MD02 - Incriminating Evidence

by Sheldon Siegel

  The line goes silent again. The cops must be caucusing. Then their spokesperson comes on. “Inspector Elaine McBride here.”

  “It’s Michael Daley.”

  “Yes?”

  “I take it you want to search the house?”

  “That’s correct.” She says she has a warrant.

  “I’d like to look at it before you start. I’ll come right over.”

  She’s smart. She’ll wait until I arrive. If we get to trial, she’ll be able to say I approved the warrant. She says, “You have fifteen minutes.”

  I jog through the parking lot toward my Corolla. It’s unseasonably hot and I’m sweating when I turn over the ignition. I punch the button to the air conditioner. Wishful thinking. A blast of hot air hits me in the face. The Freon gods are not smiling. I roll down my window and head toward the Civic Center. I make my way north on Van Ness past City Hall. Traffic is heavy.

  My radio is tuned to KGO. “In local news,” the announcer intones, “San Francisco District Attorney Prentice Marshall Gates the Third was arrested when a body was found in his room at the Fairmont this morning. Police are not releasing any additional details at this time. Informed sources say there is uncontroverted evidence linking Mr. Gates to the death of the victim, who has not been identified.”

  I wish the “informed sources” would give me a call so we can compare notes.

  I turn left onto Pine and head west past the renovated Victorians in the old Jewish neighborhood that used to be called the Western Addition but was rechristened Lower Pacific Heights by the real estate developers in the eighties. I head north on Fillmore past the trendy coffee bars that have replaced the thrift shops in recent years. I hang a left at Broadway just before Fillmore plummets toward the bay. A mile to the west, two squad cars and two unmarked Plymouths are parked in front of the white walls and understated iron gateway to Skipper and Natalie’s mansion on the north side of the street. Like many homes in this neighborhood, only a few small windows face the street. You’d never know there was a five-million-dollar house behind the unobtrusive gate. In this part of town, it’s considered more desirable to live on the north side of Broadway, where the homes have clear views of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. The houses on the south side aren’t quite as fashionable because their sight lines are obstructed.

  A familiar round face greets me by name when I get out of my car. “I thought you criminal lawyers never left the Hall,” says officer Rich Sullivan, a big kid from the old neighborhood. He knows that defense attorneys don’t like being called criminal lawyers. I let it go. Rich is a good guy. We went to high school together. He married his sweetie and had four kids. They still live in the Sunset.

  “They’re expecting me, Rich,” I say.

  He turns serious. Except for some lines around his eyes, he looks the same as he did when he played offensive tackle at St. Ignatius thirty years ago. I used to run behind him. I was a halfback. He was also a pretty fair baseball player. He had a tryout with the Giants but blew out his throwing arm. He’s been a beat cop ever since.

  He escorts me through the carved wooden doors into a small foyer. I’ve never quite gotten used to the smell of affluence. I grew up in the flatlands of the outer Sunset. My dad never trusted the people who lived in the hills. He used to say the people up there took your money and you never knew it. We had respectable criminals down where we lived. They looked you in the eye when they stole your wallet. The wisdom of the late Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr.

  The house hangs over the side of a cliff. The place doesn’t exactly have a lived-in look. To my right is a hallway that probably leads to the servants’ quarters. To my left is a three-story atrium with stained-glass windows and a skylight. A concert Steinway grand sits silently in the corner. I can picture Skipper and Natalie standing next to the piano and greeting their guests. At the moment, the only visitors are uniformed police officers and plainclothes evidence techs huddling by the piano.

  Ann Gates approaches me from the atrium. Her features resemble her father’s. She’s a tall woman in her mid-thirties with highlighted blond hair and an athletic build. Her fair skin has a creamy texture. “Thank you for coming,” she says perfunctorily. Her tone has the inflection of a woman who was educated in private schools and attended debutante balls. Unfortunately, her marriage to a carefully selected member of the cotillion set didn’t work out. If you believe the gossip columnist in the Chronicle, Ann can be quite a handful. It made the papers last year when she and a dozen of her pals rented out a South-of-Market nightclub for an all-night party. Somebody called the cops when things got too noisy. Skipper had to intercede to get the charges dropped. The papers had a field day. It was a huge embarrassment for Skipper and the mayor. Rumor has it that Ann paid over a hundred thousand dollars to the owner of the club to fix the damage.

  Whenever she’s seen in public with a member of the male gender, it turns up in the Chronicle society column. At the moment, she’s been linked romantically with a TV star whose nighttime soap opera is filmed in the city. She denies it, of course. Her alleged beau is still married to one of Ann’s neighbors. So it goes in Pacific Heights.

  “Mother is in the living room,” she says. “She wanted you to be here before they started looking around the house.”

  Inspector McBride steps forward from the atrium and hands me a wrinkled piece of paper. I glance at a standard warrant, permitting the police to search the entire premises of the house and any vehicles in the garage.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I say. I hand the warrant back to her. “I’d appreciate it if you would tell your guys to take it easy on Mrs. Gates. She’s been through a lot today.” And try not to trash the house, either. Some of this stuff is pricey. “I’d like to have a word with her.”

