MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  I say, “You didn’t happen to see any blood or knives?”

  The corner of his mouth turns up when he says, “Sorry, Mike.”

  I ask him if he saw her leave the theater again.

  “She came out the back door and headed down the alley around three. This time she went south toward the freeway.”

  Now for the main event. “Is it possible she might have killed Grayson?”

  He takes a long drink of wine and adds, “That’s your job to figure out, isn’t it?”

  Indeed it is. I probe for more details, but none are forthcoming. It isn’t his style to withhold evidence and I believe him when he says he was too far away to see the action. It doesn’t provide Leon with an alibi, but it opens some intriguing possibilities. I ask him if he noticed any other suspicious behavior from Grayson.

  He finishes his wine and says, “We’ve been monitoring his bank accounts. He withdrew twenty-five grand in cash from his checking account on Wednesday.”

  It’s a lot of money. “Do you have any idea what he used the money for?”

  He gives me a knowing smile. “I deal only in facts, Mike.”

  “Care to make a WAG?” It’s Nick-the-Dick speak for a wild-assed guess.

  “Absolutely. If I were in your shoes, I’d try to connect the money to Alicia Morales.”

  “Do you have any idea where she may be?”

  He shakes his head and says, “She was a bright girl who should have been doing more with her life. I think she had a plan to collect some money and get out of town.”

  His instincts have been finely tuned by six decades of experience. “Nick,” I say, “can you check on the bank records for Artie Carponelli, Lawrence Chamberlain and Brad Lucas?”

  His expression turns coy. “Would you be willing to pay me for my services?”

  “Would you be willing to handle this matter pro bono?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Looks like we’re going to have to raid the Michael J. Daley Keogh Plan. “I’ll get you the money,” I say.

  “I’ll get you the reports,” he replies.

  Rosie will kill me when she discovers we’re going into the hole to fund Leon’s defense. We discuss the details of his surveillance of Grayson, but he provides no additional useful information. I ask, “Have you talked to the police about this?”

  “I make it a policy to cooperate with the cops. I spent a couple of hours with Roosevelt earlier this evening. He looks really good for a young guy.”

  “Yes, he does. Was that the first time that you spoke to them?”

  “Yes.”

  This explains why Roosevelt didn’t provide this information to me when I talked to him earlier this afternoon. I say, “Are they planning to call you to testify?”

  “I doubt it. They have enough without me and my testimony will just muddy the waters.”

  Which is precisely what I’m trying to do. I pick up the check and he thanks me for dinner. “Nick,” I say, “would you be willing to testify when we put on our defense?” I give him a sheepish look and add, “I’d hate to have to send you a subpoena.”

  “That would be bad form. Are you prepared to pay me at my standard hourly rate?”

  “Of course.”

  “Indeed I am.”

  *****

  Chapter 40

  “I Take it You Plan to Move Forward?”

  “The most effective judges exhibit compassion and common sense. We don’t try cases in a vacuum and we must bear in mind that our decisions impact people’s lives.”

  — Judge Elizabeth McDaniel. Profile in California State Bar Journal.

  When I was a kid watching Perry Mason, I used to think that all judges were strong, wise and even-tempered souls who passed judgment on complicated legal issues with a steady hand and without regard to the stresses that engulf the day-to-day lives of the rest of us. I was wrong. I now realize they are also mere mortals who must dispense justice and deal with physical and emotional problems, depression, substance abuse, sick kids, cranky spouses, mortgage payments, leaky roofs and broken cars. They manage this juggling act on a bureaucrat’s salary when many could be raking in big bucks at the downtown law firms. It isn’t hard to find a few egomaniacs and incompetents on the bench, but most judges are conscientious. That description fits Betsy McDaniel, who performs her duties with thoughtfulness, candor and wisdom. I haven’t always gotten everything I’ve wanted from her, but I’ve usually received a fair shake.

  Bill McNulty, Rosie and I are jockeying for position on the worn leather sofa in Judge McDaniel’s chambers on the second floor of the Hall at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Nicole Ward was going to join us, but she was called into a meeting with the mayor. Life in the fast lane. The room is refreshingly void of the obligatory photos of the judge with various local politicians. The cluttered office is filled with law books and photos of Judge McDaniel’s grandchildren, and the ambiance is more cheerful than musty. Betsy McDaniel thinks her grandkids are more important than the mayor.

  Notwithstanding the bright surroundings, it is apparent from Judge McDaniel’s stern expression that she’s having a bad day. The smile lines at the corners of her eyes are contorted downward, and her usually buoyant demeanor has been replaced by a pronounced scowl. “I just got a call from my daughter,” she says. “My grandson fell off his bike and may have broken his arm. I have to meet them at Cal Pacific. To further complicate your lives, I promised to hear an emergency writ before I leave. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to cut to the chase.”

