“That’s a very lawyerly answer.”
“That’s why he’s paying us the big bucks.”
This elicits a strained grin. She tries again. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“Does my opinion matter?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think he was telling the truth.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t know Grayson and had no reason to kill him. He’s already admitted the money didn’t belong to him.”
“You didn’t really expect him to admit that he robbed Grayson, did you? Maybe he was just trying to come up with a more plausible alibi.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve taken him through his story twice and it hasn’t changed. I think there’s a good chance he’s telling the truth.”
Her response surprises me. “I’m beginning to think you may be right,” she says.
It’s my turn to probe. “Why?”
“He knows he’s going to die and he admitted the money wasn’t his. He has no motive.”
Not yet. We sit in silence for a moment, then I say, “Do you want to read it?”
“What?”
“Leon’s statement about what happened ten years ago.”
“No,” she says. “I gave him my word.”
There are still a few pockets of honor in our cynical world.
She arches an eyebrow and asks, “Are you going to read it?”
“No,” I assure her. I tap my breast pocket and say, “I gave him my word, too.”
This elicits a smile. We’re walking by the desk at the intake center when I hear the voice of Marcus Banks calling us. “Does the fact that you’re still here mean you’ve decided to take his case?” he asks.
I turn around and nod.
His voice drips with sarcasm when he mutters, “Defense lawyers.” He looks at Rosie and says, “You haven’t been able to prevail upon your partner to reconsider?”
“I’m afraid not, Marcus.”
“May I ask why you’ve decided to tilt at this particular windmill in light of the history?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “He needs a lawyer, Marcus. It’s what we do.”
“Suit yourself. Nicole would like to see you for a few minutes.”
Nicole Ward is our mediagenic district attorney. It’s unusual for the DA to have a couple of defense attorneys in for a chat, but this is a high profile case and Ward always has an agenda. “We’ll be up in a few minutes,” I say.
“Actually,” he says, “she’d like to see you right away. She has a press conference at five and she’d like to see you before then if you’re available.
Cynics such as myself might suggest that she’s looking for a chance to be the lead story on the news tonight. It’s an election year.
“We’re available,” I say.
*****
Chapter 7
Unfinished Business
“In thirty-four years with the SFPD, my only regret is that we weren’t able to bring Leon and Frank Walker to justice.”
— Inspector Marcus Banks. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.
The chief law enforcement officer of the City and County of San Francisco flashes the radiant smile that will appear on her campaign posters when the race for mayor heats up later this fall. “What a pleasant surprise to see you and Ms. Fernandez again,” Nicole Ward lies. “We thought you were busy molding young legal minds over in Berkeley.”
It’s a unique gift for a patronizing person to appear gracious, but Ward has had a lot of practice. The stunning thirty-eight year-old was born into a prominent Democratic family and was destined to go into politics. Her uncle was a member of the Board of Supervisors and her grandfather was a judge. The walls of her office are covered with the obligatory photos of her shaking hands with politicians and celebrities. Until recently, she was one of the most eligible single women in Northern California and she regularly appeared on the fantasy lists of every heterosexual male who works in this building. Much to the chagrin of the members of my gender who let their testosterone, instead of their conscience, be their guide, she recently announced her engagement to a handsome young man who happens to be the nephew of the senior U.S. Senator from the State of California. The pending nuptials are a political consultant’s dream.
“We recently moved our operations back to San Francisco,” I tell her.
“How fortuitous that we’ll have a chance to work together again.”
Indeed.
Rosie and I are sitting in the overstuffed leather chairs in the ceremonial DA’s office on the third floor of the Hall. The elegant furniture and dark wood paneling are the last vestiges of Ward’s predecessor, Prentice Marshall Gates III, a megalomaniac who retired a couple of years ago after an unseemly affair in which he was accused of murdering a young male prostitute at the Fairmont. Weary of the scandal, San Franciscans elected the photogenic and squeaky-clean Ward by a landslide in a special election. She has the whole package: movie star good looks, charismatic charm and a stellar track record. She’s also a tenacious prosecutor who has excellent instincts, both legal and, more importantly, political. Her talents as a trial attorney are being wasted in the largely administrative job as DA. In a recent Chronicle poll, she was voted the most popular politician in Northern California. She’s also among the most ambitious, and she’s made no secret of the fact that she views the DA’s office as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. She wasted no time training her sights on the mayor’s race.
She strokes her shoulder-length chestnut locks. Her huge brown eyes open wide and the plastic politician’s smile transforms into a disarming grin. She nods to Banks, who is standing by the door, then she says to me, “I understand you and Inspector Banks have spoken.”
