MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  “We don’t have anything solid yet.”

  “I’ll take wild, unsubstantiated speculation.”

  “Off the record,” he says, “it looks professional. It was a quick hit from a Saturday night special. It was carefully executed and the killer was gone in seconds.”

  “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  “In a dumpster. The serial number and all other identifying marks were removed.”

  “Prints?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “Suspects?”

  “The usual.”

  “Chances?”

  “Slim.”

  I ask him if there might be a connection to the disappearance of Doe’s former colleague.

  “I don’t know.” He says he can’t connect the Impala to Doe’s killing, either. “The car was wiped completely clean. It doesn’t mean that there isn’t a connection. It just means that we haven’t found it yet.”

  “Any chance I can persuade you to take a look at the records for the trust account for Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke?”

  “I’ll give it a look, but if Shanahan was really trying to hide something, he wouldn’t have talked about it.”

  “He had no choice. He would have looked evasive. Maybe we caught him red-handed with his fingers in the cookie jar.”

  “A cashier’s check doesn’t add up to murder, Mike.” He exhales heavily and says, “Let me give you some free advice.”

  His advice is usually very good.

  “If you really want to crack this case,” he says, “you’re going to have to find an eyewitness who can place somebody other than your client in Concepcion’s apartment after twelve-thirty last Tuesday morning.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. “That’s going to be tough.”

  “You’re a good lawyer.”

  I ask him if he’s going to be at work for awhile.

  “Yes. What do you need?”

  “Protection. We’re going to be talking to some people tonight. If we find a witness who knows something, I want to be sure he or she doesn’t end up like Jane Doe.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, but I may need you later.”

  “I’ll keep my cell phone on.”

  Chapter 53

  “Luis Does Not Exist”

  “The black market for illegal auto parts has skyrocketed thanks to a lack of resources and lax enforcement.”

  — San Francisco Chronicle.

  Rosie, Pete and I are standing a respectful distance from Preston Fuentes, who is sitting on a stool next to his workbench. The Corvette is conspicuously absent, but Fluffy is not. She’s straining against at the choke collar in the corner of the garage, and our escape options are nonexistent if she chooses to pounce. A clock that bears a Giants logo tells us it’s ten minutes after ten. The door is closed and an acrid combination of cigarette smoke and paint fumes fills the cluttered space. This garage could go up like a sheet at any moment.

  Rosie insisted on accompanying us this time to be sure we didn’t do anything stupid or reckless. She says to Fuentes, “Does this mean you sold the Corvette?”

  He takes a long pull on a cigarette and says, “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to see it.”

  “It turned out nice.” He doesn’t say anything else.

  I try to engage him. “Did you do pretty well on the deal?”

  “I did okay.”

  “Pick’s carburetor worked?”

  “Never underestimate the value of good auto parts.”

  Enough. “Preston,” I say, “you said you had something for us.”

  “I found somebody who was in the alley last Tuesday morning.”

  Yes! “When can we meet him?”

  “He’s waiting for my call.”

  “Whatever it takes,” I say.

  Fuentes drops his cigarette on the floor and snuffs it out with his boot. He flips open a cell phone and conducts a brief and rather heated conversation in Spanish. I’m fluent enough to understand that the other party is expressing a degree of reluctance. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and says, “I’ve persuaded him to talk to you.”

  “Great.”

  “There are some conditions.”

  Not so great. “What are they?”

  “No cops.”

  “Agreed.”

  “No wires.”

  “Agreed.”

  “No photographs.”

  “Agreed.”

  “No names.”

  For the moment, I have no choice. “Agreed.”

  He holds up a finger and says, “This last one is a deal-breaker.”

  “What?”

  “No testimony.”

  No way. “He’s useless to us.”

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “We got your carburetor on short notice.”

  “It isn’t negotiable.”

  Dammit.

  Rosie steps forward and says, “Tell him we’ll talk to him.”

  “Does that mean you’re accepting his conditions?”

  “For now.”

  Fuentes scowls and puts the phone back up to his ear. He speaks in Spanish for another moment and flips the phone shut. “He’s on his way,” he says.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He works for me.”

  “An employee?”

  “An independent contractor.”

  “What does he do for you?”

