It’s classic Roosevelt. The digs are always pointed, but civil, and the discourse will be conducted on his terms. I ask, “What can you tell us about Grayson?”
He turns to Banks and says, “What can we tell them?”
If I didn’t have to make a living doing this and our client wasn’t charged with murder, it would be fun to sit back and watch the two homicide virtuosos strut their stuff.
Banks finishes his water and recites the vitals. “Forty-eight; lived in Atherton; grew up in San Jose; father was a lawyer and mother was a homemaker; undergrad at San Jose State and MBA from Santa Clara; married his high school sweetheart; two grown children.”
He wasn’t unlike the millions who work hard, have a house in the suburbs and spend their weekends at their kids’ soccer games.
Roosevelt softly chides his former partner. “He could have read that much in the paper. What else do we know?”
To the untrained eye, they appear reasonably forthcoming, but it’s an act. They’ll tell us precisely what they want us to hear, and nothing more.
“Not much,” Banks replies. “His widow has been notified, but I haven’t talked to her yet. We would be grateful if you’d give us an opportunity to speak to her before you approach her.”
“Understood.” I promise to clear any contact through them. In return, they agree to try to work out a time where I can interview Grayson’s wife. I ask, “Any funny stuff?”
“Such as?”
“The usual. Arrests? Drugs? Alcohol? Philandering?”
“Nothing.” He tells us that Grayson coached Little League and was a Cub Scout den leader. He had a clean police record. He worked at a CPA firm for a couple of years, then he became the CFO of a software company. He went to an Internet start-up that was a high-flyer for awhile, but tanked with the rest of the dot-coms. Grayson was smart enough–or lucky enough–to have exercised his options at the right time. He was worth a couple million dollars after he cashed in his chips. “A couple of years ago, he and a partner started a venture capital firm called Paradigm Partners in Menlo Park.”
It’s in the Silicon Valley venture capital gulch. I ask, “What made him decide he was qualified to become a venture capitalist?”
“He was rich.” Banks says he doesn’t know how much money was raised or if the fund was doing well. Venture funds aren’t publicly-traded and have minimal disclosure requirements.
Rosie decides to make her presence felt. “Are you suggesting his business interests may have had something to do with his death?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you what we know about Grayson.”
He’s giving us only the information that has nothing to do with the events of last night. This conversation isn’t moving in an especially helpful direction and I opt to change course. “Have you been able to reconstruct what Grayson did last night?”
He tells us that Grayson and his business partner met with their lawyer. “The partner’s name is Lawrence Chamberlain.”
This elicits a half grin from Rosie. Our world is populated by people named Daley and Fernandez and O’Malley. There are no Chamberlains.
I ask, “What can you tell us about him?”
There is more than a hint of scorn in his voice when he says, “Late thirties. Family money. Member of the Pacific Union Club, the Bohemian Club and the Olympic Club.”
“How did a blue blood like Chamberlain hook up with Grayson?”
“Chamberlain had money and Grayson had connections. It isn’t enough for guys like Chamberlain to be rich. They want to have something to talk about at the PU Club.”
Sometimes, I think it would be helpful if I had a better understanding of the psychological makeup of the people who live at the tops of our hills. Barring an unforeseen triumph in the California lottery, the chance that I’ll be able to do so seems rather slim.
Banks adds, “Chamberlain saw Grayson as his entrée to Silicon Valley.”
His entrée ended up in a Dumpster on Sixth Street. I ask if he’s talked to Chamberlain.
“Briefly by phone. We’re going to pay him a visit after we’re finished with you.”
“What were they meeting about?”
“A deal. He said the details were confidential.”
We’ll see if that’s still the case after we send him a subpoena. I probe a little more, but it’s all he knows–or all that he’s willing to tell me. He says Chamberlain didn’t observe anything out of the ordinary in Grayson’s behavior last night. I ask him where the lawyer works.
“Story, Short and Thompson at Four Embarcadero Center.”
It’s a stuffy corporate firm in prime time space overlooking the ferry building and the Bay Bridge. “What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Bradley Lucas.”
Oh Christ.
Banks reads my reaction and asks, “Do you know him?”
Oh, yeah. “We used to be partners at Simpson and Gates.”
S and G is the now-defunct law firm at the top of the Bank of America Building where I worked after I left the PD’s office when Rosie and I split up. Brad Lucas is one of the young Turks who convinced our executive committee to prune some of our “underproductive” partners. It was a euphemism for deadwood who didn’t bring in enough business, and I was at the top of his hit list. I’m pretty sure that he hates my guts. I’m absolutely sure that the feeling is mutual.
