San Francisco Values

by James K Turner

  Mark looked at his watch. “I think our twenty minutes are about up.”

  “Wait, Mark,” Ella said, “there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

  Chapter 12

  “How do you plead?”

  Ella held her head high. “Not guilty.” She could see the riveted courtroom out of the corner of her eye. Thank god the judge had banned cameras.

  “Excuse me, your honor.” A man’s voice interrupted from the back of the cavernous, richly paneled room. Ella turned to see Lt. Rothschild’s partner, Detective Gunner coming in through the double doors. “My name is Jemiah Gunner, SFPD. I apologize for interrupting, but it’s of great importance to the case at hand.”

  The packed courtroom erupted in murmurs and speculation. “Order, order,” the judge commanded, pounding her wooden gavel. The sharp crack of the judicial mallet and a stern eye quieted the uproar without delay.

  “This can’t wait?” asked the judge, a strict, grey haired woman in her late 50’s. Known as a no-nonsense jurist who presided over a rigorous courtroom, she exhibited little tolerance for legal shenanigans. “We’re in the middle of an arraignment, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I am aware of that, your honor, but I respectfully request a moment of the court’s time.”

  “As you wish, but it better be good,” the judge said, gaveling again. “The court will recess for five minutes.”

  Ella looked at her $1,500 per hour Los Angeles attorney, who shrugged.

  “Beats me,” he said quietly. His appearance screamed mafia lawyer, with silver hair slicked back and suit all shiny. Expensive, gaudy jewelry decorated oversized hands and wrists. Despite, or perhaps because of, these Little Italy accoutrements, he had an unfailing reputation for getting his clients off the hook.

  She watched intently as Detective Gunner approached the bench, the despicable Lt. Rothschild joining him. The three conferred in serious whispers. Ella scrutinized the judge’s face for clues, but picked up nothing. Detective Gunner finished talking and the judge addressed the courtroom.

  “Would counsel for the defense and prosecution please approach the bench?”

  *******

  Ella burst forth from the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, unexpectedly triumphant. The sun shone gloriously, casting a brilliant sheen upon the press gaggle waiting on the courthouse steps. At the sight of the pack, she seized up with hostility.

  “Ella, how do you feel?” shouted one reporter, notebook in hand.

  A second cut off the first. “When did you find out Gordon Elway’d been shot and killed?”

  Television cameras pointed at her. “Do you still want to sell the Frackle mansion?”

  Ella ignored the questions and pushed forward, grasping Mark’s hand. Bootsie pressed in close on her other side. She could have used her lawyer’s advice out here, she hadn’t expected such a grilling, but she’d released him the moment the judge dropped the charges. At his hourly rate she figured she’d go it alone. One thing did work out very well though, sending Bootsie and Mark to her home to pick out a well considered outfit for the arraignment.

  “If they’re gonna make an example out of me because I’m quote, better off, meaning I’ve worked hard all my life, and made a few bucks, I might as well look the part.” Her ensemble projected a low key, unpretentious style albeit one that didn’t come cheap. The lack of a jailhouse hair salon necessitated a simple wash and dry.

  Ella took a deep breath, pulling in the sweet, fresh outdoor air. She stopped to face the cameras.

  “How do I feel, one of you asked? I feel vindicated, though it’s going to take some time to recover from the vicious attacks upon my reputation, mainly by you people, the press. And I mourn the death of my colleague Gordon Elway.”

  “Thatta a girl,” Bootsie said.

  Unfazed, the reporters fired more questions. “What about your injuries? We heard you got into a fight in jail.”

  “Physically, I’m on the mend after being set upon and beaten while unjustly imprisoned.”

  Now that she’d spoken, the reporters pushed in even closer, like a herd of cattle rushing into the chute. Several TV cameras came to within inches of her face, giving her an unblinking, claustrophobic taste of scorching fame. How did well known people, movie stars and the like, live with this, she wondered? Everyone shouted questions, but reporter Chirley Wixon’s voice rose above the din.