  “Whatever I ask.”

  “Does it involve procuring auto parts?”

  “Whatever I ask.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I told you no names.”

  “Give us just his first name.”

  “Luis.”

  “Why is he so paranoid?”

  “Luis does not exist.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s an illegal alien with a criminal record and several outstanding arrest warrants who has no interest in getting involved in a police matter.”

  Chapter 54

  “I Was Going to Steal the Car”

  “Neighborhood patrols in the Mission District have done little to stem the tide of auto thefts.”

  — San Francisco Chronicle.

  The wiry young man with the shaved head, wisp of a mustache and tattoo of a serpent on his right arm looks at us through darting eyes. He’s sporting a sleeveless black shirt with the logo of a hip-hop group whose name I don’t recognize and faded Levi’s that are shredded at the knees. A single stud punctures his left ear and his muscular hands are clenched. “Who are you?” he asks me in lightly accented English.

  “We’re representing Father Aguirre.”

  “Why?”

  It’s a fair question. “He’s a friend and a classmate,” I say, “and because he’s innocent.”

  A nod of silent approval.

  “Can you help us?” I ask.

  “Maybe.”

  “Were you here late last Monday night and early Tuesday morning?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you see anybody in this alley after twelve-thirty in the morning?”

  “Maybe.”

  I get his drift. “What will it take to get the whole story?”

  “I have some legal problems with the immigration authorities.”

  Rosie jumps in. “I’ve handled dozens of immigration cases,” she says. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “I have no money.”

  “Father Aguirre isn’t paying us,” she says. “We’ll handle your case pro bono if you’re willing to cooperate.” It’s all we have to offer.

  “I need protection from the cops and the INS.”

  “I’ll get a judge to sign a court order that will prohibit anybody from deporting you–I’ve done it in the past and I’ll do it again.”

  The judge is our old law partner and my ex-girlfriend. It is doubtful that an order issued by a California Super
ior Court judge would be binding against a federal agency like the INS, but we’ve successfully stalled the bureaucracy from time to time.

  The corner of his mouth turns up slightly and Rosie responds with a warm smile. “What’s your name?” she asks.

  “Luis Alvarado.”

  It’s a start. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Before we talk about what happened last week, why don’t you tell us about your problems with the INS.”

  “It’s a long story,” he says.

  “We have time.”

  # # #

  Alvarado’s story takes only a few minutes and is not atypical. He was born in Tijuana and slipped over the border five years ago. He did farm labor in the Central Valley and eventually worked his way up to San Francisco, where he tapped into the Mission District community and made enough money–legal or otherwise–to rent a ramshackle room above a garage near St. Peter’s. Life became more complicated when he was diagnosed with high blood pressure and diabetes, and he had to turn to stealing to pay for his medication. His health has improved, but his medicine is expensive and he can’t apply for standard welfare or other benefits because he’ll be escorted out of the country. It’s the ultimate Catch-22–he can only avail himself of our safety net if he turns himself over to the authorities, who will send him packing.

  “Nobody is going to send you anywhere,” Rosie assures him.

  His eyes turn hopeful. “Thank you, Ms. Fernandez.”

  “It’s Rosie.” They shake hands and she gives him a business card. “You can reach me on my cell phone,” she says. “Our office is being remodeled.”

  “Thank you, Rosie.”

  “You’re welcome.” Down to business. “Were you here last Tuesday morning?”

  “Yes. I dropped off some parts at Preston’s and I was on my way home.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A quarter to one.”

  Right after Nick the Dick left. Rosie asks him what he saw in the alley.

  “A black Lexus RX 330.”

  This helps. “Was anybody inside?”

  “No.”

  This doesn’t. “Where was it parked?”

  “Down the alley.”

  “Show us.”

  We take him outside and he directs us to the area just outside the back gate of Concepcion’s building. He gives us a sheepish look and says, “Is this conversation covered by the attorney-client privilege?”

  “Of course,” Rosie says.

  “I had a standing order for a Lexus and I was going to steal the car,” he says. “It was just business.” His tone fills with disappointment. “The driver came back just as I was about to hot wire the ignition.”

  Bad timing. “Where did he come from?”

  He gestures toward Concepcion’s building. “I didn’t want to be seen, so I ran. He got into the car and drove away.”

