“Not much. We’ll put him on the stand to testify that everybody at the party hated King.”
“Sounds a bit thin.”
“It is.”
Pete set down his mug. “We’re in serious trouble if that’s the best that we can do.”
“We have another week and a half until the trial starts,” I said.
“Yeah.” His iPhone vibrated. He read a text. “We need to get down to Chloe King’s house in Palo Alto.”
42
“DIDN’T SEE THAT COMING”
“Who’s your source?” I asked.
Pete shook his head. “Can’t talk about it, Mick.”
“What’s going on?”
“Maybe nothing.”
At five-thirty on Thursday morning, he was hunkered down behind the wheel of his Crown Vic, a Giants cap pulled low. I was in the passenger seat. For the past four hours, we’d been parked across the street from Chloe’s house in the quiet St. Claire Gardens neighborhood between El Camino Real and the 101 Freeway. Not a single car had driven by us.
Pete pointed at the cast-iron fence surrounding the McMansion that Jeff and Chloe had built after tearing down houses on four contiguous lots. The three-story, ten-thousand-square foot estate towered over the neighboring ranch houses. “I can’t believe Palo Alto let them put up that monstrosity.”
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
“My source told me to keep an eye on Chloe’s house.”
“We’ve been keeping an eye on it for the past four hours.”
“Be patient.” He pointed at the rear-view mirror. “That BMW M760i parked inside the gate cost almost two hundred grand.”
“Chloe can afford it.”
“I don’t think it’s hers.”
“You didn’t run the plate?”
“There is none, Mick. It’s brand new.”
“What about the VIN?”
“You want me to jump the gate of a house with security cameras and armed guards and snap a picture of the VIN with my iPhone?”
“I have a better plan. We wait to see who gets into the car.”
“Good thinking, Mick.”
“Does this mean that Chloe is having an affair?”
“Not sure if it qualifies as an affair since her husband is dead.”
Technically, I guess that’s true. We sat in silence for another hour. The sky brightened at seven o’clock, and the sun peeked over the horizon at seven-twenty. A garbage truck rumbled by us. A Lexus pulled out of the driveway of the house next door to Chloe’s. At seven-forty, the mechanical gates to the King compound finally opened.
Pete tensed. “Here we go.”
The BMW backed out of the driveway, and the gate closed behind it. Pete used his iPhone to take video as the car sped by us. I couldn’t see who was inside.
Pete ran the video in slow motion. “Didn’t see that coming.” He passed the phone over to me. “Look familiar?”
It was Tristan Moore. “This isn’t going to play well at Y5K.”
“Or at Patel Ventures. His fiancée is going to be unhappy. And you can add Moore’s name to the list of options for your SODDI defense.”
I looked at my younger brother. “This is good work, Pete.”
“Thanks.”
“So, who’s your source?”
He turned on the ignition. “I told you that I can’t talk about it.”
“This stays between us. Nick the Dick?”
“No.”
“Kaela Joy?”
“Maybe.”
“She works for Chloe.”
“Not anymore. They had a falling out.”
“About what?”
“Overdue bills.”
“Chloe has plenty of money.”
“Evidently, she doesn’t like to share it with her service providers.”
“How’d you get Kaela Joy to talk?”
“Professional courtesy. I gave her information about another guy she’s tailing. Want something, give something.”
“Doesn’t that violate some ethical obligation to keep her client’s secrets confidential?”
“There’s no privilege between a P.I. and an ex-client. Besides, you don’t know Kaela Joy as well as I do. She cares more about the truth than collecting a fee.”
“The same is true about you.”
43
“IT DOESN’T GET A JURY TO
REASONABLE DOUBT”
Rosie studied the video on my iPhone. “Moore is having a roll with King’s widow?”
“So it seems.”
Rosie, Nady, and I were meeting in Rosie’s office at ten-thirty the same morning. I was operating without sleep. My head ached, my throat was sore, and my stomach was filled with acid. My foul mood was exacerbated by the fact that the heater was having one of its occasional spasms and blasting ninety-degree air. The City had promised to send over a team to tame the beast in a few days.
Rosie returned my phone. “How are you going to authenticate this in court?”
“Pete.”
“Your brother is going to be your star witness?”
“His testimony will be brief.”
“The jurors will connect the dots and conclude that Moore and Chloe were having an affair, which is interesting. It also fits nicely within your storyline that everybody at Y5K was engaged in sexual escapades—some more creative than others. But it doesn’t prove that Moore spiked the heroin.”
“It gives us another option. And it demonstrates that he’s slime.”
“So was everybody else at the party, including the victim, and, arguably, our client.”
“He was cheating on his fiancée with his boss’ widow. Jurors don’t like cheaters.”
“King and Chloe were already separated.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t get a jury to reasonable doubt. Are you still planning to go to trial a week from Monday?”
“Yes. Our client has instructed us to move forward. Our pre-trial motions are submitted. We should receive the D.A.’s final witness list in the next day or two.”
“Any new additions?”
