Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  I glanced at my iPhone, where I found a text from Rolanda. “Didn’t see that coming,” it read.

  I looked up again. Isabel, her friend, and the two boys were gathering their belongings. I shot a text to Rolanda. “Take a photo.”

  The text came back immediately. “Already did. Do you want to follow them?”

  “Yes. Maybe we can get a license number.”

  “You don’t want to talk to her?”

  “Not while the others are around.”

  I looked over at my niece, who nodded.

  We followed them outside, where they got into a rusted Nissan Sentra parked near the McDonald’s. The boy who had kissed Isabel got behind the wheel, and Isabel sat in the passenger seat. The others got into the back. I typed in the license number on the notepad of my iPhone.

  “You got a name on the boyfriend?” I asked Rolanda.

  “Henry Minh.”

  “How did you find him so quickly?”

  “There are about a thousand pictures of him on her Facebook page. He’s a junior at State. He lives at 27th and Kirkham.”

  “Lowell?”

  “Lincoln.”

  “Good student?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Good citizen?”

  “As far as I can tell. No criminal record. You want me to follow them?”

  “No. I’ll get Pete to have somebody watch her.”

  “Did Isabel’s mother or father mention a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  My niece gave me a sideways look. “Do you think they know?”

  I watched the Nissan drive up to Nineteenth Avenue. “Probably.”

  My iPhone vibrated. Pete’s name appeared on the display. “Where are you, Mick?” he asked.

  “Stonestown. I need you to have somebody keep an eye on Cruz’s daughter and her boyfriend.”

  “Will do. In the meantime, meet me at the Tennessee Grill in twenty minutes.”

  It was a cop hangout a few blocks north of Stonestown. “You got something?”

  “Yeah. Somebody who knows somebody who knows the undercover cop who busted Ortega Cruz’s nephew.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Roosevelt.”

  28

  “WE’RE LOOKING FOR BIGGER FISH”

  The veteran cop took a bite of chicken-fried steak and washed it down with a Coke. “Heard you got the Nguyen case.”

  “We did.”

  “Heard your client is going down.”

  “Not without a fight.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Mike.”

  Lieutenant Phil Dito had been a classmate of Pete’s at the academy. He had grown up around the corner from Big John’s saloon. Three of his seven brothers were SFPD. The rest were firemen. He was a solid cop and a stand-up guy. Built like a mini-fridge, he had been an undersized, but tenacious offensive lineman at St. Ignatius when Tommy was the quarterback.

  Phil, Pete, and I were sitting at a Formica table in the back of the Tennessee Grill, a diner on Twenty-third, down the hill from Taraval Station. A counter ran the length of the narrow room, and booths lined the opposite side. Faux wood paneling ran halfway up the walls. Except for an occasional fresh coat of olive green paint, it looked the same as it did when it opened in 1952. The menu hadn’t changed, either. The Tennessee wasn’t the sort of place that would garner Michelin stars, but you never left hungry. It was popular with the cops who worked up the hill. It also served as Phil’s auxiliary office.

  Pete took a swallow of his Lou’s Special, a concoction of scrambled eggs, corned beef, mushrooms, spinach, and garlic that came with a generous side of crispy hash browns and toast. “We’re off the record,” he said. “Phil’s doing us a favor.”

  “Understood.” I took a sip of black coffee. “Do you know something about our case?”

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

  Not helpful. “It’s always good to see you, but why are we here?”

  The leather-faced cop gulped down the remnants of his dinner. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the metal dispenser and wiped the grease from his face. “I heard you went to see Hector Cruz.”

  “I did. He’s the nephew of the guy who said he shot Duc Tho.”

  “I know.”

  “Hector was there that night. He was working security at the store.”

  “I know that, too.”

  I was going to have to do this at Phil’s pace. “Do you think Hector shot Duc Tho?”

  “I doubt it.”

  I was getting impatient. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  Pete finally interjected. “Phil knows the undercover cop who arrested Hector.”

  Finally. “Would you mind giving us his name?” I said.

  Dito shook his head. “Then he wouldn’t be undercover anymore.”

  True. “Would you be willing to ask him a few questions on our behalf?”

  “I already did.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Hector is an idiot.”

  Thank you for bringing it to our attention. “The kind who might have shot Duc Tho?”

  “Unlikely. He’s never done anything violent. He used to steal cars. Now he’s a small-time drug mule who runs errands for another slightly-less-small-time guy.”

  “Do you have the name of Hector’s supplier?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Any chance it was Duc Tho?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  “Do you know the name of Tho’s supplier?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “You guys went to a lot of trouble to set up an undercover sting to arrest a low-level guy.”

  “We pick the low-hanging fruit first. At the risk of mixing metaphors, we’re looking for bigger fish. If we can get Hector to give us the name of somebody higher in the food chain, we’ll go after them next. Eventually, we’ll work our way to the big guys.”

