“He didn’t mention the gun that they found under Jones’s body. Why not?”
“It would help our argument that Johnny acted in self-defense.”
“You sure they found a gun under the body?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “You okay, Mike?”
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’ as in you’re okay, or ‘fine’ as in your life is a mess, but you’re dealing with it.”
“It’s a mess.”
“Thought so. Where are you now?”
“Luca’s office. I’m going to talk to Johnny.”
18
“IT WAS A MISTAKE”
Johnny owned up right away. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have looked at my body cam footage before I gave my statement.”
“Things happen,” I said.
“This shouldn’t have happened.”
No, it shouldn’t have.
At nine-forty-five on Wednesday night, we were sitting on opposite sides of a metal table in a consultation room on the seventh floor of the Hall. The blue eyes of the gifted athlete were glassy. It had been a humbling day.
I kept my voice modulated. “You must have known that they can check every login.”
“I know. I panicked.”
Bad move. Every San Francisco police officer is issued an Axon Body 2 HD camera. It’s a popular model used by many police departments. The officer activates the camera by pressing a button. At the end of a shift, the officer uploads the video to a secure server on the cloud. Once it’s uploaded, every view is recorded.
I put my hands on the table. “You have to tell me the absolute truth about everything. It’s my only non-negotiable rule. If you lie, I’m out. Understood?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to believe him. “Take me through it again. When did you turn on your body cam?”
“As I was walking to Jones’s car.” He said that he turned it off when he went back to his unit to check on Jones’s license and registration. “I turned it back on when I approached Jones’s car the second time.” Johnny said that the cam was recording when Jones opened the door, knocked him over, and started to run. “It was on when I pursued him across the plaza and up Fillmore. And it was still on when I turned onto Geary and saw Jones climb over the gate and into the parking lot. The camera came off when I climbed over the gate.”
“So we should be able to see everything that happened up to that point?”
“Yes.”
“But there isn’t any footage after you got into the lot?”
“Correct.”
I needed to see the video. “You told me that Jones had a gun.”
“He did. It was in his hand when he got out of the car.”
“Was it still in his hand when he ran up Fillmore?”
“Yes.”
“And when you cornered him behind the postal van?”
He waited a half-beat. “No.”
“Where was it?”
“It must have been in his pocket.”
“When did he put it in his pocket?”
“I don’t know for sure. Probably before he climbed over the gate.”
“So we should be able to see it in the video when he got out of the car and when he was running up Fillmore.”
He hesitated. “I think so. He was a half-block ahead of me and it was dark.”
“You watched the video, right?”
“Right.”
“Could you see a gun or not?”
“I think so. I don’t know for sure.”
I didn’t like the equivocation. “He had a gun, right?”
“Right. We found it under his body.”
We needed to see the videos as soon as possible. “They’re saying that Jones’s hands were up when you shot him.”
“He was reaching for a gun.”
“There seems to be a disagreement.”
“I shot him in self-defense, Mike.”
It sounded a little forced. “I need to get back to the office. I’ll see you in the morning.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The rain hit my face as I was walking down the steps of the Hall at ten o’clock on Wednesday night. I pulled up my collar and trudged toward the street. Then I heard the familiar smoker’s hack behind me.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mr. Daley.”
I turned around and looked at the leathery face of the Chronicle’s long-time crime reporter and political columnist. Jerry Edwards had been stalking the corridors of the Hall for longer than I had been a lawyer. He was a student at Cal when my older brother, Tommy, was the quarterback. Edwards went on to a long and occasionally stellar career as the Chronicle’s resident muckraker.
“Good to see you, Jerry,” I lied.
“Same here.”
Right. “I don’t have time to talk.”
“I would appreciate just a moment.”
He was being uncharacteristically solicitous. Then again, the pit bull could appear at any time. “How’d you find me?”
“Reporter’s instinct.”
His were fine-tuned. “I figured you’d be over in the Fillmore.”
“I was. The TV stations are getting footage of the cops and protesters yelling at each other. Lots of broken windows and overturned cars. The usual sound bites about police brutality and a broken system. You’ll see it on cable tonight.”
“You aren’t interested in free expression?”
“I am, but I don’t have anything to add, and I’d rather not stand out in the rain.”
“How bad was it?”
“Pretty bad. About a dozen arrests so far. A couple of people were stabbed. Last I heard, nobody died, but that might have changed. I’m a Cal guy like you. I’m all for free speech, but I don’t understand how burning cars moves us in a positive direction.”
“Neither do I. It’s good for business for you guys.”
“I like covering big stories as much as the next guy, but I’d rather not watch people kill each other on the streets of my hometown.”
“For what it’s worth, neither would I.”
He looked up at the Hall. “Which brings us to your client, whose actions started this series of unfortunate events. Why is the head of the Felony Division of the P.D.’s Office representing Johnny B?”
“I went to S.I. with Gio. My dad worked with Johnny’s grandfather at Taraval Station.”
