MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  # # #

  Our first witness goes on at the stroke of two. “My name is Dr. Robert Goldstein,” he says with genial authority. His jowls wiggle when he adds, “I’m an emeritus professor in the departments of pathology and trauma surgery at UCSF.”

  He’s also one of the most accomplished bullshit artists in the San Francisco medical community. Now in his late sixties and semi-retired, the once-impressive scholar works the lecture circuit and acts as a hired gun. Thankfully, Quinn’s last official act before he withdrew as Ramon’s attorney was to authorize payment of ten grand to Dr. Goldstein, who spent a good two hours browsing Beckert’s report. Nice work if you can get it.

  “Dr. Goldstein,” I begin, “would you describe your expertise in the field of pathology?”

  His impeccably-coiffed gray hair matches his subdued Wilkes Bashford suit. His resume can stand toe-to-toe with Beckert’s, and his blue eyes gleam as he tells us he graduated from Stanford and went to medical school at Johns Hopkins. McNulty grudgingly stipulates to his qualifications.

  I walk up to the witness box and offer him a copy of Beckert’s report. “Are you familiar with this document?” I ask.

  “I’ve studied it in great detail.”

  Or in as much detail as he could muster in a couple of hours of preparation time after he got home from the Warriors game on Saturday night.

  He straightens his tie and his tone is deferential when he adds, “I’ve worked with Dr. Beckert for many years and I have great respect for him.”

  Just the way we rehearsed it.

  “That’s why I was very surprised when I read this report,” he says.

  It’s my cue. “Why is that, Dr. Goldstein?”

  He shakes his head in feigned disbelief when he says, “I believe Dr. Beckert made an error in his analysis of the cause of death.”

  Gee, big surprise. I dart an incredulous glance at Edwards, then I turn back to Goldstein and ask, “Could you explain why?”

  “Dr. Beckert concluded that Ms. Concepcion had been knocked unconscious, but I could find no evidence of any such injury.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  McNulty makes his presence felt. “Objection,” he says. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  No problem. I continue playing the straight man. “Would you please explain your conclusion?”

  He responds with a transparent smile. “Of course, Mr. Daley.” He addresses the judge directly when he says, “Would you mind if I took a moment outside the witness box to point out a couple of items from the autopsy photos?”

  McNulty offers no objection.

  Goldstein walks over to an easel that I’ve set up adjacent to the witness box where the judge and the gallery can watch him. He buttons his double-breasted suit and takes a gold Cross pen out of his pocket to gesture. He works without notes as he points to an enlarged photo of the area where Concepcion’s neck meets her right shoulder. He makes a circling motion and says, “This is the area where Dr. Beckert claims that Ms. Concepcion was struck.” He moves in closer and puts on his reading glasses–just the way I told him to. “Your Honor,” he says, “I have studied this photograph along with various enhancements thereof with great care.”

  Grace spends more time on her math homework every night.

  He straightens up and prepares to recite his carefully scripted lines. “Your Honor,” he continues, “I cannot find any evidence of a significant trauma that would have caused Ms. Concepcion to have lost consciousness.” He shakes his head vigorously and adds, “I did not have the benefit of examining the body, but our current photographic technology is excellent and it is very difficult for me to disagree with one of my most respected colleagues.”

  Unless somebody is willing to pay him ten grand to do it.

  “As a result,” he continues, “I believe Dr. Beckert’s conclusion that Ms. Concepcion was knocked unconscious was incorrect. I’m sure Dr. Beckert would be willing to reconsider his determination if given the opportunity.”

  He’s starting to ad lib and I need to get to the punch line. “Dr. Goldstein,” I say, “would you please state your conclusion as to Dr. Beckert’s determination concerning the cause of Ms. Concepcion’s death?”

  He puts the pen into his pocket and returns to the stand. He clears his throat and summons his most authoritative tone. “I have concluded that it is highly unlikely that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

  Air raid! Emergency! It’s a trial lawyer’s worst nightmare–a perfectly-coached witness with an impeccable set-up who fumbles the delivery. I struggle to keep my composure. “Dr. Goldstein,” I say, “didn’t you mean to say exactly the opposite?”

  His confident demeanor gives way to a deer-in-the-headlights look. “What did I say?”

