“Yes.”
“May I ask how much?”
Banks interjects, “That’s none of your business.”
Yes, it is. Rosie tries to finesse it by asking, “Are we talking about a substantial sum?”
“Yes.” Debbie Grayson’s eyes turn down. That’s all we’ll get without a subpoena.
Rosie takes an extra moment to frame the next question. She lowers her voice to a whisper when she says, “Was everything okay between you and your husband?”
Debbie glances at her son for a moment before she simply says, “Yes.”
“No fights, talk of separation or other big issues?”
J.T. comes to her defense. “We’ve covered this territory,” he says. “The answer is an emphatic no, and I’m offended that you’re raising it.”
Rosie stares him down, then she turns to me. Time for the bad cop.
“Look,” I say to his mother, “I’m sorry for your loss and I can assure you that we didn’t come here to make things more difficult for you, but we’ve been told that you and your husband were having some. . .” I pause to consider my options, and finally decide on the word, “issues.”
She responds with a question. “What sort?”
“The sort that led you to hire a private investigator named Kaela Joy Gullion.”
Silence. She exchanges an uncomfortable glance with her son, then says, “How did you find out?”
“We have a very good private investigator, too.”
She exhales heavily and says, “Every marriage has issues, Mr. Daley.”
Tell me about it.
“Tower was under a lot of pressure. Some of the investments haven’t worked out. He was traveling. He seemed distant and I got nervous, so I hired Ms. Gullion.” A heavy swallow. “Tower was spending time at an adult theater called Basic Needs.”
We’re starting to make progress. “How many times did she see him there?”
“Twice.”
“Was he there by himself?”
“Yes.”
This doesn’t rule out the possibility that he may have been there on other occasions with company and the sordid possibilities are endless. “Did you confront him about it?”
“Yes. He admitted that he went there from time to time to relieve stress.”
He could have taken up yoga. “Did you ask him to stop?”
“Of course. The fact that he was on Sixth Street on Friday morning suggests he didn’t.”
Indeed. Our conversation with Kaela Joy should be more interesting than I had imagined. I ask, “Is Ms. Gullion still working for you?”
“No. I found out everything I needed to know.”
She found out more than she needed to know. “We’re going to meet with her.”
“I can’t stop you.”
“The police may want to talk to her, too.”
“I can’t stop them, either.”
I feel badly for her, but I need to find out what I can. I try for a subdued tone when I give her another chance to come clean. I ask, “Were you and your husband planning to separate?”
“We hadn’t discussed it.” She glances at her son adds, “I would be grateful if you would try to be discreet about this. It’s terribly difficult for J.T. and his sister.”
And for you. I can’t make any promises. “We’ll do what we can.”
She leans back in her chair and Banks says, “We’re finished.”
# # #
Rosie and I hit traffic on 280 as we make the long, slow drive back to the city. It gives us an opportunity to engage in the most entertaining aspect of our job: speculation.
“I feel sorry for Debbie,” she says. Her husband was hanging out at a strip club.”
“In more ways than one.”
“Not funny,” she says.
“We haven’t found any solid evidence that connects Basic Needs to his death,” I say.
“All the more reason to talk to Artie Carponelli.”
Agreed. I look for a reality check as we’re passing the Serramonte Mall. “Do you think she was involved?”
She answers truthfully. “I don’t know. We shouldn’t rule anything out until we have the full picture of the secret life of Tower Grayson.”
My cell phone rings and I flip it open and say, “Michael Daley.”
The caller responds with a clipped, “Officer Jeff Roth speaking.”
If I saw him on the street, I’d call him by his first name, but the tone of his voice suggests that this is business. “What can I do for you, Officer Roth?”
His tone remains even. “There’s a reporter who is asking questions about your client.”
That would be Jerry Edwards. I play dumb. “He’s just doing his job,” I say.
“He’s doing more than that,” Roth snaps. “Evidently, somebody suggested to him that we’re trying to intimidate witnesses.”
“Are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Why did you call me?”
“I’ve been asked to give you a message. If we find out that you had anything to do with this, we’re going to make sure that the same reporter takes a long look at your actions, too.”
“We have nothing to hide.”
“If you make us look bad, we’re going to make you look worse.”
“We’re all on the same side, Jeff. We’re all just trying to find out what happened.”
His tone turns more emphatic. “You aren’t going to put the SFPD on trial in this case.”
“We have no intention of doing so.”
“Don’t push it, Mike. You’re getting out of your league.”
“Thank you for the information, Officer Roth.”
I snap the phone shut and Rosie asks, “What was that all about?”