“Do you think that’s an appropriate allocation of the City’s limited resources?”
“I’m taking an unpaid leave and handling the case pro bono.”
His bushy eyebrow went up. “I didn’t think you lawyers did anything for free.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“My three divorce lawyers never left money on the table. Your ex-wife is okay with this arrangement?”
Not exactly. “She’s fine.”
“I’m surprised.”
“You don’t know her as well as I do. If you want to take potshots at the legal profession in general or me personally, that’s fine. If you promise a more civilized tone, I might be willing to give you an exclusive statement.”
He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a worn leather notebook. “I’m listening.”
I gave him a knowing smile. “How long have you been doing this, Jerry?”
“Thirty-seven years.”
“How many times have you interviewed attorneys like me?”
“Hundreds.”
“And what have we always told you?”
He smirked. “Which version do you want me to use?”
“You tell me.”
“Your client is innocent and you’re looking forward to proving it in court.”
“Sounds about right. You might want to add the usual stuff about a rush to judgment.”
“You going to claim self-defense?”
“Probably.”
“Can’t you come up with something more original?”
“It’s been a long day, Jerry. The arraignment is at nine o’clock tomorro
w morning in Judge Ramsey’s courtroom.”
“I’ll see you there.”
✽ ✽ ✽
My iPhone vibrated as I was about to turn on the ignition of my Corolla, which was parked in front of the P.D.’s Office on Seventh. Pete’s name appeared on the display.
“Are you still in the Fillmore?” I asked.
“Just leaving.”
“How bad did it get?”
“Pretty bad. Reverend Tucker got everybody worked up. A couple of people were stabbed. Some kids turned over a car. Then they turned over another one. Then they set a Dumpster on fire. The cops came in and people started breaking windows. It’ll be all over the news.”
“Did anybody get hurt?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate. “Where are you, Mick?”
“Near the Hall.” I summarized my conversation with Johnny.
“How soon can you get out to the Sunset?”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“Meet me at Big John’s saloon. Johnny’s partner agreed to talk to us.”
19
“SO THE KID SHOT HIM”
The thickset bartender’s blue eyes twinkled as he placed a coaster with a Budweiser logo on the worn wooden table in a booth in the back of Dunleavy’s Bar at Twenty-Third and Irving, two blocks from the house where I grew up. “What’ll it be, lad?”
“Just coffee, Big John.”
“Pete is on his way. You look like you could use a beer, Mikey.”
“I’m working.”
“I’ll brew a fresh pot.”
“Thanks.”
The neighborhood watering hole was quiet at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night. My uncle, Big John Dunleavy, had operated the saloon bearing his name since the fifties. My father had helped him build the pine bar that ran the length of the narrow room. Now in his eighties, the one-time all-city tight-end at St. Ignatius walked a little slower and used a hearing aid. Otherwise he looked as if he could still mow down any safety who had the audacity to get in his way.
He brushed the few remaining strands of silver hair across his pale dome and invoked his Irish brogue—even though he’d never been to Ireland. “Everybody okay at home, Mikey?”
“Fine.”
“You still spending a few nights a week at Rosie’s house?”
“Yes.”
His eyes danced. “Isn’t it against City policy to sleep with your boss?”
I grinned. “Technically, it’s okay for me to sleep with Rosie because she isn’t my subordinate. However, it isn’t okay for her to sleep with me because I report to her.”
“Let me see if I have this straight. You can sleep with her, but she can’t sleep with you?”
“Correct.”
“How do you reconcile your natural urges with your legal obligations?”
“It’s complicated, Big John. I don’t think you’d like me to go into the technical details.”
He let out the throaty laugh that I first heard when I was a kid. Big John wasn’t just my mom’s brother and my favorite uncle. He was my father’s best friend. At the end of a long shift, he and Roosevelt would end the day in this very booth where they would have a beer and swap tall tales with the gregarious barkeep who helped them unwind.
His tone turned serious. “You going to be okay, Mikey?”
“Yeah.”
“From everything I see on the news, Johnny B’s case could get nasty.”
“I just do my job. I try not to worry about things that I can’t control.”
“I’m worried that you won’t be able to control anything this time.”
“I’ve handled high-profile cases.”
The phony brogue disappeared. “Not with riots, Mikey. Be careful, lad.”
He tossed the ever-present dish towel over his shoulder and headed to the bar. I took out my iPhone and scrolled through two hundred e-mails and eighty texts.
The door opened, and Pete entered, followed by a hulking man about my age. Sergeant Kevin Murphy was wearing a blue windbreaker with the logo of his SFPD softball team imprinted on his breast. His expression was grim. His once-bright red hair was mostly silver. His jowls wiggled as he walked.
I beckoned them to join me. As they walked past the pool table, Big John exchanged stilted greetings with Murphy and handed him a Budweiser. Pete asked for coffee.
I shook Murphy’s hand as he jammed his torso into the booth. Pete sat next to me. Murphy’s pasty face gave him the appearance of an order of corned beef and cabbage with a boiled potato on the side. The bags under his eyes were a shade darker than the rest of his face.
