MD04 - Final Verdict

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MD04 - Final Verdict Page 15

by Sheldon Siegel


  “They were trying to intimidate people?”

  “He got away ten years ago and they don’t want it to happen again. They were taking statements to paper their file and they weren’t interested in talking to people who suggested other possibilities.”

  Sounds like we aren’t going to get a lot of cooperation from San Francisco’s finest. “Are there other possibilities?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

  “Where were you early Friday morning?”

  He gestures down the block and says, “Over by the freeway. We have a little gathering a couple of nights a week. The cops don’t hassle us there.”

  People like Willie are modern urban nomads who wander from place to place in order to stay a couple of steps ahead of the authorities. I say, “We’re trying to find somebody who may have been here. We would really appreciate your help.”

  “I can’t make any promises,” he says.

  I give him a knowing grin and say, “Homeless people never make any promises.”

  “That’s why we’re so popular.”

  I’m beginning to understand how Willie has managed to carve out a modest existence for so long. It takes a degree of intelligence to stay alive on the street. He looks toward the Thunderbird Hotel and says, “Why don’t you boys go knock on a few doors over there and see if anybody heard anything on Friday morning. In the meantime, I’ll ask around.”

  “How do we get in touch with you?”

  “Meet me here at eight tomorrow night. My secretary will put you on my calendar.”

  I slip him a twenty and say, “Thanks, Willie.”

  He gives me an appreciative smile and says, “Ask for Eugene Payton at the Thunderbird. Be sure to tell him I sent you.”

  *****

  Chapter 16

  “We Have No Vacancies”

  “Cash in advance. Absolutely no visitors.”

  — Thunderbird Hotel.

  “We’re looking for Eugene Payton,” I say.

  The muscle-bound African American man with bleach-blond hair and a tattoo of a serpent on his shoulder eyes me warily from behind the bullet-proof Plexiglas in the airless lobby of the Thunderbird Hotel. The stifling area is bustling with activity. A strung-out addict is writhing on the floor at the foot of the stairs and a hooker who is wearing only a bikini, an overcoat and high-heels is standing by the door. Two police cars and an ambulance are parked outside and a couple of cops are struggling to keep the entrance clear. He sizes us up for an instant before he snaps, “I can’t talk now.”

  I try again. “We just need a moment of your time.”

  “We have no vacancies.”

  “We aren’t looking for a room.”

  “Then you’re in the wrong place. This is a hotel.”

  I play my trump card. “Willie Kidd sent us.”

  He’s unimpressed. “I don’t care if the President of the United States sent you. I’m dealing with a situation.”

  I glance toward the addict who is now vomiting on the first stair.

  “He’ll be fine,” Payton says. “Somebody was shot upstairs.”

  My God.

  His tone is business-like when he adds, “I’ll talk to you after the paramedics leave.”

  Pete and I cool our heels for the next forty-five minutes. We watch the emergency crews bring down the body of a middle aged John Doe who got into a fight with an intoxicated neighbor. One thing led to another, tempers flared and the result was predictable. The handcuffed shooter proclaims his innocence as the police escort him to a waiting black and white. Eventually, the hooker leaves for her evening rounds, the addict falls asleep at the bottom of the stairs and order returns to the Thunderbird.

  Payton finally motions us to step up to the window of his Plexiglas booth. We don’t exchange pleasantries. “What do you want?” he asks.

  “We’re representing Leon Walker.”

  “Where do you fit into this soap opera?”

  “I’m his lawyer.

  He doesn’t care. “I’ve given my statement to the cops. I can’t help you.”

  This seems to be the standard response from everybody we meet, but it doesn’t stop me. I say, “How well do you know Leon?”

  He reaches below the counter and opens a drawer. He pretends to rearrange some pencils, but his real purpose is to show me a small handgun. This is the second pistol that I’ve seen today and I’m not inclined to push my luck.

  Pete is standing next to me with his arms folded. He places his fingertips against the glass and uses his police officer voice when he says, “We’d like to have a polite conversation with you about what happened across the alley on Friday morning. If you make things unpleasant, we can come back with a subpoena and some of my friends from Southern Station.”

  I’m not sure it’s a great idea to talk to a guy with a gun in this manner, but Payton can’t shoot us through the Plexiglas and we now have his full attention. I try a softer tone when I say, “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  He gives me an icy glare and says, “Then why is your friend threatening me?”

  For the same reason that you just flashed a gun at us–intimidation is an effective persuasive tool. “We’re just looking for information.” I glance at Pete and say, “We can do it the easy way or the hard way.”

