Serve and Protect (Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 9)

by Sheldon Siegel

  Shouts of “Amen.”

  “We need to make our voices heard. We need to be loud. And clear. And united.”

  Somebody shouted, “We need to take revenge!”

  There was a smattering of applause.

  Tucker raised a hand and the church fell silent. “Violence is not the answer. I will never advocate it or condone it from this pulpit. In this church, we take our cues from our lord and savior and from Dr. King.”

  Another voice rang out. “Look what nonviolence has gotten us! The police are killing our kids in the streets. It isn’t enough to talk. We need to take action.”

  “And we will,” Tucker said. “But nothing is resolved by violence.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  Tucker looked into the TV camera. “To the people in Jefferson Square who are assembled in support of the police, we want you to know that we love you, we respect you, and we want to reach out and start a dialogue. To those in Alamo Square, we want you to know that we love you, too, even though we believe that your rhetoric is hateful and counterproductive. We want to talk to you, too, because we are all God’s children, and we have more in common than we do not.”

  There was a mixture of applause and groans.

  Tucker spoke passionately for another twenty minutes, calling upon the congregation to act forcefully, but peacefully. His tone turned philosophical. “More than a hundred and fifty years ago, this country fought a great Civil War where hundreds of thousands of people died because we could not come to a common understanding about race. In some respects, I think we’re still fighting that war. It’s time for Christian-minded people of all races, religions, and ethnicities to celebrate our differences and everything that we have in common. That would be a positive legacy for this great tragedy. That’s how we can celebrate Juwon’s life, even though it ended so tragically. We cannot bring him back, but in his honor and memory, let us try to lead our lives in a more thoughtful and understanding manner.”

  He faced Jones’s mother. “Vanessa, we are sorry for your loss. May it ease your pain knowing that Juwon is in heaven and that his spirit is an inspiration to all of us. May you find comfort in your hour of mourning, and may your son rest in eternal peace.”

  He led the congregation in a final hymn, and the church started to empty. Luca turned off the TV. His voice was barely audible. “He spoke nicely.”

  “He did.”

  “I feel for his mother.”

  “So do I.”

  “What do we do next?”

  “Nady and I are working on additional document requests. We’re starting to work on our presentation at the prelim.”

  My iPhone vibrated. Pete’s name appeared on the display.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  His voice was agitated. “Down the street from the church. Are you watching the funeral?”

  “We just turned it off.”

  “Turn it back on. Somebody just shot two cops in front of the church.”

  39

  “LOOKS BAD”

  Pete’s voice was tense. “Looks bad, Mick.”

  “Get out of there, Pete.”

  “I’m going.”

  I was in Luca’s conference room. CNN was showing footage of the chaos in front of the church. The hearse carrying Jones’s body was still parked near the front steps. People were pushing through the mob. Anderson Cooper reported that shots had been fired at police.

  “Did they catch the shooter?” I asked.

  Pete’s voice was strained. “The cops shot him.” He started talking faster. “People are throwing stuff at the cops. Now the cops are hitting people.”

  “Get out of there.”

  “They’re shooting tear gas.”

  “Get out of there!”

  He shouted, “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

  “What?”

  “Somebody just drove a car into the crowd! He hit about a dozen people! He’s mowing people down! He’s still going! Now he’s stopped, and people are pounding on the windows. They just pulled him out of the car and they’re beating the crap out of him. It’s out of control, Mick! I’m getting out of here.”

  “Call me back when you’re safe, Pete.”

  The line went dead.

  Luca, Nady, and I sat in silence as we watched the bedlam on TV. Bodies were strewn on the street. Two cops were down. The air filled with a haze of tear gas. People were throwing bottles. Cars were overturned and set on fire. Police in riot gear were pelted with debris. Sirens blared. Smoke rose. People covered their faces and ran.

  It was a full-blown riot.

  I punched in Pete’s number again. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message.

  Rosie phoned in. “Are you watching what’s going on in the Fillmore?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Pete down there?”

  “He’s on his way back.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He was five minutes ago.”

  “Call me as soon as you hear from him.”

  It was surreal watching the riots on TV from the comfort of Luca’s conference room. I texted Pete every five minutes. No response. My stomach churned.

  CNN repeated unconfirmed reports that two police officers had died. Two more were wounded and taken to San Francisco General. The shooter had been killed by police. No word on his identity.

  Channel 2 reported that at least a dozen people had been hit by the car that plowed into the crowd in front of the church. There were no confirmed casualties—yet. The driver had been captured and taken to the hospital. He had been badly beaten. No word on whether he was still alive. The aerial shot looked like a war zone.

  A distraught Reverend Tucker was interviewed on Channel 2. Visibly shaken and trying to contain his anger, he implored everybody to stay calm, go home, and let the first responders do their jobs. “This is a House of God. This is not how we act in our community.”

  Forty minutes later, Pete’s name appeared on my iPhone. “You okay?” I asked.

