby’s mother—especially since she’s paying our fees.”

“Quite right. Where are you now?”

“Dr. Newsom’s house. He just got home.”

“We’ll be right there.”

CHAPTER 20

“I DEFENDED MYSELF”

Saturday, June 18, 5:30 p.m.

Sitting at the kitchen table of his rented one-bedroom bungalow adjacent to the green belt separating Cole Valley from the UCSF Medical Center, Dr. Derek Newsom studies a patient’s chart. The wooded area behind his house has derived notoriety as the summer home of a flock of wild green parrots who spend most of the year perched on Telegraph Hill. The athletic young surgeon-in-training strokes the trim black goatee that sharpens his chiseled face. He is already well on his way to developing the fearless self-confidence—some might call it arrogance—that is essential for surgeons. His bedside manner is still a work-in-progress.

He finally deigns to look up. “I can’t talk for long. I have to get to the hospital.”

“We just need a few minutes,” I say. “We’ve been waiting for you to get home.”

“I went out for a bike ride. I don’t have a lot of free time.”

He’s certainly taking the death of his girlfriend’s husband in stride. “Have you talked to Julie?”

“Briefly. She said I should talk to you.”

“Have you been over to see her?”

“That would get complicated. She hasn’t told her sons that we’re seeing each other.”

“They’re going to find out now.”

He tries to assert control. “I have a few ground rules. I need to keep this discussion confidential—at least until Julie talks to Bobby and Sean.”

“We’ll try.”

“Not good enough. I need assurances. This situation has ramifications for everybody.”

“You mean it might be a career-limiting move if the powers-that-be over at UCSF discover you’re romantically involved with your supervisor?”

“It isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened.”

“There will also be repercussions for Julie.”

“She has more than enough on her plate trying to deal with Jack’s death and Bobby’s arrest. The fact that we’re dating is the least of her problems.”

That much is probably true. “How long have you and Julie been seeing each other?”

“A couple of months.”

“Are you planning to make your relationship a more permanent one?”

“We haven’t talked about it.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Here. I got home at seven-thirty. Julie came over at eight. We had dinner. She was called up to the hospital at eleven.”

So far, this jibes with her version of the story. “Why didn’t you go with her?”

“I offered. I’d been on call for thirty-six hours. She insisted I stay home and get some rest.”

“Did she go straight up to the hospital?”

“Of course.”

“Was she there until my partner found her at three o’clock?”

“Yes. She called me at three-fifteen when she was on her way downtown to see Bobby.”

“Were you here all night?”

“Of course.”

“Can somebody corroborate your whereabouts last night?”

“Are you suggesting I’m a suspect?”

“Actually, we’re trying to rule you out.” It’s a small lie.

He looks around his unadorned house, which has an ambiance similar to my apartment. “I live by myself. You can talk to my neighbors, but I don’t think anybody was snooping around my bedroom window last night.”

Fair enough. I take a sip of bitter black coffee. It’s a signal to Rosie to take over.

“Did you know Judge Fairchild?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“You never met him?”

“Nope.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He was a smart asshole who treated Julie and his kids like crap.”

That covers it. “Dr. Newsom, did you know Judge Fairchild hired a private investigator to gather information on Julie for their divorce proceedings?”

There’s a hesitation. “Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“Julie told me.”

“Didn’t you also find him rummaging through your trash recently?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“Did that bother you?”

“Wouldn’t it bother you?”

“Yes. Did you do anything about it?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

My turn. “Dr. Newsom, we talked to some people down at the Hall of Justice who saw you confront Judge Fairchild earlier this week.”

No response.

“Look,” I say, “I can understand why you would have been pissed off about somebody pawing through your garbage. The cops already know about your little encounter with the judge. You’re only going to make things worse if you try to deny it.”

“It was nothing. I went downtown and told Jack to leave Julie and me alone. That was it.”

“How did he respond?”

“He said he was going to destroy my career and make my life a living hell.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. He said that he would kill me if I didn’t stop seeing his wife.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“It was.”

“Did you call the cops?”

“Of course not. I didn’t want to reveal that Julie and I were seeing each other. Besides, it would have been his word against mine.”

Now it’s his word against Christy’s. “What did you do?”

“I told him to go to hell. Then he tried to hit me.”

Christy had a different spin on who started the encounter. “Did you hit him back?”

“I defended myself. That was the end of it.”

“Did you tell Julie about it?”

“Yes. She said her lawyers would deal with it.”

* * *

“Derek was at home last night,” Julie insists.

“How do you know?” Rosie asks.

“Because he told me.” Julie glares at us from her seat on the sofa in her living room. She’s clearly in no mood to be questioned about the details of her extramarital relationship. “Surely you could be spending your time more productively than harassing Derek.”

“Why didn’t you tell us Dr. Newsom had words with Jack?”

“It’s a non-issue.”

“He took a swing at him.”

“No, he didn’t. Derek was upset when he found Jack’s PI rummaging through his trash. I don’t blame him. He told Jack to knock it off. I made a similar request through my attorney. End of story.”

Rosie keeps her tone even. “We have no way of verifying his whereabouts after you left his house last night.”

“Are you having trouble hearing me? I told you Derek said he was at home all night.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“It’s good enough for me.”

CHAPTER 21

“THIS GETS A LITTLE WEIRD”

Saturday, June 18, 9:45 p.m.

“How long have you been watching Judge Fairchild?” Rosie asks.

Kaela Joy Gullion takes a long draw from her pint of Guinness. Julie’s PI is a striking brunette who flashes the polished smile that used to appear regularly in fashion magazines. “On and off for the past year. Julie hired me to find out if Jack was cheating.”

“Was he?”

“Absolutely.”

Pete joins us at the small table in the back of Dunleavy’s, a blue-collar saloon on Judah Street that looks exactly the same as it did when my great-uncle opened it sixty years ago. We used to live around the corner at Twenty-third and Kirkham. My father helped build the long bar that’s still in working order. The current proprietor is my uncle, Big John Dunleavy, a gregarious soul who was married to my mother’s sister for almost a half-century, until she died a few years ago. Big John used to throw darts with my dad in the back room every night to help him unwind after his long days on the beat. He still lives a few blocks from here.

“Why did Julie wait so long to file divorce papers?” Rosie asks.

Kaela Joy responds with a smile. “Human nature. She tried to keep things together for the boys. She tried counseling. Eventually, she ran out of patience.”

“We understand things got quite acrimonious.”

“It was a nightmare.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Pretty well. She isn’t easy to deal with, but she’s a straight shooter. She’s also smart enough to understand the cops will consider her a suspect until they can rule her out. I told her to lawyer up and be cooperative. She’s given her statement to Roosevelt Johnson.”

I ask about Julie’s relationship with Dr. Derek Newsom.

Kaela Joy takes another sip of her beer. “I think Julie would acknowledge it wasn’t an inspired choice on her part. Then again, it isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened.”

“She’s very protective of him.”

“She likes him.”

So it seems. “What do you know about him?”

“He’s a promising surgeon. He’s also clean. No arrests. No bad habits. Nothing.”

“We understand he had words with Jack last week.”

“So I’ve heard. I wasn’t there.”

“Dr. Newsom told us he was at home last night.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve him. He doesn’t get out much.”

“We haven’t been able to find anybody who can corroborate his story.”

“You probably won’t. He lives by himself.”

“What about Jack’s PI?”

“Jack fired him after Newsom caught him snooping around in his trash.”

“You realize we can’t rule Newsom out as a potential suspect.”

Kaela Joy downs the rest of her beer in a single gulp. “Look, I know that it’s your job to try to deflect the blame away from your client. If necessary, you’ll point a finger at Julie’s boyfriend.”

“Only if we have evidence.” Or we’re desperate.

“You might even try to implicate Julie.”

Only if we’re even more desperate. “We have no desire to try to prove our client’s innocence by blaming his mother. We’ve talked to several people at the hospital who have confirmed that Julie was there from eleven o’clock last night until three o’clock this morning. That appears to rule her out.”

The worldly PI gives me a knowing look. “Let’s be honest, Mike. You wouldn’t hesitate to throw Julie or her boyfriend under a bus if you had to.”

True enough. “I hope it won’t be necessary. Any chance you were watching Jack last night?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

This is good news. “We’ve verified that he left the Bohemian Club at ten-forty-five. We believe he was supposed to see his mistress, Christy Evans. She told us he never got there.”

“He didn’t.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“This gets a little weird.”

“How?”

“In addition to seeing Christy, it seems that Judge Fairchild was into some, uh, more exotic forms of recreation. After he left the Club, he went to the Sunshine Massage Spa in the Tenderloin.”

This is more than weird. It’s bizarre. The Tenderloin is a seedy twenty-block enclave west of Union Square where drugs, prostitution, and homelessness are rampant. “Is the Sunshine an AAMP?”

“Yes.”

AAMP is the acronym for an Asian Apartment Massage Parlor. Such upstanding establishments are frequently run by sex traffickers. From the outside, they look like run-down apartment buildings. On the inside, they’re staffed by sex workers from Asia—many of them underage. The girls speak limited English and are heavily indebted to their pimps. Their lives are highly regulated, and they’re too scared to admit they’re being held against their will. In a surrealistic twist, many of the AAMPs are licensed by the city. The cops tend to look the other way unless somebody complains—which doesn’t happen very often.

“He was a judge,” I say. “He had a family. He had a mistress. He had plenty of money. Couldn’t he have found a more upscale brothel?”

Kaela Joy shrugs. “Evidently, he had a thing for young Asian girls. He was willing to pay a substantial premium.”

This is beyond weird—it’s sick. “How long has this been going on?”

“At least a couple of months.”

“How often did he go to the Sunshine?”

“A couple of times a week.”

“Does Christy know about it?”

“Probably not.”

“What about Julie?”

“Of course.” She arches an eyebrow. “The next phase in the divorce proceeding was going to be very interesting.”

I’ll bet. I’m reluctant to ask the next question, but I need to know the answer. “Do the boys know about it?”

“As far as I know, Julie hasn’t told them about it—yet.”

Which means, in addition to everything else, they’re about to find out that their father—a hard-line, law-and-order judge—frequented a massage parlor that provided underage girls who were probably brought here illegally. And with the tacit approval of our local government no less. “How did he pick the Sunshine?”

Kaela Joy’s tone is business-like. “There are dozens of AAMPs in the City. He probably got a referral from somebody he knew. Or maybe he checked it out on myredbook.com.”

“What the hell is that?”

“A website dedicated to reviewing and ranking sex workers on a one-to-ten scale. It lets first-time customers—including judges—comparison shop from the comfort of their own homes before they venture out to their local sex parlor. It’s very popular.”

Turns out there’s more to the Bay Area tech industry than Facebook, Twitter, and Google. “What time did Jack get to the Sunshine?”

“A few minutes after eleven. He took care of business quickly. He left at a quarter to twelve.”

“I take it you didn’t follow him inside?”

“That’s correct.”

“Do you know the name of his masseuse?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Any chance somebody at the Sunshine was angry at the judge?”

“I wouldn’t know. It seems unlikely he owed them money. It’s strictly a pay-as-you-go operation.”

No doubt. “Where did he go from there?”

“Straight home.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Yes. He got home at midnight.” She says he drove into his garage and closed the garage door behind him with his remote.

“Did you stick around to keep his house under surveillance?”

“Nope. I had everything I needed.”

So it would seem. “Did you see Bobby?”

“Nope.”

“Did you see anybody else?”

“You mean like somebody with a bloody shirt who looked guilty as hell?”

“Preferably.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“There was a gray Crown Vic parked illegally in front of the fire hydrant on the corner of Grattan and Belvedere. I hadn’t seen it before.”

“Was anybody inside?”

“No.”

“Did you happen to pick up a license plate number?”

“There weren’t any plates.”

“Any chance it was an unmarked police car?”

“I don’t think so. There was also a truck from Bayview Towing double-parked on Grattan down near Cole. I could barely squeeze around it when I was driving home.”

“Was anybody inside?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to the cops about this?”

“Of course. I gave them a statement. I have a policy of cooperating with the police.”

The good news is Judge Fairchild was still very much alive at midnight—which means we can cut off the first fifteen minutes of the window of opportunity determined by Rod Beckert. The bad news is we still don’t know what happened at the judge’s house after Kaela Joy left.

* * *

“More coffee, lad?” Big John Dunleavy was born and raised in the Mission, but he can summon a lilting Irish brogue at will.

“No thanks, Big John.”

My uncle has been known as Big John since he was a kid. He topped off at six-four and two hundred and forty pounds in the eighth grade. He developed his massive hands by lugging beer kegs up from the basement of his father’s bar. He would have played college football if he hadn’t blown out a knee in the all-city championship game as a senior at St. Ignatius.

“You’re looking pretty grim,” he observes.

“Rough day.”

“I’ll bet. I saw you on TV. You seem to have your hands full.”

“Yep.”

“That Kaela Joy Gullion is still quite a looker.”

“Yes, she is.”

Big John turns to Rosie and lays on the charm. “Not as beautiful as you, darlin’.”

He gets the smile he was hoping for. “Thanks, Big John.”

“Why the long faces?”

“Well,” Rosie says, “we just found out that our client’s father—a distinguished judge—had a fetish for underage Asian sex slaves.”

“Nice. That would be the father of the boy who has been accused of murder?”

“Yes. Given the fact that his father was a pervert, his son seems pretty well adjusted.”

“That’s the same boy who’s been dating my beautiful great-niece?”

“Yes.

“I trust she hasn’t been seeing a boy who has a proclivity for killing people.”

“That’s what we’re trying to prove, Big John. He says he’s innocent.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I think so. It’s our job to be skeptical.”

“I understand.” Big John’s blue eyes twinkle. “Would Grace be interested in meeting some other boys?”

“Possibly.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

I glance at the framed photo of Willie Mays that’s hung on the wall behind the bar since the Giants moved to San Francisco in 1958. I turn to my uncle. “Let me ask you something. If somebody parks in your loading zone, who do you call?”

“The same people everybody uses: Bayview Towing. They’re very efficient.”

It’s George Savage’s operation. “Who handles Cole Valley?”

“The same guy who takes care of us: Brian Hannah. They call him Thunder.”

“Why?”

“He was quite a football player in high school.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“No, but he’s very good at his job.”

“Does he have a criminal record?”

“A mile long.”

“Has he ever killed anybody?”

“He’s never been convicted.”

“You’re okay calling this guy when you need him?”

“I call him to tow cars out of my loading zone, Mikey. I don’t invite him inside for a beer.”

Got it. “Any idea where we might find him?”

“He could be anywhere in the neighborhood. When he isn’t towing, he usually parks in the lot of the McDonald’s on Stanyan and works out in the weight room in the basement of Kezar Pavilion.”

“You got a phone number?”

He smiles. “If you run a bar in San Francisco, you memorize two phone numbers: your beer distributor and your towing company.”

I lay two twenties on the table and stand up. “Thanks, Big John.”

He pushes the bills back toward me. “You know your money is no good in here.”

“It isn’t for the drinks. I’m paying for information.”

“Forget it, lad. You can buy the next round.”

He hasn’t let me buy a round in thirty years. “Thanks, Big John.”

“Where are you lads off to?”

“To find Thunder.”

The phony brogue disappears. “He isn’t a guy you want to mess with.”

“We’ll be careful.”

Rosie shakes her head. “You aren’t going off to play cops-and-robbers tonight, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem if I tag along with you.”

It’s Pete who responds. “I think it might be better if Mike and I did this alone.”

CHAPTER 22

“ARE YOU THUNDER?”

Saturday, June 18, 10:38 p.m.

Pete plants his tongue firmly in his cheek. “Nice place you have here.”

The muscular young man’s sleeveless black T-shirt is drenched in sweat. He places two ten-pound dumbbells on the homemade wooden rack in front of him. “Yeah,” he grunts.

“How did you get access to such a fine health club?”

“I have friends.”

We’re standing in a makeshift weight room in the musty basement of Kezar Pavilion, a crumbling barn-like arena that was once the home of the USF Dons basketball team. Over the decades, it’s hosted everything from pro wrestling to the Bay Area Bombers roller derby team. It’s across the parking lot from Kezar Stadium, where the Niners played before they moved to Candlestick in 1970. The old football stadium was torn down in 1989 and replaced by a smaller high school field. The pavilion, however, looks exactly the same as it did fifty years ago.

“Are you Thunder?” Pete asks.

“Maybe. Who’s asking?”

“Pete. This is Mike.”

Brian “Thunder” Hannah doesn’t extend a hand. “Why should I care?”

I sense hostility.

“We might be able to help each other out,” Pete says.

If he doesn’t kill us first.

Thunder wipes his brow with a tattoo-covered arm larger than my thigh. “I don’t need your help.”

“I think you might.”

Thunder’s cell phone blasts the earsplitting sound of Jay-Z, interrupting our cheery conversation. He presses the Talk button and holds it up to his ear. “Yeah. Ashbury and Frederick. Blue Miata. Ten minutes.” He hits Disconnect. “I gotta run.”

Pete holds up a hand. “We need just a second. I hear you work for George Savage.”

“A lot of people do.”

“I hear you’re one of his best employees.”

“George doesn’t give out awards for employee of the month. Who the hell are you?”

“We represent Judge Fairchild’s son.”

“The kid who popped his dad?”

“He’s a kid, but he didn’t pop his father.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

Hannah grabs one of his dumbbells from the rack. He does a rapid-fire set of curls, causing his massive biceps to flex. “What the hell does this have to do with me?”

“Your boss didn’t like Judge Fairchild.”

“My boss doesn’t like a lot of people.” He puts the weight down and starts to walk away.

Pete calls out to his back. “The cops have a witness who saw your truck parked down the street from Judge Fairchild’s house last night.”

Hannah stops but doesn’t turn around. “I work in the neighborhood.”

“What were you doing over on Grattan?”

“Towing a car.”

“What kind?”

Hannah finally turns to face us. “A Mercedes.”

“Where was it?”

“Blocking the loading zone of Finnegan’s Wake.”

It’s a bar on Cole. “You’re sure it was a Mercedes?”

“I think so. I tow a lot of cars.”

“Did you go down near Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Nope.”

“Did you see anybody go into the judge’s house?”

“Nope.”

Pete folds his arms. “I have a friend over at Verizon. I had him check the calls to your cell phone last night.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Sue me.”

Hannah takes a drink of water from a plastic bottle. He studies Pete to discern if he’s bluffing—which he isn’t. Pete has sources at every phone company in the Bay Area. “I get a lot of calls.”

“We’re only interested in one: from Savage’s cell phone.”

“He’s my boss. He calls me all the time.”

“Why’d he call you last night?”

“To tell me to pick up a package this morning.”

“From whom?”

“One of our customers.”

“Which one?”

“Cole Valley Auto Body.”

“What kind of package?”

“An envelope.”

“What was inside?”

“Beats me.” Hannah’s eyes narrow. “I get paid to tow cars, make deliveries, and keep my mouth shut. If you want to know what was inside the package, you’ll have to talk to George.”

* * *

We’re sitting in Pete’s car a few minutes later. He’s parked in the McDonald’s lot across the street from Kezar Pavilion. I say goodbye to Roosevelt and press the Disconnect button on my cell.

“Is Roosevelt going to talk to Hannah?” Pete asks.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him Hannah admitted he was parked down the street from the judge’s house last night?”

“Of course. But it doesn’t place him inside.”

“Hannah’s rap sheet is a mile long.”

“Roosevelt is going to talk to him.”

“Not good enough.

“What else do you expect him to do?”

“Lean on him. Hannah was in the vicinity. He got a call from a man who threatened the judge.”

“It isn’t enough to arrest him, Pete.”

“Hannah knows more than he told us.”

“Maybe. Do you think it was a good idea to hassle him?”

“I was interviewing a potential suspect.”

“He’s going to tell Savage he’s on our radar.”

“Savage is a smart guy. He already knows.”

“He’ll deny any involvement.”

Pete shrugs. “Then we should watch him. Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

“Maybe. Otherwise, this exercise was probably a waste of time.”

“Not entirely.” He opens his jacket and pulls out one of the weights that Thunder was holding when we first arrived. “We should be able to lift some prints and DNA off this.”

“You stole it?

“I borrowed it.”

He isn’t planning to give it back. “You realize stealing is illegal.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“We’ll never be able to use it in court.”

“I understand. We need to find out if the cops lifted any prints from inside the judge’s house. If we can match them to the prints on this dumbbell, we’ll know Hannah was inside. Then it just becomes a matter of proving it—legally.”

“We still can’t use any prints lifted from the dumbbell.”

“You’re a smart lawyer. You’ll find a way to work around it—and nobody will ever need to know about my little petty theft.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Grow up, Mick.”

“I’ll have to deny that this conversation ever took place.”

“Your moral indignation is duly noted. Where are we going next?”

“It’s been a stressful day. It’s only fifteen minutes to the Tenderloin. I think I could use a massage.”

CHAPTER 23

“WE’RE A FULLY LICENSED FACILITY”

Saturday, June 18, 11:47 p.m.

“This is a bad idea, Mick.”

“I’ll be fine, Pete.”

My brother’s modified police-issue Chrysler is parked at the corner of Eddy and Leavenworth, halfway between the elegant shops of Union Square and the majestic rotunda of City Hall. The Tenderloin is one of the few areas in San Francisco that somehow continues to elude gentrification. Its low-rise residential hotels, teeming streets, and narrow alleys are home to the destitute and the disenfranchised. The neighborhood takes its name from an infamous district in Manhattan where the cops used to supplement their meager earnings with extortion money. They spent their spoils on the choicest cuts of meat. The sidewalks here smell of urine, and the streets are populated by drug dealers and sex workers. The Sunshine Massage Spa operates on the top two floors of a crumbling three-story building. The ground-floor space next to the garage is home to a peep show and a locksmith shop.

“Let me handle it, Mick.”

“I want to see what’s inside.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“They sell sex, not guns.”

“Then let’s go together. We’ll get a group rate.”

“It’ll be less conspicuous if just one of us goes inside.”

“They’ll know you don’t belong.”

“They cater to judges and lawyers.”

“I can look upscale,” he says.

“I can act upscale.”

My brother isn’t convinced. “Ever been inside a whorehouse?”

“A couple of times.”

He can’t contain a smile. “I had no idea, Mick. When you were a priest?”

“No. When I was a lawyer. And it was official business.”

“Sure, Mick.”

“Rosie and I have represented a few madams and hookers.” We draw the line at pimps.

“Did they pay their bills?”

“Always.”

“Did anybody ever offer you a tip?”

“Knock it off, Pete.”

He turns serious. “What are you planning to do inside?”

“I want to look around.”

“This isn’t Nordstrom’s. You aren’t allowed to window shop.”

“I want to identify Judge Fairchild’s girl.”

“You should let me identify Judge Fairchild’s girl.”

“You can track her down later.”

“What are you going to do if you find her?”

“Ask her a few questions.”

“You don’t get to ask questions inside a brothel, Mick.”

“According to my former clients, you can do whatever you want as long as you’re willing to pay for it.”

We argue about it for a couple of minutes before he finally relents. “Keep your cell phone on. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

* * *

“Who sent you?” A stern voice barks from the intercom.

“The judge,” I say. I’m standing in front of the iron gate at the entrance of the Sunshine Massage Spa at midnight, a thick fog settling over the city.

“Cash only,” the voice says.

“I understand.”

“I’ll be right down.”

A moment later, an imposing young Asian man with slick black hair and arms covered with dragon tattoos appears on the other side of the gate. The Sunshine’s first line of defense wasn’t hired for his exemplary customer service skills. “What do you want?”

“A massage.”

“You a cop?”

Give him points for directness. “No. I’m a lawyer.”

“Let me see your driver’s license.”

I hold it up to the gate.

“Pass it through.”

“When we get upstairs.”

“Two hundred in cash. Up front.”

“Upstairs.”

“Now.”

I push a wad of twenties through the metal bars.

“Wait here.”

* * *

The elegant Asian woman of indeterminate middle age with dyed black hair and a flowing red dress smiles seductively as she checks me out in the small foyer at the top of the rickety stairway. “I am Miss Amanda,” she says in lightly accented English. She’s been through this ritual countless times and is undoubtedly fluent in several languages—the most important being the language of money. “Welcome to the Sunshine.”

“Thank you.”

The ten-by-ten room is furnished with an L-shaped leather sofa and two side chairs. The cracked gray walls are covered with cheaply framed travel posters of downtown Seoul. The aroma of lavender candles wafts through the heavy air in an effort to blunt the smell of cleaning solvent.

“Louis tells me it’s your first time here,” she says.

“It is.” Louis is the muscle-bound guy with the tattoos who answered the buzzer and escorted me upstairs. My new pal is probably a member of Miss Amanda’s extended family—the side that hits people with tire irons. He’s retreated to an adjacent office where he’s watching a Korean soap opera on a small black-and white TV. I have no doubt he’ll reappear in an instant if Miss Amanda needs assistance.

“How did you find us?” the madam asks.

“The judge recommended your services very highly.”

“How nice. Which judge?”

I wonder how many judges have passed through these hallowed halls. “Judge Fairchild.”

“Judge Fairchild,” she repeats. A phony frown replaces her phony smile. “It is very sad.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you also a judge?”

“A lawyer.”

“A lawyer,” she repeats. The smile reappears. Premium rates. “How can we help you?”

“Judge Fairchild told me you offer a variety of services.”

“We’re a fully licensed facility.”

I’ll bet. “The judge said your girls give wonderful massages.”

Her gracious tone can’t mask the suspicion in her eyes. “They do.”

“How do we start?”

“We require a deposit of three hundred dollars from new customers.”

High rent in a low-rent district. “I already gave two hundred dollars to Louis.”

“That was the entrance fee for first-time guests. This is an additional deposit.”

And a test of my creditworthiness. I’m reasonably sure there are no refunds. “That’s fine. I pull out my wallet and hand her the money.

“I’ll need another two hundred dollars for the initial services.”

This is getting expensive. I quickly hand her more twenties.

“Please wait here for a moment. I’ll bring some of our girls for you to meet.”

“Thank you.”

She glides through the torn velvet curtain leading to the private rooms in the back. Louis eyes me warily as I wait by myself. Miss Amanda returns a moment later with a half-dozen waif-thin Asian girls wearing identical white dresses. They take their places on the sofa. The oldest looks sixteen. She’s slightly more adept at faking a smile than her younger counterparts, who look uncomfortable as they stare across the room.

“Very lovely,” I say.

Miss Amanda nods. “Thank you. Is there anybody you would like to meet?”

“Judge Fairchild’s favorite.”

Miss Amanda frowns. “I’m afraid Jasmine isn’t working tonight.”

I feign disappointment. I’m also surprised Miss Amanda doesn’t call Jasmine on her cell. “I would really like to meet her. Will she be available tomorrow?”

“Yes. She’s one of our most requested girls.”

“I’ll come back.”

Miss Amanda doesn’t bother making a token gesture of returning my so-called deposit.

* * *

My brother is genuinely interested when I get back to the car. “Did you get lucky, Mick?”

“Of course not.”

“You just looked?”

“More or less.”

Pete’s disappointed. “Did you see a guy with tattoos?”

“Yes. His name is Louis. He’s the muscle guy.”

“Did you get a last name?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Not much. He has a limited vocabulary.”

“He was watching you from the window when you left.”

Enough. “I need you to find a girl named Jasmine. It’s probably not her real name.”

“Did you get a last name?”

“Nope.”

“What does she look like?”

“Young, Asian, and petite.”

“That’s helpful, Mick. Can you be more specific?”

“I’m afraid not. She wasn’t working tonight.”

“How much cash do you have left?”

“About five hundred bucks.”

“You’ve already dropped almost a thousand bucks?”

“Justice is expensive, Pete.”

“I’m in the wrong line of work. I hope you can bill this to the client.”

“I can.”

“Gimme the money, Mick.”

I hand him a roll of twenties. “Are you planning to sample the goods?”

“I’m a married man. Donna would kill me.”

“You aren’t tempted?”

“That would involve unpleasant ramifications for some of my favorite body parts.”

“Got it. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Jasmine.”

“Right now?”

“Later. I want to show you something first.”

CHAPTER 24

“IT’S A CHOP SHOP”

Sunday, June 19, 1:18 a.m.

“Why are we here?” I ask Pete.

“Keep your voice and your head down. You’re going to ruin my day if you get our asses killed.”

Over the years, I’ve learned that it’s good for my health to do as he says. We’re parked at Third and Oakdale—known to the locals as the corner of Heroin and Crack. It’s the scariest spot in San Francisco’s most dangerous neighborhood. The Bayview once housed thousands of people who worked at the adjacent Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, a massive base shut down in the seventies. It’s been a decaying toxic swamp ever since. The Bayview now has the highest poverty, unemployment, teen pregnancy, and homicide rates in San Francisco. An attempt to redevelop the old Naval base finally gained traction during the boom times in the nineties. There are signs of economic life in the depressed community. Real estate prices are starting to edge upward, and a new light rail line connects the southeast corner of the City to downtown. Whether there will be sufficient economic momentum to replace the numerous liquor stores and currency exchanges dotting almost every corner remains to be seen.

I try again. “Why did you drag me down here?”

“To show you where George Savage works.”

The expansive impound lot is encircled by an electrified chain link fence topped with razor wire. Hundreds of towed cars are parked haphazardly inside. There’s a tollbooth-like structure at the gate where you go to retrieve your car from the helpful attendants who work behind bulletproof Plexiglas.

“I would have taken your word for it without a tour,” I say. I point at a two-story brick building on the corner of the lot surrounded by yet another barbed-wire fence. Savage values his personal safety as much as his inventory. The lights are on, and there is activity inside. “What’s in there?”

“That’s the warehouse for Savage’s auto parts business. He’s one of the biggest distributors on the West Coast.”

“I didn’t realize the auto parts business was a round-the-clock operation,” I say.

“It isn’t—except here. At night it’s a chop shop.”

It’s the euphemism for an operation that resells stolen auto parts. “Why don’t they shut him down?”

“He’s the biggest employer in the Bayview. He paid for a couple of new baseball fields. He gives money to the schools and hires kids from the area.”

“The DA filed criminal charges against him for skimming money.”

“Savage paid his fine and picked up where he left off.”

“What does this have to do with us?”

“Maybe nothing.” He gestures toward another building adjacent to the warehouse. “That’s where they crush the junkers.”

“So what?”

“I’ve had somebody watching them tonight. Among other things, they crushed a gray Crown Victoria.”

“You think it was the Crown Vic that was parked in front of Judge Fairchild’s house last night?”

“I don’t know. It could be just a coincidence.”

CHAPTER 25

“I’M GETTING TOO OLD FOR ALL-NIGHTERS”

Sunday, June 19, 1:40 a.m.

“Inspector Johnson,” the voice says.

“Roosevelt, it’s Mike.” The fog hanging over the bay makes it hard to see as I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“I was still up.”

He’ll never admit he’s tired.

He quickly adds, “This better be good if you’re calling at this hour.”

“Pete and I spent some time with George Savage’s operator in Cole Valley.”

“We’ve already talked to Brian Hannah.”

He’s moving quickly. “Did he mention that his truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house at midnight last night?”

“He said he was looking for cars in the vicinity.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to have cruised the neighborhood in his truck?”

“Possibly.”

“Did he tell you he got a call from Savage at eleven o’clock last night?”

“Yes, he did.”

Roosevelt and Hannah are playing it straight. “Did you consider the possibility he may have been looking for Judge Fairchild?”

“The thought crossed my mind. There’s still the small matter of proving he was inside the judge’s house.”

“Did you check for his prints?”

“Of course. We had his prints on file from his prior arrests. So far, no matches inside the house.”

So much for Pete’s stolen dumbbell. “He could have worn gloves.”

“Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Mike.”

“Did you find any other prints in the house?”

“Your client’s. His father. His brother.”

“What about unidentifiable prints?”

“A few.”

It’s a more cryptic answer than I expected. We’ll follow up. “Did you talk to Kaela Joy Gullion?”

“We took her statement.”

“Did she mention that Judge Fairchild didn’t get home until midnight?”

“Yes. We find her story credible. We’re operating on the assumption that the judge was killed after midnight. It still doesn’t exonerate your client.”

“Kaela Joy saw a gray Crown Vic parked illegally in front of the judge’s house.”

“She told me the same thing. So what?”

“Pete and I just got back from Savage’s lot in the Bayview. A gray Crown Vic was brought in and crushed a couple of hours ago. It could be the same car.”

“You got any proof?”

“Not yet.”

“We’ll look into it. There are a lot of Crown Vics in the Bay Area, Mike.”

* * *

“So,” Rosie says, “did you and Pete have a good time at the whorehouse?”

“Lovely.”

We’re sitting in her living room at two o’clock on Sunday morning. My head screams as I fill her in on our visits with Brian Hannah and Miss Amanda. She’s legitimately appalled when I describe Judge Fairchild’s proclivity for purchasing the services of young Asian girls. Her interest is piqued, however, when I tell her we can place Hannah’s tow truck a short distance from the judge’s house.

“Do you have any evidence that he went inside?”

“Not yet.” I explain that Roosevelt has already confirmed he hasn’t found Hannah’s prints inside the judge’s house.

“He could have worn gloves. Did they find any other unidentifiable prints?”

“Some.”

“It’s worth pursuing. Anything else?”

“Pete and I went down to the Bayview to see Savage’s facility.”

“Are you insane?”

“We were careful, Rosie.”

“Anything we can use?”

I tell her about the crushed Crown Vic.

“Can you prove it’s the car that was parked in front of Judge Fairchild’s house last night?”

“Probably not.”

She rolls her eyes. “Leaving aside the profound stupidity of your decision to go down to the Bayview in the middle of the night, it sounds like a very tenuous connection to me.”

She may be right. I glance at the fireplace and change the subject. “How’s Grace?”

“Scared.” Rosie takes a deep breath. “Trying to put up a good front. At least her story hasn’t changed.”

“That much is good. And Tommy?”

“Worried. He has no idea what’s really going on, but he knows Grace is nervous.”

“We need to keep things low key around him.”

“I agree.”

I reach over and touch her hand. “And how are you holding up?”

Her professional cool can’t mask the tension in her voice. “I’ll be all right.”

It’s a more equivocal answer than I expected. “What is it, Rosie?”

“I’m worried about Grace.”

“So am I.”

“I mean it, Mike. She could be implicated. She can’t go to jail.”

“She won’t. We’ll make sure.”

“If this thing goes south, there will be big problems for all of us.”

“I know.”

“Maybe it was a mistake to represent Bobby.”

“Maybe. Is there something else?”

“I’m exhausted, Mike. I’m getting too old for all-nighters.”

“Me, too. Did you hear anything from Julie?”

“She called to ask us when we’re going to get Bobby out of jail.”

“We need to manage her expectations.”

“The lockup is no place for a kid like Bobby. He has a target on his back because he’s young, smart, and affluent.”

“We may not be able to get him out of there anytime soon, Rosie.”

“I know. Julie also reiterated her displeasure that we’re harassing her boyfriend.”

“Sometimes she seems more concerned about her squeeze than her son. You’d think she has more important issues on her plate.”

“She’s under a lot of stress, Mike.”

“So are we.”

The voice of practicality makes its presence felt. “We’re going to need more than Grace.”

“I know.

“Where do you want to start in the morning?”

“Why don’t you go down to the office to work on witness lists and subpoenas. You should probably start talking to Grace about her testimony.”

She nods. “What about you?”

“I’m going back to the Bayview with Pete. We’re going to try to get an audience with Savage.”

CHAPTER 26

“WE RUN A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS”

Sunday, June 19, 9:30 a.m.

The Towing Czar of San Francisco exudes nervous energy as he leans back in a cracked leather chair and looks out a small window protected by iron bars and razor wire. At barely five feet tall, the wiry sixty-year-old with the denim work short and slick gray hair is hardly an imposing physical specimen. Despite his diminutive stature, George Savage runs his business with an iron hand from behind a metal desk in a cluttered office in the heavily fortified building on the edge of the impound lot that Pete and I admired from the outside early this morning. The operation is equally intimidating in the daylight. The interior has the ambiance of a run-down truck stop. I guess you don’t hire a decorator when you share space with a car crusher. Framed photos of his children and grandchildren are interspersed between the auto magazines piled high on his file credenza.

“Thanks for seeing us,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome.”

I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t called out his army of lawyers. Then again, he strikes me as someone who can take care of himself. There is also the slim possibility he has nothing to hide.

“Judge Fairchild’s death is a great tragedy,” he says with feigned sincerity. “I feel bad for his family.”

Sure you do. “How’s business?”

“There’s never a recession for towing cars in San Francisco.”

True enough. As far as I can tell, his recent legal troubles have had no adverse impact on the operations of Bayview Towing. The lot is full, and the crusher is running at full steam. “What’s the going rate to liberate your car nowadays?”