  “Ella Barker, still, how do you explain the blood in your car? Did you have anything to do with Gordon Elway’s murder? Do you feel bad that you’re free because he’s dead?”

  Ella stopped in her tracks, looking Chirley in the eye. “How dare you even speak to me.”

  Mark protectively cut in front of Ella. “I’ll second that. You’re a sorry excuse for a reporter, destroying lives, making wild accusations, running around all chipper while using your camera to hack away at people…”

  Ella laid a hand on Mark’s arm. “Mark, it’s OK, let’s just get going.”

  “Kill the messenger, huh?” Chirley replied with a self satisfied smile.

  “If I was your mother, I’d slap you to Timbuktu,” interjected Bootsie, probably saying the most cruel thing she could think of.

  Then Chirley jammed the microphone in Mark’s face. “Did your father’s connections get Ella Barker off the hook?”

  Mark just shook his head. Ella took off through the crowd of reporters and cameras, putting forth a calm and impassive front in the face the repeatedly shouted questions. She went straight to Mark’s blue Acura parked at a nearby meter. He beeped open the locks and she practically dove into the back seat, Bootsie following close behind. Just before they slammed the doors, Lt. Rothschild poked his head inside.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “You!” Ella said accusingly.

  “Calm down,” he said.

  This only irritated Ella more. “I don’t need to calm down, I’m the one you threw in prison, remember, the innocent one? You bullied me, and badly scared me.”

  “I was just doing my job, you know the ‘good cop-bad cop’ routine. Gunner and I do it all the time.”

  “Why? In order to intimidate people into making false confessions?”

  “No, to get to the truth, and solve crimes. Look, I’m sorry if I was hard on you, but you have to admit the evidence pointed in your direction.”

  “Sorry is a cheap out.”

  The disheveled detective looked Ella straight in the eyes. “I mean it.”

  Ella sighed. “Well I would like to know what happened in there just now.” She looked at Mark.

  “Fine by me,” he said.

  “OK Lieutenant, get in.”

  Rothschild climbed into the front passenger seat. He turned to face the three curious faces. Mark started the car and they took off, leaving the insatiable press ruckus behind.

  “Fill me in,” Ella said. “All I know is one minute I was facing a first degree murder charge, and the next the judge sets me free, saying new evidence cleared me of any wrongdoing. And poor Gordon Elway is dead. What happened?”

  “Mr. Elway was leaving the O’Farrell Theatre last night.”

  “You mean the Mitchell Brothers, the live porn place?” Ella asked.

  “Correction,” Mark said. “Mitchell Brother, singular. One of ‘em wasted the other back in the 90’s, remember?”

  “Erotic nude female dancers, in the parlance of the industry,” Lt. Rothschild said. “Mr. Elway was standing on the corner of Polk and O’Farrell at 1am, attempting to hail a cab, when he was shot between the eyes.”

  Ella and Bootsie drew in their breath. “Just like Tiffany,” Ella said.

  “At least he died happy,” Mark said.

  “Mark, really,” Bootsie said. “Have a little respect.”

  “And like the previous killings, including the porn kid in Noe Valley,” Rothschild said, “the bullet was fired from a long distance. We know as well the same gun was used to kill both Elway and Tiffany Reynolds.”

>   “But not Salchiço Grosso? God how I love that name,” Mark said.

  “No, he was shot with a different weapon. We haven’t been able to locate either one.”

  “You thought I had ‘em stashed away,” Ella said. “So in other words, because Gordon was killed while I was in prison, with the same gun used on Tiffany…”

  “Since you were in the Big House, you couldn’t have shot Gordon,” Mark said. “That about says it,” replied the Lieutenant.

  They stopped at a traffic light, and a news van pulled up alongside, camera pointed out at the window at Ella.

  “Will they ever leave me alone?” Ella asked.

  The light changed and Mark roared away, executing a quick turn to the right, leaving the news van stuck in traffic and unable to follow.

  “Good move,” said Rothschild.

