Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  Her tone became sharper. “This has been very hard on both of them—especially Isabel.”

  “It must have been horrible for her. Did she see your husband shoot Duc Tho?”

  “No, but she saw the body.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “Has she talked to a counselor?”

  “She talked to our priest. It’s helped a little.”

  “And Tony?”

  “He won’t talk to anybody. It was hard for a few months. Then he seemed to be doing better. Now he’s getting nervous about the trial.”

  “He won’t have to do much.”

  “He’s sensitive.”

  I hadn’t seen that part of his personality. “I have a nineteen-year-old daughter. I can’t imagine what Isabel and Tony have been through.”

  “We’re doing the best that we can.”

  “If you help me, I might be able to convince my client to accept a plea bargain. If he does, Tony and Isabel won’t have to testify next week.”

  Her lips formed a tight ball. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tony and your ex-husband told me that Tho threatened them with a gun and demanded money.”

  “He did.”

  “I understand that Ortega shot a robber a few years ago.”

  “He did.”

  “How did he feel about it?”

  “Badly.”

  “How did you feel about it?”

  “Terrible.” She swallowed. “I wanted Ortega to sell the store. The hours are terrible and the neighborhood is dangerous. He deals with shoplifters and homeless every day. On bad days, somebody will pull a gun or a knife. We could never take a vacation. He came home angry every night. It was no way to live.”

  “Is that why you got divorced?”

  “In part. We never saw him.”

  “I heard he has a temper.”

  “A little.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “No.”

  “Were the kids?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Hector told me that Ortega yells a lot.”

  “Sometimes.” She held up a hand. “He’s fundamentally a good man. He’s very protective of the children and me. Those are good things.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I need to take care of my other customers.”

  “Thanks for your help, Maria. I know this must be very hard for you and your children.”

  “It is.”

  “If there is anything that I can do to help you, please let me know. And I don’t think it will be necessary, but we might need to ask you to testify at the trial.”

  Her eyes turned to ice. “I will be available, but I want to make two things clear. First, I want you to leave my children alone. Second, I will not testify against my ex-husband.”

  * * *

  “How did it go with Cruz’s ex-wife?” Pete asked.

  “Not great.” I pressed my iPhone against my ear as I inched northbound on the 101 near the airport. “She’s very protective of her kids. She said her ex-husband is a decent guy with a temper.”

  “Is she prepared to testify about the temper?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  No, it doesn’t. “You find anything we can use?”

  “Maybe. How soon can you get back to the Tenderloin.?

  “Give me a half hour.”

  “Meet me in front of Glide Memorial. I found the ‘Lion of the Loin.’”

  26

  “THE LION OF THE LOIN”

  “What took you so long, Mick?”

  “Traffic.”

  Pete smirked. He loved telling people that our mother used to drive faster than I did. He pointed at a rail-thin man of indeterminate middle age sitting on a milk crate next to the shopping cart holding his belongings in front of Glide Memorial Church in the heart of the Tenderloin. “This is Brian Holton.”

  I inhaled the fumes from the cars barreling past us at one-thirty on Friday afternoon as I shook his calloused hand. “Maybe we could talk inside where it’s quieter.”

  Pete answered for him. “Brian wants to keep an eye on his stuff.”

  Got it. It was hot outside, but Holton was wearing a soiled Burberry overcoat that cost its original owner over a thousand dollars. His eyes were red and his puffy face was covered by gray stubble. Homeless people age faster than the rest of us. “You from around here?”

  “Palo Alto. Gunn High School. San Jose State. I worked security in the tech industry after I got back from my third tour in Afghanistan.”

  Rosie always said that there was a fine line between those who lived with roofs over their heads and those who didn’t. “Army?”

  “Marines.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Here and there.” His melancholy smile revealed a missing front tooth. “I had a nice set-up under the Bay Bridge, but the cops made us move. My stuff got stolen in the Mission. I’ve been here in the Tenderloin for a couple of years.”

  “Ever tried the shelters?”

  “Too many rules.”

  It was a common sentiment. I pointed at the imposing Methodist church that became a pillar of outreach and health services in the neighborhood when the legendary Reverend Cecil Williams arrived in the sixties. “They have a lot to offer here.”

  “I come in for meals sometimes.”

  “How long have you been on the street?”

  “Almost ten years.” His tone was businesslike. “I got into some bad drugs. My wife left me and things went downhill.”

  “How about the VA?”

  “They tried.”

  “I’m not a social worker, but I know some people who might be able to give you a hand.”

  “I’ve been through the system a couple of times. There’s an industry in this town of people trying to help guys like me. Sometimes I think they’re more interested in keeping their grant money than doing anything for us.”

  I didn’t push him. “I’m representing Thomas Nguyen.”

  “I heard.” He pulled a can of malt liquor from his pocket, opened it, and took a long draw. “Vietnamese kid going on trial Monday.”

  “He also happens to be my great-nephew. I understand you know everybody in the neighborhood.”

  “They call me the ‘Lion of the Loin.’”

  I feigned admiration. “Who gave you that name?”

