MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  Banks points toward the Dumpster and says, “A garbage man discovered the body at eleven o’clock this morning. He went inside the liquor store and told the clerk, who called us.” He says they’ve taken the body to the morgue.

  I ask if the trash collector saw anything suspicious.

  “Other than a dead body? Nope.”

  I ignore the swipe and ask about witnesses.

  “People tend to keep their mouths shut around here.”

  “I take it that means you’ve found none.”

  “It means we’re asking around.”

  “What about cause of death?”

  “Multiple stab wounds to the back.” He turns evasive when I ask him about time of death. “I don’t know for sure,” he says. “Rod Beckert is going to do the autopsy.”

  Beckert has been the chief medical examiner for more than thirty years and is likely to get it right.

  He tries to appear forthcoming when he says, “Off the record, Rod figured it was sometime between two and seven A.M.” He recites the standard caveat that Beckert will provide additional details after he completes the autopsy, then he offers another morsel. “The clerk told us that Grayson pulled up in a Mercedes and stopped in the store at two this morning to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

  What? “Silicon Valley big shots don’t go shopping in urban war zones in the middle of the night.”

  “Evidently, this one did.”

  One could argue that if Grayson was that stupid, he got what he deserved. I try again. “How have you connected Leon Walker to this?”

  “He was here last night.”

  “He lives across the alley. That doesn’t mean he committed murder.”

  “He makes a few bucks by sweeping up at the liquor store. He was working last night. His shift ended at two and he left a few minutes after Grayson.”

  Uh-oh. “Did Grayson and Walker talk to each other?”

  “The clerk didn’t hear anything.”

  Not exactly the answer to my question. “Was anybody with Grayson?”

  “He came into the store by himself.”

  “Was anybody outside?”

  “The clerk didn’t see anybody.”

  He’s still being evasive. “So, it’s possible somebody else could have been outside or in the car.”

  “I don’t answer hypothetical questions. It’s bad for business.”

  I’ll talk to the clerk about it. I look around the alley and ask, “Where’s the Mercedes?”

  He hesitates before he says, “We don’t know.”

  Huh? “Didn’t you impound it?”

  “No.” His expression changes to an emphatic frown. “It’s gone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. It wasn’t here when they found the body. We presume it was stolen.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Have you considered the possibility that the person who stole the car may have killed Grayson?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve found a witness who saw somebody driving off in a Mercedes?”

  “We’ll call you if we do.”

  Swell. “Is there any chance the body was moved from someplace else?”

  “Unlikely. The blood starts at the loading dock and ends at the Dumpster. It looks like he was stabbed on the dock and stumbled toward the Dumpster.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you’ve connected Walker to this.”

  He points to some numbered plastic markers adjacent to the Dumpster. “That’s where they found Walker,” he says. “He was unconscious.”

  “How long had he been there?”

  “We don’t know. Around here, people who are passed out in the street are part of the scenery. You’re looking for trouble if you bother them.”

  “What about the police? There must have been beat cops on patrol last night.”

  “He was in an alley. They can’t see everything.”

  Sadly, it’s true. It would take an entire battalion of cops to make a meaningful dent in this area. “You’re saying he could have been there all night?”

  “That’s right.”

  That’s horrific. I look at the filthy spot and ask, “Did he have any injuries?”

  “A headache.”

  I ask if somebody hit him.

  “We don’t know. There were no bruises on his head and there was no evidence of a struggle. He was hung over.”

  “Was there any blood on his clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Yes, they will. I look at the Dumpster and my mind races for a plausible explanation. I turn back to Banks and say, “Just because Walker passed out near the Dumpster doesn’t mean he killed Grayson. The perp could have stabbed him and driven off in his car.”

  He gives me a skeptical look and says, “Why didn’t he kill Walker, too?”

  “Maybe he was trying to frame him. If he had killed Walker, everybody would have known that Walker didn’t kill Grayson.”

  Banks gives me the look of a man who has heard defense lawyers concoct alternative scenarios for decades. He folds his arms and says, “Not bad. I might have been inclined to think your hackneyed explanation had some intuitive merit.”

  “But?”

  His self-righteous look transforms into a self-satisfied grin. “We found a hunting knife in Walker’s jacket pocket.”

  I try not to show my concern. “Everybody in this neighborhood has one.”

