MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Mr. Lucas,” I continue, “did you ever meet a dancer named Alicia Morales?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Evidently, she was assigned to take care of Mr. Grayson when he was at the theater.”

  “Mr. Grayson never mentioned it to me.”

  Bullshit. I show him a photo of Alicia Morales and say, “Do you recognize her?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he says, “No.”

  He’s lying. Frat boys like Grayson and Lucas tend to share war stories about their sexual conquests. “Mr. Lucas,” I say, “how did your partners feel when they found out that your firm had invested in an adult theater?”

  His eyes give him away. “They viewed it in the same manner as any other investment.”

  “Which is?”

  “They’ve been very pleased.”

  “Even though the company is losing money?”

  “We still think the business model has great potential.”

  He’s even more full of shit now than when we were working together.

  I’m about to wrap up when the door opens in the back of the courtroom and Pete comes barreling down the aisle, accompanied by two sheriff’s deputies.

  Judge McDaniel glares at him and says, “What’s the meaning of this interruption?”

  “I apologize, Your Honor.” He glances in my direction and then turns back to the judge. “If I might have a word with my brother,” he says. “This will only take a minute.”

  “You have thirty seconds, Mr. Daley.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Pete, Rosie and I huddle at the defense table. “This really isn’t a great time,” I tell him.

  “Call time out,” he whispers.

  “Did you find Alicia Morales?”

  “No.” He hesitates and repeats, “Ask for a recess.” He glances at the judge and adds, “Nick and I found some stuff that may be helpful. I’ll tell you about it outside.”

  I turn to the judge and say, “May it please the court, we respectfully request a brief recess to review some new evidence.”

  Judge McDaniel looks at her watch and says, “Five minutes, Mr. Daley.”

  *****

  Chapter 53

  “This One’s on Me”

  “You just keep digging until you turn up something that might help you.”

  — Nick Hanson. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.

  Nick the Dick, Pete, Rosie and I are crammed inside a stuffy consultation room. “You’ll have to make this fast,” I say to Pete.

  “Lucas was lying when he said he drove home at one-thirty on Friday morning,” he says. “We pulled the security tapes from the garage at Three Embarcadero Center. Ten cars left from midnight to six A.M., but there were no BMWs.

  Lucas waslying. Why? “Where did he go and how did he get home?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he walked. Maybe he was picked up. Maybe he was picked up by Grayson on his way back from Chamberlain’s house.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “No.”

  “Why would Lucas have gone down to Sixth Street with Grayson?”

  Pete looks at Nick the Dick and says, “Your turn.”

  Nick’s dressed in a gray suit and there is a fresh red rose on his lapel. He’s wearing his going-to-court toupee. He may be a character, but he’s all-business when he’s working. He slides a slim manila file folder across the table. I open it and see that it contains computer printouts. He does running commentary as I study the papers. “These are bank account transfer records for Grayson and Lucas. Each of them withdrew twenty-five grand in cash from their respective accounts on Thursday,” he says.

  What the hell? “Do you have any idea why?”

  Nick puts the pen back into his pocket. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  No luck. “What happened to the money?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me that, too.”

  No luck there, either. “I don’t know, Nick. It’s more than a coincidence.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  We sit in silence as we process the new data. Nick is drumming his fingers on the table when he says, “Care to make a WAG?”

  I offer the first theory. “Somebody put two grand in Leon’s pocket to make it look like a robbery. He was the patsy.”

  He thinks it over without casting judgment, then he asks, “What about the rest of it?”

  “Unless you have a better idea, I think it went to Alicia Morales. Grayson was taking her the money when he was killed.”

  “Why was he paying her off?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Give me yourbest WAG.”

  I suggest the standard vices. “Sex, drugs or blackmail. Maybe all three.”

  The lines on Nick’s forehead become more pronounced. “Do you have any proof?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who killed Grayson?”

  “Maybe Alicia Morales. We know she was there. Maybe something went wrong and he double crossed her. Maybe she figured he was the only person who could have ratted on her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Pete interjects, “Mexico.”

  “Great.” Nick exhales loudly, then he asks, “What are the other possibilities?”

  “Grayson’s wife and son were there,” I observe, “but we have no evidence connecting them to the money or the murder. Chamberlain and Lucas may have had motive, but we can’t place either of them at the scene.”

  “Why would any of them have murdered Grayson?”

  Theories fly in every direction. Grayson’s wife and son were angry at him. Chamberlain was unhappy about his investment and wanted to become the manager of the fund. Lucas withdrew a large sum of cash that may have been involved in a payoff to Alicia Morales. We have a lot of possibilities, but no evidence.

