I initialed in the appropriate place.
Jarkowski continued. “And do you understand that you have a right to have an attorney, and that, if you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint you an attorney?”
“I do.”
We went through the signing ritual again. Then Jarkowski took the piece of paper, placed it back in the folder, and removed a longer document. “What I’m holding in my hand, Judge, is an agreement between you and the prosecuting attorney. They’ve agreed to classify you as a cooperating witness in the investigation of the murder of Judge Harry Meyer. This document does not grant you immunity from prosecution. The only guarantee is that they will take your cooperation into consideration as it relates to any charging or sentencing decision.”
I read the document and signed the bottom. “I understand.” Even though the actual phrasing used in the cooperating witness agreement sounded vague and not much of a promise at all, judges and lawyers knew the truth: the prosecutors were simply staying one step ahead of the defense attorneys.
After years of informants and adverse witnesses being destroyed on cross-examination because the prosecutor gave the witnesses immunity, a new, softer language developed. If I ever had to testify in a trial related to Harry’s murder and a defense attorney questioned my motives or suggested I was merely testifying against their client to save myself, the agreement allowed a prosecutor to prove that I hadn’t been granted immunity.
Jarkowski leaned over the table and retrieved the cooperating witness agreement. He read it quickly, making sure everything was in order, and then he began.
“First thing I want to do is show you this stuff. Get your reaction.” He removed a series of photographs from the folder and placed them on the table.
Jarkowski pointed at the photograph of a shell casing. It was on the entryway floor. Near the casing, there was a yellow tent with the number thirty-three printed.
“The shell contains the gunpowder that rockets the bullet forward. When a pistol is fired, the casing or shell just falls out on the floor as the next one comes into the firing chamber.”
He pointed at another photograph in the series. It was the same shell, but it was a close-up. Somebody on the forensic team had set the casing on its end so that the engraved markings were visible. Along the edge of the circle, it said 45 AUTO.
“We don’t know, yet, because it’s still at the lab, but we’re figuring this casing will match the bullet that killed Judge Meyer.” Then he put the photographs back in his folder and got out a picture of a black handgun. “You seen this before?”
“Assuming that’s the one next to Harry’s body, yes.”
“No,” Jarkowski said. “Like prior to that day. You ever see it before that day?”
I shook my head, confused. “Like where?”
“Like at his house or maybe at a shooting range or while camping.” He watched me carefully, studying my reactions. “Did Harry ever show you his gun?”
“Harry didn’t own a gun.” I knew this. Harry hated guns. We had ridiculed judges who had conceal-and-carry permits, and Harry thought judges who carried firearms, on or off the bench, should lose their jobs. It disgusted him. He claimed it was a sign of “black robe disease”—paranoia and arrogance.
I looked back at the picture of the gun lying on the bloodied entryway floor. It wasn’t even something I imagined Harry ever touching. It was compact, blunt, and crude. Harry was such an elegant man. If he were to ever own a firearm, which would be unlikely, I’d imagine him with a long silver gun with an ivory handle, like the Lone Ranger.
“This is a forty-five-caliber Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. It’s light, concealable, and holds seven rounds. They’re also not too expensive, about five hundred dollars, sometimes less.” Jarkowski kept talking as he removed some more photographs and paper from his briefcase. “Because of the characteristics and the price, gun shops like to sell these to people who just want a little protection. It’s not a gun for the guys that go to the firing range on the weekend for fun. It’s for keeping in your nightstand next to the bed or people working late at night at a liquor store or people who want one in their car if they get jacked, something like that.”
“That’s not Harry.” I was sure of myself. “He’d mention something like this to me.” I folded my arms across my chest, agitated. “It isn’t Harry’s gun.”
“You seem sure.” Jarkowski raised his eyebrow and gave me a look. “Maybe I know things you don’t know. You should consider that.”
According to talk radio, there was a gigantic database filled with the names, addresses, and personal information of every gun owner in the United States. A government agent could simply access the database and, in an instant, find the person who purchased a gun. This information is usually circulated as a precursor to conspiracy theories about the United Nations, Jewish bankers, and the left-wing media.
The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, or ATF, however, was much more low-tech. In real life, tracing a firearm was cumbersome and often impossible. Jarkowski had to send information to a bureaucrat in a Washington, DC, cubicle. With the name of the manufacturer, model, caliber, and serial number, the bureaucrat personally contacted the manufacturer, got more information, and followed the distribution chain all the way down to the local gun dealer.
Once the dealer was identified, in this case, Jarkowski had to drive to a little gun shop in Castro Valley, about twenty minutes south of Oakland, and hope they kept decent records.
They did.
According to the six-page Firearm Transactions Record, often simply referred to as a 4473, Judge Harry Meyer purchased his handgun four weeks before he was killed. Jarkowski had a security video of the transaction as well as a credit card receipt.
I stared at the still images taken from the security video and Harry’s signature at the bottom of the form, hoping to see some indication of fraud. After a few minutes of reading and rereading the 4473, I pushed them away.
