MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  The clerk’s gravelly tone makes him an ideal candidate for those anti-smoking commercials that appear during the Super Bowl. His voice is a living testimonial to the ravages of cigarettes and bourbon as he strains to ask, “What can I get for you?”

  “Are you Amos Franklin?” I say.

  “Maybe.” Wariness is a critical attribute of job security and self-preservation for a person in his position. His breathing is coming in stressful gasps. “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Michael Daley.”

  His jaws tighten. He points a narrow finger at Pete, who is studying the layout of the store and looking at the video camera above the door. “Who’s your friend?” he asks.

  I try to strike a reassuring tone. “My brother. We aren’t looking for trouble.”

  He reaches beneath the cash register for something that he holds just out of sight and my heart starts to beat faster. If it’s a gun or a knife and this guy is a hothead, we may be in for some serious business. My throat starts to constrict, but I don’t want him to see me sweat. I really don’t want to die on the worn yellow linoleum floor of Alcatraz Liquors.

  His eyes bore into mine and his tone is firm when he says, “I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you one of the new undercover cops?”

  I admire his directness. I try not to sound defensive when I say, “No, I’m an attorney.”

  “Shit.” Now he makes sure that I catch a glimpse of the small-caliber pistol in his hand. I may be a lawyer, but he’s the law in this store. He gestures toward Pete and asks, “Is he a lawyer, too?”

  “No. He’s a private investigator.”

  The man rearranges his slender frame on a stool that’s too large for him. He sets the gun back under the register and my heart rate slows down slightly. He adjusts the single gold stud that hangs from his left ear. He studies us for a moment over the top of his reading glasses and says, “What do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Amos Franklin.”

  “You found him.” He removes the reading glasses and says, “What can I get you?”

  “Information.”

  He looks around at the racks of bottles and cans. “We’re in the business of selling booze. If you want to buy information, you’ll have to go someplace else.” He puts his glasses back on and pretends to study his racing chart.

  “We’re representing Leon Walker,” I say.

  “I know. I got your message and I saw you on the news.”

  He knows more than he’s letting on. “We’d like to know what you saw Friday morning.”

  “I’ve given my statement to the police.”

  “They haven’t given us their reports. We were hoping you could fill us in on the details.”

  The reading glasses come off again. “We stay in business by selling things,” he says. “If you want change, you have to buy something. Same deal if you want information.”

  I’d figured this exercise was going to cost me. I grab two turkey sandwiches from the display case next to the register and put them on the counter. “I’ll take these,” I say.

  “You want some chips with that?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We have really good chips.”

  I catch his drift. “Let me have two bags of Doritos.”

  He pulls the bags off the rack and asks with strained politeness, “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Two Diet Cokes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.” I give him a twenty. He starts to hand me the change, and I tell him to hang onto it. “That’s for you,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Being cooperative.”

  He eyes me up and down. “I can be more cooperative,” he says.

  “How much will it cost me?”

  “How much you got?”

  I hand over another twenty. It’s a fair bet that I won’t get reimbursed for this expenditure by our client. “That should be enough to get us started,” I say.

  “A couple more of those would be nice,” he counters.

  I give him another twenty and say, “There’s more if you tell me what happened.”

  “I’ll need at least another twenty. A man has to make ends meet.”

  “Not until I hear your story.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.” He leans back on his stool and looks at the racing form.

  My frustration is building. I’m about to open my wallet again when Pete steps forward and says, “Do you remember me, Amos?”

  Franklin looks over the top of his glasses and says, “You’re a cop.”

  “Not anymore. I remember when you used to work at Manny’s.”

  “That was a long time ago. You have a good memory.”

  “It helps in my line of work.”

  Franklin’s narrow face rearranges itself into a suspicious frown. “Why aren’t you still working for the Department?”

  “It’s run by bean counters and bureaucrats. Nothing ever gets done.”

  “Tell me about it.” Franklin looks out the door and says, “They appointed another commission to clean things up. The Board of Supeseven passed a law that made it illegal to piss on the street. A lot of good it will do. If they really want to change things around here, they should make some of those guys live here for a few months.”