“None. I’ve added Pete and Brian Holton to ours.”
“The CEO of Mature Relations?”
“He’s a straight shooter. And he can testify that King, Steele, Patel, and Pitt were all members of Mature Relations.”
“Quite the exclusive club. Any chance of pleading this out for manslaughter?”
“At the moment, no. Ward has instructed Harper to go all-in on murder.”
“Is the judge going to give instructions for manslaughter?”
“She hasn’t decided.”
In a first-degree murder case, the judge is obligated to instruct the jury that it may also convict for second-degree if the facts warrant. The judge is not required to instruct on manslaughter, but may elect to do so. It’s a double-edged sword for the defense. Manslaughter carries a shorter sentence, but it gives the jury an easier route to a compromise conviction on the lesser charge.
Rosie considered our options. “Are you going to ask for a manslaughter instruction?”
“No.”
“You’re going all-or-nothing on murder, too?”
“For now. The judge doesn’t have to make the final call until closing arguments.”
“You’d get a substantially reduced sentence for manslaughter.”
“I don’t think Harper can prove murder beyond a reasonable doubt. If I’m right, Lexy will walk.”
Rosie thought about it for a long moment. “I think I’d end up in the same place.”
Good to know.
“What’s the latest version of the narrative?” she asked.
“If there’s no manslaughter instruction, we’ll argue that there was no premeditation or malicious intent. In fact, King asked to be injected. Our medical expert will testify that King’s heart condition made him susceptible to accidental death. If one juror buys it, we’re done.”
“And the SODDI defens
e?”
“That comes next. Everybody at the party detested King. And they seem willing to point fingers at everybody else. It’s like Game of Thrones—Silicon Valley.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Moore was having an affair with King’s wife. Patel comes in second because he’s a jilted lover. Steele and Sanchez are next because King treated them like crap. Ben-Shalom is a wildcard. He couldn’t stand King, either. The ‘Guy from Rye’ is a dark horse.”
“You should ask him if he provided the heroin.”
“I did. He denied it.”
Rosie smiled. “Ask him again in court—just for fun.”
At least somebody still has a sense of humor.
She asked, “How are you planning to handle the fact that Lexy bought heroin earlier that night?”
“I’ll get Khalil Jones to admit that he’s cutting a deal with the D.A. to get his sentence reduced. More important, the D.A. won’t be able to prove that the heroin Jones sold to Lexy was the same stuff that she gave to King.”
“And if that isn’t enough?”
“We’ll put Lexy on the stand to testify that King always provided the smack when they got together. And that King was her only source of support and it would have been crazy for her to have killed him—even by accident.”
“You’d be playing with fire. How is she holding up?”
“Not great. You remember how it was with Theresa. It may be easier to get an acquittal than to get her off heroin.”
“One day at a time.”
I turned to Nady. “Could you ping Harper and ask him if he has any final additions to his witness list?”
“Yes. We’re also meeting with our medical expert later today.”
“Good. I want you to handle his direct exam.”
“I’ll be ready. Have you heard anything from Steele?”
“I’ve left more messages. He’s ignoring me.”
“How can we get his attention?”
“I’ll send him another e-mail reminding him that he’s on our witness list and he’ll need to appear in court. I will also tell him that we’ve added his daughter to our witness list.”
“We have?”
“As soon as you add her name. That will get his attention.”
“Notifying her father isn’t enough to compel her to testify. We’d still have to serve her with a subpoena—which means we’ll have to find her.”
“Pete will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he always does.”
“I’ll prepare a subpoena for her. Where are you off to now?”
“To talk to Jones’s attorney.”
44
“HIS TESTIMONY WILL NOT HELP
YOUR CLIENT”
The veteran defense attorney smiled. “Kids okay, Mike?”
“Fine, Sandy. Yours?”
“All good.”
Sandy Tran was a petite woman in her late forties who had started her career at the P.D.’s Office. Rosie always said she was the quickest study and the most tenacious attorney she’d ever known. After she was passed over for a promotion to head the Felony Division in an example of office politics run amuck and not-so-subtle misogyny, she opened her own firm. Nowadays, she was San Francisco’s go-to attorney for accused drug dealers.
I looked around her cluttered office above a dry cleaner in the Tenderloin. Every inch of space was filled with file folders, trial exhibits, and storage boxes. “You still seeing the guy from the City Attorney’s Office?” I asked.
“On occasion.” She adjusted the sleeve of her flannel shirt. “Coordinating schedules of two single parents with five kids is complicated. You still okay working with Rosie?”
“We’ve always been good at working together.”
“Why don’t you drop the charade and get married again?”
“We’re more married than most married people.”
“You going to answer my question?”
“We get along better when we aren’t married. We’re trying not to jinx it.”
“My daughter showed me Grace’s app. How do you feel about the Love Goddess?”
“I’m not crazy about it, but I have little control over her.”
“And Rosie?”
“Dealing with it.”
“Kids are complicated.”
“Life is complicated.”
She leaned back and laughed heartily. “And how are things with Sexy Lexy?”
