Roosevelt Johnson was my father's first partner. Every time I see him, I think of my dad. I've known Roosevelt since I was a kid. He worked his way up the ranks and made homicide inspector. Dad stayed on the street. Although Roosevelt is in his early sixties, at about six-four and maybe 235 pounds, he still looks like he can play linebacker at Cal. His dark brown skin, gray mustache, bald head and gold wire-rimmed glasses command the attention of everyone in the room.
His eloquent baritone is captivating. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "I promise we will get you home as soon as we can. We would like to obtain a statement from each of you. For those of you who didn't see or hear anything, I would ask you to write a note to that effect and give it to one of our officers. I would appreciate it if you would return to your office or workstation. I must ask you not to discuss this matter with one another until we have talked to you. Please stay away from the area around the offices of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy so we may gather evidence. I apologize in advance for the inconvenience and I thank you for your cooperation."
Doris raises her hand. "Inspector, can you give us any information about the circumstances surrounding Bob's and Diana's deaths?"
"We are beginning to gather evidence. It appears they were victims of gunshot wounds."
"Were the wounds self-inflicted?"
"We don't know yet. A handgun was found at the scene. We will provide additional information as soon as possible."
At ten o'clock, I'm on the phone when a subdued Chuckles Stern walks into my office. I hold my thumb and forefinger about a quarter of an inch apart, signaling I'll only be a minute. He sits down. I reassure my mother for the third time today and hang up.
"I can't believe it," he says. I wonder why he's come to see me. Then I realize he has nobody else to talk to. "I haven't seen so much blood since I was in the service," he says.
To Chuckles, the service usually means the IRS. I'm surprised when I realize he's talking about the armed service. "You were in the service, Charles?"
"Vietnam. Marines. I've got a bum shoulder to show for it."
I never would have figured. Although it's entirely inappropriate, I find myself imagining Chuckles and his platoon lobbing copies of the Internal Revenue Code toward the Vietcong. "I lost a brother over there, Charles," I say. "Near the end of the war."
"I didn't know that," he replies.
I pause. My brother Tommy's death was one of the big reasons why I became a priest. My family was very seriously Catholic. I was better at it than either of my brothers. Although the church had a lot of rules, it was a truly spiritual place for me while I was growing up. Then I became a priest and the spirituality disappeared. I decide it may not be a great time to discuss my participation in the antiwar protests on the Berkeley campus.
He looks out the window. "I know we have other things on our minds," he says, "but I wanted to let you know we decided to let bygones be bygones and just give you your capital back. We aren't going to insist that you sign a release." He pulls a check out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
"Thanks, Charles. That's very decent of you." My mind races. Why are they doing this? I add, for the record, "I think you made the right decision."
"Sometimes you make decisions just because it's the right thing to do," he says.
And sometimes you fire your partners because their book of business isn't big enough. I expect him to leave, but he doesn't. There's an uncomfortable silence. "So," I say, "you knew Bob for a long time. Do you have any idea what this is all about?"
"I don't know. We weren't close. I'm not sure he had any close friends."
The same could be said about you, Chuckles. I hold back.
He continues. "Art knew him the best. They used to talk about stocks. They invested in a restaurant together. That fancy place in Palo Alto. Bob called it his private black hole for money. Bob and I just used to talk about firm business. He was having his biggest year ever. I can't believe he'd kill himself the night before his big deal was supposed to close. Confidentially, he was going to get a big bonus today."
I feign mild surprise. Joel was right. "I didn't realize that, Charles."
"That's why it doesn't make sense. You know Bob. Or knew him, I guess. He'd never turn down a paycheck. Maybe it was the divorce." He pauses. "You heard he used his own gun."
Huh? "He had a gun?"
"Yeah."
"He brought a gun to the office?"
"He kept it at the office, Mike. At his desk. Jesus, I thought everyone knew."
No, not everyone knew. "Loaded?" I ask.
"Yep."
"What the hell for?"
