MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  — Father Ramon Aguirre. San Francisco Chronicle.

  Ramon’s voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry, Mike,” he says. “I was trying to help Maria.”

  We’re meeting in his room at archdiocese headquarters at eight o’clock on Sunday night. His surge of energy has dissipated and the harsh realities are sinking in. His freedom is at stake, the cards are stacking against him and nobody in this building is his friend.

  I put on my game face and try to sound reassuring. “We’ll deal with it,” I say. “You’re family.”

  “They say it isn’t a good idea to represent relatives.”

  “Sometimes you have to break the rules.”

  “Seems I’ve done enough of that in the last few months to last a lifetime.”

  He certainly has.

  Rosie starts with pragmatics. “You have to be careful about who you talk to,” she says. “Everybody here is a potential witness. We’re the only people you can trust.”

  “I understand.”

  “We need to deal with Maria’s unborn child,” I say. “It’s better to come clean and move forward.”

  “It will cost me my job.”

  “We can address that issue after the charges are dropped.”

  The reality check is now complete. He lowers his voice and asks what he can do to help.

  “We need a description of everybody you met at the fertility clinic. With a little luck, we’ll find a witness who can corroborate that you made a . . . donation. We need to show that it wasn’t a one-night stand. We also need a detailed chronology of precisely what you did and where you walked after you left Ms. Concepcion’s building last week. Maybe we can find somebody who will testify that you never re-entered her apartment.”

  “I told you I left some flyers by her back door.”

  Which doesn’t help much without corroboration. I decide to shift gears. “Both Quinn and Shanahan spoke to Ms. Concepcion last Monday.”

  “So?”

  “I think they know more than they’ve told us.”

  “They might. What do you want me to say?”

  “That they had a grudge against her and would sell their souls to protect the reputation of the archdiocese.”

  “They did and they would, but I don’t think they’d get involved in murder.”

  “I’m not as forgiving as you are.”

  “I’ve been in the forgiveness business longer than you have.”

  And I got out before I got good at it.

  He acknowledges that he has no great love for either of them, but he’s adamant in his belief that neither man would engage in criminal activity. “They wouldn’t cross the line,” he says. “There’s too much at stake.”

  We push him, but he doesn’t change his view. We explain that McNulty will present his case at the prelim as expeditiously as possible and we’ll put on a full court defense. “The prosecution will probably finish by the middle of the day,” I say. “We’ll have to be ready to go.”

  “When do I testify?”

  Rosie and I respond in unison with an emphatic, “You don’t.”

  He gives up quickly after he hears the adamance in our respective tones. There is a slight chance that Rosie and I will put him on the stand if this case goes to trial, but it’s far too risky to let him testify at a prelim, where Bill McNulty will tie him in knots.

  “We’ll pick you up first thing tomorrow morning,” I tell him. “Wear your collar.”

  “I will.” He takes a deep breath and says, “Where are you off to now?”

  “I have to deliver a carburetor.”

  Chapter 40

  “It Can’t Possibly Get Any Worse”

  “The preliminary hearing for Father Ramon Aguirre will begin at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Pull up a comfortable chair, get a big bowl of popcorn and prepare to enjoy the show.”

  — Legal Commentator Mort Goldberg. Channel 4 News. Sunday, December 14. 10:00 P.M.

  Preston Fuentes studies every inch of the carburetor that Jeff Pick located for him with the same precision that a jeweler would use in examining a fine diamond. “This looks good,” he finally decides. “Where did Pick find it?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Pete says.

  We’re standing inside Fuentes’s garage at ten o’clock Sunday night. The door is closed and Fluffy is sitting quietly in the corner. The cramped area smells of car wax.

  “What do I owe you?” Fuentes asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “What’s it really going to cost me?”

  “Information about the woman who died in the building across the alley.”

  “I didn’t know her and I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “You said you’d try to find somebody who did.”

  “I can ask around.”

  “We were under the impression you were already doing that.”

  “I told you’d I’d see what I can do after you delivered the carburetor.”

  Pete’s voice gets louder. “So, you haven’t done a damn thing.”

  “Correct.”

  “We had a deal.”

  “Yes, we did. Now that you’ve fulfilled your part, I’ll fulfill mine.”

  Pete can’t mask his irritation. “How soon?”

  “Come back tomorrow night. Same time, same place.” He looks down at the carburetor and says, “Give my best to Pick.”

  # # #

  Pete is seething. “That was a fucking waste of time,” he says.