  He nonchalantly points toward the pistol. “And if I refuse to cooperate?”

  “We’ll be back with a subpoena and some people who aren’t nearly as pleasant to deal with as we are.” This assumes that he doesn’t decide to shoot us on the spot.

  He offers us a morsel. “Leon lived here for a long time and was a good tenant,” he says. “He paid his rent on time.”

  His world is divided into people who pay their rent on time and those who don’t.

  “I try to minimize complications in my life,” he says. “The episode upstairs is a perfect example. Two assholes got into a fight over who got to use the bathroom first and one of them ended up dead.”

  It gives new meaning to the term, “pissing contest.”

  “Now I won’t be able to collect the rent from the shooter because he’s going to jail or from the dead guy because he’s dead.”

  It’s nice that he isn’t overwhelmed with emotion over the death of one of his tenants.

  “I have two more rooms to rent,” he continues, “and I have to explain it to the owners.”

  I wouldn’t trade places with him. “Have you thought about sprucing up the place?” I ask.

  “The owners make those decisions.”

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  Slumlords, like venture capitalists, prefer to operate in anonymity. They probably live in an upscale suburb and would rather not have their identities revealed on the eleven o’clock news.

  I ask, “How well do you known Leon?”

  “I make it a policy not to know the tenants well. It’s tougher to evict your friends.”

  It’s a harsh, but realistic assessment. I ask, “Has he given you any trouble?”

  “No. He kept to himself.”

  I ask him what time he got to work on Thursday night.

  “Ten o’clock.” He says he finished his shift at eight o’clock Friday morning. He assures me he was here the entire time.

  “Did you see anybody in the alley?”

  “We keep the door locked.” He gestures with his right hand and adds, “We don’t have any windows and I can’t see outside.”

  I understand his desire to keep his answers short, but it’s a painfully slow way to draw out information. I ask, “Did you hear any voices outside on Thursday night or Friday morning?”

  “I hear them all the time.”

  “The cops think the victim was attacked by the loading dock across the alley around two o’clock Friday morning. Did you hear any shouting or arguing?”

  “No.”

  We’re getting nowhere. I pull out the photo of Grayson from this morning’s paper and a
sk, “Did you happen to see this guy around two o’clock on Friday morning?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  He’s still studying the picture. He looks up at me and says, “A couple of times.”

  Pete’s eyebrows dance. This changes everything. The cops and Grayson’s son said that Grayson stumbled into the liquor store by accident. Payton is suggesting that he’d been in the neighborhood before–and may have been a regular. I ask, “How many times did you see him?”

  He glances at the security camera and says, “Probably three or four.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. I remembered the car. It was one of those little two seat jobs that look like a man’s dick–you know–the cars that rich guys buy when they turn forty.”

  I’m familiar with the model. “What was he doing here?”

  “He came in to ask about a room.”

  “Was anybody with him?”

  “No.” He pauses and adds, “I presume he was going to take somebody upstairs.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  He gives me a knowing look and says, “A hooker.”

  I’m beginning to see why Debbie Grayson was looking for a divorce lawyer. I ask, “Did you rent him a room?”

  “No. He never came back. I guess he found something nicer.”

  Or he didn’t find his hooker. “Did you go outside on Friday morning?”

  “I went out for a cigarette at two-thirty.” He says he didn’t see anybody in the alley.

  “Did you see the Mercedes?”

  “Yes. It was parked over by Sixth.”

  I ask him if he saw Grayson.

  “No.”

  Damn. “Did you happen to see anybody drive away?”

  “Yeah.” He waits a beat before he says, “Whoever was driving the car headed toward Fifth Street. I have no idea where he went from there.”

  At least the time line is getting tighter. I ask him if he can identify the driver.

  “No. It was dark.”

  “Is there anybody in the hotel that may have seen something?”

  “The police asked around. You can go upstairs and knock on doors, but don’t get your hopes up too high. People are pretty suspicious and you won’t get a lot of cooperation.”

  As if we’re getting a lot now. I hand him a business card and say, “If you think of any other details, I’d be grateful if you’d give me a call.”

  “I will.” He gives me a thoughtful look and says, “I don’t know Leon very well, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  It doesn’t provide a shred of evidence, but it’s nice to know that somebody thinks so.

