MD02 - Incriminating Evidence

by Sheldon Siegel

  The emergency room is like a giant assembly line. Even at this hour, it’s busy. A young resident named Dr. Chu takes a close look at the golf-ball-sized bump on the back of my head right away. She says it looks like a concussion, but orders an X ray and a CAT scan to check for fractures or brain injury. In an abundance of caution, she decides to admit me for twenty-four hours of observation. She tells me that I should try to stay awake for a few hours to reduce the possibility that I will slip into a coma. She lacks a certain degree of bedside manner, but she seems to know what she’s talking about.

  I’m escorted back to the waiting area until the CAT scan equipment becomes available. It is depressing to watch shooting victims and unconscious drug overdoses being wheeled past me. I take a seat between Pete and Rosie. Tony’s across from me. I recall sitting in almost the same spot over thirty years ago, when my dad got shot in the leg. Cops get the royal treatment. My mom was stoic. I’ll never forget the look on her face.

  Pete scans an ancient copy of Cosmo. Tony leans his head back and tries to sleep. Rosie is talking to her mom on her cell phone. She’s staying at Rosie’s house with Grace. “Mike is okay,” she says. “Don’t wake up Grace. I don’t know when I’ll be home.” After she switches off the phone, she turns to me and says, “So we found Andy Holton.”

  “Yep. Too late—he’s terminally dead.”

  Pete interjects, “You’d be dead, too, if Rosie and Tony hadn’t been there.”

  I glance at Tony, who is dozing in his chair. “I’ll have to thank him when he wakes up,” I say.

  Rosie asks me, “How’s your head now?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You damn well better be.” She leans over and whispers in my ear, “This isn’t going to interfere with your performance in bed, is it?”

  I can’t help myself and I start to laugh. It makes my head hurt even more. “No, Rosie. The guy hit me in the head. I should function fine elsewhere.”

  “That’s good,” she says. She considers for a moment and asks, “Doesn’t that depend on which head he hit?”

  I’m caked in dirt. My clothes stink. I’m sitting in the emergency room of one of the biggest public hospitals in the country. I won’t be able to get an X ray or a CAT scan for at least another hour because they have too many other patients with more serious injuries. And I’m laughing so hard, my head throbs.

  I’m resting in my double room on the third floor of the south wing of San Francisco General later that day. I’m doing better than the man in the next bed, who had a bullet removed from his right leg earlier. I’ve taken a shower and I’m wearing my Cal sweats. Rosie brought them over. I’m watching TV with the sound turned off. Things could be worse. My head is still throbbing, but the aches in the other parts of my body are starting to subside. I’ve been given enough Advil to dull the pain a little. I took a nap, but they want me to stay awake most of the time. A nurse comes in every twenty minutes to poke me or take some blood. Dr. Chu assured me that I’ll get to go home tomorrow.

  Rosie hasn’t left. She’s on the phone with Grace at the moment. “Yes, sweetie,” she’s saying. “I’ll be home later tonight. Daddy gets to come home tomorrow. You’ll have to be good and do what Grandma says, okay?” She says “Uh-huh” a couple of times and smiles. Then she turns to me and says, “I just promised her that we’d buy her that fancy new bike for being such a good girl while Daddy was in the hospital.”

  Sounds fine to me. Give Grace credit. She knows when to hit us up. In my current condition, I would have agreed to buy her a new Ferrari.

  A little later, we watch the early evening news. The jovial anchorman reports that a young man named Andrew Holton was found dead of an apparent overdose at the Hotel Royan. “In what may be a related matter,” he says, “Attorney Michael Daley was attacked at the same hotel.” My smiling face pops up just behind him. I look a lot better on TV than I feel in person. He tosses the ball to a reporter who is standing under the marquee of the Royan.

  I turn off the tube. My head is starting to ache again. I look at Rosie. “Did you talk to Roosevelt again?” I ask.

