“I got a service and three answering machines. The guy has a lot of cell phones. The service promised to inform him that we called. The machines were less helpful.”
We need to get to him. I say to Pete, “I want you to tail him and I want you to watch Debbie Grayson.”
“Done.”
I ask Rosie about the autopsy report. She says that Dr. Beckert said that Grayson died in the Dumpster of multiple stab wounds to the back and that the time of death was between two and five A.M.
“Anything else of interest?”
“Based on the angle of the stab marks, he concluded that the perpetrator was left-handed.”
More bad news. Leon’s nickname at USF was the Southpaw Slammer.
# # #
Showtime. Rosie is cuing the VCR in the small office that doubles as our file room and library. We had planned to go out to a movie tonight, but we’ll have to settle for the security videos from Alcatraz Liquors. I’ve asked Pete to stick around for the show. It’s always good to get an opinion from someone with a cop’s trained eye. Our ancient VCR creaks as the film starts to roll. There is no sound.
“The relevant period starts at two-oh-two,” Pete says. The time and date are shown in block numerals in the lower left corner. He points with a ballpoint and says, “There’s Grayson.”
The grainy black and white footage hardly resembles the crisp visuals that we’re used to on regular TV, but we can see the back of Grayson’s head. He’s wearing a sport jacket and slacks. The blinking light from the neon sign in the liquor store window dances off his bald spot.
Rosie and I edge closer to TV.
Grayson approaches the counter and points toward the cigarette display case. Amos Franklin turns around and pulls a pack of Marlboros and hands it to him.
Pete gestures to the area to Franklin’s right. “There’s Leon,” he says.
Grayson pulls a pile of bills from his pocket and holds them above the counter. He hands a twenty to Franklin, who makes change. Grayson puts the coins into the tip jar and jams the bills into his pocket, then he turns around and heads toward the door.
Pete flips on the lights and says, “Leon was standing a foot away from Grayson when he flashed the bills. There’s no doubt in my mind that he saw the money.”
# # #
I’m sitting at my desk a short time later. Rosie went home and Pete has gone to watch Chamberlain’s house. There’s an eerie quiet in the office and I’m startled by the ringing phone. Roosevelt Johnson’s lyrical voice isn’t showing the slightest hint of fatigue. “Why are you still in the office at midnight?” he asks me.
I grip the phone tighter and say, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“What makes you think I’m still at the office?”
“Just guessing.”
“You guessed right.”
“What’s keeping you up so late?”
“A murder case.”
“Same old. Does the defendant need a good lawyer?”
It’s his turn to chuckle. “He already has one.”
“What can I do for you, Roosevelt?”
“Did you have dinner yet?”
“It’s after midnight.”
“You have to eat. Meet me at the Grubstake in twenty minutes.”
I listen to my stomach grumble and say, “It’s a deal.” I try to restrain myself, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “Can you give me a hint?”
“I drew the short straw and was elected to update you on the status of the investigation.”
“Anything interesting?”
“I’ll tell you about it in twenty minutes.”
*****
Chapter 18
“Watch Your Backside”
“Every murder case starts with a victim who deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. You shouldn’t work in homicide if you don’t believe in the system. Above all, you can’t let an investigation get personal.”
— Roosevelt Johnson. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to Roosevelt. “I know it’s late.”
He takes a bite of his cheeseburger and washes it down with decaf coffee, then he glances at his watch and observes, “Actually, it’s early.”
It is. At twelve-thirty on Sunday morning, the six tables are full at the Grubstake Number 2, a funky diner on Pine Street, between Polk and Van Ness. Old timers remember the Grubstake Number 1, which was located near the foot of Mason Street and was torn down to make way for the massive ParcFifty-Five Hotel. The smell of burgers and fries wafts through the kitschy icon that’s housed in the shell of an old railroad passenger car that was part of the Key Line system that crossed the lower deck of the Bay Bridge and provided service between San Francisco, Oakland and Berkeley until auto traffic put it out of business in the late fifties. Precisely how a retired rail car found its way to the middle of a crowded city block just above the gay enclave known as Polk Gulch remains an urban mystery.
Rosie and I lived a few blocks west of here on Gough Street when we were married in what was then a downscale area known as the Western Addition. Our old neighborhood has gentrified substantially, but urban renewal hasn’t yet found its way to the Grubstake. Notwithstanding the mismatched chairs, Formica tables and limited menu, the staff is friendly and the cheeseburgers are among the best in town. It’s open until four A.M. and many of us remember when the late Harvey Milk, San Francisco’s first openly-gay supervisor, held court here in the wee hours as he was building his political coalition.