  “Why didn’t you take him down and take the keys?”

  “I just steal cars. I never hurt anyone.”

  It’s a good policy. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “It was dark, but I might be able to identify him.”

  Might isn’t good enough. “Did he say anything to you?” I ask.

  “He told me to get away from his car. I was scared and I got the hell out of there.”

  “Do you think you can identify his voice?”

  “Maybe.”

  He’s the only person on the face of the earth who might be able to identify Concepcion’s killer. “Luis,” I say, “we need you to testify. You can help us solve a murder.”

  “I’m not going to do anything unless I get some protection.”

  “We have friends in the SFPD who will take care of you.”

  “No cops.”

  “I have a friend who’s a homicide inspector. He worked with my father for thirty years. You can trust him, Luis.”

  “I want to meet him first,” he says.

  “That’s fair.” I pull out my cell phone and punch in the familiar number.

  “Johnson,” the voice says.

  “Daley.”

  “What?”

  “I may have something for you, but I need you to be discreet. Can you meet me in twenty minutes?”

  “Where?”

  I need someplace safe, public and relatively inconspicuous. “St. Mary’s,” I say. “Come by yourself. We’ll be on the far right side in the back.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “You might say we’re going to have a ‘Come to Jesus Meeting.’”

  Chapter 55

  A Final Confession

  “Kindly respect the dignity of this institution by maintaining appropriate levels of decorum at all times.”

  — The Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption.

  It takes a lot of arm twisting, but I’m able to persuade the brain trust of the San Francisco archdiocese to assemble in front of the modern altar in the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption at eleven-thirty on Monday night. F.X. Quinn is standing between John Shanahan and Archbishop Keane, and Dennis Peterson has positioned himself a couple of paces to one side. The massive sculpture above them is supposed to symbolize the channel of love and grace from God, and its sheer size suggests that God has a lot of love and grace to give. It’s made up of fifteen stories of triangular aluminum rods suspended by gold wires and it weighs more than a ton. Nobody is admiring the architecture.

  The contemporary white building is the third St. Mary’s to serve the archdiocese. The first was erected in 1854 and still stands at the corner of California Street and Grant Avenue in what is now Chinatown. The second was built on Van Ness Avenue in 1891, but it burned down in 1962. The existing structure was completed in 1970 and was the subject of immediate controversy because of its dramatic, modern architecture, and was derisively referred to as “God’s Maytag” when construction was finished. Its striking design flows from the geometric principal of the hyperbolic paraboloid, in which four corner pylons support a huge cupola which rises nineteen stories above the floor. Expansive windows at each corner provide spectacular views of the city of Saint Francis.

  I’m sitting by myself in the third row of the hushed cathedral that seats over two thousand people. I used to love to sit in church late at night when I was a priest. There was a serenity that is difficult to reproduce during the daylight hours. It was a spiritual time for me–perhaps the only time of the day when I felt truly connected to God. I look up at the magnificent vaulted ceiling, then I walk up to the altar and make the sign of the cross.

  Quinn breaks the silence. “You said it was an emergency, Michael.”

  “It is.” I address the archbishop. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for Father Aguirre.”

  “Our prayers are with him.”

  I’m sure they are.

  Quinn hasn’t taken his eyes off mine, and he tries to direct the discussion. “Why did you call us here?” he asks.

  “I came to hear a final confession.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I look up at the cupola and then toward the back of the cathedral, where Rosie and Pete are standing. Luis Alvarado and Roosevelt Johnson are out of sight somewhere behind the mammoth northwest pylon. Rosie touches her right ear and I address the archbishop. “Out of respect for you and for the Church,” I say, “I wanted to give you a last chance to tell the truth tonight.” And I want to conduct this exercise in a setting where the California Rules of Evidence don’t apply. “If you and your attorneys aren’t interested, we can discuss this in open court tomorrow.”

  The archbishop is undaunted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Michael.”

  “Your legal team let you down, Archbishop Keane.”

  The charismatic priest isn’t going to take my word for it. “I have full faith and confidence in Father Quinn, Mr. Shanahan and Mr. Peterson,” he says. “They’ve served the archdiocese well for many years.”