  “Suit yourself. We’ll start in a few minutes.”

  Ann is unhappy. “Is there anything you can do to prevent this?” she asks.

  “It’s legitimate. I can go to a judge, but they’ll just come back with another warrant.”

  “If you are going to represent my father, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Based upon my earlier experience with Ann, it seems that a confrontational tone is her standard manner of discourse. She’s even more ambitious than Skipper, if that’s possible, although her political views are at the opposite end of the spectrum—she’s a Democrat. I realize it will not serve any useful purpose to initiate hand-to-hand combat with my client’s daughter in front of the arresting officer. I assure her that the warrant is, in fact, valid.

  She still isn’t buying. “Mother is waiting,” she says curtly.

  We walk toward the living room, which is furnished with antique tables, Persian rugs, Louis the something chairs and large oil paintings. There is the obligatory picture-postcard view of the orange-gold towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, which is framed against a cloudless blue sky. Natalie has an eye for the exquisite and a checkbook to match. The room reeks of old money. The only item that appears out of place is a sleek laptop computer that is sitting on a table in an alcove near the windows. Nowadays, I guess even aristocrats surf the Web.

  “Mother,” Ann says, “Mr. Daley is here.”

  Natalie is sitting in one of the armchairs. To her credit, she has always played her role with style and eloquence. Her charitable work does seem to reflect a good heart. “It has been a long time, Michael,” she says as she stands to shake my hand. Except perhaps for Ann, the people in this corner of town never seem to forget their manners.

  Reading glasses hang from a gold chain around her neck. She’s late fifties. Though she isn’t classic beauty, she carries herself with graceful elegance, and like most of her peers in this part of the woods, I suspect she’s had a few things tucked in here and there. I presume she has a personal trainer who runs her through her paces a couple of times a week. All things considered, she looks pretty good for a woman whose husband was arrested for murder three hours ago.

  “I know this is very
difficult, Natalie,” I say.

  She glances at an elderly servant who is standing nearby and asks me if I would like coffee. I decline.

  We exchange small talk. Ann listens impatiently but doesn’t say anything. I sense that she has seen her mother go through this social ritual countless times. She has the good judgment not to interrupt. Finally, I explain that the police have a search warrant and they have the right to look around.

  Natalie doesn’t fluster. Her great-grandfathers were among the founding fathers of San Francisco. She grew up three blocks from here. She’s a Mount Holyoke graduate and the wife of the district attorney. She’s been through political campaigns with Skipper and Ann. She does what she must. Rosie once said that Natalie reminded her of Pat Nixon. She looks over toward the uniformed officers in her atrium, her eyes signaling Elaine McBride. “Do what you have to do, Inspector,” she says in a level tone. “Make it fast. And please be careful. Some of my belongings are quite fragile.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Gates,” McBride responds.

  Natalie forces a polite smile. We watch the police fan out around the house. She turns to me and says, “He really did it this time, didn’t he?”

  Interesting choice of words. “All we know so far is that they found a body in his room,” I say. “We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

  The corners of her mouth turn down slightly, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I say, “Maybe you can tell me what you saw last night.”

  She asks the servant to bring her a glass of water. She explains she went to Skipper’s campaign rally. “Then we went upstairs for the strategy meeting.”

  At least she didn’t call it a summit conference.

  She says the meeting took place in adjoining rooms on the fifteenth floor at the Fairmont tower. There were refreshments in both rooms. “I went home around twelve-thirty,” she continues. “The meeting was breaking up.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “I drove her,” Ann interjects.

  “It was just a garden-variety political meeting,” Natalie says. She clutches her glasses as she adds, “There was nothing extraordinary about it. They were discussing the ground rules for the debates.” I sense an increased level of tension when she says, “I suppose the arraignment is going to be later this week.”

  “Thursday,” I reply.

  “You will need a retainer?”

  “I told Skipper we’ll need a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I understand. And money for bail.”

  “It would help.”

  “Whatever it takes,” she says.

  “If they ask for special circumstances—” I begin.

  She holds up her hand. “I know—no bail. It’s the law.”

  I nod. In California legal lingo, special circumstances is the euphemism for a death penalty case.

  She looks at Ann and then turns back to me. “Do what you can, Michael. Prentice has many political enemies.” She pauses. “He has his faults. And like many couples who have been married for a long time, we have had our ups and downs. But he is a good and decent man. He has a good heart. He does what he thinks is right. You may not always agree with him, but he has principles. He loves this city. He has done a great deal to slow the distribution of guns. He donates time and money to charity. You never hear about the good side in the press.”

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “Prentice is not a murderer.”

  My initial instinct is to agree with her. Murder isn’t Skipper’s style. He has people to handle everything. If he wanted to kill somebody, he would have hired someone to do it.

  “Mother,” Ann says, “there is that other issue we discussed.”

  Natalie turns to me. “Ann has expressed some reservations about your firm’s ability to handle Prentice’s case. She says you may not have the resources.”

