“Who said anything about a divorce?”
“We understand Dick consulted a divorce attorney. You can put two and two together.”
She sits in stunned silence for a moment. Then she says, “You’re saying they think I killed Dick for money?”
“We need to be prepared to address that possibility.”
She remains defiant. “I have no idea what’s in my husband’s will, Aunt Rosie. Dick asked me to sign the prenup. It may not have been the smartest thing I ever did. If the prosecutors want to make something of it, there’s nothing I can do.”
“We have another problem,” Rosie says. “We talked to Pete.”
Angel’s eyes dart in my direction, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Honey,” Rosie continues, “we understand he gave you information that suggested Dick was seeing another woman.”
Angel freezes.
Rosie says, “Can we talk about it?”
Angel exhales heavily and whispers, “He didn’t have any proof. He didn’t have any pictures. It was all just rumors.”
“Pete is very thorough,” Rosie says.
“I trust my husband.” She wipes the tears out of her eyes and says, “I won’t believe he was cheating on me until somebody brings me pictures.”
“There may not be any pictures,” Rosie says. “You hired Pete, Angel, so you must have suspected something. It doesn’t look good.”
“I know how it looks,” Angel says. “Do you think I would have killed my husband because I suspected he was seeing another woman? Do you think I would have done it a week before my first film was coming out?”
Rosie looks her straight in the eye and says, “No.” She runs her finger through her hair and says, “There’s a more fundamental problem.”
“What’s that?” Angel asks.
“This is going to sound harsh.”
Angel steels herself.
Rosie lays it on the line. “You lied to us. You led us to believe Pete had told you Dick wasn’t seeing anyone else.”
“He still hasn’t proven to me that he did.”
“Be that as it may, you misled us.”
Angel appears genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry, Aunt Rosie.”
“Honey,” Rosie says, “I need to know if you’ve lied to us about anything else.”
“No.”
“Have you stretched the truth?”
“No.”
“Have you left anything out that we should know about?”
Angel bursts into tears. “What do you want from me, Aunt Rosie? Do you want to take me down to Father Aguirre at St. Peter’s to confess that I lied?”
Rosie holds up her hands and says, “That’s not the point. If you want us to represent you, we need to know you’re telling us the truth—good, bad or ugly. We can’t represent you effectively if you lie to us. Understood?”
Angel’s voice is barely a whisper when she says, “Understood.” Then her eyes go gray and her shoulders start to shake violently as she starts to sob. Rosie takes her niece into her arms.
*****
Chapter 9
“I Made a Deal with God”
“I try not to judge my clients. I ask them to tell me the truth and I listen to their stories. In many cases, it’s in your client’s best interests to arrange for a plea bargain. Making deals is an important part of an overworked system.”
— Rosita Fernandez. San Francisco Daily Legal Journal.
“Daddy,” Grace says to me, “is Angel going home soon?”
I study the troubled look in her eyes and think of the life-sized poster of her movie-star cousin hanging on the back of her bedroom door. I recall the countless times Angel has taken her to the movies or shopping. “Yes, honey,” I say. “It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“Mommy says she gets a little mixed up.”
“Just because you’re mixed up doesn’t mean you would hurt somebody.”
We’re sitting in Sylvia’s kitchen at eight o’clock the same night. Rosie is at the grocery store. The practice of law doesn’t always allow for a lot of free time to handle some fairly basic needs, such as shopping for food.
Grace swallows a bite of pizza and takes a sip of Diet Coke. Rosie drinks the same stuff from the time she gets up in the morning until she goes to bed. The culinary apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. Sylvia is watching CNN in the living room. Theresa finally fell asleep in the spare bedroom. Grace takes her plate to the sink and returns with an Oreo for each of us. I hand mine back to her and nod toward my ex-mother-in-law. “See if Grandma wants a cookie.”
She does as she’s told. Sylvia gladly accepts the cookie and kisses Grace on the cheek. There’s something special about grandmothers.
I look at my daughter. She has Rosie’s dark brown eyes and olive skin. She looks a lot like Sylvia, too. Her short, curly hair is a little lighter, suggesting she has a few Daley genes. Her round face and full lips are pure Rosie. She’s already pretty. She’s going to be beautiful. When Sylvia, Rosie and Grace are together, it’s as if you’re looking at time-lapse photos of the same person. Grace is the spring, Rosie is the summer and Sylvia is the autumn. “Daddy,” she whispers, “can I ask you something?”