“A friendly message from San Francisco’s finest that we’re playing with fire.”
*****
Chapter 26
“It’s Been a Long Time, Brad”
“Tower was a great client. I feel like I’ve lost my best friend.”
— Bradley Lucas. KGO-Radio. Monday, June 6. 2:00 P.M.
Brad Lucas is radiating feigned enthusiasm as he flashes the familiar plastic smile and extends a muscular hand. My former partner’s grip is firm and his tone is affable. “Nice to see you again,” he says.
My bullshit detector starts screeching like a car alarm. “It’s been a long time, Brad.”
He hasn’t changed much in the five years since we last spoke, although the platinum blond hair is lined with stray flecks of gray and you’ll find a few creases in the corners of his eyes if you look closely. His youthful face has a slightly bloated cast that matches his mid-section. Even young Turks at big law firms show signs of mortality as they approach forty.
The toothy grin doesn’t leave his face as he takes a seat in a leather chair that cost more than my college education at Cal. It’s three o’clock on Monday and we’re meeting in his corner office on the seventeenth floor of Four Embarcadero Center, one of five concrete towers in a complex loosely patterned after Rockefeller Center. The Rockefellers held an ownership interest in its San Francisco cousin for many years. The sterile buildings lack the patina of their grand counterparts in New York, but the address is one of the most prestigious in town and many of the major law firms have their offices here.
All of the customary accouterments are conspicuously on display: a sweeping, six window view that starts at the Bay Bridge and goes past the Ferry Building and Alcatraz Island all the way to the Golden Gate; hardwood floors with not one, but two, custom built rosewood desks–you never know when a spare might come in handy; a conference table with seating for eight; a leather sofa; a wet bar with a small refrigerator; Currier and Ives lithographs on the walls; a putter in the corner. He embodies the modern breed of the big firm lawyer, whose value is measured not by his innate intelligence or legal acumen, but by his uncanny ability to bring in new business. He once boasted to me that he could sell ice to Eskimos and I believed him. His office is a tim
e capsule view of the habitat of a rare species known as the law firm rainmaker in the early twenty-first century. I expect the ficustree to burst into flame as a God-like voice says, “Take off thy shoes. Thou art in the presence of a power partner in a power law firm.”
Except for the fifteen hundred dollar Mont Blanc pen that is resting on his first-string desk, there is no evidence that any legal work is ever transacted here. Guys like Lucas have grunts to take care of mundane tasks such as preparing documents for his clients. Also conspicuously missing are photos of his two ex-wives and four children. I was still working at Simpson and Gates when he got divorced the second time. It was one for the ages.
I glance at the putter and say, “Still playing golf, Brad?”
“At least three times a week at the Olympic Club. I played the Ocean Course with the City Attorney on Thursday. I’m down to a four.”
I presume he’s referring to his handicap, and not his IQ.
He winks and adds, “I let him beat me.” A man ten years my junior feels compelled to give me some fatherly advice. “You should take lessons. It’s a great way to entertain clients.”
He never jokes about schmoozing. I tended bar at the Olympic Club when I was in college, and I’m tempted to tell him that it would be fun to play eighteen holes with Terrence the Terminator on the Lakeside Course, but I bite my tongue. I need to keep him talking.
It isn’t a problem. We exchange gossip about our former partners, then he tells me about the mega-deals he’s handling. He deftly works into the conversation the fact that his book of business now exceeds five million dollars and that his partner draw is the second largest at Story, Short and Thompson. He says he’s in line to become the next chairman of the Business Law Section of the American Bar Association. I try my hardest to act impressed.
He’s still going strong ten minutes later, when I decide that I have to try to contain him. I lower my voice and say, “Helluva thing about Tower Grayson.”
The phony smile is replaced by phony sorrow. “He was only forty-eight.” He tugs at the collar of his custom-made shirt and loosens his rep tie. His firm switched to business casual several years ago, but Brad didn’t. He gazes out at the ferry that’s crossing the Bay toward Larkspur and decides to wax philosophical. “I’m going to turn forty next year,” he says. “Forty-eight doesn’t seem so old to me anymore.”
The world still revolves around Brad.
I catch Rosie’s eye, then I try to ease Lucas into a discussion of business. I ask him how long he knew Grayson.
“Five years. I met him when he was the CFO at Nyren Software. I took them public.”
Grayson and the employees at Nyren may have had something to do with it, too.
He adds, “He asked me to handle the legal work when he formed Paradigm.”
I ask him if he’s representing the fund, or Tower Grayson individually.
