I looked around the table: my brother, my associate, and me. Compared to the big law firms, we were the legal profession’s counterpart to a garage band. “I’ll make fresh coffee.”
“Where do you want to start?” Nady asked.
Pete answered her. “As they say on ESPN, let’s go to video.”
* * *
Pete had commandeered Nady’s laptop and connected it to the TV. We were watching footage from a security camera mounted outside King’s front door. The parking valet was the first to arrive. He had taken his post at eight-thirty p.m. King and his security guy, Yoav Ben-Shalom, arrived in a town car at eight-forty. Steele and Patel showed up at nine-ten. Tristan Moore, the sales guy, Alejandro Sanchez, the programmer, and Drew Pitt, the “Guy from Rye,” arrived shortly thereafter.
Pete pointed at a young man lugging a food delivery chest up the walkway. “He’s from Pancho Villa.”
It was a low-brow choice for a bunch of millionaires. Pancho Villa was a no-frills burrito shop down the block from the Sixteenth Street BART Station in the de-militarized zone separating the gentrified and non-gentrified sections of the Mission. Despite its lack of ambiance, it always made the Chronicle’s list of best burritos in town.
The delivery guy left a few minutes later. Pete fast-forwarded to ten o’clock, when the first of six young women showed up in an Uber.
“That’s Christina Chu from Patel’s VC firm,” Nady said. “She’s pretty.”
The rest of the women arrived in separate Ubers. All were petite, pretty, and wearing black cocktail dresses and high heels.
Pete rolled his eyes. “The bros had a thing for young women.”
Nady frowned. “Toxic masculinity. Am I the only person who thinks this is sick?”
Count me in. “This is appalling.”
Nady wasn’t finished. “My mother and I got chased out of Uzbekistan with the clothes on our backs. We came here and worked insanely hard. And now these assholes—who won the lottery with some over-hyped software—are using their winnings to exploit these women.”
“It’s twisted.”
Her voice filled with disdain. “You know what else bothers me? These women aren’t desperate or destitute. They aren’t hookers or escorts or addicts. Chu works for a VC firm. I looked up the bios of the other women. They work in tech, too. They must have thought it was a good way to make business connections with King and some tech players and maybe get funding for their startups. Have a little self-respect, people.”
Pete restarted the video. At eleven o’clock, the security guy came outside and waved to Lexy, who emerged from an Uber. She looked nothing like the somber woman we had met at the Hall. She was dressed for a hipster club South of Market. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with a high-cropped leather jacket and Prada boots. A Gucci bag was slung over her shoulder. Her makeup was perfect, not a strand of hair out of place.
“Hard to believe it’s the same person,” Nady said.
“King must have paid for the clothes.”
The next flurry of activity came at eleven-forty-five, when people started leaving. Patel was the first out the door, hand-in-hand with his associate, Christina Chu. They got into an Uber.
“He’s married,” Nady observed.
“Maybe not much longer,” Pete said.
Five minutes later, three more women left. Then Tristan Moore and Alejandro Sanchez got into an Uber with the last two women.
“Somebody’s getting lucky,” Pete said.
Nady was seething. “This is disgusting.”
Yes, it is. The remaining revelers departed in the next fifteen minutes. The “Guy from Rye” sauntered to the curb and left in an Uber. Blackjack Steele claimed his Tesla. The valet closed up and headed down the street.
Pete scowled. “They hired the kid to stand out in the cold for three hours to park one car.” He studied his notes. “By my count, the only people still inside were King, Lexy, and the security guy.”
He fast-forwarded to twelve-forty-one a.m., when a police car pulled up in front of the house. Ben-Shalom rushed outside, and two cops followed him into the house. Two minutes later, an ambulance pulled up, and the two EMTs ran inside. Shortly thereafter, they returned and loaded a lifeless King into the ambulance.
“He was pronounced at Cal Pacific,” Nady said.
