He sighs. “You’re still at it with Rosie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus, Mike, you’ve been divorced for what, five years?”
“Seven.”
“When are you going to start acting like divorced people? Maybe you should get some counseling.”
“We’re doing the best we can, Ramon.”
“I can’t just give you a pass on this.”
“I understand.”
The penalty is lenient. He tells me I have to do my Hail Marys. Then he says he’ll ask around to see if there are any available single women who might be interested in meeting me.
“Thanks, Ramon.” He’s certainly a full-service priest.
I do my penance and we take a seat in the dark wood pews in the third row of the sanctuary. Ramon’s restored church looks better than it did when I was a kid. It was made of painted redwood in an era of Victorian-style construction in northern California. The interior is an example of an architectural style known as Carpenter Gothic, full of geegaws and elaborate fretwork. The ceilings are painted to resemble Gothic stone tracery in a manner called trompe l’oeil. The huge stained-glass window above the altar has been painstakingly restored to its original splendor. The smaller stained-glass windows along the sides of the church were remade from scratch. A new organ sits in the loft behind us.
I look at the ceiling and remember the words of Isaiah that are inscribed at the highest arch of the church: “I have loved, O Lord, the beauty of thy house and the place where thy glory dwelleth.” My mother still recites these words every time she enters this building.
“How are you doing?” Ramon asks me.
“Fair,” I say. “When you’re still sleeping with your ex-wife seven years after your divorce, I think you’d agree that things aren’t perfect.”
“I suppose that’s true enough. I take it you aren’t seeing anyone else?”
“Not at the moment. Rosie and I have gone out with other people from time to time. Nothing has worked out for either of us. Somehow, we end up back with each other. It isn’t a great situation.”
“No, it isn’t.” We sit quietly for a moment and he asks, “Do you ever regret your decision to leave the church?”
“Sometimes. The church has answers for everything. Out there in the real world, there seem to be none. I thought I had a lot more answers twenty years ago.”
“So did I.” He looks at the altar and says, “Life is complicated. You were a good priest.”
“I was a frustrated priest, Ramon. I tried so damned hard. I wanted to make a difference. I thought I was going to help people. By the end, it seemed I couldn’t help anybody.”
“You were too hard on yourself. People have difficult problems. You should have accepted the fact that you couldn’t solve all of them. You took everything personally.”
“How can you not take it personally? That’s what being a priest is all about. That’s why I became so frustrated. I couldn’t solve the problems of my parish. I couldn’t deal with the church politics. There was nothing sacred by the time I left.” I look at him and say, “You’re a good priest.”
“Thanks. I’m a good priest, but I’m a great politician. In fact, I’m more of a politician and a fund-raiser than a priest these days. God’s work takes money. Our parish is poor. Sometimes I feel as if I spend all my time asking for money. It’s just part of the job now.” He reflects for a moment and asks, “Are you happier as a criminal defense attorney?”
“I don’t know. It’s a tough job, too. I still believe that I am doing something important—that what I do really matters. That’s why I do it, Ramon. On the other hand, sometimes I get disillusioned. Most of my clients aren’t nice people. They’re guilty of something. The system is imperfect. The process is unpredictable. Nobody is concerned about serving justice. The prosecutors want to get high conviction statistics. The judges want to keep their calendars moving efficiently.”
“And the defense attorneys?”
I smile. “We’re just trying to get our clients off—or get them the best deal we can. In that respect, this job is a lot easier than my old one.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re still in the business of saving souls. I just try to keep my clients out of jail. In the cases where I manage to succeed, I can turn them over to you to see what you can do about their eternal rewards.”
“I wouldn’t trade places with you.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Now it’s my turn to ask you something. Do you ever regret you’ve stayed in the church?”
“Not for a moment.”
“You could have made a zillion dollars on the Internet.” Ramon has a master’s in electrical engineering from Berkeley.
“I’m not interested.”
“And you don’t ever get the urge to meet an attractive woman and go out on a date?”
“Never.” He winks at me and adds, “Well, almost never.”
“Can I confess to something else? I’m jealous of anybody who has such a passion for his work.”
“You seem to have a passion for yours.”
“I’m still committed to the cause, but I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for it. I used to think I could change the world. Now I just try to get the best result for each client. The system wears you down.”
We sit in silence. Ramon closes his eyes. I look up at the majestic archways at the top of the church. A few minutes later, he turns to me and says, “I presume you came down for something other than to assuage your guilt for the fact that you haven’t been to confession for a year.”
“That’s true.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for information about Johnny Garcia. Do you know anything about him?”
He gives me a circumspect look. “Not a lot. He lived in the neighborhood. After his mother died, he was on the street for a while, but I’m told he’d found a job. I used to see him from time to time on Thursday nights.”
Ramon opens the parish house every Thursday night to feed the homeless. Much to the chagrin of some of the yuppies who are moving into the area, the line often extends down Florida all the way around the corner to Twenty-fifth.
“Did you get to know him well?”
