I try again. “So?”
“They aren’t taking any chances this time. They’re trying to get the neighborhood businesses to sign a letter to the redevelopment agency in support of the project.”
“What’s their pitch?”
“They’ll give first priority for jobs to people from the neighborhood.”
Sure they will. The kids from Mission High won’t be getting too many of those high-tech computer graphics jobs unless they happen to have graduate degrees from Cal, Stanford or MIT. “You realize they’ll give priority to the locals only for the low-paying jobs,” I say.
“It’s better than nothing. This isn’t an affluent neighborhood. Most of the kids don’t go to college.”
“What about low-income housing?”
“I’d love to see it as much as you would, but the city doesn’t have the money to finance it. I didn’t take Armando’s word for it—I asked around.”
“And the competing proposal?”
“It may be nothing more than rumors.”
I don’t see a problem. “If you like the project, sign their petition. If you don’t like it, don’t sign. What’s the big deal?”
He leans back in his chair and says, “They have a lot riding on the China Basin project. Some heads will roll if it gets shot down.”
“So?”
“Armando said they’re willing to make it worth my while to ensure my support.”
Now I get it. Suffice it to say, this would not be the first time in recorded history that money has changed hands in order to facilitate a particular result with local governmental authorities. “How much?” I ask.
“Twenty thousand.”
Not bad. It’s reassuring to know the universal language of graft, corruption and bribery hasn’t changed since I was a kid. “And all you have to do is sign the petition?”
“That’s about it.”
It isn’t illegal to sign a petition. The wisdom of accepting the gratuity is a more interesting question. “So,” I say, “are you going to take the money?”
He hesitates for an instant and says, “What if I do?”
“It isn’t a great idea.”
“I’m aware of that. Is it illegal?”
“It depends. If you don’t report it, and the IRS finds out about it, they may come looking for you. They may never find you and I’m not inclined to make a citizen’s arrest. If you use it for an illegal purpose, you can get into serious trouble.”
“What’s an illegal purpose?”
“You should avoid paying bribes to local governmental officials.”
“That’s good advice.”
“I’m a good lawyer.” I catch his eye and say, “Let me give you some practical advice. I’m going to forget that we ever had this conversation. If you haven’t taken the money, I’d suggest that you don’t. If you’ve already taken it, I’d encourage you to give it back and stay out of this mess.”
“I get your message loud and clear.” He folds his arms and adds, “There’s a catch.”
There always is. “What’s that?”
“If I don’t cooperate, I have it on good authority the city health inspectors will find some serious violations at my market.”
“How serious?”
“Enough to put me out of business.”
Christ. “Anything else?”
“Yes. I must graciously agree to make a donation to the Mission chapter of the San Francisco Democratic Steering Committee.”
I should have seen it coming. Cash is still the mother’s milk of politics. To the untrained eye, it will appear that a group of businesses in the Mission and Potrero neighborhoods will sign a letter supporting the studio. They will also make a series of relatively modest contributions to the steering committee. For political purposes, this will look far more palatable that a single large contribution from a Hollywood studio or a sleazy Vegas developer. If my guess is right, the money from Tony and his neighbors will be funneled into the war chest for the mayor’s re-election campaign. Rios knows what he’s doing. “How much?” I ask.
“Ten thousand.”
At least they’re willing to let Tony keep half. “Who’s putting up the money?”
“I’m not sure. Armando wouldn’t say.”
In circumstances such as this, there are some questions that are better left unasked. There are also only three logical contenders: Ellis Construction, Millennium Studios and MacArthur Films, or any combination of the three. I say, “And if you don’t make the contribution, you’re in trouble with the city. They got you.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“It stinks,” I say.
“That it does.”
Time to turn the cards face up. I lower my voice and ask, “Did you take the money?”
He hesitates, but his expression doesn’t change. “Not yet,” he says.
“Are you going to?”
“If I have to.”
“How is it going to work?”
“Armando will give me ten grand in cold hard cash. The other ten will go straight into the coffers of the steering committee on my behalf before I can get my hands on it. I guess they didn’t trust me to make an illegal campaign contribution all on my own.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I ask, “How many other businesses are involved?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a dozen.”
“Has anybody said anything to you about it?”
“No.”
“It might blow over,” I say. “Maybe nobody will find out.”
“Maybe.” He scowls. “There are a lot of people involved. The studio project is a high-profile deal. The Chronicle came out against it. The press may start asking questions.”