  “You said it is unlikely that Ms. Concepcion committed suicide.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.” You idiot.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he stammers. “I meant to say that it is very likely that Ms. Concepcion did commit suicide.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I have him reiterate the correct conclusion once again, but the damage is done. As Nick Hanson likes to say, it isn’t just the story–it’s how you tell it. The judge’s expression indicates that whatever points we made at the beginning of Goldstein’s testimony were lost at the end. He turns to me and asks, “Do you have any more questions for this witness?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  The judge turns to McNulty and says, “Cross-exam?”

  “No, Your Honor.” He may as well have added, “I don’t need it.”

  You can write the perfect script and have the perfect cast, but the show can go down the tubes if somebody flubs their lines.

  The judge turns to me and says, “I need to take a short recess.”

  As we’re leaving the courtroom, Edwards buttonholes me and says, “How much did you pay Goldstein?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “Next time you ought to pay him a little extra to get it right.”

  Chapter 48

  “Things Didn’t Work Out”

  “Whereas, Eduardo Lopez is one of the moral pillars of St. Peter’s Parish and the Mission District Community.”

  — Commendation issued by San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

  Mercedes Trujillo isn’t flirting today. She looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than the witness box when I ask her, “How long have you been a hostess at Eduardo’s Latin Palace?”

  Her long hair is pulled back into a tight ball, the big earrings are gone and her make-up is subdued. “For about two years,” she whispers.

  By the time we’re finished, she may be unemployed. “Do you know a man named Eduardo Lopez?”

  “He’s my boss.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Pretty well.”

  I’m tempted to ask her if she knows him in the biblical sense, but I’d be getting ahead of myself. “Did you know a woman named Maria Concepcion?”

  “Yes, I did. She used to come to the restaurant. You could say she was a regular.”

  I could. “Ms. Concepcion knew Mr. Lopez pretty well, didn’t she?”

  “They were friends.”

  “In fact, they were more than friends, weren’t they?”

  She takes a deep breath and her pouty lips form a tight ball. She looks around for help, but none is forthcoming. “Yes,” she finally decides, “they were more than friends.”

  “In fact, they were lovers, weren’t they?”

  “I’m really uncomfortable talking about this.”

  I turn to the judge for help. “Ms. Trujillo,” he says, “you’ll have to answer the question.”

  “Mr. Lopez and Ms. Concepcion were involved in a romantic relationship,” she says.

  “Ms. Trujillo,” I continue, “are you aware that Mr. Lopez and his wife have filed for a divorce?”

  “
I’ve never talked to them about it.”

  I’m sure this is true. “One might conclude that one of the reasons for their separation involved Mr. Lopez’s extra-marital affair with Ms. Concepcion.”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Assumes facts that have not been introduced into evidence.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. Trujillo,” I say, “you also had a relationship with Mr. Lopez, didn’t you?”

  She freezes for an instant before she says, “He was my boss.”

  “He was more than your boss, wasn’t he?”

  She doesn’t respond immediately, and the judge instructs her to answer. “Mr. Lopez and I were romantically involved for a short time,” she says. “Things didn’t work out.”

  For anybody. “When were you seeing Mr. Lopez?”

  “Last August and September.”

  “Was Mr. Lopez also seeing Ms. Concepcion during that time?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “So, Mr. Lopez was seeing both you and Ms. Concepcion earlier this year?”

  McNulty tries to slow me down. “Objection,” he says, “asked and answered.”

  Judge Tsang goes my way. “Overruled,” he says.

  Trujillo takes a deep breath and says, “Mr. Lopez was dating both of us for a short time.”

  Good. “And just so we’re clear, he was still married at that time, wasn’t he?”

  Everybody in the courtroom knows the answer. “Yes, he was.”

  “Did Ms. Concepcion find out that Mr. Lopez was also seeing you?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “And how did she react?”

  “Badly. She came to the restaurant and made a scene, then she went upstairs to Mr. Lopez’s office and ended their relationship.”

  And she took a swing at him with his Louisville Slugger. “I take it she was upset?”

  “That would be an understatement.”

  “Was Mr. Lopez also upset?”

  “Very.”

  “Ms. Trujillo,” I say, “did you and Mr. Lopez continue to see each other after that?”

  “No. I told Mr. Lopez that I thought it would be better if we parted company.”

  “Yet you still work for him?”

  “You have to pay the bills, Mr. Daley.”