I ask him if he’s talked to Lucas.
“Briefly. He was cordial, but not especially forthcoming.”
That’s Brad.
He tells us that Lucas wouldn’t provide any information about the meeting. “He said it was confidential.”
That’s definitely Brad. It also happens to be the correct lawyerly response. “What time did the meeting break up?”
“Around ten.”
Although most working stiffs have long since gone home by that hour, it’s considered the middle of the day for people who work at big law firms. It’s one of the reasons I was never a power player at S and G.
He adds, “They went out to dinner at Boulevard.”
Sounds appropriate for a law firm hot shot, a Silicon Valley wannabe and a young aristocrat. The upscale bistro in the historic Audiffred Building at the corner of Steuartand Mission is one of the finest restaurants in town. I ask if anybody else was with them.
“No. The maitre d’ said they walked out a few minutes after one.”
I’m sure the wait staff and the kitchen crew were thrilled to be sitting around an otherwise empty restaurant while Grayson, Chamberlain and Lucas lingered over their cigars and port.
He adds, “The valet parker told us that Grayson got into his Mercedes and drove off with Chamberlain. We think Grayson gave him a ride to his condo on Russian Hill. Evidently, Lucas walked back to his office at Embarcadero Center to get his car.” He says that Lucas lives in one of those trendy new lofts near AT&T Park, about a mile from the restaurant.
We’ll need to confirm their stories. Unless we find a witness on Sixth Street, they were the last people who saw Grayson alive.
Banks is starting to get antsy, so I try to fast forward the story. “I understand the clerk at the liquor store said that Grayson came in around two.”
“He did. He parked his car in the alley and came in to buy a pack of cigarettes. Walker left the store a couple of minutes after Grayson did.”
How long was Grayson’s car parked in the alley?”
“He didn’t know.” He says the car still hasn’t been found and agrees to provide Grayson’s cell phone records. We’ll need to talk to the clerk.
I ask, “Have you heard anything from Rod Beckert?”
He says the chief medical examiner has confirmed that Grayson died between two and five A.M. and that the cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the back. He was stabbed near the loading dock and staggered to the Dumpster, where he fell or was pushed in and died. He lowers his voice and adds, “Your client’s fingerprints were on the knife and the money clip.”
/>
The noose is getting tighter.
# # #
Rosie and I are standing outside the homicide division a short time later, where they’re gearing up for the Friday night rush. “We should go to the liquor store and try to talk to Amos Franklin,” I tell her.
“I’ll call Jack and Melanie,” she says. Rosie’s neighbors have a son who is the same age as Grace and we impose upon them more than we should. She heads off to make her call.
I’m still standing in the hallway when the door opens and Roosevelt starts walking toward me. As he’s about to pass me, he says, “Marcus and I are going to see Chamberlain in a few minutes. Why don’t you take a walk with me?”
When Roosevelt Johnson invites you to take a stroll, it’s in your best interests to oblige. I follow him down the hallway and into the empty stairwell. When we get to the first landing, he stops abruptly and says, “I was going to call you tonight.”
“What is it, Roosevelt?”
“I didn’t have a chance to ask you about your family. How’s Grace?”
He didn’t stop to talk about my daughter. “She’s fine,” I say.
“And Pete?”
My younger brother is a former cop who now works as a PI. “He’s fine, too.”
“Good.” His tone doesn’t change when he says, “Nicole really wants to nail your client. She brought me in to make sure that everything gets done by the book.” He hesitates and adds, “Marcus can get a little excited.”
“I know.”
His expression becomes somber. “I think we’ve got him, Mike.”
He’s usually straight with me, although he’s been messing with people’s minds for almost a half century. In a way, I should be honored that he’s taking the time to mess with mine. “I’m not so sure,” I say.
“We have the murder weapon. We’re just waiting for the blood tests.”
“It’s too perfect,” I tell him. “I think somebody killed Grayson, then he hit Leon, stuck the bloody knife and some cash in his pocket and parked him next to the dead body.”
“Who?” he asks. “And why?”
I don’t know. “That’s what we need to find out.” I offer another possibility. “Maybe the murderer stole Grayson’s car.”
He hesitates and says, “Perhaps.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Roosevelt?”
“It may be nothing.”
“Every possibility helps.”
“Do you ever read anything in the Chroniclebesides the sports section?”
“Sometimes.”
“How about the business page?”
“From time to time.”
“Well,” he says, “I’ve read it every day since I retired. When you’re living on a pension, you have to watch your nest egg.”
I wish I had one. I have no trouble imagining the meticulous Johnson sipping coffee at his kitchen table and studying the stock tables in The Wall Street Journal.
