MD02 - Incriminating Evidence

by Sheldon Siegel

  We look at each other and we stop cold.

  I’m in my office when the phone rings a little while later. “That was a very interesting discovery you made about the two prostitutes,” Roosevelt says.

  “That’s true.”

  “It still doesn’t explain the pictures of the prostitutes that we found in his desk.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” I pause. “Roosevelt,” I say, “why didn’t you tell me Andy Holton was at the hotel that night? We found him in the security videos.”

  “We weren’t sure it was him.”

  I believe him. I don’t think Roosevelt would sandbag me. I’m not so sure about his partner, though. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Silence. “No,” he says. Then he clears his throat and goes on. “I want to ask you a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “It is possible that your little stunt on the Jade Warner show may make victims of abuse more reluctant to come forward. I would ask you to soft-pedal this a little, Mike. For those of us who are in the trenches every day, I don’t want to set the cause back twenty years.”

  His point is well taken. “You have my word, Roosevelt.”

  “Thanks. There’s one other thing I wanted to mention,” he says. “One of our men thought he saw Andy Holton not far from the Mission Youth Center yesterday. We’re checking it out.”

  “We’ll do the same.” I pause. “Roosevelt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  My phone rings again. “Mike, it’s Ernie Clemente. Can you meet me down at my office at the center around eleven o’clock tonight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Come by yourself, okay? And use the side entrance.”

  “Sure.” My heart is pounding. “What’s up?”

  “There’s somebody who wants to talk to you.”

  20

  “HE’S GOING TO NEED PROTECTION”

  “In local news, the daughter of District Attorney Prentice Marshall Gates the Third is threatening legal action against two women who accused her father of soliciting sexual favors.”

  —KGO RADIO. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 9:30 P.M.

  A single lightbulb illuminates the alley that leads to the side entrance of the Mission Youth Center at eleven o’clock. There’s nobody around. I approach the heavy steel door to the kitchen. I can hear Ernie Clemente’s voice inside. Just as I’m about to knock, the talking stops and the door opens. Ernie looks grim. “Come in,” he says.

  The kitchen smells like cleaning solvent. “Did you find Andy Holton?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” He escorts me to a table just inside the large dining room where Kevin Anderson is sitting. The mayor’s little helper is dressed in blue jeans and a maroon sweater. His face is serious. The only illumination comes from the night-light in the kitchen. I can make out the long steel tables and the trays stacked by the door.

  I remain silent. I want them to make the first move.

  Ernie takes the lead. “I got another call from Andy,” he says.

  “When?”

  “At eight o’clock.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Nearby. That’s all I know; he wouldn’t say where. He’s scared. He said he was at the Fairmont the night Johnny died, but he doesn’t know what to do. He’s afraid the police will arrest him.”

  I remind him that they’ve already arrested Skipper.

  “I understand. But he can’t afford a lawyer and he’s afraid they’ll haul him in on drug charges.”

  They will. I look at Anderson. “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “He called me right after he talked to Ernie. I told him the cops wanted to talk to him and I promised him I’d find him a lawyer. Then I called Ernie.”

  “Andy needs a lawyer,” Ernie says. “You’re the first one who came to mind.”

  “That’s fine, except I’m representing Skipper. If Holton was involved in Garcia’s death, I have a conflict of interest. I can’t represent him.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” Ernie replies, “but I was hoping that at least you’d talk to him and convince him to talk to the police. I couldn’t. Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “I gave him my word I wouldn’t.”

  “You know other defense attorneys.”

  “You’re the only one I trust.”

  Great. I stop to think for a moment. Criminal defense attorneys face this unpleasant dilemma all the time. As far as I know, Holton is not a suspect in Johnny Garcia’s murder. On the other hand, he is a material witness in Skipper’s case. If I find him and I don’t tell the cops, I could open myself up to a charge of obstruction of justice—not a pleasant thought. In addition, the cops will claim that they want to talk to him about his alleged drug dealings, which means he may be charged with one or more felonies. If I don’t talk to him, I’ll be guilty of not vigorously pursuing a material witness in Skipper’s case. No matter what I do, I’m going to have a problem. There can be a fine line between fulfilling your obligations under the California Rules of Professional Conduct and harboring a fugitive. “I’ll talk to him,” I say, “but I won’t represent him. And we may need him to be a witness at Skipper’s trial.”

  Anderson shakes his head and says, “He’ll never go for it.”

  “We saw him in the Fairmont security tapes at three in the morning. He must have been there for a reason.”

  Anderson frowns. “He said he took Johnny to the Fairmont that night. Johnny was working for Andy.”

  “Andy was his pimp?”

  “Yeah.”

  What? Anderson never mentioned this before. This confirms my suspicions about the relationship between Garcia and Holton. It also confirms my suspicions about Anderson—the sleazy bastard. If he’s known about it all along, what else has he been holding back? After all the silence and evasion, he’s become strangely forthcoming. I need to know why. It’s time to press him further. “How long have you known about this?”