“San Francisco General is closer,” I observed.
Pete looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “SF General is fine for the unwashed masses like us, Mick. Guys like King don’t go to public hospitals.” He turned to Nady. “Did Lee send over any footage from inside?”
“Yes, he did.”
20
“NOTHING CHANGES”
My stomach churned from my second cup of coffee as we watched footage from security cameras inside King’s house. The partygoers were eating burritos and drinking microbrews in the living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room. A few vaped on the deck. The women went through the motions of flirting with the men. The “cuddle puddles” were little more than brief interludes of awkward groping. Except for the fancy house and the advanced ages of the men, we could have been watching a freshman dorm mixer at Cal.
“Kind of low energy,” I observed.
Pete answered. “You were expecting a rager? No sign of our client.”
“King told her not to talk to the guests and go straight upstairs.”
Pete ran footage from the family room. King was holding court near the fireplace, using a beer to gesture. He was surrounded by three women, fake smiles plastered on their faces. The “Guy from Rye” was across the room, talking to a woman who smiled when he looked at her, and frowned when he didn’t.
“Frat party,” Pete muttered.
“Pathetic,” Nady said. “Looks like Blackjack Steele made a friend.”
We watched Steele make a clumsy attempt to put his arm around one of the women, who rebuffed his advances twice before finally relenting. Her phony smile transformed into a pained expression until she managed to force another grin. Across the room, Patel was feeling up a woman who looked disgusted.
Pete’s voice filled with sarcasm. “Smooth.”
Nady’s tone was laced with contempt. “Suave. Very James Bond.”
“This looks like something out of Mad Men,” I said.
“Nothing changes,” Nady said. “Patel was hitting on Chu, who works at his firm. He’s a walking sexual harassment claim. This party is just a bunch of guys with raging hormones and lots of money hitting on young women.”
That covers it.
Pete started the next video. “This is from a camera upstairs mounted above the door leading into the master bedroom. It’s pointed down the hallway toward the front of the house. The first door on the right leads into the master bath, which has a second door opening directly into the master bedroom. Down the hall, there are three bedrooms and another bath.” Nobody came upstairs until Lexy appeared at eleven o’clock. “Here she comes.”
Lexy came up the stairs, stopped, looked around, then walked into the master bath. She didn’t come back, which indicated that she had entered the master bedroom via the second door.
Pete’s eyes were focused on the flat-screen. “Pay attention, kids.”
I took notes as we watched people trudge upstairs, turn into the master bath, and reappear shortly thereafter.
Eleven-fifteen: King.
Eleven-eighteen: Patel.
Eleven-twenty: Ben-Shalom.
Eleven-twenty-five: Sanchez.
Eleven-forty-eight: The “Guy from Rye.”
Eleven-fifty-two. Steele.
Eleven-fifty-five: Moore.
Midnight: Ben-Shalom for the second time.
At twelve-fourteen, King came upstairs again and walked into the master bath. He didn’t come out, which indicated that he had gone directly into the master bedroom.
Nady studied her notes. “I count eight people—including Lexy and King—who used the master bath. As far as I can tell, none of the women othe
r than our client came upstairs.”
We now had visual evidence that Lexy, King, and six others had entered the bathroom, where they could have planted or spiked the heroin.
Pete restarted the video. At twelve-thirty-two a.m., Lexy darted under the camera and hustled down the stairs. Her clothing was disheveled, the expensive purse dangling on her shoulder. She returned a moment later followed by Ben-Shalom, who pushed her into the bedroom. Then he went downstairs and came back with two cops. The EMTs showed up a few minutes later. Shortly thereafter, they hauled an unconscious King down the steps. Then a cop escorted Lexy downstairs. By one-fifteen, the activity had stopped.
I looked at Pete. “No camera in the bathroom?”
“Afraid not.”
Crap. “What about the bedroom?”
“Yes.”
