Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

He didn’t look up. “Crappy. People can’t afford booze if they aren’t working.”

  True. The Tenderloin was still a bastion of reality in San Francisco’s expanding tech Neverland. I tried to appear nonchalant as I looked at the security camera above the register. I was standing near the spot where Tho had been gunned down. Pete was pretending to examine the wine selection. In reality, he was memorizing the layout.

  I tossed a bag of jerky onto the counter. “How long have you worked here?”

  “About a year. My dad owns this place.”

  “Probably works his ass off.”

  “So do I.”

  Sure. “You gonna take over after he retires?”

  “We’ll see. This isn’t Wal-Mart.”

  “You still in school?”

  “Nah. I took a few classes at City College. I didn’t like it.”

  Pete set a gallon box of Burgundy on the counter. “How bad is this stuff?”

  The kid grinned. “Pretty bad.”

  “Perfect.” Pete smiled. “It’s a gift for somebody I don’t like—my idiot brother-in-law.”

  I always enjoyed watching him work. He didn’t have a brother-in-law.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the kid, knowing the answer.

  “Tony.”

  “I’m Pete. Could you do me a favor? Would you mind if I use your bathroom? I know this isn’t Starbucks, but I gotta take a leak really bad.” As Tony was thinking about it, Pete added, “I’ll buy another jug of this fine wine and there will be a nice tip for you.”

  Sensing a windfall, Tony handed Pete a key attached to a coat hanger. “Down the hall, turn left, go through the storage room, and follow the smell.”

  “Got it.” Pete headed down the aisle. Tony went back to work on our sandwiches.

  “My brother,” I said. “Any siblings?”

  “My sister is a junior at Mercy. She’s going to college.”

  “Good for her. You live here in the neighborhood?”

  “We live with my mom in Daly City. My dad’s in the Mission.”

  “When I was a kid, we lived on Garfield Square. You know the produce market at 24th and Alabama?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The owner used to be my brother-in-law. I get along with him better than I do with my ex-wife.” I glanced outside. “My dad was a cop here in the Tenderloin. You think it’s sketchy now, you should have seen it in the sixties. I played baseball at S.I.”

  “I ran track at Jefferson.”

  We exchanged small talk until Pete returned and gave Tony the key. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.” Tony put our sandwiches, Doritos, coleslaws, two plastic forks, and some napkins into a paper bag. I handed him two twenties and told him to keep the change. He gave us an inquisitive look. “What are you doing down here?”

  Pete answered him. “We heard you made excellent sandwiches.”

  “What are you really doing?”

  “Trying to fix a problem.” Pete placed three twenties on the counter. “I’m going to level with you, Tony. We’re looking for information about Thomas Nguyen.”

  The kid looked at the bills. “I don’t think I should accept these.”

  Pete added two more twenties to the pile. “It’s a gratuity for helping me pick the wine. My brother works for the P.D.’s Office. He was just appointed to represent Nguyen.”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  I put another twenty on the counter. “If you can help me persuade my client to take a plea bargain, you won’t have to waste your time in court next week.”

  He stashed the money inside his pocket. “He’s lucky he didn’t get shot.”

  “I heard. Did you know Duc Tho?”

  “I’d seen him a couple of times.”

  “Do you know any of his friends?”

  A hesitation. “’fraid not.”

  “We heard he made ends meet by dealing weed.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  And you wouldn’t tell us if you did. “Anybody we might talk to off the record to get a little skinny on Tho’s business?”

  “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “What happened that night?”

  “Tho came in and tried to rob us. My dad shot him in self-defense. We called the cops. Your client was outside in the car. The cops arrested him.”

  “Where were you when Tho came inside?”

  He pointed at the floor. “Right here.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Behind the register.”

  “Anybody else?”

  He used his thumb to point behind him. “My sister was sitting at my dad’s desk. She didn’t see anything.” He gestured toward the window. “My cousin, Hector, was over there. He was our security guard. He didn’t see Tho come in, either.”

  “How could he have missed him?”

  “He was talking on the phone.”

  “You saw Tho come inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you saw him pull a gun?”

  There was an almost imperceptible hesitation. “I saw him reach inside his pocket.”

  “Did you see the gun before he got shot?”

  “No, but my dad found it under his body.”

  “You’re sure he had a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “‘Gimme the money.’ That’s when my father took him out.”

  “You still keep a gun behind the counter?”

  “A Glock. Licensed and registered to my father. You wanna see it?”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Ever used it?”

  “At the range.”

  “You a pretty good shot?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Who else was here?”

  “A delivery guy and a customer. They were by the refrigerator. They went out the back door.”

  “We’d like to talk to the security guard.”

  “He doesn’t work here anymore.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s between jobs.”

  “You know where we can find him?”

  “South City.”

  The back door opened and a man whom I surmised was Tony’s father filled the hallway. Ortega Cruz was an older, larger, and angrier version of his son. Behind him was a teenage girl wearing a Mercy High School uniform. Tony’s sister was pretty. Her delicate features were hidden by black bangs matching her eyes.

