Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  “It was self-defense.”

  “That’s not what they’re saying on TV. CNN has already convicted him.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  We were sitting on the sofa in her living room at one o’clock on Friday morning. The TV was tuned to CNN, the sound low. Tommy was asleep. Rosie’s mother was in the bedroom. I suspected that she was probably still awake.

  Rosie pointed at the TV. “They got a copy of Connor’s body cam video. It’s already on YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter. They’re saying that Johnny shot an unarmed kid.”

  “People see what they want. Some will say that he acted in self-defense. The rest will call it an execution. The only person whose opinion matters is Judge Ramsey.”

  “No pressure, but it’s your job to find the truth.”

  No, it’s my job to get Johnny off. “They found a gun under Jones’s body.”

  “The D.A. will say it was planted. You can’t see a gun in Jones’s hands in the videos.”

  “It must have been inside his pocket.”

  “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  “Your opinion doesn’t matter, and you can’t testify.”

  CNN was showing the footage from Connor’s body cam. They zoomed in on Jones’s hands, visible above the postal van. Rosie picked up the remote and turned up the sound.

  Anderson Cooper spoke to a retired FBI agent identified as an expert on firearms and ballistics. “What do you see here, Special Agent Fong?”

  “The victim’s hands are above his head. You’ll note that there is no gun in either hand.” He started the video and stopped it a half-second later. “Here’s where he lowered his hands.” He advanced it again and stopped it an instant later. “This is when the first shot was fired. It was less than a second after his hands disappeared. You will also recall that the victim stated several times that he was unarmed.”

  Cooper furrowed his brow. “What did you conclude?”

  “There was no way that the victim could have drawn a weapon between the time he lowered his hands and the moment when the first shot was fired. Officer Bacigalupi shot an unarmed man.”

  “Are you saying that it was an execution?”

  “I’m saying that the victim was unarmed when he was shot.”

  “SFPD sources told us that Officer Bacigalupi claimed that Mr. Jones was reaching for a gun.”

  “There is no evidence in this video.”

  “But you can’t see what happened behind the postal van.”

  “That’s true, Anderson. I suppose it’s possible that Officer Bacigalupi thought that Mr. Jones was about to reach for a gun. We can’t see Mr. Jones’s face. We can’t see a gun in his belt or his pocket. Obviously, the only person who would have known what Mr. Jones was thinking at the time was Mr. Jones.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  Thanks for bringing it to our attention, Anderson.

  Cooper cocked his head. “They found a gun underneath Mr. Jones’s body. Wouldn’t that lend credence to Officer Bacigalupi’s claim that Mr. Jones was reaching for a weapon?”

  “We have no idea how it got there.”

  “Are you suggesting that it was planted?”

  “I deal only in evidence, Anderson.”

  Except when you’re asked to speculate on cable. I grabbed the remote and turned down the sound. “We don’t want this case to get to a jury.”

  Rosie nodded. “Then you’ll need to get the charges dropped at the prelim. I presume that you’re still planning to make a Graham v. Connor argument?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll say that Johnny saw a gun when he stopped Jones. He believed that Jones was still armed when he ordered him to lie down. And he thought that Jones was reaching for the gun, so he shot him.”

  “Correct.”

  “Except you can’t see a gun in any of the videos.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. Harper will claim that the gun was planted.”

  “He’ll need to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Not at a prelim. You need video evidence that Jones had a gun. Or you need a witness.”

  “We have three: Murphy, Siragusa, and Connor.”

  “Someone other than a cop.”

  That would help. “Pete’s looking.” I took a sip of Diet Dr Pepper. Rosie and my doctor limited my consumption to one can a week. “If all else fails, we’ll put Johnny on the stand.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “We may have no choice. He may be the only person who can persuade Judge Ramsey that he reasonably believed that Jones was reaching for a gun.”

  “It may blow up in your face—especially since CNN’s expert has already decided that Johnny is guilty.”

  We stared at the TV, where CNN was running highlights of the march to the Fillmore and the confrontation in front of the Fillmore Auditorium.

  “How many got hurt tonight?” I asked.

  “About a dozen people, including a couple of cops.”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “No.” She lowered her voice. “They’re planning another march tomorrow after Jones’s funeral. Somebody could get killed. Maybe you should go on TV and calm everybody down.”

  “I can try, but it probably won’t make a difference. The only surefire way to lower the temperature would be for Johnny to plead guilty or accept a plea bargain, which isn’t going to happen.”

  She reached over and took my hand. “Do you want to stay tonight?”

  “Yes, but I’d better go over to my place. I need a fresh set of clothes and I should try to answer some e-mails.”

  “Are you going to do the steps in the morning?”

  “I think I’ll give myself the day off.”

  “Zvi will be disappointed.”

  “I’ll see him over the weekend.”

  “Is there anything I can do to make your life a little easier?”