  “I did.”

  Thought so. “I understand that you were in front of Alcatraz Liquors the night Duc Tho was killed.”

  “I might have been.”

  “Would you mind telling us what you saw?”

  He held out a palm. “You lawyers get paid for your time. So do I.”

  I slipped him two twenties. “You understand that the size of your gratuity depends upon the quality of your information.”

  “As it should be.”

  “And you will be much more valuable to us if you’re prepared to testify.”

  “I charge a premium for that service. You’ll also need to provide a suitable wardrobe and cover my incidental expenses.”

  “We’ll take care of it.” The P.D.’s Office had a closet filled with donated clothing. “Were you at Alcatraz Liquors on the night Tho was shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Hanging out. Ortega used to slip me a few dollars to keep the troublemakers away.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I told people that Ortega had a gun and he wasn’t afraid to use it.”

  I handed him another twenty. “Where exactly were you when Tho went inside?”

  “Outside the front door.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “No.”

  “Did Tho say anything to you when he went inside?”

  “No.”

  “Was he carrying?”

  “Probably. In this neighborhood, you assume that everybody is packing until
proven otherwise. It’s a matter of self-preservation.”

  “Did you see a gun?”

  “No, but he wouldn’t have shown it.”

  “Did Tho say anything to Ortega?”

  “He might have. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Did you see Ortega shoot him?”

  “No. And as soon as I heard shots, I got the hell out of there.”

  “Any chance somebody other than Ortega shot Tho?”

  “Doubtful. He admitted it.”

  “Any chance Ortega or Tony planted the gun on Tho?”

  He smiled. “Anything’s possible.”

  I asked him if he had talked to the police.

  “Briefly. I told them the same thing that I just told you.”

  “Did you ever see Ortega pull his gun on anybody?”

  “Many times.”

  “Did you ever see him shoot somebody other than Tho?”

  “No, but I’ve seen him show the gun. Hell, he pulled it on me a bunch of times. That’s one of the reasons that I don’t hang out in front of his store anymore.”

  “You think he would have shot you?”

  “Probably not, but you never know.”

  “He used to have a security guard.”

  “I know. I heard that Hector is in San Bruno again. What did he do this time?”

  “He was picked up for buying crystal meth from an undercover cop.”

  “He should have known better. How long is he going to be down there?”

  “Until his uncle pays his bail. I understand that Hector and Ortega didn’t get along.”

  “Hector has a knack for finding trouble. This isn’t the first time that Ortega has bailed him out.”

  “Does Hector know the dealers in the neighborhood?”

  Holton smiled. “If he did, he wouldn’t have tried to buy from an undercover cop.”

  “Do you know the dealers?”

  “A few.”

  “What about undercover cops?”

  “They’re harder to pick out.”

  I changed direction. “How does Tony get along with his father?”

  “The same way I got along with my father when I was nineteen.”

  I was starting to like the Lion. “You got kids, Brian?”

  “My son just turned seventeen. He and his mother moved to L.A. I haven’t seen them in years.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  “Does Tony know how to use a gun?”

  “Yeah. His father taught him how to shoot, but Tony doesn’t like going to the range.”

  “He doesn’t like guns?”

  “He doesn’t like hanging out with his father.”

  Got it. “What about his sister?”

  “I used to see her at the store every once in a while. Isabel is smarter than Tony, and her father treats her better.” He frowned. “I can’t believe she was there that night. What a nightmare. I don’t know if she saw Ortega shoot Tho, but she must have seen the body.”

  I thought of Grace. “Did you know Duc Tho?”

  “I’d seen him in the neighborhood.”

  “Do you know any of his friends?”

  “Nope.”

  “We heard he was selling weed to the kids at Galileo.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “You know the name of his supplier?”

  A hesitation. “No.”

  “Could you find out?”

  “Maybe. That’s going to require a payment at super-premium rates.”

  “We can work that out.” I probed for a few more minutes, then I handed him a business card wrapped in five twenties. “This is a down payment. Can we give you a lift somewhere?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You got a cell phone?”

  “No.”

  Pete handed him a throwaway cell. “You do now. We’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  Pete’s tone was philosophical. “I was hoping that he knew more, Mick.”

  “I didn’t expect much.”

  We were sitting in his car at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. It had been an ungodly long couple of days, and we were just getting started.

  Pete frowned. “I’ll keep an eye on him. And I want to do some checking here in the neighborhood.”

  “You want company?”

  “It might be better if I did this by myself.”

  * * *

  Rolanda’s text came in as I was driving back to the office. “Meet me at Stonestown Mall as soon as you can,” it read.

  “Why?” I texted back.

  “I found Ortega Cruz’s daughter.”

  27

  “DO YOU THINK THEY KNOW?”

  “Where is Isabel?” I asked.

  In her faded jeans and Warriors T-shirt, Rolanda could have passed for a college student. She pointed at the Apple Store between the Olive Garden and the Nordstrom’s at the south end of the Stonestown Galleria. “Inside.”

  “How long has she been here?”

  “Almost an hour.”

