Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

We sat in silence for a moment. Then Rosie—beautiful Rosie—smiled at me. “What’s the first thing you want to do when we get home?”

  “I’d like to get a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake at Bill’s Place. It was Tommy’s favorite restaurant when we were kids.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  I touched her cheek. “I’d like to spend more time with you.”

  “Now that you’re working for me, that’s inevitable.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “We’ll need to be careful of our anti-nepotism rules.”

  “We’ll work around them. Still glad you decided to become a politician?”

  “So far. Ask me again in five years.”

  “I will.”

  “Do you think you can handle being head of the Felony Division without me?”

  “Absolutely. And if I need your help, I know where to find you in your fancy new office down the hall.” I lowered my voice. “Thanks for helping with Thomas’s case. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It was fun to be back in court, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to be able to try any cases now that you’re a big-shot politician?”

  “Maybe once or twice a year.” She touched my cheek. “What did you have in mind when you said that you wanted to spend more time with me?”

  “Instead of staying at your place twice a week, I’d like to stay three times a week. If all goes well, we can think about increasing it to four days a week.”

  She grinned. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s a great idea.” I held her hand tightly. “I love you, Rosie.”

  “I love you, too, Mike.”

  Acknowledgments for

  FELONY MURDER RULE

  Writing stories is a collaborative process. I would like to thank many kind people who have been very generous with their time.

  Thanks to my beautiful wife, Linda, who still reads all of my manuscripts and keeps me going when I’m stuck. You are a kind and generous soul and I am very grateful.

  Thanks to our twin sons, Alan and Stephen, for your support and encouragement for so many books. I am more proud of you than you can imagine.

  Thanks to my teachers, Katherine Forrest and Michael Nava, who told me that I should try to finish my first book. Thanks to the Every Other Thursday Night Writers Group: Bonnie DeClark, Meg Stiefvater, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka, Janet Wallace and Priscilla Royal. Thanks to Bill and Elaine Petrocelli, Kathryn Petrocelli, and Karen West at Book Passage.

  Thanks to my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton (and your spouses and significant others). I can’t mention everybody, but I’d like to note those of you with whom I’ve worked the longest: Randy and Mary Short, Cheryl Holmes, Chris and Debbie Niels, Bob Thompson, Joan Story and Robert Kidd, Donna Andrews, Phil and Wendy Atkins-Pattenson, Julie and Jim Ebert, Geri Freeman and David Nickerson, Ed and Valerie Lozowicki, Bill and Barbara Manierre, Betsy McDaniel, Tom Nevins, Ron and Rita Ryland, Bob Stumpf, Mike Wilmar, Mathilde Kapuano, Guy Halgren, Aline Pearl, Jack Connolly, Ed Graziani, Julie Penney, and Larry Braun. A big thanks to Jane Gorsi for your incomparable editing skills.

  A huge thanks to Vilaska Nguyen of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office. If I ever get in trouble, I will call you first.

  Thanks to Jerry and Dena Wald, Gary and Marla Goldstein, Ron and Betsy Rooth, Debbie and Seth Tanenbaum, Joan Lubamersky, Tom Bearrows and Holly Hirst, Julie Hart, Burt Rosenberg, Ted George, Phil Dito, Sister Karen Marie Franks, Brother Stan Sobczyk, Jim Schock, George Fong, Chuck and Nora Koslosky, Jack Goldthorpe, Christa Carter, Scott Pratt, Bob Dugoni, and John Lescroart. Thanks to Lauren, Gary and Debbie Fields.

  Thanks to Tim and Kandi Durst, Bob and Cheryl Easter, and Larry DeBrock at the University of Illinois. Thanks to Kathleen Vanden Heuvel, Bob and Leslie Berring, and Jesse Choper at Boalt Law School.

  Thanks as always to Ben, Michelle, Margie and Andy Siegel, Joe, Jan and Julia Garber, Roger and Sharon Fineberg, Jan Harris Sandler, Scott, Michelle, Kim and Sophie Harris, Stephanie and Stanley Coventry, Cathy, Richard and Matthew Falco, and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden and Ari Stewart.

  SERVE AND PROTECT

  For Ben, Michelle, Margie, and Andy Siegel

  “Oro en paz, fiero en guerra.”

  “Gold in peace, iron in war.”

  — San Francisco Police Department Motto.

  1

  “I HOPE IT ISN’T SOMEBODY WE KNOW”

  The Honorable Elizabeth McDaniel tapped her microphone, and her overflowing courtroom went silent. She looked my way and flashed a wry grin. “Haven’t seen you in a few months, Mr. Daley.”

  I stepped to the lectern and returned her smile. “I’m not spending much time in court, Your Honor.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Now in her mid-sixties, Betsy McDaniel was a fair-minded jurist and a gracious soul who had gone on senior status to spend more time with her grandchildren. While she adored them, the former prosecutor had grown bored playing with Legos and going to Pilates classes, so she came back to pinch-hit for her former colleagues from time to time.

  She arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect to see the head of the Felony Division of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office in Misdemeanor Court.”

  “One of our deputies is under the weather.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Just a cold.”