  He answers too quickly. “I just found out about it tonight,” he says.

  Bullshit. “What was he doing at the Fairmont at that hour?”

  “He had arranged to pick up Johnny at three A.M. and take him home.”

  And collect his cut. “What happened?”

  “He went upstairs and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he left. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.”

  “He never got into the room?”

  “No.”

  So he says. “Did he know if Garcia was still alive?”

  “He told me there was no answer,” he repeats.

  On the other hand, Holton could have gone into the room, found Skipper and Garcia unconscious and killed Garcia, leaving Skipper to take the blame. But why would he kill Garcia? “Kevin, you told me the other night that Holton and Garcia were fighting.”

  “That’s true.”

  “What were they fighting about?” I’m sure it wasn’t the room and the rent.

  He’s hesitant. “I’m not sure.”

  “Was Garcia taking Holton’s action? Did he stiff his pimp?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was Holton mad enough at Johnny Garcia to kill him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The hell he doesn’t. I’m sure there was a lot more between them than he’s letting on, but he’s a slippery character. I ask why Holton called him; after all, he was Johnny Garcia’s social worker, not Andy’s. But no surprise—I get more of the same. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I guess because he knew me a little through Johnny and he knows I have connections.”

  That he does. I’m certain there’s more to it than that, but I decide to save it for later—I’m not going to get any more from him tonight. I turn to Ernie. “I’ve got to talk to Holton,” I say.

  “And he wants to talk to you. But it has to be confidential.”

  “I can’t make any promises,” I say.

  �
�He’s supposed to call me back at midnight about a lawyer,” Anderson says. “He wants to set up a meeting. I’ll tell him to call you; give me your cell phone number. He’ll expect you to come alone. And he’s going to need protection.”

  That’s for sure. I go home and wait for the phone to ring. It doesn’t.

  21

  “YOU AREN’T HEARING THIS FROM ME”

  “Evidence against district attorney continues to mount.”

  —SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25.

  Rosie is sitting in my office the next morning. “Did you hear from Andy Holton?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” I say. I reflect for a moment and add, “But I did hear from Kevin Anderson again. He called a little while ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe he’s worried because he erased the messages from Garcia. It looks suspicious, and he must realize we’ll call him as a witness to explain it at the trial. He hadn’t heard from Holton. He’s persistent all of a sudden. It seems to me he’s fishing. At first he didn’t want to talk to us at all—now he wants to know everything.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Rosie says. “He’s always trying to sound so virtuous. It’s hard to mix this with the rest of him. When you cut through it, he’s still a rich guy who spends a lot of time sucking up to the mayor and pushing his father’s development projects. Not my type. I like people who really mean it—guys like Ernie and Ramon.”

  So do I. I’ve never dealt well with sanctimony. Pete saunters in, wearing a bomber jacket. He looks at the enlarged crime-scene photos propped up against the walls of my office and says, “We went through the security videos again. We noticed a couple of unusual things this time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Dan Morris and Jason Parnelli left at one-thirty.”

  I’ll be damned. “They said they left right after the meeting broke up at twelve-thirty. Did they show up in the video at twelve-thirty?”

  “No. They lied.”

  So they did. “What the hell were they doing up there for another hour?”

  “We’ll find out. And there’s something else,” he adds. “Turner came back to the hotel at three twenty-five in the morning.”

  “Turner? He came back? Did he go upstairs?”

  “I would presume he did. The video showed him heading for the elevators. We spotted him heading back out the door ten minutes later.”

  I wonder how Turner’s presence at the Fairmont ties to the fact that there was a phone call to him from Skipper’s cell phone at one-twenty. “Anything else?” I ask.

  “Maybe. I’ve had somebody watching your buddy Dan Morris for the last few days.”

  I think we’re wasting our time watching Morris, but Skipper insisted on it. I suspect he’s hoping we’ll find something that will embarrass—or, better yet, humiliate—Morris. In San Francisco politics, grudges, revenge and retribution frequently play a much larger role than garden-variety issues such as the economy, transportation and the homeless problem. “And how is our favorite attack dog?” I ask.

  “He’s great. Looks like his candidate for attorney general is going to win, and it seems that he may be getting ready to begin working on another campaign.” He says a member of the Board of Supervisors has been spending a lot of time at Morris’s office. In and of itself, this isn’t news. Morris is a political consultant. The fact that a local official has come to see him is hardly noteworthy. Then again, like it or not, over the years I have learned that my brother is going to tell his stories at his own pace. When you make your living as a PI, you don’t have many opportunities to be the center of attention.

  I play along. “How interesting,” I say. “And which board member would that be?”

  “That would be Ann Gates.”

  This is getting interesting.

  “There’s a little more to the story,” he continues. “My associate was watching Dan’s house last night. You’ll never guess who came over around eleven-thirty.”

  “The mayor?”