  Sometimes perfect justice has to take a backseat to the practical demands of broken arms and scraped knees. “Betsy,” I say, “if this is a bad time, we can come back tomorrow.”

  She removes her reading glasses and piles on the grandmotherly charm. “It’s nice of you to offer,” she says, “but I’ve read your papers and I’m prepared to rule.”

  This suggests she’s already made up her mind. We might get a better deal if we wait, but she seems motivated and time isn’t on our side. “I’ll talk fast,” I tell her.

  “Thank you. Where do you want to start?”

  “We’ve asked you to reconsider your rejection of bail.”

  “Denied. What’s next?”

  I was pretty sure that was coming and I move on. “We haven’t received copies of all of the police reports.”

  Judge McDaniel glares at McNulty and says, “Is that true?”

  He doesn’t show any remorse when he says, “Two officers have been on assignment.”

  They were probably working security in the lower deck at AT&T Park.

  McNulty adds, “We’ll get them to Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez as soon as possible.”

  Not good enough. “Your Honor,” I say, “we were supposed to get them two days ago. We also understand that certain witnesses were interviewed last night.” I’d like to see Roosevelt’s report on his conversation with Nick the Dick.

  Judge McDaniel motions me to be quiet with a well-practiced gesture that’s useful in court and with young grandchildren. She says to McNulty, “Let me make this very simple. I expect those reports to be on Mr. Daley’s desk by five o’clock today. Understood?”

  I like the early show of strength.

  McNulty starts tap dancing. “Your Honor,” he says, “with all due respect, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to track down the officers in time.”

  “Mr. McNulty,” she says, “with all due respect, I’m absolutely sure that I’m ordering you to find them and provide copies of their reports to Mr. Daley by five o’clock. If you don’t, I’m going to hold you in contempt. Understood?”

  It’s more of a show of her power than a great legal victory for us, but we’ll take what we can get. McNulty’s tail hangs between his legs as he mutters, “Understood.”

  The judge glances at her watch and turns back to me. “What else, Mr. Daley?”

  “We’ve asked Mr. McNulty to provide information concerning bank accounts and fund movements by Mr. Grayso
n and several of his partners.”

  The judge is unimpressed. “What does that have to do with your client?”

  I don’t want to reveal too much. “Mr. Grayson withdrew money from his venture capital fund to pay some suspicious debts. We’re trying to determine if there were any other questionable transactions that may shed some light on this case.” I leave out any mention of my discussion with Nick the Dick. I want to know if McNulty found anything that Nick didn’t.

  McNulty’s tone is indignant. “You don’t have a shred of evidence that any such financial matters are relevant to this case. You’re simply trying to draw attention away from your client.”

  Yes, I am. I switch to a respectful tone and continue my fishing expedition. “Your Honor,” I say, “we have evidence that Mr. Grayson spent considerable sums for drugs and women. Most of these activities revolved around a strip club called Basic Needs and a woman named Alicia Morales, who has disappeared.”

  Now I have her attention. She asks McNulty, “What information do you have?”

  “Bank records for Mr. Grayson and Paradigm Partners for the last six months.”

  “I’m ordering you to provide copies to Mr. Daley by five o’clock.”

  “We haven’t had a chance to review them yet, Your Honor.”

  She repeats, “I’m ordering you to provide copies to Mr. Daley by five o’clock.”

  I’m not exactly on a roll, but it can’t hurt to ask for a little more. “We’d also like copies of all financial information about the investors in Paradigm Partners.”

  The judge asks, “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Lawrence Chamberlain and the SST Partner Capital Fund.”

  McNulty says, “That information has nothing to do with this case.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I say. “We’d also like the same information for a man named Arthur Carponelliand his company, BNI.”

  Judge McDaniel rules in our favor, then she turns back to me and asks, “Anything else?”

  “We haven’t received copies of the forensic analysis of the knife found in Mr. Walker’s pocket and we’re still waiting for the final fingerprint report and the blood tests on his jacket.”

  McNulty starts pleading his case. “Your Honor,” he says, “our evidence technicians are working as fast as they can.”

  Judge McDaniel gives him an impatient sigh. “Mr. McNulty,” she says, I expect you to go back to your office and lean on these people. Understood?”

  “Understood.” He appears contrite, but it’s a small victory for us. He’ll browbeat his cohorts down the hall to work a little faster.

  I’m still pushing. “On a related issue,” I say, “we haven’t had an opportunity to interview the FETsor the white coat who is handling the fingerprint analysis.”

  The judge turns to McNulty and says, “Are these people available?”

  “They’re working full time on their analyses,” he says.

