MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  Her tone becomes thoughtful. “Leon isn’t the only person with a serious illness who is worried about his reputation. I don’t want the San Francisco legal community to think that we backed down from a hard case. More importantly, Grace reads the paper. I don’t want her to think that we won’t take on the tough fights. If we don’t take this case, Edwards will have the last word. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “This isn’t between us and Jerry Edwards,” I say.

  “It is now.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “The hell I am.”

  I’m treading in unfamiliar water in my new role as the practical voice of reason. “Ten minutes ago, you had me convinced that we shouldn’t take this case.”

  “The situation has changed.”

  “Doing it because we have a personal beef with Jerry Edwards isn’t a good reason.”

  “Fighting for your client and your reputation is a good reason,” she replies.

  “We’re putting the firm at risk if we take it.”

  “We’re putting our reputation at risk if we don’t.”

  “You were just telling me that we should pick our fights more carefully.”

  “We will as soon as we’re finished.”

  “We can’t win this case, Rosie. We don’t have time to prepare a full defense.”

  “Then we’ll have to do the best we can.”

  “It won’t be enough. Edwards won’t be satisfied unless we find the murderer.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll have to do.”

  *****

  Chapter 6

  “You’ll Have to Take my Word for It”

  “We have placed the defendant at the scene and recovered the murder weapon.”

  — Inspector Marcus Banks. Channel 7 News. Friday, June 3. 3:15 P.M.

  “Thanks for coming,” Leon whispers to me. The appreciation in his tone seems genuine when he adds, “I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again.”

  “I told you I’d be here,” I say.

  He looks at Rosie and says, “I didn’t know if I was going to see you at all.”

  “Times change,” she replies. “Maybe we can get off to a better start this time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “So would I.”

  We’re sitting in an airless consultation room that’s furnished with the obligatory metal table and mismatched chairs. The amenities represent an upgrade from the rudimentary quarters at the Hall, but the Glamour Slammer isn’t the Fairmont. Leon just completed the booking process and is exhausted, but surprisingly calm. His tattered windbreaker has been replaced by a freshly-laundered orange jumpsuit.

  First things first. I ask, “Did you say anything to the cops?”

  “Just my name and address.”

  “Good. Did you talk to anybody else?”

  “Some asshole reporter shoved his way through the police line and asked me who was handling my case.”

  That would have been Jerry Edwards.

  “I gave him your name,” he says. “I hope that was all right.”

  Rosie and I exchange a silent glance before I say, “It’s fine, Leon.”

  He seems relieved. His voice quivers as he describes the humiliating strip search and the foul smelling liquid disinfectant that’s sprayed onto the prisoners. For the time being, his home is a spartansix by eight foot holding cell near the infirmary of the jail

  Rosie places a legal pad on the table in front of her, signifying that it’s time to talk about the unpleasant stuff. “Leon,” she begins in her best courtroom voice, “we have some serious reservations about representing you. Our last contact with you was not an especially rewarding experience for us.”

  “It wasn’t especially rewarding for me, either,” he says.

  Not quite the right tone. The irritation in her voice is evident when she says, “I’ve been a lawyer for almost twenty years and your case was the worst experience I’ve ever had. We want to explain some conditions before we’ll take on your representation.” She stops for a beat and adds, “They’re non-negotiable.”

  He swallows hard and nods.

  “Number one,” Rosie says, “We expect to be paid for our services.”

  She understands the reality that we’ll have to handle this matter largely on a pro bonobasis, but it’s always a good idea to extract a meaningful financial commitment from a client.

  “I have some money,” Leon says.

  “Good. We’ll need a retainer.”

  “How much?”

  “How much do you have?”

  “About three thousand dollars.”

  I’m surprised that Leon has so much money tucked away. Even so, in normal circumstances, it would be a non-starter. Even if we never get beyond the preliminary hearing, we’re talking about tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees. There isn’t a chance that Leon’s life savings will make a dent in his legal bills.

  Rosie’s expression doesn’t change when she says, “Does that include the two grand they found in your pocket?”

