Then the shooting stopped abruptly.
Edwards and I hid for what seemed like an hour, but was only a few seconds. I peeked over the counter and saw two uniforms approaching us, flashlights and weapons drawn.
“Anybody here?” one called out. “Police.”
I raised a hand. “Over here. Don’t shoot. We’re unarmed.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Please come out slowly with your hands up.”
48
“SOMEBODY HAS TO PROVIDE ADULT SUPERVISION”
“Who was he?” I asked.
Roosevelt was across the table in the interrogation room in the basement of Northern Station. “Vontae Brown. He and Jones worked for the same drug dealer.”
My heart was still pounding even though more than an hour had passed since the events at the Fillmore Auditorium. “Is he dead?”
“Very. Our people took him out in the lobby of the Fillmore. You and Edwards should send them a thank-you note. You were lucky.”
“Why the hell was he shooting at us?”
“Our guys had been chasing him from the Mission. Maybe he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. He was an angry kid with a long criminal record who was a small-time enforcer for a drug boss.”
“Do you think he was targeting us?”
“Doubtful. Lawyers and reporters usually aren’t strategic targets.”
“Is Edwards okay?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“I’ll need to finish taking your statement. Then I want you to get the hell out of here. Understood?”
Sounds great. “Yes.”
There was a knock on the door. A sergeant led Pete and Gio inside.
“Nice to see you,” I said.
Pete answered. “We were in the neighborhood.” My never-subtle younger brother pointed a finger at me. “I am going to give you a ride downtown. I want you to stick to doing lawyer stuff.”
“Deal.”
✽✽✽
Rosie’s name appeared on my iPhone. She didn’t mince words. “Where the hell are you?”
“Luca’s office.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
“I just saw Edwards on TV. He said that he was with you when somebody tried to run you over and started shooting at you.”
“We got out of the way.”
“This isn’t funny, Mike.”
“I know.”
“Who the hell was shooting at you?”
“A kid from the neighborhood who was being chased by the cops.”
“Were you targeted?”
“Roosevelt didn’t think so. Neither do I.”
“You think he drove by you and started shooting randomly?”
Given the current state of affairs, it wouldn’t surprise me. “We were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens, Rosie.”
“What were you doing down there?”
“Checking in with Gio and Pete.”
“It’s a war zone.”
“I know.”
She invoked the “don’t-you-dare-mess with me” tone that she reserved for our kids, lying witnesses, incompetent cops, and me. “Let me make something clear to you, Mike. I don’t want you going back to the Fillmore. I need you to finish this case and get back to the office to do your job. I don’t want to have to explain to the kids that you got hurt—or worse—because you decided to be a reckless idiot who walked into the middle of a neighborhood where they’re having riots. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll meet you down at Luca’s office and help you get ready for Monday.”
“This isn’t your case, Rosie.”
“Somebody has to provide adult supervision.”
49
“WE MAY NEED YOU TO TESTIFY”
Johnny tugged at the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit at four-thirty on Sunday afternoon. “How bad is it out there?”
Not as bad as it is in here. “Could be worse. The Fillmore is quiet, but there’s a police unit on every corner.”
Saturday had turned into Sunday. Reverend Tucker had led peaceful marches on both days with minimal trouble. His pleas for calm and an overwhelming police presence had kept things orderly—for the most part. The neo-Nazis had gone home. Driving rainstorms also tempered the numbers and the enthusiasm of the crowds.
“Did you talk to your parents?” I asked.
“My mom was just here.” Johnny’s mood matched the gray walls. “She wants me to accept the plea bargain.”
So do I. “She’s worried. So is your dad.” Here goes. “What do you want to do, Johnny?”
He considered his answer for a long moment. “I want to fight.”
“We can end this right now and mitigate your exposure.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I am a lawyer. I’m your lawyer. Trials are unpredictable. Lots of things can happen—most of them bad.”
“You think we’re going to lose?”
“Hard to predict. A lot of people are going to be predisposed against you.”
“Do they understand that I acted in self-defense?”
“Doesn’t matter. The perception is more important than the reality. You’re a cop. The video suggests that Jones’s hands were up when you shot him. He said that he was unarmed.”
“He was lying.”
“I know, but the only thing that matters is what twelve people in the jury box think.”
“You believe they’ll think that I shot Jones in cold blood?”
“A lot will depend on the composition of the jury. If it’s people who have had run-ins with the police, we’re in trouble. If it’s law-and-order types, we’re probably okay.”
“It’s going to be hard to find law-and-order types here in San Francisco.”
“We’ll ask for a change in venue.”
He sat in silence for a moment. “How do you think this will go tomorrow?”
“The prosecution needs to present just enough evidence for the judge to rule that there is a reasonable basis to conclude that you committed a crime. It’s a low threshold.”
“And what do we do?”
“I’ll go after every one of their witnesses on cross. Then we’ll put Murphy, Siragusa, and Connor on the stand to testify that Jones had a gun.”
“Will it be enough to get the charges dropped?”
Doubtful. “It’s going to be tough, Johnny.”