  “True, but most of the knives aren’t covered with blood.”

  Hell.

  “Obviously,” he continues, “we haven’t had a chance to test the blood to see if it matches Grayson’s, but I’d be willing to bet you that it does.”

  If that’s the case, this conversation may be nothing more than an academic exercise. This doesn’t stop me from offering another possibility. “It could have been a set up,” I argue. “The perp could have stabbed Grayson and knocked out Leon. He could have put the knife in Leon’s pocket and taken the car.”

  “How do you account for the blood on Walker’s clothing?”

  “Maybe it was his own blood, or the perp could have spattered Grayson’s blood on Walker’s clothing.”

  “We’ll see what the blood spatter experts have to say.” His expression turns smug as he says, “There’s something else.”

  What else can there be? “What is it?” I ask.

  “We found two thousand dollars in cash in his pocket.”

  I try not to react. “Doesn’t prove a thing,” I say. “It could have been Leon’s money.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You don’t know that it belonged to Grayson.”

  “We’re pretty sure it did. The bills were in a silver clip with Grayson’s initials on it.”

  *****

  Chapter 4

  The Last Judgment

  “I had a chance to play pro basketball and I let it slip away.”

  — Leon Walker. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.

  The Thunderbird Hotel needs more than a paint job or a remodel–it’s crying out for some meaningful time on the receiving end of a wrecking ball. My feet are sticking to the stained linoleum floor in the stench-filled area that passes for the lobby, where a single light bulb provides the only illumination. The walls haven’t felt a paint brush in decades and the windows are boarded up. A manager who could pass for Dennis Rodman’s twin is sitting in a Plexiglas cage and reading this morning’s Chronicle. A faded, hand-lettered sign says that rent is payable in cash in advance and anyone caught urinating in the hallways will be evicted.

  Marcus Banks escorts me up the worn stairway where the banister was ripped from the yellowed wall long ago. I’ve met my clients in some of the nastiest residential hotels in the darkest corners of the Mission District, but I’ve never seen anything that comes close to the squalor in the dimly-lit hallway on the second floor of the Thunderbird. Rats are mingling freely with cock
roaches and rodent feces lines the corridor. I gag as we pass the open door to the bathroom, where the toilet is overflowing. Banks leads me toward two police officers who are standing outside room fifteen. They part when he explains that I’m Leon Walker’s attorney.

  I follow Banks into the small room, where I find a striking and unexpected contrast to the hall. The walls are painted a cheerful yellow and bright light streams in through a window over a twin bed that is neatly made, complete with hospital corners. A stack of papers and a bible are sitting on a desk in the corner, along with a framed photo of a pretty girl who is about Grace’s age. The dresser is topped with bottles of prescription medications and the kitchen consists of a hot plate, a coffee pot and a sauce pan. I see a change of clothes, a few cans of spaghetti and a bottle of bourbon inside the closet. Except for the medicine and the booze, Walker’s room reminds me of the rectory at the church in the Sunset where I lived for three years.

  I’m jolted back to reality when I see Leon Walker, who is sitting in the wooden chair next to the desk. When I last saw him, he was a strapping young man with long dreadlocks who carried over two hundred and thirty chiseled pounds on his six foot six inch frame. The former basketball star is now in his early thirties, but looks much older. His hollow eyes and gaunt features bear a disturbing resemblance to the emaciated people in drought-stricken third world countries. I’d guess he weighs no more than about a hundred and twenty pounds and his loose-fitting, tattered blue jeans and Giants’ t-shirt hang limply on his frame.

  He grimaces as he pulls himself to his feet on the second try and painfully limps the short distance across the room. He no longer towers over me and his bent frame looks as if it could break in half. He extends a bony hand to me and whispers, “Thank you for coming.” He struggles to ease himself back into his chair.

  “I didn’t recognize you, Leon.”

  There is a profound sadness in his eyes. “I’ve had some bad luck,” he says. “Bad liver. Bad kidneys. Bad everything.”

  I turn to Banks and say, “I’d like to talk to my client for a few minutes.”

  “You said you hadn’t decided to take the case.”

  The smallest request is hand-to-hand combat. “I’m his lawyer until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Suit yourself.” He doesn’t move.

  “Could you give us a little time alone?”

  He responds as if Leon isn’t in the room. “Two minutes.” His expression turns to an ominous glare. “I’ll be standing right outside the door with two uniforms.”

