# # #
“Were you and your father close?” I ask J.T. Grayson.
He tugs at his tie and thinks about it. He scans the gallery for sympathetic faces, but finds none. His mother isn’t in court because she may be recalled as a witness. “Yes,” he finally decides. He leans forward and adds, “Our family was close.”
Right up until the end, when your dad used to hang out at Basic Needs. I have to challenge him. “Mr. Grayson,” I say, “you assisted your mother in hiring a private investigator named Kaela Joy Gullion to watch your father, didn’t you?”
There’s a hesitation.
I say, “We can call Ms. Gullion to testify.” It’s heavy-handed, but necessary.
“Yes,” he says.
“So you knew your mother suspected your father of cheating on her?”
“Yes.”
The courtroom is hushed and young Grayson takes a drink of water. I remained a respectful distance from his mother, but I’m not going to show him the same courtesy. Grieving widows get deferential treatment, but ne’er-do-well sons don’t. I move in front of him and say, “How did you feel about your father’s behavior toward your mother?”
His voice is barely audible when he says, “Angry and embarrassed.”
So was your mother. “When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Thursday afternoon. He called me on his cell phone as he was driving into the city.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Objection. Hearsay.” McNulty is trying to give J.T. some breathing space.
“Overruled.”
J.T. swallows and says, “We talked about business.”
This is going to take awhile. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“We were talking about the investments and operations of Paradigm Partners.”
“We understand the investors were discussing the possibility of replacing your father as managing partner.”
He tries to stall by offering a platitude instead of an answer. “My father was a successful fund manager and a pillar of the community.” He gives me a look as if to say, “So there.”
I turn to the judge and invoke a patient tone. “Your Honor,” I say, “Please instruct the witness to answer my question.”
Judge McDaniel turns to J.T. and lectures him on the merits of being responsive.
His face turns red when he says, “There was some discussion of appointing a new managing partner.”
“Which of your partners offered this suggestion?”
“That’s confidential.”
Without prompting, Judge McDaniel says, “Answer the question, Mr. Grayson.”
He confirms that it was Chamberlain.
“Did you agree with him?”
The eyes dart. The telltale sigh. “No,” he says.
It’s an unconvincing lie. “Mr. Grayson,” I continue, “did you know that your mother was going to meet with Ms. Gullion on Thursday to obtain an update on your father’s activities?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get a report on your mother’s conversation with Ms. Gullion?”
“Yes. Mother called and said that Ms. Gullion had seen my father at Basic Needs again. I felt frustrated and angry.”
“Angry enough to kill him?”
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Overruled.”
J.T. summons his best indignant tone when he says, “Of course not.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to confront him at Basic Needs.”
Bingo. The good news is that he’s placed himself at the scene. The bad news is that murderers usually don’t admit they were in the vicinity. “Why didn’t you talk to him at home?”
“He would have denied it.”
“Did you find him?”
“He never showed up.”
“Did you see anybody else that you knew at Basic Needs?”
“Yes. I saw the owner, Arthur Carponelli, and a dancer named Alicia Morales.”
“How did you know her?”
“I’d seen her picture. Ms. Gullionidentified her as one of the women that my father was seeing.”
“For what?”
“Sex.” He clears his throat and adds, “And to buy drugs.”
This never happened to Ward and June Cleaver. “Did you talk to her?”
“No.”
“Did your father owe her money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she blackmailing him?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Dammit. “Do you have any idea where we might be able to find her?”
“No.”
Another dead end. “Did you know that your mother was also looking for your father?”
“She informed me about it the next morning. We have nothing to hide, Mr. Daley.”
Evidently, he doesn’t. I bang on him for a few more minutes, but he reveals nothing beyond frustration and hurt feelings. McNulty passes on cross and Judge McDaniel calls a recess. I take my seat at the defense table, where Leon has been sitting with his arms folded. His body language shows signs of frustration. We’re running out of witnesses–and time.
# # #
A square-jawed deputy approaches us outside the courtroom during the recess. “There’s a phone call for you,” he says. “The caller said it was urgent.”