  She tugs at her hair, which is hanging down to her shoulders. She’s had a long eighteen hours, too. I may be doped up, but I recognize her for what she is—the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. “Yes,” she says. “He called while you were asleep. Rod Beckert did the autopsy on Holton. He died of a heroin overdose.”

  “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “Nope. They haven’t ruled out foul play entirely, but he definitely died of an overdose.”

  “And the guy who hit me?”

  “Nothing. They talked to everybody at the Royan. Nobody saw anything.”

  This doesn’t surprise me. Most of the residents of the Royan are involved in drugs in one way or another. It is unlikely that any of them would want to become involved in a police investigation. We’re back to square one.

  24

  “MOTHER IS VERY UPSET”

  “Police continue investigation of attack on attorney at Mission hotel.”

  —NEWS CENTER 4. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29.

  We regroup first thing Wednesday morning in the martial arts studio. It’s September twenty-ninth—less than two weeks until we begin jury selection. I’ve asked Ann and Turner to come in for a debriefing on the events at the Royan. Molinari is pacing. Rosie is sitting with her arms folded. After I describe the events that led up to my discovery of Andy Holton’s body, Ann and Turner waste no time berating us. They tell us that Skipper and Natalie are both upset at not having been told about our hearing from Holton. Then they get to the real point—our competence. Turner says Skipper is thinking about making a change. He doesn’t think we’re being aggressive enough.

  Support comes from an unexpected source. “It’s not as if Mike killed Holton,” Molinari says. “He was just trying to do something that might have helped.”

  Especially if Holton hadn’t been dead and I hadn’t been knocked unconscious.

  Ann is unimpressed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us he had called you?”

  “He asked me to keep it confidential,” I reply. “I simply wanted to try to talk to him.”

  Turner picks up on Ann’s statement. It’s obvious they’ve discussed this and rehearsed their lines. “Skipper wants Ed to play a bigger role in the defense,” he says. “He doesn’t like the direction the case is taking.”

  Rosie lights up. “And what, pray tell, would you have done differently?” she snaps.

  They exchange uncomfortable glances. Turner says, “Skipper wants Ed to take the lead.”

  I don’t respond. I have already taken a physical beating. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me take an emotional one as well.

  Turner says that I will sit first chair at the trial and Molinari will act as Keenan counsel as before. However, all decisions on strategy will run through Ed. In other words, I’ll get to try the case, but Molinari gets to pull the strings.

  “And if that’s not acceptable to us?” I ask.

  Ann doesn’t hesitate. “Father will terminate your services immediately.”

  Rosie looks straight at Ann and sets her jaw. “If that’s the way our client wants it, that’s the way we’ll play it.”

  I begin to interrupt, and she holds up her hand. “If that’s the way our client wants it,” she repeats, “that’s the way it will be.”

  Ann is triumphant. She looks at Ed, Rosie and then me in turn and says, “There is something else. I want to be kept fully informed of all developments in Father’s case. I don’t want to hear about anything on the news. I don’t want to get phone calls from the press about something I haven’t been told about. Above all, I don’t want to have to explain to Mother that she wasn’t kept fully apprised. Understood?”

  We nod in unison.

  “I expect you to call on Mother this afternoon to straighten this mess out.”

  My turn. “Ann, there’s something we need to ask you about.”

  �
��What?”

  I keep my face impassive and I say, “We’ve been keeping a close eye on Dan Morris. While we were watching him, we couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been spending some time together.”

  She tenses. “It’s just business.”

  “Really? What type of business? Political or personal?”

  She’s annoyed. “I’m thinking about running for mayor in the next election. That shouldn’t be a great news flash. I went to ask Dan if he might be interested in helping me with my campaign.”

  “You realize that he may be a key witness in your father’s trial and may conceivably be considered a suspect.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Yet you’re thinking of hiring him as your campaign manager?”

  Icy stare. “I’m considering it. It’s business,” she repeats. “It’s politics. Father understands.”