  “Well I know one thing,” Bootsie said, “whoever gets that Frackle listing next better hire a good body guard.”

  “Not to mention update their will,” said Mark.

  “We do have a situation here,” Lt. Rothschild said.

  Then he looked at Ella. “We’re not completely done with you yet.”

  “Haven’t you ruined her life enough?” Mark asked.

  The cop ignored him. “We’re going to want more clarification of what you were doing at the Frackle Mansion the night Tiffany Reynolds was found dead. And how you came to possess a copy of the listing contract between Giselle Frackle and Tiffany…”

  “I told you,” Ella interrupted, “it was sheer curiousity, with a big dose of stupidity, I admit. I never should have gotten out of my car that night. Speaking of my car, where is it?”

  “I still can’t believe that judge made you pay those parking tickets,” Bootsie said. “After all the trouble you’ve been through, that’s the least they could have done.”

  “The Benz has been with forensics all week, but they’ve released it,” said Rothschild. “You can pick it up anytime at the city tow yard.”

  “Ohh, this Blackberry thing keeps going off,” Bootsie said, holding the electronic device awkwardly in her lap. “I keep getting messages from the offices.”

  “What’s going on now?” Ella asked.

  Bootsie interrupted herself. “Oh wait, did I tell you about your listing, that cottage on Telegraph Hill, the bidding war? Well, I guess not, it was yesterday morning and you were… out of touch. Anyway, two couples bid it up from two million to nine point five, finally one party blinked. But the wife in the losing couple didn’t take it too well. She stole a backhoe from a construction site across the street, and tore through the garage door of the house. She was just getting to the kitchen when the police arrived.”

  “Then what happened?” Ella asked.

  “The winners backed out of the deal. The attacker ended up getting the place.”

  “And Ella gets the commission on a nine million dollar sale,” Mark added with a laugh.

  “And I thought police work was brutal,” said Lt. Rothschild.

  “Bootsie,” Ella said, pointing to the device in her secretary’s hands, “what are those messages you’re getting?”

  They waited for the light to change at the giant intersection of Mission and South Van Ness. Ella scouted around, but saw no journalistic pursuers.

  “It seems a lot of people are calling since the news got out that you’ve been sprung.”

  “I have not been sprung, I have been cleared of all charges and released.”

  “A lot of the callers want to list houses with you personally. And the 24 hour cable stations want interviews.”

  “Ella,” Mark said, “you’re famous now, don’t you realize that? Everyone wants to be able to say their broker is none other than glam jailbird Ella Barker.” Mark turned to the cop. “Speaking for Ella, let me thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Lt. Rothschild looked confused. “What for?”

  “Ella’s arrest was pure PR gold. Ella, we’ve got a lot of houses to sell. Let’s get to work.”

  Ella felt a little giddy, the first tingle of happiness since the arrest nightmare began. “Mark, Bootsie, let’s stop by the next open house we see, I don’t care if it’s a three million dollar teardown. It’s been nearly a week, I need a real estate fix. Lieutenant, where can we drop you?”

  *******

  Of all the pressing messages awaiting Ella upon her return to work, Giselle or Kearney Frackle were noticeably absent from the list. She hadn’t expected any word from Kearney after his emphatic statement on television, but somewhere in the back of her mind she thought maybe Giselle would approach her again. Of course, Giselle’s scatterbrained personality guaranteed nothing, and she’d plainly forgotten who Ella was on at least two occasions. But still Ella couldn’t get over the mansion, despite the striking danger so obviously attached to selling it. Giselle pulled the listing after Gordon’s death and as far as Ella knew hadn’t signed with another realtor yet.

  She could go ahead and call Safada, but instead decided to leave the whole thing for a few days, and see what the police might come up with. Hopefully they’d catch the killer, and Ella could jump back into the game without having to worry about losing her life. She had no intention of ending up as some clownish, bloody prop in the killer’s gruesome anti-marketing campaign.

