Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s entrapment. Your attorney will get it excluded.” Easy for me to make promises that your lawyer won’t be able to keep. “Have they set bail?”

  “Ten grand. My uncle said he would loan it to me.”

  “Is he going to lend you money for a lawyer, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a really nice uncle. Is this your third felony?”

  “Could be.”

  It was conceivable that he was going away for a long time—maybe even life—under California’s draconian “three-strikes” sentencing laws. “I can help you.”

  His sleepy eyes perked up. “How?”

  “I have an investigator working on the Nguyen case. I’ll ask him to find out what he can about yours.”

  “The cops won’t talk to him.”

  “Yes, they will. He used to be one of them.”

  He showed the first sign of interest. “What do you want from me?”

  “Tell me what happened the night that Duc Tho was killed.”

  “He walked into the store, showed a gun, and asked for money. My uncle shot him.”

  “How long was he inside the store?”

  “A few seconds.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Behind the counter between my uncle and the window.”

  “Did you see Tho come inside?”

  “No.”

  “You just said that you were standing next to your uncle.”

  “I was looking out the window and talking on my cell.”

  Some security guard. “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. By the time I turned around, my uncle had shot him.”

  “Had you ever seen Tho?”

  “A few times. He never gave me any trouble.”

  “Did you see him pull the gun?”

  “No.”

  “But you heard him ask for money?”

  A hesitation. “Yeah.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “‘Gimme the money.’”

  His uncle and his cousin said the same thing. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  I was tempted to ask him how he heard Tho if he was talking on his cell, but I filed it away as something that I might use later. “You saw the gun?”

  “My uncle found it underneath the body.”

  “Did you see it before he was shot?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re absolutely sure he was packing?”

  “Yeah.”

  And you aren’t going to contradict your uncle—especially since he’s paying your bail. I was already looking forward to putting Hector on the stand. “What did you do when the shooting started?”

  “I ducked behind the counter and called the cops.” He confirmed that Sergeant Navarro arrived within minutes.

  “Did you or your uncle touch the body?”

  “Just my uncle.” He quickly added, “And only to make sure that Tho was dead.”

  It wasn’t as if one of them planted the gun. “Were you packing that night?”

  “My uncle’s nine-millimeter.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  “I’d shot it at the range.”

  “Why didn’t you take out Tho?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t see him come in. My uncle shot him before I could react.”

  “We heard that Tho was selling weed at Galileo.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any idea who was supplying him?”

  He shrugged.

  “If you can give the D.A. the name of Tho’s supplier, they’ll go easier on you.”

  “I don’t know. And even if I did, I’d end up dead if I gave them a name.”

  He knew more. “They can protect you, Hector.”

  “Sure, they can.” He folded his arms. That topic of conversation was now concluded.

  I tried another angle. “Are you and Tony close?”

  “We hang out a little.”

  “Is he into drugs?”

  “Just beer.”

  “Did he buy anything from Tho?”

  “Tony doesn’t do that stuff. Neither do I.”

  Except for the crystal meth that you tried to buy from the undercover cop. “What did Tony’s dad think about his drinking?”

  “He didn’t like it. Pretty ironic for a guy who runs a liquor store.”

  I flashed an understanding smile. “Did Tony’s dad give him a lot of grief?”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like dropping out of college. And not getting a better job.”

  “He was on you all the time, wasn’t he?”

  “He never lets anything go.”

  “What about Tony’s sister?”

  “Ortega is a lot nicer to her.”

  Maybe that’s because she’s a good student who doesn’t get arrested. “It must have been rough on her.”

  “It was.”

  I sent up a final flare. “Hector, other than that night, did you ever see your uncle pull the gun?”

  “All the time.”

  * * *

  My iPhone vibrated as I was driving down Moreland Drive. There is no cell phone reception inside the jail building or the parking lot. I saw Pete’s name on the display. “Where are you, Mick?”

  “San Bruno. I just talked to Hector Cruz. He’s just like his uncle described him.”

  “How soon can you get back to the Tenderloin?”

  “If the traffic is good, about a half hour.”

  “Good. I found Eugene Pham.”

  18

  “HE DOESN’T TAKE CRAP

  FROM ANYONE”

  “I didn’t see anything,” the twitchy young man insisted. A tattoo of a snake was visible on Eugene Pham’s shoulder beneath his soiled white smock. “I have to get back to work.”

  Pete placed five twenties on the Formica table next to his baguette filled with sour pickled daikon and carrot, cilantro and cucumber—known as Bahn Mi, and colloquially pronounced “bang me.” It was the specialty at Saigon Sandwich, a hole-in-the-wall beneath a bright blue awning on Larkin between Turk and Eddy. “This is a gratuity for ten minutes of your time. If you’re cooperative, there may be more.”

  My brother was depleting our modest investigation budget quickly.