He responds with a smirk. “Depends on how much your vehicle cost and how badly you want it back.”

Never underestimate the arrogance of a man who can tow your car with impunity. “Isn’t that how you got into trouble in the first place?”

He holds up his hand. “Nah. It was an accounting issue. The City said we owed them money. We fired our bookkeeper and straightened everything out. The whole thing was blown out of proportion.”

“That’s not the way it played in the press.”

“They’ve been out to get us for years. We run a legitimate business. We’re regulated by the City. They watch us like hawks.”

“You made some rather pointed comments about Judge Fairchild during the trial.”

“I was upset. I got a wife and four kids. We had to pay an outrageous fine. It was a shakedown.”

“People might interpret some of your comments as threats.”

“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to pop a sitting judge?”

“Nope.” I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that you might have set it up.

“I have a business to run. Why’d you come down here?”

I tap my finger on the metal desk. It’s a signal to Pete to take over.

“We talked to Brian Hannah last night,” he says.

“He’s one of my best employees.”

“So we understand. His truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house at midnight on Friday. The judge was killed around the same time.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Nope. We just want to know what Hannah was doing.”

“He works in the neighborhood.”

“It’s still quite a coincidence. We have a witness who said Hannah wasn’t inside his truck at midnight. Hannah didn’t give us a very satisfying answer when we asked him about it. We were hoping you could fill in some of the details.”

“He was probably looking for illegally parked cars. That’s his job.”

“He said you called him at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”

“I talk to him a lot. So what?”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“I asked him to pick up a package from one of our customers.”

“Which one?”

“Cole Valley Auto Body.”

His story is matching up with Hannah’s so far. “You called him at eleven o’clock at night to remind him about a pick-up?”

“He works nights.”

“What was in the package?”

“Money.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Our customers pay us to keep their loading zones clear. It’s no secret this is a cash business. That’s why I entrust certain delicate tasks to certain employees. Brian is one of them.”

“I trust the people at Cole Valley Auto Body will confirm your story?”

“You can talk to the owner. Anything else?”

Either he’s a world-class liar or he’s telling the truth. “The police told us that there was a gray Crown Vic parked illegally in front of Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. Do you know whose it was?”

“Nope.”

“Did you guys happen to pick up a Crown Vic in Cole Valley on Friday night?”

“Do you have any idea how many cars we tow on a given night?”

“We’re just asking about one.”

“Hang on.” He picks up the phone and punches in a four-digit extension. He asks if they picked up a Crown Vic on Friday night. He says uh-huh a couple of times, and then he hangs up. “We picked up a gray Crown Vic in the Excelsior on Friday night, but we have no record of a Crown Vic in Cole Valley. The car from the Excelsior wasn’t drivable and the police had reported it as abandoned.” He writes down the name of the owner and the license number on a slip of paper and hands it to me. “Anything else?”

“Can we see it?”

“Nope. We crushed it.”

* * *

Robert Kidd intercepts me as I walk out the door of the Glamour Slammer at eleven-thirty on Sunday morning. The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco smiles broadly. “Got a minute?”

“This isn’t a great time, Robert.”

“It’s never a great time, Mike.” We continue to talk as he follows me into the lobby of the old Hall. “Are you going to be able to get Bobby Fairchild out of here anytime soon?”

“Let’s just say the odds aren’t looking so good. The prelim starts Wednesday. We’re still piecing together what happened. We’re short-handed and we have very little time.”

“I understand your daughter was with him on Friday night.”

“She was.”

“Does that mean she’s his alibi?”

“So far.”

“I would think that might complicate matters for you.”

“It does. My client’s mother expects us to get the charges dropped at the prelim.”

“That’s unrealistic.”

“We know that, but she doesn’t. She’ll probably fire us if we can’t get Bobby out of jail by the end of the prelim.”

“That might put you in a bind strategically. On the other hand, it might be good news for me. I figured you’d be tied up with this case for months. Now you might be finished this week.”

After the past few days, it’s nice to feel loved.

“Anything I can do to make your life easier?” he asks.

“You can start by finding the guy who killed Judge Fairchild.”

“That might be difficult. What else can I do to get your answer within the week?”

“Rosie and I want you to buy us new office furniture.”

“You can pick out anything you want at Ikea.”

“Deal.”

“What are you doing here on a Sunday?”

I stop in front of the elevators and push the Up button. “McNulty wants to see us.”

CHAPTER 27

“ARE YOU CALLING OUR DAUGHTER A LIAR?”

Sunday, June 19, 12:30 p.m.

“Thank you for coming in to see me,” McNulty says with exaggerated politeness. He’s a small man with a large round head and a wisp of hair that he strategically combs over his dome. “I know you’re busy.”

“We are.” A half hour ago, Rosie and I received a cryptic e-mail summoning us to McNulty’s workman-like office. The sparse furnishings include a standard-issue oak desk, two wooden chairs, and a couple of metal cabinets. Manila folders are stacked neatly on the floor. There are no personal photos. A clear reflection of the humorless career prosecutor. “Why did you want to see us, Bill?”

“Professional courtesy.”

Don’t react. Let him talk.

“This could get very unpleasant in the next few days. I know you think I’m just a mouthpiece for Nicole, but in reality, I take no pleasure in prosecuting a young man for killing his father.”

I believe him. Despite being a terminal curmudgeon, McNasty is a competent lifer who takes his responsibilities seriously. Two decades ago, he coveted Ward’s job. Unfortunately, he lacks style and charisma—essential elements of running for office in my hometown. Nowadays, he seems content to put the bad guys away and train the next generation of hard line prosecutors.

“Nicole and I thought there might be a way to minimize the damage to everybody. I’ve persuaded her to let me convey a final offer.”

Ward will attempt to portray any deal as a victory for justice. “We’re listening.”

He speaks as if he’s reading from a script. “Based upon the evidence I’ve seen so far, I believe your client may have acted without premeditation. Nicole is therefore willing to go down to voluntary manslaughter.” He quickly adds, “It’s a fair deal, Mike.”

It’s a lot more reasonable than a capital murder charge. “It would be fair if he had killed his father.”

“He did.”

“No, he didn’t.”

He feels no obligation to engage in a lengthy discourse on the merits of his case. “You aren’t going to get a better offer, Mike. Take it or leave it.”

“We’re very appreciative, Bill, but it isn’t going to fly.”

“You mean you won’t make it fly.”

“Nothing has changed since we last talked.”

“Yes, it has.” He clears his throat. “A witness has placed your client at the scene.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Rosie’s concerned expression. I ask, “Did this witness see Bobby inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Just outside. Running west on Grattan.”

“Which means he would have been running away from his father’s house—if it was Bobby.”

“Correct.”

“Either way, he wasn’t inside the house.”

“I realize that.”

“So he wasn’t at the scene.”

“Close enough.”

“Not for me. What time did your witness allegedly see Bobby?”

“Twelve-ten a.m.”

“Was he by himself?”

“Yes.”

My mind races into overdrive as I try to analyze the potential scenarios. Bobby and Grace both said they left Amoeba at midnight and got back to Bobby’s car around twelve-fifteen. The car was parked on Grattan, which runs next to the judge’s house. They’ve steadfastly insisted they were together the entire time. If they’re telling the truth, there is no way Bobby could have been running away from his father’s house by himself.

“Your witness is mistaken,” I say.

“Your client is lying.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Yes, he is.”

We snipe at each other for a couple of minutes with no satisfactory resolution. “Either way,” I finally say, “we want to talk to your witness. We’ll need his name and address.”

“We will provide that information in due course.”

“You have a legal obligation to give us his name if you plan to put him on your witness list.”

McNulty takes a deep breath. “It’s Keith Treadwell.”

“You can’t be serious. You can’t base your case on the testimony of one of your own guys.”

“He isn’t one of our guys.”

“He’s an ADA.”

“He’s retired.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does.”

Treadwell is a respected former prosecutor who spent his career putting drug dealers away. He worked his way up to the head of the felony division and mentored some of the best attorneys in the office—including McNulty. Now in his seventies, he stays busy teaching criminal procedure at Hastings Law School and doing continuing education seminars for judges.

“There’s a conflict of interest,” I say. “We’ll get his testimony excluded.”

“Judge McDaniel has no grounds. You can try to impeach his credibility on cross.”

“You’re going to look bad, Bill. We have a witness who’s prepared to testify that Bobby never went inside his father’s house.”

“With all due respect, your daughter’s testimony is inherently unreliable.”

Rosie can no longer contain herself. “Are you calling our daughter a liar?”

McNasty keeps his tone maddeningly even. “She’s the defendant’s girlfriend and defense counsel’s daughter.”

“She’s telling the truth.”

“She’s trying to protect her boyfriend.”

Rosie glares at him for a long moment. “You’re going to embarrass yourself and your office if you base your case on the testimony of one of your own guys.”

“He isn’t one of our guys anymore. And he’s very reliable.”

“Eyewitness testimony is inherently unreliable—especially late at night on a dark street.”

“Not in this case.”

“No deal,” Rosie says.

“Have it your way.”

Rosie and I are about to leave when McNulty stops us. “There’s a lot more,” he says.

“What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.

“In due course.”

“Come on, Bill. If you want us to play ball, give us something to work with.”

“I’ve already given you more than I should have. Against my better judgment, I’ve made a generous offer. If you don’t cut a deal now, things are going to get very unpleasant for your client—and your daughter.”

CHAPTER 28

“I HAVE NO LEGAL OBLIGATION TO TALK TO YOU”

Sunday, June 19, 1:45 p.m.

“Thank you for seeing us on short notice,” I say, mustering as much sincerity as I can.

Retired Assistant District Attorney Keith Treadwell takes a bite of his sausage-and-mushroom crêpe at one-forty-five on Sunday afternoon. “I figured I’d hear from you sooner or later.”

“I guess this means it’s sooner.”

Treadwell is a lanky man with angular features and a pronounced widow’s peak. A pair of horn-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses rest on his hawk nose. He was on the front line in San Francisco’s drug wars for three decades. His heavy-handed tactics, blunt manner, and single-minded determination led to numerous commendations and more than a few complaints from the defense bar. He generously passed down the secrets of his combative streak to McNulty, one of his most enthusiastic disciples.

“You realize I have no legal obligation to talk to you,” he observes.

“Yes, we do.”

Rosie, Treadwell, and I are seated in the back corner of Crepes on Cole, an airy breakfast and lunch spot at the corner of Cole and Carl that once housed the Other Café, a legendary comedy club where Robin Williams and Dana Carvey learned their craft. If you look closely, you can still see the faded Other Café sign hanging above the door.

“Helluva thing about Jack Fairchild,” I say.

“Now they’re killing judges.”

“We understand you were neighbors.” Treadwell lives at the corner of Belvedere and Rivoli, two blocks south of the judge’s house.

“We were also friends. I watched his kids grow up.”

“We were surprised to see your name on Bill McNulty’s witness list.”

He points at an athletic black Lab sitting at attention, tethered to the parking meter outside the restaurant. “I took my dog out for a walk on Friday night.”

“Bill said you walked by Judge Fairchild’s house shortly after midnight.”

“I did. That’s where I saw your client.”

“What time was that?”

“Twelve-ten.”

“Where were you when you saw him?”

“Walking north on Belvedere. Bobby was running west on Grattan.”

“You’re sure it was Bobby?”

“I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

“Any chance it could have been somebody else?”

“Nope.”

I nod to Rosie.

“Keith, did you say Bobby was running away from his father’s house when you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“So he was running away from you?”

“Yes.”

“Which means you saw him from behind?”

“Yes.”

“Then how could you have seen his face?”

He lowers his voice. “It was Bobby.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“No. He was too far away. He was also clearly in a hurry.”

Rosie responds with a skeptical expression. “You didn’t feel compelled to talk to your neighbor’s son when he was running down the street after midnight?”

“I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Did you consider the possibility that he might have been in trouble?”

“Nobody else was around.”

“Did you see him leave his father’s house?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know if he was inside his father’s house on Friday night, do you?”

“No.”

“Did you see anybody else inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.”

Rosie keeps pushing. “Where was he going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you notice a Crown Vic parked in front of the fire hydrant on Grattan?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Did you see a truck from Bayview Towing double-parked farther down Grattan?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Rosie takes a sip of cold coffee and gathers her thoughts. “George Savage made some rather pointed comments about Judge Fairchild recently.”

“I know.”

“Some people interpreted those remarks as a threat.”

Treadwell nods. “That’s a reasonable interpretation.”

“One of Savage’s employees was parked down the street from the judge’s house on Friday night. A convicted felon named Brian Hannah.”

“I prosecuted him for armed robbery a few years ago.”

“Savage placed a call to Hannah’s cell phone at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Any chance you saw Hannah running down Grattan on Friday night?”

Treadwell shakes his head emphatically. “I’m afraid not.”

“Any chance Hannah might have been involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“I have no idea.” Treadwell takes a final swallow of his coffee and wipes his lips with his paper napkin. “I’ve known Bobby since Jack and Julie were pushing him around in a stroller. He’s a nice kid who’s never been in trouble. I know things were tense between Jack and Bobby for the past few months. I’d love to foist this disaster off on Savage and his people just as much as you would—probably more. Frankly, I was disappointed that my former colleagues couldn’t bring him down when they had a chance. On the other hand, I know what I saw. I can’t provide any connection between Savage or Hannah and Jack’s death.”

Which means Treadwell is mistaken or Grace and Bobby are lying.

CHAPTER 29

“WE’VE BEEN THROUGH THIS, DAD”

Sunday, June 19, 3:30 p.m.

“Something has come up,” I say to Bobby.

His body tenses. He’s sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the consultation room in the Glamour Slammer. Rosie is sitting across from him, her arms folded, her expression stoic.

“What is it?” he asks.

“A witness says he saw you running down Grattan at twelve ten on Saturday morning.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“He was sure.”

“He made a mistake. He must have seen somebody else.”

Rosie holds up a hand and takes over. “It’s Keith Treadwell. He says he knows you.”

“He does. He’s been our neighbor forever, but he’s still wrong.” There’s a slight hesitation. “I swear to God.”

“I need you to tell us what happened one more time.”

“Fine.” He taps the table impatiently and lays it out again. “Grace and I went to the movie. Then we went to Amoeba. Then we went back to the car. We drove straight to your house. That’s it.”

Either he’s telling the truth or he’s internalized his story to the point where he truly believes it himself.

“You and Grace were together the entire time?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You weren’t by yourself even for a minute?”

“No.”

“You didn’t go inside your father’s house?”

“No.”

“Is there any reason Treadwell would be out to get you?”

“Not as far as I know. He’s a nice guy. He knew my father for years.”

* * *

The battle resumes in Rosie’s living room at ten-thirty on Sunday night. Grace is standing with her arms folded. An oversized Cal sweatshirt hangs loosely on her shoulders. Rosie is sitting on the sofa. I’m standing next to the doorway to the kitchen. Sylvia is knitting in the armchair near the windows.

“Where did you and Bobby go after the movie?”

Grace scowls. “We’ve been through this, Dad.”

“We need to go through it again, honey.”

“Come on, Dad.”

We’ve moved beyond anxiety into open hostility. “Please, honey.”

Rosie takes off the reading glasses that replaced her contacts. She addresses our daughter in a soft tone. “We need to know exactly what happened on Friday night, honey.”

Sylvia comes to her granddaughter’s defense. “What’s this about, Rosita?”

“No offense, Mama, but it would be better if we talked to Grace in private.”

“She’s my granddaughter.”

“Technically, you could be called to testify about anything she tells us. There is no grandmother-granddaughter privilege.”

“Don’t give me lawyer talk. I’ll rot in jail before I testify against my granddaughter.”

“Please, Mama.”

Sylvia is savvy enough to pick her fights carefully. “I’m going to check on Tommy.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

Sylvia has the last word. “I will find out what this is all about, Rosita.” My ex-mother-in-law makes a melodramatic display of strutting down the hall toward Tommy’s room.

Rosie moves in closer to Grace. “So?”

“How many more times do we have to go through this?”

“Just once.”

“What’s this about?”

Rosie struggles to find the right words and inflection. “One of Judge Fairchild’s neighbors says he saw Bobby running down Grattan at twelve ten—alone.”

Our daughter frowns.

“Grace?”

“It wasn’t Bobby.” She bites down on her lower lip, but there is no equivocation when she adds, “He was with me.”

“The entire time?”

“The entire time.”

“You went straight from Amoeba to Bobby’s car?”

“Yes. Then we came straight home.”

“You didn’t go inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see anybody on the street?”

“No.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

* * *

“Do you believe her?” I whisper to Rosie after Grace has gone to her room.

My ex-wife is staring intently at the fireplace in her living room. “I think so.”

It’s the first hint of doubt. “But?”

She recovers quickly. “No buts. I know my daughter better than anybody else on the face of the earth. I believe her.”

Or she’s choosing to believe her. My cell phone rings. The display shows Pete’s number. “Where are you?” I ask him.

“In the Tenderloin. I need you to get down here right away. I found Judge Fairchild’s girl from the Sunshine Spa.”

CHAPTER 30

“GOOD TIPPER”

Monday, June 20, 12:37 a.m.

“This is Jasmine,” Pete says.

The tiny Asian girl with the pale complexion and the plain white dress nods demurely, but doesn’t speak. Her delicate features suggest she’s younger than sixteen, but her hollow eyes look much older. I pick up the scent of the lavender candles that I smelled when I visited Miss Amanda at the Sunshine on Saturday night.

“I’m Mike,” I say.

Another nod.

I glance at Rosie, who is sitting next to me. “This is Rosita. She’s my law partner.”

Jasmine’s eyes open slightly as Rosie extends a gentle hand.

“Nice to meet you, Jasmine,” Rosie says softly. “I think we might be able to help you.”

We’re sitting in the back of the Grubstake Restaurant, an unlikely landmark inside an old railcar that somehow found its way to the middle of the block on Pine Street between Polk and Van Ness, just north of the Tenderloin. The burgers are terrific and they stay open until four a.m. Harvey Milk held court here until the wee hours as he built his political organization at a table near the front door. Oddly enough, the funky diner with the mismatched chairs and sloping floor offers a full selection of Portuguese dishes. The aroma of cheeseburgers mixes easily with the house specialty, Bacalhau a Tomes de Sa, a codfish platter with potatoes, onions, hardboiled eggs, parsley, and olives. It’s an unusual—albeit reasonably private—setting for a meeting among two defense lawyers, a tough PI, and an underage sex worker who is probably in this country illegally.

“We need to hurry,” Pete says. “Jasmine has to be back by one.”

I will find out later precisely how Pete managed to extricate her from the Sunshine—if only for a few minutes.

Rosie invokes a soothing tone. “How long have you worked at the Sunshine?”

Jasmine is staring down at the floor. “Nine months. I owe them money.”

“For what?”

Her English becomes more stilted. “Bring me here from Korea. Tell me I make lots of money. Now I have to pay travel costs. They charge rent. They charge for food.”

It will take years to work off her debt. “Can you leave?” Rosie asks.

“No. They keep my passport. They will harm my family.”

“How much do you owe them?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

Rosie pushes out a sigh. “How old are you?”

There’s a pause. “Twenty,” Jasmine decides.

Rosie isn’t buying it. “How old are you really?”

Another hesitation. “Seventeen.”

A year older than Grace.

“Are you allowed any contact with your parents?” Rosie asks.

“No. They think I work at a restaurant. They would be ashamed of me.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Jasmine.”

“I have dishonored my family.”

“We can help you if you’re willing to help us.”

Jasmine finally looks up. “How?”

“We’re lawyers. We can get you a visa to stay here legally.”

“I don’t want to stay. I want to go home.”

“We can help you there, too.”

“Still need twenty-five thousand.”

“Are you willing to talk to the authorities?”

“No. I will get in trouble.”

Yes, she will.

“We’ll get you protection,” Rosie says.

“You can’t protect me. Another girl went to the police. She disappeared.”

“Are you saying the people at the Sunshine made her disappear?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have to trust us, Jasmine.”

She ponders her situation for a long moment. “Maybe.”

Rosie shows her a photo of Judge Fairchild. “Do you recognize this man?”

“The judge.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Good tipper.”

Rosie touches her hand. “The judge was killed on Friday night.”

“I know. Miss Amanda told me. Very sad. He was one of my best customers.”

“For how long?”

“Three months.”

“How often did he come to see you?”

“Twice a week.”

“For what?”

“A massage.”

“What else?”

Her eyes turn down. “You know.”

Rosie nods. “Yes, I do. Did he always ask for you?”

“Yes. He liked young girls.”

I’m not interested in the details of the precise nature of their relationship.

Rosie keeps pushing. “Did you see the judge on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“What time did he arrive?”

“Eleven.” She says he left at a quarter to twelve.

“Do you know anybody who may have been angry at the judge?”

She swallows hard, but doesn’t respond.

“Jasmine?”

“My boss.”

“Miss Amanda?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He owed money.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

I believe her.

“How much did he owe Miss Amanda?” Rosie asks.

“Five thousand. Miss Amanda was going to take it out of my wages if he didn’t pay.”

It comes as no surprise that Miss Amanda is a hard-nosed businesswoman. “Did Miss Amanda threaten the judge?” I ask.

“She told the judge she wouldn’t let him see me again if he didn’t pay. The judge said he would put Miss Amanda out of business.”

* * *

Rosie is biting her right fist as we drive across the Golden Gate Bridge at one o’clock on Monday morning. “Jasmine must be desperate.”

“Can we get her out?”

“For twenty-five grand. There must be hundreds of girls like her in San Francisco.”

“No doubt.”

Rosie’s tone turns practical. “Even if we can liberate her and convince her to testify, it doesn’t help our case. She was with the judge until eleven-forty-five on Friday night. It proves he was a creep who liked Asian girls. It doesn’t tell us anything about what happened after he got home.”

“What about Miss Amanda’s argument with the judge?”

“She’ll never admit it. It would be her word against Jasmine’s. It seems unlikely Miss Amanda drove out to Cole Valley to bludgeon the judge to death.”

“Maybe she set it up.”

“You can bet she’ll have an ironclad alibi. Besides, we still have no evidence placing her—or anybody else—at the scene.”

“Then we’ll have to find some.”

“Fine. Call Pete and tell him to have somebody keep an eye on the Sunshine.”

We drive the rest of the way to Marin in silence.

CHAPTER 31

“NOW I NEED YOU TO HELP ME”

Monday, June 20, 11:00 a.m.

Sean Fairchild’s best friend slouches on the tired camelback sofa in the living room of his mother’s fixer-upper on Ashbury, just above Haight, a five-minute walk from Judge Fairchild’s house. It’s the first day of summer vacation and Kerry Mullins looks like he just woke up. “Is Sean in trouble?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

I’m flying solo. Rosie is at the office piecing together our presentation for a prelim that’s less than forty-eight hours away. Pete is out on the street looking for anybody who might have seen something on Friday night. We have two days to find a needle in a haystack. So far, the haystack is ahead.

“I’ll do what I can to help,” Kerry says.

“You can start by telling me where you were Friday night.”

“Right here. So was Sean.”

For someone who looks like the antichrist, he’s an engaging young man. His cherubic face is camouflaged by two gold nose rings, a cobra tattoo, and dyed jet-black hair that cascades down his shoulders. His youthful features evoke images of a young Leonardo DiCaprio—although it seems unlikely that Leo ever wore army fatigues and ankle-length black leather boots to high school.

“Where’s your mother” I ask.

“At work. She’s a nurse at UCSF. She’s worked there since my father split.”

I glance around the disheveled living room littered with empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The flat screen TV is tuned to Comedy Central. Dishes are piled up on a chair next to the kitchen. Kerry probably spends most of his time without adult supervision. “How long ago was that?”

“When I was a baby. I don’t know him.”

Tough stuff. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Nope.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life. This house belonged to my grandparents. They died when I was a baby.”

That might explain how Kerry and his mother can afford to live in a house worth more than a million bucks in San Francisco’s insane real estate market. I give his mother credit. She is making ends meet and sending her son to an excellent private school. Putting aside his quirky appearance, he seems to be reasonably well-adjusted. “Why did you decide to go to Urban?”

“I like the focus on technology and the environment.”

It’s a more thoughtful answer than I expected. “What do you do in your spare time?”

“I work at a juice bar on Haight. I hang out with Sean.”

“Doing what?”

“Drinking coffee. Watching DVDs. Checking out the scene.”

“Is that what you and Sean were doing Friday night?”

“Nope. We stayed here. We ordered a pizza and played video games.”

“What time did he get here?”

“Around eight.”

“How well do you know Sean’s brother?”

“Not that well. We don’t have a lot in common. He’s a jock and a brain.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me. Good for him.”

“How was he getting along with his father?”

“Not great. You know—the divorce.”

“What about Sean?”

“He never got along with his father. The judge wasn’t an easy guy to like. He and Sean didn’t talk.”

“Did Sean tell you anything about the divorce?”

“He said that his father cheated.”

“Did that bother him?”

“Wouldn’t it bother you?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Sean doesn’t say much, but he’s a solid guy. He gets good grades, but he couldn’t please his father.”

“Does he have a temper?”

“Nope.”

“Kerry, do you know if Bobby was into any funny stuff?”

He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Alcohol. Drugs. That sort of thing.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Sean?”

“Not really.”

“A little?”

“This is the Haight. Everybody does a little.”

True enough. “Were you guys doing any funny stuff on Friday night?”

“Nope.”

“You won’t get into trouble, Kerry.”

“We weren’t doing any funny stuff.”

His story is matching up with Sean’s. I hand him a business card. “Will you call me if you talk to anybody who saw anything on Friday night?”

“Sure.”

* * *

“Hey, Mike,” the familiar monotone says.

“Hey, Requiem.”

My favorite pro bono client used some of the proceeds from our victory on Friday for a makeover, including new purple spikes in her hair and a third nose ring. I’m standing at the counter of Amoeba Music at noon on Monday. Hip hop music pulsates through the sound system. An eclectic mix of high school slackers, hipsters, leftover hippies, and a few well-mannered street people fill the long aisles of the old bowling alley. The checkout line is where we used to rent bowling shoes. The walls behind the beat-up counter are covered with psychedelic posters from shows at the old Fillmore Auditorium. To my right is one of the largest collections of new and used CDs and vinyl LPs in the Bay Area.

“How are things?” I ask.

“Okay.”

This represents chattiness for Requiem. “Got a gig this weekend?”

“Friday at midnight. Private party in the Mission. You want to come?”

“I’ll have to take a rain check. We have a new case.”

“What kind?”

Requiem isn’t much for watching the news. “Murder. A judge got killed. He lived in the neighborhood.”

“No shit?”

Such a delicate way with words. “No shit. Were you working Friday night?”

“Yeah.” She says she started at five and got off at midnight.

I pull out photos of Bobby and Grace. “Did you see these people?”

She chews her gum forcefully as she studies the pictures. “Maybe,” she finally decides. “It was crowded. I don’t remember.”

“This young man has been accused of killing his father. This young woman is his girlfriend, who happens to be my daughter. They said they were here on Friday night.”

“You don’t believe your own daughter?”

“We need to check out their story.”

“In other words, you want me to provide an alibi.”

“If you can. I helped you. Now I need you to help me.”

The caustic smirk disappears. She studies the photos intently for another long moment. “I’m sorry, Mike. It was busy. A lot of people come and go.”

“You hesitated.”

She shrugs. “They may have been here. I just don’t remember.”

Which means she can’t testify that she did. “Do you have security cameras?”

“The system’s been broken for a couple of weeks.”

That rules out the possibility we’ll find Grace and Bobby in the security videos from Friday night. “Mind if we talk to your co-workers?”

“Be my guest. The cops were here asking questions earlier today about the people in the photo.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“A couple of beat cops and a homicide inspector—African-American. Old. Deep voice.”

“Roosevelt Johnson?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The same thing that I just told you, which is the same thing that everybody else told him. The store was crowded on Friday night. Your daughter and her boyfriend may have been here—I just didn’t see them. As far as I can tell, neither did anybody else.” Requiem looks at the line forming to my right. “I need to get back to work.”

“Did the cops talk to anybody outside?”

She gestures toward a homeless man guarding the entrance to the store. “They spent some time with Lenny.”

“Do you know what they were talking about?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

* * *

The disheveled man of indeterminate age sits in the doorway between a shopping cart loaded with empty cans and a sleeping German shepherd. His wild gray hair, leathery face, and unkempt beard reflect a lot of nights sleeping outdoors. His soiled military fatigues and worn Giants sweatshirt haven’t seen laundry soap in a long time.

He nods toward his dog as I approach him. “Would you be kind enough to spare some change so I can get Fidel something to eat?”

San Francisco has many well-educated street people. Many of them have drug, alcohol, and psychological problems. In Lenny’s case, it could be a combination of all three.

I take a whiff of the urine-soaked sidewalk as I hand him a dollar. “What’s your name?”

“Lenny. What’s yours?”

“Mike.”

“You’re representing the judge’s son. I saw you on TV.”

“You’re right.” I wonder how a guy whose worldly belongings are loaded in a shopping cart happened to see me on TV. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

He looks down at the dog again. “Fidel’s going to need a little more love.”

I hand him a ten-dollar bill. “I understand the cops were here earlier today.”

“There were.”

“Were they asking you about Judge Fairchild’s murder?”

“They were.”

“Mind telling me what you told them?”

“Maybe I happened to be in the vicinity of Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

“Where exactly were you?”

“That information might require a slightly larger donation for Fidel’s college fund.”

I hand him a twenty. “You got a taste for a burger, Lenny?”

“You bet.”

CHAPTER 32

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING ON THE STREET?”

Monday, June 20, 12:30 p.m.

“Are you from around here?” I ask Lenny. I’ve discerned that his full name is Leonard Stone.

“I grew up in the Richmond. Graduated from Washington High.”

“College?”

“Nope. Too expensive. I volunteered for the army after I graduated. Served in the first Gulf War. I was an auto mechanic for a while after I got back, but I had a little trouble readjusting to civilian life.”

So it appears. “Where do you sleep?”

“The Muni tunnel over at Clayton and Carl. It’s warmer than the park.”

Pete has joined us. We’re seated at one of the three picnic tables in front of BurgerMeister, a hamburger joint on Carl, just east of Cole, where the Niman Ranch burgers and curly garlic fries are a cut above the pedestrian décor. They make their shakes from scratch with ice cream from Mitchell’s in the Mission.

“Where do you hang out during the day?” I ask.

“I spend the mornings in the park.” He slips a piece of his burger to Fidel, who is sleeping at his feet. “Fidel needs exercise. I spend the afternoons in front of Amoeba. There’s a lot of foot traffic. I usually pick up a few bucks for dinner.”

“How long have you been living on the street?”

“Almost ten years.” His tone is business-like. “I lost my last job when my crack habit got a little out of hand. I lost my apartment when it got even worse.”

Not an uncommon story. “Do the cops hassle you?”

“A little. They usually leave us alone at the park. It gets dicier on Haight. The shop owners hate us because we’re bad for business. It’s going to get worse. The mayor wants the cops to clear everybody out.”

“Where would you go?”

“Beats the hell out of me. South City isn’t going to roll out the welcome mat for hundreds of homeless people.”

True enough. Every administration in my lifetime has tried to address San Francisco’s homeless problem with varying degrees of failure. A comprehensive answer is going to be elusive—if not impossible. “Ever tried a shelter?”

“Too many rules. No dogs.”

“I know some people who can give you a hand.”

“No thanks.”

If there were a simple solution, thousands of homeless people wouldn’t be living on the streets. “Why were the cops asking you about Judge Fairchild?”

“We were neighbors.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The judge’s house is a couple of blocks from where I sleep.”

“You know where he lived?”

“Everybody does. His house was surrounded by cop cars during the Savage trial. I stayed away until it was over.” He takes another bite of his burger. “I’m in with some of the guys at Park Station. They know I’m connected in the neighborhood. We try to help each other out.”

He’s a snitch. “Is that why they let you sleep in the Muni tunnel?”

“Let’s just say the fine art of mutual back-scratching hasn’t completely disappeared in our humble community.”

Well said. “What did you tell them about Judge Fairchild?”

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

“Fidel and I went out for our regular walk around midnight on Friday.”

“Isn’t that a little late?”

“Nobody hassles us at that hour. We were looking for bottles and cans.”

“Did you walk by the judge’s house?”

“Yes.”

Yes! “What time was that?”

“Maybe five after twelve on Saturday morning.”

“Was he at home?”

“Beats me.”

“Did you see anybody?”

“Nope.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?”

“Yeah.” He wipes the grease stains from his beard. “There was a gray Crown Vic parked in front of the fire hydrant on the corner.”

“There are a lot of Crown Vics in town. How come you noticed this one?”

“It had tinted windows and no plates. It looked like an unmarked cop car.” He flicks a fry to Fidel, who gobbles it up in one bite. “Notwithstanding my exemplary relationship with San Francisco’s Finest, Fidel and I try to stay away from them.”

With good reason. “Was anybody inside the car?”

“Nope.”

“Did you notice a truck from Bayview Towing parked down Grattan?”

He gives us a knowing look. “You think Brian Hannah had something to do with this?”

“You know him?”

“Everybody knows him. I call him if I see an illegally parked car. He gives me a few bucks as a tip.”

Lenny works every angle. “We understand he isn’t the most popular guy in the neighborhood.”

“He isn’t. He has a job to do.”

“His boss didn’t like the judge.”

“I heard.”

“Did you see him on Friday night?”

“Nope.”

“You wouldn’t lie to protect him, would you, Lenny?”

“Nope.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“The Crown Vic was gone when Fidel and I walked past the judge’s house on our way back.”

Pete and I exchange a glance. “You passed by the house a second time?”

“Yes. Fidel and I went up to the playground behind the school. I let him run for a few minutes, then we came back. We walked by the judge’s house on the Grattan Street side.”

“What time was that?”

“Probably around twelve-fifteen.”

“Are you pretty sure about that time?”

“Pretty sure. Could have been a few minutes either way.”

“Did you see anybody on the street?”

“Nope.”

He should have seen Grace and Bobby returning from Amoeba. Then again, if his timing was just a little off, they might have already left. He’s wearing a dirt-encrusted Casio watch on his left wrist. Whether he checked it as he was walking past Judge Fairchild’s house is questionable. “Did you see anybody inside the judge’s house?”

“Nope.”

I pull out a photo of Bobby and show it to him. “Any chance you saw this guy?”

He studies it for a moment. “Nope.”

“You’re sure?”

“The cops showed me a picture of the same kid. I presume it’s the judge’s son.”

“It is.”

“I told them the same thing I just told you—I didn’t see him. In fact, I didn’t see anybody.”

It isn’t a perfect alibi, but it could help. “Are you prepared to testify if we need you?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s it going to take?”

“A few more cheeseburgers.”

“We can work that out.”

“And some cold, hard cash.”

I drop a twenty on the table in front of him. “Here’s a down payment.”

“A couple more of those would be nice.”

I slide two more twenties toward him. “Where do we find you?”

“In the daytime, in front of Amoeba. At night, at the Muni tunnel.”

“Are you going to be around on Wednesday?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ll be in touch, Lenny.”

* * *

“It still isn’t enough,” Pete says.

“It’s a little more than we had an hour ago.”

We’re standing on the sidewalk near the corner of Belvedere and Grattan where the phantom Crown Vic was illegally parked on Friday night. Except for the crime scene tape still draped across the front door of Judge Fairchild’s house, there are no visible signs a judge was killed a few steps from here.

Pete holds up a hand. “It doesn’t exonerate Bobby.”

“It helps. Lenny can testify that Bobby wasn’t there when he walked by the judge’s house—twice.”

“He doesn’t know for sure. Bobby could have been inside.”

“That’s up to the prosecutors to prove.”

Pete isn’t convinced. “It doesn’t contradict Treadwell’s testimony, either. He claims he saw Bobby running down the street at twelve-en.”

“It doesn’t hurt.

“If you want to base your defense on the testimony of a homeless guy.”

“And my daughter.”

My brother folds his arms. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to keep looking.”

“Fine with me. Anything else on Savage?”

“I have somebody watching him. Hannah, too.”

“And the Sunshine?”

“I’m going back there later tonight.”

My cell phone rings and I recognize Roosevelt’s number. “You got good news for me?” I ask.

“I need to see you and Rosie in my office right away.”

CHAPTER 33

“WE FOUND SOME DISTURBING NEW EVIDENCE”

Monday, June 20, 2:45 p.m.

Roosevelt places a stack of police reports on his metal desk and slides them over to me. “This is everything we have. I have fulfilled my legal obligation to provide every shred of evidence that might tend to exonerate your client.”