  What my brother lacks in eloquence he makes up for with directness. We’re sitting in my car behind Tony’s market at ten-thirty on Sunday night. I need to get back to Rosie’s to continue preparations for the prelim. Pete is going to relieve Terrence the Terminator, who is spending some quality time at the Mitchell Brothers watching Jane Doe.

  He adds, “He should have had his ass in gear. He knew I would get him the carburetor.”

  As if Fuentes would have any reason to think Pete has a reputation for procuring auto parts.

  “We don’t have time to screw around,” he continues. “I’ll go around and knock on a few doors tonight.”

  I admire his tenacity. “I want you to relieve Terrence.”

  He nods. His dark brown eyes reflect the glow of the street light above us as he gives me his honest assessment of our situation. “We’re fucked, Mick,” he says.

  “We’ve been in tougher spots. Besides, what else can they do to us? They’ve followed us around, smashed my car window, broken into Rosie’s house and tried to burn down our office. It can’t possibly get any worse.”

  My ever-resourceful younger brother admits that I may have a point.

  I’m about to start the ignition when my cell phone rings. I can tell from the Terminator’s shaky voice that something is very wrong. “She’s dead, Mike,” he whispers.

  Uh-oh. “Who?”

  “Jane Doe.”

  No! “What the hell happened?”

  “Somebody shot her as she was leaving the theater.”

  Hell. “Did they catch him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “They’re here.” He’s choking back tears. “I’m sorry, Mike. I did the best that I could.”

  “I know. We’ll be right there.” I snap the phone shut and Pete gives me an inquisitive look. “Things just got worse,” I tell him.

  Chapter 41

  “Follow the Money”

  “There’s been a shooting in the alley behind the Mitchell Brothers Theater. The victim has not been identified.”

  — KGO Radio. Monday, December 15. 12:30 A.M.

  The Terminator is inconsolable as he’s sitting on a milk crate just outside the yellow crime scene tape in the alley behind the Mitchell Brothers at twelve-forty-five A.M. He won’t look up at me and his voice is child-like when he says, “I let you down.”

  The flashing lights and haphazardly-parked news vans create
a surreal carnival-like atmosphere in a neighborhood where many crimes go unreported and most go unsolved. Reporters from the major TV stations jockey for position to get the best angle of the backdrop of a girlie theater offset against the foggy night sky.

  I put a hand on his muscle-bound shoulder and say, “You couldn’t have prevented it.”

  “She was out of my sight for less than two minutes. It’s my fault.”

  “No, it isn’t. Somebody was waiting for her.” He says he saw a green Impala pull out of the alley, when he came around to find her. He didn’t see the driver or a license plate.

  I look down the alley, where I see Marcus Banks escorting Rod Beckert toward the body. I try to get their attention, but they ignore me. I stay with Terrence as Pete walks along the perimeter of the restricted area. He returns a moment later with Roosevelt, whose tired voice has a cast of respect and sorrow when he says, “I can’t let you inside.” I pepper him with questions for which he provides precious few answers. Yes, Doe was shot and killed. No, the murder weapon hasn’t been found. Yes, it appears that it was a single bullet. No, they haven’t been able to identify the caliber of the weapon. Yes, a green Impala was seen in the alley immediately after the shooting. No, they don’t have anybody in custody.

  He tries to pull away and I stop him. “Do you have any idea who did this?” I ask.

  “Too soon to tell. Her purse was missing and it could have been a robbery–or somebody trying to make it look like one.” He responds to my skeptical expression. “The fact that it was a clean kill hasn’t gone unnoticed, but she wasn’t on the best of terms with her drug suppliers.”

  “What about the Impala?”

  “We’re looking for it.”

  I remind him that somebody has been following us in a similar car.

  “I’m well-aware of that.”

  I was hoping for a little more. “You’re saying this has nothing to do with Doe’s case against Father O’Connell?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You seem to be ruling out a professional job.” Or trying to.

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Anything’s possible. She was going to be the star witness in a civil case against the archdiocese and a criminal case against your client. You can do the math.”

  # # #

  Rosie’s living room has a morgue-like cast as we regroup at three A.M. I just arrived from archdiocese headquarters, where Ramon took the news of our star witness’s untimely demise with deep resignation. Pete is sitting on the window sill. He spent the last two hours hounding his former colleagues for additional information about Doe’s death with no luck.