  Pham covered the bills with his hand and glanced at the kid who was mopping the floor behind the counter. “What do you want to know?”

  Pete’s tone was even. “Did you know Duc Tho?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you when he came inside Alcatraz Liquors?”

  “Back of the store.”

  “Did you see him pull a gun?”

  “I didn’t see or hear anything. I ran out the back door when the shooting started.”

  “Did you see Ortega Cruz shoot Tho?”

  “No.”

  “So you can’t confirm that he pulled the trigger?”

  “He admitted it.”

  “But you didn’t see it.”

  “Correct.”

  “Was anybody else in the store?”

  “Ortega, his son, his daughter, and his nephew. There was a deliveryman filling the refrigerator by the deli counter. I don’t know his name.”

  This lined up with everything we had heard so far. Pete kept pushing. “Any chance somebody else was there? Maybe behind the counter or in the storage room or the bathroom?”

  “I didn’t see anybody else.”

  “Do you shop there often?”

  “Once or twice a week.”

  “How well do you know Ortega?”

  “Not well.”

  “Has he ever given you any trouble?”

  “No.”

  “We heard he shot a guy a few years ago.”

  “I read about it in the paper.”

  “Is Ortega a good guy?”

  “I think so, but he doesn’t take crap from anyone.”

  * * *

  I lowered the passen
ger-side window of Pete’s decommissioned police-issue Crown Vic parked across the street from Saigon Sandwich. His air conditioner had retired two years earlier. “What did you think of Ortega Cruz?” I asked.

  “He kept his cool. He’ll be a strong witness.”

  “What about Tony?”

  “He’ll say whatever his father tells him to say.”

  “I need you to have somebody watch Ortega. And talk to his friends, neighbors, and business associates.”

  “In the works, Mick.”

  “And find out everything you can about Tony and his sister.”

  “And his mother,” Pete added. “And most important, Tho.”

  “Yeah.” I took a breath of the warm evening air. “You think Pham knows more than he told us?”

  “Everybody knows more than they’ve told us, Mick.”

  “Any chance you can track down the Bud deliveryman?”

  “Already did.”

  “How?”

  “Big John.”

  19

  “I GOT THE HELL OUT”

  The evening crowd was watching the Giants’ game on the big screen at Dunleavy’s at seven-thirty on Thursday night. Big John placed an iced tea on the table in front of the stocky deliveryman sporting a polo shirt with a Budweiser logo. My uncle tossed the ever-present dishtowel over his shoulder. “This one’s on the house, Odell. You want something to eat?”

  “No, thanks, John.”

  “I’d be grateful if you’d help my two favorite nephews.”

  “Happy to do what I can, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “Then this won’t take long.” Big John strolled over to the bar, where he pretended to wash some mugs. In reality, he was listening to us.

  “You from around here?” I asked Odell Jones.

  “The Bayview. I live in Daly City.”

  “How long have you been working for Bud?”

  “Forever.”

  “I’m surprised we haven’t met.”

  “I’m never here for long.” He took a sip of iced tea. “I understand you’re representing Thomas Nguyen.”

  “We are. Would you mind telling us what you saw that night?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at Big John, then he turned back to me. “Nothing.”

  “Why are you on the prosecution’s witness list?”

  “Beats me. I was filling the refrigerator in the back behind the deli counter when Tho came in. I got the hell out when the shooting started.”

  “Why were you there so late?”

  “My truck broke down earlier in the day. I was catching up.”

  “Was anybody with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you park on the street?”

  “No, in the alley.” He confirmed that he came in through the back door.

  “Who else was in the store?”

  “Ortega, his son, his daughter, and his nephew. There was a customer in the back. Vietnamese kid, I think. I don’t know his name. Never saw him before. He followed me out the back door.”

  “Any chance he might have killed Tho?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Where were Ortega and his kids when the shooting started?”

  “Ortega was at the register. Tony was behind the deli counter. Isabel was sitting at Ortega’s desk. Hector was over by the window.”

  “Did you see Tho come inside the store?”

  “No.”

  “Ortega told us that he asked for money.”

  “Might have. I didn’t hear anything.”

  Pete took a sip of coffee. “How long were you in the store?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Did anybody else come or go while you were there?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Any chance somebody else was there?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “There’s a storage room and a bathroom in the back. Could somebody have been there?”

  “It’s possible. What difference does it make?”

  “Just curious.”

  Pete was never just curious. He pretended to take a drink from his empty mug. “Had you ever met Tho?”

  “No.”

  “We heard he was dealing marijuana in the neighborhood.”

  “I heard the same thing. Don’t know anything about it.”

  “Any chance you know who was supplying him?”

  “’fraid not.”

  “How well do you know Ortega?”

  “Pretty well. Been delivering to his store for years. He’s a decent guy.”

  “He ever given you any trouble?”