Rosie and I look at the pile. “What about evidence that would tend to show our client is guilty?” I ask.

“I have fulfilled my legal obligation,” he repeats.

“You said there was something we needed to talk about.”

“There is. We finished our forensic investigation of Judge Fairchild’s house. We found some disturbing new evidence.”

We wait.

He lowers his voice. “We found Grace’s fingerprints in Judge Fairchild’s living room, dining room, and kitchen. We also found them on the banister.”

Rosie shakes her head. “It doesn’t mean anything. Grace has been to Bobby’s house several times.”

Roosevelt clears his throat. “We also found her prints on the nightstand in Bobby’s bedroom.”

“That proves she visited Bobby’s house. Nothing more.”

“We think it might mean more.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“There is more to this case than meets the eye. You’d better figure out what happened on Friday night.”

“Anything else?”

Roosevelt glances around the empty room that houses the homicide cops. “In terms of legal advice, no. In terms of parental advice, yes. I have a sixteen-year-old granddaughter. I have explained to her on several occasions why I think it’s a bad idea for her to spend time in her boyfriend’s bedroom.”

CHAPTER 34

“HAVE YOU BEEN SLEEPING WITH OUR DAUGHTER?”

Monday, June 20, 3:25 p.m.

“What happened?” I ask Bobby.

We’ve taken our usual positions in the attorney consultation room. His right cheek is swollen and he looks at me through puffy red eyes.

“Nothing,” he whispers.

In the Glamour Slammer, like every jail, the streetwise thugs prey on the uninitiated. Bobby’s youth, intelligence, and good looks are of little practical value in a facility filled with everyone from career felons to small-time shoplifters.

“That wasn’t an accident,” I say.

His voice fills with an unnerving combination of fear and resignation. “I don’t want to talk about it. It will only make it worse.”

“You need to tell me what happened.”

“You have to get me out of here. They’re going to kill me.”

“Who?”

“The people in the lockup.”

“Can you identify the person who hit you?”

“Only if I want to die. Were you able to talk to the judge again about bail?”

“We won’t have another chance until Wednesday.”

“I’m not going to make it to the prelim.”

“You have to hang in there for a few more days.”

“Does that mean you can get the charges dropped?”

“That’s probably going to be tough.”

“You’re going to put on a defense, right?”

“Of course, but we may not want to show too many of our cards at the prelim. We don’t want to telegraph our defense strategy if we move forward to trial.”

“There isn’t going to be a trial. They’re going to kill me if you can’t get the charges dropped.”

“I know this is difficult, Bobby.”

“No, you don’t.” The last vestiges of the poised young man disappear into a fury of anger and fear. “It’s more than difficult. It’s impossible.”

“Then give us something to work with.”

“Like what?”

“Somebody who can verify that you weren’t at your father’s house on Friday night.”

“Grace.”

“Somebody who isn’t your girlfriend and my daughter.”

“I thought you said you could make this go away if we can prove that the time of death was sometime before I got home.”

“Keith Treadwell is going to testify that he saw you running down Grattan at twelve ten.”

“He’s wrong. You need to find somebody who can refute his testimony.”

“We’re trying. We found a witness who walked by your father’s house at twelve-oh-five and again at twelve-fifteen. He said he didn’t see anybody.”

“That’s good.”

“He should have seen you and Grace.”

“Maybe he got the time wrong.”

“The witness may not be terribly credible.”

“Who is it?”

“A guy named Lenny Stone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. He’s a homeless guy who got some bad drugs. He’s delusional.”

“Did you see him Friday night?”

“Of course not.” He pauses to gather himself. “Does this mean you’re going to base my defense on the testimony of a homeless drug addict?”

“It may be part of our case.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“It’s all we have so far, Bobby.”

“What about Savage? What about Hannah? What about my mother’s boyfriend?”

“We haven’t been able to place any of them at your father’s house.”

Rosie makes her presence felt. “We need to talk about something else.”

Bobby tenses. “What now?”

“They found fingerprints in your father’s house.”

“Whose?”

“You, your father, and your brother.” She recites the rest of the list: Julie; the cleaning people; two neighbors; a couple of Bobby’s friends. “They also found Grace’s prints.”

“She’s been to my father’s house.”

“I know. That’s why it didn’t surprise me when they found her prints in the living room, kitchen, and family room. It did surprise me, however, when they found her prints in your bedroom.”

He swallows. “We’ve spent some time downstairs.”

“Doing what?”

“Stuff on the computer.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Rosie looks my way. I lower my voice and say, “Was Grace in your bedroom on Friday night?”

“No.”

“We’re going to ask her the same question.”

His tone turns more adamant. “She wasn’t.”

“This conversation is covered by the attorney-client privilege, Bobby. It will be a disaster if we find out in open court that you’re lying. So far, the prosecutors have given us no evidence proving you were inside your father’s house on Friday night, but they may be holding something back. As your lawyers, we need to know if there’s anything else.”

“There isn’t.”

“Good. I need to ask you one more question.” I look straight into his eyes. “Have you been sleeping with our daughter?”

“What does that have to do with my defense?”

“Nothing. I’m not asking as your lawyer. I’m asking as Grace’s father.”

“No,” he says simply.

If you’re lying, the murder charges will be the least of your problems.

* * *

“They found your fingerprints in Bobby’s bedroom,” I say to Grace. She’s sitting on the gray sofa in Rosie’s airless office at four-thirty on Monday afternoon.

“He’s my boyfriend,” she says. “We spend a lot of time together.”

“In his bedroom?”

“We’ve spent some time down there.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. Bobby’s computer is in his room. You can probably find his fingerprints in my room. It doesn’t mean we were doing anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Your implication was crystal clear.”

Yes, it was. It’s been a long, difficult day with little to show for it. Sylvia brought Grace downtown so we could start preparing her for her testimony. Sylvia had to bring Tommy along with them. He’s busy watching cartoons in our conference room. Murder cases are hard enough without a stressed-out teenager and a four-year-old in your office.

“Were you at Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night?” I ask.

Grace shoots daggers in my direction. “How many times do I have to say this? We weren’t there, Dad.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Bobby was with me the entire time. End of story.”

“And you’re prepared to testify to that effect?”

“Of course. It’s the truth.”

Rosie injects a softer tone. “The prosecutors on this case are very good. They’re going to try to poke holes in your story.”

“I have nothing to hide.” Grace takes a moment to gather herself. “Are we done?”

“Not quite. How serious is your relationship with Bobby?”

“Pretty serious.” Grace swallows. “I think I love him, Mother.”

“You’re only sixteen.”

“So what?”

“Let me put it more bluntly: you aren’t allowed to have sex.”

Grace responds with a stony silence.

“The police are looking at you very suspiciously,” Rosie says. “We need to know the entire story.”

“I’ve already told you the entire story.”

“Not quite.”

“Are you asking me if Bobby and I were sleeping together?”

This time Rosie hesitates. “Yes.”

“What does that have to do with Bobby’s case?”

“Maybe nothing, but you’re Bobby’s alibi. We need to know if they’re going to be able to attack your credibility because he’s your boyfriend.”

“I’ll do everything I can to protect him, but I won’t lie.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is now.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I’d rather talk about it now than ask you about it in open court.”

Our daughter’s lips shrink to the size of a tiny ball. Her voice fills with a level of indignation similar to the tone Rosie reserves for arrogant prosecutors and incompetent judges. “No, Mother. Bobby and I have not been sleeping together.”

* * *

“Tommy fell asleep,” Sylvia says. “I’ll wake him up and take him home.”

Rosie nods. “Thanks, Mama.”

“Are you finished with Grace?”

“For now.”

“Then I’ll take her home, too.”

Sylvia is seated in the spot where Grace was sitting a few minutes earlier. Her expression clearly indicates she’s as unhappy as Grace, who stormed down the hall a few minutes ago. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” Rosie says.

“Why are you going after her?”

“How much of our little discussion did you hear?”

“All of it. Grace has been through hell the past three days. She’s scared to death. Why are you making it harder?”

“We have to, Mama. It’s our job.”

“No, you don’t. Her boyfriend is in trouble. She isn’t.”

“She’s his alibi. This case may turn on her testimony. They’re going to go after her.”

“Then help her.”

“We’re trying. We need to be sure her story will hold up.”

“By browbeating her?”

“By preparing her. We need to know the truth, Mama.”

“I’m all for the truth, Rosita. On the other hand, if you keep treating Grace like a criminal, you may end up winning your case and losing your daughter.”

CHAPTER 35

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Monday, June 20, 6:05 p.m.

An uninvited visitor arrives shortly after Sylvia has departed with Grace and Tommy. An irate Julie Fairchild storms into Rosie’s office and picks up where Sylvia left off. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Calm down, Julie,” I say.

“No, I won’t. I just saw Bobby. Where do you get off calling him a liar?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I asked him what happened on Friday night.”

“You asked him whether he’s been sleeping with your daughter.”

Well, that, too. “Is he?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“What does that have to do with his defense?”

“The police found Grace’s fingerprints in Bobby’s room.”

“So what?”

“We wanted to know how they got there.”

“She’s been spending a lot of time there. They’d have found her fingerprints in his bedroom at my house, too. It doesn’t mean they were sleeping together.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“Your implication was quite clear.”

Suddenly, everybody is an expert at interpreting my implications.

Rosie joins the discussion. “Julie, let me ask you something—parent-to-parent, off the record.”

Bobby’s mother responds with a cold silence.

“Has Bobby been sexually active?”

Julie pauses before she answers in a muted tone. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“He won’t discuss it. We haven’t talked much since the divorce. He’s a little more communicative than Sean, but not much.”

“We’re familiar with the problem. Will you do me a favor?”

“It depends.”

“If you find out Bobby has been sleeping with Grace, will you tell us?”

“Will you do the same for me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“What else did Bobby tell you?” Rosie asks.

“He’s scared.”

“With good reason. The Glamour Slammer is a rough place. We got the judge to issue an order to separate him from the other prisoners. He’ll get his meals in his cell. It isn’t a perfect solution, but he should be reasonably safe until the prelim.”

Julie swallows hard. “Realistically, what are the chances that you’ll be able to get the charges dropped?”

Rosie answers her honestly. “Probably not so good. Preliminary hearings are the prosecutor’s show. They just have to show enough evidence to provide a reasonable implication that Bobby may have committed a crime.”

“Then you’ll have to prove them wrong.”

“We’ll do everything we can. Strategically, it’s usually better to see what the prosecutors have and not telegraph our entire defense for the trial.”

“There can’t be a trial.”

“You have to start preparing yourself—and Bobby—for that possibility.”

“He’ll be killed in jail.”

“No, he won’t.”

The esteemed surgeon inhales the musty air in Rosie’s office. In the operating room, she’s in charge. In the judicial system, she’s just a spectator. “Maybe Jack was wrong about you. Maybe you’re more interested in protecting your daughter than my son.”

Rosie fires back. “That isn’t true. We’re doing everything we possibly can to help Bobby.”

“Even if it implicates your daughter?”

“We have no evidence she had any involvement in this case.”

“Except she was with Bobby on Friday night.”

“Which makes her a witness. And Bobby’s alibi.”

“Which brings me back to my original question: Are you prepared to do whatever it takes to defend my son, even if it implicates your daughter?”

“We’ve been through this,” Rosie says. “If there is a conflict of interest, we’ll have to withdraw.”

“In other words, your answer is no.”

An overwhelming silence envelops Rosie’s office.

Julie’s voice fills with disdain when she finally speaks again. “I guess it’s the answer I should have expected.”

“We’ll understand if you decide to hire another lawyer,” Rosie says.

“I want to think about it.”

“That’s fine.”

“In the meantime, let me be very clear about my expectations for the next few days. I expect you to put on a full defense for my son at the prelim.”

“But Julie—,”

She cuts her off. “I’m not interested in lawyerly parsing or worthless excuses. My son’s life is in danger. You haven’t been able to get him out on bail. He’s been beaten up in jail. I’m giving you one more chance—because I have no choice. If you can’t get the charges against Bobby dropped at the prelim, I’m going to find him another lawyer.”

* * *

“Where does that leave us?” I ask Rosie.

“I think Julie has made her position quite clear.”

“She’s under a lot of stress. She’ll calm down.”

“Maybe. Let’s try to keep this in perspective. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“Bobby is convicted of murder.”

“No, that’s the second-worst thing. The worst thing is if Grace is somehow implicated.”

Ever the voice of practicality. “It won’t happen.”

“She’s Bobby’s alibi. The prosecutors are going to put as much heat on her as they possibly can.”

“They have no evidence against her.”

“They don’t need a shred of evidence to make her life—and ours—miserable.” Rosie’s cobalt eyes turn to cold steel. “There’s only one way to make sure this mess comes out the way we’d like. We have one more day to find out what really happened to Judge Fairchild.”

CHAPTER 36

“IT’S BEEN A SLOW NIGHT”

Monday, June 20, 11:30 p.m.

“How long have you been sitting here?” I ask.

Pete is parked across the street from the Sunshine. The Tenderloin is quiet at eleven-thirty on Monday night. “A couple of hours.”

The locksmith shop on the ground floor is dark, but the porn shop is busy. “Were you able to figure out who owns this upstanding establishment?”

“A privately held California corporation known as Sunshine Investments, Inc.”

I ask him how he was able to obtain that information.

“They’re licensed by the City. Their filings with the Secretary of State are up-to-date. If you didn’t know any better, it looks like everything is on the up-and-up. They also own the locksmith shop and the sex shop.”

“Sounds like it’s a fully integrated X-rated conglomerate.”

“You might say that, Mick.”

“Do you know who owns Sunshine Investments?”

“According to their filings with the City, a husband-and-wife team named Richard and Amanda Kim.”

“That would be Miss Amanda?”

“So it would seem.”

“They aren’t trying to hide their identity.” The blinds are drawn on the top two floors of the building, but the lights are on inside the Sunshine. “Any customers tonight?”

He nods. “Just a couple. It’s been a slow night for sex.”

“Anybody I might recognize?”

“Judge Weatherby and a member of the police commission.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why would I lie?”

He wouldn’t. “Is Jasmine working tonight?”

“Probably.”

“Have you talked to her again?”

“Nope. She hardly ever leaves the building.”

I shoot another glance across the street. “Do you think this is a dead end?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t our only possibility. I have people watching Savage and Hannah. I have somebody watching Julie’s boyfriend.”

“Any proof any of them may have been involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“Not yet. As far as I can tell, everybody is going about their business. I don’t expect them to confess to murder.”

Neither do I. “We need something by Wednesday morning.”

“I’m doing everything I can, Mick.” He points at the Sunshine. “Looks like a customer is going inside.”

A slight, middle-aged man wearing a blue sport jacket and a beige beret walks up to the metal gate and pushes the buzzer. He looks around impatiently as he waits for an answer. A moment later, the muscular young man who showed me inside on Saturday night appears on the other side of the gate. A brief discussion ensues. Money changes hands. The customer waits outside for a few minutes. Then I hear the sound of the buzzer. The customer pushes open the gate and heads upstairs.

“Miss Amanda approved,” Pete observes.

We watch in silence for a few more minutes. A couple of tough-looking youths wander into the peep show.

“Do you want me to go inside to see what they’re doing?” Pete asks.

“I think we already know.”

“Yes, we do.” He’s about to say something else when he stops. “Look at that. The light just went on inside the locksmith shop. It’s the second time it’s happened tonight.”

“Why would somebody be inside the locksmith shop at this hour?”

“It can’t hurt to find out.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

A crooked smile crosses his face. “I guess I’ll have to ask Jasmine.”

CHAPTER 37

“THEY’RE PLAYING IT BY THE BOOK”

Tuesday, June 21, 3:30 p.m.

Rosie looks up over the top of a manila file folder as I enter her office. “Any word from Pete?”

“He has people watching Savage and Hannah. He has somebody camped out at UCSF to watch Julie’s boyfriend.”

“Anything we can use?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Damn it.” Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. It’s been a whirlwind day of serving subpoenas, preparing exhibits, and briefing our witnesses—and we’re nowhere near finished. “What about the Sunshine?”

“Pete’s trying to hook up with Jasmine again.”

“What are the chances he’ll get something useful?”

“Slim.” I shift to the matter at hand. “Did you get a final witness list from McNulty?”

“Yes. Just what you’d expect. Roosevelt. Beckert. The first officer at the scene. A field evidence technician. A fingerprint expert. Treadwell. Mrs. Osborne.”

“That’s it?”

“They’re playing it by the book. They’re going to show just enough to get to trial.”

“Is Julie on the list?”

“Nope. She has nothing to add to the prosecution’s case. Neither does Dr. Newsom.”

“What about Grace?”

“They don’t need her, either.”

“But we do. Are we in agreement that we’ll build our case around her alibi?”

“Unless Pete finds something in the next eighteen hours, we have no choice.”

“It will give McNulty a chance to go after her on cross.”

“That’s inevitable, Mike.”

“We can wait until trial. We’ll know more of the facts and she may be in a better state of mind.”

“We have no choice,” she repeats.

She’s right. “We have other witnesses. We have Kaela Joy.”

“Her testimony will prove the judge liked underage girls.”

“It will also prove he was still alive at midnight. That narrows the time frame.”

“Not enough.”

“We can put on Lenny Stone.”

“He can testify that he didn’t see Bobby when he walked by the judge’s house, but a homeless drug addict is inherently unreliable.”

“Then we need to give the judge some options. We’ll start with Savage.”

“He’ll deny everything.”

“He threatened the judge.”

“That was months ago.”

“So what? He called Hannah at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”

“Hannah works for him.”

“We need to stir the pot. We can call Hannah, too. He’s admitted he was down the street from Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

“We can’t place him inside the house.”

“Let’s put him on the stand and rough him up a bit. He’s unsympathetic. He might turn on Savage. Maybe he’ll tell us something we don’t already know.”

“You’re beginning to sound desperate, Mike.”

“If we don’t come up with something by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we will be desperate.”

CHAPTER 38

“I’M NOT SURE I CAN DO THIS”

Tuesday, June 21, 4:30 p.m.

“When do I testify?” Bobby asks.

“You don’t,” I reply.

Dressed in his orange jumpsuit, he’s sitting in the consultation room, hands at his sides. This is likely to be our last chance to talk before the prelim starts tomorrow morning. “Why not?” he asks.

“Too risky. The prosecutors will take you apart.”

“I can hold my own.”

His bravado is unconvincing. “You’ve never been in court under cross-exam. Everything happens very fast. A good lawyer like McNulty will tie you in knots.”

His shoulders slump. “Am I ever going to get to tell my story?”

“Probably not.” Certainly not until we get to the trial, and even then not unless we’re desperate.

Bobby responds with a cold stare.

“How are things inside?” I ask.

His lifeless tone matches the vacant look in his eyes. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Real bad. The guys in the next cell told me they’re coming after me.”

“Stay in your cell.”

“I will.”

“The guards are supposed to give you meals in your cell until the prelim is over.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll deal with it after the prelim if we have to. You have to hang in there.”

“I can’t do this much longer.”

“Everything is going to be fine, Bobby.”

“Sure.”

* * *

“We need to go through your testimony one more time.”

Grace’s lips turn down. “Again?”

“Just once more.”

“We’ve been through this twenty times. It’s late, Dad.”

“Please, honey.”

“Fine.”

The air is still in Rosie’s office at ten-thirty on Tuesday night. It’s been a long day of planning, strategizing, and rehearsing. The two hours we spent with Lenny Stone were among the most frustrating. Our grim mood is exacerbated by the fact that our efforts to find new witnesses have been futile.

Grace sitting is in one of the uncomfortable swivel chairs. I’m standing next to the open window hoping to find a breath of fresh air. We considered doing this exercise at home. Ultimately, we decided Grace would get a better sense of the pressure and urgency of the situation if we stayed here. Not surprisingly, she’s gotten testier as the evening has grown longer.

“So,” I say, “what’s the first rule of being a good witness?”

Grace’s monotone reminds me of learning my catechisms. “Answer only the question that was asked.”

“Good. What’s the second rule?”

“Don’t volunteer anything.”

“And the third?”

“Keep your answers short.”

“That’s great, honey.”

“Right, Dad.”

Rosie temples her fingers in front of her face. “Let’s go through your direct testimony one more time. Follow my lead.”

Grace nods. Rosie takes her through a moment-by-moment highlight trip of her evening with Bobby: dinner; the movie; the walk to Amoeba; driving home. Grace’s delivery is smoother on the third go-around, although her voice is tinged with fatigue.

“That’s good, honey,” Rosie says.

“Thanks.”

“Let’s talk about the cross-exam again.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

Grace tenses. “Okay.”

“Where did you go after the movie?”

“To Amoeba. We stayed there until they closed at midnight. Then we walked back to Bobby’s car.”

“Did anybody see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where was Bobby’s car parked?”

“On Grattan, on the side of his father’s house.”

“What time did you get back to his car?”

“Twelve-fifteen.”

“Did you see anybody?”

There’s a hesitation. “No.”

Rosie’s interest is piqued. “Grace?”

“What?”

“Did you see anybody when you got back to Bobby’s car?”

“No.”

Rosie leans back. “Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Did you see anything unusual at Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Grace takes a deep breath. “Damn it, Mother, why are you harassing me?”

“I’m trying to give you an idea of what to expect tomorrow.” Rosie takes Grace’s hand. “Actually, honey, I’ve been pretty easy on you. If anything, the prosecutor will be nastier. It’s his job to try to trip you up. He’s going to look for any conceivable inconsistency in your story. You have to stay focused, Grace.”

Grace stares down at the piles of paper on Rosie’s desk. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Yes, you can. I know this is hard, but we need you to testify. Bobby needs you to testify. You’re his best chance.”

Grace swallows hard. “I’ll do the best I can, Mother.”

“That’s all we can ask, honey.”

Grace looks up. “Maybe it would be better if Dad did the direct exam.”

“Whatever would make you more comfortable, Grace.”

“I think Dad should do it.”

“That’s fine, honey.”

Grace is fighting back tears. “Can we go home now?”

“Sure, honey.”

* * *

“There’s something she isn’t telling us,” Rosie whispers as she’s packing her briefcase a few minutes later. Grace is in the bathroom.

“What makes you think so?”

“Instinct.”

Rosie is the most intuitive person I know—especially when it comes to our daughter. “Did she say something else to you?”

“It isn’t what she said. It’s how she said it. I just hope it doesn’t explode in open court.”

“It’s going to be all right.”

“It can’t get much worse.”

* * *

It gets worse almost immediately. My cell phone rings a few minutes after midnight, as I’m driving mid-span on the Golden Gate Bridge. “It’s Roosevelt,” the somber voice says.

“What is it?”

“I need you to come down to the Hall right away. Your client just tried to kill himself.”

CHAPTER 39

“I’M FINE”

Wednesday, June 22, 1:14 a.m.

“Are you okay?” I ask Bobby.

“I’m fine.” He says it without conviction. “I don’t want you to tell my mother about this.”

“I already told her. She’s on her way here.”

He nods grudgingly. His right wrist is wrapped in bandages. A blanket is draped over his shoulders. He’s sitting on an antiquated gurney in the Dickensian infirmary in the basement of the Glamour Slammer. The buzzing fluorescent light emits an eerie glow. The room smells of industrial-strength disinfectant. An irritated deputy is standing guard at the door.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing.” His voice is lifeless.

“They said you cut yourself on the bed frame.”

“It was an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was.”

We stare at each other for an interminable moment. He doesn’t budge. Finally, I tell him they’re going to keep him here overnight for observation.

“Fine,” he says.

“We’ll ask for a delay in your hearing.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, we will. You can’t go to court if you aren’t a hundred percent.”

“I won’t make it to court if you don’t get me out of here.”

“Be reasonable.”

“I don’t have time.”

“We’ll talk again later.”

“No, we won’t. We’re moving forward.”

* * *

Rosie and I huddle with Julie in the empty lobby of the Hall at two-fifteen on Wednesday morning. We’re due in court in less than eight hours. The guards let Julie see Bobby for an all-too-brief ten minutes. She’s exhausted and understandably upset.

Rosie’s tired voice echoes off the tile floor. “We should ask for a delay.”

“The hell you will,” Julie snaps. “You have to get Bobby out of here.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then make it work that way.”

Rosie remains unfailingly patient. “We’re doing everything we can. The legal system moves slowly.”

“My son is going to get killed.”

“He’s in no shape to sit through a prelim.”

“You can’t leave him in this hellhole until someone kills him—or he tries to kill himself again. You’re the geniuses who know how to make the system work. Start doing your job.”

I hold up a hand. “You’re paying us for our judgment on legal issues. It would be a serious strategic mistake to proceed today.”

“I don’t care about legal strategies. I’m worried about my son.”

“Let’s regroup at nine and see how Bobby is doing.”

* * *

Rosie finishes a brief conversation with Grace and presses the Disconnect button on her cell phone. We’re driving across the Golden Gate Bridge at a quarter to three on Wednesday morning.

“How is she?” I ask.

“Putting up a good front.”

“Just like her mother.”

Rosie frowns. “She isn’t going to get any sleep tonight.”

“Neither are we.”

“What if Bobby really insists on moving forward?”

“He’s the client. We’ll do what he says.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“I know.” I try to stay focused. “We’ll use the old ‘rush to judgment’ defense. Then we’ll give the judge some options.”

“Does that mean you’re still planning to try to foist this off on Savage and Hannah?”

“It’s our best bet.”

“We haven’t found a shred of evidence placing Hannah at the scene.”

“Savage called Hannah’s cell phone on Friday night. Hannah was around the corner from the judge’s house.”

“For all we know, he was playing basketball. What’s the back-up plan?”

“Kaela Joy and Lenny.”

Rosie shakes her head. “Great. We’re going to base our defense on the testimony of a former cheerleader and a homeless guy.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“At the moment, no. And if that doesn’t work?”

“Grace will testify that she was with Bobby the entire time and that he didn’t go inside his father’s house.”

* * *

My cell phone rings again as I’m trudging up the stairs to my apartment at three-twenty on Wednesday morning. “We need to talk,” Roosevelt says.

What now? I fumble with the key to my apartment and let myself in. I flip on the light and set my briefcase down. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Meet me in the parking lot of the McDonald’s in the Haight right away. Brian Hannah is dead.”

CHAPTER 40

“ARE YOU PLANNING TO PRESS CHARGES?”

Wednesday, June 22, 3:58 a.m.

“Over here, Mike,” Roosevelt says.

He’s gesturing to me from behind the yellow tape strewn across the McDonald’s parking lot on the corner of Haight and Stanyan. Ronald McDonald encountered fierce resistance from the neighbors when plans for the fast food emporium were announced thirty years ago. The corporate suits ultimately wore them down. The Golden Arches still appear hopelessly out of place smack-dab in the middle of what was the epicenter of the Summer of Love. Four black-and-whites and a van from Rod Beckert’s office are parked near the drive-thru. The blinking red lights from an unneeded ambulance cut through the fog. A handful of FETs are engaged in the meticulous process of taking crime-scene photos and videos.

“He’s dead,” Roosevelt says.

“So I gathered.” A rookie assistant medical examiner is hovering over Hannah’s motionless body.

Roosevelt’s arms are folded. “No Rosie tonight?”

“It’s tough to get a babysitter at this hour.”

“What about Pete?”

“He’s watching Hannah’s boss.”

“He picked the wrong guy to follow.”

“Evidently. How did it happen?”

“A single gunshot to the chest about an hour ago.”

“I take it this wasn’t a suicide?”

“Nope.”

“Any suspects?”

“We know who killed him.”

What the hell? “Who?”

He points at a black Lincoln Town Car in the corner of the lot. A tow truck bearing the Bayview Towing logo is parked a few feet away. “The owner of the Lincoln. He lives in the neighborhood and has a bad habit of parking here overnight. Hannah had a standing order from McDonald’s to tow any car parked here after closing. He was setting the hook when the owner arrived to pick up his car for an early airport run.”

“So he shot him?”

“Hannah had towed his car a couple of times. They’d had words before. The driver said Hannah came after him with a tire iron. He pulled a .38 and fired in self-defense.”

“So he says.”

“We have a witness.”

“Who?”

“The security guard from McDonald’s saw the whole thing.” Roosevelt gestures toward a nearby squad car, where a uniformed rent-a-cop is sipping coffee. “You can talk to him after we get his statement.”

“We will.” I’m not inclined to question his story. Any way you cut it, Hannah will still be dead. “Any other witnesses?”

“Nope.”

Perfect. “You think Savage had anything to do with this?”

“Doubtful.”

“Are you planning to press charges against the limo driver?”

“Not at this time.” He reads my skeptical look. “We’re going to take him downtown and get a statement, but we have a witness.”

* * *

“Do you really believe the limo driver killed Hannah in self-defense?” Julie asks.

My cell phone is pressed against my right ear as I’m standing in the doorway of Amoeba at four-fifteen on Wednesday morning. Julie was my third call after Rosie and Pete. Haight Street is quiet. “The security guard saw the whole thing. The DA may bring charges against the limo driver for manslaughter, but there’s no connection to Savage. We should ask for a continuance while this gets sorted out.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Hannah was our most promising alternative suspect. Now we can’t put him on the stand.”

“You can still blame him. He isn’t around to defend himself.”

That much is true. “We don’t have any evidence he was inside Jack’s house last Friday.”

“Then find some.”

“The prelim starts in less than six hours.”

“You’d better get busy.”

“I want to talk to Bobby about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Bobby didn’t kill Jack. You’re going to prove it. End of discussion.”

Our defense is coming apart. And we’re going to war.

CHAPTER 41

“IS YOUR CLIENT ABLE TO PROCEED?”

Wednesday, June 22, 10:02 a.m.

“All rise.”

The sauna-like courtroom springs to attention as Judge McDaniel takes her seat on the bench. She pretends to ignore the packed gallery as she switches on her computer and dons her reading glasses. “Please be seated,” she says.

The bailiff is a dignified Asian woman who has been maintaining decorum in Judge McDaniel’s court with understated efficiency for two decades. “The People versus Robert Joseph Fairchild,” she recites.

It always sounds serious when they use all three names.

Bobby is sitting silently at the defense table between Rosie and me. We’ve replaced his orange jumpsuit with a navy sport jacket and a striped tie. For the time being, he looks more like a high school senior than a felon. We’ve told him to remain attentive and make eye contact with the judge. I lean over and remind him again about the importance of appearances.

Julie and Sean are sitting behind us in the front row of the gallery. In general, potential witnesses are not permitted in court. We were able to persuade Judge McDaniel that motherhood occasionally requires some flexibility in the interpretation of courtroom procedures—even in a murder case. The same courtesy does not extend to the girlfriends of accused murderers. Grace is sequestered in the basement of the Hall under Sylvia’s watchful eye. Dr. Derek Newsom is also conspicuously absent. It would send the wrong message if the grieving widow were sitting in the gallery next to her youthful boyfriend.

The DA’s Office has also called out the troops. McNulty is studying his notes at the prosecution table. Two glum ADAs from the felony division are unpacking exhibits. Three others fill the first row of the gallery. Roosevelt is sitting at the end of the table. As the SFPD’s designated representative on this case, he’s allowed to remain in court, even though he’s likely to be their star witness.

There is another unexpected guest in the gallery: Robert Kidd. Our performance today is likely to serve as an impromptu audition for our next job.

Showtime. The back of my throat constricts as Judge McDaniel taps her microphone. I still feel twinges of nervousness when the curtain is about to go up. “Mr. Daley, I understand Mr. Fairchild was injured last night.”

Actually, he tried to kill himself. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Is your client able to proceed?”

I shoot a glance in Bobby’s direction. He swallows and responds with a determined nod. I turn back and address the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. He welcomes the opportunity to demonstrate his innocence of these egregious charges as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” She pretends to study her docket. In reality, she’s taking a moment to gather her thoughts and show her unequivocal command of her courtroom. “The defendant has been charged with a violation of Penal Code Section 189: murder in the first degree. He has entered a not guilty plea. This is a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to move forward to trial.”

That covers it.

The judge looks up. “Any issues before we begin?”

“Your Honor, the defense respectfully renews its request for bail.”

“And we renew our opposition,” McNulty says.

“Duly noted.” The judge takes off her glasses. “Mr. Daley, as far as I can tell, nothing has changed since we last addressed this issue.”

“Mr. Fairchild is not a flight risk or a threat to the community. We are willing to abide by reasonable restrictions. We are prepared to hire a private security firm to monitor his whereabouts twenty-four/seven.”

“Denied.”

“But, Your Honor—,”

“Bail is still denied, Mr. Daley. Move on, please.”

We’re off to an inauspicious start. “Your Honor, we have submitted a motion to contest the prosecution’s attempt to include a special circumstance with this charge.”

“I will review your papers and rule in due course.”

“But, Your Honor—,”

“I will rule in due course,” she repeats.

Crap. “We also wish to inform the court that a suspect named Brian Hannah was killed this morning. His testimony was critical to our case.”

McNulty stands. “Your Honor, there isn’t a shred of evidence connecting Mr. Hannah to Judge Fairchild’s death. He wasn’t on our witness list.”

I fire back. “He was on ours. Mr. Hannah was in the vicinity of Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. We also have proof that he received a telephone call from his employer, George Savage, a convicted felon who threatened Judge Fairchild in open court several weeks ago.” It’s a blatant play to the press.

The judge invokes a practical tone. “Mr. Daley, are you prepared to proceed without Mr. Hannah’s testimony?”

“Looks like we have no choice, Your Honor.”

“Fine.” She turns to McNulty. “Do you wish to offer an opening statement?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He stands and buttons his charcoal suit jacket. He walks to the lectern, places a single note card in front of him, and adjusts the microphone. “May it please the court, Judge Jack Fairchild was a talented lawyer, a respected jurist, a caring husband, and a loving father whose life was tragically cut short.” He points an accusatory finger at Bobby. “What makes this situation even more tragic is the fact that Judge Fairchild’s own son is responsible for his father’s tragic death.”

Everybody in this courtroom would agree Jack’s death is a tragedy—even without McNasty repeating it a thousand times.

Bobby utters a guttural, “It isn’t true.”

“Stay calm,” I whisper.

McNulty is still glaring at Bobby. “Did you say something, Mr. Fairchild?”

I answer for him. “No, he didn’t.”

McNulty’s eyes are focused on Bobby’s. “Do you want to say something, Mr. Fairchild?”

He’s baiting us. “No, he doesn’t,” I say. “Your Honor, would you please instruct Mr. McNulty to address the court?”

“You know better, Mr. McNulty.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” It takes him just a moment to summarize the most important pieces of evidence. Then he picks up his note card and lowers his voice. “Julie Fairchild has lost her husband. Sean Fairchild has lost his father. The legal community has lost a respected colleague and friend. We will demonstrate that there is sufficient evidence to bring Robert Joseph Fairchild to trial for the murder of his father. We must bring the person responsible for this great tragedy to justice.”

The judge remains impassive as McNulty returns to his seat, where Ward gives him an obligatory nod of approval. On a scale of one-to-ten, I’d give him an eight. He stayed on message and kept it short. I deducted a couple of style points for being overly melodramatic. Hyperbole doesn’t play well in front of a smart judge.

Judge McDaniel turns to me. “Do you wish to make an opening statement, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I have the option of waiting until McNulty finishes his case, but I want to make a few points right away. I’ve never subscribed to the theory you win cases during opening statements. I do, however, believe you have only one chance to make a strong first impression.

I glance down at the note Rosie jotted on the pad between us. It instructs me to keep my remarks to two minutes. I walk to the lectern and wait for the courtroom to go completely silent. I start in the modulated tone I used when I presided at funerals. “Your Honor, nobody disputes the fact that Judge Fairchild’s death is a tragedy. However, it would be an even greater tragedy to try his son for a crime he did not commit.”

The judge raises an eyebrow. At least she’s listening.

“Your Honor, Bobby Fairchild is not a killer. He’s a victim. He hasn’t been allowed to grieve for his father. He’s been attacked in jail. He became so distraught that he attempted to injure himself last night. He will bear the burdens of this egregious mistake for the rest of his life.”

McNulty stands to raise a legitimate objection, but reconsiders. It’s unseemly to interrupt during an opening.

I keep my eyes focused on the judge. “Your Honor, we take the killing of a judge very seriously. We also understand the prosecution’s desire for swift justice. On the other hand, it doesn’t give Mr. McNulty carte blanche to do whatever it takes to resolve this case. If anything, we should proceed with utmost caution to ensure our rules and procedures are followed. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what Judge Fairchild would have wanted. We will demonstrate that Bobby Fairchild is the victim of a rush to judgment. We will show there is insufficient evidence to bind him over for trial.”

I look up at the judge for a reaction, but none is forthcoming. She turns to McNulty and says, “Please call your first witness.”

“The prosecution calls Officer Philip Dito.”