  As if you haven’t done enough already. “I could use a ride into the City in the morning. My car is in the shop to get the window fixed, and I didn’t have time to arrange for a rental.”

  “Done.”

  37

  “I’M SURE”

  Johnny’s bloodshot eyes indicated that he hadn’t slept. “Can you get me out of here?”

  No. “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “We’ve submitted a motion to reconsider bail. We may hear something today or tomorrow. More likely early next week.”

  “What are the chances?”

  Non-existent. “It’s up to the judge.”

  He slumped back into his chair.

  At nine-fifteen on Friday morning, we were meeting in the musty consultation room down the hall from the intake center in the jail wing of the Hall. The air smelled of perspiration. The bags under Johnny’s eyes had become more pronounced overnight.

  “Your dad is planning to come see you later today. Did they give you your own cell?”

  “Yes. You need to get me out of here.”

  “Working on it. You look tired.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.” His eyes focused on mine. “I heard there was trouble in the Fillmore last night.”

  “There was. Who told you?”

  “A couple of guys who were arrested for starting the trouble.”

  Figures. “Some people got hurt—including a couple of cops. Did you hear anything else?”

  “No.”

  “A little helpful information might get you a little better treatment.”

  “You sound like you’re thinking about negotiating a plea bargain.”

  I’m not ruling it out. “Not at this time.”

  “Not at any time.”

  “Fine.”

  “Why did you come to see me?”

  “We got the police reports and the videos. Murph’s story was consistent with yours. He said that Jones had a gun and you shot him in self-defense. Siragusa and Connor said the sam
e thing.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “We looked at video from your body cam. You can’t see a gun in Jones’s hand.”

  “He had a gun, Mike. He knocked me over when he got out of the car. It probably wasn’t visible from my body cam.”

  “We also saw video from Connor’s body cam and a police camera on the plaza, and security videos from stores on Fillmore. You can’t see a gun in Jones’s hand in any of them.”

  “It was dark.”

  Not that dark.

  His eyes narrowed. “He must have put it inside his pocket.”

  “It would help if somebody other than police officers can testify that Jones had a gun.”

  “Murph found it under Jones’s body.”

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Connor was standing outside the parking lot when Jones was shot. His body cam recorded video and audio of what happened inside. You can’t see much because you and Jones were behind a postal van.”

  “What can you see?”

  “Jones’s hands above the van.” I waited a beat. “You can’t see a gun in either hand.”

  “He reached for a gun.”

  “His hands dropped below the roof of the postal van and out of sight less than a second before you fired the first shot. The prosecutors are going to say that there wasn’t enough time for him to have reached down and pulled a gun.”

  “He was going to pull a gun.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He looked down.”

  “You can’t see his eyes in the video.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But you think the prosecutors are going to say that I shot him and planted the gun?”

  I answered him honestly. “I think that’s where we’re heading. The optics are bad.”

  “That’s crap, Mike. Murph saw the gun. So did Goose and Connor. And so did I.”

  “It would help if we can find somebody other than three cops to corroborate your story.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “There’s something else,” I said. “In the audio portion of the footage from Connor’s body cam, Jones says that he’s unarmed.”

  “He was lying.”

  “He said it more than once—while his hands were up.”

  Johnny’s tone was emphatic. “He was lying. He was about to draw his weapon.”

  “You were the only witness.”

  “Fine. I’ll testify.”

  “That’s a bad idea.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  At the moment, no.

  ✽✽✽

  My iPhone vibrated as I was walking through the lobby of the Hall at ten o’clock on Friday morning. Pete’s name appeared on the display.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Down the block from First Union Baptist Church. The funeral starts at noon.”

  He was three blocks south of the Safeway in the Fillmore. “What’s going on?”

  “A big crowd marched over here from Civic Center.”

  “Peaceful?”

  “So far. The church is full. The streets are packed. The cops blocked off the area around the church. There’s a pro-cop group at Jefferson Square. There’s a Black Lives Matter gathering at Kimbell Park. According to the police radio, there are some white supremacist nutcases over by Alamo Square. The cops have done a good job of keeping everybody separated—for now.”

  He still viewed the world through the prism of a cop. “You should get out of there.”

  “I want to see what happens.”

  “You want company?”

  “There’s nothing you can do down here.”

  38

  “A GREAT AND UNNECESSARY TRAGEDY”

  Luca’s conference room was silent except for the rain pelting against the windows and the organ music from the TV. Luca, Nady, and I were awaiting the start of Jones’s funeral.

  Luca sipped coffee from a china cup. “Is Pete still down in the Fillmore?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “At the moment, no.”

  Jones’s funeral was being carried on local TV and cable. Two days earlier, he had been an unknown young man from the neighborhood. Now he was an international celebrity.

  CNN was showing the obligatory split screen. On the left was the podium inside First Union Baptist Church. On the right was an aerial view of the Fillmore. Even in a heavy drizzle, the streets were filled. Many cupped their hands over candles. CNN cut back and forth between the pro-cop assembly at Jefferson Square and the Black Lives Matter gathering at Kimbell Park. They had decided not to give airtime to the white supremacists in Alamo Square.