It’s possible. The Chronicle has given the project daily coverage for the last few weeks. One of their pieces was an exposé on Ellis Construction that was distinctly not flattering. “What do you want me to do?”
“For the moment, nothing,” he says. “I may need you if something happens.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. Sylvia walks into the room and I add, “Family matters.”
*****
Chapter 6
“I Need Your Help with Something”
“Fernandez and Daley is a boutique law firm specializing in criminal defense matters in federal and state courts. Flexible fee arrangements are available.”
— San Francisco Yellow Pages.
“How did things go with Angel and Theresa?” I ask Rosie.
“Fair.” She’s sitting behind stacks of paper piled on her gunmetal-gray desk. A framed photo of Grace in her baseball uniform is in a prominent spot next to her computer. It’s only one o’clock, but it’s been a long day. She takes a drink of Diet Coke and says, “A lot of crying. Some yelling. Half the time I had no idea what they were talking about. One minute they were discussing the release of the movie. Next they were fighting about something that happened when Angel was in high school. It ranged from the mundane to the dysfunctional. It probably wasn’t much different than every other conversation they’ve had for the last ten years.”
Rosie. The unyielding voice of perspective.
I glance out the open window. Our building is the last remnant of an area that used to be skid row. Now we’re surrounded by high rise office towers that sprouted during the go-go days of the late nineties. I glance out the open window. The unique aroma of bus fumes and burritos wafts through the room. You get used to it.
A consultant recently told me we shouldn’t describe our firm as “small.” We’re supposed to market ourselves as a specialty “boutique.” He’s never seen our office. We lose any chance of portraying an upscale image as soon as our clients walk in the door. When we decided to take over the space from Madame Lena, we hired an architect to draw up plans for a significant remodeling job, but cooler heads prevailed after we moved in and the upgrade went on hold. Maybe it’s just as well. I’ve started to become attached to the astrology posters in the small room where Madame Lena used to
look in to her crystal ball. It now doubles as Rosie’s office and our conference room.
“I should have brought you with me for moral support,” she says. “You can be very soothing. Especially when you talk in your priest voice.”
I give her a wry smile. “They try to teach you how to do it at the seminary, but the best of us are born with the gift.” Complete strangers tell me their life stories in elevators. It’s a mixed blessing.
She isn’t finished. “Did you ever worry about giving bad advice?”
“That’s one of the reasons I got out of the business.” It wasn’t the only one. I was terrible at church politics and had no knack for fund raising. At times I was more screwed up than the people I was supposed to be helping. A priest on Prozac isn’t very effective. One of my seminary classmates convinced me it was okay to leave before my depression consumed me.
She asks, “Did you ever screw up? I mean royally?”
I’m not sure I appreciate this line of questioning. “Sure. One time a guy confessed that he was cheating on his wife. I made him do his Hail Marys and I told him he should talk to his wife and maybe get some counseling.”
“Sounds about right so far.”
“Then he went home and beat the living daylights out of her. She almost died. They split up. I felt terrible about it.”
She’s sorry she asked. “What do you do if you’re a priest and you screw up?”
I give her a grin and say, “Same thing every other good Catholic does—go to confession. We got to absolve each other.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“I always thought so. It’s like being in a club. We were pretty honest about it most of the time. The guys who did the really horrible stuff never told anybody.”
She says, “Next time, you’re coming with me. Angel and Theresa don’t scream quite as much when somebody from outside the immediate family is around.”
Families. The venom exchanged by parents and children can be frightening. I used to fight with my dad. We never came to blows, but the shouting often went on for hours and the recriminations lasted for years. I used to joke about the fact that I crammed eighty years of guilt into the first twenty years of my life. It doesn’t seem so funny to me anymore. It was worse for Pete. My dad was never the same after our older brother died in Vietnam. Tommy was a star quarterback at St. Ignatius and Cal before he volunteered for the Marines. When he didn’t come back, my dad took out his frustrations on Pete, who was still living at home. I think he became a cop to show him he was just as tough as his old man. Angel and Theresa are a lot like Pete and my father. If you put them together in the same room, there will be an explosion within fifteen minutes. You can set your watch.
“Where’s Theresa?” I ask.
“Back at my mom’s house. She’s a wreck. Thank goodness Tony is there.”
“Did Angel tell you anything else?”
“She’s sticking to her story. She doesn’t remember a thing from the time she went to bed until they found her at the view lot at the south end of the bridge.”
