Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  I thought about my dad as I sat between my ex-wife and his grandchildren. He got to hold Grace when she was a baby. He never met Tommy. He would have feigned disappointment that Rosie and I had a baby after we got divorced, but he would have welcomed his second grandchild. Rosie and I never got a formal annulment, so in the eyes of the Church—and my father—we were still married. Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr. always described himself as a practical Catholic instead of an observant one, but he still went to mass every Sunday. I liked to think that he would have been proud of Rosie and me, notwithstanding our unconventional relationship. I suspect that he would have been more irritated that his one-time daughter-in-law was the Public Defender, and I was the co-head of the Felony Division. He wouldn’t have been happy about his granddaughter’s sex-advice business, either, but he wouldn’t have said a word about it to her.

  The choir concluded the final hymn and the majestic organ went silent. I reached over and squeezed Rosie’s hand.

  “Beautiful service,” she said. She pecked me on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”

  “Merry Christmas, Rosie.”

  As we made our way to the rear of the sanctuary, Rosie paused to greet friends, and Sylvia worked the aisle like an experienced politician. Rosie still knew many people in the neighborhood. Her mother knew everybody.

  A few minutes later, I took a deep breath of the cool air as we strolled past St. Peter’s School, where I attended kindergarten and first grade. We were in good spirits as we walked the two blocks to the house that Sylvia and her late husband had purchased six decades earlier for the princely sum of twenty-four thousand dollars. Nowadays, Sylvia could have sold it for almost two million—as if she ever would.

  I waited in front of Sylvia’s house as Rosie, her mother, Grace, and Tommy went upstairs to retrieve Sylvia’s overnight bag and six tins of Christmas cookies. We would be spending Christmas in Marin, but Sylvia’s house would always be Fernandez family headquarters. Technically, Rosie’s official residence was a studio apartment across the street. While she spent most nights in Marin, the Public Defender was required to be a “resident” of San Francisco. Everybody knew about this sham; Rosie wasn’t the only politician who engaged in a similar charade.

  I was admiring the blinking lights on the Christmas tree in Sylvia’s window when Pete’s gravelly voice broke the silence.

  “Hey, Mick.”

  “I thought you were at mass in San Anselmo.”

  “Margaret wasn’t feeling well, so she and Donna stayed home.”

  “I take it this means that you didn’t make it to mass?”

  “Correct.”

  Pete had never been as enthusiastic about Catholicism as I had. “Will Margaret be okay for Christmas dinner?”

  “If cookies and presents are involved, she’ll be fine.” He handed me a hand-written note. “These are the names of a couple of the people at King’s house last night. It isn’t everybody, and you didn’t get it from me.”

  Excellent. “I take it that you didn’t get it from the former Israeli commando who is the head of King’s security detail?”

  “If you want the skinny on what goes on behind closed doors, you never ask people who get paid to keep their mouths shut.”

  “Caterer? Bartender? Clean-up crew?”

  “Get real, Mick. What’s the hardest thing to do in this town?”

  Of course. “The parking valet?”

  “Possibly.” His tone turned serious. “He’s a nice kid. He didn’t go inside the house, so you can rule him out as a suspect. More important, he parks cars for other people on Billionaires Row, which makes him a very useful source. I don’t want him to lose his job.”

  Got it. “Can you make time to work on this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still need to clear it with Rosie.”

  “Understood. I’ll see you at Christmas dinner.”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mick

  11

  “HE’S JUST DOING HIS JOB”

  Sylvia Fernandez sat at the butcher block table in her daughter’s postage-stamp-sized kitchen at ten-thirty on Christmas night. Except for her stockier frame, silver hair, and bifocals, she could have passed for Rosie’s older sister. Her voice was filled with affection. “You made a wonderful dinner, Rosita.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Rosie had taken over holiday duties after Sylvia’s second hip replacement.

  Sylvia added, “You’re turning into a real pro.”

  “Not as good as you.”

  “I’ve had more practice.”

  Sylvia used to spend weeks preparing turkey, ham, salsa, soup, dressing, and a dazzling array of holiday cookies. Rosie took a more egalitarian approach. She and I cooked the turkey. Tony supplied fruit and veggies from his market and pastries from La Mexicana in the Mission, which became our go-to bakery after La Victoria closed after a sixty-year run. Grace and Tommy made cupcakes under their grandmother’s supervision. What the younger generations lacked in skill, we made up for with enthusiasm.

  The blinking lights of the Christmas tree spread holiday cheer, and the aroma of leftovers wafted through Rosie’s post-earthquake bungalow across the street from the Little League field near downtown Larkspur, a leafy suburb about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Rosie and I had rented the two-bedroom cottage after Grace was born. Nowadays, I spent three or four nights a week over here, but I still kept my apartment behind the Larkspur fire station that I had rented after our divorce. The three-block buffer zone was helpful for our sanity. Rosie and I hit the jackpot when a grateful client—a one-time mob lawyer—bought the house for us after we got his death penalty conviction overturned. In the Bay Area, this was like winning the lottery.