* * *

Phil Dito is sporting a pressed patrolman’s uniform as he sits in the witness box. “I’ve been a San Francisco police officer for twenty-seven years,” he says. He’s the embodiment of a competent career cop.

McNulty is standing at the lectern. The conventional wisdom says you should give a strong witness plenty of room. “Officer Dito, where do you work?”

“Park Station.” He says it with pride.

“That includes Cole Valley and the Haight, doesn’t it?”

“Objection. Leading.” I’m trying to break up their rhythm.

“Sustained.”

McNulty shoots a snarky glance my way, then turns back to the matters at hand. “Officer Dito, does Park Station cover Judge Jack Fairchild’s house at the corner of Belvedere and Grattan?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on duty in the early morning of Saturday, June eighteenth?”

“Yes.”

Good prosecutors ask short, easy-to-follow questions.

“Did you respond to a 911 call at two ten a.m.?”

“Yes. There was a report of a homicide at Judge Fairchild’s house.”

The first points are quickly on the board. We have a body and a crime scene.

“Who made the call?” McNulty asks.

“The defendant. He was at his father’s house.”

Now he’s placed Bobby at the scene.

McNulty nods as if Dito has imparted great wisdom. “Officer Dito, how long did it take you to get there?”

“Less than five minutes.”

“Did any other officers accompany you?”

“No. My partner was out sick, so I went by myself. I requested backup. Additional units arrived within minutes.”

“What did you do when you arrived at Judge Fairchild’s house?”

The creases in Dito’s weather-worn face become more pronounced. “I followed standard procedure.” He says he surveyed the exterior of the house and concluded he was in no imminent danger. “I knocked on the door and identified myself as a police officer. The defendant answered.”

“Would you please describe the defendant’s demeanor?”

“He was extremely agitated and upset.”

“Do you know why?”

“He had killed his father.”

Nice try. “Move to strike,” I say. “Foundation. There are no facts in evidence to support Officer Dito’s assertion that Bobby Fairchild killed his father.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty is unfazed. “Was the defendant holding anything?”

“A hammer.”

McNulty walks over to the evidence cart and picks up the hammer wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag and tagged. “Is this it?”

“Yes.”

McNulty goes through the customary recitations to introduce the hammer into evidence. “Did you notice anything distinctive about this hammer?”

“It was covered with blood. The defendant tried to hand it to me, but I instructed him to place it on the floor. I wanted to avoid contamination.”

“Did the defendant tell you how he came to have this object in his possession?”

“He said he used it to kill his father.”

Bobby can barely contain himself. “That’s a lie,” he whispers to me. “I said it was the hammer that somebody else used to kill my father.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I say. “Hearsay.”

“Overruled.”

“Exception.”

“Noted.”

I’m not finished. “Your Honor, Officer Dito is intentionally mischaracterizing his conversation with my client. There was no confession.”

“You’ll have to take it up on cross, Mr. Daley.”

I will. Legally, it’s the correct call. Morally, it’s appalling that the rules of evidence permit the admission of such a highly inflammatory statement. My only remaining recourse is to whine. “But, Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Daley.”

Julie leans forward and whispers, “We’re getting killed.”

Thanks for bringing it to my attention. “The prosecution always scores points at the beginning,” I tell her. Especially when you have a smart prosecutor like McNulty and a well-trained cop like Dito.

The gallery sits in rapt attention as McNulty leads Dito through a quick and damaging description of the gruesome crime scene photos. Dito notes there were no signs of forced entry. He describes the overturned coat rack and table in the foyer. He confirms that nothing was missing from the house. A triumphant McNulty returns to his seat a mere five minutes after Dito took the stand.

“Cross-exam, Mr. Daley?” the judge asks.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Robert Kidd always used to say you need the mindset of a heavyweight fighter when you cross-examine a strong witness. You get in close and try not to let your opponent breathe. “May we approach?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I move in front of Dito, who leans forward. My father taught him to meet an uppity defense lawyer head on. “Officer Dito, you testified that Bobby Fairchild was upset when he answered the door.”

“Yes.”

“You realize he had just found his father’s body.”

“I had no way of verifying that information at the time.”

“You now understand Bobby had just turned eighteen.”

“That’s old enough to commit murder.”

“It’s also young enough to be very upset when you find a body—especially your own father’s. How many times have you been called to the scene of a homicide?”

“About a dozen.”

“How many times were you met by the children of the deceased?”

“Including this case, three.”

“How did they react?”

“They were very upset.”

Big surprise. “Wouldn’t it therefore be fair to say Bobby’s behavior wasn’t unusual?”

McNulty is up. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Given your experience, was Bobby’s reaction unusual?”

“Probably not.”

“It certainly shouldn’t have been surprising that he was visibly upset when you arrived a few minutes after he had discovered his father’s body, right?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I act unfazed. “Officer Dito, did you see Bobby kill his father?”

“No.”

“Have you or your colleagues found any witnesses who saw him kill his father?”

McNulty is up again. “Your Honor, we’ll stipulate to the fact that the police have found no witnesses who saw the defendant kill his father.”

“Thank you, Mr. McNulty.”

Good enough. I was simply trying to establish that this is a circumstantial case. “Officer Dito, a moment ago, you testified that Bobby was holding a hammer when he answered the door.”

“Correct.” Dito flashes a hint of irritation. Cops hate it when defense lawyers try to use their own words against them.

“You also testified that he told you he had used the hammer to kill his father.”

He’s trying to figure out where I’m heading. “Correct.”

“In other words, you’re saying he confessed.”

“Not in so many words.”

“Either he did or he didn’t. Yes or no?”

Dito thinks about it for an instant. “Yes.”

“You filed a detailed police report regarding the events of Friday morning, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“There was nothing in it about a confession.”

“Yes, there was.”

“You didn’t use the word ‘confess,’ did you?”

“The defendant didn’t use that word.”

“That’s because he didn’t confess.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then why didn’t you put it in your report?”

“I did.”

The hell you did. I flip open the report. “I’m quoting page two: ‘Defendant acknowledged that a hammer was used to kill his father.’”

“Correct.”

“That isn’t a confession.”

McNulty is up. “Objection. We’re going in circles.”

That’s the whole idea. “Your Honor, Mr. McNulty is trying to stretch Officer Dito’s testimony to suggest that Bobby confessed. In reality, he didn’t.”

“Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Daley is intentionally mischaracterizing Officer Dito’s testimony.”

“That’s precisely what Mr. McNulty is doing.” I can play semantic games, too.

“Your Honor—,”

I cut McNulty off. “Your Honor, Bobby told Officer Dito that the hammer was used to kill his father. Notwithstanding Mr. McNulty’s clever attempts at parsing, Bobby did not say he used the hammer to kill his father. There’s a big difference. That’s why Officer Dito’s report made no mention of a confession.”

McNulty’s voice rises. “Your Honor, now Mr. Daley is testifying.”

“No, I’m not.” Yes, I am.

“Mr. Daley is also calling Officer Dito a liar.”

“I’m not doing that, either.” Well, sort of.

“Mr. Daley is trying to put words in my mouth.”

I’m definitely doing that. “Now Mr. McNulty is testifying. I’m simply trying to provide the court with a truthful account of what Officer Dito saw and heard based solely upon the contents of his own police report. If Bobby had confessed to killing his father, a highly esteemed veteran such as Officer Dito would have mentioned it.”

“He did,” McNulty says.

“No, he didn’t.”

McNulty’s face is turning red. “Your Honor—,”

Judge McDaniel stops him with an upraised hand. “You’ve made your position abundantly clear, Mr. McNulty. Anything else for this witness, Mr. Daley?”

The irritation in her tone suggests she may be leaning our way, but it’s impossible to know for sure. I decide to stop while I’m ahead. “No, Your Honor.”

“Please call your next witness, Mr. McNulty.”

“The People call Dr. Roderick Beckert.”

CHAPTER 42

“DID YOU PERFORM THE AUTOPSY ON JUDGE FAIRCHILD?”

Wednesday, June 22, 10:18 a.m.

“How long have you been the Chief Medical Examiner of the City and County of San Francisco?” McNulty asks.

Rod Beckert has ditched his starched white lab coat for a starched gray Armani suit. “Thirty-eight years.”

Judge McDaniel knows he’s the real deal. “Your Honor,” I say, “we’ll stipulate to Dr. Beckert’s expertise.”

McNulty is pleased. “Dr. Beckert,” he continues, “did you perform the autopsy on Judge Fairchild at approximately seven-thirty on the morning of Saturday, June eighteenth?”

“I did.”

McNulty clutches the autopsy report to his bosom as if it were the Holy Grail. “Your Honor, we would like to introduce Dr. Beckert’s autopsy report into evidence.”

“No objection,” I say.

McNulty walks across the well of the courtroom and hands a copy of the thin volume to Beckert. “Would you please confirm that you prepared this report?”

“I did.”

“Did you conduct the autopsy in accordance with the highest professional standards?”

There’s no reason to give Beckert fifteen minutes to read his résumé into the record. “Your Honor, Dr. Beckert is an authority in his field. We will also stipulate that he conducted the autopsy in accordance with recognized standards.”

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and see the fire in Julie’s eyes. “Aren’t you going to challenge his credibility?” she whispers.

I don’t have time for this. “He’s as good at his job as you are at yours.”

McNulty is still hovering in front of the witness box. “Doctor, were you able to determine the cause of Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“A blow from a blunt object caused a massive head wound and a fractured skull.”

“And time of death?”

“Between eleven-forty-five p.m. and twelve-thirty a.m.”

“It’s possible to make that determination with such precision?”

“The body was still warm when I arrived at the scene. As a result, I was able to take precise temperature readings of various organs. I performed other tests relating to the state of rigor mortis, lividity, and the degree of digestion of the food in his stomach.”

That’s good enough for McNulty. “No further questions.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Daley?” the judge asks.

“Yes, Your Honor.” I button my jacket and walk over to the evidence cart. I pick up the hammer and hold it up in front of Beckert. “Doctor Beckert, is it your contention that this hammer was used to inflict the fatal blow?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find any traces of metal in Judge Fairchild’s skull?”

“That would have been almost impossible, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes or no—did you find any such traces?”

“No.”

“Were you able to match the contour of the hammer to the injury in the judge’s skull?”

“Not precisely.”

“So you can’t say for sure whether the killer hit the judge with this hammer, can you?”

“It was covered with his blood, Mr. Daley. The implication is clear.”

“Implications aren’t evidence, Dr. Beckert.”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “There wasn’t a question there.”

No, there wasn’t. “Withdrawn.” I turn back to Beckert. “Is it possible that Judge Fairchild’s blood could have found its way onto the hammer in some way other than as a result of the defendant having hit him?”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculation.”

“Your Honor, I’m asking for an informed opinion based upon Dr. Beckert’s expertise, to which I’ve already stipulated.” I’m also asking him to speculate.

“Overruled.”

“It’s unlikely,” Beckert says.

“But it’s possible?”

“It’s unlikely,” Beckert repeats.

“I’m going to take that as an affirmative answer. Is it also possible the blood could have found its way to the hammer when the defendant tried to help his father? Or somebody else hit him?”

McNulty’s decision not to object to my blatantly speculative questions shows his confidence in Beckert. It also reflects the practical reality that Judge McDaniel is going to give Beckert the benefit of the doubt.

Beckert’s tone is dismissive. “Mr. Daley, it is also possible that I came to court this morning on the Starship Enterprise. Even you would acknowledge it’s highly unlikely.”

Judge McDaniel taps her gavel to silence the gallery.

“What time did you arrive at the scene, Dr. Beckert?”

“Two-thirty-seven a.m.”

“According to your own calculations, that would have been more than two hours after the judge was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Was the body still in the laundry room when you arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Had the paramedics administered CPR and first aid?”

“Of course.”

“Had they moved the body?”

“A little. It was a tight space. They needed room to work.”

“Had they opened the garage door?”

“Yes.”

“What about the door leading from the garage into the house?”

“It was still propped open by the body.”

“Isn’t it therefore possible that the jostling of the body and the exposure to the cold night air may have impacted the precision of your measurements in determining time of death?”

“Perhaps slightly, but only to an inconsequential degree.”

“How inconsequential?”

“I can’t say for sure.”

Every second matters. “Two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?”

Beckert invokes a professorial tone. “It didn’t have any substantial impact on my calculations in this case.”

* * *

McNulty is behind the lectern a few minutes later. “Lieutenant Jacobsen,” he begins, “how long have you been an evidence specialist with the SFPD?”

“Twenty-seven years.”

Kathleen Jacobsen has been plying her trade in the bowels of the Hall longer than anybody except Beckert, Roosevelt, and the blind man who’s run the sandwich cart in the lobby since the Reagan administration. She spends her free time providing expert testimony in high-profile cases in other parts of the country. Though she steadfastly eschews the limelight, she became an unlikely media darling when she added her understated gravitas to CNN’s coverage of the Scott Peterson trial. She’s one of the few members of the media who emerged from that media frenzy with her reputation and dignity intact.

“Lieutenant,” McNulty continues, “you supervised the collection of the evidence at Judge Fairchild’s house, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

To the untrained eye, the paunchy prosecutor and the stoic lesbian criminalist look like a couple of middle-aged bureaucrats going through their paces. To those of us who have had the privilege of admiring their work for the past two decades, they’re the legal profession’s counterpart to Astaire and Rogers.

McNulty walks over to the evidence cart and picks up the hammer Jacobsen meticulously wrapped and tagged. “Lieutenant, can you identify this item?”

“It’s the murder weapon.”

Well played. “Objection. Move to strike the witness’s characterization of this exhibit as the ‘murder’ weapon. It assumes facts not yet admitted into evidence.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty and Jacobsen feign contrition as the judge halfheartedly admonishes them for trying to introduce evidence without the proper foundation. It’s a lovely gesture, but everybody knows Fred and Ginger had it planned in advance.

“Were you able to positively identify the victim’s blood on this hammer through DNA?”

“Yes.”

I could make the usual—and futile—objection about the unreliability of DNA tests. Thanks to CSI, everybody believes they’re infallible. In fairness, they’re about as close as you can get to a sure bet. Studies have shown that jurors now expect prosecutors to pull a DNA rabbit out of a hat sometime during trial, just like on TV. In academic circles, it’s called the CSI Effect.

“How were you able to conclude the tests so quickly?” McNulty asks.

“There is a common misperception that DNA tests take days or weeks. In reality, they can be concluded within a few days.”

That much is true. It just takes money and clout.

McNulty moves in closer. “Were you able to positively identify any fingerprints on the hammer?”

“Just the defendant’s.”

“What about smudged prints or unidentifiable prints?”

“None.”

“No further questions.”

I head straight for the witness box and park myself right in front of Jacobsen. “Lieutenant, did Bobby Fairchild try to hide the bloody hammer?”

“No.”

“If he was guilty, why didn’t he get rid of it?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

It’s the right call. “Lieutenant, Dr. Beckert placed the time of death between eleven-forty-five p.m. and twelve-thirty a.m., didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Good. “Do you have any forensic evidence placing Bobby inside his father’s house between eleven-forty-five on Friday night and twelve-thirty on Saturday morning?”

“His fingerprints were on the hammer.”

Not good enough. “He admitted he picked up the hammer when he returned home at two a.m.”

“We found his fingerprints all over the house.”

“Everybody knows fingerprints have an indefinite shelf life and could have been weeks or months old. I’m going to ask you one more time: Did you find any forensic evidence placing Bobby Fairchild inside his father’s house between the hours of eleven-forty-five p.m. last Friday night and twelve-thirty a.m. last Saturday morning?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

Okay. “Did you find any fingerprints in the house or the garage other than Bobby’s?”

“Many. We found Judge Fairchild’s fingerprints along with those of his son, Sean. We found the fingerprints of the defendant’s girlfriend. We also found prints from Judge Fairchild’s wife and several of the defendant’s friends.” She reads off a list of friends, relatives, cleaning people, and other hangers-on who had visited the Fairchild residence from time to time.

“Did you find any unidentifiable prints?”

“We found two smudged prints in the laundry room and a partial print on the inside knob of the front door. We ran the partial through the available databases. There were no matches with anybody with a criminal record. We’ve also ruled out relatives, friends, neighbors, and the defendant’s girlfriend.”

“Which means the smudged print could have belonged to anybody—including the person who killed Judge Fairchild.”

“We have no evidence to that effect.”

It opens up some possibilities, but it’s all I can do for now. “No further questions.”

CHAPTER 43

“HE TOLD HIM HE WAS GOING TO MAKE HIM PAY”

Wednesday, June 22, 11:36 a.m.

“Mrs. Osborne,” McNulty begins gently, “you taught at Grattan Elementary School for many years, didn’t you?”

I could object to the leading question, but I’ll look petty.

Evelyn Osborne sits up a little taller and answers in her best schoolteacher voice. “Forty years,” she says.

McNulty has quickly established her as a credible and sympathetic witness. “How well did you know Judge Fairchild?”

“Not very well. He moved in next door just a few months ago. He was a good neighbor.”

“And his children?”

“Bobby and Sean are nice boys. They’ve helped me around the house.”

“Did they ever argue with their father?”

“Occasionally. You know how it is with teenagers.”

“Yes, I do.”

No, you don’t. McNulty doesn’t have any kids.

“Mrs. Osborne,” he continues, “did you overhear an argument between Bobby Fairchild and his father on the morning of Friday, June seventeenth?”

“I’m not an eavesdropper, Mr. McNulty.”

“Of course not, but did you hear them arguing?”

“Yes.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Teenage stuff.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Objection. Hearsay. This line of questioning is also an impermissible attempt to bring in evidence of Bobby’s character.”

“Overruled. Please answer the question, Mrs. Osborne.”

“Judge Fairchild thought Bobby was spending too much time with his girlfriend.”

“How did Bobby react?”

“He was very upset. He left the house and slammed the door behind him.”

“Do you recall whether he said anything else to his father?”

I’m on my feet again. “Objection. Hearsay.”

“Overruled.”

She clutches her reading glasses tightly. “He told him he was going to make him pay.”

“Those were his exact words?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

I’m in a delicate spot. I need to discredit her testimony without coming off as a jerk. I address her from the lectern in my most respectful tone. “Ms. Osborne, how long have you lived on Belvedere Street?”

“Forty-seven years.”

“You mentioned Judge Fairchild’s sons have been helpful neighbors.”

“Yes, they have.”

“Have they ever given you any trouble?”

“Not really. They play their music a little too loud sometimes.”

“Where were you when you heard the conversation between Bobby and his father?”

“In my kitchen. My window looks directly into Judge Fairchild’s kitchen.”

“How close is your window to the judge’s?”

“About ten feet.”

“Was your window open?”

“No.”

“Was his?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Was your TV on?”

“Yes. I was watching Mornings on Two.”

“I see. Were you eating breakfast?”

“I was having coffee.”

“Ms. Osborne, I apologize for asking about a personal matter, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing a hearing aid today.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Does it work pretty well?”

“I think so. My daughter says it might need to be adjusted a little.”

She’s incapable of lying. “Was the TV pretty loud?”

“Loud enough.”

“Was it hard to hear Judge Fairchild and Bobby?”

“They were pretty loud, too.”

“Louder than your TV?”

“Loud enough for me to hear them.”

“Mrs. Osborne, I mean no disrespect, but is it possible that you may have misheard the judge and his son?”

She invokes the tone of someone who sent countless ill-behaved children to the principal’s office. “I know what I heard, Mr. Daley.”

I take a chance. “Do you think Bobby would have hurt his father?”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Calls for speculation.”

“Overruled.”

I didn’t think Judge McDaniel would give me that one.

Evelyn Osborne fingers the gold chain that holds her reading glasses. “I don’t think so, Mr. Daley. Bobby’s a good boy who did very well in school.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Osborne. No further questions.”

When I get back to my seat, Rosie leans over and whispers, “You did everything you could, Mike. If you had pushed any harder, she would have given you a detention.”

* * *

Treadwell is up next. Sporting a charcoal going-to-court suit, he’s sitting in the witness box with his hands clasped in front of him. “I was walking my dog on Belvedere when I saw Bobby Fairchild running down Grattan at twelve ten on Saturday morning.”

McNulty is addressing his former colleague from the prosecution table. “You’re sure it was the defendant?”

“Yes. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

“No further questions.”

I’m on my feet right away. A retired teacher was entitled to kid gloves. A former prosecutor isn’t. I approach the witness box and gesture toward an enlarged satellite photo of the area surrounding Jack Fairchild’s house. “Mr. Treadwell, could you please show us where you were standing when you saw somebody running down Grattan Street?”

He points to a spot near the corner of Belvedere and Grattan, across the street from the Fairchild house. “Right here.”

“That was about a hundred feet away from where the individual was running?”

“I’d say a little less.”

“It was pretty dark, wasn’t it?”

“There are streetlights.”

“And foggy?”

“A little.”

“And cold?”

“Chilly.”

“And you were probably walking pretty quickly, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Was your dog on a leash?”

“Yes.”

“But you needed to keep an eye on him, right?”

“He’s very smart.”

Just like his master. “Were you wearing an iPod or other electronic device?”

“No.”

Too bad. “What about your cell phone?”

“I had it with me, but I didn’t look at it.”

“Do you recall what kind of clothes this person was wearing?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“How about shoes?”

“I don’t recall.”

“A hat?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you see any blood on his clothes?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Was he running toward you or away from you?”

“Away.”

“Then how were you able to see his face?”

“I saw him from the side.”

“Was he running fast?”

“I’d say a medium jog.”

“So you probably saw him for just a second, right?”

“I’d say a couple of seconds.”

“Did you call out to him?”

“No. I was busy.”

“Walking your dog.”

“Correct.”

“You weren’t concerned that your neighbor’s son was out after midnight?”

“It happened very quickly. I didn’t have time to react.”

Here goes. “So, from a distance of a hundred feet on a cold and foggy night while you were walking your dog, you were able to positively identify Bobby Fairchild from behind even though he was running away from you and you saw him for just a second or two?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

You’re full of crap. “Did you see where he came from?”

“No.”

“Was he inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“I don’t know.”

I change course. “What did you do prior to your retirement, Mr. Treadwell?”

“I was a felony prosecutor with the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office.”

Impressive. “You worked on some cases with Mr. McNulty, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In fact you trained him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Friends try to help each other, don’t they?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t lie to help a former colleague, Mr. Daley.”

“But you might be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”

“Withdrawn. No further questions, Your Honor.”

The judge turns to McNulty. “Any other witnesses?”

“Just one, Your Honor. The People call Inspector Roosevelt Johnson.”

CHAPTER 44

“HOW MANY HOMICIDES HAVE YOU INVESTIGATED?”

Wednesday, June 22, 11:48 a.m.

McNulty is standing at the lectern. “Inspector Johnson, how long have you been with the San Francisco Police Department?”

Roosevelt adjusts the microphone. “Forty-eight years.”

“How many homicides have you investigated during that time?”

“Hundreds.”

Enough. “Your Honor, we will stipulate as to Inspector Johnson’s experience.”

“Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

“Inspector,” McNulty continues, “are you heading the investigation of the murder of Judge Jack Fairchild?”

“Alleged murder,” I interject.

“Alleged murder,” McNulty mutters.

“Yes,” Roosevelt says.

“When did you arrive at the scene?”

“Two twenty-eight on Saturday morning.” McNulty is deferential as he leads Roosevelt through a crisp minute-by-minute description of what transpired in the wee hours, making compelling use of the graphic crime scene photos. By the time they’re finished, there is little room to challenge the procedures used to secure the crime scene or the chain-of-custody of the evidence.

“When did you first talk to the defendant?” McNulty asks.

“As soon as I arrived. He was very upset.”

“That shouldn’t have been surprising in the circumstances.”

“It wasn’t.”

“When did you first consider the possibility that the defendant could have been involved in his father’s death?”

“At first I thought it might have been a botched robbery. I also thought it was possible the judge might have been killed by somebody who had a grudge. That sort of thing is all too common nowadays. The longer that I spoke to the defendant, the more suspicious I became. He had difficulty describing where he had been on Friday night. Then the physical evidence started pointing in his direction.”

“What physical evidence was that?” McNulty asks.

“Among other things, the defendant was holding a bloody hammer when the first officer arrived on the scene.”

It takes Roosevelt and McNulty just a few minutes to go through a carefully rehearsed description of the physical evidence. Finally, McNulty walks back to the evidence cart and picks up four sealed plastic bags. “Can you identify these items?”

Roosevelt nods. “They’re the defendant’s shirt, pants, socks, and tennis shoes. There were found in the washer in the room where the body was found. Through DNA testing, we were able to identify traces of Judge Fairchild’s blood in the clothing.”

They’ll be making CSI: San Francisco soon.

“Who put these items in the washer?” McNulty asks.

“The defendant.”

“How do you know?”

“He admitted it.”

“Did the defendant say when he put the items into the washer?”

“He said he did it while he was waiting for the police to arrive.”

“Did it strike you as odd that the defendant was worried about washing his bloody clothing while his father lay dying a few feet away?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.” It’s a feeble attempt to break up their rhythm.

“Sustained.”

McNulty keeps pushing. “Inspector, did the defendant tell you why he decided to launder his clothing?”

“He said he didn’t want to wear clothing covered with his father’s blood. I believe the defendant was trying to hide his bloody clothing before the police arrived.”

“Move to strike,” I say. “Inspector Johnson’s opinions—however well-informed—are not evidence.”

“Sustained. Anything else, Mr. McNulty?”

“Just one more thing, Your Honor.” McNulty walks back to the evidence cart and picks up a small plastic evidence bag. “Inspector, where did you find the contents of this bag?”

“A few feet from Judge Fairchild’s body on the floor of the laundry room.”

Rosie leans over and whispers, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

McNulty holds up the baggie. “Would you please tell us what’s inside this bag?”

“Two grams of marijuana.”

What the hell? “Objection. This evidence did not appear in any police report. Furthermore, we were not given an opportunity to examine it or conduct our own tests to confirm the nature of this substance.”

McNulty can’t contain a smile as he responds in a patronizing tone. “Your Honor, the rules of criminal procedure require us to make evidence available to the defense only if it would tend to exonerate the defendant. I can assure you this does not.”

That’s for sure. “Your Honor, we strenuously object to the introduction of this evidence. This is without foundation and highly inflammatory.”

“Overruled.”

“Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Daley. Anything else for this witness, Mr. McNulty?”

“One final question, Your Honor.” He turns back to Roosevelt and lays it on the line. “Inspector, would you please summarize what happened at Judge Fairchild’s house late last Friday night and early Saturday morning?”

“Certainly, Mr. McNulty.” Roosevelt clears his throat and addresses Judge McDaniel. “The defendant went to dinner and a movie with his girlfriend. Then they went over to Judge Fairchild’s house to pick up the defendant’s car. It also appears the defendant was going to pick up some marijuana to share with his girlfriend.”

Bobby leans over and whispers, “Not true.”

“Quiet,” I whisper. “The judge is watching. Let me handle it on cross-exam.”

Roosevelt is still talking. “I believe the defendant was looking for his stash in the laundry room when his father came home. The defendant spilled some of the marijuana onto the floor. He and his father argued. The defendant grabbed a nearby hammer and hit his father, killing him on the spot. The defendant vandalized the foyer in an attempt to make it look like a botched robbery. He placed his clothes in the washer. He changed clothes and went out to the car, where his girlfriend was waiting for him. He drove her home, knowing she could provide an alibi.”

At least he didn’t implicate Grace.

“A seemingly perfect alibi,” McNulty says.

Roosevelt shakes his head. “Not quite. Mr. Treadwell saw him running down the street. We found traces of his father’s blood in his laundered clothes. We found the marijuana in the laundry room. The staged vandalism of the foyer was little more than a clumsy attempt at a cover-up.” Roosevelt invokes a fatherly tone. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. The sad reality was obvious: Bobby Fairchild killed his father.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. Daley?”

I need to talk to Bobby. “Your Honor, we request a brief recess to consult with our client.”

Judge McDaniel looks at her watch. “We’ll pick up with Inspector Johnson’s cross-exam after lunch.”

CHAPTER 45

“IT WASN’T MINE”

Wednesday, June 22, 12:04 p.m.

“It wasn’t mine,” Bobby insists. His face is ashen, but his tone is adamant. He’s staring at an uneaten turkey sandwich on the metal table inside the windowless holding pen behind Judge McDaniel’s courtroom.

“Whose dope was it?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“How did it get inside the laundry room?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“We can’t afford any more surprises, Bobby.”

“What are they trying to prove?”

Rosie answers him. “It’s about appearances. We’re trying to portray you as an honor student who has been unjustly accused. They’re implying you’re a doper who got into a fight with your father about drugs. It’s an attempt to undercut our argument that you’re a Boy Scout who is heading for an Ivy League school. It also suggests a motive.”

“But it isn’t true,” Bobby pleads.

“It still looks terrible,” I say, “It’s also a distraction. By itself, the dope may have nothing to do with this case. Even so, we’re going to have to deal with it.”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“What about your friends?” And your girlfriend?

“No.”

Julie had been listening in simmering silence. “Are we done with the inquisition now?” she snaps.

She’s desperate to believe her son. “It’s on the record,” I say. “It’s going to be in the papers. It would help if we had an explanation.”

“We do. It wasn’t Bobby’s. End of story.”

“We can’t put Bobby on the stand to testify that it wasn’t his.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because McNulty will eat him for lunch. “You never put a defendant on the stand unless you’re desperate.”

“Why don’t you believe my son?”

Because there are holes in his story. “It’s our job to be skeptical. It would be very helpful if we could figure out how the dope got there.”

Julie’s eyes are on fire. “Put me on the stand. I’ll say it was mine.”

Gimme a break. “That isn’t true.”

“How do you know?”

“It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you were making it up to try to protect him. It will destroy your credibility—and his.”

A sarcastic sneer crosses her face. “I love it when you lawyers try to take the moral high ground. What would you suggest?”

I can’t imagine how she thinks it’s helpful to excoriate us in front of our client. “We can ask for a continuance to try to figure out how it got there.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Unless you can tell us where the dope came from, our only option is to go after Inspector Johnson on cross-exam.”

“That won’t be enough.”

“Then you can hire another lawyer.”

Before she can respond, she’s interrupted by the piercing sound of Bobby’s voice. “Stop it,” he shouts. “Stop it right now.”

The cramped room goes silent as we turn to face him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your little pissing contest,” he says, “but my ass is on the line. I think my opinion should count for something.”

Julie and I glare at each other for an instant. “It does,” I say to Bobby.

“Then here’s how it’s going to come down. First, we aren’t going to ask for a continuance. Second, you’re going to do whatever you can on cross-exam. Third, I’m not going to hire another lawyer. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the next day.”

“Bobby—,” Julie says.

“I’ve made up my mind, Mother. Maybe now we can get back to work.”

Julie stares at the floor.

Rosie chooses her words with care. “Bobby, do you have any idea how that dope found its way into your father’s house?”

“No.”

“What about Sean?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“As far as I know, he’s clean.”

It’s a more equivocal answer than I had expected. I decide to play a hunch. “Are you protecting him?”

Julie answers for him. “No, he isn’t.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

Her eyes fill with anger.

Bobby places his hands on the table in front of him and speaks softly. “No, I’m not protecting Sean.”

“This isn’t a time to be a hero.”

“I’m not.”

Julie interjects again. “Are we done?”

“We’ll meet you back in court at one o’clock. I want to talk to Grace.”

* * *

Grace’s dark brown eyes are on fire, her voice full of exasperation. “Now they’re saying Bobby’s a pothead?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

We’re meeting in the moldy file room in the basement of the Hall where one of Rosie’s high school classmates works. Grace and Sylvia have been cooling their heels down here, away from the prying eyes of the media. Grace has been passing the time in our inelegant command center, skipping between CNN and the local news websites on her iPad. Sylvia is reading the online version of the Chronicle.

Our daughter’s expression transforms in to a pronounced scowl. “It isn’t true.”

“Has Bobby ever offered you anything?”

She’s becoming more agitated. “No.”

“Ever been to a party where people offered you drugs or alcohol?”

She shakes her head a little too emphatically. “No.”

“Grace?”

She waits a beat. “A couple of times.”

No surprise. “Ever tried anything?”

Another hesitation. “Once or twice. Everybody does it, Dad.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” I realize I sound just like my parents as I say it.

Grace fires right back. “As if you never did anything when you were in high school.”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you’re going to judge me.”

“I’m allowed to judge you. I’m your father.”

“You set a great example. Don’t blame me for doing the same stuff you did.”

“I’m not blaming anybody.”

“Yes, you are.”

Yes, I am. “There are consequences, Grace.”

“Don’t lecture me. We’ve been inundated with anti-drug programs since second grade. We understand the issues a lot better than you did.”

That much is true. “You’re only sixteen.”

“That’s old enough to make my own decisions. It isn’t as if I’m going to develop a drug problem. I’m an athlete. I have too much respect for my body and myself.”

“Don’t be naïve, Grace.”

“Don’t be judgmental, Dad.”

My throat is burning. “This isn’t just about drugs or booze. You could get into serious trouble if you hang out with the wrong people.”

“Come on, Dad.”

It feels as if I’m reciting from one of those canned public service announcements on TV. “Have you ever been to a party where somebody called the cops?”

“Once. Nobody got arrested. Besides, it has nothing to do with Bobby’s case.”

Rosie can’t hold back any longer. “Do you know what can happen if you get drunk at a party?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t do it.”

“It happens all the time. You or your friends could get in a car. You could end up in jail. You could get hurt—or worse.”

“That isn’t going to happen, Mother.”

“That’s what everybody says—until it happens to them.”

“I have better judgment.”

“Like showing up an hour after curfew on Friday night?”

Grace is indignant. “We weren’t drinking. We just lost track of the time.”

“That isn’t the point, Grace.”

“What is your point, Mother?”

“You’re old enough to understand the ramifications of your actions for yourself and the people around you—including your father and me. With privileges come responsibilities.”

“Come on, Mother.”

“You’re smart enough to get it, Grace. If you or your friends do something stupid, it could ruin your life.”

Grace glares at her for a long moment. “Are you done now?”

Rosie can’t mask her frustration. “We’ll finish this conversation later. We’re due back in court.”

* * *

“Can we talk to you for a minute, Mike?” Julie’s tone is uncharacteristically subdued as she and Sean approach me in the hallway outside Judge McDaniel’s courtroom.

“Sure.” I lead them into the nearby stairwell.

“Sean has something to tell you,” Julie says.

Bobby’s brother swallows hard. “That dope was mine.”

My anger is tempered by the fact that this information can only help us. “It would have made things easier if you had told us about it a couple of days ago.”

“I know. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I’m sorry.”

“How did it get on the floor?”

“I spilled it.”

“When?”

“Right before I left for Kerry’s house on Friday night. Am I going to get in trouble?”

“Only if you’ve withheld any other information.”

“Possession is illegal.”

“It’s a tiny amount. You’re a juvenile. You have no prior record. If you agree to testify, I’ll get it cleared up.”

“Will it help Bobby?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in.”

Good. “For now, I’m going to have you sign a sworn statement saying it was yours. We’ll have to leave it up to the DA as to whether she wants to bring charges. My guess is she has more important things on her plate than prosecuting a fifteen-year-old for having a little stash in his house.”

“Okay.”

“Were you anywhere near your father’s house later on Friday night?”

“No, Mike. I swear to God.”

I’m inclined to believe him—for now. “You should stay away from that stuff,” I tell him. “It isn’t good for you.”

“I know.”

“Sean?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

CHAPTER 46

“DID YOU CONSIDER ANY OTHER SUSPECTS?”

Wednesday, June 22, 1:08 p.m.

“Inspector Johnson,” I begin, “you testified earlier that you found traces of marijuana on the floor of Judge Fairchild’s laundry room.”

“Correct.”

I button my jacket and take my place directly in front of him. It’s time to go toe-to-toe. “Did you find Bobby Fairchild’s fingerprints on the marijuana?”

“You can’t lift prints off organic material.”

“How about DNA?”

“No.”

“Did you try?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It would have been very difficult to extract a usable sample.”

“And you may not have liked the results.”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I keep pushing. “Did you find any marijuana on Bobby’s person?”

“No.”

“In his clothing? In his room? In his car?”

“No.”

“Did you find traces of marijuana anywhere else inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.”

“Did you administer a drug test to Bobby Fairchild?”

“He was given a screening after he was arrested.”

“Did you find any traces of marijuana in his system?”

“No.”

“Inspector, do you have any evidence the marijuana belonged to Bobby?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Overruled.” Judge McDaniel casts a pointed look at McNulty as if to say, If you’re going to insinuate marijuana possession, you’d better be able to prove it.

Roosevelt shoots a scornful glance at McNulty. “No,” he says softly.