  At nine a.m. on Wednesday, February ninth, her courtroom was packed with small-time criminals and smaller-time lawyers waiting for a moment of small-time justice. A half-step above Traffic Court, Misdemeanor Court was our system’s great equalizer. On good days, the windowless courtroom on the second floor of the Hall of Justice smelled a bit nicer than the men’s locker room at the Embarcadero Y. On bad days, the plumbing backed up and the aroma of sewage wafted through the courts. A few years ago, the monolithic fifties-era building at Seventh and Bryant was declared unsafe from earthquakes, and it was being evacuated room-by-room at a snail’s pace. If the economy stayed strong and the political winds blew in the right direction, there was a chance that the old warhorse would be replaced before I retired.

  Every seat in the gallery and the jury box was taken. People were standing halfway down the center aisle and along the back wall. Many couldn’t afford a Muni ticket, let alone a lawyer or a childcare provider. As a result, the courtroom and the corridor were filled with relatives, significant others, and friends. Children weren’t allowed in court, so they had to entertain themselves in the hall. I felt bad for the parents who would have to write a note to their kid’s teacher explaining that they were absent from school to attend Mommy or Daddy’s court date. I felt worse for the kids.

  Judge McDaniel put on her reading glasses and glanced at her computer. The process in Misdemeanor Court was similar to the long-closed cafeteria in the basement that was now a storage area. You took a number and waited your turn. She nodded at the baby A.D.A. standing at attention at the prosecution table. He was wearing a brand-new going-to-court suit that looked as if he’d bought it off the rack at the Men’s Wearhouse earlier that morning. The judge spoke to him in a cheerful tone. “Good morning, Mr. George.”

  He tugged at the collar of his starched white shirt that was a little snug around the neck. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

  Ted George was a handsome lad and fifth-generation Californian who had graduated at the top of his class at Stanford Law School. His ancestors had planted the apricot orchards that once dotted Silicon Valley. His father had made a fortune in venture capital. He was a conscientious young man who had the potential to grow up into a competent prosecutor. It brought back memories of the day almost a quarter of a century earlier when I had made my first appearance in this very courtroom in front of a grizzled judge who took his morning coffee with a splash of bourbon. He retired a few years later and lived comfortably in the Pacific Heights
mansion that he had inherited from his parents until his liver finally gave out.

  “What brings you here today, Mr. George?” Judge McDaniel asked.

  “The People versus Luther Robinson.”

  “Oh, dear.” The judge pushed out a sigh and turned to me. “Is he here, Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  I motioned to my client, who joined me at the lectern. Luther Robinson was a wiry man of indeterminate middle age. When he had a few bucks in his pocket, he lived in an SRO in the Tenderloin. When he didn’t, he slept in an alley on Sixth Street. A gentle soul with sad eyes and gray stubble, the native of the Fillmore had returned from the war in Kuwait with a severe case of PTSD which he treated by self-medicating with malt liquor. He was wearing a navy sport jacket and a pair of khaki pants that he had selected from the donated clothes closet at the P.D.’s Office. Luther had been one of my first regulars when I was a rookie P.D. working in Misdemeanor Court, and I had a soft spot for him. He was blessed with an engaging manner and a gift for persuading strangers to part with their hard-earned cash for his low-rent scams. He’d never hurt anybody. He ripped people off when he was hungry.

  Judge McDaniel’s tone was more maternal than judicial. “How are you, Luther?”

  “Fine, Your Honor.” His voice was soft. “And you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” She took off her reading glasses. “I saw you here last week, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were selling baby wipes and telling people that they were contraceptives, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the week before, you were selling Tic Tacs and saying that they were Viagra tablets, weren’t you?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “In each case, I let you go on your own recognizance after you promised not to do any more scams, right?”

  “Right.”

  The judge rested her chin in her palm. “Did you break your promise again, Luther?”

  “Sort of.”

  She turned to the prosecutor. “Why are we here, Mr. George?”

  “Mr. Robinson was selling wooden tongue depressors on the street in the Tenderloin.”

  I interjected, “Allegedly selling.”

  “No, he was really selling. One of his customers was an undercover police officer.”

  I shot a glance at Luther, who nodded.

  The judge looked up. “Where did he get the tongue depressors, Mr. Daley?”

  “The Tenderloin Free Clinic. Luther took them during an appointment last week.”

  “Technically, that might be shoplifting, but it seems pretty innocuous.” She looked at her computer. “It says here that Mr. Robinson is charged with misdemeanor fraud.”

  George answered her. “He is.”

  “Strikes me as a bit severe.”

  “Mr. Robinson was charging twenty dollars each.”

  “Why would anybody in their right mind pay so much for an item worth a few pennies?”

  “Mr. Robinson represented to his customers that they were home STD tests.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. He instructed them to place the wooden stick under their tongue for thirty seconds. If it didn’t turn blue, they were clean.”

  This elicited a few snickers in the gallery.

  Judge McDaniel templed her fingers in front of her mouth to hide a smile. “How many did he sell?”

  “At least a dozen. Seems they’re in great demand in the Tenderloin.”

  “Is this true, Luther?”

  He nodded.