  I ask, “What about Lucas’s car?”

  Pete says, “Alicia Morales didn’t take it. She drove a Chevy Impala out of town. Given the choice, I think she would have taken the Mercedes.”

  “If she didn’t take the car,” I say, “who did?”

  Nick the Dick gives me a sage look and says, “The same person who took the lighter.”

  “Anybody could have put it in the car, including Leon.”

  “I’m just making offering my best wild-assed guess. If you ask me, if we can figure out who stole the car, we’ll find the murderer.”

  Perhaps. “Grayson’s wife’s gym bag was found in the car,” I observe.

  “She had a plausible explanation for that,” Pete says.

  Maybe. “His son could have taken it,” I say.

  “There’s no evidence,” Pete replies. “The same goes for Chamberlain and Lucas.”

  I shoot up another flare in the dark. “The car was found within walking distance of Lucas’s loft and J.T. Grayson’s condo.”

  “Nice facts,” Nick says, “but they don’t qualify as hard evidence.

  No, they don’t. We’re running through the various possible permutations when a deputy knocks on the door and says that we need to get back into court. I turn back to Nick and say, “Do you have a way to connect Lucas to Basic Needs and Alicia Morales?”

  His eyes light up. “Indeed I do.” He pulls a white envelope out of his pocket and starts sorting through snapshots. He puts one on the table and says, “Here you go.”

  I glance at the photo of Grayson, Lucas and Morales standing by the back door to Basic Needs. “When did you take this photo?” I ask.

  “Last Tuesday night.”

  It would have been nicer if he had taken the photo on Friday morning. “I pat Nick on the shoulder of his Armani suit and say, “How much do I owe you for this information?”

  “Forget it, Mike. You guys are working for free. This one’s on me.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “At the risk of asking for another favor,” I say, “are you available to testify?”

  “Indeed, I am.�
�

  *****

  Chapter 54

  “Indeed She Did”

  “You can lie to your wife, you can lie to your kids and you can lie to your priest, but you can never lie in court.”

  — Nick Hanson. Profile in San Francisco Chronicle.

  It takes a few minutes to provide copies of the bank statements and the security videos to McNulty, who acts unimpressed. He’s more concerned when we add a couple of names to our witness list. He figures we’re trying to muddy the waters in a hopeless appeal for a dying man.

  Brad Lucas is back on the stand. I’m relieved that Judge McDaniel didn’t recess until morning. Once you lose the element of surprise, you can’t get it back.

  “Mr. Lucas,” I begin, “I’d like to go back to your earlier testimony about a couple of items. First, you said you drove home at approximately one-thirty A.M. in a BMW that was parked in the garage at Three Embarcadero Center.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can anybody corroborate your story?”

  He gives me a puzzled look and says, “Probably not.”

  Okay. “Second, you testified that you’ve never met a woman named Alicia Morales.”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  Close enough. I look at the judge and say, “We need to interrupt Mr. Lucas’s testimony to call the head of security at the Embarcadero Center complex.”

  I think I can see the first hint of concern on Lucas’s face as he leaves the stand and is escorted outside. He doesn’t get to hear the testimony from the other witnesses.

  The head of security is a pasty faced man in his mid-fifties who once worked for the FBI. He’s wearing the obligatory gray suit and red tie. All that’s missing are the sunglasses and the little earphone. I run through his credentials and go right to the main event. I introduce the security video from the garage. It takes him less than a minute to swear to its authenticity and to confirm that no BMW exited between midnight and six A.M. McNulty isn’t sure where I’m going, but he elects to pass on cross.

  Now for the headliner. I turn to the judge and say, “The defense calls Nicholas Hanson.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Hanson was involved in this case,” she says.

  “He is now, Your Honor.”

  Places, everyone! Cue the band! Lights! Camera! Action!

  The door opens and Nick the Dick throws his chest back and stands as tall as his four foot-ten-inch frame will allow. He takes a whiff of the flower on his lapel and adjusts his toupee, then he takes his own sweet time strolling down the aisle. He looks like a politician working a Rotary meeting as he stops to shake hands with Jerry Edwards, two cops and a couple of veteran DAs who came into the courtroom when they heard that he might be making an appearance. This is no longer just a prelim; it’s the best show in town.

  Nick is still working the crowd as he opens the little gate to the front of the courtroom. He shakes hands with McNulty and Ward, who smile warily. He greets the bailiff and the court reporter by name. Finally, he walks to the bench and thrusts his right hand out to a startled Judge McDaniel. “Nice to see you again, Your Honor,” he chirps.