Good. “Did you find any evidence Bobby had any contact with this marijuana?”

“No.”

“In fact, you have no idea whose it was or how it got into the laundry room, do you?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

The judge holds up a hand. “We get the message, Mr. Daley. The objection is sustained.”

Good enough. “Your Honor, at this time we would like to introduce a sworn statement signed by Sean Fairchild, who is Bobby Fairchild’s younger brother.”

McNulty is back up. “We had no notice of this.”

“It just came to our attention during the lunch break,” I say.

Judge McDaniel arches an eyebrow. “What’s the nature of this statement?”

I’m glad you asked. “Sean has admitted that the marijuana found in the laundry room belonged to him. He spilled it as he was leaving the house at eight o’clock on Friday night. Although he understands that he may be charged with a misdemeanor for possession of a controlled substance, he has courageously stepped forward to tell the truth.”

“Has he been advised by counsel of the consequences of this admission?”

“Yes.”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “There is no foundation for any of this. In addition, Sean Fairchild isn’t on any witness list. We’ve had no chance to interview him and we will have no opportunity to cross-examine him.”

“Overruled. I will allow the statement to be entered into evidence.”

McNulty sits in stone-cold silence as I read Sean’s statement onto the record. A moment later, I pick up again with Roosevelt. “Inspector, given Sean Fairchild’s statement, are you now prepared to change your conclusion that Bobby Fairchild got into an argument with his father about the marijuana that was found in the laundry room?”

“I’m prepared to consider it.”

It’s as much as I’ll get. “Are you aware that the Medical Examiner concluded that Judge Fairchild died between eleven-forty-five p.m. on Friday night and twelve-thirty a.m. on Saturday morning?”

“Yes.”

“Are you also aware that a witness named Keith Treadwell purported to have seen Bobby Fairchild outside his father’s house at twelve-ten a.m.?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you believe Judge Fairchild was killed sometime before twelve ten?”

“Based upon the evidence available to me at this time, that would appear likely.”

It may seem like a small point, but I just shaved twenty minutes off Bobby’s window of opportunity. Now I need to keep chipping away. “Inspector, you testified that you believe Bobby killed his father, took off his bloody clothes, put them in the washer, changed into clean clothes, vandalized the hallway to make it look like a robbery, and then ran outside to his car, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How long do you figure it took him to do all of that?”

McNulty’s up. “Objection. Speculation.”

“Overruled.”

“It probably happened very fast,” Roosevelt says.

“A minute? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“I’d guess two or three minutes.”

“I might have guessed longer. For purposes of discussion, let’s say it took three minutes.”

“It may have been less.”

“And it may have been more. If it was three minutes, and Bobby really was seen outside at ten after twelve, the process must have started no later than seven minutes after twelve, right?”

“So it would appear.”

“Which means Bobby must have entered the house no later than twelve-oh-seven, right?”

“Based upon the information available to us at this time, that appears to be correct.”

“Realistically, he probably entered the house at least a few minutes earlier, right?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Fine. “Inspector, have you located any witnesses who saw Bobby enter his father’s house on Friday night or Saturday morning?”

“No.”

“So you have no proof that he was inside his father’s house between eleven-forty-five p.m. and twelve-thirty a.m., do you?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, if we assume Bobby entered the house at twelve-oh-seven, it would follow that you believe he must have killed his father immediately thereafter, right?”

“So it would appear.”

I just took another three precious minutes off the clock.

McNulty stands. “Your Honor, this line of questioning is pure speculation.”

No it isn’t. “Your Honor, on direct exam, Inspector Johnson testified as to the timing of Judge Fairchild’s death. We have the right to question him about his conclusions.”

“I’ll give you a little leeway, Mr. Daley.”

I still have a little more work to do. “Inspector, did you interview a private investigator named Kaela Joy Gullion?”

“Yes.”

“Did she inform you that she was keeping Judge Fairchild under surveillance on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

We’ll get into the reason she was tailing him a little later. “Did she explain that she followed Judge Fairchild to his house?”

“Yes.”

“According to her eyewitness account, what time did he pull into his garage?”

“Midnight.”

“I trust he was very much alive at that time?”

“Of course.”

“Did you find her statement to be credible?”

“We have found no evidence to the contrary.”

That takes fifteen minutes off the front end. “That means you believe Judge Fairchild must have been killed sometime between midnight and twelve-oh-seven a.m., right?”

“Based upon the evidence available to me at this time, that appears to be likely.”

Dr. Beckert’s forty-five minute window of opportunity is down to seven minutes. “Inspector, do you have any physical evidence placing Bobby inside his father’s house between midnight and twelve-oh-seven a.m.?”

“We found the defendant’s fingerprints inside.”

“But we’ve already established that the fingerprints you found could have been weeks or even months old. Do you have an eyewitness account or any forensic evidence conclusively placing Bobby inside his father’s house during that seven-minute window?”

“We only have circumstantial evidence.”

“So, if we can demonstrate that he wasn’t inside his father’s house during that seven-minute window, you would agree he couldn’t have killed his father, right?”

“I’ll need to look at the rest of the evidence before I can make any final judgments.”

I expected him to hedge. “Likewise, if we can demonstrate that Bobby wasn’t inside his father’s house at all on Friday night or Saturday morning, you’d have to agree that he couldn’t have killed his father, right?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t disagree with that one. “Inspector, you interviewed the defendant’s girlfriend, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And she told you she was with the defendant on Friday night, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“In fact she told you she and the defendant returned to the defendant’s car around twelve-fifteen, didn’t she? And he drove her home to Marin County, didn’t he? And they arrived at her house around one o’clock on Saturday morning, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t return to his father’s house until two o’clock on Saturday morning, right?”

“That appears to be correct.”

“If he killed his father between eleven-forty-five and twelve-thirty, doesn’t that mean he must have been wearing the bloody clothes when he took his girlfriend home?”

“We believe he put the bloody clothes in the washer before he drove her home.”

“In other words, he changed clothes?”

“Correct.”

“Did you question his girlfriend about it?”

“Yes.”

“Did she confirm that Bobby had changed clothes?”

“No.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt her veracity?”

“We believe she was lying to protect her boyfriend.”

“Do you have any specific forensic evidence to prove that assertion?”

“No.”

“So that’s speculation on your part, isn’t it?”

“My conclusion is based on the evidence available to us at this time.”

“Not to mention the fact that it certainly helps your case to call the defendant’s girlfriend a liar, doesn’t it?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I’ll deal with it when Grace is on the stand. For now, I simply want to lock Roosevelt into a time frame. “Inspector, just so we’re clear, is it your belief that Bobby killed his father between twelve o’clock and twelve-oh-seven, quickly changed clothes, and drove his girlfriend home?”

“That explanation would fit the evidence, Mr. Daley.”

“Then he called the cops shortly after he got home?”

“Yes.”

“Why in God’s name would he have called the cops if he was guilty?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve shortened the time frame and set up Grace’s testimony. Now I need to give the judge some options. “Inspector, Judge Fairchild had a high-profile position in the legal community, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He handled several highly publicized cases, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He received several death threats, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He was so concerned at one point that he obtained a permit to carry a gun, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

McNulty stands. “If you would instruct Mr. Daley to get to the point, Your Honor.”

“Please, Mr. Daley.”

“Inspector, did you consider the possibility that somebody who had threatened Judge Fairchild carried out his intention?”

“We considered many possibilities, Mr. Daley.”

“Yet you arrested Judge Fairchild’s son within minutes after you arrived at his father’s house, right?”

“All of the evidence pointed to the defendant.”

“Did you consider any other suspects?”

“Yes. All of the evidence pointed toward the defendant.”

“Does the name George Savage mean anything to you?”

“Yes. He’s the owner of Bayview Towing.”

“Judge Fairchild recently presided over a case in which Mr. Savage was convicted of racketeering, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Savage paid a substantial fine, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he threatened Judge Fairchild in open court, didn’t he?”

“Some of his statements could have been interpreted that way.”

“Did you take that threat seriously?”

“Absolutely. We interviewed Mr. Savage several times. We found no evidence of any connection to Judge Fairchild’s death.”

“Does the name Brian Hannah mean anything to you?”

“Yes. He worked for Mr. Savage’s towing company.”

“He’s also dead.”

“He was killed last night.”

“Before he died, Mr. Hannah admitted his tow truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Telephone records indicated a call was placed from Mr. Savage’s private cell phone to Mr. Hannah’s cell phone at eleven o’clock on Friday night, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Our investigation concluded Mr. Savage called Mr. Hannah on a legitimate and unrelated business matter.”

“Like killing a judge?”

“Like picking up a package the following morning.”

“You took Mr. Savage’s word for it?”

“We interrogated Mr. Savage and Mr. Hannah.”

“You understand they were both convicted felons.”

“Yes.”

“Yet you gave them the benefit of the doubt?”

“We had no evidence to cast doubt upon their stories, Mr. Daley.”

“Have you arrested anybody in connection with Mr. Hannah’s murder?”

“We are still investigating.”

I feign exasperation as I turn back to the judge. Her skeptical expression suggests my attempt to invoke the legal doctrine of “blaming it on the dead guy” wasn’t terribly well-received. “Your Honor, we reserve the right to recall this witness to discuss additional evidence concerning the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hannah’s death.” It’s a bluff.

“That’s fine, Mr. Daley. Any further questions for this witness?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Redirect, Mr. McNulty?”

“No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

“I take it you would like to make a motion, Mr. Daley?”

“The defense respectfully moves to have the charges dropped as a matter of law.”

“On what grounds?”

“Lack of evidence.”

“Denied. Please call your first witness, Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” You always lead with strength. “The defense calls Kaela Joy Gullion.”

CHAPTER 47

“DR. FAIRCHILD WAS SUSPICIOUS THAT HER HUSBAND WAS CHEATING”

Wednesday, June 22, 1:27 p.m.

All eyes are focused intently on the back of the courtroom as Kaela Joy Gullion—all six-foot-two of her—stands erect, tosses back her flowing chestnut locks, and does her best imitation of a high-end fashion model strutting down the runway. She winks at the reporter from the Chronicle, who nods appreciatively. The sketch artists in the back row are furiously attacking their pads.

Defense lawyers should never forget we’re in the business of telling stories. We’ll use every tool at our disposal to do it as effectively as we can.

The bailiff holds up a Bible that Kaela Joy touches seductively with her left hand as she raises her right. She swears to tell the truth and takes her seat in the witness box. I look at her admiringly from the lectern. I give her a moment to adjust the microphone and get her bearings—as if she really needs the extra time. McNulty and Ward feign disinterest from their seats at the prosecution table. They try to give the impression that our presentation will have as much drama as taking your car in for an oil change.

“Ms. Gullion,” I begin, “how long have you been a private investigator?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“I understand Julie Fairchild hired you to watch her husband.”

“She did.” Kaela Joy pauses to milk the moment—just the way we rehearsed it. “Dr. Fairchild was suspicious that her husband was cheating.”

“Was he?”

“Absolutely.”

I shoot a quick glance over at Bobby, who is staring straight ahead, then I turn back to Kaela Joy. “Did you inform Dr. Fairchild of your findings?”

“I did. She hired a lawyer and filed for a divorce.”

I move in closer. “Ms. Gullion, did Judge Fairchild have a mistress?” I could have chosen a softer term such as girlfriend or significant other. This exercise is intended to portray Jack Fairchild as a serial adulterer.

“Judge Fairchild was seeing a young woman named Christina Evans. She’s a staff attorney at the court.”

“Was he seeing anybody else?”

“Yes, he was.” Her eyes dart apologetically toward Bobby. “Judge Fairchild had a ‘thing’ for certain young women.”

“What sort of a ‘thing?’”

“He liked to have sex with underage Asian girls.”

I let the answer hang. I take another look at Bobby, who hasn’t moved. Sean, on the other hand, has a disgusted expression. He’s holding his palms up and glaring at his mother in the front row of the gallery. I turn back to Kaela Joy and ask, “How young?”

“Girls under the age of eighteen—preferably with small bodies and developing breasts.”

Bobby remains stoic, but Sean is whispering heatedly to his mother. The judge’s icy glare silences the murmurs in the gallery.

“Ms. Gullion, did Judge Fairchild find a place to procure the services of such girls?”

“The Sunshine Massage Spa in the Tenderloin.”

“He went there for massages?”

“No, Mr. Daley. He went there for sex.”

Her delivery is impeccable. It also causes Bobby to elicit a pronounced sigh. Julie is unable to calm a visibly distraught Sean. She leads him out of the courtroom.

“How long had this been going on?” I ask Kaela Joy.

“At least a couple of months.”

I’ve succeeded in engaging the prurient curiosity of the gallery. The newspaper scribes have more than enough to portray Judge Fairchild as a member of the Pervert Hall of Fame in tomorrow morning’s headlines. Hopefully, this will generate some sympathy for Bobby, but I need to tread cautiously. It could also engender the sort of revulsion suggesting Bobby had a motive to kill his father.

I ask Kaela Joy if she was keeping the judge under surveillance on Friday night.

“Yes.” She confirms that he went to dinner at the Bohemian Club. “He was supposed to go over to Ms. Evans’s apartment after dinner. He went to the Sunshine instead.”

“What time did he get there?”

“Eleven o’clock. He left at eleven-forty-five.

“What was the purpose of his visit?”

McNulty finally decides to try to stop our flow. “Objection. Calls for speculation. Unless Ms. Gullion went inside, she has no way of knowing.”

“Overruled.”

I guess Judge McDaniel is as curious as the rest of us.

Kaela Joy keeps her voice modulated. “Judge Fairchild went to the Sunshine Massage Spa to engage in sex with underage prostitutes.”

I can’t resist a swipe. “Not especially dignified behavior for a judge, eh?”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”

“Withdrawn. Ms. Gullion, where did Judge Fairchild go after he left the Sunshine?”

“Straight home.”

“Did you follow him?”

“At a discreet distance.”

Of course. “What time did he arrive at his house?”

“Midnight. I watched him pull into his garage. He opened the door with his remote and parked inside. He closed the door behind him.”

“How long were you there?”

“Just a moment. I had what I needed.”

Yes, you did. “Did you see Bobby Fairchild enter or exit his father’s house while you were there?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Ms. Gullion, did you notice anything unusual inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.”

“What about outside?”

“There was a gray Crown Victoria without license plates parked illegally in front of the fire hydrant on Grattan.”

“Had you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Was anybody inside the car?”

“No.”

“And because there was no license plate, there was no way you could have identified the owner of that vehicle, right?”

“Correct.”

“And it may have been stolen.”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“And it may have belonged to the person who killed Judge Fairchild, right?”

“Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Gullion, did you drive down Grattan on your way home?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see a truck from Bayview Towing?”

“Yes. It was double-parked down near Cole.”

“Was anybody inside?”

“No.”

“Do you know where the driver was?”

“No.”

I’ve placed her at the scene around the time of the killing. She’s raised questions about the Crown Vic and the tow truck. She’s testified she didn’t see Bobby—although her vantage point was imperfect. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Cross-exam, Mr. McNulty?”

“Just a few questions, Your Honor.” McNulty strides to the witness box. “Ms. Gullion, did you know there’s a back door to Judge Fairchild’s house that opens into the yard?”

“Yes.”

“There is also a gate leading from the yard directly onto the sidewalk on Grattan Street, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

I try to break up his flow. “I don’t understand the point, Your Honor. We’ve already established Ms. Gullion’s location and the geography surrounding Judge Fairchild’s house.”

“Get to the point, Mr. McNulty,” the judge says.

“Yes, Your Honor.” He turns back to Kaela Joy. “Ms. Gullion, is it possible the defendant could have entered and exited his father’s house through the back door?”

“Yes.”

“Is it also possible he could have done so without your having seen him?”

“Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Overruled.”

“It’s possible,” Kaela Joy says.

“No further questions.”

“Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Ms. Gullion, just so we’re clear, did you see Bobby Fairchild or anyone else anywhere near his father’s house early Saturday morning?”

“No.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

I’m about to respond when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “One moment please, Your Honor.” I turn around and look straight into the eyes of an irate Julie Fairchild, who has returned to the courtroom without Sean. “What the hell was that all about?” she snaps.

“Lower your voice. The judge will hear you.”

“Why did you have to make Jack look like a pervert?”

Because he was. “I told you this was coming, Julie. We needed to show where Jack was on Friday night—and when he got home.”

“You didn’t have to do it in front of my children.

“You promised me that you were going to tell them.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“Then don’t blame me.”

“Who’s up next?” she asks.

“Lenny Stone.”

“Terrific. My son’s life is on the line and your star witness is a homeless guy.”

CHAPTER 48

“MY NAME IS LEONARD STONE”

Wednesday, June 22, 1:36 p.m.

Lenny is gulping water and tugging at the sleeves of the ill-fitting blazer Pete bought for him yesterday. We got him a room at a fleabag motel near the Hall last night where Pete kept an eye on him. With a fresh shave and shower, he could almost pass for a college professor.

“My name is Leonard Stone,” he says tentatively. “Everybody calls me Lenny.”

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“The Haight.”

“Where in the Haight?”

He shifts in his chair. “It changes from day to day.”

Don’t get cute. “Where do you spend most of your time?”

“In the daytime I’m in Golden Gate Park and on Haight Street. I spend the nights in the Muni tunnel.

“How long have you been living on the street?”

“About ten years.”

“How do you get money to eat?”

“I hit people up for change. I collect bottles and cans and take them to the recycling center.”

“Have you ever thought about staying in a shelter?”

“I tried it a couple of times. Too many rules. No dogs.”

Fidel is relaxing at our office and guarding the shopping cart with his master’s belongings. It took all of my persuasive skills to convince Lenny his possessions would be safe with us. “Lenny, did you take your dog for a walk on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave the Muni tunnel?”

“Around midnight.”

“That’s pretty late.”

“Nobody bothers us at night.”

“Where did you go?”

He says he took Clayton to Parnassus. “We turned onto Belvedere and walked up to Alma.”

“Do you know where Judge Jack Fairchild lived?”

“At the corner of Belvedere and Grattan.”

“How did you know?”

“There were police cars in front of his house during the Savage trial. That made it a no-fly zone for a few months.”

“Did you walk by Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“I would say around twelve-oh-five a.m.”

“Did you see anybody inside the judge’s house?”

“Nope.”

“What about outside?”

“Nope.”

“Do you recall seeing a gray Crown Victoria parked in front of the fire hydrant next to the judge’s house?”

“Yes.”

“How did you happen to notice it?”

“It had tinted windows and no plates. I thought it might have been an unmarked cop car.”

“Was anybody inside?”

“I didn’t stop to check.”

“Where did you go from there?”

“We went over to the playground behind the grammar school. I let my dog run around for a few minutes. I can’t do it during the day when the children are around. We stayed there for about ten minutes. Then we walked back home.”

“What route did you take?”

“We took Grattan to Belvedere. Then we headed over to Parnassus.”

“So you walked by the Grattan Street side of Judge Fairchild’s house on your way back?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

He looks up at the clock in the back of the courtroom. “Around a quarter after twelve.”

“Did you see anybody outside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Nope.”

“What about inside?”

“Nope.”

“Did you notice anything else in particular as you were passing the judge’s house?”

“The Crown Vic was gone.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

McNulty buttons his jacket and moves in front of Lenny. “Mr. Stone, you’ve been living on the street for a long time, haven’t you?”

“Objection,” I say. I need to show Lenny that I’m watching out for him. “Asked and answered. We have already established that Mr. Stone has been living on the street for ten years.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty shakes his head. “Mr. Stone, you worked as an auto mechanic for a while, didn’t you?”

“Yes. It was after I got out of the army.”

“Why was your employment terminated?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Stone’s employment history—or lack thereof—goes directly to his credibility.”

No, it doesn’t. “Your Honor, Mr. Stone’s employment history has nothing to do with his credibility or this case.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty is nonplussed. “Mr. Stone, you have a drug problem, don’t you?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

McNulty responds with a melodramatic eye roll. “Your Honor, Mr. Daley opened the door when he brought up the fact that Mr. Stone lives on the street. We should be able to probe the reasons why.”

It’s my turn to invoke a little self-righteousness. “He lives on the street because he’s unemployed and he can’t afford an apartment. Mr. Stone is a veteran of the first Gulf War. It is a disgrace that our country doesn’t do more to help its veterans. Mr. McNulty’s personal attacks on Mr. Stone are offensive and mean-spirited.”

Judge McDaniel nods. “Move along, Mr. McNulty.”

He takes it in stride. “Mr. Stone, a little while ago, you expressed concern that you and your dog might have run into a police officer when you were out for your walk last Friday night.”

“That’s true.”

“Is that because you’ve been arrested?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

McNulty shows his first sign of irritation. “Your Honor, Mr. Stone brought up his desire to avoid contact with police officers. He opened the door. We have the right to cross-examine him about it.”

“Overruled.”

Legally, it’s the correct call.

Lenny’s tone turns indignant. “I’ve been arrested several times, but—,”

McNulty cuts him off. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. McNulty didn’t let Mr. Stone finish his answer.”

“Did you wish to add something, Mr. Stone?”

“Yes. I was going to say I’ve done a few things that I’m not especially proud of, but I’ve never hurt anybody.”

Sometimes you get help from unexpected sources.

McNulty moves in closer. “Mr. Stone, Mr. Daley paid for a hotel room for you last night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he bought you those new clothes, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he paid for your dinner last night and your breakfast this morning, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Did he promise to help you with your legal problems?”

“No.”

“Did he promise to find you a place to live?”

“No.”

“What else has he promised you, Mr. Stone?”

“Nothing.”

I warned Lenny this onslaught was coming. It will only look worse if I interrupt. So far, he’s holding his own.

McNulty leans in closer to Lenny. “Mr. Stone, it seems to me you would say just about anything to stay on Mr. Daley’s good side.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“But you’d be willing to fudge it a little to get another hot meal, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“And you might be willing to fudge it a lot—maybe even to change your story completely—if Mr. Daley found you a place to live, right?”

“No.”

“Come on, Mr. Stone. Perjury is a felony.”

Enough. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions,” McNulty says.

Rosie leans over. “Should we put on Savage?” she whispers.

“It won’t help. He’ll deny everything. So will Newsom.”

I can hear the judge’s voice from behind me. “Any more witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

“Just one, Your Honor. If we might have a brief recess to confer.”

“We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

When it will all come down to Grace.

CHAPTER 49

“YOU NEED TO DECIDE WHOSE SIDE YOU’RE ON”

Wednesday, June 22, 1:44 p.m.

“You need to talk your daughter,” Sylvia says. She makes no attempt to conceal her frustration as she stands guard outside the file room in the basement of the Hall, where she and Grace have been holed up since early this morning.

“What now?” Rosie asks.

“She doesn’t want to testify.”

We don’t have time for this. “Why not?” I ask.

“Maybe she’s tired of being browbeaten by her own parents.”

Arguing with Sylvia is even more difficult than arguing with Rosie. “That’s not fair, Sylvia.”

“Sure it is. While you’ve been giving Bobby all of your time and energy, you’ve ignored your own daughter.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“We’re doing our job.”

“That’s crap, Mike. You take everything he says at face value, yet you question everything she says.”

Rosie’s left hand balls up into a tight fist. “That isn’t true, either, Mama.”

“Isn’t it?” Sylvia’s voice gets louder. “You barely know this boy. You certainly don’t know anything about his parents. It’s obvious they weren’t the All-American couple—far from it. Yet you’ve accepted everything his mother has said as gospel.”

Rosie flashes anger. “No, we haven’t, Mama. We’ve spent the last week taking unending grief from her. We’ve talked about withdrawing from this case more than once. Julie has threatened to fire us.”

“Maybe that would be in everybody’s best interests.”

“Maybe it would.”

Sylvia isn’t finished. “You need to decide whose side you’re on, Rosita.”

There is no hesitation. “Grace’s.”

“From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look that way to me.”

“You don’t know the whole story, Mama.”

“Clearly, neither do you.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“No, I’m not.”

Rosie drums her fingers against her thigh. “We don’t have time for this now. Grace is going on the stand in a few minutes. If you have something you want to say to us, just say it.”

Sylvia Fernandez looks intently into her daughter’s eyes as she invokes the quiet gravitas of her seventy-nine years. “You never should have taken this case, Rosita. I know your intentions are good, but you’re enabling the Fairchild boy to try to get out of trouble while you let Grace twist in the wind. He’ll never understand the consequences of his actions.” She pauses before she adds, “Neither will Grace.”

“Are you suggesting Grace is involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. I do know for sure that she used horrible judgment by staying out until one o’clock on Saturday morning.”

“It isn’t the first time she’s broken curfew and it won’t be the last. At the moment, that’s the least of our problems.”

“If that’s all it was, Rosita.”

“What are you saying, Mama?”

“You’re far too willing to believe Grace and her boyfriend.”

“You think they’re lying?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

Rosie pushes out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want us to do, Mama? They’re entitled to a lawyer. They’ll get eaten alive by the legal system if we don’t help them.”

“I expect you to teach them that their actions have consequences.”

“It isn’t that simple, Mama.”

“Yes, it is, Rosita.”

“No, it isn’t. Don’t you understand? Their lives are already changed forever. If they end up in jail, their lives will be over.”

“You’re enabling them.”

“We’re helping them. That’s what lawyers do.” Rosie takes a deep breath. “That’s what parents do.”

“You aren’t doing your children any favors by teaching them that their actions have no consequences if they hire a smart lawyer.”

“Thanks for your input, Mama. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

* * *

“What’s bugging you?” I ask Grace.

“Everything.” She’s sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair with her legs crossed. Her iPad is turned off. Her cell phone is silent. “I can’t do this, Dad.”

It isn’t unusual for a key witness to get cold feet shortly before they have to testify. “Sure you can.”

“No, I can’t.”

She’s scared. “Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

Life with a teenage daughter is frequently an exercise in mind reading. It also requires a knack for making life-altering decisions on the fly. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“I thought we had everything worked out.”

“We did.”

“What’s changed since earlier today?”

“Nothing.”

“Talk to me, Grace.”

“Nothing,” she repeats.

“Are you mad at us?”

She shrugs. “No more than usual.”

“What about Bobby?”

“A little.” Her eyes fill with tears as the frustrations come pouring out. “Why did he have to pick up that hammer? Why did he have to put his clothes in the washer? Why did he have to get into that argument with his father on Friday morning?”

“He was upset.”

“It was stupid.”

“He was under a lot of stress.”

“It makes him look guilty.”

Yes, it does. It’s also an opening. “Is he?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you have to help him.”

“It isn’t that easy.”

“I never said it was.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Grace?”

She’s looking down when she says, “Yes?”

“If there’s something you haven’t told us, this would be a good time.”

“There’s nothing.”

“We won’t get mad at you, honey. I promise.”

She’s more emphatic this time. “There’s nothing.”

“Did Bobby go inside his father’s house?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“If I screw this up, Bobby is going to be in more trouble.”

“It will be worse if you don’t testify.”

“I guess.” She’s trying to hold back tears.

“You’ll do fine, Grace. Just follow my lead and keep your answers short.”

“I wish it were over.”

So do I. “It’ll be over soon.”

My baby-daughter-turned-young-woman looks up at me through glassy eyes. “Thanks for helping Bobby, Daddy.”

I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat. “You’re welcome, honey.” I realize it sounds more hollow than reassuring when I add, “Everything is going to be fine.”

CHAPTER 50

THE PERFECT ALIBI

Wednesday, June 22, 2:02 p.m.

“My name is Grace Fernandez Daley.” Her voice is soft, but clear.

“How old are you, Grace?” The acid in my stomach boils like molten lava.

“Sixteen.”

She’s wearing a simple white cotton blouse and no makeup. Her straight hair cascades down her back. Her hands have a choke hold on the arms of the straight-back chair in the witness box. The courtroom is silent.

“Where do you go to school?” I ask.

She shoots a quick glance at Sylvia, who is providing moral support from the second row of the gallery. “I just finished my sophomore year at Redwood High School.”

“Are you a good student?”

“I’m near the top of my class.”

I take a moment to walk her through her multitude of activities: shortstop on the softball team, drama club, debate team, freshman orientation committee. I want to show she’s a solid citizen. More important, I want to give her time to get her bearings.

I move in closer and get down to business. “Do you know Bobby Fairchild?”

“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“About six months.”

“Are you happy with your relationship?”

“Yes.”

“You’d met Bobby’s parents, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You knew they were getting divorced, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” McNulty says, trying to disrupt our flow. “Mr. Daley is leading his daughter.”

Yes, I am. I can also do without the attitude.

“Please, Mr. Daley,” the judge says.

“I’ll rephrase.” I haven’t taken my eyes off Grace. “Did you know Bobby’s parents were getting divorced?”

“Yes.”

“Was it acrimonious?”

“Yes.”

“Was Bobby upset about it?”

“Wouldn’t you be upset?”

McNulty tries to fluster her. “Your Honor,” he interjects, “would you please instruct the witness not to ask questions of counsel?”

His pettiness elicits a hint of annoyance from Judge McDaniel. She addresses Grace in a maternal tone. “Ms. Daley, please answer your father’s questions.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” She looks at Bobby for an instant. “I would say that he was more frustrated than upset. Bobby’s parents were fighting for a long time.”

Good enough. “Did Bobby get along with his father?”

“Yes.”

“Did they ever argue?”

“A little.”

“About what?”

“Stuff that parents argue about with their teenage kids.”

Don’t play games, Grace. “Grades?”

“No. He’s a straight-A student.”

“Girls?”

“A little.”

“Alcohol or drugs?”

“Absolutely not.”

So far, so good. “Grace, did you and Bobby go out on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you get together?”

“Bobby picked me up at six o’clock.” She methodically recites the story Rosie has been drilling into her for the past two days. They drove to Cole Valley and parked on Grattan next to the judge’s house. They walked over to Zazie.

“Did you go inside Judge Fairchild’s house before dinner?”

“No. There wasn’t enough time.”

“Where did you go after you finished eating?”

“We went to see Waiting for Guffman at the Red Vic. Then we took a walk down Haight Street to Amoeba Music, where we looked at CDs. We walked back to get Bobby’s car when they closed at midnight.”

“What time did you get back to the car?”

“A quarter after twelve.”

“You were out late.”

“We lost track of the time.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Bobby’s father when you got back to the car?”

“No.”

“Was he home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see anybody inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“No.” She confirms she didn’t see anybody outside, either.

“Grace, were you and Bobby together for the entire evening?”

“Yes.”

“You walked back to the car together?”

“Yes.”

“And you got right into the car when you got there?”

“Yes. Bobby drove me straight home.”

Hang with me, Gracie. We’re almost done. “Grace, did you or Bobby go inside Judge Fairchild’s house at any time on Friday night or Saturday morning?”

“No.”

“Is there any chance Bobby went inside his father’s house without your having seen it?”

“No.”

I have what I need. “No further questions.” I give Grace a subtle nod and return to my seat.

Rosie whispers to me, “She did a nice job.”

“Yes, she did.”

“So did you.”

“Thanks.” The easy part is over. Now we’ll see how she holds up on cross.

CHAPTER 51

“DO YOU LOVE YOUR BOYFRIEND?”

Wednesday, June 22, 2:24 p.m.

McNulty invokes a respectful tone as he addresses the judge from the prosecution table. “May we approach the witness, Your Honor?”

“Yes, Mr. McNulty.”

Instinctively, I give Grace a reassuring nod. As McNulty moves forward, Rosie leans over and whispers, “Protect her.”

“I will.” The knot in my stomach has grown to the size of a tennis ball.

McNulty parks himself in front of Grace and flashes a transparently phony smile. “Ms. Daley, I am Assistant District Attorney William McNulty. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened Friday night and Saturday morning.”

Grace squeezes the armrests of her chair more tightly. Stay the course, honey.

“Ms. Daley,” McNulty continues, “do you understand that you’re under oath?”

“Yes.”

“You know that means you’re required to tell us the truth, right?”

“Yes.”

“You were telling the truth when your father was asking you questions, right?”

He’s trying to intimidate her. “Objection. The witness has already acknowledged she’s under oath.”

“Sustained. Let’s get moving, Mr. McNulty.”

He places a hand on the rail of the witness box and never takes his eyes off Grace. “Ms. Daley, you testified earlier that you and the defendant went out to dinner and a movie last Friday night, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The defendant’s car was parked on Grattan Street next to Judge Fairchild’s house, correct?”

“Yes.”

Good girl, Grace. Short answers.

“And the defendant drove you straight back to your mother’s house, right?”

“Right.”

I can’t stop McNulty from leading her on cross. Nor can I keep him from referring to Bobby as “the defendant.” He hasn’t raised anything new that could get us into trouble—yet.

“Ms. Daley,” he continues, “I want to focus on the time after you and the defendant left the movie. You said you walked down Haight Street to Amoeba Music, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you left that store when it closed at midnight, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you went back to retrieve the defendant’s car, right?”

I need to show Grace that I’ve got her back. “Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

McNulty doesn’t fluster. “Ms. Daley, did you see anybody when you and the defendant walked down Haight?”

“There were people on the street. Amoeba was pretty crowded.”

“Can you give us any names?”

“No.”

“Can anybody corroborate your whereabouts on Friday night?”

Grace shows her first hint of being flustered. “I don’t know.”

“Your story would be more credible if somebody other than your boyfriend could confirm it.”

“Objection. There wasn’t a question there.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Daley, have you ever been inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“A few.”

“How many is a few?”

“Maybe five.”

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Last Monday.”

“So it’s your testimony that you weren’t inside Judge Fairchild’s house last Friday night, right?”

“Right.”

“And neither was the defendant, right?”

“Right.”

“So you say.”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Withdrawn.” McNulty inches toward Grace. “Ms. Daley, have you ever been inside your boyfriend’s bedroom?”

“Yes.”

My antenna goes up. Until now, McNulty has referred to Bobby as “the defendant.” Suddenly, he’s morphed into Grace’s boyfriend. To a casual observer, this might appear to be a minor semantic detail. Knowing McNulty, there’s a reason for the subtle switch in terminology.

McNulty keeps going. “Were you inside his room on Friday night?”

“No.”

“You and your boyfriend didn’t sneak over to his father’s house for a little time alone?”

“Objection. Asked and answered. The witness testified that she wasn’t inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

“Sustained.”

Rosie is leaning forward. I can barely hear her when she whispers, “Watch out.”

“Ms. Daley,” McNulty continues, “are you and your boyfriend close?”

“Yes.”

“Very close?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love your boyfriend?”

Grace looks at me for an instant before she answers. “Yes.”

As her lawyer, I’ll always take a truthful answer—even if it suggests she has a motive to protect Bobby. As her father, I’m not nearly as ecstatic.

“Do you love him a lot?” McNulty asks.

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Do you love him enough that you’d lie to protect him?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

Grace is glaring straight into McNulty’s eyes as she lowers her voice a half-octave. “No, Mr. McNulty. My parents are lawyers. I know better than to lie in court.”

For an instant, McNulty seems taken aback by her understated forthrightness. He moves in front of her and purposely blocks my view. “Ms. Daley, are you and your boyfriend sexually active?”

What the hell? Rosie and I leap out of our seats. “Objection!” I shout. “That question is irrelevant and offensive.”

McNulty responds in an even tone. “Your Honor, the question speaks to the fundamental credibility of this witness.”

The hell it does. “Your Honor, this is a grandstand play to try to intimidate our daughter.”

Judge McDaniel taps her gavel once to silence the murmuring in the gallery. “Counsel will approach.” Rosie and I walk to the front of the courtroom. The judge covers her microphone and addresses McNulty out of Grace’s earshot. “I’m not going to let you browbeat a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“This witness is lying to protect her boyfriend.”

“No, she isn’t,” I snap. “This is just a desperate attempt to intimidate her because her testimony is destroying his case.”

“No, it isn’t,” McNulty insists.

The judge arches an eyebrow. “It’s starting to look that way to me, Mr. McNulty.”

“I can assure you that it isn’t.”

“I don’t deal in assurances, Mr. McNulty. I deal in evidence.”

“We’re working on it, Your Honor.”

“He’s stalling,” I say.

“No, I’m not. We are trying to confirm some additional information that will have a direct and significant bearing on this case.”

“What information would that be?” the judge asks.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this time.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist,” I say.

“Yes, it does.”

The judge glares at him. “I need evidence, Mr. McNulty.”

“Your Honor,” he says, “we respectfully request a recess to follow up on this new and highly compelling information.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “this is nothing more than a stalling tactic to give them more time to go on another fishing expedition.”

McNulty feigns indignation. “I can assure you it is not.”

The judge looks at the clock in the back of her courtroom. “I’ll give you until ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You’d better have something really good to show me, Mr. McNulty. If not, I’m going to dismiss the charges and hold you in contempt.”

“It’ll be good, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor—,” I say.

