“What if you did?
You can bullshit the prosecutors, the judges and the cops, but not an eleven year-old. “If the prosecutors and I know they’re guilty, we usually make a deal. It’s called a plea bargain.”
Still not good enough. “I know all about them,” she says. “I saw it on Law and Order. What if you know they’re guilty, but the prosecutors don’t?”
This doesn’t seem like an opportune time to lecture her on the presumption that defendants are innocent until proven guilty or the nuances of the perjury statutes. “We usually go to court and argue it out,” I tell her.
“Doesn’t that make you sort of a liar, too?”
Yes, it does. “That’s how the system works,” I say.
“It sounds like there are some problems with the system.”
There certainly are. I answer her with a weak, “It isn’t perfect, honey.”
She asks, “Does it bother you that you might get a guilty man off?”
Every minute of every day. “Sometimes.”
“I want to be a lawyer when I grow up. I think I’d be good at it.”
No! I give my daughter another kiss and offer a fatherly platitude. “If you’re smart and you work hard,” I say, “you can be anything you want. Maybe you can be the first woman in the majors.” We’re content to settle for a $900,000-a-year utility infielder.
“I don’t think so, Daddy. I don’t have a good enough curve.”
There goes my retirement. “You’ll have to keep working on it,” I say. “You can throw three curves tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” She’s ponders her career options and says, “I think I’d like to try out for the basketball team next year.”
Not a prudent choice. We have good genes in our family for throwing baseballs, but not for jumping. “That would be fine,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ll coach your team.”
Her tone is decidedly unenthusiastic when she says, “Maybe not, Daddy.”
# # #
Rosie is nibbling on a leftover burrito. “Did Grace finally get to sleep?” she asks.
“Almost.”
We’re standing on her back porch at a quarter to twelve. It’s a warm night and she’s dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. I’m still in my work clothes and nursing a beer.
“So, Joe Torre,” she says, “what’s the line on tomorrow’s game?”
“Grace is pitching and we’re heavily favored.”
“Are you going to let her go the whole game?”
“I’m going to let her pitch until she gets tired.” During the regular season, I went to great lengths to divide playing time equally, even when it cost us a couple of games. My good intentions were rewarded with the customary criticism and scorn from the other parents. Little League is a great microcosm of life where no good deed goes unpunished.
She says, “The other parents will be pissed off.”
“The people who never lift a finger to help are always the first to complain. Let them manage a couple of games. It’s the playoffs, Rosie.”
“Do you think you might be taking this a little too seriously? It’s only Little League.”
“Tell that to Grace. Besides, I’m engaging in a time-honored Little League tradition.”
“Which is?”
“Preferential treatment for the manager’s kid.”
“Win or lose, you’ll always be the Joe Torre of Marin County to me.”
“I’m going to accept that as a compliment.”
“It was intended that way.”
I’m not entirely sure.
She turns serious. “I saw you on the news. I believed you when you said Leon was innocent.”
“Did anybody else?”
“I don’t know. The cops said he was guilty.”
No surprise there. I ask her if the TV report contained any new information.
“Not much. Grayson’s wife and children looked appropriately distraught. A couple of his neighbors were shocked and said he was a pillar of the community who had quiet habits. Marcus Banks said they have the goods on Leon. Nicole Ward gave a campaign speech.”
Sounds as if everybody is playing their respective role. “Did anybody offer an explanation for why Grayson was hanging out on Sixth Street at two in the morning?”
“The party line is that he stopped for cigarettes on his way home.”
“He should have quit smoking. It’s bad for your health.”
“Yes, it is. Banks is spinning it as a botched robbery.”
It’s plausible. We discuss the news reports and then we return to more practical matters. I tell her that I’ve enlisted my brother to accompany me down to Sixth Street to try to locate witnesses. Mercifully, she isn’t unduly upset when I tell her that I promised our retainer to Pete. “I figured we were going to handle this case pro bono,” she says. Her expression turns somber when she adds, “I don’t want you playing cops and robbers.”
Pete and I have been known to pursue witnesses in dark alleys, crumbling hotels and festering porn shops. Rosie acknowledges that this is part of our respective jobs, but believes that we take unnecessary chances. “We’ll be careful,” I tell her. I change the subject. “Carolyn said that Jerry Edwards called.”
“He’s an asshole,” she says.
“I know. It seems we’re going to see our names in the paper tomorrow morning.”