  It was impossible to get out of an Apple Store in less time. “How did you find her?”

  “I played a hunch. This is where we used to hang out after school.”

  Rolanda’s alma mater, Mercy High, was across Nineteenth Avenue. When I was a kid, Stonestown was a fifties-vintage, open-air mall. When we got good grades and we were a little flush, my mom and dad used to take us for burgers at the Red Chimney after church. Several ownership changes and remodels later, the now-indoor facility looked like every other mall in the U.S. Stonestown was in the Lakeside District near Mercy, St. Ignatius, Lowell, and Lincoln High Schools, as well as City College and San Francisco State. Not surprisingly, at three o’clock on Friday afternoon, its two-story concourse was filled with young people.

  “You managed to find her in the middle of a crowded mall?” I said.

  Rolanda responded with a mischievous smile. “I checked her Facebook page. Her parents should tell her to update her privacy settings.”

  Very resourceful. “Is she alone?”

  “She’s with a girlfriend. How do you want to play this?”

  “For now, we just watch.” A couple with matching Lowell High hoodies strolled past us arm-in-arm. “She saw me yesterday at her father’s store. If either of us is going to talk to her, it should be you.”

  “Agreed.”

  We tried to blend in as we took up positions at either end of the Apple Store. Well-dressed kids texted their friends as they wandered past us. I found a spot near the entrance to Nordstrom’s. Rolanda camped out in front of Victoria’s Secret. Twenty years ago, we would have looked conspicuous. Nowadays, the ubiquitous smartphones gave us cover.

  Five minutes went by. Then ten. I wondered whether my time could have been better spent reviewing files or looking for witnesses. I held my iPhone to my ear and pretended to talk to somebody. I was hoping to hear from Pete, but he had maintained radio silence since our visit with the Lion.

  Fifteen minutes later my phone vibrated. Rolanda’s name appeared on the display. “Isabel is leaving the store,” she said.

  “I see her. Follow her, but don’t get too close.”

  “Got it.”

  The Isabel Cruz who walked out of the Apple Store with her friend looked nothing like the quiet teenager I’d seen briefly at her father’s store the night before. She was wearing a skin-tight white blouse cinched up to reveal her naval, along with a pair of short shorts. Her long black hair was pulled back into a French twist. Her face was caked with makeup. A designer backpack was slung over her shoulder. She and her friend could have passed for sisters. They stared intently at their iPhones as they started walking toward the central atrium.

  I punched in Rolanda’s number on my speed dial. “You see her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m guessing those aren’t official Mercy High uniforms.”

  “They aren’t.”

  “Did you dress that way?”

  “All the time. We us
ed to change after school. It made it easier to get the boys from St. Ignatius to buy us stuff.”

  A long time ago, I had been one of those boys. “Did your father know about this?”

  “Of course. Did your father know that you and your brothers used to come over here after school to hit on the girls from Mercy?”

  I loved my niece. “Absolutely.”

  “I gotta roll, Mike.”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Isabel and her friend ambled past the Michael Kors store and the Armani outlet. They managed to avoid other shoppers even though their eyes were focused on their iPhones. They stopped briefly at Sunglass Hut, but they didn’t buy anything. They paused again at the French Bakery, then decided to go up the escalator. Rolanda followed them. I counted to ten, then went upstairs, too.

  When I reached the second floor, I was overwhelmed by the unique aroma of the American mall food court. Isabel and her friend considered the possibilities among the usual options: Starbucks, Panda Express, Korean Barbeque, Hot Dogs on a Stick, the San Francisco Soup Company, frozen yogurt, and Mrs. Fields. They opted for slices from Village Pizza, and sat down at one of the modular tables under the skylight. Rolanda found a seat a short distance away and pretended to look at her iPhone. I sat down a little farther away and hid my face behind my phone. I was concerned that Isabel might recognize me, but I realized that she was more interested in texting.

  My iPhone vibrated again. A text from Rolanda read, “Now what?”

  I texted her back. “We wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Not sure. Can you hear anything?”

  “Not much. Can you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can you get closer?”

  “Probably not.” I glanced over at her and held up a hand. She responded with an impatient frown.

  I thought of Pete as we continued to watch Isabel and her friend eat pizza, drink soda, and send texts. My brother always said that the most important attributes for a P.I. were patience, perseverance, and a low-maintenance digestive system.

  At four o’clock, Isabel got up and bought some frozen yogurt. Her pal bought a cookie. They returned to their seats and resumed texting.

  At four-thirty, Isabel and her friend took a break from their phones and looked around.

  I sent Rolanda a text reading, “They’re looking for somebody.”

  We waited a few more minutes. Then Isabel’s face broke into a wide smile. Her friend stood up and smiled, too, as two athletic young men approached them. The taller one was African-American and wore a City College sweatshirt. The shorter was Asian-American and sported a San Francisco State hoodie. City College took a seat next to the friend. Hoodie grinned and sat down on Isabel’s lap. She laughed as Hoodie pulled her close and kissed her long and hard. After they separated, she smiled as he wiped the lipstick from his mouth.