MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  “It wasn’t busy. Artie was around and a few of the of the girls were working.”

  “Can you give us the names of everybody who was here?”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll introduce you to them. Everybody is here except Artie.”

  How accommodating. This means that nobody will provide any information that will be of any use, with the possible exception of Artie.

  Pete gives Kenny his best cop-look and says, “The police pulled the cell phone records of the guy who died.”

  “So?”

  “The last call he made was to a cell phone owned by this establishment.”

  Kenny’s muscles tense, but he responds with his customary level of articulation. “So?”

  “We’d like to talk to the person who answered the call.”

  “We have a lot of cell phones.”

  “Why?”

  “We have a lot of people on call. It’s easier to get in touch if we give them a phone.”

  You don’t want to keep your customers waiting. I give him the number and ask, “Can you get me the information?”

  “Let me talk to Artie.”

  “Is there anybody else who can help us?”

  His tone turns adamant when he repeats, “Let me talk to Artie.”

  He isn’t going to reveal anything without taking it to a higher authority. I tell him, “We’d like to talk to him, too.”

  “I told you he’s out of town.”

  “We’d like to call him.”

  “He can’t be reached.”

  I ask him when Carponelli will be back.

  He thinks about it and decides, “Tomorrow.” He adds, “Unless his plans change.”

  They may when he hears that a couple of lawyers were asking questions. I hand him a business card and say, “Ask him to call me at the number on this card.”

  “I will.”

  “Tell him that if I don’t hear from him, we’ll be back tomorrow at eight to see him.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll be here.”

  “We’ll take our chances.” I wait a beat and add, “If he isn’t here tomorrow, we’ll be back with a couple of my friends from the DA’s office and a subpoena for your cell phone records.”

  “I’ll give him the message.”

  *****

  Chapter 21

  “Have You Seen Willie?”

  “We have interviewed dozens of witnesses who were in the area where Tower Grayson was murdered on Friday morning.”

  — Inspector Marcus Banks. Channel 2 News. Sunday, June 5. 6:00 P.M.

  “That was unpleasant,” Rosie says.

  “And uninformative,” I add.

  Rosie, Pete and I are standing under the marquee of Basic Needs. The sun has gone down, the wind has picked up and the regulars are scoping out accommodations in doorways and looking for pharmaceuticals to ease them through the night.

  We interviewed two cocktail waitresses, a bartender, three dancers, a dominatrix, a submissive and a custodian who were in the theater on Thursday night. Their personal stories were all heart-wrenching in one way or another. Most people’s lifelong dreams don’t include working in a strip club. Our questions were not welcomed with resounding enthusiasm and the answers were uniformly unenlightening. They expressed some anger about another death in their midst, but it’s hardly an unusual occurrence here and most met the news with resignation. Nobody admitted that they recognized Grayson’s photo, and none of the employees said they received a call from him on their company-issued cell phones.

  “Do you think Kenny’s boss will call us?” Rosie asks.

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll come back with Roosevelt.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “I hope not.”

  We start walking toward Market Street and Rosie asks, “Where to now?”

  “We have an appointment with the Mayor of Sixth Street.”

  # # #

  We find an empty milk crate when we arrive at Willie Kidd’s office. His Honor’s followers are here, but the Mayor is not.

  I look at the hangers-on whom we met last night. I turn to the man who identified himself only as Cleve and ask, “Have you seen Willie?”

  His lower lip juts out. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Nope,” he finally says.

  “Do you have any idea where we might find him?”

  “Nope.” He says he hasn’t seen Willie since this morning. It seems unlikely that he spent the last twelve hours knocking on doors on our behalf. A more plausible explanation is that he became preoccupied with other mayoral business or he forgot about us altogether.

  I ask, “Do you think he’ll be back tonight?”

  Cleve shrugs. “Maybe.” He reflects for a moment and adds, “Maybe not”

  I ask Pete to stick around to see if Willie shows up. We’re about to head out when I hear the unmistakable voice of the Mayor of Sixth Street. I turn and see Willie’s smiling face just in time to hear him say, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to attend to some other business.”