  It isn’t a bad idea. They exchange information about people with names like Harry the Horse, the Balloon Man, the Contender and the Bruiser. In his own way, Pete is as good at gathering information as Roosevelt Johnson and Marcus Banks. I stand back and let him work. To the untrained eye, it appears that they’re two old acquaintances getting caught up on neighborhood gossip. If you look closely, you’d notice that Pete is studying every nuance in Franklin’s tone and demeanor with a finely-tuned eye.

  Pete eases Franklin into a discussion of the matters at hand. “Do you know Leon Walker pretty well?” he asks.

  “Well enough. Those charges against him ten years ago were bogus.”

  “So he says.”

  “He got screwed. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He said the only guy who believed his story was. . .” His voice tails off. He turns toward me and says, “You.”

  I nod, but I don’t say anything.

  Pete picks up again. He shows Franklin a photo of Grayson from this morning’s paper. “Recognize him?” Pete asks.

  “Yeah. He’s the guy they found in the Dumpster.”

  “The cops told us that he came into the store around two.”

  “He did.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Did he act suspicious?”

  “Not really.”

  I ask, “Was anybody else in the store?”

  “Just Leon.” He says he didn’t see or hear anybody outside.

  “What did Grayson do when he came inside the store?”

  “He bought a pack of cigarettes. He took a twenty from a wad of bills in a clip. I couldn’t believe he was flashing that kind of dough in this neighborhood.”

  Neither can I. “What do you suppose the money was for?”

  “Around here, the usual answers are drugs or women.”

  Or both. “Do you know if Grayson was involved in either?”

  He shrugs.

  I take another look around and ask, “Where was Leon while Grayson was in the store?”

  “Up here by the register. He was getting ready to leave.”

  “Did he see the money?”

  “He was standing right next to me. He couldn’t have missed it.”

  Pete and I exchange a knowing glance, then Pete puts another twenty on the counter. “Amos,” he says, “I haven’t been working down here for awhile. We used to talk to Trey Stubblefield for information.”

  “He’s no longer available.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Who should we talk to now?”

  Franklin looks at the bill
s on the counter, but doesn’t touch them. He says, “There’s a guy who’s around all the time who’s the current ringleader.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Franklin glances down at the bills again, but Pete doesn’t add to the pile. Franklin looks up and says, “Willie Kidd,” he says. “They call him the Mayor of Sixth Street.”

  “Where do we find him?” I ask.

  He points toward the man just outside the door who is now sitting on a crate. “That’s Willie,” he says.

  Terrific. Pete drops another twenty on the counter and says, “Thanks, Amos.”

  *****

  Chapter 15

  The Mayor of Sixth Street

  “Our first goal in the Sixth Street rehabilitation project is to offer essential services to the homeless.”

  — The Mayor of San Francisco. Saturday, June 4.

  Willie Kidd beckons us with an outstretched hand and a circumspect tone. His diction is perfect when he says, “Please step into my office, gentlemen.”

  The Mayor of Sixth Street is open for business. The tall African American man with the chiseled features, stubble of a beard and high-pitched voice is sitting on a plastic red milk crate outside Alcatraz Liquors. He’s probably in his fifties, but it’s often hard to tell with somebody who’s been living on the street. The glazed look in his puffy red eyes suggests that happy hour started early this morning. He’s holding an open bottle of Jack Daniels in his left hand and a hunting knife in his right. His demeanor is polite, but the bruises on his arms leave no doubt that he’s prepared to use the weapon if he’s provoked. He’s wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt, dirt-encrusted black trousers and heavy boots. The tattoo of an American flag on his left shoulder covers a scar from a stab wound.

  I ask, “Mind if we sit with you for a few minutes?”

  “Suit yourself. We aren’t going anywhere.” He nods toward the shopping cart that houses his worldly belongings and says, “This is also where I live. It’s the poor man’s version of those live/work lofts by the ballpark.”

  This brings a chorus of clucking from three other men who form Willie’s cabinet.

  Willie pushes over a couple of spare crates and the introductions take a moment. He tells us he’s been holding court on Sixth Street since he got back from Vietnam and that he last lived with a roof over his head about five years ago. One of his cohorts is a Gulf War vet and another is a refugee from Nicaragua. The third was evicted from the Potrero Hill projects a decade ago. The group’s addictions are evenly divided between drugs and alcohol. He fingers the ever-present knife and his inflection suggests that he could be a college graduate when he says, “What brings you boys down to our humble community?”

