We reach the lobby and head down the escalators toward the garage, which is two levels below ground. We stop on the intermediate level so I can drop off announcements for my new office in our mailroom, which is in a windowless suite next to the entrance to the health club. In a cost-saving move a few years ago, we moved our mail-room, copy center and accounting department to this subterranean vault everyone calls the Catacomb. I feel sorry for these poor people who never see the daylight.
I bang on the heavy steel door. In view of today's events, our usual jokes about Bela Lugosi answering don't seem funny. Virginia Wallace, the officious, utterly intimidating manager of our accounting department, opens the door. A ghoulish, gray-haired woman of indeterminate age, she started as a file clerk about thirty years ago. She's clawed her way up the ladder and runs the entire "backroom" without the slightest hint of finesse. I've always been terrified of her. True to form, she's waiting to see if any of our clients send us any money before the stroke of midnight and our fiscal year turns into a pumpkin.
"Hi, Virginia," I say politely. "You holding up okay?"
She looks bored. In fact, she always looks bored. "As well as can be expected."
"Good. Can you do me a favor and leave these envelopes for the guys in the mailroom? I was hoping they might be able to get these out to the post office in the last run today."
Big sigh. "Just this once, because it's your last day."
"Thanks, Virginia." I solemnly swear I'll never impose upon you again.
I look over her shoulder and see Mark Jenkins, our head delivery person, getting out of the freight elevator that connects the Catacomb with our main offices upstairs. I've always liked Mark, an articulate young black man from Hunter's Point who's worked his way out of the projects and spends his days riding up and down the freight elevator and putting up with Virginia's shit. He's finishing up at San Francisco State this year. I'm hopeful he'll be able to find something better suited to his talents when he graduates. Mark agrees to send out my announcements and I wish him well. Virginia glares.
The steel door slams and Joel and I head to the garage.
With a little coaxing, my nine-year-old Corolla turns over, I pay eighteen bucks to the Asian teenager with monster headphones in the booth, and we head west up the hill on Pine. The street is littered with paper. It's New Year's Eve. In San Francisco, the people who don't work in hermetically sealed high-rises traditionally toss their obsolete calendar pages out their windows. The city pays a fortune in overtime to clean up the mess.
Traffic is relatively light as we drive in silence past the Ritz and the back of the Stanford Court toward Joel's house in the Richmond District. When we reach Van Ness, he says, "I can't believe it. Yesterday, I was getting ready to close a huge deal and to celebrate my election as a partner. Today, two people are dead, the deal is off and my career is in limbo."
"You'll be all right," I say. "They need you to service Bob's clients."
"I guess. I still can't figure it out. He waits another day and he gets three million bucks."
"There's got to be more to it."
"The cops sure think so."
"They're just doing their jobs."
"Spoken like the son of a cop. The head guy, Johnson, thinks there's more to it than suicide."
"I know Johnson. He's a good man."
We drive in silence across Fillmore Street through a neighborhood that once was known as the Western Addition, but with gentrification was rechristened Lower Pacific Heights. We pass the dim sum restaurants on Clement Street. Joel says, "I know Bob was going through another divorce and this deal was all fucked up. But I don't see him killing himself. And I don't see him taking Diana with him."
"Johnson asked me if Bob and Diana were sleeping together. You know anything?"
"Not really. I've heard the same stuff everybody's heard."
"Just between us," I say. "You think they were getting it on?"
"It wouldn't surprise me."
"Well, while we're speculating, let's suppose they were sleeping together. And she decided to break up with him. And Vince told Bob the deal's off. And Bob was really pissed off about the divorce. Maybe you've got a scenario where he decided to end it."
"Maybe," he says, "but I just can't see it. Bob's been through it before. He's been divorced three times. He's seen deals go down in flames."
"You think somebody killed him?"
He shrugs. "Russo really wanted out of the deal. For that matter, so did the buyer."
"Why?"
"Continental Capital Corporation is the fourth-largest public company in the world. Their young mergers-and-acquisitions stud, Jack Frazier, convinced them to buy Vince's business. Frazier's one of those young MBAs who figured this deal was the next step up the ladder. He convinced the suits at CCC to pay nine hundred million for a company that's worth a lot less. By the time Golden Boy Frazier figured out he was buying a proverbial pig in a poke, it was too late. The boys at headquarters in Stamford won't be happy."
"Why didn't they pull out?"
"They wanted to, but they couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Do you know what a breakup fee is?"
I shake my head.
"It's a payment a buyer has to make to a seller if the buyer backs out of a deal for no reason. It's supposed to keep the buyer serious and cover the seller's legal fees and costs if the deal craters."
"Why didn't CCC pay the fee and walk?"