“Briefly.” I look at Banks and the impeccably-dressed African American man standing next to him. Roosevelt Johnson is a retired homicide inspector and an SFPD legend. He and Banks were partners for three decades before Johnson retired two years ago. He and my father were the SFPD’s first integrated team when they were walking Sixth Street over forty years ago. The respect in my tone is genuine when I say, “It’s nice to see you, Inspector.” He’s a straight-shooter and he’s family.
He nods politely and says in a melodious baritone, “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Daley.”
Ward isn’t taking any chances. Johnson’s integrity is unquestioned and his work ethic is legendary. He was recently appointed to the mayor’s latest task force to clean up Sixth Street. The fact that he and Banks worked together on the first Walker case is more than coincidence.
I give Johnson a deferential look and say, “We’re looking forward to working with you.”
The ever-political Ward adds, “So are we. I want you and Inspector Banks to share all relevant information with Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez as expeditiously as possible.”
Johnson’s stoic expression doesn’t change when he says, “Of course.”
It sounds nice, but it’s a hollow offer. They’re required to provide any information that may tend to exonerate Leon. As a practical matter, they’ll have to show us everything.
Ward gestures toward her sofa, where a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties is sitting with his arms folded. “I’m sure you’ve worked with Bill McNulty,” she says.
I glance in his direction. It’s my turn to lie. “Nice to see you again,” I say.
He responds with a nod. He’s been putting away the bad guys for thirty years. The career prosecutor is a man of few words and his combative nature led the press to give him the moniker, “McNasty.” The curmudgeon’s pained expression suggests he has a stomach ache, but this is as close as he gets to jovial. He became even grouchier when he lost a hotly-contested campaign to Ward’s predecessor a few years ago, but it was hard to tell. He tried to retire after his second heart attack, but he grew bored of playing golf. Ward has assembled a Hall of Fame lineup with over a hundred years of experience.
Rosie says to McNulty, �
��Have you decided on the charge?”
“First degree murder. We’re thinking of adding special circumstances.”
It’s the California legal euphemism for a death penalty case. Rosie scowls and says, “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
I turn to Banks and say, “Did you inform Mr. McNulty that Mr. Walker is sick?”
“Yes.”
Subtlety isn’t working. “Did you explain that he’s dying?”
Ward exchanges a silent glance with McNulty. “We are aware that your client is ill,” she says, “and we will provide medical attention. We are cognizant that this case may proceed in a slightly different manner in light of his illness.”
“It won’t proceed at all after he’s dead,” I say.
She responds with a dismissive wave and a melodramatic tone. “It’s our duty as public servants to prosecute murderers,” she says. “Even those who are ill.”
She’s also trying to gain political capital. Her opponent in the mayoral derby has accused her of being soft on crime. He went so far to run attack ads saying that she’s more of a social worker than a prosecutor. The publicity for this case will enhance her visibility and make points with the law-and-order zealots.
I look around and I have an eerie sense of déjà vu. Banks and Johnson were the homicide inspectors on Leon and Frankie Walker’s case ten years ago. McNulty was the lead prosecutor and Ward assisted him. Some people think the first Walker case ruined McNulty’s chance to fulfill his lifelong dream of sitting behind the desk that is now occupied by his former protégé. The prosecution of Leon Walker could dispel doubts about Ward’s resolve and catapult her to an even nicer office in room two hundred at City Hall.
I say to Ward, “What’s this really about?”
She bats her long eyelashes and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I drop the strained formality of calling her by her last name. “Come on, Nicole. We were all in this room when Leon was arrested last time.”
She feigns indignity. “Our past history has nothing to do with this matter. We make an independent judgment about the strength of every case.”
McNasty weighs in. “We’ve filed first degree murder charges because we think your client is guilty of that crime. Everybody in this room has some unfinished business with him.” He points a finger at Rosie and me and says, “That includes the two of you. As I recall, you were the subject of an investigation after the conclusion of the first case.”
“That matter was dropped,” I tell him.
“I remember, but before you start casting stones, I want to remind you that we aren’t the only ones with axes to grind. We can’t ignore the history, but we have to do our jobs. I believe your client was guilty ten years ago, but that isn’t why we’ve filed charges. The evidence conclusively shows that he murdered Tower Grayson. I’m sympathetic about his health, but I get paid to prosecute criminals. I’d like to think we’ll be able to put the past behind us and conduct ourselves in a professional manner.”
It’s an eloquent, if unconvincing speech. “I hope so, too,” I say. I turn back to Ward and ask, “Now that we’ve aired out our dirty laundry, why did you really want to see us?”