  Judging by his red eyes and the half-empty bottle of bourbon in his hand, he may be coming from a party. It’s possible that he may have been the only person in attendance. “Did you find out anything more about Leon?” I ask.

  He uses the bottle to gesture emphatically as he assures us, “I’ve been talking to people.”

  I allow myself a slight ray of hope. “And?”

  His smile disappears. “I’m sorry. I tried real hard, but nobody saw anything.”

  Or he spent more time with his bourbon than he did on our case.

  He sits on his crate and sets the bottle down on the sidewalk. He gives me a serious look and says, “There were some other people down here asking questions about Leon’s case.”

  “Cops?”

  “No. They’re finished with their investigation.”

  As usual, Roosevelt’s information is correct. “Who?”

  “A private eye.”

  What? “Did you get a name or a business card?”

  “No.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male.”

  That rules out Kaela Joy Gullion. “Can you describe him?”

  “Short, dark hair, muscular.”

  That describes half of the male population. “Did he leave a phone number?”

  “No.”

  Damn.

  Willie adds, “Jerry Edwards was asking questions, too.”

  We have literate homeless people who read the paper. “Did you talk to him?”

  “I don’t talk to reporters.”

  It isn’t a bad policy. “Did he talk to anybody else?”

  “Yes, but nobody told him anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  He gives me a circumspect look and glances down the alley. “You didn’t hear this from me, but the cops have put out the word: anybody who says anything that might screw up Leon’s prosecution is going to nailed.”

  “They can’t arrest you for offering to testify or talking to a reporter.”

  “There are ways to fuck up your life without arresting you.” He looks at his shopping cart and says, “They can confiscate your stuff. They can make you move from your favorite spot. They can put you in a black and white and drive you down to Daly City.”

  “Intimidating witnesses is illegal,” I say.

  “Welcome to the real world,” he replies. “Do you think I’m going to go down to the Hall and file a complaint?”

  Nope. I consider our options and say, “What if you didn’t have to talk to the cops?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Would you be willing to tell the guy from the Chronicle what you just told me?”

  “Are you out of your mind? The cops would kill me.”

  “You could do it anonymously.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would help Leon.”

  He thinks about it for a moment and offers a tentative, “
Maybe.”

  “What would it take?”

  He looks around at his pals and says, “A couple of hot meals for the boys would be nice.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Jerry Edwards may exert a little more effort if he thinks the cops are stalling the investigation. More importantly, if we can get him to train his sights on the SFPD, we might be able to get him off our backs.

  *****

  Chapter 22

  “Sometimes the Perception is More Important than the Truth”

  “We are pleased with our progress in Mr. Walker’s case and we are confident that he will be fully exonerated.”

  — Michael Daley. Channel 5 News. Sunday, June 5. 6:00 P.M.

  Leon’s first signs of irritation are beginning to show. “So,” he says, “you’ve found absolutely nothing that might be useful.”

  It’s a concise summary of the status of his case. “We’ll find something,” I assure him.

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Very.”

  Rosie and I are sitting with Leon in an airless consultation room in the Glamour Slammer at nine o’clock Sunday night. He’s settled into his new surroundings and the gravity of his situation is starting to sink in. His mood is subdued, but his questions are coming in rapid fire.

  “Did you ask around at the Thunderbird?”

  “Nobody was talking.”

  “Did you speak to Eugene Payton?”

  “He wasn’t talking, either.”

  His eyes turn downward. “And Amos Franklin?”

  “He didn’t see anything outside and he said you saw Grayson put a roll of bills on the counter.”

  “Not true.”

  Rosie interjects, “We’ve seen the security videos. You were standing right next to Franklin when Grayson pulled the money out of his pocket.”

  His tone becomes adamant. “I didn’t see it.”

  “The hell you didn’t.”

  I hold up my hands and address Leon. “Let’s dial it down. It’s clear from the tape that you were standing next to Franklin when Grayson flashed the money. The prosecution is going to argue convincingly that you saw it.”

  He tries again. “It isn’t true.”

  “Sometimes the perception is more important than the truth–especially when you’re charged with murder.”

