Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Was anybody besides Ben-Shalom still there when King died?”

  “No.”

  We spent another hour going over our requests for police reports, security videos, and other evidence. We would also ask for an on-site inspection of King’s house.

  “We should ask for King’s medical records,” I said. “Maybe he had a pre-existing condition that was triggered by heroin.”

  “An accidental death could still be manslaughter.”

  “It would be better than a murder conviction.”

  “How do you think the arraignment will play out?”

  “Likely to be a non-event. They’ll read the charges. Lexy will plead not guilty.”

  “Bail?”

  “We’ll ask, but it’s unlikely if they charge her with first-degree murder. Even if the judge says yes, Lexy has no money.”

  “Maybe somebody will post it for her.”

  “As far as I know, King was her only sugar daddy.”

  “What about one of her drug dealers?”

  “Seems unlikely.” I’d seen stranger things. “I’ll meet you in court in the morning. Go home and get some sleep.”

  * * *

  I was walking out of my office when Pete’s name appeared on my phone. “Good news or bad?” I asked.

  “Not great. Have you looked at the Chronicle’s Twitter feed?”

  “Not in the last five minutes.”

  “There’s a screenshot of Lexy’s home page on Mature Relations.”

  Crap. “We took it down.”

  “Once something’s on the Internet, it’s there forever.”

  “Nothing we can do about it.”

  “Still glad you picked up this case?”

  My day is now complete. “Absolutely.”

  13

  “NOT GUILTY”

  In the spirit of peace on earth and goodwill toward men, you might think that criminals take a little break on Christmas from stealing stuff, breaking into cars, selling drugs, and assaulting people. If you did, you would be mistaken.

  At eight-thirty in the morning on the day after Christmas, the Hall of Justice was open for business as usual, and the corridor outside Judge Elizabeth McDaniel’s courtroom looked like the post-Christmas sale at Macy’s. In addition to the usual array of family members, friends, courtroom junkies, and other hangers-on, a lot of kids were milling around because school was out. They weren’t allowed in court, so they had to amuse themselves in the hall.

  Nady and I marched single file into court. We had already walked a similar gauntlet on our way into the Hall, where we were accosted by reporters. King’s death was the big story after a slow news day, and the networks were milking it for every last ratings point. The screenshot of Lexy’s listing on Mature Relations had been retweeted over a quarter of a million times. The cable outlets were running wall-to-wall coverage until something more salacious came along. Social media was going wild.

  Nady and I took our places among the attorneys lined up against the back wall of the windowless courtroom. I nodded at the clerk, Christa Carter, who held up four fingers, which meant that we were fourth in line. Not a bad draw. Most lawyers weren’t afforded a similar courtesy, but Christa’s father had gone to St. Ignatius with my dad, and I always made sure that she got a bottle of her favorite mid-priced Pinot Noir for Christmas.

  The heavy air smelled of mildew. It was better than the days when the plumbing backed up. The five rows in the gallery were filled. Woody Allen once said that showing up is eighty percent of life. For defense attorneys, waiting in court is ninety percent. Local reporters had scored seats in the back row. The bailiff had given them priority over people from CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC. In San Francisco, connections still counted.

  “This building should be condemned,” Nady muttered.

  “Already is,” I replied.

  An hour later, Christa finally called our case. “The People versus Alexa Low.”

  Nady and I pushed our way down the aisle and took our places at the defense table. DeSean Harper was standing at the prosecution table next to Inspector Lee. Nady and I stood at attention as a deputy led Lexy to the defense table. Her eyes were red, face puffy, cheeks hollow. In her orange jumpsuit, she looked like a criminal.

  I leaned over and tried to sound reassuring. “We’ve got you covered. When the judge asks for your plea, say ‘Not guilty’ in a respectful tone.”

  “Okay.”

  Lights! Camera! Arraignment!

  Judge McDaniel glanced at her computer. “The defendant is present?”

  I was still standing. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Betsy McDaniel was a thoughtful former prosecutor who ran a tight courtroom. Now in her mid-sixties, she had gone on senior status a few years earlier to spend more time with her grandchildren. Between attending pre-dawn Pilates classes with Rosie and travelling the world, she frequently pinch-hit for her colleagues when they were on vacation. She didn’t suffer fools, never grandstanded, and wouldn’t allow cameras in her courtroom.

  She tapped her microphone. “Counsel will state their names for the record.”

  “DeSean Harper for the People.”

  “Michael Daley and Nadezhda Nikonova for the defense.”

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Daley. You, too, Ms. Nikonova. Which one of you will be speaking on behalf of the defendant?”

  I answered her. “I will, Your Honor. Our office has been appointed. We will file a copy of the documentation with the court.”

  She looked over at Harper. “Any objection?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Good.” Judge McDaniel looked at Lexy and spoke in a maternal tone that still bore a trace of her native Alabama. “You lack the resources to hire a private attorney?”

  Lexy’s voice was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” Judge McDaniel recited the usual admonishment that if it was later determined that Lexy had sufficient funds to hire a private attorney, she would have to reimburse the City for the cost of her representation. In my years as a P.D., I had never seen this happen.