  Ortega’s tone was gruff. “Tony taking care of you?”

  “He’s been very helpful.”

  Tony interjected. “He’s Nguyen’s lawyer.”

  His father frowned. “I told you not to talk to anybody.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  The elder Cruz turned to me. “Get out of my store.”

  “I’m trying to persuade Thomas to take a plea. The police said you acted in self-defense.”

  “I did.”

  “Then please give us five minutes of your time.”

  He thought about it for a moment. His voice softened as he spoke to his daughter. “Tony will take you home, Isabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  16

  “IT WAS HIM OR ME”

  Ortega Cruz spoke to me in a gravelly voice. “The D.A.’s Office told me that I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “You don’t.” I was in no position to bargain. “I’m asking for a favor.”

  Cruz jabbed a finger at me. “It was him or me. I’m sorry the kid died, but you do what you gotta do.” He punched a button on the register and frowned as he noted the day’s receipts. His work shirt was drenched in sweat as he sat on a stool behind the counter. His tone turned surprisingly melancholy. “You got kids?”

  “Yeah.” I hadn’t expected the question. “A daughter in college and a ten-year-old son.” I pointed at Pete. “His daughter just turned six.”

  “Put yourself in my shoes. A punk comes into your store and demands money. You’re stan
ding between your son and your nephew. Your daughter is a few feet away. You have a second to react. What would you have done?”

  “Just what you did.” Well, maybe not.

  “Exactly.”

  “My client didn’t even come inside the store. You think it’s right to put away a kid for murder for sitting outside in the car?”

  “That’s up to you lawyers. I told the cops the truth: I shot the kid in self-defense. They decided to arrest your client. The D.A. decided to charge him.”

  “What if he was your kid?”

  “I would have told him not to hang out with a lowlife like Duc Tho.”

  “How do you know that he was a lowlife?”

  “He tried to rob me.”

  “That’s fair.” I pointed at Tony’s graduation photo behind the counter. “Your son is a good kid.”

  “Yeah.” His tone was halfhearted.

  “He’s working.”

  “For me. If I didn’t give him this job, he would be on the street with punks like Tho. He wants to play videogames and hang out with his girlfriend.”

  “He’ll figure it out. Despite our best efforts to screw up our kids, they somehow manage to turn out okay.”

  “I hope so.” His eyes lit up as he glanced at a photo of his daughter. “Isabel is going to college.”

  I wanted to keep him talking. “I trust that you and your wife are on the same page?”

  “Yes. And it’s my ex-wife.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It is what it is. We split up ten years ago. Maria got tired of the long hours and the late nights. The kids live with her in Daly City. The schools are better.”

  There was undoubtedly more to the story. “I’m divorced, too. We try to keep things civil around the kids.” And at the office. And in bed. “Does Isabel come here often?”

  “Every once in a while.”

  “I heard she was here the night that Tho was shot.”

  “She was. She was sitting at my desk doing her homework.”

  “How much did she see?”

  “Enough. She didn’t see Tho come inside the store. I told her to get under the desk when I realized that I was going to have to protect us. She heard everything.”

  “Did she see the body?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head. “Is she okay?”

  “It’s getting better.”

  “She’s on the prosecution’s witness list.”

  “I know. They said that she wouldn’t have to testify.”

  “If I can convince my client to take a plea bargain, she won’t need to go to court.”

  Cruz was now engaged. “What else do you need to know?”

  I glanced at the homeless guy sitting on his doorstep. “You have much trouble?”

  “The usual: shoplifters, gangbangers, drug dealers. Haven’t had an armed robbery in a few months. You know what bugs me the most? I get here at five a.m. and my doorway already smells like piss. I wash it down. By noon, it smells again. How would you feel?”

  “Not great.”

  “Welcome to the American Dream. My alarm that goes off twice a week. I know the cops at Tenderloin Station. I bring them sandwiches. I make them a platter at Christmas. It doesn’t matter.”

  “You pay protection money to the gangs?”

  “Everybody does. Makes no difference. I hired my nephew as a guard, but he didn’t pay attention, so I let him go.”

  “What do you do for security now?”

  He reached under the counter and showed me a Glock. “It’s cheaper and more effective. And it doesn’t come in late and steal my beer.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  “I go to the range every Sunday after church. Tony and Isabel come with me.”

  The family that shoots together . . . I nodded at Pete. His turn.

  He pointed at the deli counter. “Is that where Tony was standing when Tho came in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your nephew?”

  “Over by the window. He was talking on his cell phone. He didn’t even see Tho.”

  “How long was Tho inside the store?”

  “Not long. A few seconds.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “‘Gimme the money.’” Cruz shrugged. “You think I wanted to shoot him when my kids were here? I did what I had to do.”