My first instinct is to think about Grace. I ask, “Who is it?”
“Your brother.”
I allow myself a moment of cautious optimism. Maybe he found Alicia Morales. “Could you tell the judge we’ll need a couple of extra minutes?”
*****
Chapter 49
“She’s Gone, Mick”
“Inspector Marcus Banks reports that police have no new leads on the whereabouts of dancer Alicia Morales.”
— KGO-Radio. Thursday, June 9. 4:00 P.M.
“Are you all right, Mick?” Pete asks. His voice is hoarse. “You sound tired.”
So does he. I appreciate his concern, but my cell is pressed against my ear in the corridor at the Hall and I don’t have time to chat. “I have to get back to court. Any word on Alicia Morales?”
“She’s gone, Mick, and so is her sister. One of the sister’s neighbors saw them drive away at six o’clock on Friday morning. Nobody has seen them since then.”
“Did she have any idea where they were going?”
“Nope.” He says they were driving the sister’s Chevy Impala. He obtained the registration number through the DMV. “I gave the information to Roosevelt.”
“And?”
“The car was spotted on Saturday morning at a border crossing south of El Centro.”
It’s in the desert east of San Diego. “They were going into Mexico?”
“Yeah.”
“Any signs of foul play?”
“Not as far as we know. They probably went to Mexicali and headed south from there.”
And disappeared off the face of the earth. I ask my brother the ex-cop for a reality check. “Can you find her?”
His assessment is punctuated by a sigh. “Mexico is a big country, Mick.”
Yes, it is. I try his finely-tuned cop instincts. “Do you think she murdered Grayson?”
“How the hell would I know?”
So many questions, so few answers, so little time. “Who else knows about this?” I ask.
“Roosevelt,” he says. “That means that Banks also knows about it by now.”
“No doubt. Have they released any information to the media?”
“Not as far as I know. Why?”
“It may be useful to suggest to some of the witnesses that we’ve found Alicia Morales.”
“That would be lying.”
“I know.”
*****
Chapter 50
“We Were Business Associates”
“On behalf of everyone at BNI, we extend our deepest sympathies to the family of our investor and friend, Tower Grayson.”
�
� Arthur Carponelli. KGO Radio. Thursday, June 9. 4:00 P.M.
Artie Carponelli’s hair and cufflinks gleam as he calmly adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal Armani suit at four-fifteen. I ask, “What is your occupation?”
“I am the chairman of BNI, an entertainment conglomerate.”
Impressive. “What goods and services does BNI offer?”
“Clothing, movies, videos and other household products.”
Dildos, vibrators and other sex toys. “How do you distribute your products?”
“We run retail boutiques in fifteen states. We also have a large Web-based operation.”
Somebody in the back of the courtroom might think that I was talking to the chairman of Victoria’s Secret. It’s time to turn the bullshit down a notch. “Mr. Carponelli,” I say, “isn’t it true that you sell products that are designed to enhance sexual stimulation?”
“What our clients do with our products is their business.”
Laughter in the back of the courtroom.
“Your products also include sexually explicit magazines and videos, don’t they?”
He doesn’t deny it. “Everything we sell is perfectly legal,” he assures me. “We prefer to think of our products as mainstream erotica.”
I prefer to think of them as mainstream porn. “Does your company own and operate an adult theater called Basic Needs?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true that the entertainment there includes nude dancers?”
“We provide a variety of entertainment options to our clients.”
Judge McDaniel has heard enough. She points her gavel at Carponelli and says, “Please answer Mr. Daley’s questions without any double talk or spin.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I ask Carponelli if he knew Tower Grayson.
“We were business associates. He was the managing partner of a venture capital fund that is one of our major investors.”
“How much money did he put into your company?”
“That’s confidential.”
Judge McDaniel doesn’t wait for me to object before she tells Carponellito answer.
“Ten million dollars,” he says.
I ask if Paradigm has promised to invest any additional funds in his business.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He starts to say that the information is confidential, but reconsiders. “Five million.”
“Was Mr. Grayson planning to make the payment on schedule?”
“He was very reliable.”