He cued the next video. It was almost midnight as Nady, Pete, and I studied footage from a camera mounted above the TV and pointed at the bed. I remembered the layout from our visit. There was a dresser next to the closet. King’s desk was near the windows. A pair of wall sconces provided enough light so that we could see everything clearly.
“Sparse furnishings,” Nady observed.
Lexy didn’t leave the bedroom from the time she arrived until King showed up at twelve-fourteen. She had spent most of the time on the bed, looking at her phone. When King came upstairs, Lexy went into the bathroom, and re-emerged a moment later wearing a silk robe. She held a baggie, a spoon, a lighter, two syringes, and some rubber surgical hosing, which she carried to the dresser. Her demeanor was calm, her expression serious.
“She’d done this before,” Pete said.
Lexy poured the powder into the spoon. She used the lighter to heat the heroin until it turned into amber liquid. She looked like a nurse as she prepared two syringes—presumably one for King and one for herself.
Pete zoomed in on the syringes. “They’re full. It was a big dose.”
King had removed his shirt and pants, but he was still wearing his underwear. He stood next to the bed and spoke to Lexy. “All set?”
“Be patient. Perfection takes time.”
He came up behind Lexy and rubbed her shoulders. Then he grabbed her by the arms, spun her around, and kissed her.
Nady’s reaction was succinct. “Asshole.”
King went into the bathroom, then came back wearing a silk robe.
“This is gross,” Nady said.
Yes, it is.
King forcibly kissed Lexy again. Her expression changed from feigned enjoyment to contempt. King ripped off her robe and pulled her toward him, exposing her bra and panties.
She held up a hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He walked over to the dresser, opened the top drawer, removed an envelope, and handed it to Lexy. She stuffed it into her purse.
Lexy forced a smile. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
King sat down on the bed. Lexy wrapped the surgical hose around his right arm above the bicep.
“All good?” she asked.
“All good.”
King was still smiling as she inserted the needle into his arm.
Pete was staring at the TV. “That eliminates the possibility of arguing that somebody else gave him the injection.”
Lexy went back to the dresser and retrieved the second syringe. She turned around and her eyes grew wide. She depressed the plunger and shot the heroin onto the floor. Then she put the syringe back on the dresser and rushed back to the bed, where a motionless King was lying on his back, eyes open. She slapped his face. She felt for a pulse. She slapped him again. He fell to the floor. She uttered a string of expletives. Then she gathered the drug paraphernalia and stuffed it into her purse. She put on her dress and jacket and headed into the hallway.
Pete stopped the video. “She didn’t help him.”
“She slapped him and checked for a pulse.”
“That wasn’t helping, Mick. She just left.”
“She panicked.”
“It’s going to look terrible in court.”
Yes, it would. Pete fast-forwarded through the footage. Lexy returned to the bedroom followed by Ben-Shalom. The cops arrived. Then the EMTs, who hauled King’s body downstairs. One of the cops escorted Lexy out of the room. Eventually, Inspector Lee showed up. So did a representative from the medical examiner’s office. Then the field evidence technicians.
The video ended. My mind raced as I tried to process what we had viewed. Bottom line: no matter what Lexy was thinking at the time, it appeared that she had given King a big dose of heroin and tried to flee without calling for help.
Nady turned up the lights. Her voice filled with resignation. “She injected him. She took the cash. She tried to run.”
“We’ll say it was consensual. He asked her to inject him.”
“That’s our defense? He asked for it?”
“Our defense is that somebody else planted some high-powered heroin. If that doesn’t fly, we’ll argue that it was an accident, and hope we can get a jury down to manslaughter.”
“You think that will fly?”
I don’t know. “We’ll also argue that seven people other than Lexy—and including King—used the master bath. Any one of them could have planted the heroin or spiked it.”
“But she injected him.”
“She didn’t intend to kill him.”
“Says who?”
“Lexy.” I turned to Pete. “We need you to get as much dirt as you can on everybody who was at King’s house.”