A young man with striped green hair and multiple body piercings refills my Diet Coke. Roosevelt and I exchange small talk and eat our cheeseburgers. He tells me that his wife is doing okay, but needs hip replacement surgery. He’s especially proud of his granddaughter, who is a lawyer with one of the big firms in L.A. “She had the good judgment to stay out of criminal defense work,” he tells me, “unlike present company, who still hasn’t come to his senses.”
I ignore the dig and tread cautiously into business. “You said you had information for me.”
“I do.” He takes off his glasses and wipes them with a paper napkin as he gathers his thoughts. This is Roosevelt’s show and our discussion will take place on his timetable. He tests my patience for a few endless seconds before he tries to put me on the defensive by turning the tables. “Did you find out anything from Walker’s ex-girlfriend?” he asks.
It’s my turn to pause for a beat. “How did you know we went to see Vanessa Sanders?”
“It’s my job.”
“You had somebody follow us?”
“We’re keeping an eye on her and we saw you leaving her apartment.”
He didn’t quite answer my question. I say, “Is anybody following me?”
“Just me.” His tone turn somber when he says, “There are some people in the department with long memories who aren’t pleased that you’re representing Leon Walker again.”
I go with the old standby. “I’m just doing my job.”
“I know.” He crumples his napkin and his dark eyes narrow. “Watch your backside, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Did Walker’s ex-girlfriend tell you anything interesting?”
I can’t help him. “Not much.”
“Come on, Mike.”
“Come on, Roosevelt. You can’t expect me to reveal information about Leon’s case.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want to find out what really happened and it might elicit some additional cooperation from my colleagues, who aren’t especially enamored with the idea of providing anything to you.”
I invoke chapter and verse. “They have a legal duty to share any evidence that may tend to exonerate my client.”
“Duly noted. Let’s just say their concept of full disclosure is more restrictive than mine.”
Something in his tone troubles me. “Are you going behind their backs?”
“Absolutely n
ot. Marcus asked me to give you an update.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t want to do it himself.”
“He wasn’t terribly excited about spending the evening with you.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
His eyes narrow as he says, “He thinks your client is guilty and so does Nicole Ward. As far as they’re concerned, we’ve concluded our investigation. In the absence of new evidence, they aren’t planning to devote additional resources to this case.”
“Where does that leave the investigation?”
“Essentially, in your hands.” He hesitates and adds, “And mine.” He gives me a sarcastic look and adds, “And in the hands of Jerry Edwards, I suppose.”
True enough. “Do you have any idea what makes that guy tick?” I ask.
“He just wants attention. It goes back to his childhood.” He turns serious when he says, “Don’t underestimate him, Mike. If he gets on your ass, he can make your life miserable.”
Exhibit A is in this morning’s paper.
He finishes his coffee and says, “It will make my job easier if I can take something back to Marcus and Nicole. I’d like to know what you and Vanessa Sanders talked about.”
I offer a gesture of good faith by describing our conversation with Vanessa in some detail, leaving out only the part about Julia’s illness. I don’t want to provide a motive for robbery and murder until I know more. He’ll find out about it soon enough, but he doesn’t have to hear it from me. He listens with an intensity that suggests I’m imparting great wisdom. He asks a few questions, but otherwise doesn’t say much. It’s impossible to tell how much he already knew.
Finally, he says, “The story she told you matches up with the one she told us, but there’s one other important item. Leon’s daughter needs some expensive medical tests. It gave him a motive for robbery–and murder.”
I fold my hands on the table in front of me, but I don’t say a word.
He strokes his chin and says, “You knew about it, didn’t you?”
I opt for a non-answer. “She said her daughter has some health problems.”
He doesn’t believe me.
“Look, Roosevelt–”
“No, youlook. I didn’t come out of retirement because I got bored beating Bill McNulty at golf. I want to make sure that this case is handled properly. I’m here because you’re family and I feel an obligation to play straight with you. If I’m going to give you full disclosure, you’re going to have to reciprocate.”
His point is well-taken, but his lecture is also for effect. Roosevelt always takes an opportunity early in a case to remind everyone that the investigation will proceed on his terms. It’s his eloquent way of saying, “I’ll play fair with you, but don’t fuck with me.”