“Step back, counsel.” The judge uncovers her microphone. “We’re adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 52

“YOUR CLIENT IS LYING TO YOU”

Wednesday, June 22, 3:07 p.m.

Immediately after court is adjourned, Rosie and Sylvia hustle Grace downstairs while I make a beeline for McNulty. I corner him in a stairwell outside the prying eyes of the media. My heart is pounding when I say, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“My job.”

“You’re stalling. You have nothing.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Then you have a legal obligation to tell us what it is.”

“I have a legal obligation to disclose evidence that might exonerate your client. I can assure you this does not.” He reaches for the door and adds, “Your client is lying to you. So is your daughter.”

* * *

Grace is tugging nervously at her collar when I arrive in the dungeon of the Hall a few minutes later. “Why do we have to wait until tomorrow?” she asks.

“The prosecutors claim they have some additional evidence.”

She eyes me warily. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” I take her hand. “We can’t afford any surprises, Grace. If there’s something you need to tell us, this is your last chance.”

“There isn’t.”

A furious Sylvia is struggling to contain her emotions in front of her granddaughter. “This is ridiculous. They’re trying to intimidate her. Their case is falling apart.”

Rosie tries to mask her anxiety, but I can hear the tension in her voice. “Mama, Mike and I need to go to the office to prepare for tomorrow. I’d like you to take Grace home. We’ll meet you there as soon as we can.”

* * *

“Have you heard anything from Pete?” Rosie asks.

We’re sitting in my office at five minutes to seven on Wednesday night. “I just talked to him. Nothing new.”

“Damn it. Where is he?”

“Parked across the street from the Sunshine.”

“What for?”

“He didn’t have any better ideas. At the moment, neither do I.”

Rosie exhales heavily. “Were you able to reach Roosevelt?”

“I’ve left three messages.”

“Is he avoiding us?”

“Maybe.”

Rosie temples her fingers in front of her face. The strain of the past week is taking its toll. “Do you think they’ve found something?”

I answer her honestly. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to buy time to keep fishing.”

“They’re going to look foolish if they don’t bring something to the party tomorrow morning.”

“People have short memories. Nobody will be talking about this by the end of the week.”

She strokes her chin. “Do you think my mother was right about us representing Bobby?”

My first instinct is to deflect. “Let’s not go there tonight, Rosie. We shouldn’t second-guess ourselves.”

“That rule doesn’t apply when your daughter is involved.”

I can’t avoid this discussion. “I don’t know what else we could have done.”

“We could have brought in another lawyer.”

True. “Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Rosie. We can’t change it now.”

We look at each other with the silent understanding that we made a mistake by taking this case. We’re interrupted when our receptionist, process server, and occasional bodyguard, Terrence “the Terminator” Love, taps on my open door. The seven-foot-tall former prizefighter and recovering alcoholic was once one of my most reliable clients at the PD’s Office. He retired from boxing after losing four bouts to pursue an equally undistinguished career in theft. The gentle giant took great pride that he stole only necessities and never hurt anybody. When he was about to be sent away for good after his third serious felony, Judge McDaniel gave us two options: watch him go to jail for life or hire him as our receptionist. We opted for the latter, and he hasn’t missed a day of work ever since. He now lives in a modest studio apartment not far from Savage’s impound lot in the Bayview.

“Your case was the lead story on the news,” he says. “They said Grace did a nice job.”

“She did.”

For a guy with little formal education who spent his formative years trying to earn a living by beating the daylights out of people, Terrence has a firm grasp of current events. He quickly adds, “They said McNulty is promising something spectacular in the morning.”

“Did they mention what it was?”

“No, but it might explain why you have a visitor.”

“McNulty?”

“Roosevelt.”

CHAPTER 53

“FAMILY”

Wednesday, June 22, 7:00 p.m.

Roosevelt’s baritone is subdued. “You did a nice job on cross today.”

“Thanks.” I study his poker face for any hint of the reason for his visit, but I can’t read him. “Sorry for beating you up.”

“Part of the process. I’m too old to take it personally.”

He’s jammed his large torso into one of the uncomfortable swivel chairs opposite my desk. In what passes for business casual attire for him, the Windsor knot in his tie is slightly loosened. Rosie is sitting on my windowsill. Outside my office, First Street is quiet. The bell at the Ferry Building tolls seven times.

“You got any scotch?” he asks.

I pull out a fifth of Johnnie Walker Red and three shot glasses from my bottom drawer. “Pop used to say a lawyer’s office isn’t complete without a bottle.”

“He said the same thing about a homicide cop’s desk. Is that the bottle he bought you when you graduated from law school?”

“Yes.” Twenty years later, it’s still more than half full. “I’m more of a Guinness guy.”

“So was your dad.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “He was proud of you, Mike. So am I.”

“Thanks, Roosevelt.”

I line up the glasses and pour a shot for each of us. Roosevelt downs his drink in a single gulp. Then he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. I’m familiar with this gesture. He’s taking a moment to sort out his thoughts.

“I have two grandchildren in high school,” he finally says. “Stay close to your kids. They’ll be gone before you know it.”

He knows. He rarely talks about the son he lost in a drive-by shooting in the Bayview thirty years ago. “That’s good advice.”

“I know.”

Rosie sets down her empty glass. “What brings you here tonight, Roosevelt?”

The deep lines in his leathery face become more pronounced as his expression contorts into a frown. “Family.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Ours.” He puts his glasses back on and pours himself another shot. “This conversation isn’t taking place.”

“Understood.”

We wait.

“I didn’t like the way McNulty went after Grace in court,” he finally says. “It violated my sense of fair play.”

“Mine too,” Rosie says uneasily.

“I’m trying to level the playing field. You’d do the same for my kids.”

“Yes, we would.”

He clears his throat. “McNulty wasn’t bluffing. They found Grace’s prints on a drinking glass in Bobby’s bedroom. It was a perfect match.”

“We never agreed to provide a sample of her prints,” I say.

“They were already in the system. They took her prints when she did an internship at the Marin County Public Defender’s Office last summer.”

Rosie never loses her composure, but there is heightened concern in her voice. “Fingerprints have an indefinite shelf life. Grace was in Bobby’s room last Monday. She could have gotten her prints on that glass when she was there. For that matter, she could have picked up that glass a month ago. You’ll never be able to tell for sure.”

“The glass was half full of water. There were no signs of evaporation.”

“It doesn’t prove anything, Roosevelt.”

“There’s more—a lot more.”

His ominous tone sends a shiver up my back.

Roosevelt’s voice turns melancholy. “We found a spent condom under Bobby’s bed. We ran DNA tests. We didn’t get the results until earlier this evening. That’s why McNulty was stalling in court.”

Oh, hell.

“We found two matches. Male and female.”

My stomach is now churning uncontrollably.

“You can figure out the rest. The male was Bobby. The female was Grace.”

The room is starting to spin.

Rosie’s lips form a tight line across her face as she strains to keep her emotions in check. “We never agreed to provide a DNA sample for Grace.”

“We already had a sample from her fingerprint on the glass.”

The nightmare is now complete.

Rosie lays it on the line. “Are you suggesting she was involved with Judge Fairchild’s death?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Is she a suspect?”

“I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. We’re still investigating.”

“Are you planning to arrest her?”

“At the moment, she’s just a person of interest. For obvious reasons, her status could change precipitously in the next few hours.” Roosevelt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I know this sounds harsh, but you need to look up the word ‘gullible’ in the dictionary. Your client and your daughter have been lying to you from the start. I know your intentions have been honorable, but you’ve been hearing what you’ve wanted to hear. That isn’t especially helpful in your role as a lawyer or a parent. Now Grace and Bobby are going to have to deal with the consequences.”

The only sound in the room is the buzzing from the light above my desk.

“At this point,” he says, “there isn’t much that I can do to help you.”

“Then why did you come?” I ask.

“To warn you that it’s all going to come down tomorrow morning. I didn’t want you to get blind-sided in open court. I don’t know for sure what happened inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. I do know for sure that Grace and Bobby were there—having sex. As a cop, I think he’s already guilty of statutory rape, and she’s already guilty of perjury. Depending upon what else we find, we may charge her as an accomplice or an accessory-after-the-fact. As a parent, I think it’s a bad idea for a sixteen-year-old girl to be sleeping with her boyfriend and lying about it to the cops and her parents. As a friend, I would encourage her to come clean as soon as possible. I would also suggest you give serious consideration to cutting a deal before this gets out of hand.”

I’m going to be violently ill. “Do you have anything that might help us?”

He reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper. “This is a copy of the unidentified partial print we found on the inside handle of Judge Fairchild’s front door. It’s the only one we haven’t been able to match through the system.”

I stare at the photocopy. “All we have to do is match this print and we’ve found the killer?”

“Not necessarily. For all I know, it could belong to a plumber or an electrician. I can tell you it isn’t Brian Hannah, George Savage, or Dr. Derek Newsom. I’m sorry, Mike.”

“So am I.”

He glances at his watch. “I don’t know if you can fix this tonight. You need to place somebody other than Bobby and Grace inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. By my reckoning, you have about fifteen hours to try.”

CHAPTER 54

“YOU LIED TO US”

Wednesday, June 22, 8:15 p.m.

“You lied to us,” I say to Bobby, making no attempt to modulate my voice.

He leans back defensively and reacts with a combination of surprise and indignation. “What are you talking about?”

My head feels as if it’s about to implode. “You lied to us,” I repeat more emphatically.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

We’re gathered in the consultation room at the Hall at eight-fifteen on Wednesday night. We had Terrence call Bobby’s mother to tell her to meet us here, but we didn’t say why. She’s seated next to Bobby. She’s wearing no makeup. Her arms are folded. Her expression is grim.

“What’s going on?” Bobby asks.

Rosie’s voice fills with unfiltered raw emotion. “It’s been nothing but lies from the start. All lies. One after another.”

Julie’s protective instincts kick in. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rosie fires right back. “Don’t you dare try to protect him. You’ll just be enabling him even more.” She turns to Bobby. “You were there on Friday night.” It isn’t a question—it’s a statement of fact.

“Where?” His attempt at feigned innocence has suddenly turned utterly unconvincing.

“Your father’s house.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” Rosie’s empties both barrels. “Don’t play dumb with us, Bobby. We spent the past hour getting our asses kicked by Inspector Johnson. It’s over. They know you were there. They have proof. You’re going to make it even worse if you keep lying.”

The color leaves his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” My father used to say the most effective way to yell at somebody is not to raise your voice. Rosie invokes a venomous whisper. “They found a condom under your bed. The DNA tests matched you and Grace. They’ve got you, Bobby. Dead to rights. You were there. You had sex with my daughter. You lied about it from the start. You’ve turned a difficult situation into a full-blown disaster—not just for yourself, but for Grace.”

Julie leaps to his defense. “You have no right to talk to him that way.”

I jab a finger at her. “Yes, we do.”

“The hell you do.”

“The hell we don’t. We’ve been working our asses off around the clock to help your son. He lied to us. He lied to you. He lied to the cops. He’s done irreparable damage to his own defense. He has no credibility. He’s already guilty of perjury and statutory rape. Now Grace may be guilty of perjury, too.”

“It isn’t Bobby’s fault your daughter chose to lie under oath.”

“She did it in a misguided attempt to protect your lying son. Now she may be arrested as an accomplice to murder.”

“That’s her problem.”

“That’s our problem.”

Julie’s blue eyes are on fire. “It takes two to tango. You should have expected this after your exemplary parenting. You can’t be surprised that you have a promiscuous daughter.”

“And you can’t be surprised that you have a promiscuous son.”

“Now you’re judging me, too?”

“Damn right. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. On Friday night, you were busy boinking your boy toy while your son was having sex with his underage girlfriend—who happens to be my daughter.”

“My personal life is none of your business.”

“It is now.”

Bobby turns to his mother. “What the hell is he talking about, Mother?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing someone, Bobby.”

“You, too?”

Julie swallows hard. “I was going to tell you, Bobby.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A couple of months.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Newsom.”

Bobby’s eyes light up. “He’s one of your students.”

“It happens, Bobby.”

“And now you’re judging me?”

“I meant to tell you.”

He’s too angry to reply.

I turn my anger back to Julie. “Your boyfriend threatened your husband. For some reason, you keep trying to protect him.”

Julie’s last pretense of civility disappears as she takes the offensive. “That’s bullshit, Mike. Derek has nothing to do with this. Your daughter wasn’t an innocent victim. And you were on the other side of the Bay when she was seducing my son.”

“You and your husband set a terrific example. He was sleeping with underage hookers. You’re sleeping with one of your students.”

“You two aren’t model parents, either.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Before you start casting stones, you ought to look in the mirror.”

Rosie holds up a dismissive hand and invokes a tone I haven’t heard since the darkest days of our divorce. “We aren’t going to take any more crap from you and your son. We’re done, Julie. We quit. You can find another lawyer.”

“You’re fired,” Julie says.

“Fine. Either way, we’re out of here.”

“Great.”

“On our way to the car, we’re going to ask Inspector Johnson to file charges against Bobby for statutory rape.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, we will.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“The hell I am.”

“You’d have to admit your daughter was at Jack’s house on Friday night.”

“They already have proof. We’re going to come clean and cut the best deal we can—even if it means your son is going to jail for the rest of his life.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, we can. You’re a better doctor than a lawyer, Julie. Everybody knows the first one to sing gets the best deal.”

“You have a conflict of interest.”

“Not anymore. You just fired us, remember?”

“You still have a fiduciary duty to Bobby.”

“It’s trumped by our paternal duty to Grace.”

Julie’s mouth is open as she glares at Rosie. She realizes this isn’t a negotiation and Rosie isn’t going to budge. There is desperation in her voice when she says, “I’ll go to the papers. I’ll ruin your reputation.”

“We can play that game, too,” Rosie says. “You’re out of your league. Nobody gives a damn about two small-time defense lawyers who practice law around the corner from the bus terminal. The press will have a field day when they find out a hotshot surgeon at UCSF has been sleeping with her intern. The Board of Trustees at UCSF will have something to say about it, too.”

“I’ll file a complaint with the State Bar.”

“Be my guest. Bobby will be sleeping in orange pajamas for twenty years before they get around to investigating your claim.”

“I’ll hire a lawyer. I’ll get you disbarred.”

“Let me make it easy for you,” I say. I pull out my wallet and toss my State Bar card down on the metal table. “Here’s my ticket. Knock yourself out. Hire an army of lawyers to go after me. I don’t give a damn about you, your lying son, the State Bar, or the entire legal profession. I’m going to do what’s best for my daughter.”

“You can’t just walk.”

“Yes, we can.”

“You’ll never get Grace to testify against Bobby.”

“Yes, she will.” I turn to Bobby, who has been observing this exchange in terrified silence. “You’re in a world of trouble, son. Now that I’m no longer your lawyer, let me give you some free advice. Hire the best defense lawyer you can find and cut the best deal you can get.”

The former high school baseball player and honor student looks as if he’s going to cry.

Rosie and I stand and head toward the door. I’m about to call for the guard when I hear the sound of unvarnished panic from behind me.

“Please don’t leave,” Bobby wails. His voice is choked with raw fear. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Rosie and I turn around slowly. “It’s too late for apologies,” Rosie says to him.

“I’m so sorry for everything.”

“The damage is done, Bobby. It’s over.”

Fear and desperation overwhelm him and he bursts into tears. “You can’t go,” he howls.

“Yes, we can.”

He collapses forward onto the metal table. “Please don’t go,” he begs. “Please. I didn’t kill my father. You’re my only chance.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “We aren’t going to represent you. We just can’t.”

“I promise to tell you everything—the whole truth—I swear to God.”

Julie moves over and puts her arm around her son’s shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything to them, Bobby.”

“Yes, I do.”

“They aren’t your lawyers anymore. They’ll use it against you.”

“I don’t care. I want to tell the truth, Mother. I need to tell the truth—which is more than you’ve done.”

“Don’t say another word, Bobby. You’re only making it worse.”

“It’s my choice, Mother. I’m trying to make it right.” He turns to me and says, “Will you help me if I tell you everything? I’ll tell you the truth. I swear to God.”

Rosie and I look at each other. We’re treading in murky ethical waters. In a perfect world, we would tell him to hire another lawyer and not say another word. Then again, the real world is highly imperfect—especially when you daughter may be charged with murder in fourteen hours. He may tell us something that could help Grace—or incriminate himself—or both. Either way, it can’t hurt to listen. “Do you promise to tell the truth?” I ask.

“I swear to God.”

“We’re listening.”

CHAPTER 55

“I SWEAR TO GOD”

Wednesday, June 22, 8:28 p.m.

“The movie started at nine,” Bobby says, desperately trying to find a modicum of composure. “It ended at eleven.”

“So you never went to Amoeba, did you?” Rosie says. Her tone is modulated for now. She’ll revert to her lawyer voice if necessary.

“No.” Bobby darts a glance at his mother, who is sitting next to him in frozen silence. “We decided to go to my father’s house.”

“Because you knew he wouldn’t be home?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Sean was staying at a friend’s house?”

He nods.

Rosie takes a deep breath. “What time did you get there?”

“A quarter after eleven.”

“Was anybody home?”

“No.” He swallows hard and adds, “I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry you had sex with my daughter or sorry you got caught?”

“Sorry about everything.”

“Was it your first time with Grace?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Bobby?”

His voice is barely audible. “No.”

“How many other times?” Rosie asks.

“Twice.”

“Where?”

“My father’s house—when he was with Christy.”

Or when he was at the Sunshine.

Rosie’s tone fills with sarcasm. “Whose brilliant idea was this?”

“Both of us, I guess.”

“Grace was a willing participant?”

“Yes.”

Rosie leans forward. “Did you use a condom every time?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better be telling the truth.”

“I am.”

“Have you slept with any other girls?”

Julie interjects. “You don’t have to answer that, Bobby.”

Rosie hasn’t taken her eyes off Bobby. “Yes, you do,” she says.

“Two others. Before I met Grace.”

“Does Grace know about this?”

“No.”

“She will now. Did you use a condom every time?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying to me, Bobby?”

“No.”

“Is there any chance you’ve been infected with AIDS or an STD?”

“No. Grace and I got tested just to be sure. You can do it confidentially.”

The world has changed since I was sixteen.

“I’m glad you were so responsible about sleeping with my underage daughter,” Rosie says.

Bobby looks straight down. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Rosie nods to me. It’s my turn. I try not to let my imagination run wild as I think about my baby daughter and her boyfriend having sex in his room in the middle of the night. My parental instincts make me want to leap across the table and pound the crap out of him. However, this isn’t a good time for me to play the role of the irate father of a teenage daughter. If I can hold it together, Bobby might impart some useful information.

“What time did your father get home?” I ask.

“Midnight.”

“Where were you?”

“In my bedroom in the basement.”

“Having sex with my daughter?”

“I’m sorry, Mike.”

“So am I. What happened next?”

“We heard the garage door open. Grace and I jumped out of bed and put on our clothes. It was hard because it was dark.”

I’m sure. “Did your father see you?”

“No.”

“How did you get out of the house without him seeing you?”

“We left through the back door.”

“Is it possible somebody else was in the house?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Did you hear anybody?”

“Other than my father, no.” He adds, “It’s hard to hear from downstairs.”

We need to prove somebody else was there. “Did you go straight to the car?”

“Yes.” He says they ran through the yard and out the gate that opens onto Grattan.

“What time was that?”

“A couple of minutes after twelve.”

“Did you see anybody?”

“No.”

“Did you see a gray Crown Vic parked by the fire hydrant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you leave right away?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we got to the car, I realized I left my keys in my room. I went back to get them.”

“Did Grace go with you?”

“Yes, but she waited in the yard while I was inside the house.”

“So you were alone inside the house with your father?”

“Yes.”

This information may be enough to throw Bobby under a bus. I start firing questions more rapidly. “Did you see your father when you were inside?”

“No.”

“Did you see anybody else?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

“How long were you inside?”

“Just a couple of minutes. I had trouble finding my keys.”

“Did you change your clothes?”

“No. I didn’t put my clothes into the washer until after I found my dad.” He reads my skeptical expression and adds, “I swear to God, Mike.”

“Then what?”

“I went out through the back door again. Grace was still in the yard. We went to the car and I drove her straight home. That was it.”

“What time was that?”

“Around ten after twelve.”

“Did you see anybody outside?”

“No.”

“Was the gray Crown Vic still parked by the fire hydrant?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember for sure.”

“Were you and Grace together the entire time after you came back outside?”

“Yes.” There’s another pause. “Except for just a minute.”

Huh? “How’s that?”

“Grace dropped her cell phone in the bushes as we were going out the gate. I ran over to the car by myself. I didn’t realize she had stopped until I got to the car. I went back to help her find it.”

Which means Treadwell could have seen Bobby jogging west on Grattan by himself. “Are you leaving anything out?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I’m really sorry, Mike.”

“So am I. We’re going to talk to Grace to make sure her story matches up with yours.”

“It will, Mike. I swear to God.”

“If you’ve lied to us about anything—even the smallest detail—I’m going to make sure you never see the light of day.”

* * *

“We’re idiots,” Rosie says.

“Yes, we are,” I reply.

Her hands have a vise-like grip on the steering wheel as we drive north on Van Ness at nine-fifteen on Wednesday night. Our mood matches the heavy summer fog.

“We should have seen it,” she says.

“I know.”

“How could we have been so stupid?”

“We believed our daughter.”

Her jaw clenches. “After all these years, are we really so naïve?”

“We aren’t the only parents who gave their kid the benefit of the doubt.”

“That doesn’t make it right. It certainly doesn’t make us good parents. We’ve been lawyers for twenty years, Mike. We’ve represented murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and armed robbers. I think I’m pretty good at figuring out when somebody’s lying. Now, I can’t even tell with my own daughter.”

“Evidently, neither can I.” I reach over and touch her hand. “We can’t afford to get angry about it tonight.”

“Damn right we can, Mike. I’m angry at Grace. I’m angry at Bobby. I’m angry at you. I’m ready to kill Julie. Most of all, I’m furious at myself.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to beat ourselves up after this case is over, Rosie.”

“How can you be so calm?”

“Believe me, I’m not.” My stomach feels like a vat of hot acid. “We have no choice. We have to keep our heads on straight.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to talk to Grace. And we have less than thirteen hours to figure out a way to keep her out of jail.”

CHAPTER 56

“IT JUST HAPPENED”

Wednesday, June 22, 9:40 p.m.

Rosie’s living room is silent. Grace is sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed. Her arms are clenched tightly around her stomach as she stares intently at the coffee table. We asked Sylvia to wait in Tommy’s room. For the next few minutes, we need to be absolutely sure that everything we say is covered by the attorney-client privilege.

“We have a serious problem,” I say to Grace. My priest voice is soft but firm.

There is genuine concern in her eyes. “What is it?”

Here goes. “Roosevelt found evidence placing you and Bobby at Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

Her eyes dart across the room. “Have you talked to Bobby?”

“Yes. He told us everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Grace tugs at the sleeves of her pink sweatshirt. “Are you going to yell at me?”

“Eventually.” This exercise is going to be difficult enough without high-level histrionics. “At the moment, I’m more interested in hearing your version of what happened. This time, I need the truth.”

“You said you already talked to Bobby.”

“We did. Now we want to hear it from you.”

Grace takes a deep breath. “Bobby didn’t kill his father.”

“I really hope that’s true, Grace. On the other hand, you understand why we’re reluctant to take your word for it.”

Tears appear in the corners of her eyes. “What did they find?”

“For starters, your fingerprints were on a drinking glass in Bobby’s room.”

“I was there on Monday night.”

I hold up a hand. “Stop it right now. You aren’t fooling anybody. You’ll only make it worse if you lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Cut the shucking and jiving, Grace. Bobby told us you went over to his father’s house on Friday night. He admitted you had sex. He admitted you were still there when Bobby’s father came home.”

There is resignation in her eyes. “What else did they find?”

“A condom under Bobby’s bed. They did a DNA test. They matched both of you.”

The tears start streaming down her cheeks.

“We trusted you,” I say. “You violated that trust. You’ve been sneaking around. You’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend. I’m most disappointed that you lied to us.”

Grace’s delicate features contort into a vision of pure anguish. “I couldn’t tell you,” she whispers.

“You can come to us with anything, Grace. Now you and Bobby are going to have to deal with the consequences.”

Her glassy eyes fill with panic as she starts to sob uncontrollably. “You have to do something, Daddy. You have to fix this.” She takes a couple of deep breaths. “You just have to.”

“We don’t know where to begin until you tell us what really happened.”

“Why do you have to be so mean?”

“Things are going to get a lot meaner if you’re arrested. At the moment, I’m not just your father. I’m your lawyer.”

“Bobby didn’t kill his father,” she repeats.

“Then you have to help us prove it.”

“How?”

“You can start by telling the truth.” There is no reason to hold back. “Putting aside the fact that you and your boyfriend were sleeping together, there are serious legal ramifications for both of you. There’s a good chance you’re going to be arrested in the morning. At a minimum, you’re already guilty of perjury and Bobby is already guilty of statutory rape. They may charge you as an accomplice or an accessory to murder. You’ve already destroyed your credibility. Any way you cut it, everything is going to get a lot more difficult.”

The unthinkable gravity of the situation is finally sinking in. My baby daughter is a suspect in a murder case.

Grace takes a moment to compose herself. She never looks up as everything comes pouring out in a hushed monotone. “Bobby and I went to his father’s house after the movie. We were just going to watch TV and listen to music.”

Sure you were.

“And make out?” Rosie asks.

Grace waits a beat. “Probably.”

“And have sex?”

A longer pause. “Maybe. I wasn’t sure when we got there. Then it just happened.”

“It didn’t just happen,” Rosie snaps.

“Yes, it did,” Grace insists.

“No, it didn’t. Sex doesn’t just happen. Bobby admitted it wasn’t your first time.”

Grace’s lips form a tiny ball. Her web of lies has imploded. She’s backed into a corner. “It’s happened a couple of times.”

“No, Grace,” Rosie says. “You and Bobby made it happen.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You and Bobby made a conscious choice.”

“Maybe we did. What’s the big deal? Everybody does it.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“That doesn’t make it wrong.”

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“You expect me to apologize for having sex with a boy that I love?”

“You have no idea what love is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re only sixteen.”

“I’m entitled to have feelings.”

“Maybe, but you aren’t entitled to have sex.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too young.”

“Give me a break, Mother.”

“You’re too immature to understand the consequences.”

“No, I’m not. Your generation invented casual sex. Don’t blame us.”

“Don’t throw it back at me, Grace.”

“Then don’t put it all on me.”

Rosie is seething. “This isn’t just about party sex with your boyfriend. You could get sick. You could get AIDS. You could die.”

“Bobby and I went together to get tested for AIDS and STDs.”

“That was terribly responsible of you. You could also get pregnant.”

Grace isn’t backing down. “I’m well aware of that, Mother. I’m also old enough to know you and Dad didn’t exactly plan on having Tommy.”

Rosie is taken aback for an instant. “Tommy has nothing to do with this.”

“Maybe not, but you guys aren’t exactly poster children for abstinence, either.”

“Your father and I understood the risks and the responsibilities.”

“So do I. Bobby used a condom. I have a diaphragm.”

“Where the hell did you get a diaphragm?”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mother.”

“Have you slept with any other boys?”

Grace is unapologetic. “Just one.”

She’s sixteen. She’s had more partners than I had by the time I was thirty.

“Who?” Rosie asks.

Grace reveals the name of one of her classmates—a senior honors student who going to Princeton in the fall.

“When did this happen?”

“After a party at school. It wasn’t a big deal, Mother.”

“It is to me. Did he use a condom?”

“Of course, Mother. I used my diaphragm.”

Rosie can’t contain her exasperation. “You’re still too young.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Things have changed since you were in high school.”

“They haven’t changed that much.”

“How old were you when you first had sex?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Maybe it is now.”

The room goes painfully silent as Rosie contemplates how much she wants to reveal. “On the night of my quinceañera,” she finally whispers.

Grace looks at her mother in disbelief. A quinceañera is the traditional coming-of-age event for Latina girls—part birthday party and part debutante ball. “You were only fifteen?” Grace whispers.

“Yes.”

It takes our daughter a moment to process this new information. “Really?” she finally stammers.

“Really,” Rosie says.

“Who was it?”

“A senior at St. Ignatius. He was so handsome. He was on the football team. I was absolutely certain he was the love of my life.”

I judiciously decide not to mention that he may have been one of my classmates.

“What’s the big deal?” Grace asks. “You couldn’t have been the only girl in your class who slept with her boyfriend. Nothing bad happened.”

“I got pregnant,” Rosie says.

This time, there is no glib response from our daughter.

Rosie’s voice is tinged with bitterness. “When I told the love of my life that he was going to be a dad, he decided he never wanted to see me again.”

Grace sits in stunned silence.

Rosie looks straight into our daughter’s eyes. “So you see, I’m familiar with this scenario.”

Grace wipes the tears from her eyes. “I’m not pregnant. Bobby and I have been very careful.”

“And very lucky. You’re still way too young to be having sex. Believe me, I know.”

Grace looks at Rosie. “Did you keep the baby?”

“I had a miscarriage.” Rosie sighs heavily. “I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone—especially you.”

The tears are now rolling freely down Grace’s cheeks. “Did Grandma and Grandpa know about it?”

“Of course.” Rosie gestures toward Tommy’s bedroom, where Sylvia is camped out. “They said I was too young for sex. They were right.”

My daughter and my ex-wife look at each other for a long, anguished moment. It’s Grace who finally speaks. “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

“So am I.”

Grace swallows hard. “Not just for you and your baby, Mama. For everything.”

Rosie’s eyes fill with tears, too. “Me, too, honey.”

Grace tugs at her long black hair. “Are you going to yell at me?”

“Not now, honey.”

Grace turns to me. “What about you?”

This topic wasn’t covered in the parental playbook I was issued sixteen years ago. Nor was it ever covered adequately at the seminary, where I learned all sorts of useless advice to dispense to strangers, but very little about dealing with my own problems. At times like this, I have little faith in my own instincts, so I revert to lawyer mode. “At the moment, we have other more pressing issues.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened on Friday night and Saturday morning.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m furious. We’ll have a much longer discussion about this later. Mom just came clean to you, Grace. It’s time for you to come clean to us.”

The game is over. “Where do you want to start?” she asks.

“What time did you get to Judge Fairchild’s house?”

“Eleven-fifteen.”

We let her talk without interrupting. To my relief, her story lines up precisely with Bobby’s. They went to Judge Fairchild’s house after the movie ended. They were having sex downstairs in Bobby’s room when they heard the garage door open. They put on their clothes and sprinted out the back door. When they got to the car, they discovered Bobby had left his keys inside the house. Grace waited for Bobby in the yard while he went back inside to retrieve them. Bobby did, in fact, run to the car by himself while Grace was trying to find her cell phone in the bushes. Then he came back to help her. They left for Rosie’s house by twelve-fifteen. They drove straight there.

When she’s finished, I start probing gently. “Grace, is it possible somebody else was inside the house when Bobby’s father got home?”

“I guess. We were downstairs in the back.” She says she didn’t see anybody.

“Did you hear anything?”

“No, but it’s hard to hear from Bobby’s room.”

Especially if the intruder was trying to remain quiet. “How long were you out in the yard while Bobby was looking for his keys?”

“A couple of minutes.”

I’m desperately grasping for anything that might help. “Did anybody walk by while you were waiting?”

“I think I heard somebody, but I couldn’t see him. I ducked down behind the gate.”

That might explain why Lenny didn’t see her. “Was Bobby wearing the same shirt when he came back outside?”

“Of course. There wasn’t any blood on it.”

“Did you see anybody else while Bobby was inside?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “I saw a man get into the Crown Vic.”

It’s an opening. “Where did he come from?”

“Around the corner from in front of the house.”

“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell us about him?”

“I didn’t want you to know that we were there.”

“We might have avoided a week of hell if you had. Is it possible he was inside the judge’s house?”

“It’s possible. I don’t know for sure.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so. I was behind the fence.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No. It happened too fast.”

“Think hard, Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t remember.”

Rosie takes our daughter’s hand and opens her bag of tricks. “Close your eyes, honey. I need you to relax.”

Grace does as she’s told.

“Visualize Grattan Street early Saturday morning. It’s dark and foggy. You’re standing behind the fence. You’re nervous and excited. You see the man coming around the corner from in front of Bobby’s house. Can you picture him in your mind?”

“Kind of.”

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s running toward the car. He’s looking over his shoulder.”

Rosie squeezes her hand a little tighter. “I need you to think carefully. What does he look like?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me, Grace.”

“I don’t know. I’m scared.”

“Stay with me, honey. Is he tall?”

“No.”

“Is he skinny?”

“No, he’s muscular.”

“White? Black? Asian?”

“Asian—I think.”

“Dark hair or light hair?”

Grace’s eyes are still shut tightly. “Dark. He’s wearing a baseball cap.”

“What else is he wearing?”

“A black shirt. Big boots.”

“Any noticeable marks?”

“Tattoos on his arms.”

“Do you see any blood on his arms or clothes?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember anything else? Any detail might be important.”

Grace’s eyes are closed tightly. “He smelled,” she finally says.

“Bad? Like a homeless guy?”

“No. Like perfume.”

“What kind?”

“Sort of like lavender.”

My antenna shoots up. “Are you absolutely sure about that smell?”

“Yes.”

Rosie gives me a perplexed look. “What is it, Mike?”

I pull out the paper with the unidentified fingerprint Roosevelt gave us and study it intently. “We need to call Pete.”

“Why?”

The pieces are starting to fit together. “I think I know who killed Judge Fairchild. I need Pete to help me prove it. Grace may be the perfect alibi after all.”

CHAPTER 57

“YOU HAVE MY WORD”

Thursday, June 23, 12:52 a.m.

The lights are turned down and the back room of Dunleavy’s is silent as Big John pours Roosevelt a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

“Thanks,” Roosevelt says to him.

My uncle tries to break the tension with a little forced levity. “We aren’t Starbucks, but we make up for it with exceptional service.”

Roosevelt responds with a weary smile. He, Rosie, Pete, and I are sitting at one of the small round tables. The dark setting matches our mood. The room still smells of the cigarette smoke baked into the paneled walls decades before San Francisco banned smoking in restaurants and bars.

“Can you give us a moment?” I say to Big John.

“Of course, lad.” He leaves the coffee pot on the table and heads into the front of the bar to add up the day’s earnings.

Roosevelt’s tone is somber. “When can I talk to Grace?”

“Soon,” I say.

“Is she prepared to come clean?”

“Yes.”

“What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

“We’re being extra careful. When it’s your kid, you gotta get it right.”

“Understood.”

I nod to Pete, who hands Roosevelt his fancy digital camera. “I spent the evening parked across the street from the Sunshine Massage Spa. I’ve been taking pictures of the patrons. You might recognize a few of them.”

Roosevelt takes off his glasses and squints at the images. “Who?”

Pete provides a running commentary as he pushes the button to advance the photos. “A State Senator. An Assistant City Attorney. A member of the Board of Supervisors. A judge. A fire captain.” He can’t contain a smile when he gets to the last one. “That’s my old lieutenant at Mission Station. He was recently promoted to Assistant Chief.”

He may not be serving in that capacity for long. “Pretty high-brow clientele,” I observe.

“Even ranking members of the SFPD have needs, Mick.”

Roosevelt isn’t amused as he sets the camera down. “It’s very late and I’m very tired. This better not be some half-baked attempt to shake down the SFPD.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” I say.

“Are you suggesting a connection to the Fairchild case?”

It’s Pete who responds. “Precisely.”

Roosevelt gives my kid brother a long look. “I’m listening.”

Pete goes to his cop voice. “I talked to several of the Sunshine’s patrons. As you might expect, they were reluctant to chat with me. My old boss was particularly unpleasant.”

“I’ll bet.”

“We came to a friendly understanding. He agreed to provide information. I promised not to give his name and photo to the press.”

Roosevelt is growing impatient. “Are you planning to get to the point anytime soon?”

Pete nods. “In addition to purchasing sexual gratification from the young women who work at the Sunshine, several of the patrons had something else in common. Their houses had been burglarized during the past six months. Coincidentally, the break-ins all took place while they were, uh, having their needs fulfilled at the Sunshine.”

Roosevelt takes a sip of scalding coffee as he begins processing the information. “You’re saying the people who run the Sunshine were stealing from their customers?”

“You might say it’s a full-service operation.”

Roosevelt gives him a puzzled look. “Why are they still patronizing the Sunshine?”

Pete can’t contain a smirk. “Maybe they liked the service.”

“It’s late, Pete.”

“They didn’t know the Sunshine was ripping them off. For that matter, they didn’t know the other customers had been burglarized, too.”