  “Ann, are you and Dan involved?” I ask.

  “Involved?”

  “Romantically. Are you and Dan seeing each other socially?”

  “I won’t dignify that question with an answer,” she says.

  I won’t let it go this time. “If we are going to defend your father, we need to understand all the facts surrounding his case. We need to know if you’re involved with Dan Morris. Our private investigator has seen the two of you together at his house.”

  She fires back, “And what would that have to do with Father’s case?”

  “Maybe nothing. But it is widely known that Dan and your father had a falling-out.”

  Her creamy skin reddens. Her lips purse. “I’ve known Dan for many years,” she says. “We enjoy each other’s company. We’re seeing each other. Are you happy?”

  “Thank you, Ann. You might try to be discreet about your relationship until the trial is over.”

  She stalks out of the room. Turner follows.

  After she’s gone, Fast Eddie unwraps a cigar and holds it like a trophy. “I thought Ann’s reaction to your question about Dan Morris was pretty interesting,” he says. He seems to be enjoying this.

  “It’s hard to figure out what game she’s playing,” I say. “I don’t think she’s capable of loyalty to anyone but herself. The only thing that seems to drive her is ambition. You don’t really think she’d set up her own father, do you?”

  He gestures with the cigar. “She used to admire him. Now she hates him. She didn’t like the way he handled her divorce. She resents the way he’s cheated on her mother. She thinks he’s a hypocrite and a liar.”

  “You seem to know her pretty well,” I say.

  “I’ve known her for a long time,” he says. “We were involved for a few months.”

  Add yet another notch to Ed’s list of conquests. The fact that he was sleeping with Skipper’s daughter doesn’t seem to faze him.

  “It didn’t last very long,” he adds. “No chemistry.”

  I can see that. There was a chance for a nuclear meltdown. “Come on, Ed,” I say. “It’s hard to imagine she was involved in Garcia’s death. It would have been impossible for her to orchestrate, and there’s no evidence she returned to the Fairmont that night. And he is her father, after all.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. He pauses and adds, “Listen, do me a favor. Don’t talk to any more witnesses without telling me first, okay?”

  Join the chorus, Ed. “No problem,” I say.

  “And while you’re at it, try not to get yourself killed.”

  Thanks. That’s very sound advice.

  “You don’t look good,” Rosie says to me after Ed leaves.

  “I don’t feel good.”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yeah, along with my ego. I hate the idea of Fast Eddie taking over the lead in this case.”

  “Clients change their minds all the time,” Rosie says.

  “It’s a mistake to do it so close to the beginning of trial.” Then I add, “It’s a mistake to let Ed Molinari run this case.”

  She leans back. “I didn’t think we had any choice if we wanted to stay in the case.”

  “We didn’t.”

  “You do want to stay in the case, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” I look at the picture of Grace on Rosie’s desk. I’ve taken abuse from our client, his daughter and our co-counsel. I’ve been physically and emotionally attacked. Yet I do accept that when you’re this close to trial, you cannot afford to start second-guessing your decision to accept a case. This isn’t the time for questions like that. Or for others that I find I ask myself more often as I get older. Like why am I doing this at all? When I decided to become a lawyer, I had all the familiar motivations that come with being young and sure you can make an impact. I guess I still carried a lot of the baggage that had brought me to the seminary. I’d wanted to be a good priest and I wanted to be a good lawyer—justice and all that. I know “the system” has become a mocking word, but I believed in it. I suppose I still do, but it’s hard to keep that up when you have to deal every day with all the grief and corruption around you. I want to do a good job, but I’m so tired a lot of the time. I think I’ve forgotten how to have fun. I wish I had more time for Grace. I wish I knew how to fall in love. I wish—hell, I wish I knew how to be happy. I look at Rosie, beautiful Rosie, and wonder yet again why I—we—couldn’t make it work.