  The judge glanced at her computer. “This is an arraignment. We will have a recitation of the charges and the defendant will enter a plea.” She looked at Lexy again. “Do you understand why we are here, Ms. Low?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to Harper. “Have you decided on charges?”

  “First-degree murder under California Penal Code Section 187.”

  I wasn’t surprised that Harper had chosen first-degree, which had a minimum sentence of twenty-five years. Prosecutors frequently up-charge to give them wiggle room to work down to something more reasonable.

  I spoke in a respectful tone. “The facts do not warrant a murder charge, Your Honor.”

  “That’s up to Mr. Harper.” Judge McDaniel speed-read the complaint aloud—it was part of the process. Then she addressed Lexy. “Do you understand the charge, Ms. Low?”

  Her eyes filled with panic. “Yes.”

  “Are you prepared to enter a plea at this time?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Thank you.”

  That takes care of today’s business.

  The judge looked at me. “I presume that you’ll want to schedule a prelim?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  A preliminary hearing, or “prelim,” is a mini-trial where the D.A. must present just enough evidence to demonstrate that there is a reasonable likelihood that the defendant has committed a crime. The prosecution starts with a substantial advantage because the judge is required to give the D.A. the benefit of the doubt on evidentiary questions.

  By law, the defense can request a prelim within ten court days after the arraignment. In many cases, we “waive time,” which means that we agree to proceed after the ten-day window. It is often advantageous to stall because it gives us more time to interview witnesses and look for exculpatory evidence. In this case, I saw no reason to ask for a delay.

  The judge shifted her gaze t
o Harper. “How many court days for the prelim?”

  “One.”

  That’s quick.

  She studied her calendar. “Judge Ignatius Tsang is available on Monday, January seventh.”

  That’s really quick, and Judge Tsang isn’t a great draw for us. The former prosecutor was smart and generally fair, but his rulings often tilted in favor of the D.A.

  Harper didn’t flinch. “Works for us.”

  The judge turned to me. “That will work for you, right, Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Very good. You should plan to submit motions to Judge Tsang no later than a week in advance.” She glanced at her computer. “If there’s nothing else—,”

  I interjected. “We have a couple items, Your Honor.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First, given the tight timeframe, we ask that you order Mr. Harper to provide copies of the police reports, the autopsy report, security videos, witness lists, and other evidence that we’ve requested on an expedited basis.” I decided to make a quick play to the reporters in the gallery. “In particular, we would like to see all surveillance footage from the decedent’s house which we believe will provide evidence of Ms. Low’s innocence.”

  She looked at Harper. “You won’t have any problem complying with Mr. Daley’s very reasonable request, will you?”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Daley knows that we’re only required to provide evidence that would tend to exonerate his client.”

  “And you know that I don’t like attorneys who play games. You’ll provide any required evidence to the defense as you receive it. Anything else, Mr. Daley?”

  “We’d like you to issue a gag order and prohibit the media from taking pictures or video of these proceedings. We don’t want this case played out in the press.”

  “So ordered.”

  Good. “Ms. Low has some medical issues as outlined in our papers. We’d like a full exam and treatment for the conditions described therein.”

  “Also ordered.”

  “And we’d like to discuss bail.”

  “Bail has not been set?”

  As if you didn’t know. “Correct. Ms. Low was detained on a no-bail hold.”

  Harper spoke from his seat. “Given the gravity of the crime, we oppose bail.”

  “Alleged crime,” I said. “Ms. Low isn’t a flight risk. She lacks wherewithal. She is willing to surrender her passport and wear a monitor.”

  Harper shot back. “It would be unusual to allow bail in a first-degree murder case.”

  Not necessarily. “Your Honor has discretion.”

  She nodded as if to say, “Yes, I do.”

  At the end of the day, this was probably an academic exercise. Unless the judge set bail at a preposterously low amount or a benefactor came forward, Lexy didn’t have the money.

  Judge McDaniel listened intently as Harper and I volleyed for another five minutes. Finally, she made the call. “Bail is set at one million dollars.”

  In other words, no bail. “With respect, Your Honor, given our client’s financial circumstances, that’s exorbitant.”

  “With respect, Mr. Daley, given the nature of the charge, it isn’t.”

  Harper couldn’t resist adding his two cents. “With respect, Your Honor, given the seriousness of the charge, bail is inappropriate.”

  “With respect, Mr. Harper, I believe that it is.”

  At least we’re all pretending to be respectful. “Your Honor, Ms. Low does not have the resources to post bail or obtain a bond.”

  “Then she’s remanded into custody. If there are no further issues, we’re adjourned.”

  I could see terror in Lexy’s eyes as a burly deputy came over to escort her from the courtroom. “What happens next?” she asked.

  “We’ll talk about it downstairs.”

  14

  “THIS ISN’T HAPPENING”

  Lexy’s face was contorted, voice agitated. “This isn’t happening.”

  She, Nady, and I were sitting around a metal table in a consultation room in the Glamour Slammer at eleven-thirty on Wednesday morning.