  She recovers quickly and doesn’t shake his hand. “Nice to see you, too,” she says. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Indeed, it has. Is your grandson’s arm okay?”

  The businesslike judge can’t help herself and she gives him a warm smile. “He’s going to be fine, Mr. Hanson,” she says. “It’s thoughtful of you to ask.”

  “Don’t mention it, Your Honor.”

  “How are your grandchildren?” she asks.

  “Fine, thank you,” he says. “My great-granddaughter is now working for us.”

  “Does that mean that there are four generations of Hansons working at the agency?”

  “Indeed, it does.”

  “That’s wonderful news, Mr. Hanson.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Is your nephew taking the Bar Exam next month?”

  “Indeed he is.”

  Even Judge McDaniel is getting into the act. They exchange gossip for a few more minutes. The Bay Area may be the fifth largest metropolitan area in the country, but Judge McDaniel’s courtroom has a decidedly small town flavor to it. She finally turns to her bailiff, who has Nick place his hand on the Bible and asks him if he swears to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  His tone is more cheerful than solemn when he replies, “Indeed I do.” He climbs up into the witness box, adjusts the microphone, fingers his boutonniere and pours himself a glass of water. I’ve been standing quietly at the lectern for the last five minutes and basking in his reflected glory. He looks at me and says, “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Daley.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hanson.” I dart a quick glance at Rosie, who nods. Leon’s eyes have brightened and he’s looking straight at Nick the Dick. Let the games begin. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “could you please tell us how long you’ve been a private investigator in San Francisco?”

  He closes one eye and pretends to add it up in his head. Finally, he decides, “About sixty-eight years.” Without prompting, he explains that he grew up in North Beach and played baseball with the DiMaggio brothers. This adds nothing substantive to Leon’s case, but everybody in the courtroom is transfixed by the diminutive octogenarian with the bad toupee who could make reading the phone book sound interesting.

  “Mr. Hanson,” I continue, “were you hired to watch a man named Tower Grayson?”

  “Indeed I was.”

  “Could you tell us who hired you?”

  “A gentleman named Lawrence Chamberlain.”

  When Nick’s on the stand, everybody is a gentleman. “Why?”

  “He and Mr. Grayson were business partners.” He cocks his right eyebrow upward and adds, “Mr. Chamberlain was concerned that Mr. Grayson was skimming money from the till.”

  “In other words, Mr. Chamberlain thought that Mr. Grayson was stealing?”

  “Yeah.” He sounds like Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar when he describes the hundred thousand dollar loan that started the feud at Paradigm Partners.

  “Did Mr. Chamberlain hire you for any other reason?”

  “He said that Mr. Grayson’s behavior was becoming erratic.”

  “In what manner?”

  “Mr. Grayson was hanging out at a nudie bar on Sixth Street called Basic Needs.”

  Just the dignified chord I was hoping he’d strike. “What was he doing there?”

  His left eyebrow goes up this time when he croaks, “What do you think?”

  I hear the peals of laughter behind me and the judge calls for order. She turns to Nick and gently asks him to answer my questions without additional commentary.

  His voice is sugary when he says, “Yes, Your Honor.” The he turns back to me and says, “Mr. Grayson was going to Basic Needs to watch the naked girls dance.”

  He’s the embodiment of twenty-first century political correctness.

  “He took a particular shining to a girl named Alicia Morales,” he continues. “She was in charge of keeping him happy.”

  “Did she?”

  “Indeed she did.” He leans forward and rests his hands on the ledge of the witness box. “She sold him girls and drugs–mostly coke. You might say she was a one-stop shopping center.”

  Just like it says in the Basic Needs brochure. “Do you have any evidence that might confirm Mr. Grayson’s relationship with Ms. Morales?”

  “Indeed I do.” He pulls the stack of photos out of his pocket and I hand them first to McNulty and then to the judge. McNulty offers token resistance, but goes along with the show. Even grumpy guys get caught up when the elfin PI takes the stage.

  I lead Nick shamelessly as he goes through a play-by-play of the various shots of Tower Grayson and Alicia Morales. “When were these pictures taken?” I ask.

  “A week ago Tuesday,” he says. “Here’s one where they were meeting by the back door of Basic Needs. Here’s another where she’s giving him a baggie of coke.�
�� He adds, “Here’s my favorite. They’re heading off arm in arm toward the Marriott Hotel for the evening.”

  I try for an innocent tone when I ask, “What do you suppose they were going to do up there?”