“Anything, sweetie.”
She lowers her voice and asks, “Is Mommy going to die?”
Oh boy. The question elicits a discernible glance from her grandmother. Sylvia doesn’t miss a thing. I’m caught off guard and I do what every good lawyer would do in the circumstances—stall. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard Mommy crying again last night.”
There are things they don’t teach you in law school. Or in priest school, for that matter. “Mommy had a bad night. We’ve talked about this. She’s getting better.”
She pouts. “I know. But Mommy says the cancer isn’t all gone.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“So she isn’t all better.”
“Not quite.” I take her hand. “Look, honey, Mommy is doing everything the doctor tells her to do. She’s taking her medicine and she’s going to get better.”
“Do you promise?”
What do I say? “I promise.”
“I’m worried, Daddy.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t want Mommy to die. It made me sad when Grandma Margaret died.” Grace took it very hard when my mother died about two years ago. She was too young to remember when my dad died and she never knew Rosie’s father.
“I don’t want Mommy to die, either,” I tell her. “That would make me sad, too.”
“Even though you’re divorced?”
“Even though we’re divorced.”
She reflects for a moment and asks, “Are you going to get married to Judge Shapiro?”
She shares her mother’s directness. “I don’t know, honey. Maybe someday. We’re just getting to know each other. Would that be okay with you?”
Her lips form a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know. We’re just getting to know each other, too.”
Touché. “Nothing is going to happen anytime soon. And I won’t do anything without talking to you about it first. Okay?”
“Okay.” She glances at Sylvia for an instant and then turns back to me. “Daddy, would you and Mommy ever think about getting back together?”
We’ve talked about this on many occasions. She knows my standard answer. “Probably not, sweetie. We tried, but we weren’t very good at being married.”
“Maybe you could try a little harder next time.”
I suspect there are few ten-year-olds who share Grace’s wisdom. We sit in silence for a moment. Sylvia picks up the remote and turns off the TV.
Grace’s dark eyes look directly into mine when she whispers, “I’m scared, Daddy.”
So am I. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Maybe we can be scared together.”
“You won’t get sick, too, will you?”
There’s a lump in the back of my throat. “No, sweetie. I’ll take good care of myself.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Grace gives me a hug and heads off to the living room. Sylvia walks in. I give her a helpless look. Priests are supposed to know answers to questions like that. I ask, “Did I say the right thing?”
“Some questions don’t have easy answers.” She senses my unease and adds, “You did fine, Michael.”
# # #
My cell phone crackles. “You didn’t tell me MacArthur got whacked by his own Oscar,” Leslie says to me. “You have to admit, there’s a certain poetic justice to it.”
I’m driving north on Doyle Drive toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Leslie is at her place. I pass the parking lot on the east side of the toll plaza where Angel was found this morning. I’m on my way to Rosie’s house.
I ask, “How did you find out about the Oscar? The police haven’t released any details.”
“I work at the Hall of Justice.”
“Do you usually discuss the evidence in a pending murder investigation?”
“We have no secrets at the Hall. We’re all doing our best to find the truth.” She pauses and adds, “There’s also an exception if the case involves a movie star. Then all bets are off.”
“And what do you do if the movie star is represented by the world’s sexiest criminal defense attorney?”
She chuckles and says, “We need to be sure counsel is competent. In the interests of justice, we designate a Superior Court Judge to review the attorney’s qualifications. In this case, I have graciously agreed to take on the responsibility for becoming familiar with your credentials.”
I can’t resist feeding her the straight line. “How familiar?”
“Intimately.”
“I was hoping you were going to say that.”
“Does that mean we’re still on tonight? I’d like to begin my due diligence right away.”
“I need to ask for a continuance.”
“On what grounds? You know I don’t like to grant continuances in my courtroom.”
She doesn’t grant them in her bedroom, either.
“There are extenuating circumstances,” I plead. “I need to get together with Rosie to talk about Angelina’s case.”
“The court is not amused.”
“Neither is the defense attorney.”
“I may need to hold you in contempt. The penalties are quite severe.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll do that thing where I wear my robes.”
It’s my favorite. “I need a rain check.”
“That doesn’t sound tempting to you?”
“If you get any more tempting, I’ll drive off the bridge.”
Another chuckle. She asks, “Is this what people call phone sex?”
“I’m not an expert.”
“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
“Not likely.”