  The Terminator walks in with a tray of sodas and leftover tortilla chips. I didn’t want to leave him by himself tonight, so I told him that he could bunk with me. He’s barely spoken since we got here. He says to Pete, “Donna’s on her way.”

  “What does she need?” My brother has an unwritten rule that his girlfriend isn’t supposed to get involved with his job.

  “She’s bringing you dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  As far as I know, Terrence has never had a long-term or even a short-term relationship, but his instincts on domestic matters are usually dead accurate. “When somebody does you a favor,” he says, “you’re supposed to say thank you.”

  My brother is smart enough to back off and Donna arrives a few minutes later with a bag of turkey sandwiches. Her straight blonde hair cascades down her back and her melancholy eyes evoke a sense of sadness. She’s a lapsed Catholic who grew up in the Sunset and attended Mercy High. Her no-nonsense demeanor and crackling sarcasm keep the partners in line at the law firm where she works. More importantly, she provides adult supervision to my brother.

  The sandwiches are homemade and hearty, and I thank her profusely while devouring mine. “What’s the word on the street?” I ask. We lawyers tend to get so caught up in our own little worlds that we frequently ignore what’s going on outside.

  “The bad news is that everybody is going crazy about the fact that your client is the father of the baby. The good news is that Doe’s death is taking everybody’s mind off the bad news.”

  Not for long.

  “They interviewed Marcus Banks on TV,” she says, “but he didn’t say much. Jerry Edwards is going nuts. He thinks somebody involved in the O’Connell case murdered Doe.”

  It’s a great angle for a reporter and we may be able to channel his energy to our benefit. I ask, “Did he happen to mention whom?”

  “He was speculating it was somebody connected with the archdiocese.”

  That doesn’t narrow the field by much. “Did he offer any proof?”

  “Of course not. That’s not his job.”

  It’s ours.

  She adds, “John Shanahan said such claims are totally preposterous.”

  That’s his job. “Did you believe him?”

  “I believe everything he says. He looks like Paul Newman.” She takes a deep breath and says, “How badly does Doe’s death hurt your case?”

  It’s a key question and I answer her honestly. “We can still introduce her statement at the prelim,” I say. It was in Rosie’s briefcase and was one of the few things that didn’t burn up in the fire. “It sounds harsh, but her death may not be such a bad thing for us. Given her background, she may not have been a very credible witness.”

  “You think she’ll come off any better now that she’s dead?”

  “At least they won’t have a chance to cross-examine her.”

  I turn to Rosie and ask if all of our subpoenas have been served.

  “Yes. They found Dennis Peterson on the slopes at North Star.”

  It isn’t easy to find process servers who ski. I arch an eyebrow and ask, “Was our process server able to serve the archbishop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In church.”

  Perfect. Quinn is going to get an earful. “Does that mean our server is going to hell?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s Jewish.”

  I’m not sure that entitles him to a free pass.

  Rosie turns serious. “It’s fun to tweak them,” she says, “but we have to connect Concepcion’s death to Doe’s murder.”

  “We have no evidence that they’re related.”

  “We have no evidence that they aren’t.”

  I ask her how she plans to prove it.

  “I can’t.”

  We sit in silence for a moment before Pete speaks up. “I checked the auto registrations for some of the players,” he says. “Lopez and his wife drive matching Lexus SUVs, and Shanahan and Peterson drive the same model. The archdiocese owns a couple of Jeep Cherokees to chauffeur the archbishop and the power priests.”

  It raises some intriguing possibilities, but we can’t prove that any of the cars were parked behind Concepcion’s apartment last Monday night.

  He adds, “I’m trying to find out if anyone has reported a stolen green Impala.”

  Donna has been listening to our conversation intently when she says, “If you want to get some dirt on Shanahan, you might check on the trust accounts maintained by his firm.”

  Law firms are required to maintain separate bank accounts to hold funds on behalf of their clients. They’re used to advance costs and to pay settlements.

  She adds, “I’ve seen some hanky-panky in our firm’s trust accounts. A couple of the power partners exert more control over them than they should.”

  Too vague. “Meaning?”

  “They take care of certain matters on behalf of our clients without going through the usual channels. They have the discretion to make some problems go away.”

  “Payoffs?” I say.

  “We refer to them as settlements. They probably won’t release the information voluntarily, but they’re no different than any standard corporate bank account.” She turns to Pete and says, “Surely, you must have experi
ence in this area.”

  He nods.

  “Follow the money,” she says, “and maybe you can find a connection to Jane Doe.”