  “Fine, Mick.” He apologized for not calling sooner. “My battery ran out.”

  Relief. “Where are you?”

  “St. Mary’s.”

  The majestic Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption was the mother ship of the San Francisco Archdiocese. “Why St. Mary’s?”

  “I figured the cops wouldn’t shoot tear gas into a church.” He chuckled nervously. “When you were a priest, you always used to say that when the going gets tough, you should go to church.”

  I was too relieved to have a glib retort. “Come down to Luca’s office.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  40

  “YOU CAN’T GO BACK DOWN THERE”

  “You smell like tear gas,” I said.

  Pete smirked. “How would you know?”

  “I went to college in Berkeley.”

  “You were there after Vietnam.”

  “We had other things to protest.”

  “You were a third-rate protester, Mick. We had more excitement over at San Francisco State. You never even got yourself arrested.”

  I hadn’t expected to hear my ex-cop law-and-order younger brother bragging about the time he got hauled in for breaking a window during a sit-in at State. Our dad enlisted Johnny’s grandfather to pull strings to get the charges dropped.

  “I always got away before the cops caught me,” I explained.

  “That’s because you were never in the middle of the action.”

  Not true. “I think it had more to do with the fact that I could run fast.”

  We were sitting in my office at Luca’s firm at three-fifteen on Friday afternoon. This was undoubtedly the first time that the aroma of tear gas had wafted through the hallowed hallways of Luca Bacigalupi and Associates, LLP.

  I lowered my voice. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How close were you to the shooting?”

  “Too close.”

  “Do you know ei
ther of the officers who were killed?”

  “No, but I know one of the guys who was wounded. He’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did they identify the shooter?”

  “Yeah. An angry kid from the neighborhood who decided to take out a couple of cops.”

  “Any connection to Jones?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Four people were killed by the guy in the car.” I told him that twenty people had been injured, some seriously.

  Pete’s mustache twitched. “The driver was a white supremacist nut-job. The cops shot him dead after the people pulled him out of the car and beat the crap out of him.” Pete lowered his voice. “It’s probably better that he died.”

  It wasn’t my proudest Christian thought, but I agreed. The last thing we needed was a drawn-out trial of a racist crackpot.

  He wasn’t finished. “You watch, Mick. Somebody is going to claim that SFPD violated the guy’s constitutional right of free speech.”

  “Your right to express yourself stops when you start killing people.”

  “You would hope so.”

  “They called in the National Guard. The mayor announced an eight p.m. curfew. That should help.”

  Pete scowled. “Realistically, if somebody with an AK-47 wants to shoot a bunch of people, it’ll take more than an army of cops and an early curfew to stop them. SFPD has a unit on every corner in the Fillmore. They’re sitting ducks.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “At the moment, no. If they keep people out of the Fillmore, they’ll go down to Civic Center or the Ferry Building or Union Square. There aren’t enough cops and National Guard in California to cut off every public space in San Francisco. Reverend Tucker is going to lead another march tonight. Black Lives Matter is gathering in Golden Gate Park. You can bet the white supremacists will show up somewhere. It’s a mess, Mick. It isn’t going to end soon.”

  “We can’t just lock up the City.”

  “Might not be a bad idea for a while.” He exhaled. “You still think it’s a good idea to start Johnny’s prelim on Monday?”

  “It’s the only chance that we can get the charges dropped quickly.”

  “Maybe you should ask for a continuance until things calm down” He stood and headed for the door. “I’ll call you later. I’m going to get rid of these clothes and take a shower.”

  “Good plan.”

  “And then I’m heading back down to the Fillmore.”

  Bad plan. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “There’s a cop on every corner.”

  “You aren’t going to find any witnesses. Nobody will be outside.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m very resourceful.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The display on my iPhone read, “SF DA.” I touched the green button. “Mike Daley.”

  “DeSean Harper.”

  What a pleasant surprise. “I’m still waiting for your witness list for the prelim.”

  “Working on it.” He hesitated. “Can you come over to our office for a few minutes?”

  Now what? “Sure. When?”

  “Now.”

  41

  “TAKE THE DEAL”

  The District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco was standing next to the window in her office, a Wedgewood tumbler in her hand. Nicole Ward looked out at the rain, exhaled heavily, and turned around to face me. As always, her wardrobe, hair, and makeup were prefect, but her tone was uncharacteristically subdued. “Thanks for coming in on short notice.”

  “You’re welcome.” Nady was sitting in the chair next to mine. We waited.

  Ward took a sip of Perrier, adjusted her cashmere jacket, and took a seat in the high-back leather chair. She pointed a delicate finger at Harper, who was sitting in the side chair near the window. “It’s been a challenging couple of days for DeSean and me.”

  And me. And Nady. And Johnny. “Did you get an ID on the guy who shot the cops?”

  “Yes. He lived in the neighborhood. He had a criminal record from here to Modesto. He’d posted on social media that he wanted to take out some cops.”