The engaging smile makes another appearance. “I was hoping that we might find a way to make your client’s last few weeks a little easier.”
So am I. “Drop the charges,” I say. “That will make his last few weeks a lot easier.”
The patronizing tone returns. “That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Fine. What did you have in mind?”
“Have him plead guilty to second degree murder and we’ll arrange for him to spend his final weeks in a hospice where he’ll be more comfortable.”
McNulty gives me a stern look and says, “It’s a good deal, Mike.”
In some respects, it may be.
Ward’s smile gets a little broader. “It’s the best we can do,” she says. “We aren’t looking for blood. We simply want to ensure that justice is served.”
It never entered her mind that a quick guilty plea will serve her political purposes admirably and settle some old scores. “No deal,” I say.
“Think about it.”
“I have. Our client has informed us that we are not to entertain any plea bargain proposals. He’s innocent and he wants an opportunity to defend himself.”
Ward feigns frustration. “You have a legal duty to take it to your client,” she says.
“We will, but we won’t recommend it.”
“Why not?”
“Why should he plead guilty to make your life easier?”
“Because it’s his only chance to make his life easier.”
“No deal.”
Her conciliatory expression disappears and her demeanor turns stone cold. “I want to make this very clear to you,” she says.
My God, she’s starting to sound like Richard Nixon.
She extends a delicate index finger toward me and says, “This is your only chance to do the right thing and ensure your client will live his last weeks with a shred of dignity.”
I fire back. “This is your only chance to do the wrong thing by trying to force a quick confession from an innocent man who is terminally ill. Your proposal is rejected.”
“Be reasonable, Mike.”
I can feel the anger welling up in the back of my throat. “You’re pressing capital murder charges against a man who isn’t expected to live more than a few weeks and you’re asking me to be reasonable?”
Her eyes become tiny slits. “Have it your way,” she says, “but don’t expect another offer from this office. The arraignment is at nine o’clock Monday morning before Judge McDaniel.”
She’ll be delighted to see us. Maybe we’ll bring along Terrence the Terminator for moral support. “We’ll be there,” I tell her. “Are you still prepared to share evidence with us?”
“Yes, but I have some other business that I must attend to at this time.”
She has to get ready for her press conference and now she won’t be able to announce that she’s obtained a confession from Leon. I say, “We’d be happy to discuss this matter with Inspectors Banks and Johnson.”
She looks at them and says, “Why don’t you take Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez up to homicide and tell them what you’ve found so far.” She gives me a sarcastic smile and adds, “Perhaps the evidence will persuade them to reconsider my very reasonable offer.
I look at Ward and say, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
*****
Chapter 8
“You Always Start with the Victim”
“Tower Grayson is a respected member of the Silicon Valley venture capital community.”
— San Francisco Chronicle. Profile of Tower Grayson.
Marcus Banks is giving me a circumspect look as he says, “We can’t tell you much.”
The games begin. “You mean you won’ttell me much,” I counter.
“Be reasonable, Mike. We just started our investigation.”
His evasiveness doesn’t surprise me. He isn’t going to show his cards until he must. “That didn’t stop you from arresting my client,” I say. “He has a terminal illness. I trust you understand that time is of the essence.”
Roosevelt Johnson interjects, “Can we turn down the volume? We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other and I’d like to start our discourse on a higher plane.”
My father’s former partner can silence a room without raising his voice a single decibel.
It’s four-thirty. Nicole Ward is putting together the sound bites for her press conference and Bill McNulty has retreated to his office to prepare for the epic battles that will start with Monday’s arraignment. Rosie and I are sitting in a windowless interrogation room on the fourth floor of the Hall next to the homicide division. Banks is wearing his suit jacket and is holding a Styrofoam cup that’s half-filled with water. Johnson has loosened his tie and is drinking coffee.
The
two warhorses exchange a silent glance and Roosevelt takes the lead. He’s pushing seventy, but the only hints of his age on his muscular body are the wire-rimmed bifocals and the hair that’s turned a distinguished shade of silver. “Where do you want to start?” he asks.
“My father used to say you always start with the victim.” My dad died almost ten years ago, shortly after Grace turned one. He never had much use for defense lawyers, although he grudgingly gave me slightly more dispensation than most of my contemporaries.
Roosevelt responds with the controlled grin that I saw so many times in our living room when I was growing up. “You may not have always appreciated the fact that your father was a fine cop,” he says. “It’s nice to see that some of his influence rubbed off on you.” He gives me a quick wink and adds, “Even though you turned to the dark side.”
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