"Don't be naive. You were here when that lunatic killed all those people at 101 California."
In July of 1993, a crazed former client walked into the offices of a prominent San Francisco law firm and opened fire with an arsenal of semiautomatic weapons. He killed eight people and wounded a dozen others before he killed himself. The firm closed its doors two years later. "I knew some people over there," I say. "Good lawyers. Nice people."
"Ever since, every big firm has put in a security system.
We spent almost a hundred grand on ours. Each receptionist has a panic button. If they see trouble, they punch it. The doors lock and a red light goes on in personnel and at the security desk. Thank goodness we've never had to use it."
"Brave new world."
"No kidding. After the incident at 101 Cal, Bob said he wasn't going to let the same thing happen to him. He kept a loaded gun at his desk. He didn't make a big deal about it." He pauses. "We'd like to try to keep it out of the papers, if we can."
"Not a bad idea." What's next? Metal detectors? I can just see the headlines. "Prominent San Francisco Attorney Kills Himself with Loaded Piece He Kept at His Desk. "
"Anyway," he continues, "we have a problem. We were counting on the fees from the Russo deal to make our year-end numbers. Some of the partners won't be happy with the results now."
There's the Chuckles I know and love. Two hours after he finds his partner's body, he's already worried about his draw. As Art Patton likes to say, we shouldn't dwell on the negative.
"What a mess," I say.
"Art's beside himself. I think he may retire and move to Napa full-time. I'm thinking about getting out. I don't know if the firm can survive."
He isn't very convincing when he's being melodramatic. "I'm sure the firm will survive."
"I gotta run, Mike."
"Those police inspectors are really pushy, Mike." Doris is back in my office at ten-fifteen. "They treated me like a criminal," she says.
"Take it easy. I did my five minutes with Officer Chinn. He was okay."
"Maybe to you. The cop I talked to acted like I was a murder suspect."
"I know this is tough. They're just trying to do their job."
"They were rude. And they asked a lot of questions about Diana's personal life."
"Like what?"
"Like whether she was sleeping with Bob."
"Was she?"
She frowns. "It's none of your business. And it sure as hell is none of theirs."
I look her in the eyes. "Doris, this thing is tough on all of us. Give yourself a little space."
She starts to cry. I get up and put my arm around her. "It's such a waste," she says.
4
THE LEGEND
"When I started working Homicide, there was no such thing as affirmative action. I'm not saying it was right. It's just the way it was."
—Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. San Francisco Chronicle. July 14,1998.
At ten-thirty I'm at my desk watching Skipper being interviewed on TV. He briefly mentions the shootings and moves straight into his campaign speech. I'm turning down the sound when Roosevelt Johnson's familiar baritone resonates off the walls. "Hello, Michael," he says. "I didn't realize you worked at this firm." He takes up the entire doorway. "This is a pretty far cry from the PD's office."
"It's been a long time, Roosevelt."
<
br /> We shake hands. He's a legend. He and his partner, Marcus Banks, are the SFPD's most senior homicide team. They handle all the high-profile cases. He closes my door. "How's your mama?" he asks.
"She has good days and bad days. On good days she's ornery. On bad days, she doesn't say much. She's in the early stages of Alzheimer's. It's not going to get better, but we're hoping it won't get a lot worse too soon. She's still living at home. Pete's living with her. He never moved out."
"Things have been tough."
Tell me about it. "Mom and Dad were never really the same after Tommy died." My older brother was one of the last MIAs in Vietnam. They never found his body. He was an all-city quarterback at St. Ignatius and all-conference at Cal. Tommy had another year of eligibility. He could have gotten deferred. He volunteered for the Marines. I tried to talk him out of it, but Dad told him it was the right thing to do. He never forgave me for trying to talk Tommy out of going, and he never forgave himself when Tommy died. Then he got sick. Roosevelt knows the story. My dad worked his ass off for thirty years for his city pension. He died five years ago, about a year after Grace was born. At least he got to see his first grandchild.