  I play it straight. “I’m Leon Walker’s lawyer and we’re looking for information.”

  His lips form a broad grin and the deep smile lines on his leathery face become more pronounced. He turns to his buddies and says, “Did you hear that? This gentleman is an attorney who says he’s going to help Leon.”

  This news is met with derisive laughter.

  Willie points to Pete and says, “And who’s your friend?”

  “My brother. He’s a private investigator. We’re trying to find out what happened.”

  More laughter. Kidd takes a long draw of Jack Daniels and taps his knife. He wipes a drop of whiskey from his chin and says, “Don’t look for any help from the cops. They aren’t interested in this part of town.”

  “That’s why we came to see you, Willie. Amos says that you know who’s who and what’s what.”

  He looks at his pals and takes another sip of JD. “What makes you think that a couple of white guys will be able do anything for Leon?”

  “I got him off ten years ago when he was arrested the first time.”

  His demeanor becomes subdued. He looks at Pete and says, “You look familiar.”

  “I used to be a cop.” He looks defiantly into Kidd’s eyes and says, “I watched you shoot up behind the currency exchange, Willie.”

  This elicits guffaws from the peanut gallery, but Kidd goes stone cold silent.

  Pete is still glaring at him when he asks, “Are you still shooting up, Willie?”

  He fingers his knife and his tone is somber. “Not as much as I used to.”

  “Good for you. You’ll live longer.”

  Kidd says to his pals, “Why don’t you give us a moment alone?”

  The men set up shop across the alley and Willie pulls his crate closer to us. I can smell the foul odor of his clothing as he leans forward and says to Pete, “Why’d you quit?”

  “You guys wore me out. I walked this beat for five years. My father had the same beat almost fifty years ago. Nothing’s changed.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” he says. “The politicians come and go, but we’re still here.”

  So true. Over the last three decades, countless resources have been spent on unsuccessful attempts to fix San Francisco’s homeless problem. One mayor tried an holistic approach and declared the Civic Center plaza to be a hassle-free zone. The majestic expanse in front of City Hall became one of the largest homeless encampments in the country. This didn’t sit well with the citizens who had to traverse the plaza to get to work and we scrapped the program and the mayor. His successor was a former police chief who tried a tough love approach and instructed the cops to arrest the homeless for a variety of petty crimes. That didn’t work, either, and it cost him his job, too. It’s a never-ending battle for which the current occupant of City Hall recently admitted there may be no solution.

  Pete says, “Unless something drastic happens, you’ll be here in another twenty years.”

  “Only if I live that long.” He looks at me and asks, “Why are you representing Leon?”

  I go with the standby. “He hired me.”

  “You’ll never get paid.”

  “We’re working pro bono.”

  “If you’re willing to give away your time, I can introduce you to a dozen people who could use a lawyer and who might live long enough to see the benefits of your work.”

  “I’d be happy to talk to your friends,” I say, “but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Lawyers never make any promises.”

  “That’s why we’re so popular.”

  We don’t say anything for a moment and the cars whiz by us. A disheveled man with a glazed look and an articulate tone asks us for spare change. There’s a fine line between those of us who live with roofs over our heads and those who don’t. San Francisco has some of the most highly-educated homeless people in the country. Willie accommodates him with a quarter and I hand him a dollar. He thanks us profusely.

  Willie says, “I know your intentions are good, but this is no place for two well-meaning white guys to be walking around by themselves.”

  “We’ve been around the block a few times,” Pete says.

  “Maybe so,” he replies, “but I’ll feel badly if you boys get hurt. Why don’t you go back downtown and let the police handle the investigation?”

  “They think Leon’s their guy,” I tell him. “They know he’s sick and they have no incentive to try to find out what really happened. They figure he’ll die before we get to court.”

  He strokes the stubble on his chin and says, “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “The police were down here earlier today asking questions. More accurately, they were telling people that Leon was guilty and they’d be well-served to keep their mouths shut.”