  “No. That money wasn’t mine.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “I don’t know. Somebody must have put it there while I was unconscious.”

  “You’re saying you were framed?”

  “Yes.”

  If that’s the case, it means that somebody walked away from two grand–a fortune on Sixth Street.

  She taps her pen on the table and says, “We’ll need a two thousand retainer.”

  “Fine.”

  “How do we get the money?”

  “Call my ex-girlfriend,” he says. He says her name is Vanessa Sanders and he gives us her phone number. “She’ll write you a check.”

  I say, “Your ex-girlfriend has signature authority on your bank account?”

  “I trust her, Mike.” He adds, “She uses the money for our daughter.”

  Rosie is positively disposed to the news that Leon’s ex-girlfriend and the mother of his daughter holds his purse strings. We have a similar arrangement for the assets of our law firm.

  We now have Leon’s undivided attention. “What are your other conditions?” he asks.

  “Number two,” Rosie says, “if you lie to us about anything–and I mean anything–we will withdraw from your representation on the spot. If you fuck with me again, the last thing you will remember about me is the vision of my beautiful ass as I walk out the door. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Number three, you will tell us the whole, absolute, unvarnished and unedited truth about what happened ten years ago.”

  “I did.”

  “The hell you did.”

  “The hell I didn’t.”

  Rosie stands and starts to head for the door. I can’t tell if she’s bluffing, but Leon is buying it. A desperate look crosses his face. “Wait,” he implores her.

  “Why should I? You’re just going to lie to me again.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You’re already starting.”

  He’s taken aback by her directness before he says, “No, I’m not.”

  “What are you going to do if I walk?” she asks. “Have your brother’s thugs beat me up?”

  For the first time since this discussion started, Leon looks down at the table. He gathers his thoughts and says, “Nobody was going to hurt you.”

  “I’ll never know that for sure, will I?”

  “The best I can offer you is my word.”

  “It carries no weight with me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you. I swear to God.”

  Not good enough. “You can make your own arrangements with God,” Rosie says. “If you want me to be your lawyer, you’re going to have to make a deal with me.”

  There’s exasperation in Leon’s tone when he says, “What do you want from me?”

  “Tell me what really happened ten years ago.”

  He leans forward and says, “What does it have to do with my case?”

  “Noth
ing.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “It’s personal. Let’s just say I’m trying to tidy up some unfinished business.”

  He looks to me for help, but I remain silent. He’s going to have to make his own peace with her. He says to her, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Then I don’t want to be your lawyer.”

  I can hear the buzzing of the lights as I watch the second hand on the industrial strength clock make its way around the dial–once–twice–three times.

  He tries again. “I’m paying you this time,” he says. “There shouldn’t be quid pro quos.”

  Rosie jabs her index finger toward him and says, “You aren’t in any position to bargain. You and I know that a defense will run well into six figures–maybe more. Even if you somehow manage to pay us the retainer, it will barely cover our fees and costs for a couple of days.”

  “Then why are you offering to represent me?”

  “We just reopened our practice and this will be good publicity for our firm. Think of yourself as a loss leader.” She glances at me and says, “And my partner has persuaded me that you’re entitled to representation and that it’s the right thing to do.” She turns back to him and adds, “Most importantly, you have something of value to me: you can tell me what happened at that 7-Eleven ten years ago.”

  She judiciously leaves out any mention of Jerry Edwards’s tirade.

  Leon appears to comprehend the seriousness of Rosie’s purpose. “If I tell you what happened,” he says, “you’ll walk out the door. How can I be sure you’ll still defend me?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  He considers for a moment and says, “Then I have a condition of my own.”

  “You don’t get to impose conditions,” Rosie says.

  “I do if you want to hear the truth.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened after you get the charges dropped or at the end of my preliminary hearing, whichever comes sooner.”

  “How can I be sure you’ll really tell us?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  The corner of her mouth goes up slightly. She gives him a respectful nod and says, “That’s fair, but I’m not willing to take the chance that you’ll change your mind before the end of your prelim.” She hands him a piece of paper and says, “You’re going to write it down for me right now, then you’re going to put it into a sealed envelope that I’ll keep in our safe deposit box. I won’t open it until the charges are dropped or at the end of the prelim.”

