MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  “I don’t know.”

  I ask Alvarez, “What makes you think Tony would know anything about this?”

  “His name was on a list of local businesses who were supposed to be approached.”

  “Who gave you the list?” I ask.

  “Edwards.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know. He claims it came from a source in the neighborhood. This may be a big circle jerk for Edwards, but we can’t ignore it.”

  Tony stares at the wall without saying a word.

  Alvarez exhales heavily. He takes a seat at the table and talks directly to Tony. “Just between us,” he says, “Edwards thinks this goes all the way to the mayor’s office. You know the players. You can help us.”

  “Edwards sees more conspiracies than Oliver Stone,” Tony says.

  “We think you know something.”

  Tony is exasperated. “This isn’t some chickenshit payoff to one of the gangs,” he says. “This is real money. These guys play for keeps. I’m going to get my ass kicked.”

  “We’ll protect you,” Alvarez says.

  “You can’t,” Tony replies.

  “We will,” Alvarez says. “I promise.”

  “If you’re wrong, I’m dead.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “Damn right. There’s no way I’m putting the finger on anybody involved in the studio project.”

  Alvarez becomes agitated. “Dammit, Tony,” he says, “I need your help.”

  “There’s too much at risk.”

  Alvarez’s tone becomes less strident. “I was hoping to persuade you to help us voluntarily,” he says.

  “I’m sorry, Dennis.”

  Alvarez lowers his voice to a whisper. “We know you took the money.”

  Tony looks at Rolanda and then at me. “Don’t say a word, Tony,” I tell him.

  Alvarez continues. “We’ve been watching Armando Rios. We know he came to see you. We know he sent somebody to deliver a payment. The money runner disappeared. We don’t know where the money came from. We know some of it is being kicked back. We don’t know where and we don’t know how much.”

  Tony gives me a helpless look. I turn to Alvarez and say, “I’m instructing my client not to say anything more to you.”

  “Understood.” Alvarez holds up his index finger and says to Tony, “Hear me out. We aren’t after you. We want you to talk to Rios. We want the name of the bankroll. And we want the names of the businesses participating in the program.”

  Jesus. I try for a measured, but firm tone when I say, “You’re asking him to finger a powerful local political operative and some high rollers.”

  Rolanda adds, “Not to mention his friends and neighbors.”

  “I realize it’s a lot to ask,” Alvarez says.

  “It’s insane,” I say.

  “No, it isn’t,” Alvarez insists. “Nobody will touch him.”

  “If you’re wrong,” Tony says, “I’m out of business and maybe dead.”

  “We’ll provide twenty-four hour protection at the market. We’ll put a squad car in front of your apartment. I’ll sit in the damned police car if I have to.”

  Rolanda interjects, “There will, of course, be full immunity for my father, right?”

  “The precise terms will have to be negotiated.”

  Rolanda’s eyes flare. “There won’t be any negotiation,” she says. “Full immunity. We’ll prepare the document.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Alvarez says.

  “Hold on,” Tony says. “This isn’t a done deal. I want to think about it.”

  “That’s fine,” Alvarez replies.

  “What if I say no?” Tony asks.

  “My orders are clear. If you don’t cooperate, I’m going to have to arrest you.”

  “On what charge?” I ask.

  “Violation of the campaign finance laws and bribery of an elected official.”

  “You’ll never be able to win that case,” I say.

  “Maybe not,” he replies. “It isn’t my call.” Alvarez speaks directly to Tony. “I came to you first because we’re friends. If you cut a deal now, we’ll give you immunity and round-the-clock protection. I can’t keep this offer open for long. I’m going to be talking to some of the other businesses. If somebody makes a deal before you do, they may get a better shake. More importantly, they may finger you. Things will get really sticky if you don’t have an immunity agreement. It isn’t fair, but it’s the way things work.”

  “When do you need to know?” Rolanda asks.

  “The day after tomorrow,” Alvarez says. “I can give you until Tuesday at noon.”

  # # #

  “Did you take the money?” I ask Tony. Rolanda, Tony and I are still sitting in the interrogation room. Alvarez has returned to his desk.

  “Yeah.”

  Rolanda gives him a concerned look. “Why did you do it, Dad?”

  “I didn’t think I had any choice.”

  He probably didn’t. “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Armando said the city inspectors would close my business if I didn’t take the payment. Now the cops are telling me they’ll arrest me unless I finger everybody who is involved. I don’t even know everybody who is involved. I can’t ask Armando.” He thinks for a moment and says, “I don’t want to go to jail or lose my business.” He looks at Rolanda and adds, “I don’t want to die, either.”