  Rosie and I were putting away the dishes. The food had been consumed, the presents had been opened, and the guests had gone home. Rolanda had joined us by Skype. So had my baby sister, Mary. It was a smaller gathering than when I was a kid, when forty of my aunts, uncles, and cousins squeezed into my parents’ apartment.

  My former mother-in-law informed me that Grace would be driving her home in the morning. “Tommy is coming with us. I’m taking them to lunch at the St. Francis.”

  As if we didn’t get enough to eat today. “I’m jealous.”

  To tourists, the St. Francis referred to the historic five-star hotel on Union Square now run by Westin. To natives, it meant the St. Francis Fountain around the corner from St. Peter’s, where they’d been serving burgers and shakes since 1918. When we got good report cards, my mom and dad used to take us there after church.

  I pointed down the hallway. “Are the kids still up?”

  “Grace is online giving advice. She says that she has to post at least a dozen times a day.”

  “Even on Christmas?”

  “Just business, Michael. Tommy is downloading stuff onto his new iPhone.”

  Hopefully, not his sister’s app. “You didn’t need to get him such a fancy phone, Sylvia.”

  “Grandmother’s privilege. I understand that your office is representing the young woman who killed that hot shot on Billionaires Row.”

  And here we go. “Allegedly killed him. I thought we agreed not to talk about work at Christmas dinner.”

  “Dinner ended three hours ago, Michael.”

  Yes, it did.

  She was just getting started. “They said on the news that she worked for a tech firm. How did she qualify for a P.D.?”

  “She doesn’t work there anymore.”

  “She must have made a lot of money. How is it possible that she didn’t save any of it?”

  I loved Sylvia dearly, and she had many redeeming qualities. Being non-judgmental wasn’t among them. Then again, her views were understandable. She grew up in profound poverty outside Monterrey, Mexico. She and her husband worked long hours to scrape together money to come to the U.S., where they worked even harder. She was immensely proud that her family always had enough to
eat and a roof over their heads even though they never took a penny from Uncle Sam. She had little tolerance for those who didn’t live within their means, and she didn’t hide her contempt for the affluent tech workers who were gentrifying the Mission—her neighborhood.

  “She has a heroin addiction,” I said. “We don’t get to pick our clients like we did when we were in private practice.”

  “Maybe being a public defender isn’t such a great deal after all.”

  Rosie finally interjected. “He’s just doing his job, Mama.”

  Sylvia gave her the “Death Stare,” which she had graciously passed down to her daughter and granddaughter. She turned back to me. “Have you assigned an attorney to this case?”

  “Me.”

  “I thought you weren’t doing trial work.”

  “Rosie and I agreed that I would do one or two a year. This is going to be a high-profile matter requiring somebody with experience. One of our younger attorneys will help me.”

  “Can’t you assign it to somebody else?

  Yes. “It would have been perfect for Rolanda, but I’m not going to ask her to come back from Fiji.”

  “Good.”

  I let her answer hang in anticipation of additional commentary, but none was forthcoming. This was the closest that I had ever come to winning an argument with Sylvia.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m going to help Grace.”

  Dear God. “You sure you want to do that?”

  “Just because I’m eighty-four doesn’t mean that I can’t teach Millennials a thing or two, Michael.”

  As she walked down the hall, I had no doubt that she could—and would.

  Rosie’s eyes danced as she took a sip of Cab Franc. “If you poke the tiger, it’ll bite you.”

  “I should have known better.” I finished my Diet Dr Pepper. “She’s feisty tonight.”

  “Nothing changes.”

  “She okay?”

  “Same as always. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s slowing down.”

  “Neither do I.” My mom was the same way until Alzheimer’s took away her memories. “What does she think about Grace’s business?”

  “If I had done it, she would have been appalled.”

  “That’s a double standard.”

  “Grandmother’s privilege.”

  “Has your mother expressed her opinion to Grace?”

  Rosie smiled. “No, she expressed it to me.”

  Figures.

  Her smile broadened. “Her view of Grace’s business changed dramatically after I told her how much money she’s making.”

  “So did Big John’s.”

  “They grew up during the Depression, Mike.”

  “Is Grace still planning to take the job at Pixar?”

  “Absolutely. She understands that apps have a short lifespan. She’s putting away most of the money to buy a house.”

  I squeezed her hand. “You must have done something right.”

  “We must have done something right.”

  I was happy to take credit—even if it wasn’t entirely deserved. “You okay?”

  “Tired. Christmas dinner is hard work. You ready to resume the battle for Sexy Lexy?”

  “We’re trial attorneys, Rosie. It’s what we do.”

  “I do it because it’s my job. You love it.”

  True. “Every once in a while, we actually find a little justice.”

  “Not very often.”

  “It doesn’t mean that we stop trying.”

  “I spend most of my time raising money and preparing budgets.”

  “That’s why you have me.” I lowered my voice. “I need to talk to you about Lexy’s case.”

  She finished her wine. “Do I need to pour myself another glass?”

  “Maybe. I want to hire Pete.”

  “We discussed it. I want you to use one of our investigators.”

  “Pete has unique expertise. He’s already given me the names of some people who were at King’s house.”