He pulls a thick manila folder out of his weather-worn briefcase and slides it across the table. “These are copies of more police reports,” he says. “For the record, Marcus wanted me to messenger these materials to your office without any further comment.”
“I take it you’re willing to stick around for a few minutes?”
“I might have time for another cup of coffee.”
I open the envelope and study its contents, then I look up at him and say, “Anything in particular that might be of interest?”
“Not much more than you already know.” He pulls out his ancient leather-covered notebook and looks at a list of items written in his meticulous handwriting. “The blood type on the knife and on your client’s jacket matches the victim’s. It’s too soon for DNA test results, but we didn’t find any blood that matched your client’s on the knife or the jacket. It weakens your client’s contention that he was knocked unconscious.”
“You’re saying he passed out by himself?”
“There’s no evidence that anybody hit him. Given his condition, he could have passed out without any help, especially if he stabbed Grayson repeatedly.”
“Leon didn’t have the strength to do that.”
“We’re prepared to take our chances with the bloody knife and jacket.”
I’m not going to concede anything. “He didn’t get to the Hall until twelve hours later. A bump could have disappeared by then.”
“If somebody had hit him hard enough to have knocked him out, he would have bled.”
“Not necessarily.”
He gives me an indignant glare. “I hope you aren’t planning to base your case on that theory.”
I hope not, either. “What else did you find out?”
“Grayson’s wallet was still in his pocket. Nothing appeared to be missing.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Just Grayson’s.”
This jibes with the reports that we’ve already seen. “If Leon was going to rob him, why didn’t he take the wallet, too?”
“He didn’t need it. He already had the money clip with the cash. Besides, there wasn’t any money in the wallet. Just credit cards and ID.”
“He didn’t know that.”
“Sure, he did. The security videos show your client standing next to the counter while Grayson paid for his cigarettes.”
We volley back and forth. Based upon the security tape, Roosevelt probably has the better argument and Leon has some explaining to do. I decide to change course and ask, “How was your meeting with Lawrence Chamberlain?”
“Unenlightening.”
So are one-word answers. “How so?”
He confirms that Chamberlain met with Grayson and their lawyer, after which they went to dinner at Boulevard. “They finished at one o’clock and Grayson drove Chamberlain home.”
I knew that much already. “Can anybody corroborate his story?”
“The lawyer confirmed the meeting and the dinner. As for the ride home, we have nothing but Chamberlain’s word. He lives by himself.”
We’ll talk to his neighbors. “Did you ask about the subject of the meeting?”
“He said it was just business and there was nothing unusual about Grayson’s behavior.”
“What about the piece in the Chronicle that suggested that things weren’t going so smoothly at Paradigm?”
“He said he and Grayson have had their differences of opinion, but everything was going reasonably well. He directed other inquiries to his lawyer.”
Naturally. We’ll have to pay a visit to my former partner, Brad Lucas. “Are you going to watch Chamberlain?”
“Yeah. If I were in your shoes, I’d watch him, too.”
“We will. Have you talked to the lawyer yet?”
“We have an appointment with him on Monday. He’s been cooperative so far.” He says Lucas told him he left the restaurant the same time that Chamberlain and Grayson did. He picked up his car at Embarcadero Center and drove to his loft near South Beach harbor.
“Can anybody corroborate his story?”
“He lives by himself, too.”
Figures. “He was also one of the last people to have seen Grayson alive.”
He gives me a knowing look and says, “You ought to talk to him.”
We will. “What did you find out from Mrs. Grayson?”
“She’s distraught about her husband’s death.”
I’ll bet. “Was anybody was mad at him?”
“Not as far as she knew.”
“Did she mention any problems in her marriage?”
“No.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I take everything with a grain of salt.”
I heave a melodramatic sigh and say and offer a morsel. “Did you know that Mrs. Grayson hired a PI to watch her husband?”
His expression indicates that this is news to him. “No.” He makes a note of Kaela Joy’s name and says, “Would you please tell her that we’d like to talk to her?”
“Of course.” I tell him about the visit from Lawrence Chamberlain to Debbie Grayson and her trips to the country club. He’s intrigued when I explain that Eugene Payton had seen Grayson on several occasions on Sixth Street. “It sounds like he w
as a regular in the neighborhood. I’m guessing he was looking for sex or drugs or both.”
Roosevelt is taking copious notes. “You and your brother have been busy,” he says.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Roosevelt.” I’ve given him more than he had anticipated and I want something in return. “I’d like you to set up a meeting with Grayson’s wife.”
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