  “They’re good at protecting people,” I say.

  “I run a retail business. I can’t keep my doors locked. Anybody can walk into my store and pull a gun. If they make one mistake, I’ll end up in a box.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. “You could take your chances in court,” I say.

  “My reputation will be ruined if I get arrested.”

  “Your customers are loyal.”

  “Not if they think I’m a crook.”

  Probably true. “You need to decide soon,” I say. “Somebody else might cut a deal.”

  “You’re saying it’s better to be the first guy to cut a deal than the last.”

  “The first person usually gets the best deal. It’s a fact of life.”

  “What are the penalties if I’m convicted?” he asks.

  “A fine. Probably probation.” I pause and say, “Maybe some jail time, Tony.”

  “I might be able to afford a fine,” he says. “I can’t do jail time. My business will collapse. I’ve worked too hard for too many years.”

  Rolanda takes his hand and says, “You won’t go to jail.”

  He smiles at her and says, “I knew it would come in handy to have a daughter who was a lawyer.”

  Rolanda smiles. “What do you want to do, Dad?”

  “I want to nail everybody involved in this smelly matter.”

  “If you give the money back,” I say, “you might look like a hero.” I turn to Rolanda and add, “The immunity agreement should say that Tony does not acknowledge any wrongdoing. In addition, if asked, the police will be required to say that Tony turned down the payoff. That should help keep his reputation intact.”

  “That isn’t entirely true,” Tony points out.

  “It isn’t an entirely perfect world,” I tell him. “It shades the story in the right direction.”

  “That’s a wonderful semantic victory for you lawyers,” he says. “It’s more important to me to stay alive long enough to enjoy my great moral victory.” He turns to Rolanda and adds, “In the meantime, why don’t you start preparing that immunity agreement?”

  *****

  Chapter 15

  “I Can’t Tell You Much”

  “I just gather the evidence as carefully as I can. The prosecutors try the cases.”

  — Inspector Jack O’Brien. KGO Radio. Sunday, June 6. 4:00 p.m.

  I’m sitting in my car in front of the MacArthur house, which is still encircled by yellow police tape. Rolanda took Tony back to the market. I’m parked behind a black-and-white. Two un
iforms are standing in the driveway. Another officer is drinking coffee at the end of the cul-de-sac by the entrance to the path leading down to the beach. Except for the police presence, it’s just another foggy afternoon in Sea Cliff.

  Jack O’Brien agreed to meet me here at four-thirty. That was a half hour ago. I tried to reach him, but had to leave a message. Five minutes pass. Then five more. I wonder if I’m wasting my time. A familiar face comes up to my window. Officer Pat Quinn gives me a broad smile and says, “I didn’t think a priest would be working on Sunday.”

  “Former priest,” I correct him. “Have you wrapped up yet?”

  “Almost. The FETs are almost done. We stand around and watch. Another two days of my life I’ll never get back.” He shrugs and says, “Jack called. He’s on his way.”

  At least he’s coming. “Did you find anything else that might be interesting?”

  “Nothing that you haven’t already heard about. MacArthur must have taken a nasty shot to the back of the head.”

  “Did you find any blood inside the house?”

  “None.”

  I look at Angel’s car, which is still parked in the garage. “Any fingerprints?”

  “Just hers.”

  “Anything in the trunk?”

  “The spare tire and a gym bag.”

  Uh-oh. I ask him what was in the bag.

  “Sweaty clothes and a towel. It looks like your client went to the gym before the party.”

  She didn’t mention it. “Any more on Martin Kent?”

  “Not that I know of. Jack was going to talk to his son. He’s late because he was sitting in on Kent’s autopsy.”

  “Do you know the results?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  I will if he ever gets here.

  “So,” he says, “now you’re representing movie stars. Well, la— di—da. Here I am, just another guy from the old neighborhood trying to pay the bills.” With Pat, what you see is what you get. He’s a likable guy. If you meet him on the street and you look suspicious, he’ll shove you up against a wall and stick his billy club into the small of your back.

  I go with the standard reply. “It’s my job. She’s Rosie’s niece.”

  “I heard.” His smile disappears and he says, “Jack says they’ve got her. No doubt. No alibi. Are you thinking about a plea?”

  “Too soon to tell. We’re still trying to figure out what happened.”

  “You’d better figure it out soon.”

  My old friend Pat Quinn wanders back to his post in front of the house. I think of all the people from the neighborhood who became cops and firemen. A few are doctors and lawyers. I was the only priest. I think about Grace and wonder what she’ll be doing in another thirty years.