  As if we’re going to make a break for it. “We aren’t going anywhere,” I assure him.

  “Damn right.” He steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him.

  First things first. I sit down on the bed and lean close to Walker. I gesture toward the door and whisper, “We need to talk quietly. He may be able to hear us.”

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Leon. They’re going to take you to the Hall. I don’t want you to talk to anybody in the lock-up, and for God’s sake, don’t say anything to the cops.”

  “You told me the same thing last time. It was good advice, Mr. Daley.”

  Yes, it was. “Call me Mike.”

  “Fine. Mike.” He glances at the photo on his desk, but doesn’t say anything.

  I ask, “Who is she?”

  He gives me a helpless look and says, “My daughter.”

  I recall that he and his girlfriend had a baby when we represented him the first time. The girlfriend came to several of his court appearances. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  The pain on his face is more pronounced when he says, “Julia. She just turned twelve. I’m not allowed to see her.”

  He became a father when he was a teenager. “Where does she live?”

  “With her mother in the Alice Griffith projects.”

  It’s a crime- and drug-ridden cesspool in the neglected Bayview-Hunters Point neighborhood near Candlestick Park. I’ll need to find out more about his relationship with his ex-girlfriend and his daughter, but there are more pressing matters for now. I say, “I don’t think I’ll be able to persuade Inspector Banks to drop the charges today.”

  A look of resignation crosses his face. “I figured.” He tugs on his ear and says in a hopeful tone, “I’d like you to represent me.”

  I take a deep breath and say, “I think it would be better if we found somebody else to handle your case.”

  “I can pay you. I have some money.”

  I wonder if he’s referring to the two grand they found in his pocket. “This isn’t about money. We don’t have the resources to deal with your case for the next two years.”

  “I won’t need you for two years.”

  Not true, unless he’s planning to cut a plea bargain right away. “You have to be realistic,” I say.

  “I am.” His face turns ashen. “My liver is failing, Mike. If I don’t get a transplant in the next couple of weeks, I’ll be dead in two months.”

  Dear God. I take a closer look at the skeletal man before me and the best I can do is to ask an inane question. “Are they sure?”

  The resignation in his tone leaves no doubt. “They’re sure.”

  This is more than I’d bargained for. I’ve represented people who were rich, poor, sick, mentally challenged, homeless, addicted and abused, but never someone who was terminally ill. “I apologize if this sounds insensitive,” I say, “but are you sure you want to do battle with the legal system at this point in your life?”

  “Are you asking if I’d rather be spending my last few weeks someplace other than court?”

  Give him points for directness. “Yes.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  Probably none. “I might be able to persuade the DA to delay any proceedings until you can get medical attention.”

  “Then I’ll be dead before I have a chance to defend myself.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes, I do.” He assures me that there isn’t a chance he’ll make it to the top of the transplant list. “How I choose to spend my last few weeks is my business.”

  Not if we represent him. Then his business will become ours.

  His tone softens when he says, “The way I see it, I can feel sorry for myself or I can do something meaningful–if not to you or to me, then to my daughter. The media convicted me even though my case never went to trial. This is my last chance to prove I’m not a murderer.”

  I’m not going to pull any punches. “The last time we represented you was not one of the great moments of my legal career.”

  “It will be different this time. My brother won’t be involved.”

  “He pulled the trigger at the 7-Eleven.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Bullshit. “They found his gun in the trunk and the bullets matched. You were behind the wheel of the car.”

  “Driving isn’t a crime.”

  “It is if you’re transporting a murderer. That made you an accessory.”

  “I didn’t know what happened inside the store.”

  “The hell you didn’t.” I can feel the back of my neck turning red, but I stop myself. We don’t have time to replay the events of a decade ago. I point a finger at him and say, “That case is closed. A lot of people thought you should have gone to prison.”

  “They were wrong. It wasn’t fair.”

  I can’t come up with an especially compelling answer on the fly, so I go with a standby from my priest days. “Sometimes, life is unfair.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He looks down at his shaking hands, then turns his lifeless eyes toward mine and whispers, “I really need your help.”

  I replay my conversation with Rosie in my head and opt for the path of least resistance. “I think it would be better if we refer your case to somebody else.”

  He isn’t giving up. “I only have a few weeks.”