In many ways. I move in from a different angle. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Tuesday night at the theater.”
“What was he doing there?”
The corner of his mouth turns up into a smarmy half smile. “Due diligence,” he says.
Enough bullshit. “Mr. Grayson used to come to Basic Needs regularly, didn’t he?”
“We encourage all of our investors to monitor our operation.”
“And he was an enthusiastic consumer of your services?”
“We think the best way for our investors to understand our products is to sample them.”
It’s tempting to try to crack his condescending veneer, but I want to keep him talking and I have more important issues to address. “Mr. Carponelli,” I say, “we understand Mr. Grayson was a member of your Premiere Club.”
“He was.”
“What benefits was he entitled to?”
“He had unlimited admissions to our shows, boutiques and special events.”
“He was also assigned a personal concierge to handle his needs at the club, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Sort of like a concierge at a hotel?”
“Exactly.”
I try to keep my voice measured when I say, “Except that she also provided sex, right?”
McNulty tries to restore a shred of dignity. “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”
“Overruled.”
Carponelli’s demeanor remains confident. “No, Mr. Daley,” he says. “Our concierges are not permitted to engage in such activities with our clients. It’s against company policy.”
Right. “What was the name of the concierge assigned to Mr. Grayson?”
“Alicia Morales.”
“Do you know where we might be able to reach her?”
“She’s no longer working for us.”
“Why not?”
“I’m afraid that all employment matters are confidential, Mr. Daley.”
I turn to the judge and say, “Would you please instruct the witness to answer?”
“Please respond to Mr. Daley’s question.”
“Your Honor,” he pleads, “our legal counsel has advised us that we may be subject to litigation if we reveal the contents of our personnel records.”
Just like a legitimate business. The judge isn’t impressed. “Answer the question or get your lawyer in here to request a protective order.”
Carponelli says, “She was fired for violating our drug testing policy.”
“Isn’t it true that she was engaging in prostitution and drug sales behind your theater?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He clears his throat and adds, “Those activities are also clear violations of company policy for which she would have been terminated.”
He’s lying. “Is it your testimony that she was not engaged in any such extra-curricular activities with Mr. Grayson?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he repeats.
He parses better than the most politicians. I ask, “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Friday morning. She collected her personal belongings at the theater around two A.M. I have no idea where she went from there.”
We’ve added Carponelli and Morales to the growing list of people who were in the vicinity of Alcatraz Liquors on Friday morning, but we still have no way of connecting them to Grayson’s death. I ask him about the cell phone that was issued to Morales. He acknowledges that she had not turned it in and repeated calls to the phone number indicated that the phone had been shut off. He says he has no idea whether she spoke to Grayson on Friday morning.
“Mr. Carponelli,” I say, “did you ever talk to Mr. Grayson about Ms. Morales?”
“Yes. He said she was an excellent employee.”
Another satisfied customer. I try to catch him off guard by changing direction. “How is BNI doing these days?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“And Mr. Grayson and his partners were pleased with their investment?”
“Absolutely.” He says the company is on track to double the number of its boutiques in the next year and to go public within eighteen months. The man talks a good game.
“Did you and Mr. Grayson ever disagree on anything?”
This gets his attention. “What do you mean?”
I’m not sure. “Perhaps you had differences of opinion regarding strategy or expansion.”
“We were almost always on the same page.”
I arch an eyebrow and say, “Almost?”
“Always.”
Not quite. “Were there issues that you didn’t agree upon?”
“A few.” He realizes that he’s said too much and he’ll have to explain. “For example, we disagreed on expansion. Tower wanted to move more slowly.”
“Did he ever threaten to withhold funding?”
“There were rumors to that effect in the media,” he says, “but they weren’t true.”
I glance at Rosie out of the corner of my eye. We seem to have touched a raw nerve, but I’m feeling my way without a map. “Was your business encountering difficulties?”
“Businesses go through cycles,” he lectures. “The rumor started when our same-store sales dipped in the first quarter. This was entirely expected. Then Mr. Grayson made an offhand comment at a Silicon Valley forum in which he expressed doubts about our business plan.”
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