  “We would have gotten that information from the D.A. sooner or later.”

  “It would have been later. I want to use Pete. He knows the players in Silicon Valley.”

  “He’s almost as much of a Luddite as you are.”

  “Not true. Besides, he doesn’t need to know how the technology works. He knows who’s sleeping around.”

  She tried to freeze me with her version of Sylvia’s “Death Stare,” but I decided to do the unthinkable and fight back. “I need him, Rosie.”

  “You want him, Mike. We have very good investigators.”

  “Not as good as Pete. It would be in the best interests of our client.”

  “Are you prepared to pay him out of your own pocket?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You do.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re the co-head of the Felony Division. Make the call.”

  “I want Pete.”

  “Then it’s decided.”

  I stood up and put on my jacket.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the office.”

  “It’s Christmas.”

  “I have less than twelve hours to get ready for the arraignment.”

  * * *

  A light rain danced across the windshield of my Corolla as I drove southbound on the Golden Gate Bridge at eleven p.m. I instructed my iPhone to call the second name on my “Favorites” list.

  Pete answered on the first ring. “What is it, Mick?”

  “You’re in.”

  “Great. Are you in trouble with Rosie?”

  “A little.”

  “Thought so. Standard rates?”

  “Yeah. And it’s coming out of my pocket. I might need a payment schedule.”

  “Margaret needs to eat.”

  “Understood. Where are you?”

  “Billionaires Row.”

  “Are you in trouble with Donna?”

  “A little.”

  “Thought so.”

  “What time is the arraignment?”

  “Nine a.m.”

  “I’ll see if I can come up with something useful before then.”

  12

  “NOTHING YET”

  “Have you been home since yesterday?” I asked.

  Nady’s shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a pony tail. “No.”

  Thought so.

  We were sitting at the table in the corner of my office at eleven-thirty on Christmas night. There was no traffic outside my window on Seventh Street.

  “You didn’t need to pull an all-nighter,” I said.

  “The arraignment is tomorrow morning. Besides, Max had to work, too.”

  Her fiancé of almost eight years had just made partner at Story, Short & Thompson, a mega-firm at the top of Embarcadero Center that was the successor to Simpson & Gates, the mega-firm at the top of the Bank of America Building where I had spent five interminable years when I needed cash after Rosie and I got divorced. The Executive Committee escorted me out the door because I didn’t bring in enough high-paying clients. White-shoe firms don’t like representing guys like Terrence the Terminator. Max was learning that unlike the old days when making partner resulted in a substantial raise, the astronomical salaries paid to associates meant that new partners took a pay cut for a few years—along with a six-figure capital contribution and paying for their own health insurance.

  “You and Max might want to try to set some boundaries.”

  “Says the guy who is working on Christmas night.”

  Guilty. “Any update on wedding plans?”

  “Maybe in the summer.”

  “As soon as we’re finished, I want you to go home. I need you to be well-rested and ready for battle. You’re going to end up looking like me if you don’t learn to pace yourself.”

  “Max and I will be retired and living on a beach before we’re fifty.”

  Sounds pretty good to me. “Anything come over from the D.A.
or Inspector Lee?”

  “Nothing yet.” She said that a preliminary autopsy report would be available in the next few days. “We received confirmation of our appointment as attorneys of record for Lexy.”

  We’re in. “We’re going to use Pete as our investigator.”

  “Fine. Where do you want to start?”

  “With our client. Any additional details on her background?”

  “Her story checked out. Her last residence was a shelter on Valencia. The cops impounded her belongings, including her cell phone and laptop.”

  “What about the names that Pete provided?”

  “The head of security at Y5K is Yoav Ben-Shalom. Fifty-six. Educated at Technion University in Haifa. Graduate degree from Georgetown. Married to an American. Two college-age kids. Honorable discharge from the IDF. Ran a security firm in Tel Aviv. Came here when a client opened a facility in Palo Alto. Moved over to Y5K about eighteen months ago. No criminal record. Very little about him in the press.”

  He undoubtedly preferred it that way. “Any other security people at the house?”

  “A couple of retired SFPD were outside. They left when the guests departed. David Dito was the first officer at the scene.”

  “I know him.” He came from a family of cops. “Was there a caterer?”

  “No. Pancho Villa delivered the food. The parking valet is Jay Flaherty. Twenty-five. No criminal record. He wasn’t allowed inside. If he needed to take a leak, they told him to use the porta-potty at the construction site next door.”

  Nice. “Who was there from Y5K?”

  She looked at Pete’s list. “Jack Steele, sixty, is the CEO. Gopal Patel, forty-eight, is the lead venture capitalist. Tristan Moore, twenty-nine, is the head marketing guy.” She studied her notes. “Steele was the subject of an SEC investigation at a previous company, which was settled. Patel was accused of sexual harassment by a former employee, which was resolved quietly. Moore is clean. I have copies of profiles from various tech publications. You can also see them on YouTube. I’ll e-mail you with contact information.”

  They may not be willing to talk to us. “Anybody else?”

  “Not yet. Still waiting for names of the women.”