  # # #

  Pete and I spend the next two hours with the tenants of the Thunderbird, who are as tight-lipped as their innkeeper. One man does a dead-on imitation of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes, as he keeps repeating his mantra that he knows nothing. Several of Leon’s neighbors say he’s a nice guy who kept to himself, but glowing testimonials from the residents of the Thunderbird will be of little use. We decide to call it a night after an angry man threatens us with a screwdriver.

  We’re heading down Minna Street when we see a familiar uniformed presence. Officer Jeff Roth tries to ignore us as we approach him at the corner of Sixth and Minna, but he ultimately acknowledges us. The tough-as-nails native of the Sunset is a good cop who has spent most of his career walking the beat on Sixth Street. He was the first officer at the scene on Friday morning. A large man in his early fifties with a shaved head and a thick mustache, he was an all-conference offensive tackle who played with my older brother at St. Ignatius. He’s been slowed by a bad knee and a bullet that’s lodged in his hip, but he’s still an intimidating presence.

  We exchange strained greetings for a moment, then I tell him I’d like to ask him a few questions about Friday morning.

  He shakes his head emphatically. “You’ll have to read my report. We have orders: nobody is supposed to talk to you without permission from Marcus.”

  “Come on, Jeff.”

  “I’m serious.” He points toward the sky and says, “This comes from above.”

  “Who?”

  “The Chief.”

  They aren’t taking any chances.

  He adds, “You aren’t going to find anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  We try to probe, but Roth is unresponsive. Finally, I say, “What are you guys afraid of?”

  “We don’t want Leon Walker to get away again and we don’t want to get our asses kicked in the paper by Jerry Edwards.”

  Neither do we.

  He takes off his hat and scratches his shaved dome. His mustache twitches furiously for a moment before he says, “Let me give you some free advice from an old friend. Don’t push too hard. Nicole and Marcus have a lot riding on this case and nobody is going to look good if your client gets off again–including you.”

  “We have a right to interview the police officers who were involved.”

  “Don’t expect much.”

  “You can’t stop us from interviewing people on the street.”

  He turns his back to a squad car driving down Sixth Street. He doesn’t want to be seen talking to us. “Look,” he continues, “you aren’t hearing this from me. I can’t tell you what to do, but word has come down that some heads are going to roll if this case goes south.”

  “So?”

  “If you push this or try to make us look bad, your heads will be among them.”

  *****

  Chapter 17

  “We’ve Come Up Empty So Far”

  “Police are still searching for a Mercedes belonging to Tower Grayson.”

  — KCBS Radio. Saturday, June 5. 8:45 P.M.

  Rosie’s tone has a mix of anger and frustration at nine-thirty on Saturday night. “I can’t believe Jeff Roth threatened you,” she says.

  Pete and I returned to the office after our little heart-to-heart talk with Officer Roth. “He didn’t really threaten us,” I say.

  “He told you to keep your distance,” she says.

  “He told us that we wouldn’t get a lot of help from the cops,” I reply.

  “Why are you defending him?”

  “Because he’s a good cop and a friend.” And because I didn’t think I’d get any cooperation from the cops anyway.

  Rosie exhales loudly and says, “So now we’re up against the prosecutors, the newspapers and the cops?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “What the hell were we thinking?”

  “We’re not going to ask those questions, Rosie.”

  She sighs and asks, “Do you have any good news?”

  Not really. “We’ve come up empty so far.”

  I can hear a late-night bus barreling down First Street as I fill her in on what we’ve gleaned today, starting with Pete’s conversation with Debbie Grayson’s masseuse and ending with our less-than-enlightening discussion with Officer Roth. “Except for being humiliated in print by Jerry Edwards, having a couple of guns pulled on and being told to back off by the cops,” I say, “it’s been a glorious day.”

  We listen to the Ferry Building clock chimes ten times. Carolyn and Rosie have been reviewing police reports this evening and the first round of evidence is doing little to cast doubt on our client’s guilt. The good news comes in tiny doses. Putting the best spin on it, we can argue that they didn’t find Leon’s fingerprints on Grayson’s body or clothing. It’s a small point, but it’s all we have for now.

  I ask Carolyn if she got any more dirt on Tower Grayson.

  “The newspapers are describing him as one of the shining lights of the Silicon Valley.”

  I tell her that our conversation with Eugene Payton appears to cast doubt on that conclusion. “Seems he was spending some time down on Sixth Street. The usual reasons are drugs and hookers. Did you find any suggestions that he was dabb
ling in either?”

  “Nope.”

  I ask her if she was able to reach Lawrence Chamberlain.

 

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