  And she has a gold-plated sexual harassment claim if she’s fired. On to the pyrotechnics. “You mentioned that Mr. Lopez was upset that Ms. Concepcion broke up with him.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Here goes. “Upset enough to kill her?”

  This gets McNulty out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor,” he says. “Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  I’m just starting to speculate. “Ms. Trujillo,” I say, “did Mrs. Lopez know that her husband was seeing you and Ms. Concepcion?”

  “Yes. She called me and told me she’d hired a private investigator who had seen us.”

  “Did Mr. Lopez know about this?”

  “Yes. I confronted him about it and he told me that she already knew.”

  “Did he seem to care?”

  “Not as far as I could tell.”

  Here we go again. “Was Mrs. Lopez upset about it?”

  “Very.”

  “Upset enough to murder Ms. Concepcion?”

  McNulty shoots up again. “Objection,” he shouts. “There isn’t the slightest bit of foundation for this speculative line of questioning. Mr. Daley is desperately grasping at straws in order to suggest there may be other possible suspects in this case.”

  Yes, I am.

  Judge Tsang knows exactly what I’m doing. “Sustained.”

  I glance at Edwards, then I turn back to Trujillo and ask, “When was the last time you spoke to Ms. Concepcion?”

  “She called the restaurant to place an order last Monday night.”

  “Did she pick up the order?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she have any contact with Mr. Lopez that night?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Did he leave the building at any time during your shift?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “And what time did your shift conclude?”

  “Twelve-thirty A.M.”

  “Ms. Trujillo,” I say, “did you happen to leave the restaurant through the rear door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you walk down the alley?”

  “For about a block.”

  “Are you aware that Ms. Concepcion lived in a building that backs onto the same alley?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Did you happen to see Ms. Concepcion or anyone else in the alley that night?”

  “No.”

  “Was Mr. Lopez still at the restaurant when you left?”

  “Yes. We walked out the back door at the same time.”

  It’s around the same time Nick the Dick left his post–that would explain why he didn’t see Trujillo or Lopez. “Is it possible that he paid a visit to Ms. Concepcion at some point after you left the restaurant that night?”

  McNulty stops me. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “It’s possible that Mr. Lopez could have gone to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment and killed her that night, isn’t it?”

  “Objection. The question is speculative and there is no foundation.”

  Yes, it is, and no, there isn’t.

  “Sustained.”

  “No further questions.”

  # # #

  Mercedes Trujillo may have been a reluctant witness, but Vicky Lopez most certainly is not. She’s dressed in her own creations as she adjusts the microphone. Her olive skin is gleaming against an understated beige blouse. She tells an impressed gallery that she runs one of the most successful independent fashion design firms in the country and she appears quite ready to inflict a full-blown frontal assault on her husband’s character. Never underestimate the pent-up anger in a jilted spouse.

  “How long have you been married?” I ask.

  “Twenty-seven years.” I notice an approving nod from Judge Tsang as I take her through a brief recitation of a listing of her children and grandchildren.

  “Mrs. Lopez,” I say, “is it true that you and your husband have filed for divorce?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Would you mind telling us why?”

  Her voice doesn’t go up a single decibel when she says, “My husband is a cheating pig.”

  Just the dignified tone I was hoping for. Judge Tsang silences the gallery with a single bang of his gavel.

  The marriage counseling is over and the gloves are off as Vicky Lopez catalogues her husband’s infidelities. She acknowledges that she hired Nick the Dick, who reported on her husband’s relationships with Concepcion, Trujillo and several others. “Eduardo was probably cheating from the day we got married,” she concludes.

  This confirms that he’s a jerk, but it still doesn’t place him at Concepcion’s apartment last Monday night. “Mrs. Lopez,” I say, “how did you feel when you first heard that your husband was cheating on you?”

  “How do you think I felt?”

  This works better when I ask the questions. “Angry?”

  “Irate. It was humiliating.”

  Fair enough. “Did you confront him?”

  “Yes. He denied everything. I told him that I would leave him if he cheated again. He didn’t think I meant it, but believe me, I did.”

  I believe you. “You knew Ms. Concepcion, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. I was furious when Mr. Hanson told me about it.”

  “At Ms. Concepcion?”

  “At my husband.”

  Not the right answer for establishing the ever-popular “Jealous-Wife-With-a-Motive” theory, but it throws a little more mud on his reputation. “Did you confront her about it?”

  “I confronted my husband.”

  Dammit. “And?”

  “He denied it.”