  “He’s charged with a felony.”

  “He committed a felony.”

  “You think the D.A.’s Office really wants to put him away for a long time?”

  “Honestly, I doubt it. At the end of the day, they’ll probably just lean on him until they’re satisfied that he’s given them everything he knows. Eventually, they’ll cut a deal with his lawyer.”

  “That’s all that you’ve got?”

  “Afraid so. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

  I reached for the check. “We appreciate your time, Phil. Give my best to Diane.”

  “I will.”

  * * *

  Pete was hunched over a cup of coffee. “Sorry, Mick. I thought that Phil had more.”

  “No worries. I knew it was a longshot.”

  We were still sitting in the back of the Tennessee Grill at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Dito had left. I was dead tired and dreading the Friday afternoon traffic for my drive downtown. I had ruled out heading home to Marin. I had to prepare for trial and the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge on a Friday afternoon would have been unbearable.

  Pete gripped his mug tightly. “You got anything we can use, Mick?”

  “Not much.”

  “We still have all weekend.”

  “I know. Do you have somebody watching Isabel Cruz?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  “I know. I have somebody watching him, too.”

  * * *

  I was driving on the Golden Gate Bridge at eleven-thirty on Friday night when Pete’s name appeared on my iPhone. “I hope this means you found something,” I said.

  “I have somebody watching Isabel and her boyfriend. They spend a lot of time together.”

  “That’s the way it usually works.”

  “I went through their Facebook pages, Instagram feeds, and social media.”

  “Legally?”

  “Absolutely. Seems Isabel’s dad isn’t crazy about the fact that she’s going o
ut with a Vietnamese guy.”

  “How does this impact our case?”

  “It probably doesn’t.”

  “Not the answer I wanted to hear.”

  “Can you meet me at noon tomorrow in the alley behind Saigon Sandwiches?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “The Lion of the Loin wants to see us.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Bring some cash. And you might want to bring Terrence the Terminator. The Lion said this could get a little dicey.”

  29

  “I THINK I’M ENTITLED TO A BONUS”

  The Lion of the Loin smiled. “Nice to see you again, gentlemen.”

  At noon on Saturday, the alley behind Saigon Sandwiches was strewn with expended needles and smelled of urine.

  “Good to see you, Brian,” I said. “I understand you have some information for us.”

  “I might. Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Terrence.” The Terminator was standing next to me, arms folded. He looked even more intimidating than usual as the afternoon sun reflected off his bald dome. “He’s my executive assistant.”

  Brian the Lion was sitting on a red milk crate. His shopping cart was parked within arm’s length. The Tenderloin was less imposing in the daylight, but still dangerous. The parade of homeless people, alcoholics, drug dealers, and petty criminals were out on their daily search for money, food, and other necessities or, as the case may have been, vices.

  Pete pulled up another crate and sat down next to Holton. “You have something for us?”

  “You recall that I expect to be compensated for my services.”

  “I do.” Pete slipped him two twenties.

  “I’ll need a little more.”

  “We’ll need a little information first.”

  “I can’t give you the information until you give me another hundred.”

  “That won’t work for us.”

  “It’ll have to. And I’ll need another hundred for my business associate.”

  “And who would that be?”

  A razor-thin young man with a scar across his cheek and an American flag tattoo on his bicep emerged from behind a Dumpster. “This is Eduardo.”

  I extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Eduardo.” It probably wasn’t his real name. “Do you have some information for us?”

  Holton answered for him. “He does, but he’ll need a hundred first.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “That’s the price.”

  I pulled out my wallet and slipped five twenties into Eduardo’s hand.

  His blank expression didn’t change as he turned around and started walking away.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  Holton answered for him. “Eduardo’s part in this transaction is now concluded.”

  “You still haven’t provided any information.”

  Holton pointed at Terrence. “We’ll need a little help from your friend.”

  The Terminator held up a massive hand. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Buy us lunch.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I was running out of patience. “I’m not paying you another nickel until you tell us what’s going on.”

  Holton was enjoying himself. “You’re going to give your assistant two hundred dollars. He’s going inside to order a ‘Tenderloin Special’ from Eugene Pham. He’s going to give Eugene the money and tell him to keep the change.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Nothing is going to happen. Terrence will be out in a minute. I’ll stay here with you until he comes back.”

  I turned to Terrence. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  I handed him ten twenties and he headed inside. Pete and I waited with the Lion. Five minutes later, Terrence emerged with a brown paper bag, which he handed to me.

  “Four Bahn Mi,” he said. “One for each of us.”

  I opened the bag and handed sandwiches to Pete and Terrence. Then I gave Holton a sandwich. “So, what’s the information?”