Jarkowski was right and I was wrong, but he wasn’t finished. “You been talking to Helen Vox, true?”
“I have.” No point in denying it.
“She ever say anything about Harry’s gun?”
“No. She told me he wasn’t afraid. Nothing was different.”
“Interesting.” Jarkowski rubbed his chin. “You seem to want us to ignore Helen Vox.”
“When we first talked, I couldn’t imagine that she would be involved in Harry’s death in any way.” I thought about seeing her with Marshall Terry and about what Benji Metina had suggested about her possible involvement with the AFC Services kickback scheme. “Now I’m not so sure what to think.”
Jarkowski floated a hypothetical. “Maybe there was an argument between her and Judge Meyer or something . . . maybe just an accident.”
I thought about Helen asking about Harry’s will, and then I thought about her telling me how much she loved Harry. But love seemed so inconsistent with what I’d seen.
I looked at Jarkowski. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
Jarkowski removed a final photograph from his folder. “This was taken from the security camera outside the gun shop.” He handed the photograph to me. “I believe that’s Helen Vox.”
Jarkowski tapped the photograph with his thick finger, and I looked down at the woman in jeans. She was standing outside, next to Harry’s car. Although she was wearing sunglasses, the image was clear. Helen Vox was there when he bought the gun. “She never mentioned that to me.” I shook my head and handed the photograph back to Jarkowski. “And I doubt that she ever mentioned it to you.”
Jarkowski didn’t respond. “Why did you go to her condominium tonight?”
My eyes narrowed. “You were following me?”
He raised his hand. Jarkowski wasn’t going to entertain any attitude. “Why did you go to her condominium tonight?”
“I talked to the reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle. She’s writing a story about conflicts of interest and
cronyism in the awarding of county child protection contracts. You already know about the affair between Helen Vox and Harry, as well as the relationship between Harry and Marsh.”
“Did you know about Helen and Marshall Terry?”
I shook my head. “Not until I saw them together tonight. I had no idea.”
“And you were going to confront her?”
“I was,” I said. “A few days ago, I went out for dinner and drinks with Helen, and she’d mentioned Harry’s will. When she raised the issue, it seemed sincere. At the time, I had only read an older copy of Harry’s will, and so when I got a chance, I decided to see if there had been any additions or edits.”
“Were there?”
“A few weeks before Harry was murdered, he had drafted a new personal addendum to the will. The addendum didn’t include any mention or distributions to Helen, but there was one to me.”
“Are you talking about the money market account at PFC?”
I nodded, wondering how Jarkowski knew about the account at Pacifica Financial Canyon Bank, but I wasn’t worried. I signed an agreement that I was going to cooperate, and that was what I was going to do. “I was surprised by the amount of money in the account. I know Harry wasn’t a big spender, but it seemed too large of a balance for somebody just setting aside a hundred dollars here and there.”
“What was the balance?”
“Around six million dollars.”
“Why’d you go to the branch office?”
“I wanted to know more about who was making the electronic deposits every month, where the money was coming from. There were also withdrawals made each month in much smaller amounts, and I wanted to know where that money was going.”
Jarkowski checked his watch after I’d finished telling him about the Florida corporation and the cashier’s checks. “It’s getting late.” He flipped through his notes, reviewing them. “I’ve got a few more questions, and then you can go. And I assume that you’d be willing to talk again when the need arises. True?”
“I have a trial coming up.” I thought about Tanya Neal’s four children. Kids that were so desperate to get out of the foster care system that they were willing to return to their father, a known predator. I brought myself back and assured Jarkowski that my cooperation would continue. “Even with a trial, I can make time if you give me a little notice.”
“Good,” Jarkowski said. “I guess my final question relates to your little visit to Judge Meyer’s chambers the other night. From the security footage, it looked like you took some books.”
“I didn’t see any sign on the door that said I couldn’t go into Harry’s office.”
“I never said you were trespassing.” Jarkowski smiled coolly. “Never said you couldn’t go in there. Just wondering what you were doing.”
I held up my hand. “I understand.” Then I glanced up at the small camera in the corner. It was easy to forget that you were watched. “At Harry’s house, I found some old photographs. The pictures were of four children, three older kids and a baby. Harry had never mentioned them to me, and I was curious.”
“Do you think they were involved in his murder?”
“I have no idea,” I said, which was true. “But I doubt it. It was just something that caught my attention. I think during one of our first meetings you called it DKDK. I didn’t know that I didn’t know about these kids. It was strange, and I wanted to figure it out.” I paused and corrected myself. “I still want to figure it out. It’s a feeling.”
“So what happened?”
“I showed the photographs to Helen Vox, and she told me that they were likely foster kids and that I might find information about them in Harry’s journals. So at the end of the night, I went back into the courthouse and up to Harry’s chambers and got them.”
Jarkowski looked genuinely surprised. “There were journals in Judge Meyer’s chambers? We didn’t find any journals in his chambers.”