“SFPD couldn’t put two and two together?”

“There was no obvious connection. Not surprisingly, nobody admitted they’d been at the Sunshine while their houses were being ripped off.”

“How did you manage to figure this out?”

“I used to be a pretty good cop. Frankly, it wasn’t that complicated once I started putting the pieces together. The MO was the same. The burglars were professional. They worked fast. They hit houses when nobody was home. There were no signs of forced entry. They grabbed small, easy-to-find valuables and got the hell out.”

“How did they know where their customers lived?”

“It isn’t hard to find anybody nowadays. Ms. Amanda probably checked their drivers’ licenses while they were getting their massages.”

“How did they get inside the houses without breaking in?”

Pete gives him a knowing smile. “There’s a locksmith shop downstairs from the Sunshine  owned by the people who run the massage parlor. They made duplicate keys while their customers were upstairs.”

“How do you know?”

“I have sources inside the Sunshine.”

Roosevelt is now fully engaged. “I take it this means you believe somebody from the Sunshine went over to rip off Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night?”

“Yes. The MO was exactly the same.”

“Except nothing was missing.”

“The burglar didn’t have time to take anything. The judge came home early and surprised him.”

“He didn’t have to kill him.”

“He panicked.”

“You still haven’t given me any proof.”

It’s my turn to interject. “Off the record, Grace told us she saw a muscular Asian guy with tattoos leaving the judge’s house early Saturday morning. He got into the Crown Vic and drove away.”

“Is she prepared to admit she was there on Friday night?”

“Off the record, yes.”

“Can she positively identify him?”

“Probably not. But she noticed he smelled of lavender. They use lavender-scented candles at the Sunshine.”

“How would you know?”

“I was there Saturday night.”

Roosevelt takes a sip of his coffee. “I need a name.”

Pete’s expression transforms into a triumphant grin. “Louis Park. He’s their muscle guy. He’s also the nephew of the owners.”

“You got a photo?”

Pete hands Roosevelt his camera again. “Check it out.”

Roosevelt studies the shot of the hulking young man who escorted me upstairs. “When did you take this?”

“A couple of hours ago. Park left the building shortly after Judge Weatherby arrived. If my guess is correct, some of the judge’s jewelry was missing by the time he got home.”

“We’ll check it out, but you still haven’t given me any definitive proof that Park was at Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

Pete reaches under the table and pulls out a white coffee mug enclosed in a zip-lock bag. “His prints are on this.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Roosevelt asks.

“Like I said, I have sources inside the Sunshine.”

Thank you, Jasmine.

Pete starts talking faster. “The prints on this mug match the unidentified partial you found on Judge Fairchild’s front door.”

“When did you become a fingerprint expert?”

“Jeff Lowenthal used to play shortstop on my softball team. He owed me a favor.”

Next to Kathleen Jacobsen, Lowenthal is the SFPD’s best fingerprint guru. He also has excellent range, a strong throwing arm, and power to all fields.

“Is Jeff prepared to testify that it’s a match?” Roosevelt asks.

“Absolutely.” Pete grins triumphantly. “If you have any doubts, you’ll find a gray Crown Vic with no license plates parked inside the garage of the Sunshine.”

Roosevelt nods. “I still need a little more.”

It’s my turn. “We’ve given you everything you need. You can go over to the Sunshine and arrest Park and shut down their operation.”

“I need to meet the person who lifted this coffee mug.”

“We can arrange it, but I have some conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“In exchange for her cooperation, you won’t press charges for her activities at the Sunshine.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, she won’t be prosecuted for being here illegally.”

“You know I can’t speak for ICE.”

“You can’t deport her if you expect her to testify.”

“I’ll make it happen.”

“Third, she’s going to need a new identity and passage to Korea after she testifies.”

“I’ll figure out a way to do it. Anything else?”

“Finally, you’ll provide round-the-clock protection for her. I can persuade her to cooperate only if you can assure her safety.”

“You’re asking for a lot.”

“We’re giving you a lot. You’re going to get credit for solving the murder of a judge and shutting down one of the most egregious exploiters of underage sex slaves in the Bay Area. You’ll be a big hero. I can’t think of a better way to conclude your long and distinguished career with the SFPD.”

Roosevelt eyes me intently as he does a mental calculation of the countless ramifications. “If you’re wrong, your client is going on trial for murder and your daughter is going on trial for perjury—or more.”

“We aren’t wrong, Roosevelt.”

“I need to talk to the witness first. I can’t derail a murder case without evaluating her credibility.”

“As her lawyer, I can’t let you do that until I have assurances you’ll be able to fulfill all of my conditions.”

“You have my word.”

“I need more.”

“You have my word,” he repeats.

I have no cards left to play. “Everything is off the record until you can provide protection and confirm you’ll comply with the rest of my conditions.”

“That’s fair.”

“Then we have a deal.”

“Fine. What’s her name?”

“Jasmine Lee.”

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs in Big John’s office. I’ll bring her up to meet you.”

* * *

It takes Roosevelt a few minutes to get Jasmine talking. Once she starts, she doesn’t stop. It’s surreal to watch the waiflike Asian girl pouring out her heart in stilted English to the imposing African-American man in the back room of an empty saloon in the City of St. Francis in the middle of the night. She’s relieved to find somebody who’s willing to listen. In response to Roosevelt’s gentle questioning, she confesses that she’s an undocumented alien. She confirms that she’s engaged in illicit sexual activities. She admits to pilfering Park’s coffee mug. Most important, she confirms the Sunshine’s scheme to burglarize the homes of their customers while they were having their needs fulfilled.

It’s after three a.m. when Roosevelt finally closes his notebook and places it on the table in front of him. “It’s going to take a little time to verify her story,” he says to me.

“We have until ten o’clock this morning.”

He pulls out his cell, punches in a series of numbers, and starts issuing orders. “I need three units to the Sunshine Massage Spa on the corner of Eddy and Leavenworth immediately. No lights or sirens. Do not enter until I arrive.” He presses the Disconnect button. He turns to me and says, “There’s a black and white parked in front for protection. I want you to sit tight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

CHAPTER 58

“IT WAS MY RESPONSIBILITY”

Thursday, June 23, 5:30 a.m.

“Mind if I ask you something?” I say to Rosie.

“Sure.”

We’ve been drinking coffee in the back room of Dunleavy’s for the past two hours, anxiously waiting to hear from Roosevelt. It feels like a hospital waiting room. We haven’t said much, except for our frequent phone calls to update Grace and Sylvia. Pete and Big John are passing the time watching ESPN on the TV in the front of the bar. Jasmine dozed off on the sofa in my uncle’s cluttered office downstairs.

“How come you never told me you got pregnant when you were in high school?” I ask.

Rosie tenses. “A little mystery is healthy for a relationship. I never asked you about your old girlfriends. I didn’t think you needed to know about my old boyfriends.”

“Have you kept any other secrets from me?”

“A few. Have you kept any from me?”

“A few. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Rosie takes a sip of coffee. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

“Worse than our divorce?”

“Absolutely.”

“Worse than this week?”

“About the same.”

We look at each other intently. “There’s more to the story than you told Grace, isn’t there?”

“You know me too well, Mike.”

“You know me even better.”

She sets her mug down. She seems to want to get something off her chest. “If I tell you the whole story, do you promise we’ll never talk about it again?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you going to judge me?”

“Absolutely not.”

She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly. “The circumstances surrounding the termination of my pregnancy were more complicated than the way I described them to Grace.”

Uh oh. “Did you get an abortion?” I whisper.

“No, I really had a miscarriage—the day before I was supposed to get an abortion.”

Dear God. “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

“So am I.” Her eyes are now filled with tears. “It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you would share with a priest.”

“Ex-priest,” I correct her. “It wasn’t your fault, Rosie.”

“Yes, it was, Mike. It was no different than Grace and Bobby. I chose to sleep with my boyfriend. It was my responsibility. I knew the consequences.”

“You were a kid. You made a mistake. I’m not going to let you beat yourself up about it now.”

“You can’t stop me. At the very minimum, I would assume you might have a problem with the fact that a nice Catholic girl was ready to have an abortion.”

“Things happen. You were only fifteen.”

“That doesn’t matter. God took away my baby before I could do it myself.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“That’s the way my priest explained it to me. He told me I was going to hell for killing my baby.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“Then your priest was an asshole.”

“You aren’t going to get any argument from me about that.”

As long as I’ve known her, Rosie has always referred to herself as a “lapsed Catholic” without elaboration. Now I finally understand why. “Is that when you stopped going to church?”

“Yes. It seemed rather pointless. My priest said my ticket to hell was already punched.”

“He was wrong.”

“That’s little comfort to me now.”

Maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought—even after twenty years. “Did your parents know about it?”

“Of course. Who do you think made the arrangements for the abortion?”

My mind flashes to Sylvia. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Surprised?”

“Yes. They were devout Catholics.”

“They were also practical Catholics, Mike. I wasn’t breaking new ground. Do you think I was the only girl in my class who got pregnant?”

“Nope.” A couple of my classmates at St. Ignatius became fathers before they graduated from high school. “Your mother still goes to church every Sunday.”

“She’s more optimistic about the concept of redemption than I am.”

“I think you finished your penance this week.”

“Things might have been a little easier if I’d had a priest like you.”

I take a deep breath. “Who else knows about this?”

“My brother and sister. My asshole boyfriend who dumped me. My asshole priest who told me I was going to hell.” She pauses. “And now Grace and you.”

My God. “You’ve been carrying this around for all these years?”

“Yep. And this is the last time I plan to talk about it.”

“I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

“Me, too.” Her expression indicates this topic of discussion is closed—for good.

Big John walks in a moment later. The veteran barkeep reads our somber expressions and invokes an apologetic tone. “Sorry for interrupting. Roosevelt just pulled up.”

CHAPTER 59

“I WANT TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY GRANDCHILDREN”

Thursday, June 23, 5:45 a.m.

The sun is peeking through the early morning fog as Roosevelt takes a seat in one of the worn chairs in the back room of Dunleavy’s. His stoic expression gives no indication as to whether the news is good or bad. He clears his throat. “This conversation isn’t taking place.”

Rosie, Pete, and I nod in unison. We lean forward and listen.

“The previously unidentified fingerprint found on the door to Judge Fairchild’s house matches that of Louis Park, the facilities manager of the Sunshine Massage Spa. Mr. Park’s fingerprints were also found on the steering wheel of a stolen gray Crown Victoria parked in the Sunshine’s garage. Inside the trunk we discovered jewelry and other valuables belonging to several of the customers of the Sunshine, including Judge Sherman Weatherby. We believe Mr. Park was burglarizing the homes of the Sunshine’s customers while they were enjoying the services at the spa. We have shut down the entire operation. We have taken Mr. Park and the owners into custody. Mr. Park will be charged with murder. The owners will face various other charges.”

So far, so good. “Did Park confess to killing Judge Fairchild?” I ask.

“I can’t comment on the details of an ongoing investigation. Off the record, he told us more than he would have if he’d been represented by competent counsel such as yourself. We are confident he will be receptive to a plea bargain for second degree murder in exchange for his cooperation in providing information about the operation of the Sunshine. The federal authorities are also interested.”

“What about the owners?”

Roosevelt shakes his head. “That will be harder. This isn’t the first time they’ve been on our radar and they’ve already lawyered up. If Park cuts a deal, I’m hopeful his testimony will link them directly to the killing of Judge Fairchild. They will also be prosecuted for burglary, pimping, kidnapping, money laundering, and tax evasion. The DA intends to devote significant resources to this case. We may not get them for everything, but we’ll shut them down and they’ll do time.”

Coincidentally, it will give a huge boost to Ward’s re-election campaign. “Where does that leave Bobby?”

“Bill McNulty will be calling you shortly to tell you officially that all charges have been dropped. Your client should be home later this morning. For what it’s worth, please extend my apologies for jumping to an incorrect conclusion.”

“We will.”

“Please also inform him that if he files a civil suit against the SFPD and the City for false arrest, I will personally place him under arrest for statutory rape in connection with his escapades with your daughter.”

“I’ll pass it along.”

“In addition, I want you to tell him in no uncertain terms that if he ever engages in sex with your daughter again, I will rip out his internal organs with my bare hands.”

I smile. “You’ll have to take a number.”

His expression turns somber. “Which brings me to Grace. I have it on good authority that in exchange for her full cooperation, no perjury charges will be filed against her.”

The knot in my stomach starts to ease for the first time in a week. “Thanks, Roosevelt.”

He isn’t quite finished. “I trust you will exert appropriate parental influence to remind her that some of her recent decisions did not evidence exemplary judgment. In particular, you may wish to point out that she was a few hours away from being charged as an accomplice to murder.”

“I will.”

He clears his throat. “Finally, there’s something I need from you.”

“Name it.”

“There are two dozen employees of the Sunshine Massage Spa who have been brought into this country illegally—including Jasmine Lee. We’re letting them stay at the Sunshine under our supervision until we can sort everything out. Many of them speak little or no English. Most have been held against their will and forced to work under abysmal conditions. It’s likely many of them may be subject to criminal charges, and in some cases, deportation. Personally, I see little to be gained by arresting them, but the final call isn’t mine.”

“What do you want from us?”

“They’re going to need lawyers. I want you to represent them—for free.”

It’s a small price to pay. “We will.”

“Thank you.” He gives us the fatherly nod I’ve seen countless times over the past half-century. “There’s something else I want you to know. This is my last case. I’m retiring for good.”

“You’ve tried three times. You’ll be bored.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been chasing bad guys for a long time. I want to spend more time with my grandchildren.”

CHAPTER 60

“THE CIRCLE IS NOW COMPLETE”

Thursday, June 23, 11:15 p.m.

“How’s Bobby?” I ask Grace. They just got off the phone for the fourth time in the last hour.

“Better than yesterday.” She’s sitting on the corner of her bed. “Things are never going to be the way they were, but he’s happy to be home.”

“And you?”

She tugs at the sleeves of her worn Redwood High School sweatshirt. “I’ll be okay, Daddy,” she says bravely.

“It may be hard for a while.”

“I know.” She clutches the large teddy bear that came out of retirement earlier this week after spending the past couple of years on her dresser. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“When are you going to yell at me?”

“Not tonight, honey.”

“You aren’t mad?”

“I’m very mad, but yelling about it tonight isn’t going to help. You made some bad decisions. You learned some hard lessons. Frankly, I’m more disappointed than angry.”

“Why?”

“This exercise should have taught you that we always stick together and deal with whatever comes up—no matter what.” It’s a tired cliché, but it’s one of those rare occasions where it lines up with the truth.

“Are you and Mommy going to ground me?”

“Yep.”

“For how long?”

Until you turn fifty. “For the rest of the summer.”

“That’s pretty drastic.”

“You were a couple of hours away from being arrested as an accessory to murder. You put everything at risk—for yourself and for Mommy and me. You could have lost everything, Grace.”

“Then why aren’t you giving me a harsher punishment?”

How much more can you take? “The purpose of punishing your kids is to remind them of the gravity of their mistakes—and their consequences. You hope it stays with them long enough that they won’t make the same mistake again. Mommy and I are reasonably sure you understand the consequences. Grounding you for six more months won’t add much to the lesson. We’re going to keep a much closer eye on your extracurricular activities, though. And let me make one thing as clear as I can: If I catch you sleeping with Bobby or any other boy in the next five years, I will kill both of you instantly.”

“Got it.”

“Speaking of which, what were you and Bobby talking about for so long?”

“Stuff.”

Not good enough. “What kind of stuff?”

She swallows hard. “We aren’t going to go out anymore. He’s going to college in the fall. I want to spend more time with other people. We’re going to try to be friends, but I think I’m going to take a little break from boys.”

It’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. “I think that’s a good decision.”

“So do I.” She clutches her teddy bear more tightly as her eyes fill with tears. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I put you and Mommy through all of this.”

“Me too.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

* * *

“Did your mother finally go home?”

Rosie nods. “Yes. She’s had a busy week.”

“So have we.”

We’re sitting on the weathered redwood bench on Rosie’s back porch in the cool, foggy air at two o’clock on Friday morning. We’re each nursing a Guinness. There is always an emotional letdown after a big case is resolved and our mood is decidedly melancholy.

“We should get something for her,” I say.

“She stopped accepting gifts when she turned seventy-five.”

“How about a nice dinner?”

“That might work as long as it includes the kids. I think she’d appreciate it more if we promise not to take another murder case until Tommy starts college.”

“So would I. Have you heard anything from Julie?”

“She paid our bill.”

“Did she manage to say thank you?”

“It isn’t in her vocabulary.”

“Was she apologetic for all the nasty things she said to us?”

“Nope.”

“Some things never change.” I look up at the single street lamp struggling to provide a little illumination through the fog. “Is Grace asleep?”

“Finally.” Rosie is in a contemplative mood. “How do you feel about our baby daughter sleeping with her boyfriend?”

“It means she isn’t a baby anymore. We should have seen it coming.”

“We haven’t been setting an especially stellar example.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“Does that make us crappy parents?”

Yes. “It’s been a long week, Rosie. Let’s not beat ourselves up even more tonight.”

She won’t let it go. “Our daughter was a few hours away from being charged with murder. She should have been convicted of perjury. She was sleeping with her boyfriend behind our backs. We need to talk about it.”

I know she’s right. “We need to keep a closer eye on her. There’s a fine line between supporting and enabling. I’m not sure exactly where to draw it, but I know we crossed it this time.”

Rosie’s eyes turn to cold steel. “We can’t let something like this ever happen again.”

“I agree.”

“How do we make sure?”

“We have to trust her a lot less and be around a lot more. Life with a teenage daughter is a war of attrition. Maybe we should set a goal of getting her to college before we kill her—or ourselves.”

I get the smile I was hoping for. “Sounds pretty good to me. I hope it’s realistic.”

“So do I.”

The light from the street lamp reflects off Rosie’s jet black eyes as we take in the cool breeze. “You look tired,” she says.

It’s a welcome respite from talking about teenage problems. “I’m fine, Rosita.”

“You’re even worse than my mother. You’ll never admit you’re slowing down.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. So am I.”

“Maybe a little,” I say grudgingly. I quickly add, “It’s been a long week, but we got a good result for our client and our daughter. We identified Judge Fairchild’s killer and got the Sunshine shut down. Jasmine may be going home to her parents. Hell, we even got paid. All things considered, that isn’t so bad.”

“I guess.” Rosie’s smile disappears. “Jack Fairchild is still dead. Bobby and Sean won’t see him again. The girls at the Sunshine will never have normal lives. Grace isn’t going to be the same. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Of course. We can’t fix everything, Rosie. There’s no such thing as perfect justice.”

“When did you become so practical?”

“I learned it from you. The past twenty years would have been a lot easier if I had been a quicker study.”

“Maybe. Have you given any more thought to Robert’s offer?”

“I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it.”

“Sure you have.”

Yes, I have. “I’m inclined to do it. I’m ready to try something different. It might be a good time to start training the next generation of idealistic young defense lawyers before we get too old and cynical.”

“You mean people like we used to be?”

“We aren’t that old and that cynical yet.”

“You’ll miss trying cases.”

“Robert said we can do a couple of cases a year. That’s plenty. There are also health benefits, a retirement plan, and maybe even an occasional vacation. He said we could use the attorneys at the PD’s Office to handle the cases for employees of the Sunshine. It’ll be a good training opportunity. Most important, I persuaded him to buy us new furniture.”

“We won’t have to use the dented metal desks we had twenty years ago?”

“We’re getting new metal desks.”

She smiles. “You’re one helluva negotiator.”

“Thanks.” I look into her eyes. “Does that mean you’re in?”

There’s a long pause. “I think so.”

“I’ll call Robert in the morning with the good news.” I finish my beer and give her a thoughtful look. “You realize this is the first major decision we’ve agreed on in a long time.”

Her smile broadens. “Given our history, that doesn’t give me a great deal of comfort, Mike.” She pecks me on the cheek. “I guess the circle is now complete.”

I touch her cheek softly. “You just quoted Darth Vader.”

“I thought it was Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“You’ll have to ask Tommy when he wakes up. He’s memorized all of the Star Wars movies. Either way, it’s probably a fitting epitaph for Fernandez and Daley.”

“Maybe it is.” Her expression turns wistful. “While we’re talking about major lifecycle events, do you think we should consider any adjustments in our personal situation?”

This is where things have always gotten tricky. “What do you have in mind?”

“Maybe we could start by having you stay over here a couple of nights a week. It would give you a chance to spend more time with Tommy and Grace. You could even help with the dishes.”

“I’d like that.”

“So would I, but be careful what you wish for. Grace is still a teenager.”

“I’m well aware of that. Do you want to revisit any other aspects of our relationship?”

“I think we’ve covered enough territory for one night, Mike.”

Relief. “Probably the right call.”

She leans over again and kisses me softly, then pulls back slowly. “You realize this is the first time in twenty years we’ve agreed on two major decisions in one night.”

“That’s a new record for us.”

“Maybe we’re evolving. Maybe we’re maturing.”

“Or maybe we’ve finally run out of things to argue about.”

She squeezes my hand tightly as she looks out into the foggy night. I can feel her warm breath on the side of my face as she leans over and whispers, “I love you, Mike.”

“I love you, too, Rosie.”

THE END

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Thanks for reading my story!  I’d love to hear from you. You can email me at  Sheldon@SheldonSiegel.com. Find out more about the making of Perfect Alibi at www.SheldonSiegel.com.

Coming Soon

A New Novel featuring

Mike Daley & Rosie Fernandez (#8):

THE FELONY MURDER RULE

Read an excerpt here

A NOTE TO THE READER

Dear Reader,

Thanks very much for reading this story. I hope you liked it. If you did, I hope you will check out my other books. In addition, I would appreciate it if you would let others know. In particular, I would be very grateful if you would tell your friends and help us spread the word by e-mail, Amazon, Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, Linkedin, etc. In addition, if you are inclined (and I hope you are), I hope you will consider posting an honest review on Amazon.

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Regards,

Sheldon

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It takes a village to write a novel. For me, it takes a very large village. I get a lot of help writing these stories. I want to take this opportunity to thank the kind people who have been so generous with their time and expertise.

Thanks to my beautiful wife, Linda, who has remained unfailingly supportive and patient through the process of many books. It isn’t always easy living with somebody who spends as much time as I do sitting in front of a computer. Thanks also to our twin sons, Alan and Stephen, who are excellent editors and are very understanding when I’m on deadline.

Thanks to criminal defense attorney David Nickerson for your insights into the criminal justice system. Keep fighting the good fight.

Thanks to the Every Other Thursday Night Writers’ Group: Bonnie DeClark, Meg Stiefvater, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka, Janet Wallace and Priscilla Royal. Thanks to Elaine and Bill Petrocelli for your endless support.

Thanks to Sister Karen Marie Franks of St. Domenic’s Convent in San Francisco for help on theological issues.

Thanks my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton (and your spouses and significant others) for your support and encouragement for so many years. I’m sorry that I can’t mention all of you by name in this space, but I wanted to give particular thanks to those of you with whom I’ve worked the longest: Randy and Mary Short, Cheryl Holmes, Joan Story and Robert Kidd, Bob Thompson, Phil and Wendy Atkins-Pattinson, Sue Lenzi, Maria Sariano, Betsy McDaniel, Bill and Barbara Manierre, Donna Andrews, Geri Freeman and David Nickerson, Julie and Jim Ebert, Ron and Rita Ryland, Bob Stumpf, and Aline Pearl. Special thanks to Jane Gorsi for her superb editing and proofreading.

Thanks always to our ever expanding family: Charlotte, Ben, Michelle, Margaret, and Andy Siegel; Ilene Garber; Joe, Jan, and Julia Garber; Terry Garber; Roger and Sharon Fineberg; Jan Harris Sandler and Matz Sandler, Scott, Michelle, Stephanie, Kim, and Sophie Harris; Cathy, Richard, and Matthew Falco; and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden, and Ari Stewart.

Finally, thanks again to all of my readers for your continuing kindness and enthusiasm. Thanks especially to those of you who have taken the time to write. It means a lot to me, and I am very grateful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sheldon Siegel is the New York Times best-selling author of seven critically acclaimed legal thrillers featuring San Francisco criminal defense attorneys Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez, two of the most beloved characters in contemporary crime fiction. He is also the author of the thriller novel The Terrorist Next Door featuring Chicago homicide detectives David Gold and A.C. Battle. His books have been translated into a dozen languages and sold millions of copies worldwide. A native of Chicago, Sheldon earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Illinois in Champaign in 1980, and his law degree from the Boalt Hall School of Law at the University of California-Berkeley in 1983. He specializes in corporate and securities law with the San Francisco office of the international law firm of Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton LLP.

Sheldon began writing his first book, Special Circumstances, on a laptop computer during his daily commute on the ferry from Marin County to San Francisco. A frequent speaker and sought-after teacher, Sheldon is a San Francisco Library Literary Laureate, a member of the national Board of Directors and the President of the Northern California chapter of the Mystery Writers of America, and an active member of the International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime. His work has been displayed at the Doe Library at the University of California at Berkeley, and he has been recognized as a Distinguished Alumnus of the University of Illinois and a Northern California Super Lawyer.

Sheldon lives in the San Francisco area with his wife, Linda, and their twin sons, Alan and Stephen. He is a lifelong fan of the Chicago Bears, White Sox, Bulls and Blackhawks. He is currently working on his ninth novel.

Sheldon welcomes your comments and feedback. Please email him at sheldon@sheldonsiegel.com. For more information on Sheldon, book signings, the “making of” his books, and more, please visit his website at www.sheldonsiegel.com.

BOOKS BY SHELDON SIEGEL

Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez Mysteries:

Special Circumstances

Incriminating Evidence

Criminal Intent

Final Verdict

The Confession

Judgment Day

Perfect Alibi

David Gold Mysteries:

The Terrorist Next Door

Connect with Sheldon Siegel

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EXCERPT FROM

THE FELONY MURDER RULE

Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Mystery (#8)

1

“I NEED YOUR HELP”

The petite woman eyed me nervously from the creaky swivel chair opposite my gunmetal gray desk. Melinda Nguyen tugged at her shoulder-length black hair flecked with gray and spoke to me in a tense whisper. “I need your help, Mr. Daley.”

When you’re the co-head of the Felony Division of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office, everybody needs your help.

I took a sip of room-temperature Diet Dr Pepper from a can I’d bought on my own dime. The Great Recession had nearly wiped out the rest of the U.S. economy, but business was still brisk at the P.D.’s Office. Our caseloads were heavier than ever, but our overextended budget left little room for luxuries like free sodas. Or, for that matter, air conditioning. The latter was especially unfortunate because summer weather had arrived in San Francisco right on schedule—on the first day of fall. At eight a.m. on Thursday, September twenty-first, 2012, the sunshine was fighting through my dirt-encrusted window, and it was almost ninety degrees inside my ten-by-twelve-foot office. I’d been at my desk for almost two hours, and I was already late for a staff meeting. Life at the P.D.’s Office in the new millennium was strikingly similar to the old one.

“Ms. Nguyen—,”

“It’s Melinda, Mr. Daley.”

Fine. “And I’m Mike.”

“Okay.” She was dressed in a simple white blouse from the racks at K-Mart. She wore no makeup. Her delicate features suggested that she could have been in her late twenties, but the worry lines on her forehead and the slight tick at the corner of her mouth indicated that she was older. Her eyes were as pale blue as the San Francisco sky, hinting that someone in her ancestral chain had come from somewhere other than her native Vietnam. She took a deep breath and spoke in a raspy voice. “My son needs a lawyer.”

I’d figured she hadn’t come to see me just to enjoy my charming personality. My lungs filled with stale air as I looked around at the sagging bookcases and mismatched file cabinets in the office where I’d worked for two years. My digs were an upgrade from my first stint at the P.D.’s Office two decades earlier, when we were still housed at the old Hall of Justice in a musty bullpen with leaky windows, spotty plumbing, and inadequate ventilation. During the heady economic times of the nineties, the operation had moved a block south into a remodeled cement bunker on Seventh Street with a labyrinth of narrow hallways and the ambiance of an auto repair shop. A decade and a half of deferred maintenance later, it, too, had leaky windows, spotty plumbing, and inadequate ventilation. And I was lucky—I didn’t have to share my office with a Deputy P.D.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“Thomas Nguyen.”

Got it. Her son was about to go on trial for first degree murder in connection with a botched armed robbery at a liquor store in the Tenderloin. The case was generating a lot of press because Thomas hadn’t entered the store or fired a shot. The victim was his accomplice, a gangbanger named Duc Tho, who had gone inside and allegedly flashed a Saturday Night Special. The shopkeeper pulled out a Bushmaster AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle—purchased legally in Nevada—and filled Tho’s chest with eighteen bullets—right in front of the cash register in view of the security camera. He calmly called the cops, who arrested Nguyen without incident as he was sitting in the car. Nguyen claimed he didn’t know that Tho had a gun.

You might have thought that the owner of the store would have been charged with a crime, but you’d have been wrong. SFPD decided he’d acted in self-defense—not an entirely unreasonable conclusion in the circumstances—and he walked away scot-free. My respected colleagues at the D.A.’s Office figured they had to charge somebody with something. After all, Duc Tho was still quite dead. So they filed charges against Nguyen for first degree murder under California’s so-called “felony murder rule,” which says you can be convicted of murder if someone—even one of your fellow perpetrators—is killed during the course of a felony. Ordinarily, the rule doesn’t apply if the fatal shots are fired by somebody other than one of the perps—like, say, a shopkeeper who’s being robbed. Then again, it isn’t a newsflash that the hardworking professionals at the D.A.’s Office occasionally overcharge and then negotiate deals for lesser offenses. Coincidentally, this sort of over-reaching seems to happen more frequently during election years. In any event, that’s how a senior at Galileo High who was sitting in a beat-up Honda and listening to Kanye West on his iPod ended up facing twenty-five to life. The workings of the criminal justice system in the new millennium were also strikingly similar to the old one.

“I thought Sandra Tran was representing your son.”

“Not anymore.”

Sandy Tran had started at the P.D.’s Office shortly before I’d left. I’d shown her the ropes on a couple of her early trials. She was a superb legal technician who’d handled several high-profile cases involving San Francisco’s Vietnamese gangs. “She couldn’t have quit four days before trial. That would have violated the California Rules of Professional Conduct.” And it would have been a really crappy thing to do.

“Thomas fired her. She wanted him to accept a plea bargain.”

“That’s between your son and Ms. Tran.” It was hardly the first time that a client had disagreed with his attorney on the eve of trial. It was also conceivable that Tran had gotten herself fired for tactical reasons. Maybe she thought the case was a loser, or she was trying to buy time. Over the course of my long and occasionally illustrious career as a defense lawyer, I’d invoked a similar strategy from time to time. It rarely changed the ultimate outcome of the cases, but it gummed up the wheels of justice for a few months. Sometimes, that’s the best you can do. “Ms. Tran will have to arrange for a new attorney for your son.”

“She’s talking to the judge.”

“They’ll work it out.” They had no choice, and it wasn’t my problem—yet. I glanced at my watch. “I’m due in a meeting. Why did you want to see me?”

“Thomas needs a new lawyer.”

Here we go. “Putting aside the question of whether it was a good idea for your son to have fired his attorney on the eve of trial, our office isn’t allowed to take cases just because somebody’s unhappy with their lawyer. We only represent defendants with demonstrated financial need.” After two years back in the saddle at the P.D.’s Office, bureaucrat-speak was coming naturally again.

“I have no money left, Mr. Daley. I paid everything I had to Ms. Tran. For the last two months, she hasn’t charged us.”

“If you want to request our services, you’ll need to talk to an intake attorney and provide financial information. Are you employed?”

“I clean apartments and do odd jobs when I can. I have a bad back.”

“Any money in the bank?” I didn’t like asking strangers about their finances, but it was my job.

“About four hundred dollars.”

It would have paid for a couple of hours with a private lawyer. I didn’t ask her how she managed to pay her rent—if she had an apartment. “I’ll get you in to see one of our intake attorneys. If you meet our requirements, we’ll petition the judge to let us represent your son. It’ll take a day or two.”

“Thomas’s trial starts Monday.”

“I’m sure Ms. Tran has requested a delay.”

“What if the judge says no?”

Your kid is screwed. “If we’re appointed, we’ll ask for a continuance.”

She tugs at her ear. “I was hoping you might be willing to handle Thomas’s case yourself.”

I used to be a pretty soft touch when I was in private practice. Nowadays, I found it much easier to say no. I wasn’t unsympathetic, but my plate was overflowing with the mundane—and essential—administrative tasks of my job. “Until the judge authorizes our office to represent your son, I’m not allowed to give you legal advice. In fact, I’m really not supposed to be talking to you. Even if we’re appointed, I don’t have time to do trial work.”

“I was hoping you’d make an exception. I’ve read about you. The State Bar Journal said you were one of the best public defenders in California.”

That was almost a quarter of a century ago. Since then, I’d gotten a few high-profile acquittals between countless convictions and plea bargains. A losing record comes with the territory when you represent criminals for a living. I went to law school after a brief and undistinguished career as a priest. I joined the P.D.’s Office hoping to change the world—or at least to help a few people like Thomas Nguyen. Things didn’t work out exactly as I’d planned, although I did meet my future- and now ex-wife, Rosita Fernandez, who was the co-head of the Felony Division. She was sitting two doors down the hall.

I reverted to old habits and invoked my confession voice. “If your son qualifies for our services, I’ll assign one of our best attorneys to his case.”

“Would you be willing to meet him?”

“It would be more productive for him to spend as much time as possible with his new lawyer. You need to talk to one of our intake attorneys.”

Her tick became more pronounced. “Thomas was going to graduate near the top of his class at Galileo. He’s never been in trouble. He was working part-time and saving money to go to State. He didn’t even go inside the liquor store.”

“I’m sure Sandra explained that you can be charged with murder if someone is killed during the course of a felony—even if you don’t fire a shot.”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s still the law.”

“It’s a bad one.” Her voice filled with desperation. “I’m begging you to make an exception, Mr. Daley.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And you should.”

“Why?”

“It’s personal.” Melinda Nguyen’s eyes darted around my office. “Would you mind if I closed your door?”

“Why don’t you leave it open and tell me what this is about.”

“I knew your brother.”

My younger brother was a former cop who now worked as a private investigator. “How do you know Pete?”

“I knew your older brother.”

What the hell? “Tommy died in a plane crash in Vietnam almost forty years ago.”

“He died in Vietnam, but not in a plane crash.”

* * * * *

End of Chapter 1.

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EXCERPT FROM

THE TERRORIST NEXT DOOR

A new mystery featuring Chicago Police Department Detective David Gold

1

“IT ISN’T OVER”

To the tourists strolling down Michigan Avenue on that hazy summer morning, he looked like a homeless blind man sitting on a urine-soaked cardboard in the doorway of the T-shirt shop across the street from the Art Institute.

Except he wasn’t homeless. And he wasn’t blind.

The waif-thin young man with the wispy beard and the sunglasses nervously fingered the prepaid cell phone buried deep inside the pocket of the dirt-encrusted overcoat he’d purchased at a Salvation Army thrift store two days earlier. Cheap, easy-to-program, and readily available, the throwaway phones were popular with everyone from globe-trotting corporate executives to budget-conscious college students. They required neither a contract nor a credit card and were virtually untraceable, making them the tool of choice among drug dealers and terrorists. With a few strokes on the Internet, a high school kid of reasonable intelligence and modest technological savvy could turn a cell phone into a detonator.

His lungs filled with fumes from the #14 CTA bus idling on the southwest corner of Michigan and Adams. At 8:45 on Monday morning, the thermometer already had topped ninety degrees, and there was no breeze in the not-so-Windy City.

Still a lot cooler than Baghdad. And considerably less dangerous—for now.

He was still in his twenties, but his battle-hardened face and the flecks of gray in his beard made him appear older. His intense eyes moved behind the dark glasses as he silently repeated the mantra his instructors had drilled into him from his first day of training: meticulous planning is the key to success. That explained the bulky raincoat, the soiled denim work pants, and the heavy boots, despite the intense heat. Repulsed by his stench and shoddy appearance, the passers-by kept their distance—just as he had planned it.

The annual summer carnival on Chicago’s grandest boulevard was in full bloom, but he barely noticed. Young couples sipped lattes from Starbucks cups as they pushed colorful baby strollers down the sidewalk. Stylishly-dressed tourists conversed in Spanish, French, Japanese, German, and Russian as they looked in the windows of the upscale stores. College kids in tank tops, T-Shirts and royal blue Cubs caps made their way toward Millennium Park. Lawyers, accountants, and brokers in charcoal business suits and subdued rep ties pressed smart phones to their ears as they strode deliberately into the Loop. Students from the Art Institute lugged bulky portfolios and painting supplies to their classes. Fast food employees, security guards, and construction workers walked alongside office workers, retailers, and librarians.