  Holton answered for him. “Check the bottom of the bag.”

  I found a baggie containing a dozen pills. “Ecstasy?”

  Holton nodded. “Yes. The Tenderloin Special. I trust you understand why I sent your assistant inside instead of me.”

  “I do.” I had just committed a felony. Except for the fact that Pete, Terrence, and I had just engaged in criminal activity, the result was useful. “You could have just told us that Pham was supplying drugs to Duc Tho.”

  “I could have, but I wanted you to see it for yourself.”

  “I take it you got this information from Eduardo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he available to testify?”

  “No. As far as ICE is concerned, Eduardo does not exist.”

  “Then we’ll need you to testify that Pham was Tho’s supplier.”

  “I can’t help you there, Mike.”

  Pete, Terrence, and I weren’t about to admit to the police or the D.A. that we were buying drugs from Pham.

  The Lion stood up and put his crate into his shopping cart. “I would think that this information might be useful to the D.A. You’ll have to figure out the best way to present it. If you package it properly, it might create some leverage to negotiate a plea bargain for your client.”

  “It might.”

  He held out a hand. “In that case, I think I’m entitled to a bonus.”

  30

  “WE HAVE SOMETHING TO OFFER”

  The District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco glanced at her Cartier watch. “I have to be over at Channel 7 in an hour.”

  “This won’t take long,” I said.

  Nicole Ward pointed at Erickson. “Andy will be here if we run out of time.”

  At 5:30 on Sunday evening, Rolanda, Erickson, Ward, and I were meeting in Ward’s office. Erickson was dressed in jeans and a Giants’ cap. Ward was wearing an Aidan Mattox ensemble. We had contacted her almost twenty-four hours earlier. She said that she couldn’t meet with us until today because she had “prior commitments.” My guess was that she was preparing her wardrobe for her TV appearance or she wanted to watch the Niners game.

  “We have something to offer,” I said.

  Ward responded with the politician’s smile. “We’re listening.”

  “We’re off the record.”

  “For now. You know the dance. You proffer information. We check it out. If it’s useful, we might be inclined to discuss terms.”

  Yup, that’s about it. “We know the name of Duc Tho’s supplier.”

  Ward and Erickson exchanged a glance. It was Erickson who responded. “How did you obtain this information?”

  “A confidential source came to us.” I wasn’t going to mention Pete or Terrence. “We think this information will be valuable to you.”

  Ward smiled broadly. “We already know that Eugene Pham was Tho’s supplier. Our Tenderloin Drug Task Force has been watching him.”

  Crap. I hope they weren’t watching him yesterday when Terrence went inside and bought some ecstasy. “Why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “Tho isn’t the only person he supplied. We’re hoping to catch a few more fish before we bust him.”

  “You should have told us about it.”

  “I didn’t want to compromise an ongoing undercover operation.”

  “You have a legal obligation to provide information that’s relevant to our case.”

  “We are required to provide information that would tend to exonerate your client. The fact that Pham was supplying drugs to Tho has no bearing on your case—except perhaps if you are looking for leverage in negotiating a plea bargain.”

  True. I turned to Erickson. “You still should have told us about it, Andy.”

  “Not in this case. In other circumstances, I might have done so as a matter of professional courtesy. When we have undercover operatives at risk, I need to err on th
e side of caution.”

  I didn’t like it, but I understood.

  Ward flashed a smug grin. “I take it this means that you won’t be proffering additional evidence at this time?”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m going to do something that I wouldn’t ordinarily do. I’m going to reinstate our offer to plead this case down to second degree. It remains open until ten o’clock tonight. Interested?”

  “No.”

  “You have a legal obligation to take our offer to your client.”

  “I will.”

  “If I don’t hear from you, we’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”

  31

  “YOU NEED TO MAINTAIN

  YOUR COMPOSURE”

  Thomas’s response to Ward’s offer was a succinct “No.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m not pleading guilty.”

  The Glamour Slammer was quiet at seven o’clock on Sunday evening. Thomas and I were seated at a metal table in a consultation room. An over-muscled deputy was standing outside the locked door. I was grateful that I didn’t have to conduct this discussion through a Plexiglas divider.

  Thomas chewed on his finger. “Do you think they might make me a better offer?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “I’m not going to plead guilty.”

  “Nobody is saying that you killed anyone.”

  “They’re trying to convict me of murder just the same.”

  “It’s a legal technicality.”

  “It’s legal crap. If I plead guilty, I’m admitting that I’m a murderer. I’m not going to do it. If twelve people convict me for sitting in the car, then it will be on their conscience.”

  “You might end up in jail for a long time.”

  “I’ll be there for a long time if I plead guilty. At least if we go to trial, there’s a chance, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How good of a chance?”

  I didn’t pull my punch. “Not great.”