“Let me try. I’m sipping a glass of Pride Mountain Merlot and watching the fog come in over Coit Tower. I’m not wearing anything.”
“I’m pulling over.”
“I’ll stop.”
“Don’t.”
This elicits a laugh. I decide to switch to a more serious subject while she’s in good spirits. “So,” I say, “have you had a chance to think about our discussion from the other night?”
“Which one?”
“Where I asked you whether you want to make our situation a little more permanent. You know—maybe tell a few other people we’re an item.”
The phone goes silent for a moment. “I haven’t had much time to think about it.” She hesitates and adds, “It’s complicated.”
“Take your time. No pressure.”
She ponders for a moment and says, “I love being with you, Mike. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. And I love being with you, too.”
“It’s just that our relationship will have a ripple effect. You appreciate that, don’t you?”
She still asks questions like a prosecutor. She frames them in a manner to elicit the response she wants.
“Of course.”
Her tone is more tenuous when she asks, “Do I have to give you an answer right now?”
“No. Will you give me an answer soon?”
“Yes.” She changes the subject. “Everybody at the Hall is talking about your case. Nicole is going to handle it herself.”
“She wouldn’t be looking for some free TV time, would she?”
“Just because she’s behind in the polls? Of course not. That would be wrong.”
I ask her what else she’s heard.
“O’Brien is saying he’s got your client nailed. The blood on the Oscar matched MacArthur’s.”
“I thought you guys weren’t supposed to talk about this stuff.”
“We aren’t. So, did she do it?”
“You aren’t supposed to ask that question.”
“And you aren’t supposed to be sleeping with a judge. Did she?”
“No.”
“What will it take for you to reconsider your position and enter a guilty plea?”
“Are you trying to fix this case?”
“‘Fix’ is such a harsh word, Mike. I’m an officer of the court. Let’s just say I’m trying to resolve it in the interests of justice.”
“You aren’t supposed to do that, either.”
She plants her tongue in her cheek and says, “I’m doing this as a public service. If the case moves forward, the Hall will be swarming with media. Do you know how bad the traffic is around here?”
“I’m familiar with the problem.”
“So, what’s it going to take to get a guilty plea and avoid gridlock?”
“You know that red teddy you were wearing the other night? I’d like to see you and your teddy at your place tomorrow night at nine o’clock. We can discuss your proposal for relieving congestion.” I pause and add, “The teddy is optional.”
“On behalf of the citizens of our fair city, you’re on.”
# # #
“Did Pete find anything?” Rosie asks me.
“Not yet. He’s camped out down the street from Little Richard’s house.”
We’re sitting in her living room watching the late news. Rosie and Grace live in a rented bungalow on Alexander Avenue, across the street from the Little League field in Larkspur, three suburbs north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I live in a cookie-cutter one-bedroom apartment about two blocks from here. We’ll never resemble Ozzie and Harriet in any meaningful way.
Rosie stares at the TV. The media frenzy is fully-engaged. Angel is the top story. A distraught Little Richard says his father’s loss is a great tragedy. Then he faces the camera and says The Return of the Master will be released on time. The show must go on. Next they talk to a subdued Carl Ellis. He says the China Basin project will proceed as scheduled. I guess that show must go on, too.
“In a related story,” the blow-dried anchor continues, “police are still trying to locate attorney and businessman Martin Kent, whose car was parked down the street from the MacArthur residence.”
The camera cuts to the gate of a Marin County mansion. A harried-looking Daniel Crown expresses his sympathy. “It’s a great loss to our business,” the movie star says. Then a woman with a horrific bleach-blonde friz and a salon-enhanced tan steps in front of him and says he’ll have no further comment.
“That would be Crown’s wife?” I say.
Rosie nods. “I wouldn’t want to meet Cheryl Springer on a dark street out in the Bayview.” Rosie turns off the TV and says, “I’ll bet you the movie will be released on time. Big Dick’s death is great publicity.”
“You’re so cynical,” I say.
“You’re so right.”
We discuss our meeting with Nicole Ward tomorrow morning. Grace is sleeping on the sofa. She fell asleep in Rosie’s car and again when she got home, and Rosie wouldn’
t let me carry her into her bedroom. Sometimes Rosie just wants to be with her. At times, she can’t take her eyes off her. It’s as if she’s trying to paint a picture in her mind—to keep a snapshot of Grace with her at every instant. She hasn’t slept well since she was diagnosed with cancer. It’s almost as if she wants to hold on to every waking moment as long as she possibly can.
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