  Leon doesn’t respond. He takes a deep breath and says, “What do we do next?”

  “The arraignment is tomorrow morning and this judge is a stickler for order. I want you to stand up and plead not guilty in a clear, respectful tone.”

  “Understood.” He follows up with a practical question. “Can you get the charges dropped?”

  Not a chance. “We’ll try.”

  “And if not?”

  “We’ll ask the judge to schedule the preliminary hearing as soon as possible.”

  “How soon?”

  “Right away.”

  Clients hate open-ended answers. He repeats, “How soon?”

  “She has to set the prelim within ten days, but she may speed things up in this case. In the meantime, we have to keep digging.” I tell him about Grayson’s last cell phone call. “We’re going to talk to the owner of Basic Needs to find out who Grayson called. We’re trying to talk to Grayson’s partner and his widow, as well as his lawyer. Is there anybody else who knows the lay of the land on Sixth Street who can help us?”

  He leans forward and says, “There’s a guy who knows everybody.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Willie Kidd.” He smiles hopefully and adds, “They call him the Mayor of Sixth Street.”

  Rosie and I exchange glances. I sigh heavily and say, “We’ve already talked to him.”

  # # #

  I’m about to leave a voice mail message for Jerry Edwards when he surprises me by picking up the phone at ten o’clock on Sunday night. It’s possible that members of his species don’t sleep. “I didn’t expect to hear from you, Mr. Daley,” he says. “Did you want to comment about the new information that I got from Vanessa Sanders about your client’s daughter?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  There’s a disappointed silence, followed by a taunt. “Are you withholding any other material information?”

  I try to keep my tone even. “Actually,” I say, “I may have some new information that may be of interest to you.”

  His tone is decidedly skeptical when he says, “I’m listening.”

  “It has come to our attention through reliable sources that people are getting hassled if they try to provide information that suggests that Leon Walker is innocent.”

  “Are you saying that somebody is trying to intimidate witnesses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “The cops.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His heavy breathing becomes more rapid. “Who told you about this?”

  “An informed source.”

  “Are you going to give me a name?”

  “Maybe.”

  He inhales loudly. I presume this mean’s he’s taking a long drag on his Camel. “Is the source reliable?”

  “Yes, but he has to remain anonymous.”

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Daley.”

  Bullshit. His column is filled with items provided by anonymous sources every day. “I thought we might be able to help each other out, Jerry, but obviously, I was wrong.”

  He clears his throat and says, “Why are you sharing this information with me?”

  “We’ve spent the last two days down on Sixth Street and it’s apparent that the police aren’t putting forth a lot of effort to find Tower Grayson’s murderer.”

  “And you want me to pick up where they left off?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Most people think they’ve found the murderer already. I happen to be one of them. I think you’re just trying to deflect attention away from your client.”

  I am. “You’ll sell a lot of papers if you can show that the cops are trying to stall the investigation. You’ll sell even more if you find the real murderer”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Look,” I say, “I can’t tell you what to write, but I know that the cops aren’t getting the full story. You can take pot shots at a dying man and a couple of small time defense attorneys who practice law above a Mexican restaurant, or you can try to light a fire under the SFPD to find out what really happened. I’ll do what I can to help you. It’s your call.”

  Another pause. Finally, he says, “I’ve already written tomorrow morning’s column and I can’t change it. It includes the information about Walker’s daughter.”

  Hell. “Understood.”

  “And if you want me to pursue this matter,” he says, “I need something from you.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I want to do an exclusive interview with your client.”

  “I think we can work it out.”

  “Great. I want to talk to him ASAP.”

  I backpedal as fast as I can. “Not until the case is over.”

  “Your client will be dead.”

  “That’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because anything he says to you isn’t subject to the privilege. If I let him talk to you now, I’m guilty of malpractice.”

  He thinks about it for a moment and concedes, “I suppose that’s true.”

  I say, “You have dibs on the first interview after this is over.”

  He knows it’s the best he can do. “When can I meet your source?” he asks.

  “After the arraignment tomorrow.”

  “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll nail your client and bring you and your firm down.”