At least her story hasn’t changed. Then again, I hope we won’t have to hang our hat on her explanation in front of a jury. I take a drink of weak coffee from a mug with Grace’s picture on it. “Any word about Martin Kent?”
“It’s been reported to the police. He’s officially a missing person.”
“His wife must be a basket case.”
Rosie grimaces. “She died about a year ago, Mike. He has a grown son who said this is very unusual behavior for his father.”
I ask her if she’d heard anything more from police.
“I saw Jack O’Brien at the Hall. He told me they found Kent’s car at the MacArthur house. They’re checking to see if anybody saw him leave. Maybe somebody gave him a ride. He might have called a cab. I suppose it’s possible he left on foot.”
It seems unlikely that he would have walked home. His house is in the Marina District behind the Palace of Fine Arts. It would have been about a five mile hike through the wooded Presidio.
I ask, “Is there any chance O’Brien will consider Kent as a suspect?”
“He’s certain Angel did it.”
“But is he open to suggestion?”
“Are you asking whether he’s considered the possibility that Kent hit Big Dick, loaded Angel and the Oscar into the car and drove to the bridge, and then disappeared off the face of the earth?”
“Essentially.”
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “I might have suggested it to him.”
“Was he buying it?”
“Not yet.” She winks and adds, “Give him time. He’ll come around.”
We’ll see.
I hear a familiar female voice say, “You two look like hell. Have you been up all night?”
Carolyn O’Malley marches into Rosie’s office. Our new partner was a take-no-prisoners prosecutor for two decades. She joined us two years ago after she was unceremoniously purged from the DA’s office after she got into a fight with her former boss. Her transformation to the defense side didn’t take long. She’s a petite woman, barely five-one, and you might be inclined to underestimate her. If you did, you’d be making the mistake of your life. We couldn’t manage our practice without her.
I smile and say, “Pretty close.”
Carolyn and I grew up in the same neighborhood. We attended the same church and we went out for a few years when we were in high school and college. I asked her to marry me, but she said no. She ended up going to law school in L.A., and I went to the seminary. It was a long time ago and we were kids. With a quarter of a century of hindsight, I’ve come to realize that it was probably little more than a youthful infatuation, but young love can bite very hard. I tore myself up for a couple of years after we split. She later admitted to me that she had done the same to herself. It isn’t a relationship I would ever try to reheat. She’s too independent and I’m too stubborn. On the other hand, after a few glasses of wine, I do sometimes wonder how things might have worked out if we had stayed together.
Rosie opts for understatement. “We have a new case,” she says. “We’ve been asked to represent Angelina Chavez.”
Carolyn’s eyes light up. She lives for moments like this. It isn’t unusual to find her in the office on weekends or late at night because her personal life is a mess: two divorces and an intelligent, but rebellious son from her first marriage who lives with his girlfriend and goes to State. Ben makes extra cash by working as a bike messenger. The girlfriend is trying to set some sort of record for number of body piercings. Carolyn takes it very hard. “We haven’t had a big case in awhile,” she says.
It’s true. It’s been almost two years since we were asked to defend the former San Francisco DA on the male prostitute murder.
Rosie’s niece, Rolanda, joins us a moment later. She looks a lot like Rosie, and she’s going to be a terrific attorney. She says, “I’ve been monitoring the news and the police band. Jack O’Brien is telling anybody within earshot that he has compelling evidence against Angel.” She glances down at a manila folder and adds, “Carolyn and I have already started putting together subpoenas.”
Rolanda already has excellent instincts for someone who has been practicing law for only a year. She’s thinking two steps ahead. It’s the sign of a good lawyer.
I tell Carolyn and Rolanda about my visit to Baker Beach and my conversations with Officer Quinn and Robert Neils. “The arraignment is Monday,” I say. “Between now and then, we need to find out everything we can about Dick MacArthur.”
“And Angel,” Rosie adds. She rattles off the names of the other people who were at the screening.
“We’re on it,” Carolyn replies.
“I want you to dig up whatever you can about the China Basin project,” I say. “And see if you can find out anything about Martin Kent.”
Rosie looks around at the team. “Let’s get to work,” she says.
# # #
“You got a min
ute?” Carolyn asks. She’s standing in the doorway to my office.
“Sure.”
She gives me a concerned look and asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m just terrific. My ex-niece-in-law has been arrested for the murder of her husband. My ex-wife, law partner and best friend has cancer. My ex-brother-in-law could be hauled in at any moment because he may have accepted a bribe. My girlfriend has commitment issues. I’m doing just great.
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