  “Did he know Jones?”

  “We don’t know. At least we won’t have to prosecute him for murder.”

  “You have other things to keep you busy. What about the guy who ran over the people in front of the church?”

  “He was on the FBI’s radar. He’d been spotted at rallies in other parts of the country. He’d been arrested a couple of times, but the charges never stuck.”

  “You won’t have to prosecute him for murder, either.”

  “That’s little comfort for the families of the victims.” She gave me a thoughtful look. “You used to be a priest. What would you tell them?”

  I hadn’t anticipated the question. “Unfortunately, there are some bad people in the world. If you’re unlucky and cross their path, sometimes bad things happen for no apparent reason.”

  “That doesn’t sound very forgiving for a priest.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m an ex-priest. The ‘Everything happens for a reason’ line never worked very well for me.”

  “How did you comfort them?”

  Her question seemed genuine. “Words are inadequate. The best that you can do is to tell them that you’re sorry for their loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I waited a beat. “Why did you and DeSean want to talk to us?”

  “We wanted to discuss the prelim. We’ve provided all of the police reports, video, and other evidence.”

  “We’re still waiting for your witness list.”

  “We’ll get it over to you tonight. It will be short.”

  Figures. “Are you planning to object to any of our motions?”

  “All of them.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “Even our motion not to have the prelim televised?”

  “The public has a right to see what goes on in court.”

  “It will just inflame tensions.”

  “It would be worse to do it in secret. People will think we’re trying to hide something.”

  “People play to the cameras.”

  Harper finally spoke up. “I won’t.”

  “Your witnesses will. They always do. It distorts the truth.”

  “The truth is going to come out, Mike. It would be better if your client owns up now.”

  “He shot an armed man in self-defense. Jones fled the scene of a crime.”

  “A broken tail light isn’t a crime.”

  “He had a probation violation. Johnny had a legitimate right to ask him to get out of the car. Jones knocked him over, flashed a gun, and fled.”

  “There’s no gun in the video.”

  “There was a gun under his body.”

  “Your client and his partner planted it.”

  “You’ll need to prove that beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “Not at the prelim.”

  True. I turned to face Ward. “Why did you really want to see us, Nicole?”

  “Given the circumstances, DeSean and I thought it might be a good idea to try to find a way to dial down the temperature outside.”

  “I’m all for it. What did you have in mind?”

  “At the very least, we think it makes sense to delay the prelim for a week or two to let things calm down.”

  “Are you also prepared to reconsider your position on bail?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Johnny isn’t a flight risk.”

  “It would set an unworkable precedent to agree to bail in an officer-involved shooting.”

  “I’m not going to let my client sit in jail for a couple of extra weeks so that you can avoid an unworkable precedent.”

  “Be reasonable, Mike.”

  “If you won’t change your unreasonable view on bail, then I’m not going to change my view on timing.”

&nb
sp; “The protesters will be lined up on Bryant Street.”

  “The police will deal with it.”

  “They already have their hands full. More people are going to get hurt, Mike.”

  Probably. “My client has a legal right to a prelim within ten court days of his arraignment. The judge will be ready to go on Monday. So will we.”

  “Fine.” Ward clasped her fingers. “We’d like to discuss another possibility.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’re going to take an enormous amount of heat for this, but DeSean and I are prepared to make you a one-time offer for a plea of voluntary manslaughter.”

  Things just got interesting. First-degree murder carried a minimum sentence of twenty-five years. Since Johnny used a gun, there would be an enhancement of an additional twenty-five years, resulting in a minimum sentence of fifty years. Not an attractive option. Second-degree had a minimum sentence of fifteen years, which was better, but not great. Voluntary manslaughter had a minimum sentence of three years and a maximum of eleven, and required a minimum service time of eighty-five percent of the sentence, which meant that in theory, Johnny could be out in about two and a half years. “What did you have in mind?”

  “DeSean is going to kill me, but I’m prepared to recommend a sentence of three years with a chance for parole after serving eighty-five percent. Your client would, of course, have to resign from SFPD. This matter would be resolved when he’s twenty-five. It’s a generous deal, Mike.”

  Yes, it is. I kept my reaction in check, but we were now in the realm of possibility—except for the fact that Johnny would have to plead guilty to a crime, spend time in jail, and find a new career. And he would be tarred for life with a criminal record.

  I decided to probe. “We might be receptive to a deal for involuntary manslaughter.” On a three-year sentence, Johnny would have been eligible for parole after only eighteen months.

  “That’s not going to work, Mike.”

  “I’ll talk to my client.”

  “We’ll need your answer by five p.m. on Sunday.” Her tone turned somber. “People are killing each other on the streets. We had a massacre in front of a church. This will calm everybody down.”

  Maybe. “I’ll talk to Johnny.”

  “Take the deal.”

  She was pushing a little too hard. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”