  I texted Pete to find out where he was. The reply came back immediately. “Across the street from the church. All calm so far. Lots of police.”

  “Get out of there,” I texted.

  “Soon.”

  The sooner the better. I closed my eyes and recalled the days when I was a kid and our family sat together in church—first at St. Peter’s in the Mission, and later at St. Anne’s in the Sunset. We always sat in the same order: my dad, my older brother, Tommy, me, Pete, my baby sister, Mary, who became a kindergarten teacher in L.A., and my mom. I was the only sibling who liked going to church, and I still did. It was spiritual. It had rules. And it was God’s house. I decided to become a priest after we lost Tommy in Vietnam, but I didn’t find any answers. I didn’t get to church as often as I used to, but I liked to think that I was still a pretty good Catholic.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the TV. The organist was playing a funeral dirge. Reverend Tucker and Jones’s mother led a procession toward the altar. Vanessa Jones was wearing sunglasses and a black dress. It reminded me of my days as a baby priest at St. Anne’s, where the low priest in the pecking order always drew funeral duty. I dreaded funerals. I always thought that I never provided much comfort to the mourners. Ironically, in my final review, an older priest told me that one of the few things at which I had excelled was conducting funerals. It seemed that our parishioners liked my graveside manner. Go figure.

  Everybody stood as Reverend Tucker strode to the lectern, his white hair and trim beard matching his flowing robe. He motioned the congregation to sit down. He closed his eyes and grasped the podium, as if he was meditating. He opened his eyes and scanned his flock.

  The commentator from CNN interrupted. “You are watching live coverage of the funeral of Juwon Jones, the young man who was shot to death by a San Francisco police officer early Wednesday morning.”

  Thanks for telling us what we could already see. For those of us who didn’t trust our eyes, we could also read about it on the crawl at the bottom of the screen.

  Reverend Tucker’s voice was muted as he recited Psalm 23, which I still knew by heart.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  In verdant pastures he gives me repose;

  beside restful waters he leads me;

  He refreshes my soul.

  He guides me in right paths for His name’s sake.

  Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil;

  for you are at my side with your rod and your staff that give me courage.

  You spread the table before me in the sight of my enemies;

  you anoint my head with oil;

  my cup overflows.

  Only goodness and kindness follow me all the days of my life;

  and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for years to come.

  Reverend Tucker led a hymn. Then he took off his glasses and spoke without notes. “My friends, we come here today to celebrate the life of Juwon Jones, who was taken from us suddenly and violently on Wednesday. He was only eighteen.” He turned and spoke to Jones’s mother. “It is a great and unnecessary tragedy. A beautiful life snuffed out just as it was getting started. A mother who must bear unthinkable heartbreak. We cannot change this horrible and all-too-common occurrence. But we mu
st comfort Juwon’s mother, along with her family and friends. We have heavy hearts, but we are grateful for Juwon’s life, however short. He will live forever in our memories. He was a kind and gentle soul with a big smile and an enormous heart.”

  Luca muttered, “Except for the twelve AK-47s in the trunk of his car.”

  I exchanged a glance at Nady, who looked down at her laptop.

  Reverend Tucker spoke about Jones’s accomplishments. Overcoming the odds after his father had left home when he was a baby. A good student at Gateway High. Varsity basketball. A part-time job at McDonald’s followed by a full-time job at Jack-in-the Box. He was saving for college. He wanted to go to law school.

  Luca’s expression was cool, but his tone turned angry. “What about the arrests? What about the probation violation? What about the AK-47s? What about the pistol that they found under his body? He’s making this gangbanger sound like a saint.”

  I let it go. Nady didn’t look up.

  Tucker’s voice became louder. “My friends, Juwon’s fate has become too common for young black people. Too many have been gunned down in the streets of our cities—in too many cases, by police officers. We have an epidemic of violence that needs to stop.”

  Shouts of “Amen.”

  “We need to make our voices heard. We need to be loud. And clear. And united.”

  Somebody shouted, “We need to take revenge!”

  There was a smattering of applause.

  Tucker raised a hand and the church fell silent. “Violence is not the answer. I will never advocate it or condone it from this pulpit. In this church, we take our cues from our lord and savior and from Dr. King.”

  Another voice rang out. “Look what nonviolence has gotten us! The police are killing our kids in the streets. It isn’t enough to talk. We need to take action.”

  “And we will,” Tucker said. “But nothing is resolved by violence.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  Tucker looked into the TV camera. “To the people in Jefferson Square who are assembled in support of the police, we want you to know that we love you, we respect you, and we want to reach out and start a dialogue. To those in Alamo Square, we want you to know that we love you, too, even though we believe that your rhetoric is hateful and counterproductive. We want to talk to you, too, because we are all God’s children, and we have more in common than we do not.”