  “Nope.” He gives me a sly grin. “Ann.”

  “Really? And may I ask when she left?”

  “About nine o’clock this morning.”

  Rosie cuts to the chase and asks, “Is Ann boinking Dan Morris?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You aren’t mistaken, are you?” I ask.

  “I don’t make mistakes about that sort of thing.”

  Rosie glances at me and says, “Fascinating. It gives new meaning to the concept of sleeping with the enemy.”

  “You have to help us, Skipper,” I say. Rosie, Molinari and I are in the consultation room at the Hall at nine o’clock Sunday morning.

  “Mike’s right,” Ed says. “We need some plausible explanation. They’re going to say you drugged Johnny Garcia. You have to give us something more than ‘I don’t know.’”

  Skipper remains defiant. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I didn’t do it.”

  I point out that the records showed that two outside calls were made to Kevin Anderson from the phone in his room. “If you didn’t make the calls,” I say, “who did?”

  “It must have been Garcia.”

  “Bullshit. He was unconscious. He was doped up with GHB.”

  Skipper doesn’t reply. I ask him whether he called Turner on his cell phone.

  “Yes. I wanted to talk to him about scheduling for the debates.”

  “At one o’clock in the morning?”

  “He had just left. I knew he hadn’t gone to sleep yet.”

  “Turner came back to the hotel at three twenty-five in the morning.”

  “He did?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know why he was there?”

  “No. Ask him.”

  I drum my fingers on the table. I look at Molinari, who nods to me. “There’s one other thing we need to talk about,” I say. “It involves your daughter.”

  Skipper’s eyes light up. “What about her?”

  “It seems she’s been spending some time with Dan Morris.”

  He’s indignant. “You had my daughter followed?”

  “We had Morris followed.” I add, “You told us to watch him, Skipper. Ann has been meeting with him at his office every day this week.”

  “She’s thinking about running for mayor next year,” he says.

  “I know. Last night, she went to his house.” I look right at him. “She spent the night.”

  He stops for a moment. Then he says, “They’re adults. Ann is divorced. They’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “It’s bad form,” Ed says. “And it doesn’t help our case.”

  “Skipper,” I say, “you told me when I took this case that you wanted me to be completely open with you. I have to ask. Is Ann on our side?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “She’s family. She’s on my side.” He swallows hard and adds, “I’ll talk to her about it, but I don’t want you to say anything to her. Her private life is none of your business.”

  “It is now,” Rosie says.

  “You aren’t hearing this from me,” Tony says to Rosie and me. I’m sitting on the counter at the produce market later the same afternoon. Rosie is showing Grace how to work Tony’s cash register. Grace loves being here. There’s always something interesting for her to do.

  “We understand,” Rosie says. “What did you find out?”

  “Remember Hector Ramirez, the guy you met in the projects who lived at Johnny Garcia’s address? He was in today. He’s a delivery guy for my main wholesaler. He’s been working in the neighborhood for a long time. He knows everybody. He’s tuned in and, for lack of a better term, he’s a bit of a gossip. I figured it was worth asking him about Andy Holton.”

  Rosie asks, “Did Ramirez know him?”

  “Yes, but not well.”

  I ask where he met Holton.

  “Hector met him when Holton was working at the Pa
ncho Villa. Hector makes deliveries to the restaurant.”

  As far as I can tell, the fact that Ramirez knew Holton has nothing to do with Skipper’s case. I ask Tony whether there is any possible connection.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just telling you what he said. Holton was an operator. He was looking for money to fund a new business. He asked Hector about it.”

  That’s odd. “Tony,” I say, “I know you and Hector are friends, but he’s a driver for a produce business. He lives in the projects. Why would Holton think Hector might be a funding source?”

  “Because his boss is Donald Martinez. He has a lot of money.”

  I’ll say. Everybody knows about Donald Martinez. On a given day, you’ll find his name in the paper for any number of reasons. He runs one of the biggest produce wholesalers in the city and owns a majority interest in a large construction contracting firm. He has a lot of pull downtown. He’s in tight with the mayor. He is also the head of the Mission Redevelopment Fund, a local nonprofit that provides start-up capital to neighborhood businesses. Still, it seems unlikely to me. “I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would a player like Martinez invest in a business run by a pimp like Andy Holton? And why would Holton think Hector could help him? He’s just a low-level guy.”

  “The way he figured, Holton was looking for an introduction to Martinez—any introduction. Hector knew it was a long shot, but he’s been working for Martinez for a long time and he’s smart—he knows a lot about his operation. I guess Holton picked up on that. Martinez likes to pretend he’s still one of the guys from the neighborhood. He lets it be known that he spends some time every week down at the loading dock with the drivers—he takes great pride in it. It’s all for show, but he does know most of his employees by name, including Hector. It’s damn near impossible to get a small-business loan from a bank in this part of town, and Martinez has provided the community with an alternate source of funds. For a guy like Holton, it must have seemed worth a try.”