  “How can I be sure you won’t open it before then?”

  “You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  He taps his fingertips together, then he gives Rosie a surrendering look and says, “Deal.”

  This elicits a triumphant nod. She hands her pen to him and says, “Start writing.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  # # #

  Leon’s essay is completed five minutes later and is tucked away in a sealed envelope in my breast pocket. We’ve agreed that I’ll serve as escrow holder.

  Rosie says to Leon, “Tell us everything that happened last night. Don’t exaggerate, don’t sugarcoat and don’t try to massage the facts in your favor.”

  The basic elements of his story match the time line that he gave me earlier. His hands are folded and his voice remains even as he says he went to work at eleven and performed his usual tasks until two. His responsibilities included sweeping the floor and taking empty boxes to the loading dock. His compensation consisted of a ten dollar bill, a sandwich, a bag of chips and a pint of Jack Daniels. He was getting ready to leave when he saw Grayson park his Mercedes on Minna Street. Grayson came into the store, bought a pack of cigarettes and left.

  “How long was he in the store?” Rosie asks.

  “A minute or two.” He says he was standing behind the counter when Grayson came in. He’d never seen him before.

  “Did you notice a bill clip with a lot of cash?”

  His tone is emphatic when he says, “No.”

  “How was his demeanor? Was he nervous?”

  “He looked out the door a couple of times while Amos was making change. He may have been looking for somebody. Maybe he was just trying to keep an eye on his car.”

  Maybe.

  “Look,” he says, “we don’t see many wealthy white people in our store unless they’re lost or looking for trouble. He didn’t look lost, but could have been looking for trouble.”

  “What kind?”

  “There are usually two possibilities in our neighborhood: drugging and whoring.” He pronounces the word “whore” as if it didn’t include the letter r.

  The standard vices haven’t changed. I ask him whether it appeared that Grayson was planning to participate in either of those activities.

  “I don’t know. He stopped outside to light a cigarette and make a call on his cell phone.”

  This elicits an interested glance from Rosie. We need to subpoena his phone log. It’s a long shot, but I ask, “Do you have any idea who he was talking to?”

  “No. The door was closed and his back was turned to me.” He pretends to hold a phone with his left hand and pantomimes a couple of jabs with his right index finger. “Grayson was pointing like this while he was talking,” he says. “I think I heard him say, ‘I’ll get you.’”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Not sure enough. “How long did the conversation last?”

  “Less than a minute, then he turned and walked down the alley. I stuck around to talk to Amos, then I left.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around two-ten.” He says he didn’t see anybody else outside.

  I draw a sketch of the liquor store, the alley and the loading dock. He shows me the spot where Grayson’s Mercedes was parked and I ask, “Was the car there when you went outside?”

  “Yes. I was surprised.” He says the lights were off and the doors were locked.

  “Was anybody else in the car?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So you started walking down the alley?”

  “Yeah.” He reiterates that he heard voices by the loading dock. “That’s the last thing I remember until the cops woke me up.”

  Rosie asks, “Will Amos Franklin be able to corroborate your story?”

  “I think so.”

  I hope so. “Is there a chance we’ll find somebody else who might have seen anything?”

  He gives us a resigned shrug. “There are a lot of people out on the street at night, but most of them blend into the scenery. It will be hard to find anybody who will be willing to talk.”

  “Where should we start?”

  “With Amos.”

  # # #

  “Was I too hard on him?” Rosie asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s better to clear the air.”

  Leon was taken back to his cell a few minutes ago and we’re still sitting in the consultation room in the bowels of the Glamour Slammer. I ask, “Were you really going to walk out if Leon refused to tell you what happened at the Seven-Eleven?”

  “Yes.” She winks and adds, “But I would have come back. I was bluffing.”

  “He bought it.”

  “I’m good.”

  Yes, you are.

  She leans back and locks her fingers behind her head. “What did you think about his story?” she asks.

  I begin evasive action. “I want to see more evidence before I make any judgments.”