  I kept my voice even. “Your best chance to get through this is to stay calm.”

  “I’m trying.”

  In the best of circumstances, this was going to be difficult. Given that she was going through withdrawal, this was likely to be substantially worse.

  Nady leaned forward. “Did they give you your own cell?”

  “I’m with another woman. She’s coming down from a crystal meth high.”

  “How are you dealing with the fact that you don’t have access to—,”

  “Smack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not great.”

  “We’ve requested a medical exam and treatment.”

  Lexy’s voice filled with resignation. “Helluva way to kick my habit, eh?”

  “You’ll need to fight through it.”

  “I don’t really have any choice, do I?”

  Nady had no answer for her. Neither did I.

  Lexy’s lips turned down. “Now what?”

  “We go to work.” I explained that we had already submitted requests for the police reports, witness lists, etc. “Our investigator has given us the names of some people who were at King’s house on Sunday night. We’ll compare it with the police reports. Ideally, we’d like to find evidence that King left the heroin for you, or somebody planted it in King’s bathroom.”

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  “You’d need to get your hands on a million dollars or pay a bondsman a hundred grand.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Didn’t think so. “Do you have any friends?”

  “Not the kind with a hundred grand burning through their pockets.”

  “What about other sources? Maybe somebody you met on Mature Relations?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody owe you a favor?”

  “Are you asking me if one of my drug suppliers might be willing to post bail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  Technically, no. I did the customary lawyerly tap dance. “Obviously, you aren’t allowed to make bail using funds obtained illegally.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So?”

  “I know some people who have the resources, but nobody would be willing to post bail.”

  “Perhaps they might if they understand that you could provide their name to the D.A.”

  “You want me to rat out a dealer?”

  “It’s not an ideal solution.” It may be better than spending the next year in the Glamour Slammer. “Think of it as a business proposition.”

  “It isn’t a viable option.”

  I told her the truth. “You’re probably going to be here for a while, Lexy.”

  “Can you get the charges dropped at the prelim?”

  “We’ll try, but the odds aren’t great.”

  “And if not?”

  “We’ll find evidence that somebody spiked the heroin and get a jury to reasonable doubt at trial.”

  “You can’t prove it.”

  “We just need one juror.”

  “Either way, my life is over.”

  * * *

  “That didn’t go well,” Nady observed.

  “It never does,” I said. “We need to make arrangements for Lexy to get treatment right away. It’s going to be very hard on her.”

  The corridor outside the visitor area of the Glamour Slammer was bustling with the usual parade of prisoners, deputies, medical personnel, and social workers going about the day-to-day business of intaking, processing, and housing prisoners.

  She asked, “Did you really think that one of her suppliers would post her bail?”

  “Doubtful. I was hoping that one of her old friends might step up. I was also testing the waters to see if she might give up the name of her dealer. That might be of interest to the D.A. More realistically, I was hoping another sugar daddy m
ight be willing to front money for the bond.”

  Nady shook her head. “Doubtful.”

  “In the long run, it may be better for her if she stays in. At least she’ll get treatment.”

  “If she survives. You going back to the office?”

  “I’ll meet you there. I want to check in with Pete.”

  15

  “SHE ISN’T GRIEVING”

  I avoided the media crush in front of the Hall by taking the rear stairway to the back door and exiting into the Sheriff’s Department parking lot. I stopped between police cruisers and punched in Pete’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Bail?” he asked.

  “Still a million.”

  “So, no bail.”

  “Correct. You got anything?”

  “One of my operatives spotted King’s widow hitting tennis balls at her club.”

  “People deal with grief in different ways.”

  “Most don’t drink Mimosas with the tennis pro.”

  True. “Seems a bit insensitive for a grieving widow.”

  “She may be a widow, Mick, but she isn’t grieving.”

  * * *

  I walked through the parking lot to Seventh Street, which was gridlocked by midday traffic. I looked over at the impound lot under the freeway where people make the trek of shame and fork over four big bills to ransom their towed cars. In a modest accommodation to modern commerce, the tattooed guy behind the bulletproof glass now accepts credit cards.

  I started walking down Seventh toward the office. My master plan to ditch the press was scuttled when a stoop-shouldered man sporting a tan trench coat emerged from the bus stop near the bottom of the freeway exit ramp at the corner of Seventh and Bryant.

  He puffed on his ever-present Camel, extended a hand, and spoke to me in a smoker’s rasp. “Good to see you again, Mr. Daley.”

  “Good to see you, Jerry,” I lied.

  For three decades, Jerry Edwards had been the Chronicle’s lead investigative reporter and resident manure disturber. With his rumpled raincoat, forties-style fedora, and worn leather notebook, he was a throwback to the days when journalists phoned in stories to copy editors and burned shoe leather instead of smart phones. He had lost a step after three acrimonious divorces and an ongoing battle with bourbon. Nevertheless, when he was on his game, he was still a player. I had been on the business end of his barbs dozens of times, and it wasn’t fun. In a world of decimated newsrooms and endless claims of fake news, Edwards had never backed away from speaking truth to power—or to anybody else, including defense attorneys.