He folded his arms tightly. “And bail?”
“That’s going to be tough.”
“No deal.”
“If you were my kid, I would tell you to take the deal.”
“Duly noted.”
“Will you give it a little more thought?”
“I’m done thinking about it. I’m not going to confess to a crime that I didn’t commit.”
“Okay.” My stomach tightened. “There’s something else that we need to discuss. We may need you to testify that Jones had a gun.”
“I’m ready.”
“Harper will go after you on cross.”
“I’m ready.”
“If we need you, I want you to follow my lead and keep your answers short.”
“I will.”
Game on.
50
“HE SHOULD BE TREATED LIKE A HERO”
Sergeant Kevin Murphy squeezed his ample torso into one of the rosewood chairs in Luca’s conference room. He hadn’t shaved since I had seen him two days earlier. “How long will this take?”
“Twenty minutes,” I said. “Maybe less.”
“Good. I gotta get back to work.”
“You’re already back on duty?”
“Every officer with a pulse is on duty.”
At five o’clock on Sunday evening, we were seventeen hours from the start of Johnny’s prelim, and we were no closer to getting the charges dropped. Pete and Gio were still in the Fillmore.
Murphy’s voice turned sharp. “We haven’t even had time
to do the funerals for our guys, and now everybody is on our asses because a bunch of troublemakers came to town to raise hell. Your father never would have put up with this crap. He would have cracked some skulls.”
Probably true. I shot a glance at Nady, who kept her eyes on her laptop.
Murph wasn’t finished. “Everybody is afraid that San Francisco is going to turn into Ferguson. Meanwhile, we’re sitting ducks. Guys like Jones are driving around town with AK-47s in their trunks, and we can’t do a damn thing about it. Johnny shot a gun runner. He should be treated like a hero. Instead, he’s charged with murder. How the hell are we supposed to keep the peace if we have our hands tied?”
“I wouldn’t want to be a cop.”
“It’s reaching the point where I don’t want to do this, either. I’m already eligible for early retirement and my pension. After things calm down, I may just do it.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
His voice softened. “I like my job, Mike. But I’m getting sick of this stuff. Too much political correctness and not enough support for guys who put their lives on the line.”
“I hear you, Murph. My dad was a cop. So was my brother.”
“I saw Pete and Gio down in the Fillmore last night. I know they’re working on Johnny’s case, but you should tell them to get out of there before they get hurt.”
“I will.” I let him vent for a few more minutes. Finally, we got down to business. “I wanted to go over your testimony tomorrow.”
“I’m ready.”
“Did you hear from the D.A.?”
“Yeah. They said that they aren’t planning to call me as a witness.”
I wasn’t surprised. Harper probably figured that he had enough without Murphy’s testimony. More important, Murphy was prepared to testify that Jones had a gun, which was inconsistent with the prosecution’s narrative.
“How do you want to play it?” he asked.
“You know the drill. Follow my lead and keep your answers short.”
“I will.”
“I need you to testify that Johnny acted in self-defense.”
“He did.”
“And that you saw a gun in Jones’s hand.”
“I did.”
“You can’t see it in the video.”
“Jones knocked Johnny over. It must have been out of camera view.”
“You can’t see it in the videos from the plaza or in the parking lot.”
“It was dark and raining. Everything happened fast. And it depends on the angles. You can’t always see everything in those videos.”
“But you’re sure that you saw it?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t see a gun in his hand in the body cam video taken by Charlie Connor.”
“Jones must have put it inside his pocket when he jumped the fence.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. We found it under his body. Johnny acted in self-defense.” He stood up. “Anything else?”
“Harper is going to go after you on cross.”
“I’ve been there. I’ll deal with it.”
“We’ll see you in court in the morning.”
51
“THAT’S IT?”
“You don’t need to be here,” I said.
Rosie disagreed. “Yes, I do.”
“You were here yesterday.”
“I like it here. You have a nice office.”
Right. The aroma of stale coffee wafted through the conference room at Luca’s firm at eight-thirty on Sunday night. Nady was down the hall working on exhibits. I was preparing my opening.
I tried again. “Nady and I will handle it. I’ll take the lead. She’ll sit second chair. She’s very conscientious.”
“I’m sure she is. You need somebody with experience to help you with strategy.”
“And who did you have in mind?”
“Me.”
“Deal.” I was delighted to lose this argument. “Anybody know you’re here?”
“Could be. There are reporters outside.”
“That won’t look good.”
“I’ll tell them that I brought you dinner.”
“I love you, Rosie.”
“We don’t have time for that discussion now, Mike.”
The TV was tuned to CNN, the sound low. On the left side of the split screen, they were showing the mayor pleading for order. On the right was video of an overturned car on fire in front of the McDonald’s in the Fillmore. Cops in riot gear were stationed on every corner.
Rosie took a sip of Diet Coke. “For once, I don’t envy the mayor.”
“Neither do I. There are limits to political persuasion. At least there wasn’t any trouble during the wake for the officers.”