“I figured.” She exhales loudly and says, “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
I’m not absolutely sure. “Yes.”
“I hope so.”
“It will be fine, Rosie. The worst thing that can happen is that we’ll get some bad press for a few days. It won’t be the first time.”
“The worst thing that can happen is that our reputations will be destroyed,” she says.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
So do I. I peck her on the cheek and say, “I should head home.”
She doesn’t move. “There is one other matter. What day is today?”
“Friday.”
“What else?”
“Your birthday.”
“Correct.” She gives me a sly look. “I’m still waiting for my present.”
“I gave it to you.”
“Those earrings were very nice, but that’s not what I meant.”
I know. “Rosie,” I say, “it’s late and we have a busy day tomorrow.”
She feigns indignation. “I can’t believe what I just heard.”
I can’t believe what I just said.
“Let me try again,” she says. “How do we celebrate our birthdays?”
“In our birthday suits.”
“Correct. How long have we known each other?”
“Almost fifteen years.”
“How have we celebrated every birthday during that time–even after we got divorced?”
“In bed.”
“Correct again.” She runs her finger across my lips and whispers, “It’s my birthday, and I get to pick the position. I choose in bed, naked, with you, in five minutes.”
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this tonight, am I?”
Her eyes gleam in the moonlight. “I don’t know why you’d want to.”
Neither do I.
She unbuttons my shirt and says, “I’ll go check on Grace. Why don’t you go light a couple of candles in the bedroom and slip into something a little more comfortable?”
I love birthdays.
She gives me a seductive smile and adds, “I hope you aren’t in a hurry. I’m going to need you to go the distance tonight.”
*****
Chapter 11
“Something Didn’t Agree with Me”
“The stresses on attorneys who handle death penalty cases can lead to physical and emotional problems and take a tremendous toll on their families.”
— Rosita Fernandez. BoaltLaw School Monthly.
Morning arrives too soon and gets off to an inauspicious beginnin
g. At seven A.M., I’m in the bathroom massaging Rosie’s back as she’s leaning over the porcelain altar. Her body tenses and she loses what’s left of her dinner.
I stroke her hair gently and say, “Are you okay, Rosita?”
She wipes her face with a towel and snaps, “I’m just great, Mike.” She flushes the toilet and sits down on the bathroom rug. “Why do people always ask you that while you’re puking?”
Backpedal! “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“You could remind me not to eat burritos at night. Dr. Urbach warned me about hot flashes and chills, but she didn’t say anything about throwing up.” She tries a half-hearted laugh through watery eyes. “A new law practice, menopause and now Leon Walker,” she says.
“Maybe you’re coming down with something,” I say. It might be nerves. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never had problems sleeping. She was up tossing and turning all night.
She dismisses my diagnosis with the word, “Men.”
I’m not that Neanderthal, nor do I have a death wish. Rosie swears she started menopause a year ago, but her doctor disagrees. My finely-tuned self-preservation instincts kicked in and I started doing some reading about the subject as a precautionary move. Thank God for the Internet. It’s helpful to know if she’s mad at me or mad at her hormones. I leave out any mention of the possibility of a recurrence of her cancer.
I help her to her feet and she rinses her mouth. She’s about to give me a few more helpful suggestions on how I can become the sensitive male of the new millennium when she notices Grace standing in the doorway. “You’re up early, honey,” she observes.
“I need to get ready for the game.” There is a look of concern on our daughter’s face when she adds, “Are you all right, Mommy?”
Rosie gives her a reassuring smile. “Yes, sweetie. Something didn’t agree with me, but I’ll be fine.”
Relief. “Are you coming to my game? You don’t have to if you’re sick.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Grace gives us an uncomfortable smile and hands us this morning’s Chronicle. “Your got your names in the paper,” she says. She points to Jerry Edwards’s column at the bottom of page one and adds, “It says you didn’t want to represent Leon Walker.”
Uh-oh. Rosie takes the paper and we scan Edwards’s column. The headline reads, “Déjà vu?” The gloves are already off.
San Francisco’s Hall of Justice was the site of an unusual reunion yesterday among the participants in one of the saddest miscarriages of justice in memory. Once again, the man in the middle is former USF basketball star Leon Walker, who has been charged with the murder of a Silicon Valley executive.
It’s the ultimate indignity: Tower Grayson isn’t even mentioned by name.