“No. In fact, I’m trying to find out as much as I can about him in the next couple of days. I’ve been asked to officiate at his funeral. It’s going to be here in the church on Friday.”
“I would appreciate any information that you might be able to provide,” I say.
“Sure—I’ll call you. I should know more in the next day or so.”
The following morning, Rosie and I push our way through the throng of reporters at the front steps of the Hall. I look into the nearest camera and deliver my standard lines about the fundamental weaknesses in the prosecution’s case. “We are shocked and dismayed that Mr. McNulty has chosen to pursue these unsubstantiated charges,” I insist. “We expect Mr. Gates to be exonerated.” I turn and walk inside. I’ve never liked playing the shill. Then again, you have to take every opportunity to make points with what’s referred to as the “potential juror pool.”
Ann and Natalie are waiting just inside the door. Natalie is wearing dark glasses and a stoic expression. Ann looks angry. We walk through the metal detectors and head for the fourth floor. Inside the stuffy courtroom, McNulty nods at us. Payne doesn’t acknowledge our presence. Natalie and Ann take seats in the front row of the gallery. Turner Stanford sits next to them. Rosie and I head for the defense table. Skipper is brought in a moment later, clad in an orange jumpsuit.
Most arraignments look more like a cattle charge than a legal proceeding. On a typical day, the defendants and their lawyers sit in the courtroom and wait until they’re called then take turns trotting up to the lectern. Each one enters a plea and heads right back out the door. The fortunate get out on bail. The unlucky return to their cells. The lawyers mill around, waiting to make their thirty-second speeches to the judge. Defense attorneys often ha
ve several cases to plead on the same day. Sometimes it feels as though you’re waiting in line to place an order for a sandwich at the deli counter at Safeway.
Today is unusual. The gallery is filled with reporters instead of defense attorneys. If my guess is right, the back of the house will be empty within two minutes after Skipper enters his plea. Then the customary parade of felons will have the courtroom back to themselves.
Most days don’t start very well for Judge Albert Mandel, a Superior-Court veteran who oversees criminal arraignments and bail hearings. Today is no exception. It’s seventy-five degrees outside and he’s in court instead of on the golf course. He’s also a champion squash player. Thirty years ago, Al Mandel was an up-and-comer at the Jackson law firm. He’s been trying to figure out a way to move to the more grandiose trappings of the federal courts ever since. A member of a prominent San Francisco family and a political conservative, he was appointed to the bench at the age of thirty-six. He had the requisite political connections, but the stars have never lined up his way. His bitterness is reflected in his demeanor. He looks a little like Ross Perot. He acts like him, too. He administers expedient justice from the seat of his pants. He’s known around the Hall as Hanging Al. Skipper’s arraignment won’t take long.
“The People versus Prentice Marshall Gates the Third,” announces Mandel’s bailiff. Arraignments are a news director’s dream. They last only five minutes and they look great on TV The ultimate sound bite. What could be better than a prominent, jumpsuit-clad defendant looking guilty as hell in a packed courtroom before a judge with a Napoleon complex?
Judge Mandel glances at Hillary Payne and then at me. “You aren’t the only people on my dance card this morning,” he snaps. He’s even more abrupt in the afternoon. Payne and I state our names for the record. We agree to waive a formal reading of the charges.
“Mr. Gates,” Mandel says to Skipper in the same condescending tone he uses for pimps, drug dealers and other equally esteemed members of society who pass through his temple of justice each day, “do you understand the charges?” Nobody can accuse Hanging Al of giving Skipper special treatment.
Skipper stands, his six-six frame erect. Although Mandel is sitting on the bench, Skipper is looking at him at eye level. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge looks at his notes. He doesn’t acknowledge the packed courtroom. “On the count of murder in the first degree with special circumstances, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Mandel confers with his clerk. “Preliminary hearing one week from Wednesday on September twenty-second,” he says. He raises his gavel.
“Your Honor,” I say, “we’d like to discuss bail.”
Payne leaps to her feet. She manages to get out the words “Your Honor” before he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.
Judge Mandel takes off his reading glasses and points them in my direction. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “you haven’t had a case before me in quite some time, have you?”
“That’s true.”
“And it appears you haven’t spent a lot of time reading the penal code either, have you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I trust you’ve heard of section twelve seventy-five point five of the California penal code?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And what does it say?”
I knew this was going to happen. “It says that in a capital case, the judge cannot set bail when the proof of guilt is evident or the presumption is great.”
He flashes a sarcastic grin. “That’s right, Mr. Daley.” He puts on his glasses, opens his bench book and begins reading. “Section twelve seventy-five point five says that ‘a defendant charged with an offense punishable with death cannot be admitted to bail when the proof of his or her guilt is evident or the presumption thereof great.’” The glasses come off. “This is a capital case, isn’t it?”
“But, Your Honor,” I say, “the proof is not evident. The judge always has discretion—”
He slams his gavel. “This is a capital case, Mr. Daley. True?”