  I glance at Ann, who doesn’t look at me. “We handled the murder trial when those two attorneys were killed at the Simpson firm,” I reply. “We represented the man who was accused of killing that drug lord down in the Mission last year—we got the charges dropped. We represented the mayor’s niece when she was picked up for dealing cocaine. We got a member of the Board of Supervisors off from a bribery charge.” I describe several other highly publicized crack cases that I have handled. “We aren’t a big firm, but we’re very good at what we do. Our track record speaks for itself. We fight these cases to the death, and we win.” I realize I’m leaning forward in my chair.

  “Prentice thinks very highly of you as a lawyer,” Natalie says.

  I suspect he may think somewhat less of me as a human being.

  She casts a sharp glance at Ann and continues. “He and I think you are the right person to handle this matter.”

  Ann interrupts again. “But we may want to get you some help.”

  She works for a big law firm. She’s used to calling out the troops. And perhaps she has some other agenda. You never know with Ann.

  Natalie is irritated at her daughter. She addresses me. “I hope that will be all right with you.”

  “That’s fine, Natalie. But if you want me to be lead trial counsel, I want it understood that I’ll make all the final calls on strategy. I made this clear to Skipper.”

  Ann is not satisfied, but she doesn’t say anything. Natalie nods.

  After I leave Natalie, I stop at the Fairmont to find out what I can from the police officers who have secured the scene. You try to get as much information as you can as soon as possible. Memories tend to fade very quickly. I get as far as the elevators to the tower before I’m stopped by two uniforms. They explain that the field evidence technicians, the FETs, are still gathering evidence in Skipper’s room and the adjoining room on the fifteenth floor, and that only police personnel are being allowed upstairs. I ask them for the names of the lead FET and the head of hotel security. It’s all I’m able to do for the moment, so I head to the Hall and report to Skipper on my meeting with Natalie.

  “How is she holding up?” he asks. He seems genuinely concerned.

  “As well as can be expected in the circumstances. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “She’s a fighter, Mike. We’ve been through a lot together. She’s always there.”

  “Skipper,” I say, “is this something we need to talk about?”

  “We’ve been married for almost forty years. We’ve had mostly good days and a few bad days. Sometimes being married to a public figure takes its toll.” He swallows hard and adds, “I want you to do everything you can to help her through this. That’s very important to me.”

  “Understood.” I ask if there’s anything else I should know.

  “No.”

  He’s unhappy when I let him know the police are searching his house. He argues they have no right to do so. He’s being unrealistic. I tell him that Ann has suggested that we may need some help with his case. He says she’s just being protective. “She’s my daughter. She’s worried. She wants to be sure that we have the right team in place.” There’s a tension in his voice.

  “Is there something else going on here?” I ask.

  “She’s just being cautious.”

  I’m not so sure.

  My next stop is the homicide department for a fishing expedition with Elaine McBride’s partner. I greet Roosevelt Johnson, who is squeezed into a heavy wooden chair at his desk in the crowded room he shares with the SFPD’s homicide inspectors. His brown eyes are set back deeply in his ebony face. He’s a pro.

  “Seems like our friend the DA has found himself in a little trouble,” I say.

  He takes off his wire-rimmed glasses and sets them down next to his coffee cup. “You might say that,” he replies. I’ve known Roosevelt since I was a kid. He’s in his mid-sixties now. He was my father’s first partner. He moved up the ranks and made homicide inspector. Dad stayed on the beat. “How’s your mama?” he asks.

  You have to let Roosevelt make the first move. The social
part of our conversation will continue until he’s ready to talk business. “Not so great,” I say. “The Alzheimer’s is getting worse. We have somebody staying with her now.” My mother was diagnosed several years ago. She spends a part of each day in a state of disorientation. The best we can do is to hope it doesn’t get worse very quickly. Although I make a decent living, a lot of my spare cash goes for my mom’s treatment. Rosie says you know you’re middle-aged when your kids and your parents are depending on you.

  Time for business. “Elaine got there first,” Roosevelt tells me. He was teamed with McBride a couple of months ago and they’re learning each other’s moves. “She’s going to be very good,” he adds. This means a great deal coming from an old warhorse like Roosevelt. He doesn’t pass out compliments readily.

  “I just saw her briefly at the house,” I say. “We didn’t have time to talk.” In reality, I wanted to come see Roosevelt. He may be a homicide inspector, but he’s family. “Besides,” I say, “your feelings would have been hurt if I didn’t come to you first.”

  He chuckles. “I’m too old and cranky to have my feelings hurt about anything.” He gulps the rest of his coffee and wipes his mustache with a napkin. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says. “The walls in this room have ears.”

  We adjourn to the little Greek restaurant across Bryant Street, where we take a booth in the back. This has been Roosevelt’s private office since the McDonald’s down the block put the old cafeteria in the basement of the Hall out of business several years ago. I’m drinking a Diet Coke. Roosevelt nurses a cup of coffee. He asks, “Why the hell are you representing Skipper Gates?”

  Don’t sugarcoat it, Roosevelt. Tell me how you really feel.

  I could give him the standard defense attorney line that every defendant is entitled to competent representation. He won’t respect me if I do. “He called me. He needs a lawyer. He can afford to pay me. I don’t have to love my clients, Roosevelt.”

  “He’s an ass.”

  “He’s no saint, but he’s done some good things. Look at his record on gun control.”