  “I would have done the same thing.” Pete’s tone remained even. “He pulled the gun as he was walking up to the counter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was it?”

  “A Kel-Tec P-3AT.”

  He knew guns. Pete kept pushing. “You saw it?”

  “He was pulling it out of his pocket.”

  “He pointed it at you?”

  “He was about to.”

  “So you took him out first.”

  “I had to.”

  “I understand. I used to be a cop. Now I teach self-defense at Richmond Rod & Gun. You should come by. I’ll show you some stuff.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Where do you shoot?”

  “Jackson Arms in Daly City.”

  “Tell Andy that Pete Daley says hi.” Pete gave him a conspiratorial wink. “You get a clean kill on Tho?”

  “Middle of the chest.”

  “Nice. How many bullets?”

  “Six.”

  “Any misses?”

  “None. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

  “What’d you use?”

  “Bushmaster AR-15. I bought it in Nevada a couple of years ago.”

  Pete feigned approval. “Nice action. They gonna give it back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “More reason for us to wrap up this case quickly.” Pete glanced at the nine-millimeter on the counter. “Very reliable. Where’d you get it?”

  “Jackson Arms.”

  “You got more?”

  “A couple. Everything I got is legal—go ahead and check me out.”

  “We don’t need to.”

  Yes, we do. Pete glanced at me, and I re-entered the discussion. “You a good shot?”

  “Sharpshooter. Tony’s even better.”

  “Did you know Tho?”

  “He came in the store a couple of times.”

  “Ever give you or Tony any trouble? Shoplifting? Hassling you or your customers?”

  He shook his head a little too emphatically. “No.”

  “Was he carrying when he came in the other times?”

  “He didn’t show it.”

  “Do you know anything about his family?”

  “Just what I’ve read in the papers.”

  “You know any of his friends?”

  “No.”

  “We heard he was dealing dope. You know his supplier?”

  “No.”

  “Why did he pick your store?”

  “Because he was an idiot. Lots of kids like him in this neighborhood.”

  “Like what?”

  “Young. Stupid. Unemployed. Doing drugs. Looking for trouble.”

  “Vietnamese gangs give you trouble?”

  “All the gangs give me trouble.”

  “You ever talk to the cops about it?”

  “Yeah. They’d need to put a cop on every corner before it would make any difference.”

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “You buy a gun. And you can’t be afraid to use it.”

  It wasn’t a terribly satisfying answer, but I understood it. “The D.A. told us that there was a customer in the store when Tho came in.”

  “Eugene Pham. Lives around the corner. Works at a sandwich shop on Larkin. Nice kid. Never gives me any trouble.”

  Cruz divided people into two categories: those who gave him trouble and those who didn’t. “We heard there was also a deliveryman.”

  “Odell Jones. Works for Bud. Been coming in for years.

  “We’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’s on the road all day. His territory goes out to the Sunset
and down to South City.”

  “We’d also like to talk to your nephew. Any idea where we might find him?”

  “San Bruno.”

  “Address?”

  “Moreland Drive.”

  Huh? “County Jail?”

  “Yeah. I figured you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Hector was picked up for buying crystal meth from an undercover cop last night. I’m getting him a lawyer and putting together money for bail.” He gave me a knowing look. “I might let him stay down there for one more night to teach him a lesson.”

  17

  “I DON’T NEED A P.D.”

  San Francisco County Jail #5 looked like an elongated Costco perched above the 280 Freeway in the rolling hills of San Bruno about fifteen miles south of downtown San Francisco. I was sitting at one of the stationary tables in the common area of a jail pod that was much nicer than its dingier counterpart at the Glamour Slammer. If you’re arrested in San Francisco, you’ll want to book a room down here.

  Hector Cruz’s droopy eyes stared at me across the table. “Who are you?”

  “Mike Daley. I’m with the Public Defender’s Office.”

  “I don’t need a P.D. My uncle got me a lawyer.”

  “You have a nice uncle. Your lawyer gave me permission to talk to you. I represent Thomas Nguyen. You’re on the prosecution’s witness list.”

  “My uncle told me not to talk to anybody.”

  “If you help me convince my client to accept a plea bargain, my friends at the D.A.’s Office might go easier on you.” That’s sort of true. “Anything you tell me is attorney-client privileged.” That’s a bald-faced lie.

  “Can you get my charges dropped?”

  “Maybe.” Not a chance. “Why are you here?”

  “They’re saying I bought crystal meth from an undercover cop.”

  “Did you?”

  “It was a set up.”

  It always is. “What’s the cop’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’ll find out. “He sold you the stuff?”

  “He tried, but I didn’t buy.”

  They never do. “Then why did he arrest you?”

  “He said that I offered to pay him, but I didn’t.”

  Of course not. “Did money change hands?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “There seems to be a misunderstanding. Was he wearing a wire?”

  “Yeah.”

  You’re dead. “So it’s your word against his?”

  “I guess.”

  “And the tape.”