“There was an article a couple of months ago about Paradigm Partners,” he continues. “It suggested that some of the investors were unhappy.”
Interesting. “I didn’t see it,” I reply truthfully.
“It probably wouldn’t have meant much to you at the time.”
It’s true. “I don’t know a lot about venture capital funds, but I thought they were essentially illiquid, long-term investments.”
“They are. As far as I can tell, the investors are usually pensions, institutions and wealthy individuals, and the minimum investment can be a million bucks.”
“What does this have to do with a murder on Sixth Street?”
“Maybe nothing.” He gives me a thoughtful look and adds, “I wasn’t happy with the result we got in the case against your client ten years ago, and I’m absolutely sure Frank Walker pulled the trigger and killed that kid at the 7-Eleven.”
So am I, but this isn’t the time for me to mention it.
“On the other hand,” he continues, “just because the system broke down doesn’t mean we should compound the screw up. If your client didn’t do it, or didn’t act alone, there may be somebody out on the street who could do this again. I don’t want to rush to judgment–especially if there’s a chance that we might get it wrong.”
“Why are you telling me this, Roosevelt?”
“Just I want to be sure we get the right answer. If I were in your shoes and grasping at straws, I’d check out Paradigm Partners and Lawrence Chamberlain.”
*****
Chapter 9
“It’s Payback Time”
“I’ve enjoyed the transition to the defense side. It’s challenging to go up against my former colleagues in court.”
— Carolyn O’Malley. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.
Carolyn is sitting in my office at nine-thirty on Friday night. “You look like hell,” my partner says to me.
“Thanks for being so supportive.” We’ve been working on Leon’s case for only seven hours and the familiar throbbing in my head has started. I’ve consumed today’s allocation of Advil, so I look to Madame Lena’s astrological chart for comfort, but I find no relief in the stars.
Rosie just went home to put Grace to bed. We stopped at Alcatraz Liquors and asked for Amos Franklin, but he’d taken the night off. The owner wasn’t there last night and provided no additional information, although he grudgingly gave us Franklin’s address and phone number after we threatened to send him a subpoena. We knocked on Franklin’s door and left a phone message, but he didn’t respond. All signs of the police were gone and life, such as it is, had returned to normal on Sixth Street. We were able to verify Leon’s description of the layout of the store and the alley and we discovered that the store has a security camera. There should be some interesting viewing on the tapes. Not surprisingly, we were unable to find anybody who was willing to admit that they were in the vicinity at two o’clock this morning. We decided to try again in the daylight after somebody flashed a knife at us outside Alcatraz Liquors.
I ask Carolyn, “Did you hear from anybody?”
“You’re a popular guy. There are messages from every major news outlet in the Bay Area, along with The New York Times, CNN, CNBC, Fox News and Jerry Springer.”
Huh? “What did Springer want?”
“Nothing. He just called to say he missed you.”
If we ever get around to putting together a written partnership agreement for our firm, I’m going to insist on a clause that says that I get to be the only comedian. “I trust you told them our client was innocent and we would have no further comment?”
Her rosebud mouth transforms into the impish grin that hasn’t changed since we used to climb the monkey bars at the Sunset Playground at Twenty-Eighth and Lawton almost a half-century ago. “We always say that,” she deadpans. “Just once, I’d like to tell them our client is as guilty as hell and we’re just going through the motions.”
“You may get your chance this time.”
Her grin disappears when she says, “You also had an odd message from Jerry Edwards. He called to congratulate you for doing the right thing. I wasn’t sure what he meant.”
“He’s pleased that we’ve decided to represent Leon.”
“I see. He said that you should look for your name in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Swell. I’m guessing that his column won’t be filled with kudos.
She scowls and says, “Nicole isn’t really going to prosecute a dying man, is she?” Carolyn and her former colleague didn’t always see eye to eye.
“Would I be sitting in my office at nine-thirty on a Friday night if she wasn’t?”
She gives me a knowing look and says, “It’s payback time, isn’t it?”
“She’s running for mayor.”
Her tone drips with contempt when she says, “It’s such a bad idea on so many levels.”
Her feelings are genuine. I’ve taken a few gratuitous swipes at the profession that feeds us over the years, but Carolyn still views our work as a hi
gher calling. After twenty years on the prosecution side, she had a reputation as a “lawyer’s lawyer,” and was the attorney to whom the other ADAscame for advice on difficult questions. She made a seamless transition to the defense side when she came to work with us, and now plays a similar role as our in-house counselor. In a way, I’m envious of her love affair with the law. She looks forward to coming to work every day with far more enthusiasm than I do.
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