  “A couple of times he called my boss to complain when I was late.”

  “Did he ever threaten you?”

  “Not really.” He reconsidered. “Well, sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jones paused. “About six months ago, I came in late. Ortega’s place had been robbed the night before, and he was in a bad mood. He showed me his Glock. He said that if I was late again, he’d use it on me.” He added, “He wasn’t serious.”

  Jones was getting antsy, and I didn’t have time to be subtle. “Does he have a problem dealing with you because you’re African-American?”

  “I don’t think so.” He touched the Budweiser logo on his shirt. “I think he has bigger problems with the Vietnamese.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I never ask him about it.”

  “We heard he served in Vietnam.”

  “He did.”

  “You think it has something to do with his time in the army?”

  “Not sure. It was a long time ago. It might also have something to do with the Vietnamese gangs in the Tenderloin. They give everybody trouble.”

  * * *

  Big John squeezed his ample torso into the chair across the table from Pete and me. “Get anything useful from Odell?”

  “Not much,” I said.

  “He’s a stand-up guy, Mikey.”

  “I know.”

  Pete scowled. “You’ve known him for a long time, haven’t you, Big John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he always carry a .22?”

  My uncle chuckled. “Just like your daddy. You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “It was intended that way.”

  “So, does he always pack?”

  “He works in some rough neighborhoods and he’s been robbed a few times.” Big John’s impish eyes narrowed. “He didn’t shoot Tho, Petey. And if his employer finds out that he’s packing, he’ll get fired. I don’t want that to happen because he helped you.”

  “Yes, Big John.”

  My uncle turned to me. “Where are you off to now?”

  “The office.” I looked at Pete. “You coming with me?”

  “No. I’m going to check on a few things.”

  “Going to play cops-and-robbers?”

  “Possibly.”

  20

  “LITTLE THINGS ADD UP

  TO ACQUITTALS”

  “Did you get anything more on Tho’s cell phone?” I asked.

  Rolanda was staring at her computer. The aroma of leftover pizza wafted through her office at eight-thirty on Thursday night. “Jibes with what you heard from Inspector Lee. They found a throwaway in his pocket. Bought for cash the day before he died. There was a call to his mother and a call to Thomas.”

  “This isn’t helping.”

  “It is what it is. Did you and Pete get anything we can use?”

  “Not much.” I summarized our interviews with Inspector Lee, Sergeant Navarro, the Cruz family, Eugene Pham, and Odell Jones. “Their stories lined up on the big points.”

  “What about the little points?”

  “Ortega and Tony insisted that Tho reached for a gun inside his pocket. Both admitted that they didn’t actually see it before Ortega started shooting.”

  “That’s consistent with the video. They’ll claim that they thought he wa
s pulling a gun. What about the security guard?”

  “He was looking out the window when Tho walked in. He didn’t see anything, but he heard Tho demand money.”

  “That lines up with his uncle and his cousin.”

  “Except he was talking on his cell phone.”

  “How did he hear Tho?”

  “I guess he heard him out of the other ear.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “Ortega’s nephew said that his uncle has a temper. The deliveryman said that Ortega had flashed a gun a few times and he had issues with the Vietnamese community.”

  “It may prove that Ortega is a hothead who likes to show off a weapon. If he reasonably thought that Tho was pulling a gun, it’s probably enough to support self-defense. The fact that they found the gun on the floor with Tho’s prints suggests that their concerns were legitimate.

  “Ortega’s prints were on the gun, too.”

  “He admitted that he picked it up and disarmed it.”

  “If we can show that the gun was planted or that he acted unilaterally, we might mitigate his self-defense claim.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “I’m not sure.” I took a bite of pizza. “Let’s go back to the evidence. Is there anything proving that Ortega shot Tho?”

  “He admitted it.”

  “He could be lying to protect his son or his nephew or even his daughter. If we can suggest with some credibility that somebody else shot Tho, it calls into question Ortega’s self-defense claim and changes the narrative. It also shows that he’s a liar. Did the cops check his hands for gunpowder residue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they check anybody else for gunpowder residue?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll ask them why not.”

  “They found gunpowder residue on Ortega’s shirt.”

  “We’ll argue that he could have been standing next to the shooter.”

  “Get real, Mike.”

  “There were at least three people within a couple of feet of each other behind the counter—Ortega, Tony, and Hector. If any one of them fired the shots, it’s possible that gunpowder residue would have landed on Ortega’s shirt.”

  “The ballistics report indicated that Tho was hit in the chest from shots fired from behind the register.”

  “Then we’ll need to find an expert to argue that he was still turning when he was shot.”

  “Why?”

  “If he was moving, it broadens the theoretical radius from which the shots were fired by a few feet. We can argue that Tony or maybe even the security guard shot him. Is there anything on the video proving that they were standing where they said they were?”