  Bullshit. “They’re stalling on the reports and they’re stonewalling us.”

  We argue about who is withholding what from whom for a couple of moments before Judge McDaniel says to McNulty, “I expect you to provide all of the necessary paperwork to Mr. Daley by five o’clock.”

  “I will, Your Honor.”

  “And I want you to make the evidence technicians available to Mr. Daley this evening if he chooses to interview them.”

  “I’ll try, Your Honor.”

  “Try hard, Mr. McNulty.”

  “The fingerprint analyst is ill and the wife of one of the FETs is in labor.”

  There are some issues that judges can’t resolve by sheer willpower or the threat of a contempt citation. Judge McDaniel rubs her eyes and says, “Do the best you can, Mr. McNulty.”

  We’ll get the reports, but we won’t hear from the FET.

  The results on the evidentiary issues are mixed. McNulty is allowed to bring in more crime scene photos than I would have hoped, and we’re allowed to call a doctor to say that Leon was too weak to have stabbed Grayson. Neither of us gets everything we ask for. Finally, Judge McDaniel asks McNulty if he wants to raise any other issues.

  “Just one, Your Honor. Mr. Daley’s witness list is longer than the phone book.”

  Actually, it’s only about half the size of the phone book. “Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. McNulty is exaggerating. We have made no secret of the fact that we must put on a full and complete defense of our client in light of his illness.”

  “Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Daley has listed every police officer and evidence technician who has been on call since Thursday night.”

  “We need to keep our options open, Your Honor. In normal circumstances, we wouldn’t proceed in this manner. However, if Mr. McNulty insists on pursuing these unsubstantiated charges, we have no choice.”

  McNulty feigns indignity. “We can’t possibly prepare for all of those witnesses.”

  “Looks like you’re going to have to, Mr. McNulty.”

  He sulks for a moment and shoots up another flare. “Did you happen to notice that the defendant was on their witness list?”

  “I did.”

  He turns to me and says, “Are you really planning to call the defendant to testify?”

  He wants to know if he has to prepare to cross examine Leon. I’m planning to put Leon up on the stand to give a forceful denial, then I’m going to sit him down. “We’re keeping all of our options open, Bill.”

  He glares at me, but doesn’t respond.

  Judge McDaniel’s eyes narrow. She asks, “Is your client going to be well enough to attend the hearing tomorrow?”

  I answer honestly. “I don’t know, Your Honor.”

  She looks at McNulty and says, “I take it you plan to move forward?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “May I ask if there’s any chance you and your boss might reconsider?”

  McNulty shrugs as if to say that he’s just following orders. “Unless we obtain compelling evidence that creates reasonable doubt with respect to the defendant’s guilt,” he says, “the answer is no.”

  Judge McDaniel says to me, “I don’t suppose I might be able to persuade your client to accept a plea bargain?”

  “I’m afraid not, Your Honor.”

  She takes off her reading glasses and her customarily upbeat tone has an air of distinct resignation. “We’ll see you in court,” she says.

  *****

  Chapter 41

  “We’ll Put on a Good Show”

  “Michael Daley and Rosita Fernandez are good lawyers, but they won’t be able to get the charges against Leon Walker dropped unless somebody else confesses.”

  — Jerry Edwards. Channel 2 News. Wednesday, June 8. 6:15 P.M.

  “Did you get the financial information from Nick the Dick?” Rosie asks.

  “Not yet. He’s supposed to send it over tomorrow.”

  “Do you think he’ll find anything useful?”

  “I hope so. It can’t be less useful than the crap McNulty sent over earlier this evening.”

  We’re in my office at ten o’clock on Wednesday night. For the last three hours, I’ve been studying the hopelessly disorganized contents of five boxes of police reports and other evidence that Bill McNulty delivered to us at seven o’clock, a mere two hours after Judge McDaniel’s deadline. It took a screaming match with McNasty and a call to the judge before the boxes finally arrived. Judges are great at issuing orders, but they’re not as good at enforcing them and they’re incapable of stopping time.

  Rosie looks at the stacks of papers on my desk and asks, “Anything interesting?”

  “Nothing yet.” Roosevelt’s report on his interview with Nick Hanson is just the way Nick described it. The box also contained limited and unintelligible financial information about Paradigm, but nothing about its investors. We’ll resume that battle in the morning. Rosie has been culling through witness lists and Carolyn is in the hallway organizing our exhibits. One of my mentors a
t the PD’s office used to say that the best trial lawyers are masters at improvisational theater. We’re going to spend the next couple of days putting his wisdom to the test. “We’re going to have to wing it,” I say.

  “It won’t be the first time,” Rosie replies. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  She heads down the hall and I pick up the phone and dial the familiar number in the homicide division at the Hall.