"Because the fee is fifty million dollars. It's a lot of money for nothing, even for a big outfit like CCC. If they paid it, Frazier would be working on one of CCC's oil rigs off the coast of Siberia by the end of the week. There was no breakup fee if Vince killed the deal. Frazier's been trying to get Vince to pull the plug for the last two weeks."
"What about the guy from the mayor's office, Dan Morris? What was he doing there?"
"You'll never believe this. When it looked like Vince's business was going down in flames, the mayor appointed one of those blue-ribbon task forces. He didn't want three thousand jobs moving to CCC's western headquarters in Dallas. Bad politics. It's one thing for the Niners to lose a game to the Cowboys every once in a while. It's another thing for three thousand jobs to go to the land of Ross Perot. So the mayor got CCC to agree to keep Russo International's headquarters here by providing a hundred million in financing. Pretty slick. If the deal closes, the mayor can take credit for saving a bunch of jobs."
"So the city wanted the deal to close, even if nobody else did."
"Actually," he says, "they didn't want the deal to close either." He glances at his watch. "It turns out the city didn't have the money to make the loan. Cash-flow problems. The city was going to have to borrow the money at loan-shark rates. The mayor figured it out last night. He decided he'd rather lose the jobs. He figures the voters will forget about the jobs, but they'll never forgive a budget deficit. He sent his political fixer over here to kill the deal, but make it look like somebody else's fault. The city was going to use tax dollars to finance the acquisition by an international conglomerate in a deal that was so screwed up, nobody, including our own client, wanted it to close."
"Looks like everybody is going to get their wish," I say.
"Looks that way," he replies.
As always, the weather in the Richmond District is cooler and cloudier than downtown. We pass Park Presidio Boulevard and drive past Temple Beth Sholom, where Joel's father holds court, so to speak. I turn right onto Sixteenth Avenue and drive halfway up the block of tightly packed bungalows. I stop in front of Joel's modest gray house, around the corner from his father's.
"Happy New Year," he says as he gets out. "I'll talk to you next week."
I think to myself, I hope you still have a career.
5
THE LAW OFFICES OF MICHAEL]. DALEY, ESQ.
"Michael J. Daley, formerly of the San Francisco Public Defender's Office and formerly a partner at Simpson and Gates, announces the opening of the law offices of Michael J. Dal
ey, Esq., at 553 Mission Street, San Francisco, California. Mr. Daley will continue to specialize in criminal defense practice in state and federal court."
—San Francisco Legal Journal. Monday, January 5.
"Now," I say to Rosie, "all I need are a couple of paying clients, a secretary, a functional telephone and a working computer, and I'm on my way back to the big time." She chuckles as I unpack boxes at nine-fifteen in the morning on Monday, January 5. Looks like the grand opening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq., is going to be somewhat less than auspicious.
My new office is in the basement of the small two-story 1920s building on Mission Street, down the block from the Transbay bus terminal. I'm renting space from the law offices of Rosita C. Fernandez. It was a fashionable neighborhood seventy years ago. After decades of neglect, the sprawl of downtown San Francisco has given the area new life. Nevertheless, by six in the evening, there seems to be a regular gathering of homeless people in front of the building. I look up at the side of a Chinese restaurant called Lucky Corner No. 2 through the heavy metal bars that protect my small window. The name is misleading. The restaurant isn't located on a corner. We'll see whether it will be lucky for me. At least I know where I can get a fast lunch.
"Give it time," Rosie says. "We had to move a lot of files to set this up."
"This was your file room?"
"Yeah. It looks much nicer now. Rolanda can help you get settled."
"Thanks." I look at the metal desk, mismatched chairs and stained file cabinet. "I didn't bring much. Just my computer, some books and a few files."
"Good. Rent is due the first of the month."
I'm already beginning to feel like we're married again. It was much more fun when we were first dating and we didn't worry about rent, car payments and, later, diapers. We had started going out when we worked at the PD's office. Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage. I was coming off a long-term relationship with a law school classmate. We found each other on the rebound. I think she liked me because I was funny. I liked her because she was direct. And Lord knows, we knew each other's work schedules. "You won't need to remind me. And my highly generous former partners gave me a seventy-five-thousand-dollar check for my capital and a five-thousand-dollar bonus on my way out the door."
Rosie gives me the "okay" sign.
"Any decent places to get a bite around here?" I ask her.
"Chinese place next door isn't bad. Noah's Bagels on the corner is pretty good. We don't get out very much." After a brief pause, she asks, "Any more on the incident at S and G?"
Interesting choice of words. I guess "incident" sounds better than "suicides," "shootings" or the more generic "tragedy." "Not much. I haven't talked to Roosevelt since Wednesday."
"I saw your pal Skipper Gates on the tube. He seems to think there's more to it."
"He's trying to keep his name in the papers. He's called a press conference at nine-thirty. Want to watch?"
"Sure."