  And then I shake myself back to reality. This is not the time to tear myself apart. I’ve got a client who’s relying on me for the outcome. That’s my job. Doing a good job comes with the territory, and I chose the territory. I turn to Rosie and say, “We’re taking this to the finish line.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Yeah. We owe it to Skipper. Anyway, it’s too late to bring in another trial lawyer.”

  “It’s never too late,” she points out. “The judge would grant a continuance. This isn’t about our client. This is about you.”

  She’s right. But I’ve got my pride and it’s right up front. “If we quit, they’ll win,” I say. “I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

  She knows me. “You shouldn’t put your pride above the interests of our client.”

  I don’t answer for a moment. “If I didn’t think I was the best person to try this case,” I say, “then I would let them bring in somebody else. I am the right person. I’m going the distance.” Then I add, “And it isn’t only pride, Rosie. I’m stubborn. There’s a difference.”

  She smiles at me.

  “And when this is all done,” I say, “I think we should take some time off.”

  “Agreed.” She always knows where I’ve been.

  We return to the matters at hand. “Ann was in full force, wasn’t she?” Rosie says.

  “Par for the course,” I reply. “We work our tails off, go chasing all over town trying to find witnesses, get smacked on the head and end up in the hospital. You didn’t expect her to thank us, did you?”

  “I noticed you didn’t mention anything about Andy Holton and his Internet porn business,” Rosie says.

  “I’ll get in trouble for that, too. Pete’s checking out Donald Martinez. If he finds something, we’ll tell them about it. If he doesn’t, we won’t.”

  “You’re protecting Tony, aren’t you?”

  “Damn right. He did us a favor by giving us the information. He was there when I went to find Andy Holton. It’s the least I can do.”

  “You’re a good man, Michael Daley,” she tells me.

  We pay our promised visit to Natalie at two o’clock. Her servant shows us to the living room. She’s becoming more remote as the case moves forward. Today, I see the screen on her laptop is on. She turns around to greet us, saying she monitors the progress of the case on the Internet. I realize this may be less brutal than facing the newspaper stories or the television set every day. She keeps up with her charity work that way, too. This seems to be how she connects with the outside world. Turner has joined us. He’s standing by the windows. To his credit, he has been spending a l
ot of time at Natalie’s house, giving her moral support. I suspect a lot of her friends have vanished.

  “Thank you for coming,” Natalie says, courteous as always. She asks how I am feeling. I tell her I’m on the mend. Truthfully, my head still feels like it is going to split in two.

  “Natalie,” I say, “we wanted to assure you that we will keep you fully informed of developments in Skipper’s case.”

  “I need to know you will keep your promises,” she answers. “An important witness is dead. I wasn’t informed that you had heard from him until after the fact. I don’t want that to happen again.”

  “It won’t.”

  She sighs. “It keeps getting worse. They keep reporting these terrible lies about Prentice. Surely, there must be something you can do to stop them.”

  I sense this is the real reason she wanted to see us, but the truthful answer is we can’t. “I know how distressing they are,” I say, “but the most urgent priority is to continue to prepare for trial. I wish we could stop them, but that’s beyond our control.”

  Rosie decides to push in a different direction. “Natalie,” she says, “is it possible that somebody could have gotten into Skipper’s study?”

  She pauses. “The room is at the back of the house. It would have been very difficult for anyone other than the servants to get in.” This jibes with what Skipper’s told us.

  “But not impossible, right?” Rosie persists.

  “Yes,” she says reluctantly.

  Turner is annoyed. “What is this leading to, Rosie?” he asks.

  “We may need Natalie to testify that somebody may have had access to the study. It may be the only way to establish a credible argument that somebody planted the photos and the magazines there.”

  “Why Natalie?”

  “Because she would be a very sympathetic witness,” I interject. I leave out the fact that she would be a much more sympathetic witness than Skipper, the other possible choice. He isn’t going up on the stand unless things are hopeless.