“I did.” Withholding the photographs was not good, but seeing the frustration in Jarkowski’s face made it clear that taking the journals without telling him was even worse. “Harry built the little end table by the couch as a kid. The front panel comes off, and the journals were inside.”
Jarkowski began massaging his scalp. “There was a secret compartment.”
“It’s not as if I really knew it all along,” I said. “It was just this random story and I only remembered him telling me about building it once I was up there.”
Jarkowski waved away his own frustration. “Any other reason you wanted the journals? Or was it just about the kids?”
“Threats,” I said. “You had told me that you wanted names of people who had threatened Harry or who may hold a grudge. I also hoped that there would be something about the money. Those were other reasons to get the journals, but it was mostly about those photographs. It was mostly about finding out who those kids were.”
“Did you figure it out?”
“Not yet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nikki picked me up from the station, and she did an excellent job at holding back her frustration. When she went to the bar to pick me up after her shift, I was already gone. When she called, it went to voice mail. When she texted me, I didn’t respond.
Knowing that I had been drinking, she was worried and afraid. Now she was just mad.
Nikki drove me home in silence. My Range Rover had been towed, and it would have to be retrieved from the impound lot another day. I didn’t even try and engage in a discussion. When Nikki wanted to talk, she’d talk.
I changed out of my clothes and brushed my teeth. Nikki was waiting for me in bed. “Do you have something to say?” Her dark-brown eyes burned with anger. “I think I’m calm enough now to not hurt you.”
I pulled back the sheet and got into bed. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough. I know that I was stupid and reckless, and I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve gotten into an accident and killed somebody,” she said. “You could’ve died.” She rubbed her forehead, then the back of her neck. “I guess for me”—every muscle in her body seemed to tense—“it was just disrespectful and arrogant, and I never thought that I’d be married to a disrespectful and arrogant man. Everybody has flaws. Nobody is perfect, but this . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’d do this.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
Nikki wasn’t going to let me out of it that easily. “Do you think I don’t know that? We’re married. Of course I know that you are under a lot of stress. I’m under a lot of stress. I’m working overnights at a hospital. I’m dealing with everything from coughs to gunshot wounds in the emergency room, and then my husband is in the news being portrayed as an imbecile. Let’s simply agree now that we are both under a lot of stress.”
I’d never seen Nikki so fierce. I was sure she was going to kick me out of the house or ask for a divorce, and I wouldn’t blame her.
“When you’re under stress, you need to talk to me. We need to talk with each other. We need to work it out. You don’t go get drunk and start driving around.”
It was all true. “You’re right,” I said, and I let her rail against me for another hour before she ran out of steam.
We both fell asleep after I told Nikki what had happened at the police station and what I’d told Jarkowski about the photographs, the journals, the will, and Helen Vox. Although we were now paper millionaires, Jarkowski had advised me not to touch the money in Harry’s bank account. Given everything that had happened, it may be evidence of a crime. Using it would cause problems if it needed to be recouped, or worse.
When I woke up in the morning, she was in the kitchen.
“Good morning.” I kissed Nikki on the back of her neck, then commandeered the carafe of coffee. “What’re you making?”
“A little scrambled eggs,” she said, still a little cool. “I thought I’d get some food in you before I went back to the hospital for another day.”
“Thanks.”
I poured a cup and sat down at our little kitchen table. “When are you going to be back home?”
“Not until late again,” she said. “Probably ten or eleven.”
I wished she’d call in sick, but I knew not to ask. “I think I’ll take Augustus for a walk and prepare for Peter Thill.”
“And stay off the news sites.” She was worried about me reading the stories about me and a child protection system in chaos.
I hesitated. “Maybe.”
Nikki turned from the stove and pointed her spatula at me. “Don’t do it. Don’t read that stuff. Don’t watch the videos.”
“I’ll try and be good.”
I lasted only thirty minutes by myself in the house. I gave Augustus a dog treat, promised to take him on a walk, and sat at the computer. With Nikki gone there was nobody there to stop me, so I played a Channel 3 news video.
The reporter, Sandy Ballero, was breathless as she recounted the harrowing chase down Interstate 580. The now-viral images were replayed once again, as well as the ending: the car slowly edging over to the shoulder, crossing the fog line, then easing toward the cement barricade that ran the length of the divided highway.
Its speed couldn’t have been more than ten miles an hour, but that was part of why it was so compelling. The car was no doubt going to hit the barricade, but everything moved in slow motion. When it finally happened, there was almost a sense of relief.
Officers got out of their cruisers, slowly. They approached the car, crouched down, guns drawn. A door swung open. There was a pause. Nothing happened, and then there was a little foot, and then a little leg, and, finally, a boy. He emerged with his hands in the air.
One of the cops rushed over. Weighing about eighty pounds, the boy was picked up off the ground and carried away.
The breathless narration continued. Sandy Ballero’s voice built to the big reveal, a Channel 3 exclusive. “This afternoon we sat down with Chief Judge Patrick Karls, and here’s his reaction.”
Good Intentions Page 15