Long-time readers of this column will recall that murder charges were filed against Walker and his loan-shark brother ten years ago, but the SFPD bungled the investigation and the DA’s office fumbled the ball. That case was dismissed on a technicality and many people, including this reporter, still believe that two murderers walked away scot-free.
Rosie says, “It isn’t too bad so far.”
“Keep reading.”
In one of those “Only in San Francisco” situations, it seems that everybody (except Walker’s brother, who is dead) is back for another bite of the apple. In addition to Walker, who is now suffering from a terminal illness, the players include photogenic DA and mayoral hopeful Nicole Ward, who assisted in the original prosecution, and her one-time mentor and current subordinate, William McNulty, whose reputation was forever tarnished when the Walker brothers went free. Ward has enlisted veteran homicide cop and one-time police chief wannabe Marcus Banks to head the investigation. She’s also lured SFPD legend Roosevelt Johnson out of retirement to assist his former partner. Johnson and Banks were at the helm when the first case capsized and hope to settle an old score.
Not wanting to miss out on the fun, former PDs and current law partners Michael Daley and Rosita Fernandez were also at the Hall to get reacquainted with their former client. They were accused of intimidating witnesses in the first Walker case, although the chargers were dropped. This reporter caught up with them at the Glamour Slammer, where they professed little interest in going to bat for Walker again. After this reporter’s cajoling that they have a moral obligation to assist a dying man, they grudgingly agreed to take his case. Whether they will attempt any of their old tricks remains to be seen. As they say in court, the jury is still out.
“Only one cheap shot,” Rosie observes. “That’s not too bad.”
We intend to monitor this case closely and to hold the DA’s office and the SFPD to a higher standard. We also plan to keep an eye on Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez to make sure that they play by the rules this time. Stay tuned.
Rosie and I glance at each other, then we look into Grace’s wide eyes. Rosie says, “It isn’t a big deal, honey. It will be over in a couple of weeks.”
“Is it true that you didn’t want to take this case?”
Rosie doesn’t try to spin it. “Yes. It’s going to be difficult and Mr. Walker is sick.”
“Shouldn’t you try to help him?”
Rosie gives our wise daughter a knowing nod. “That’s what we decided to do, honey.”
She takes it in with a certain level of skepticism, then asks, “What did he mean when he said that you tried to intimidate witnesses?”
“Some people thought we tried to get the witnesses to lie.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
She isn’t quite convinced. “Really?”
“Really.”
Grace looks at her mother for a long moment and decides to leave it there.
Rosie suggests, “Why don’t you start breakfast while I get cleaned up?”
“Okay, Mommy.” She heads for the kitchen.
I help Rosie take off her pajamas and start the shower for her. I kiss the back of her neck and say, “It could have been worse.”
“Edwards is still an asshole.”
I don’t disagree. “What do you think it’s going to take to get him off our backs?”
“It would probably help if we find the murderer.”
“And if we don’t?”
The voice of reality returns. “We’d better be prepared to have our reputation trashed on page one of the Chronicle for the next couple of weeks.”
I change directions and say, “You handled it nicely with Grace.”
“Thanks. There are many things they don’t teach you in law school.” Her tone is tentative when she asks, “Do you think she believed me?”
“I think so.”
“I hope so.” Her eyes tell me that this subject is now closed. She looks at the vomit-stained towel on the floor and says, “Would you mind putting that into the wash?”
“I’ll take care of it.” I notice the tears in her eyes and I wrap my arms around her. I summon my remaining courage and whisper, “You never had this reaction to birthday sex.”
I have to look hard, but I’m pretty sure that the corner of her mouth turns up slightly. “Don’t take it personally,” she says. “You’re still pretty spry for a man of your rapidly advancing years.”
I’ve learned to play within my limitations. “You were up late last night,” I say.
“You kept me pretty busy.”
“I was talking about after we finished our business.”
She doesn’t want to talk about it. She gives me a disarming smile and says, “You were really sweet last night.”
“So were you.”
She kisses me on the check and says, “I had a nice birthday.” She glances at the toilet and adds, “Right up until I lost my cookies.”
Enough stalling. I give her a serious look and ask, “Are you okay?”
“It’s just nerves or hormones or a bad burrito.”
I don’t say anything for a moment, then I start to massage the back of her neck.
“Wha
t?” she says.
“When’s your next appointment with Dr. Urbach?”
She never had the look of fear in her eyes before she was diagnosed. “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”
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