"It's hard to bury your children, Mike," he says. He knows. His son was nineteen when he was killed in a drive-by shooting near Candlestick Park. "Did you decide to become a priest after Tommy died?" he asks.
"In part." Unlike most of my friends, I loved going to church when I was a kid. It gave me time with my mom and dad. It gave structure to my life. And it had lots of rules. I was always good at rules. It wasn't until I was in college that I started asking the hard questions about the rules. I'll never forget the look of pride on my dad's face when I told him I was going to the seminary. And I'll never forget the look of disdain when I told him I was leaving the priesthood to become a lawyer. He hated lawyers. "When Tommy died," I say, "I went to the church to try to find some answers."
"What happened?"
I dodge the question. "It didn't have the answers I was looking for." He looks uncomfortable. "Don't worry, Roosevelt. I didn't do anything terrible. It just didn't work out." I don't really want to explain that the concept of celibacy is a whole lot easier in theory than in practice. And all the rules that were so meaningful when I was a kid seemed hopelessly out of touch by the time I was a priest. It was the post-Watergate era, and traditional Catholicism felt prehistoric. It's tough to try to get people to abide by rules that you question.
"Why did you end up in law school?" he asks.
"Why not? You think the church has an outplacement program for downsized priests? I figured I might be able to make a living helping people who got screwed. Lawyers get to do a lot of things nobody else can do. Besides, I didn't have any better ideas." This is clearly more than he'd bargained for. I decide to change the subject. "How's your family?"
"Janet has good days and bad days, too. Arthritis. My daughter is working OB-GYN at San Francisco General. My granddaughter is at UCLA Law School. With my luck, she'll end up a public defender like you did."
"She'll probably end up at some Wall Street firm making a hundred thou a year."
He chuckles. "How are Rosie and the baby?"
"Complicated subject. Rosie and I split up about a year after Grace was born. We were on each other for a couple of years. We couldn't figure out a way to work out the little stuff. And if you can't deal with the little stuff, you can't deal with the big stuff. Things got better after we split up. Grace is in first grade. She lives with Rosie, but I'm a couple of blocks away. She stays with me every other weekend."
He changes the subject quickly. "How did you end up in a fancy-dancy place like this?"
"I needed the money. We were getting divorced. The firm was starting a white-collar criminal defense practice. They needed a criminal defense attorney. I was the best guy at the PD's office, so they hired me. They made me a partner. Doubled my salary."
He glances around my stripped office. "I take it you're leaving?"
"It didn't work out. The big-time white-collar practice didn't happen. The guy with the big book of business left after a year. I started bringing in some DUI and robbery cases. The firm didn't like it. Firms like S and G don't like to have real crooks roaming around the office. It scares the corporate clients away." I pause. "Today's my last day. I'm going out on my own. I'm renting some space on Mission."
"Sounds pretty good."
"I hope so. Rosie's my landlord."
He grins. "You've always had a flair." He turns serious and I sense the social portion of our conversation is coming to an end. "I know we didn't always see eye to eye when you were at the PD's office," he says. "I'd like to think it was because we were on opposite sides of a few cases."
"Roosevelt," I say with conviction, "we worked different sides of the same screwed-up system. There's always some tension."
He looks right at me. "Let me ask you for a favor," he says. "I'd like your help in sorting out this case. Off the record, if you'd like. Professional courtesy."
He's savvy. He's listening to every word I say. He's watching every move I make. "I'll do anything I can to help you," I tell him.
"Great. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep our discussion confidential for the time being."
"Of course."
He skims his notes. "So far, we know Holmes and Kennedy died of gunshot wounds. His to the head, hers to the chest. His wound looks self-inflicted. Your colleagues Charles Stern and Joel Friedman found the bodies and a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver on the floor. Friedman said he last saw Holmes about twelve-thirty this morning. He had dinner with Kennedy about ten last night.