  The judge’s voice filled with disappointment. “Oh, Luther. Were you trying to get yourself arrested again?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Do you need dental work?”

  “No.”

  “Were you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  She turned to me. “Mr. Daley, would you please see that Luther gets something to eat?”

  “Already did.”

  “Thank you. Is he prepared to enter a plea?”

  “In a moment. First, I wanted to let you know that Luther is very sorry.”

  “That’s a good start.” The grandmother voice disappeared as she spoke directly to Luther. “Do you understand that sexually transmitted diseases are serious business? And if they are not diagnosed properly, someone could become very sick or die? And that they can be retransmitted to somebody else?”

  Luther swallowed. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “Luther sold only a handful of these items and nobody was injured. I would also remind you that he has never been convicted of any crime other than petty misdemeanors. He’s never hurt anybody.”

  George did his best to muster a forceful tone. “We can’t just let this go. Mr. Robinson committed a blatant fraud that could have resulted in serious medical repercussions.”

  Technically, that’s true, but let’s not get carried away. “Your Honor, Luther made a mistake for which he is willing to take responsibility.”

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

  I was hoping you would ask. “First, Luther will refund the money.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Second, he will agree never to engage in the sale of any medical products of any type.” Especially the phony kind.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Third, he will volunteer at the Tenderloin Free Clinic one afternoon a week for the next four weeks.” And he won’t pilfer any more tongue depressors.

  “Even better.” The judge spoke to Luther. “Is this agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That’s good enough for you, isn’t it, Mr. George?”

  The young A.D.A. exhaled heavily. “I guess.”

  “Then we’re agreed.” She picked up her gavel—which she rarely used for its intended purpose—and pointed it at my client. “I want to make something clear to you, Luther. I am going to suspend these charges and grant diversion, but not dismiss them. Subject to the conditions that Mr. Daley just outlined, I am going to release you on your own recognizance—again. If I see you back in this courtroom in the next five years, I’m going to reinstate the charges and make sure that you spend time in jail. If I’m not here, I will instruct my colleagues do the same thing. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good.” Her eyes shifted to me. “Nice to see you, Mr. Daley. Please give my best to our Public Defender.”

  “I will.”

  “Next case.”

  ✽✽✽

  The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco flashed the radiant smile that I still found irresistible twenty-five years after we’d met in the old P.D.’s Office and two decades after we’d gotten divorced. “How’s Betsy?” she asked.

  “Fine. I told her that you’d see her at the gym on Monday.”

  “Great.” Rosita Carmela Fernandez adjusted the sleeve of her Calvin Klein blouse. Sixteen months earlier, the Mission District native had upgraded her wardrobe when she won a hotly contested election to become San Francisco’s first Latina Public Defender. “Were you able to resolve Luther’s case?”

  “I got him off with a warning and a promise not to sell ersatz STD tests ever again.”

  “Making the world a little safer for victims of scammers.”

  “Indeed. If Luther’s case appeared in a Grisham novel, nobody would have believed it.”

  “Out here in the real world, things are always stranger than anything you make up. Thanks for pinch hitting for Rolanda.”

  “My pleasure.” Rolanda Fernandez was Rosie’s niece and one of our best deputies. “It was fun to be in Misdemeanor Court. It brought back good memories.”

  “You miss it, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So do I.”

  “Thought so.” I flashed back to the days when Rosie was a rising star who had just been promoted to the Felony Division, an
d I was a newbie Deputy P.D. who had gone to law school after three frustrating years as a priest. In those days, she wore jeans and denim shirts to work. Her two going-to-court suits were in plastic bags hanging from a nail pounded into her door. Her straight black hair used to flow down to her waist. Nowadays, it was shorter and styled into a softer look. She had been San Francisco’s Public Defender for a little over a year, but it seemed longer. She wore the trappings of political influence naturally.

  Her smile broadened. “You’re a helluva lawyer, Mike.”

  “That’s why you made me the head of the Felony Division.”

  “You still work for me.”

  “You never let me forget.”

  “It’s important to observe chain-of-command protocols.”

  “You’re just a higher-ranking bureaucrat.”

  “I prefer to call it public service.”

  One of the reasons that Rosie and I had remained on reasonably good terms at the office and, for that matter, in bed, was the fact that I always let her have the last word. If I had learned this lesson twenty years ago, we might still be married.

  I glanced around at her immaculate office on the second floor of a bunker-like building a couple of blocks south of the Hall of Justice. The P.D.’s Office had moved here in the nineties. While our new digs were no longer under the same roof as the criminal courts and the jail, it had the advantages of adequate ventilation and, more important, functional bathrooms.

  The wall next to her door was lined with law books (mostly for show). The area behind her desk was filled with citations and photos of herself with San Francisco’s political and social power brokers. Rosie insisted—legitimately, I suppose—that the fancy office was required for her occasional TV appearances. While she was the most grounded human being I’d ever met, I worried that she was beginning to enjoy the accouterments of her job a little too much.

  I pointed at the framed photo of our nineteen-year-old daughter, Grace, who was a sophomore at USC. “Heard anything lately?”

  “She might have an internship at Pixar this summer.”

  “That’s great. How’s the new boyfriend?”