I try again. “But, Your Honor—”
“True?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” McNulty and Payne are standing at the prosecution table. They should be enjoying this.
“So, Mr. Daley,” Mandel continues, “you know full well I don’t have the authority to set bail in this case, don’t you?”
“Your Honor,” I say, “you do have the authority.”
He holds up his hand. “Don’t you, Mr. Daley?” he repeats. A stream of saliva flies out of his mouth as he spits out my name.
I pause for an instant and then say in my most respectful tone, “The judge always has the discretion, Your Honor. The judge can make an independent determination.”
He gestures with the glasses again. “Duly noted, Mr. Daley. It is my view, however, that your argument was nothing more than a waste of this court’s time. I’ll say it again for the record. No bail. The preliminary hearing will be on September twenty-second. We’re done.” He practically knocks the head off the gavel when he slams it on the little wooden base.
“That didn’t go very well, did it?” Skipper says when we return to the consultation room behind Mandel’s courtroom. Ann has joined us to give him moral support and to begin the second-guessing of my ability as a lawyer. Rosie stands by the door.
“You knew he wouldn’t grant bail,” I reply. “It’s a capital case and it’s bad politics.”
Ann says, “He could have found a way if he wanted to.”
Thanks, Ann.
“I’m losing too much time,” Skipper says. He stares at the drab walls. “I’m going to need more firepower for this case.”
“Look, Skipper,” I say, “if you want to hire somebody else, it’s fine with me. We’ll substitute in anybody you’d like.” And we’ll cheerfully refund your money right after Rosie is finished ripping my internal organs out with her bare hands.
“No,” he says, “we’ll need you if this thing goes to trial.”
This is a positive sign. At least he recognizes the realistic possibility that the case will move forward.
He regains his composure. “I want to bring somebody else in,” he says. “I need somebody to get this resolved before things get out of control.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“I’m going to set up a meeting with Ed Molinari.”
Hell. “Fast Eddie” Molinari is a local institution. He’s lived in North Beach his entire life. His ancestors were among the early merchants in San Francisco and his family is well connected. He’s in his late fifties and started his career as a small-time personal injury attorney. Then he made a name for himself when he was one of the first lawyers to file class-action lawsuits on behalf of individuals who were exposed to asbestos. It’s lucrative work. Some people think such cases are just a form of organized extortion. Guys like Fast Eddie milk the system until the insurance companies agree to settle. Then the lawyers collect big fees and the victims get what’s left. Fast Eddie pulls down seven figures a year.
When he isn’t shaking down the insurance companies, he handles criminal defense matters from time to time. He gained some notoriety twenty years ago when he defended a member of a Chinatown gang who was accused of participating in a shoot-out in a restaurant on Grant Avenue. The other gang members got jail time. Fast Eddie’s client walked. To this day, some people think Fast Eddie was able to put in the fix with the judge. His client ended up at San Quentin on other charges.
“Skipper,” I say, “Ed hasn’t handled a criminal trial in a long time.”
“He’s smart. He’s tenacious. He’s good at strategy.”
He’s a self-centered, egotistical asshole. We worked on a case together about fifteen years ago, when I was a PD. He handled a death penalty appeal for a case I had tried and lost. The guy was guilty as hell. He had kidnapped and raped two high school girls and then stabbed them to death with an ice pick. He rejected my recommendati
on that he accept a plea bargain. Fast Eddie was brought in at the last minute. He lost the appeal. It was the only time I’ve ever had to watch a client die. Fast Eddie went on TV and blamed me. I learned an important lesson from that case: I will never give another attorney the authority to make strategy decisions in a death penalty case.
Skipper’s eyes narrow. “Make the phone call. Set up the meeting.”
“Christ—Fast Eddie, of all people,” I say to Rosie as we’re driving back to the office.
“Skipper is pissed off because he didn’t get bail.”
“Mandel was never going to grant bail. It’s a capital case. He knows that.”
“He figured the judge would make an exception.”
“Why’s that?”
Rosie smiles and says, “Because he’s Skipper Fucking Gates.”
“I’m not sure I recall seeing that exception anywhere in the penal code.”
Rosie pauses to reflect and says, “He’s scared, Mike.”
“I know. I’d be scared if I were in his shoes.”
“And what do we do about Molinari?”
“Deal with it,” I say. “We have no choice.”
Pete is triumphant. “I won my bet,” he says to me as we’re sitting in my office a short time later.
“Your bet?”
“With Dave Evans. The uptight security guy at the Fairmont. I bet him that he wouldn’t find me in their security videos. I just talked to him. He owes me dinner.”
“Congratulations. Did you have a chance to look at the videotapes?”
“Briefly.”
“And?”
“Skipper was there that night.”
“Tell me what I don’t know. Who else did you see?”
He rattles off the names of Natalie, Ann, Turner. “And Dan Morris,” he adds.
“So?” I ask.
“So what?”
“Did you find Johnny Garcia in the videotapes?”
“I figured you were going to ask me that.”
“What’s the answer?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
“Dinner next door. What’s the answer?”
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