“We have a lot of work to do, Mick.”
21
“CAN YOU PROVE IT?”
Rosie’s full lips transformed into the seductive smile that I still found as captivating as the day we had met in the old P.D.’s Office almost twenty-five years earlier. She switched on the light next to the bed. “You’re sure that Lexy gave him the injection?”
“You can see it in the video. Then she left without helping him or calling 9-1-1.”
She leaned over and kissed me. “You’re screwed, Mike.”
At two-thirty on Friday morning, I was exhausted, but Rosie was wide awake. Before she was elected as P.D., she never had trouble sleeping. Nowadays, she woke up more frequently, concerned about a detail at work or a fundraising question. Conversely, I rarely got up at night anymore. Unlike our days running a small-time criminal defense practice where we scrambled to pay the rent, I had regular paychecks, decent medical benefits, and the anticipation of a modest pension. It also reflected the reality that I was closer to sixty than fifty, and I no longer had the energy to sweat the smaller stuff.
Rosie cupped my cheek. “How are you planning to deal with this?”
At two-thirty in the morning? “Do we need to talk about it now?”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“You want a status report in the middle of the night?”
“That’s when we’ve always done our best work.” She smiled. “If I find your performance satisfactory, I’ll give you a bonus.”
My job has excellent fringe benefits. “Are you suggesting that you would trade sexual favors for satisfactory job performance?”
“Yes. My motivational methods are unconventional, but effective.”
Uh, yes. “Are they legal?”
“No.” Her grin broadened. “Are you planning to file a complaint with HR?”
“No.”
“Good.” She turned serious. “How is our client?”
“Not great. They moved her into her own cell, but withdrawal is always rough. They did a medical evaluation and started giving her Suboxone.”
It worked faster than Methadone.
Her lips turned down. “Helluva way to get clean. Is she capable of helping with her defense?”
“At times. Nady goes over to see her at least once a day to check on her.”
“Nady is a good lawyer.”
“And a good person.” I waited a beat. “She reminds me of you.”
“Ma
ybe a little. Are Ward and Harper going to stick with the first-degree murder charge?”
“For now.”
“There was no pre-meditation.”
“They’re saying it took time for Lexy to purchase the heroin and prepare the needle.”
“Lexy told us that King provided the heroin.”
“Evidently, the D.A. thinks otherwise.”
“And the motive?”
“Money.” I reminded Rosie that they found five thousand dollars in Lexy’s purse.
“Why would she have killed her sugar daddy?”
“Ward and Harper must know something that we don’t, or they’re bluffing. Maybe King threatened to cut Lexy off, and she decided to grab what she could.”
“You’ll go with a SODDI defense?”
“That’s my first choice. Anybody who entered the bathroom could have left the heroin there. Or they could have spiked it.”
“And motive?”
“A lot of people disliked King.”
“All of whom stood to get millions if he had lived a few months longer.”
“Pete will get some dirt on everybody who was there.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I don’t know. If it looks like the SODDI defense won’t fly, we’ll have a medical expert testify that King’s heart condition made him susceptible to an accidental death from what otherwise would have been a non-lethal dose of heroin. I’ve already talked to a couple of doctors who might be willing to testify.”
Her expression was skeptical. “Sounds like you won’t be able to get the charges dropped at the prelim. Are you planning to put Lexy on the stand?”
“No. I may reconsider if we go to trial.”
“She’s the only person who can describe what she was thinking when she gave King the heroin.”
“She’s in no condition to testify. And she may not be sympathetic. She lost her job, got hooked on heroin, blew her money on her habit, and found a sugar daddy. There’s video of her putting five grand into her purse, giving King the shot, and trying to run. The optics are terrible.”
“Maybe Ward and Harper would be willing to cut a deal for manslaughter.”
“Voluntary would be pretty good. Involuntary would be great.”
Rosie was silent for a long moment. “Did you eat?”
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 60