  I inhale the cool breeze. The salt water aroma reminds me of the afternoons I spent in our backyard with my older brother, Tommy. The sun came out so infrequently that most of my childhood memories are of playing in the fog. I try to call Leslie, but get no answer. I call the office. Carolyn tells me Rosie is still at her mother’s house. I call Pete’s cell. He tells me all is quiet around the corner at Little Richard’s house. I give him the license number of Petrillo’s limo. Finally, after another interminable fifteen minutes, I see O’Brien park his unmarked gray Ford in front of the MacArthur driveway, and I get out of my car and walk toward him.

  He gives me a perfunctory apology. “I can take you inside for a few minutes,” he says. “You have to stay with me at all times. I will kill you instantly if you touch anything.”

  Got it.

  The tour takes ten minutes. We walk carefully around the FETs, who are still inventorying evidence. He points out the bloodstains on the deck. He takes me inside to see the living room. The carpet is snow white. Next he takes me up to the bedroom. He shows me the closet and armoire. Then he takes me downstairs to the ornate theater. It has velvet chairs and maroon curtains. If there’s a smoking gun in this house, I’m not going to find it today.

  We stop in the foyer by the front door. I ask him if they’ve found any new evidence.

  “I can’t tell you much.” There is no malice or irritation in his tone.

  “Come on, Jack,” I say. “You must know the results of the autopsies.”

  “The results on MacArthur aren’t official yet. They’re still working on Kent.”

  “You must have a preliminary conclusion on MacArthur.”

  He shrugs as if to say, “You’re going to find out anyway.” He says, “They’ve ruled out suicide and natural causes.”

  “That leaves homicide,” I say.

  “Correct. The cause of death was a blow to the back of the head from a heavy object that fractured his skull. He also had broken bones from the fall.”

  “How do you know he was struck on the deck?”

  “The blood spatter pattern.”

  I glance toward the living room and ask, “Did you find any blood inside the house?” I already know the answer, but I want to hear it from him.

  “None.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? How did she get to the car without dripping blood on the carpet or tracking it across the floor?”

  O’Brien says, “She didn’t necessarily walk through the blood on the deck. Just because there was blood on the Oscar doesn’t mean it dripped on the floor. She didn’t have to go through the house. She could have gone up the outside stairs and through the gangway. She could have gotten into her husband’s car and driven off.”

  We’ll have an interesting time making our respective arguments about the possibilities to a jury. I ask him to show me the gangway between the MacArthur house and the Neilses’.

  He leads me out to the damp, cement-paved passage that smells of star jasmine. It extends from the front of the house to the rear, where it connects to a short stairway that leads up to the deck and a longer one that leads down to the beach. Stray garden tools are leaning against the fence and a limp green hose hangs on the wall next to the controls for the sprinkler system. The FETs have already completed their work.

  I ask if they found any blood out here.

  “No.”

  “What about footprints?”

  “None.”

  “How do you suppose she got to the car without leaving footprints or tracking blood?”

  “She wasn’t walking in dirt or mud where footprints would have been easy to find.”

  Not so fast. “There still should have been traces of blood,” I say.

  “Not necessarily. Although we found blood on the railing, there was very little on the floor of the deck. We think MacArthur was leaning out over the railing when he was hit. That’s why he flopped over so easily and fell.”

  “That’s certainly convenient for your theory,” I say.

  “It squares with what happened,” O’Brien snaps.

  I won’t win this argument today, so I shift gears. “What was Angelina wearing when you picked her up at the bridge?” I know the answer.

  “A sweatshirt and sweatpants.”

  “Did you find any blood?”

  He hesitates for an instant. “No.”

  “Really? How do you account for that?”

  He tries to be coy. “What do you mean?”

  “If she hit him hard enough to crack his skull and project blood all the way back to the deck, surely there should have been some blood on her sweatshirt.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He’s bluffing. “How do you figure? The Oscar is about a foot tall. If she gripped it by the narrow part and hit her husband with the heavy base, her hands and arms would have been within inches of his head. If the blood flew back onto the deck, surely some of it would have hit her arms and maybe even the face.”

  “The blood missed her. Or she changed clothes.”

  Bullshit. “When?”

  “Before she drove to the bridge.”

  I don’t think so. I search for a tone of measured incredulity. “Where?” I say. “You just said there’s no evid
ence she went back inside the house.”

  “Outside. Maybe she changed in the car.”

  “You’re saying she planted clean clothes in the car?”