The mood had been somber, and security tight, at St. Ignatius Church on the USF campus where a wake was held for the two fallen police officers. The event was completed without incident.
“The funeral for the first police officer is on Tuesday,” I said. “The second is on Wednesday. They’re going to make people go through metal detectors.”
“We live in a screwed-up world.”
We watched the TV in silence. The mayor insisted that anybody violating curfew would be arrested. The chief tried to sound reassuring. Reverend Tucker pleaded for calm. So did Jones’s mother. Ward used her moment of free air time to say that the D.A.’s Office intended to prosecute Johnny to the fullest extent of the law. A moment later, I had the surreal experience of watching myself on TV as I entered the Hall clutching a blown-out umbrella. I recited the usual defense-lawyer platitudes about my client’s innocence.
Rosie couldn’t contain a grin. “I’m convinced.”
I hope so. I turned the TV off as Anderson Cooper began soliciting predictions from his all-star panel of eight “experts,” all of whom were happy to offer their opinions, and none of whom had ever lived in San Francisco or practiced law.
“How do you think this will go tomorrow?” Rosie asked.
“Harper will keep it short. The medical examiner will testify that Jones died of gunshot wounds. His ballistics expert will confirm that the bullets were fired from Johnny’s service weapon. Then they’ll put Roosevelt on the stand to introduce the video from Charlie Connor’s body cam showing what happened in the parking lot. He’ll say that Jones was unarmed and tie their case together.”
“That’s probably enough for a prelim. What are you planning to do?”
“I’ll pick at each of Harper’s witnesses. Then we’ll have Murphy, Connor, and Siragusa testify that Jones had a gun and Johnny shot him in self-defense.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Rosie’s full lips formed a ball. She took off her reading glasses and wiped them with a cloth. Then she did what she does best—she started poking holes in our case. “How do you account for the fact that you can’t see a gun in the video from Johnny’s body cam?”
“Bad angles.”
“You can’t see a gun in the video taken by the security cameras or Connor’s body cam, either.”
“More bad angles. And it was dark and rainy. Jones was visible in the videos for only seconds. We’ll say that the gun was in Jones’s pocket. Murphy will testify that he and Johnny found it under the body.”
She wasn’t convinced. “And your narrative is that Johnny acted in self-defense because he thought that Jones was about to pull the gun?”
“Yes.”
“At the risk of sounding just a tiny bit racist, do you think it’s a good idea to have three white cops testify that their white colleague shot a seemingly unarmed black kid in self-defense?”
“You can’t cherry pick the races of your witnesses.”
“I take it this means that the answer is yes.”
“It is. We have no other witnesses. We’ll argue that based upon the circumstances at the time, Johnny believed that he was in imminent danger of being killed, and he acted in self-defense. It’s a standard Graham vs. Connor argument.�
�
“How are you planning to do that without having Johnny testify?”
Good question. “We’ll have to rely on testimony from Murphy, Siragusa, and Connor.”
“It won’t be enough to get the charges dropped on Monday. You need him to testify.”
“It’s too risky at a prelim.”
“You have no choice.”
“You may be right.”
“I am right. If you want to have any realistic chance of ending this case at the prelim, you are going to have to let Johnny testify. Frankly, I’m not sure that will be enough in front of a smart judge like Martellus Ramsey—especially at a prelim.”
52
“LET HER BE HAPPY AND SAFE”
Geary Boulevard was empty as I drove my rented Ford Focus westbound through a light rain at twelve-thirty on Monday morning. The radio was tuned to KCBS. The anchor said that the mayor’s curfew was holding. My hometown had been turned into a war zone—temporarily, I hoped. How long would the chaos last? San Francisco desperately needed to recover a sense of normalcy—whatever that might be.
I’ve never been particularly introspective, but my demons always come out at night. It usually happens when I’m in bed, but sometimes they appear when I’m driving alone. The visits have become more frequent as I’ve gotten older, and they always seem to involve my dad. He’d been gone almost twenty years. I remembered the nights when he would return home—dead tired, having done his best to keep San Francisco safe and put food on the table. After a stop at Big John’s saloon, he’d show up, the ever-present Camel cigarette in his hand. I’ve come to appreciate the dignified fortitude of Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr. He retired at fifty-five with a full pension that he never got to enjoy. My parents’ long-delayed travel plans were short-circuited when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. A year and a half later, he was gone.
My mom was never the same. The depression that overwhelmed her when my older brother died in Vietnam returned. Her pain was exacerbated by Alzheimer’s, a mean-spirited disease that robbed her of her memories. After my father died, she would still sit in her chair in our living room, pretending to watch TV, hands busy with her crocheting, as if she was still waiting up for him. Her final years were filled with melancholy and, later, confusion. She always managed a smile for us, but she was overwhelmed with fear until the fateful day that she took a fall, bumped her head, and never woke up. Margaret Daley was every bit as tough as my dad. She fought her demons for eighty-two years. She never wanted anything for herself—she wanted her husband to stay safe and her kids to be happy. As with most of us, her life ended up a mixed bag—overall, more positives than negatives, I suppose.
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 44