The young man looked up Michigan Avenue at the Wrigley Building, the white jewel of the Magnificent Mile on the Chicago River, a half-mile north of where he was sitting. It was dwarfed by Donald Trump’s ninety-story monstrosity on the site of the old Sun-Times building. He turned his attention across the street to the Art Institute, the Beaux Arts masterpiece on the western edge of Grant Park. On those rare occasions when a Chicago team made the playoffs, the two bronze lions guarding the museum’s doors would be decorated in the team’s uniform.

He watched a dozen cops cordon off the steps of the museum. A tightly wound woman from the mayor’s office barked instructions to a group of sweaty city workers setting up a microphone beneath the limp flag of the City of Chicago hanging above the archway marked “Members’ Entrance.” He felt bile in his throat when the police chief and the head of the Chicago office of Homeland Security emerged from a black van. The chief had earned his stripes in Personnel. He was elevated to the top job because he was the former mayor’s best friend when they were kids on the Southwest Side. The DHS guy was an even bigger disaster. The retired investment banker lived in the North Shore suburb of Kenilworth, a leafy enclave of gated mansions along Lake Michigan. His sole law enforcement experience had been a brief tour of duty with the Kenilworth Police Commission. To his credit, there had been no terrorist attacks in the affluent hamlet on his watch.

The young man craved a cigarette as he glanced at the ’94 Camry he’d stolen two days earlier and parked in a handicapped space on Adams, just west of Michigan. He commended himself for taking a car with a blue placard and no alarm.

Attention to detail.

He looked down Michigan Avenue for the unmarked police unit carrying the guest of honor to the ceremony across the street. The security of America’s third largest city had been entrusted to a pencil-pushing cop and a pencil-necked political appointee. That needed to change. He would show everybody just how easy it would be for one man to shut down a major U.S. city.

* * *

“I’m glad it’s over,” Gold said.

“So is the entire City of Chicago,” his new partner replied.

Detective David Gold was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked Crown Vic inching north on Lake Shore Drive alongside Soldier Field, just south of downtown Chicago’s signature skyline. The South Chicago native was sweating through the navy dress uniform that still fit him perfectly even though he’d worn it only a handful of times since he’d become Chicago’s youngest homicide detective ten years earlier. The overburdened air conditioner was losing the battle against the beating sun and the eighty-eight percent humidity that made the Second City such an inviting tourist destination in late July.

“How long will this take?” Gold asked. He’d spent his entire life on the Southeast Side, but he spoke without a Chicago accent. If an interrogation called for a local touch, he could flatten his vowels and swallow his consonants to sound like his neighbors. He was also fluent in Spanish.

“Fifteen minutes,” his partner said. “You’re getting a Medal of Valor. It would be good form to accept it graciously.”

Gold nodded grudgingly. He felt a shooting pain in his left shoulder as they barreled over a pothole. At thirty-eight, his wiry body felt like the car’s overworked shock absorbers. His closely cropped hair was more gray than brown. He had a balky knee, a scar along his jaw line, and countless aches and pains from almost two decades of award-winning police work in the South Side’s toughest neighborhoods. “This is a photo op for the mayor and the chief,” he said.

“Welcome to Chicago,” his new partner replied.

Detective A.C. Battle was a burly African American in his late fifties whose melodious basso voice combined the dialects of his native Mississippi with the ghettos of Chicago’s South Side. He had grown up in the projects across the Dan Ryan Expressway from old Comiskey Park. The first Mayor Daley had built the Robert Taylor Homes in the fifties to house thirty thousand African Americans, many of whom—like Battle and his parents—had fled the Jim Crow South. It was also a blatant attempt to segregate them from the terrified white people in the mayor’s neighborhood west of the highway. The Taylor Homes devolved into a cesspool of poverty and violence until the second Mayor Daley finally ordered their demolition in the nineties. Before he was promoted to detective, Battle had spent twenty years patrolling the high-rise shooting galleries of his youth.

Battle looked up at the ornate columns of the iconic stadium where the not-so-monstrous Monsters of the Midway had plied their trade since they’d moved from Wrigley Field in 1971. In an ill-conceived remodel, a soaring ultra-modern bowl had been shoe-horned inside the historic shell, making it look like the Millennium Falcon had landed inside the Roman Coliseum. “Are you going to the Bears’ game next Saturday?” he asked.

“The exhibition games are a waste of time,” Gold said. His family had held season tickets since George Halas had stormed the sidelines and Sid Luckman had run the T-formation. Except during his four years at the U. of I. in Champaign, Gold hadn’t missed a regular season or playoff game in three decades.

Battle nodded. “Think the Cubs will make a move before the trading deadline?”

“Doubtful.” Gold had little patience for small talk, but he had met Battle for the first time twenty minutes earlier, and he knew they would be engaged in the mating ritual of new partners for several months. “You’re a Cubs guy?”

“’fraid so.”

Gold pushed out a melodramatic sigh. The long-standing animosity between the fans of Chicago’s baseball teams was as much a tradition as the St. Patrick’s Day parade and corruption in City Hall. Sox fans tended to be open and notorious about their contempt for their North Side counterparts. Cubs fans were a more civil bunch; they simply refused to acknowledge that there was a team south of Madison Street. “You’re a South Sider,” he said. “How did this happen?”

“Ernie.”

Before Michael Jordan, Ernie Banks had been Chicago’s reigning sports idol. “Your guys haven’t won a World Series since 1908.”

“Every team can have a bad century. Besides, we have a nicer ballpark.”

Yes, you do. “That’s another reason the Cubs keep losing. It’s a quality control issue. Sox fans won’t pay for an inferior product.”

“You like new Sox Park?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Even though the White Sox had won the 2005 World Series after a brief eighty-eight year drought, Gold hadn’t forgiven his favorite team for replacing the crumbling old ball yard where Shoeless Joe Jackson had played with a soulless structure bearing the name of a cell phone company. His disdain for the park’s aesthetic shortcomings didn’t prevent him from picking up a few extra bucks working security on weekends. He was also grateful for the modern plumbing.

They turned onto McFetridge Drive, which ran between Soldier Field and the Field Museum of Natural History. In Green Bay, the roads adjacent to Lambeau Field were named after legendary coaches and players. In Chicago, the street next to the stadium where Gale Sayers, Dick Butkus, and Walter Payton had played honored the longtime head of the Chicago Park District, who had doled out thousands of patronage jobs to his political cronies.

“How’s your shoulder?” Battle asked.

Feels like a rusty hinge. “Fine,” Gold lied. His left arm was jammed against the shotgun bolted upright between them. The heat outside would subside in a few days. The pain in the shoulder he’d separated a month earlier would take longer. “I’m cleared for light duty.”

“Why the big rush to get back to work?”

Gold planted his tongue firmly in his cheek. “So many criminals, so little time.”

The corner of Battle’s mouth turned up. “I guess everything I’ve heard about you is true.”

“Depends what you’ve heard.”

“You’re relentless.”

“That’s fair.”

“You don’t take money.”

“That’s true.”

“And you have a chip on your shoulder the size of a four-by-four.”

Here we go. “Actually,” Gold said, “it’s no bigger than a two-by-four.”

Battle shot a glance at his new partner. “For what it’s worth, my sources told me you never quit and you’ve got my back.”

“For what it’s worth,” Gold replied, “my sources said the same thing about you.”

* * *

The young man’s stomach churned as he strained to see over the buses on Michigan Avenue. He hadn’t eaten since the previous night. He hadn’t slept in two days. The stench of urine and his own sweat made him queasy. He checked the Camry again. He looked across the street at the Art Institute. The mayor adjusted his tie, the chief tested a microphone, and the idiot from Homeland Security chatted amiably with the strident woman from WGN. His heart beat faster as he looked down Michigan Avenue for an unmarked Crown Vic.

Where the hell is Detective David Gold?

* * *

“What does A.C. stand for?” Gold asked.

“Aloysius Charles,” Battle replied. “I’m named after my great-great-grandfather. He was the first member of my family born free after the Civil War.”

They were heading north on Michigan Avenue. To their left were shiny condos, hotels, and office buildings in an area that had been the South Loop’s skid row. On their right was the serene greenery of Grant Park, and, in the distance, the shimmering water of Lake Michigan.

Battle pulled a toothpick from the ashtray and inserted it into his mouth “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure.” It was better to play it straight on their first day together.

“Why do you still live in South Chicago?”

“It’s home,” Gold answered quickly. He was fiercely proud of his lineage as a third-generation native of the hardscrabble neighborhood of smokestacks and steeples wedged between 79th Street, the Skyway, the Indiana state line, and Lake Michigan. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

You’re more than just curious. “Are you asking me why I still live in a neighborhood where all the white people left thirty years ago?”

Battle kept his eyes on the road. “I realize it isn’t politically correct.”

“We were there first,” Gold said.

“What do you mean?”

“My great-grandfather moved from Russia to South Chicago in 1894. I realize it isn’t politically correct, but there weren’t any black people in the neighborhood back then.”

“I didn’t know there were any people in South Chicago back then.”

“Oh yes there were.”

Battle waited a beat. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Yes, I do.” Gold looked at his new partner. “A couple of years ago, I moved in with my father after my mother died. It was supposed to be temporary, but then he had a stroke, and now somebody has to stay with him. For the foreseeable future, that’s going to be me. My brother lives in Lake Forest. He’s a hotshot mergers and acquisitions lawyer. He’s good about paying for caregivers, but he won’t come down to South Chicago unless it’s an emergency.”

“Why didn’t you and your parents move when everybody else did?”

“My dad taught science at Bowen. My mom was the librarian at the South Chicago library. They had this crazy idea that it was our neighborhood, and we weren’t going to leave.” Gold decided it was his turn to ask a few questions. “Why’d you transfer down to Area 2?”

“I live over by South Chicago Hospital. I wanted to work closer to home.”

Sure. “The powers-that-be didn’t send you to babysit me after I got my partner killed?”

“Of course not.” Battle removed the toothpick from his mouth. “Stop beating yourself up, Dave. You and Paulie stopped a terrorist attack. You sure as hell didn’t get him killed.”

“Tell that to Katie and her kids.”

“I did—at Paulie’s funeral.”

Detective Paul Liszewski was the eldest of eight brothers who had grown up on the East Side, a few blocks from the Indiana border. He and Gold had played basketball against each other in high school, and they’d become fast friends as rookie cops at South Chicago station. They spent their free time shooting hoops at the South Chicago Y, where they were usually the only white guys in the gym. The cerebral, lightning fast Jewish guard from Bowen, and the tenacious, lumbering Catholic forward from St. Francis de Sales complemented each other on the court and watched each other’s backs on the street.

Battle tried again. “You did everything by the book. That’s why you’re getting a medal.”

“Yeah.” Gold closed his eyes and replayed the events in his mind for the thousandth time. It had started a month earlier when the bullet-riddled body of a crystal meth addict named Udell Jones was dumped next to the rusty chain link fence enclosing the long-abandoned U.S. Steel South Works site. Jones was a forgotten man from a forgotten corner of town whose death didn’t even rate a line in the SouthtownStar. To Gold and Paulie, he was still a South Chicago guy entitled to an investigation.

A snitch told them that Jones had mentioned a potential new source of crystal meth in a boarded-up two-flat at 84th and Mackinaw. They pulled a warrant and kicked in the door. Paulie never knew what hit him when a fire bomb detonated, killing him instantly. Despite suffering a Type 3 shoulder separation, Gold tackled a young man fleeing the building. He was later identified as Hassan Al-Shahid, a grad student at the U. of C. whose family owned an investment firm in Riyadh. The Saturday Night Special used to kill Jones was found in Al-Shahid’s pocket. The two-flat housed a sophisticated bomb factory. A search of Al-Shahid’s elegant condo on Hyde Park Boulevard uncovered plans to set off a bomb at the Art Institute. That’s how the War on Terror had found its way to the unlikeliest of locations: South Chicago.

The FBI and Homeland Security had trumpeted Al-Shahid’s arrest as a great victory. Gold had a decidedly cooler take after he discovered that the Bureau had been monitoring Al-Shahid for months—a detail they hadn’t mentioned to Chicago PD. Gold blamed the feds for Paulie’s death—a contention they disputed. They couldn’t deny one plain truth: if Gold and Paulie hadn’t pursued the investigation into the death of Udell Jones, Chicago may have borne the brunt of the worst terrorist attack on American soil since 9/11.

* * *

The young man watched the Crown Vic pull up in front of the Art Institute. A uniform escorted Gold up the steps, where he accepted handshakes from the chief and the imbecile from Homeland Security. Gold recoiled when the mayor clapped him on his left shoulder.

He clutched the cell phone more tightly.

* * *

Gold looked across the street at the high rises lining the west side of Michigan Avenue. The mayor was speaking, but Gold wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Katie Liszewski, who was now the single mother of boys aged nine, seven, five, and four. He had visited her almost every day since Paulie’s funeral. He felt a lump in his throat as he recalled the advice of his first partner as they’d driven the hard streets of South Chicago: a cop never cries.

Gold was watching a young mother walking hand-in-hand with her daughter across the street when he felt a nudge from Battle’s elbow. The small crowd was applauding. He adjusted his collar and walked toward the mayor, who smiled broadly and handed him a medal.

“The people of Chicago are very grateful for your heroism,” he said. “Because of your bravery, the people of Chicago are able to enjoy the cultural treasures of this great museum.”

“Thank you,” Gold replied. He stepped to the microphone. “This is dedicated to the memory of Detective Paul Liszewski.” He swallowed and added, “I’m glad it’s over.”

* * *

The young man ignored the pedestrians as he watched the ceremony across the street. as the applause reached a crescendo, he pressed Send.

* * *

Gold was still forcing a smile for the cameras when a Camry parked on Adams exploded. He recoiled as the ground shook and the vehicle was consumed by thick orange flames. The car lifted off the ground, then landed hard on its tires. A fireball roared down Adams, which filled with black smoke. The area was rocked again when the gas tank exploded. The impact blew out the windows of the high rise on the corner, showering the ducking pedestrians with shattered glass.

Gold’s ears rang and his shoulder throbbed. The heavy air smelled of burning gasoline as smoke billowed toward the Art Institute. Car alarms screamed and traffic stopped. Pedestrians stood transfixed for an instant, then they ran across Michigan Avenue toward Grant Park. The cops in front of the Art Institute moved across the street, first at a jog and then at a sprint.

* * *

The young man watched the pandemonium he had created from the smoke-filled alley behind the T-shirt shop. He made sure nobody was looking. Then he tossed his overcoat and pants into a Dumpster. He pressed Send once more. He turned off the cell phone, set it on the ground, smashed it, and dropped the remains into a sewer. Now sporting a Cubs T-shirt and khaki cutoffs, he joined the crowds jogging west on Adams toward Wabash.

* * *

Gold and Battle were standing in front of one of the bronze lions when Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He had a text message. His stomach tightened as he opened it.

It read, “It isn’t over.”

* * * * *

End of Chapter 1.

Click here to purchase The Terrorist Next Door on Amazon Sheldon Siegel’s critically acclaimed novels have sold millions of copies and been translated into dozens of languages worldwide. San Francisco criminal defense attorneys Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez have been called two of the most beloved characters in contemporary crime fiction. HIGHER LAW 2 continues with the fifth, sixth and seventh novels in the series: THE CONFESSION, JUDGMENT DAY and PERFECT ALIBI.

AMAZON readers love these books:

THE CONFESSION 4.4/5 stars (over 100 5* reviews)

JUDGMENT DAY 4.4/5 stars

PERFECT ALIBI 4.4/5 stars

CRITICS love these books:

Lawyer and ex-priest Mike Daley is back again in Siegel’s fifth legal thriller this time going to bat for Father Ramon Aguirre, his longtime friend and beloved priest in San Francisco’s Mission District. Aguirre is accused of murdering Maria Concepcion, a fiercely competitive lawyer who became a celebrity after instigating and successfully settling several abuse cases against the Roman Catholic Church. Her latest suit alleging sexual impropriety by a prominent priest has come to an abrupt halt with her death, and the prosecutor is claiming that Ramon, whose fingerprints are found on the murder weapon and her naked body, is guilty. Daley believes in Ramon’s innocence and agrees to help him pro bono despite the archdiocese’s insistence that they be his sole representation. Incriminating evidence against Ramon continues to appear, including the possibility that he has fathered Maria’s unborn child. As Daley moves from the drug and prostitution-ridden underbelly of San Francisco, where auto parts and offers of legal aid are exchanged for cooperation, to the tension-filled courtroom and the hushed offices of the church, it gradually becomes apparent that Ramon isn’t the only character with a lot at stake in this intelligent, timely thriller. Publishers Weekly Review of THE CONFESSION.

*Starred Review* Hope springs eternal, wrote Alexander Pope, but optimism is wearing thin for law partners Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez. The pair of legal eagles, who remained in business after their marriage went bust, is working to stop the execution of Nathan Fineman, a onetime Mob lawyer accused of gunning down three people at a Chinatown restaurant. Fineman’s health may be failing, but his mind is alive. He’s convinced San Francisco cops planted the murder weapon on him as payback for his successful defense of drug dealers. Fineman’s claim is more than just an indictment of the SFPD; it’s an emotional blow to Daley, whose late father was one of the first cops at the scene on the night of the murders. Minutes turn to days as Mike and Rosie seek evidence that might exonerate their client (and possibly implicate Mike’s respected old man). Drug dealers, wily lawyers, crooked businessmen, and conflicted cops populate the pages of this latest in a best-selling series from Siegel, a practicing attorney in San Francisco for more than 25 years. A compelling cast and plenty of suspense put this one right up there with the best of Lescroart and Turow. Booklist Review of JUDGMENT DAY.

Siegel, an attorney-author who deserves to be much better known, has produced another tightly plotted, fluidly written legal thriller. San Francisco defense attorney Mike Daley and his ex-wife and partner, Rosie Fernandez, are shocked to learn that their daughter’s boyfriend has been arrested for murdering his father, a superior court judge. Despite their misgivings—their daughter, Grace, is the boy’s alibi—they take the case, but they don’t expect their investigation to lead them in the sordid direction it takes. Daley and Fernandez, making their seventh appearance, are as engaging as when we first met them (in Special Circumstances), and the story is typically intricate and suspenseful. Siegel is a very talented writer, stylistically closer to Turow than Grisham, and this novel should be eagerly snapped up by fans of those giants (and also by readers of John Lescroart). Booklist Review of PERFECT ALIBI.

Read more chapters, synopsis, reviews and “making of” online at

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SHELDON SIEGEL’S NOVELS

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SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES

“An A+ first novel.” Philadelphia Inquirer.

“A poignant, feisty tale. Characters so finely drawn you can almost smell their fear and desperation.” USA Today.

“By the time the whole circus ends up in the courtroom, the hurtling plot threatens to rip paper cuts into the readers’ hands.” San Francisco Chronicle.

INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE

“Charm and strength. Mike Daley is an original and very appealing character in the overcrowded legal arena—a gentle soul who can fight hard when he has to, and a moral man who is repelled by the greed of many of his colleagues.” Publishers Weekly.

“The story culminates with an outstanding courtroom sequence. Daley narrates with a kind of genial irony, the pace never slows, and every description of the city is as brightly burnished as the San Francisco sky when the fog lifts.” Newark Star-Ledger.

“For those who love San Francisco, this is a dream of a novel that capitalizes on the city’s festive and festering neighborhoods of old-line money and struggling immigrants. Siegel is an astute observer of the city and takes wry and witty jabs at lawyers and politicians.” USA Today.

CRIMINAL INTENT

“Ingenious. A surprise ending that will keep readers yearning for more.” Booklist.

“Siegel writes with style and humor. The people who populate his books are interesting. He’s a guy who needs to keep that laptop popping.” Houston Chronicle.

“Siegel does a nice job of blending humor and human interest. Daley and Fernandez are competent lawyers, not superhuman crime fighters featured in more commonplace legal thrillers. With great characters and realistic dialogue, this book provides enough intrigue and courtroom drama to please any fan of the genre.” Library Journal.

FINAL VERDICT

“Daley’s careful deliberations and ethical considerations are a refreshing contrast to the slapdash morality and breakneck speed of most legal thrillers. The detailed courtroom scenes are instructive and authentic, the resolution fair, dramatic and satisfying. Michael, Rosie, Grace and friends are characters worth rooting for. The verdict is clear: another win for Siegel.” Publishers Weekly.

“An outstanding entry in an always reliable series. An ending that’s full of surprises—both professional and personal—provides the perfect finale to a supremely-entertaining legal thriller.” Booklist.

“San Francisco law partners Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez spar like Tracy and Hepburn. Final Verdict maintains a brisk pace, and there’s genuine satisfaction when the bad guy gets his comeuppance.” San Francisco Chronicle.

THE CONFESSION

“As Daley moves from the drug and prostitution-ridden underbelly of San Francisco, where auto parts and offers of legal aid are exchanged for cooperation, to the tension-filled courtroom and the hushed offices of the church, it gradually becomes apparent that Ramon isn’t the only character with a lot at stake in this intelligent, timely thriller.” Publishers Weekly.

“This enthralling novel keeps reader attention with one surprise after another. The relationship between Mike and Rosie adds an exotic dimension to this exciting courtroom drama in which the defense and the prosecutor interrogation of witnesses make for an authentic, terrific tale.” The Best Reviews.

“Sheldon Siegel is to legal thrillers as Robin Cook is to medical thrillers.” Midwest Book Review.

JUDGMENT DAY

“Drug dealers, wily lawyers, crooked businessmen, and conflicted cops populate the pages of this latest in a best-selling series from Siegel. A compelling cast and plenty of suspense put this one right up there with the best of Lescroart and Turow.” Booklist STARRED review.

“An exciting and suspenseful read—a thriller that succeeds both as a provocative courtroom drama and as a personal tale of courage and justice. With spine-chilling thrills and a mind-blowing finish, this novel is a must, must read.” New Mystery Reader.

“It’s a good year when Sheldon Siegel produces a novel. Siegel has written an adrenaline rush of a book. The usual fine mix from a top-notch author.” Shelf Awareness.

PERFECT ALIBI

“Siegel, an attorney-author who deserves to be much more well known than he is, has produced another tightly plotted, fluidly written legal thriller. Daley and Fernandez are as engaging as when we first met them (in Special Circumstances, 2000), and the story is typically intricate and suspenseful. Siegel is a very talented writer, stylistically closer to Turow than Grisham, and this novel should be eagerly snapped up by fans of those giants (and also by readers of the San Francisco-set legal thrillers of John Lescroart).” Booklist.

“Sheldon Siegel is a practicing attorney and the married father of twin sons. He knows the law and he knows the inner workings of a family. This knowledge has given him a great insight in the writing of Perfect Alibi, which for Siegel fans is his almost perfect book.” Huffington Post.

Introducing Detective David Gold in

THE TERRORIST NEXT DOOR

“Chicago Detectives David Gold and A.C. Battle are strong entries in the police-thriller sweepstakes, with Sheldon Siegel’s new THE TERRORIST NEXT DOOR, a smart, surprising and bloody take on the world of Islamic terror. As a crazed bomber threatens to shut down America’s third-largest city, the Chicago cops, the FBI, Homeland Security and even the military desperately sift through every available clue to the bomber’s identity, reaching for a climax that is both shocking and credible. New York Times bestselling author Siegel tells a story that is fast and furious and authentic.” John Sandford. New York Times Best Selling Author of STOLEN PREY and the Lucas Davenport Prey series.

“Sheldon Siegel blows the doors off with his excellent new thriller, THE TERRORIST NEXT DOOR. Bombs, car chases, the shutdown of Chicago, plus Siegel’s winning touch with character makes this one not to be missed!” John Lescroart. New York Times Best Selling Author of THE HUNTER.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE CONFESSION

JUDGMENT DAY

PERFECT ALIBI

A Note to the Reader

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Books by Sheldon Siegel

Excerpt from THE FELONY MURDER RULE

Excerpt from THE TERRORIST NEXT DOOR

Acclaim for Sheldon Siegel’s Books

BOOKS BY SHELDON SIEGEL

Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez Mysteries:

Special Circumstances

Incriminating Evidence

Criminal Intent

Final Verdict

The Confession

Judgment Day

Perfect Alibi

David Gold Mysteries:

The Terrorist Next Door

Connect with Sheldon Siegel

Email:  sheldon@sheldonsiegel.com

Website: www.sheldonsiegel.com

Amazon: Author Page

Facebook: Facebook Fan Page

Twitter: @SheldonSiegel

Goodreads: Author Profile

Table of Contents

Copyright

THE CONFESSION

CHAPTER 1 “A Sliding Scale for Sin”

CHAPTER 2 “How Many Lawyers Does it Take?”

CHAPTER 3 THE MUSCLE AND THE MOUTHPIECE

CHAPTER 4 “WE’RE ONLY LOOKING OUT FOR YOUR BEST INTERESTS”

CHAPTER 5 “THEY ALWAYS HAVE AN AGENDA”

CHAPTER 6 “HER PERSONAL LIFE IS CONFIDENTIAL”

CHAPTER 7 “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE SERIOUSNESS OF THIS MATTER?”

CHAPTER 8 “I AM THE ARCHBISHOP OF SAN FRANCISCO”

CHAPTER 9 “PARLOR TRICKS DON’T WORK IN MURDER TRIALS”

CHAPTER 10 “IT’S MY JOB TO HAVE FAITH”

CHAPTER 11 “I KNOW HOW THIS MUST LOOK”

CHAPTER 12 “NOBODY IS BIGGER THAN THE CHURCH”

CHAPTER 13 “THIS IS A CRIME SCENE”

CHAPTER 14 “EVERYBODY KNOWS EDUARDO”

CHAPTER 15 PETE

CHAPTER 16 “IT BECAME INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO DEAL WITH HER ON A RATIONAL BASIS”

CHAPTER 17 “IT WAS A WRONGFUL ACT”

CHAPTER 18 “WHAT’S THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO?”

CHAPTER 19 “THINGS JUST DIDN’T WORK OUT”

CHAPTER 20 “LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME?”

CHAPTER 21 “I FIGURED YOU MIGHT BE UP”

CHAPTER 22 “FATHER AGUIRRE PROVIDED MORE THAN COUNSELING”

CHAPTER 23 “GOD NEVER GIVES US MORE THAN WE CAN HANDLE”

CHAPTER 24 “EDUARDO IS A CHEATING ASSHOLE”

CHAPTER 25 “MY EX-WIFE HAD SERIOUS EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS”

CHAPTER 26 “IT WASN’T A SUICIDE”

CHAPTER 27 “GOD HASN’T BEEN CHARGED WITH MURDER”

CHAPTER 28 “THE TECHNOLOGY OUTPACED THE THEOLOGY”

CHAPTER 29 “YOU’VE PUT ME INTO AN IMPOSSIBLE POSITION”

CHAPTER 30 “MEET JANE DOE”

CHAPTER 31 “I THINK WE CAN DO BUSINESS”

CHAPTER 32 “YOU CAN LOOK, BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH”

CHAPTER 33 “NOBODY SAW HER”

CHAPTER 34 “YOU DON’T WANT TO BASE YOUR DEFENSE ON THE TESTIMONY OF A HOOKER”

CHAPTER 35 “WHO’S PICK?”

CHAPTER 36 “YOU’RE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE”

CHAPTER 37 “INDEED I AM”

CHAPTER 38 “A SIN IS STILL A SIN”

CHAPTER 39 “IT’S BETTER TO COME CLEAN”

CHAPTER 40 “IT CAN’T POSSIBLY GET ANY WORSE”

CHAPTER 41 “FOLLOW THE MONEY”

CHAPTER 42 “I WON’T LET YOU TURN MY COURTROOM INTO A CIRCUS”

CHAPTER 43 “ALL RISE”

CHAPTER 44 “IT’S IN MY REPORT”

CHAPTER 45 “NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN, YOUR HONOR”

CHAPTER 46 “A CLASSIC CASE OF MOTIVE, MEANS, AND OPPORTUNITY”

CHAPTER 47 “HOW LONG CAN YOU BLOW SMOKE?”

CHAPTER 48 “THINGS DIDN’T WORK OUT”

CHAPTER 49 “MUTUAL DECISIONS GENERALLY DON’T INVOLVE BASEBALL BATS”

CHAPTER 50 “YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO WIN”

CHAPTER 51 “I AM THE ARCHBISHOP’S CHIEF ADVISOR ON ALL MAJOR LEGAL MATTERS”

CHAPTER 52 DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

CHAPTER 53 “LUIS DOES NOT EXIST”

CHAPTER 54 “I WAS GOING TO STEAL THE CAR”

CHAPTER 55 A FINAL CONFESSION

CHAPTER 56 “LIFE HAS CONSEQUENCES”

CHAPTER 57 A CHRISTMAS CAROL

JUDGMENT DAY

Chapter 1 “WELCOME TO THE ROW”

Chapter 2 THE PATRON SAINT OF HOPELESS CAUSES

Chapter 3 “MURDERERS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES”

Chapter 4 “IT WAS A LEGITIMATE CONVICTION”

Chapter 5 “LOOKS LIKE WE’RE FLYING SOLO”

Chapter 6 MORT THE SPORT

Chapter 7 “NOTHING WAS PROVEN”

Chapter 8 “HIS LIPS WERE MOVING”

Chapter 9 “THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING”

Chapter 10 BIG JOHN

Chapter 11 FITZ

Chapter 12 “HE’S MADE A FORTUNE IN GARBAGE”

Chapter 13 “THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS”

Chapter 14 “MY HUSBAND IS NOT A MURDERER”

Chapter 15 “YOUR CLIENT MURDERED MY FATHER”

Chapter 16 “ALL I KNOW IS WHAT I’VE READ IN THE PAPERS”

Chapter 17 “I WAS AN OLD-FASHIONED COP”

Chapter 18 DR. DEATH

Chapter 19 “I WAS GOING TO CALL YOU TONIGHT”

Chapter 20 “SOMEBODY KNOWS WHERE WE LIVE”

Chapter 21 “I’M GOING TO FIND OUT”

Chapter 22 MY COUSIN VINNY

Chapter 23 NICK THE DICK

Chapter 24 “IT WAS A VERY BRIEF ASSIGNMENT”

Chapter 25 “THAT’S WHY YOU CALLED AT THIS HOUR?”

Chapter 26 “SHE WAS SCARED”

Chapter 27 “I PREFER TO THINK OF THEM AS UNSUBSTANTIATED AND BASELESS ACCUSATIONS”

Chapter 28 “HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMEBODY TO HANDLE A ‘DELICATE MATTER’

Chapter 29 “HE’S AT SAN QUENTIN”

Chapter 30 “YOUR COOPERATION WILL NOT GO UNNOTICED”

Chapter 31 “I WOULD RATHER NOT BASE OUR FINAL APPEAL ON THE TESTIMONY OF A CONVICTED FELON”

Chapter 32 “IT ISN’T ENOUGH”

Chapter 33 “ARE YOU THREATENING US?”

Chapter 34 “I WANT TO MAKE THEM NERVOUS”

Chapter 35 “THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA WAS WRONG”

Chapter 36 “I WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR DINNER”

Chapter 37 “YOU’RE WAY OVER YOUR HEAD”

Chapter 38 “WE FOUND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS OF HEROIN IN HIS TRUCK”

Chapter 39 “WHAT’S IT REALLY LIKE?”

Chapter 40 “THIS CASE IS RUINING MY LIFE”

Chapter 41 “SOMETHING’S WRONG”

Chapter 42 “YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE”

Chapter 43 “I GOT MY BROTHER SHOT”

Chapter 44 “SHE WASN’T ALONE”

Chapter 45 “THIS COULD GET A LITTLE CHIPPY”

Chapter 46 “WE WAIT”

Chapter 47 “GOOD LUCK”

Chapter 48 “ALL RISE”

Chapter 49 “INDEED I DO”

Chapter 50 “NOT AN ACCIDENT”

Chapter 51 “I WAS AFRAID”

Chapter 52 “MONEY TALKS”

Chapter 53 “HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT I COULDN’T GIVE HIM”

Chapter 54 DENY DENY DENY

Chapter 55 “DO YOU WISH TO RECONSIDER YOUR PRIOR TESTIMONY?”

Chapter 56 “I WANT TO TALK TO MY LAWYER”

Chapter 57 “YOU DID EVERYTHING YOU COULD”

Chapter 58 JUDGMENT DAY

Chapter 59 “GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT”

PERFECT ALIBI

Chapter 1 “YOU AREN’T A CIVIL LAWYER”

Chapter 2 “YOUR DAUGHTER IS AS STUBBORN AS MY DAUGHTER”

Chapter 3 “THAT ISN’T WHAT HE TOLD ME”

Chapter 4 “I DIDN’T KILL ANYBODY”

Chapter 5 “NOTHING WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM”

Chapter 6 “I WANT TO SEE MY SON RIGHT NOW”

Chapter 7 “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

Chapter 8 “IT’S AN OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE”

Chapter 9 “NO DEAL”

Chapter 10 “ONE MORE TIME”

Chapter 11 “MOTHER’S INTUITION”

Chapter 12 “DOES YOUR CLIENT UNDERSTAND THE CHARGES?”

Chapter 13 “THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING”

Chapter 14 “NO, IT DOESN’T”

Chapter 15 “I THOUGHT ROOSEVELT TOLD YOU”

Chapter 16 “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BAD THIS LOOKS?”

Chapter 17 “HE COULD DO BETTER THAN A GIRL FROM THE BARRIO”

Chapter 18 “HE NEVER SHOWED UP”

Chapter 19 “WHERE DID HE GO?”

Chapter 20 “I DEFENDED MYSELF”

Chapter 21 “THIS GETS A LITTLE WEIRD”

Chapter 22 “ARE YOU THUNDER?”

Chapter 23 “WE’RE A FULLY LICENSED FACILITY”

Chapter 24 “IT’S A CHOP SHOP”

Chapter 25 “I’M GETTING TOO OLD FOR ALL-NIGHTERS”

Chapter 26 “WE RUN A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS”

Chapter 27 “ARE YOU CALLING OUR DAUGHTER A LIAR?”

Chapter 28 “I HAVE NO LEGAL OBLIGATION TO TALK TO YOU”

Chapter 29 “WE’VE BEEN THROUGH THIS, DAD”

Chapter 30 “GOOD TIPPER”

Chapter 31 “NOW I NEED YOU TO HELP ME”

Chapter 32 “HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING ON THE STREET?”

Chapter 33 “WE FOUND SOME DISTURBING NEW EVIDENCE”

Chapter 34 “HAVE YOU BEEN SLEEPING WITH OUR DAUGHTER?”

Chapter 35 “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

Chapter 36 “IT’S BEEN A SLOW NIGHT”

Chapter 37 “THEY’RE PLAYING IT BY THE BOOK”

Chapter 38 “I’M NOT SURE I CAN DO THIS”

Chapter 39 “I’M FINE”

Chapter 40 “ARE YOU PLANNING TO PRESS CHARGES?”

Chapter 41 “IS YOUR CLIENT ABLE TO PROCEED?”

Chapter 42 “DID YOU PERFORM THE AUTOPSY ON JUDGE FAIRCHILD?”

Chapter 43 “HE TOLD HIM HE WAS GOING TO MAKE HIM PAY”

Chapter 44 “HOW MANY HOMICIDES HAVE YOU INVESTIGATED?”

Chapter 45 “IT WASN’T MINE”

Chapter 46 “DID YOU CONSIDER ANY OTHER SUSPECTS?”

Chapter 47 “DR. FAIRCHILD WAS SUSPICIOUS THAT HER HUSBAND WAS CHEATING”

Chapter 48 “MY NAME IS LEONARD STONE”

Chapter 49 “YOU NEED TO DECIDE WHOSE SIDE YOU’RE ON”

Chapter 50 THE PERFECT ALIBI

Chapter 51 “DO YOU LOVE YOUR BOYFRIEND?”

Chapter 52 “YOUR CLIENT IS LYING TO YOU”

Chapter 53 “FAMILY”

Chapter 54 “YOU LIED TO US”

Chapter 55 “I SWEAR TO GOD”

Chapter 56 “IT JUST HAPPENED”

Chapter 57 “YOU HAVE MY WORD”

Chapter 58 “IT WAS MY RESPONSIBILITY”

Chapter 59 “I WANT TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY GRANDCHILDREN”

Chapter 60 “THE CIRCLE IS NOW COMPLETE”

A Note to the Reader

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Books by Sheldon Siegel

Excerpts

ACCLAIM FOR SHELDON SIEGEL’S NOVELS