“Thanks for coming in to talk to us,” I said.
“Yeah.”
At St. Ignatius, the sociable frat-boy-in-training always provided a keg from his father’s saloon on Noriega Street for the post-football-game victory celebrations at Ocean Beach. The bawdy jokes and beer parties had stopped after an acrimonious divorce from his high school sweetheart and thirty-five years of working the streets in the Bayview, Hunters Point, and, more recently, the Fillmore. He’d moved up to the rank of sergeant, then stopped. He always professed that he liked working on the street, but Pete thought that he harbored a desire to become an inspector. Among the rank-and-file, he had a reputation as a solid cop who worked as hard as he had to and kept his nose clean. Others, including Pete, thought that Murph had evolved into a hardass who overstepped the boundaries from time to time and liked to crack a few heads.
“Your dad okay?” I asked.
“Not bad. Nothing is easy when you’re north of eighty.”
“And your mom?”
“Assisted living.” In response to my inquiry, he informed me that his two sons—both cops—were doing fine. He changed the subject. “Gio doing okay?”
“Not bad under the circumstances.”
“I’m glad you’re dealing with it, Mike. The attorneys on the POA list are okay, but I’m sure Gio feels better having somebody he knows. If it were my kid, I know that I would.”
“Thanks.
“I mean it.” He took a draw of his beer. “Are they really going to charge the kid with first-degree murder?”
“So they say.”
“That’s crap. It was self-defense.”
“You’re prepared to testify to that effect?”
“Of course.”
“Great.” This represented a bit of good news. “Mind telling us what happened?”
“Sure.” The first part of his story jibed with Johnny’s. He and Johnny had dinner at Mel’s. On their way back to the Fillmore, they saw a car with a busted tail light. Murphy told Johnny to pull him over. “Just for practice. It was a slow night. I figured it would be good to give him a little experience.”
“Did you know anything about Juwon Jones?”
“Just what I found out today.”
“He had a hit for grand theft auto and a couple of shoplifting charges.”
“I heard.”
“Some people think he had gang connections.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
And you might not tell us if you did. “You heard they found a dozen AK-47s in the trunk.”
“Yeah. Seems he wasn’t a good guy.”
“Seems that way.” I asked him what happened during the traffic stop.
“The kid approached the driver-side door, just like he was supposed to. He introduced himself to Jones, requested license and registration, and returned to our unit to run it through the computer.”
“Where were you?”
“Right where I was supposed to be: near the rear of Jones’s car on the passenger side. The kid found out that Jones had an outstanding warrant, so he did it by the book. He asked Jones to leave the vehicle so that we could search it. We had the legal right to conduct a search and, if necessary, cuff Jones.”
“Why didn’t Johnny cuff him?” I asked.
“He didn’t have the chance. Johnny was trying not to elevate the situation. That’s what he was trained to do. Other t
han the usual risks of stopping somebody in the middle of the night, it looked like a routine traffic stop.”
“Until Jones pulled a gun.”
“Correct.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When Jones got out of the car. He banged the door into Johnny and knocked him over. He ran across the plaza to Fillmore and turned right. A backup unit cut him off at Geary, so he turned left. Another unit blocked him, so he jumped the fence into the post office parking lot. Once he was inside, there was no way out. The kid was about a block behind him. I was about a half-block behind Johnny.” He grinned. “I’m not as fast as I used to be.”
“Johnny cornered Jones behind a postal van and ordered him to raise his hands. Jones did so on the third command. Then Johnny ordered Jones to lie down on the ground. Jones refused twice. Then he reached for a gun, so the kid shot him—in self-defense.”
“You’re sure he was reaching for a gun?”
“Of course. Why else would he have shot him?”
Of course.
Murphy wasn’t finished. “I’m sorry that Jones died, but Johnny had no choice. He acted in self-defense. End of story.”
Pete made his presence felt. “Where were you when Johnny shot him?”
“Outside the gate.”
Pete pulled over a water-logged napkin and used a Bic pen to draw a rudimentary diagram. “You were here?”
“Yeah.”
“If you were here and Johnny and Jones were behind the postal van, how did you see what happened?”
“I couldn’t see all of it, but I heard everything. The kid ordered Jones to lie down three times. Jones disobeyed the order. The third time, he reached for a gun, so the kid shot him.”
“How do you know that he was reaching for a gun?”
“I know what I saw.”
Pete studied his diagram. “Are you absolutely sure that he didn’t shoot him while his hands were still up?”
“Absolutely sure.”
Pete glanced my way.
“Murph,” I said, “were you wearing your body cam?”
A hesitation. “Yeah.”
“Was it turned on when Jones was shot?”
A longer hesitation. “No. It was the end of our shift. I thought it was a routine stop.”
“So you didn’t turn it on even after Jones started running down Fillmore?”
Serve and Protect (Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 9) Page 8