  *******

  A couple days later, a much more relaxed Ella showed Mark around a vacant, dilapidated two bedroom condo in Cole Valley she wanted him to stage.

  “Ella, will somebody really buy this place for six million?”

  Footsteps stomping around above cut into their conversation. “That’s what I mean,” he said, “who wants to pay all that money to hear your neighbor’s footsteps and TV?”

  “In the bad old days when buyers had leverage, places like this would sit on the market. This one doesn’t even have a garage, and you know what it’s like trying to park in this neighborhood.”

  “But it’ll sell?”

  “In an instant, especially once you’ve worked your magic.”

  Mark looked around the drab, unremodeled 1950’s era kitchen. “It’s gonna take a lot of magic, let me tell you. Hey look, the owner left some booze under the sink.”

  “Actually,” Ella said as she strolled into the kitchen, spotting the five or six filthy jugs of cheap vodka, “that’s part of why this place is on the market. The owner is institutionalized. Paranoid alcoholic.”

  “What?”

  “His family had him hauled away…”

  “Sort of like you at the opera?”

  Ella raised her eyebrows and flashed Mark a look.

  “Anyway, he’d been a source of irritation in the neighborhood for years, blaring loud music at all hours. He’d put video cameras in the living room windows, pointing to the street. He’d parade around outside roaring drunk, screaming at anyone who passed by.”

  “No shit?” Mark asked, as he wiped the vodka bottles clean and stashed them in a box to take home.

  “And he’d turn blinding lights into any neighbor’s window who complained.”

  “I think I read about it in the paper.”

  “You might’ve, it made headlines when he was taken away.” They tracked across the fraying carpet to the living room window.

  “What a rat trap,” he said, tearing up a corner of the mildewed carpet, exposing the wood floor underneath. “It’ll take me a week to get it ready.” Ella watched him use a screwdriver to dig out a small section of the rotting, waterlogged planks.

  “What it really needs is a completely new floor,” he said.

  “Just make it look good for an open house. That’s all. The buyer won’t be allowed an inspection contingency.”

  “By the way, have you spoken to Jeff yet?”

  A voice from outside interrupted their conversation. “Yoo hoo, yoo hoo,” a man called out.

  “What now?” Ella asked, looking out onto the sidewalk one floor below. The voice emanated from a man in his early 30’s, waving up excitedly toward the condo. She slid open on
e of the rickety metal framed windows. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Is this place coming on the market, do you know by any chance? I know the owner moved out, I’m renting up the block, and I really want to buy in this neighborhood.”

  “Why yes,” Ella responded smoothly. “It just so happens it will be offered for sale, quite soon in fact. I’m the listing broker.”

  “What luck,” the man said. “Any chance I can get in now to take a look?”

  She glanced down at the rotting floor. “Unfortunately I’m short on time right now, but I’d be happy to make an appointment to show it to you in a few days. If we work fast, you know, you could even beat the open house and put in a pre-emptive offer. The place is immaculate.”

  Mark cleared his throat sarcastically. She shot him a furtive “shut up” smile.

  “Here,” she said, digging into her large purse. “My name is Ella Barker, owner Barker Brokers Properties.”

  “Wow,” the man said, “I knew you looked familiar. It’s you.”

  “Uh hum, yes,” Ella said awkwardly, not wanting to touch on the subject of her recent brush with the law.

  “See I told you,” Mark whispered.

  “Here, catch,” she said to the man on the street. He opened his hands to field Ella’s “business card,” a small self-charging cell phone. She always had five or six of these promotional gadgets on hand at any given time. In addition to displaying the ubiquitous Double B logo, each phone came shellacked in the yellow, green and navy stripes of her firm’s familiar yard signs. The phones were technically altered to call only a special Barker Brokers sales extension. A caller could enter any combination of numbers, domestic or international, but would always end up speaking with a pleasant Barker Brokers associate offering real estate assistance and appointments with Ella or one of her agents.

  “Call me to schedule an appointment.”

  “Thanks, really. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my wife will be thrilled.”