“Challenging.”
“For a guy who supposedly stopped trying cases two years ago, you seem to have picked up another heater. Jerry Edwards says she’s going to be convicted of first-degree murder.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about it.”
“If you cut a deal for involuntary manslaughter, she’ll be out before she’s thirty.”
“Nicole won’t go for it.”
“She’s a TV lawyer. You need to talk to DeSean.”
“I did. Nicole is calling the shots. It’s an election year.”
Her expression turned serious. “Why did you want to see me, Mike?”
“I need to talk to your client.”
She pointed at a white board filled with a hand-printed list of five dozen active cases. “Take your pick.”
“Khalil Jones.”
“Pick again.”
“I really need to talk to Jones.”
“I can’t let you do it.”
“He’s on our witness list.”
“And the prosecution’s. I’m not letting DeSean talk to him, either.”
“Can I talk to him off the record?”
“No such thing.”
“Professional courtesy?”
“Not this time.”
I had to grovel. “Please?”
“No.” She absent-mindedly twirled a few strands of her hair around her finger. “Come on, Mike. You’ve been to this movie more times than I have.”
“You’re in the middle of negotiating a plea bargain?”
“Possibly.”
“And you don’t want him to talk to anybody until the deal is in place?”
“Could be.” She held up a hand. “We’re at a delicate point in our discussions, so I’m doing all the talking.”
“He’s going to have to testify at Lexy’s trial.”
“He will. And he’ll tell the truth. And if I can work out a deal, he’ll be able to talk more freely because he won’t have to worry about incriminating himself further. I can’t tell you exactly what he’ll say, but his testimony will not help your client.”
“Is he credible?”
“In my judgment, yes. College educated. Intelligent. Practical.”
“Why was he selling smack in front of the Sixteenth Street BART Station?”
“For the same reason that your client was sleeping with Jeff King: money.”
“Will he testify that he sold heroin to Lexy?”
“It’s the truth. And the cops have it on video.”
“Will he testify that it was the same sort of high-end heroin that killed King?”
“He’ll testify that it was good smack. That’s also the truth. I don’t see how he can offer any opinion as to whether it was the same stuff that killed King.”
“Did he ever sell heroin to King?”
“You’ll have to ask him in court.” She arched an eyebrow. “If I were in your shoes, I’d talk to Harper again about cutting a deal for manslaughter.”
* * *
Terrence the Terminator held up a hand as I was walking by his desk. He covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “Steele wants to talk to you. He sounds unhappy.”
“I’ll take it in my office.” I walked inside, took off my jacket, and pressed the flashing button on my phone. “Michael Daley speaking.”
“This is Jack Steele.”
“Sorry that I missed you when you had to leave the country.”
“Be at my office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I will. I trust
you received my e-mail notifying you that we intend to call you as a witness at Ms. Low’s trial next week?”
“I did. That’s fine.”
“I take you that you also saw that we plan to call your daughter?”
“I did. That isn’t.”
45
“NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN”
Steele stood behind his immaculate desk, flashed an insincere smile, and tried to sound convincing. “Nice to see you again,” he lied.
I did my best to feign sincerity. “Thank you for taking the time.”
At eight o’clock the following morning, a Friday, the Y5K complex was already buzzing with midday energy. Steele had moved into King’s office. His furnishings were minimal: an oak credenza, a leather love seat, and a round work table. His walls were lined with photos of himself with Silicon Valley players. The most prominent was a picture of a beaming Steele with a young Steve Jobs. There were no family photos.
The ever-present Yoav Ben-Shalom stood guard at the door. An imposing man standing next to him was sipping a Red Bull. He introduced himself as Robert “Don’t Call Me Bob” Stumpf, Y5K’s general counsel. Next to him was a hyperactive younger man who said his name was Lawrence “Don’t Call Me Larry” Braun. He worked for the biggest law firm in Silicon Valley and was Y5K’s lead outside counsel.
A towering man with a mane of silver hair, rugged features, and clear blue eyes was standing next to Steele. He handed me a card bearing the name of New York City’s most prominent law firm. His voice had the intonation of a Boston Brahmin. “Chris Neils. I am Mr. Steele’s personal attorney. I just flew in from the East Coast.”
He had undoubtedly arrived in one of Y5K’s private jets. “Mike Daley.”
Steele sat down behind his desk, whereupon every member of his high-priced legal team dutifully took their seats. Ben-Shalom remained standing at the door—as if I was going to make a run for it.
Steele motioned me to the chair between the general counsel and the outside counsel. It wasn’t easy to keep track of all the lawyers without a scorecard. “Please sit down, Mr. Daley.”
“Perhaps we should move to a conference room.”
“That won’t be necessary. I thought it would be helpful to have our legal team here.”
It was a heavy-handed attempt to try to intimidate me.
Steele pointed at Ben-Shalom, who shut the door. Then he templed his fingers in front of his face. “How can we help you, Mr. Daley?” He emphasized the word “we.”
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 70