He said she went home from the restaurant. We don't know when she came back. Our people are dusting the office and the gun. If I had to guess, it looks like he killed her and then killed himself. We've seen the E-mail message that was sent from his computer. But it's too soon to tell. You know me. I do it by the numbers."
"I know. Have you been able to impart your way of thinking upon your partner?"
He looks troubled. "Marcus is a good cop," he says emphatically. "Sometimes he doesn't handle things the way I would. He's kept his nose clean the last few years." He pauses. "What can you tell me about Holmes? Was anything bothering him? Was anybody pissed off at him?"
"A lot was bothering him. And everybody in the city was pissed off at him."
He raises his eyebrows. I tell him what I know about Bob. How my partners hated his guts. About his acrimonious divorces. About the divorce papers his wife served on him last night.
"Anybody else mad at him?"
"He was working on a big deal. Everybody was unhappy. There was quite a scene last night. His client, Vince Russo, was screaming at him. I presume it isn't going to close now." I ponder how much I can and should tell Roosevelt about Joel's description of the deal.
"I heard Russo seems to have dropped off the face of the earth," he says. "What's his story?"
I describe how Russo inherited his father's business and it went to hell. I explain that Russo's creditors were forcing him to sell the business. "I hear he's a tough guy to like," I say.
He knows more than he's letting on. "Where does Ms. Kennedy fit in?"
"She was Bob's star associate and a real go-getter. She was on the fast track."
"What about their personal relationship? Anything out of the ordinary? Any hanky-panky?"
"Purely professional, as far as I know. But some people think there was more to it."
"Were they sleeping together?"
"Don't know." I answer too quickly and he gives me a skeptical look. I raise my right hand like a Boy Scout. "Honest, Roosevelt. If there were something I promised to keep quiet, I'd tell you that much. The fact is, I just don't know."
"Was she sleeping with anybody else?" He's boring in now.
"I don't know. She was single. She didn't have a steady boyfriend. She always had a date for the Christmas party. I'm not tuned in to firm gossip."
"Fair enough.
Who is tuned in?"
Before I can catch myself, I blurt out, "Joel."
He chuckles. "I figured that out already. There are still a few instincts left in this old carcass."
"Did you ask him?" I'm as curious as the next guy.
"Yeah. He said he wasn't sure. He's heard the rumors. Who else should I talk to?"
"Charles Stern knows about the firm's finances. Arthur Patton is the managing partner."
"I've talked to them. They think Holmes wouldn't have killed himself. Patton said Holmes was up for a big bonus."
"I've heard that."
"What about his secretary?"
"Doris? She's a gem. She can give you the skinny on Bob's divorces. She's very discreet, though. And very protective of him." I add, "By the way, if you get any dirt on his divorces, I'll buy you a dinner at any restaurant in town to hear about it."
"You got a deal. What about Mr. Gates?"
I laugh. "Our district attorney? He wore out his welcome years ago. Between us, they couldn't wait to get him out the door."
"Doesn't surprise me." He wipes his glasses. "Mike, do you think Holmes was the kind of guy who would kill himself?"
"I don't know," I answer. "A few days ago, I would have said no way. On the other hand, his deal may have been cratering. His wife served him with divorce papers. Now, I'm not sure."
"I'll call you when I have a better handle on things."
I'm sure he will. "Let me know if there's anything else I can do."
"Say hi to your mama."
Joel is standing in my doorway at twelve-thirty. "You ready to get out of here?" he asks.
"Let's hit it." I pick up my coffee mug. As we walk out my door I see a female police officer standing by the door to Bob's office. A team from the coroner's office is inside. "Did you ever find Russo?" I ask Joel, as he opens the double doors to our elevator lobby.
"Nope. Never showed up. Never called. We had a ten o'clock deadline for the wire transfers. We didn't make it. The buyer's attorney said he'd call me Monday. As far as he's concerned, the deal is off. I guess we'll deal with bankruptcy if and when Vince surfaces."
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