“Just the company.” He lectures us on the conflict of interest provisions in the California Rules of Professional Conduct. He explains that a law firm can find itself in a pickle if it attempts to represent a partnership andone of its partners simultaneously. “If a dispute arises,” he says, “we can’t represent parties with adverse interests, nor can we choose sides. In such circumstances, we have to advise all parties to retain separate counsel.” His tone oozes self-righteousness when he says, “I made it clear to Tower in writing that I was representing the fund, but not any of its partners, including Tower and Lawrence.”
“So,” I say, “ you would have been a neutral observer in any potential disputes between Mr. Grayson and Mr. Chamberlain?”
He gives me the correct response. “Yes.”
I’m having trouble picturing Brad Lucas playing the role of Switzerland. “And if the partnership decided to sue Mr. Grayson personally, you would have represented the fund?”
“Correct.”
Technically, he may be right, but it isn’t always that simple. Grayson’s attorneys would have filed a motion to disqualify Lucas because he was privy to confidential information that may have given him an unfair advantage in such litigation. If that didn’t work, Grayson would have lobbied his partners to fire Brad on general principles. Loyalty often trumps the Rules of Professional Conduct.
I ask, “Who was giving you instructions on behalf of the fund?”
“Tower was the managing partner.”
“What was he like?”
“Solid. Smart. Meticulous. Honest. Paid his bills. He ran Paradigm the same way.”
Then why did he pull a hundred grand out of the fund without telling anybody?
Lucas is still expounding on Grayson’s virtues. “He was one of the straight shooters in the Valley.”
Except for an occasional side trip to Basic Needs. I ask, “How well do you know Mr. Chamberlain?”
He takes a moment to formulate an appropriately diplomatic response. “Pretty well. He’s a decent young man who happens to have a lot of money.”
“Is he smart?”
“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re smart.”
And just because you practice law on First Street doesn’t mean you’re an idiot. “Did he tell you that I asked him to give you permission to talk to us about Paradigm?”
“Yes.” He folds his hands and says in his best no-bullshit voice, “This is a criminal investigation and there is no reason to hide the ball. I would ask you to respect Debbie’s feelings, but I believe it is in the best interests of everybody involved to tell the complete and absolute truth.” He adds, “That’s exactly what I told Lawrence.”
If I hadn’t spent five years listening to him spew unadulterated bullshit, I might have been inclined to believe him. “Does that mean you’ll talk to us?”
“Yes.”
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, it appears that he intends to be forthcoming. A more cynical interpretation suggests that he’s protecting his own posterior or he has nothing to hide.
He clears his throat and begins the inevitable backpedaling. “I must impose two conditions,” he says. “First, I want you to leave Debbie and Lawrence alone. They’ve told you everything that’s relevant to your investigation.”
I appreciate the fact that he’s trying to protect the victim’s widow and his business partner, but he has no idea what they’ve told us. I try to finesse it with a wishy-washy response. “We’ll try to come to you before we approach them again.”
He isn’t satisfied, but thanks me. He adds, “There are also some issues of a confidential nature that I may not be able to discuss. I will understand if you choose to obtain a subpoena.”
It’s his way of reminding us that he’s a smart lawyer. “Of course,” I say. I start with the basics. “I understand you met with Mr. Grayson and Mr. Chamberlain here on Thursday night.”
“I did. Then we had dinner at Boulevard.” He confirms that they left the restaurant a few minutes after one and Grayson drove Chamberlain home. He says he walked back to his office and got his car. “I came upstairs and picked up my briefcase, then I drove home around one-twenty.” He looks out the window at the Ferry Building clock and says, “You can get the exact time from the security people. I ran my card through the scanner when I came in and again when I left.” He confirms that he lives about a mile south of here near the ballpark.
I ask, “Did you go straight home?”
The fake disarming grin appears. “Yeah. I can’t do all-nighters anymore.”
He’s a little too glib. I ask, “What kind of car do you drive?”
“A BMW.” He says it was parked in the garage at Three Embarcadero Center.
I ask him why he didn’t park downstairs.
“This building has valet parking only, and I don’t like to let anybody else drive my car. You can park it yourself next door.”
I don’t obsess if a car jockey dings my Corolla. “Were you at home the rest of the night?”
“Yes.” He says he didn’t hear from Grayson again.
I’ll have
Pete pull his phone records just to double check. I feign nonchalance and ask, “Would you mind telling us what you were meeting about?”
“Business.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
“We were discussing a potential down round for one of the fund’s companies.”
This matches up with Chamberlain’s story.
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