I find my TV and turn it on. The picture isn't bad, but the reception was better at the top of the Bank of America Building. I can make out the faces of Skipper and Roosevelt standing in a briefing room.
"This is Rita Roberts of NewsCenter 4 reporting live from San Francisco police headquarters. San Francisco District Attorney Prentice Gates and Homicide Inspector Roosevelt Johnson are about to begin a press briefing concerning the incident at the Simpson and Gates law firm last week, where two attorneys were killed. Mr. Gates will speak first."
"Incident" does seem to be the word of choice. Skipper and Roosevelt are standing behind a table on which the obligatory assortment of evidence is laid out in clear plastic bags: some bullet casings, a computer keyboard, a telephone answering machine and some computer printouts. Skipper steps to the microphone. The lights go on and he's ready. He works without notes.
"I want to thank you for coming this morning," he begins. "My first day on the job and already I have a major case. As you know, sometime between the hours of eleven-thirty P.M. on Tuesday, December thirtieth, and eight A.M. on Wednesday, December thirty-first, my friend and former partner, Bob Holmes, and my former associate, Diana Kennedy, were killed by gunshots. We are in the process of investigating this tragedy and we will have further details for you as they become available. I will now call upon Inspector Roosevelt Johnson, who is in charge of the investigation."
Roosevelt steps to the microphone. He plays his cards close to the vest. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "we are continuing our investigation. We are reviewing the evidence. We will have more for you as the situation develops."
Skipper returns to the microphone. He doesn't realize he's smiling. "I want to thank you all for coming. We have time for just a few questions."
The first question comes from the silver-haired anchor of Channel 5 Eyewitness News. "Mr. Gates, is it true the gun belonged to Mr. Holmes?"
Skipper glances at Roosevelt. "Yes," Skipper says. "It was registered to Mr. Holmes."
"How did the gun get to the S and G office?"
The last thing Skipper wants to do is admit his partner kept a loaded piece at his desk. He takes the offensive. "The way any gun gets anywhere. Somebody carried it to the office."
Not a bad response. I'm convinced.
"One of the lawyers at the firm said Holmes kept a loaded gun at his desk. Is it true?"
"You have good sources. I would like to talk to that person." Laughter. "The answer, by the way, is I don't know. But we are looking into it."
Roosevelt moves to the front again. "We are checking everything out."
Skipper looks annoyed. "Obviously," he says, "we wouldn't want to encourage people to keep concealed weapons at their desks."
The serious-looking woman from Channel 7 shouts, "We understand there was a suicide note."
Skipper says, "We have no comment."
"Are you treating this case as a homicide or a suicide?"
Roosevelt steps forward. "Ms. Kennedy's death almost certainly appears to be a homicide. The investigation is ongoing."
The pretty blonde from Channel 2 who used to work at NBC pushes her way to the front. "Mr. Gates, what's your gut feeling? Was it a suicide?"
Roosevelt tries to intercept Skipper before he gets to the microphone. Skipper pushes him back. "Young lady," he says, "Bob Holmes was my partner and my friend. I must rely on the SFPD and experienced homicide investigators like Inspector Johnson. They will gather the evidence and I will ultimately decide whether there is any basis to prosecute anyone. That's all I have for today."
I turn off the TV. "Well, what do you think?" Rosie asks.
"Not a bad performance for his first press conference."
"No, dummy. Not Skipper. The killings. What do you think?"
"They're not telling the whole story. They're holding stuff back."
"Like what?"
"Like Vince Russo. He hasn't been found. His name wasn't even mentioned. There was nothing about the deal. There was nothing about the divorce."
Rosie shrugs. "I'm due in court in twenty minutes. I'll see you later."
"Jesus, Mikey, I know you said you were going small-time, but this is ridiculous." At twelve-fifteen the same day, Doris is getting her first look at my new office.
"Do you like it?"
"This isn't an office, it's a closet." She gives me a hug. "What's that smell?"
"I think it's moo shu pork." Rosie warned me. It seems my office starts to smell like the Chinese place next door by midmorning.
"You'll get used to it, Mikey."
"I hope so."
"How's Grace?"
"Fine. And Jenny?"
"So-so. Boyfriend trouble. You know how it is."
"I wish."
"You will."
We exchange small talk. She tells me things are starting to calm down at S&G. She's been reassigned to another attorney for the time being. She says she's going to take a few weeks off for a trip to the Bahamas. "I brought you something, Mikey," she says. She opens a
shopping bag, takes out a small plant and gives it to me. "I thought you might like something to brighten up your office."
"Thanks. It could use a little help."
"So I see." She looks at Grace's picture. "I was hoping you'd do me a favor."
"Anything."
She takes a manila envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. "Open it," she says.
I find a check made out to me for a hundred dollars. On the memo line, it says "retainer." There is a letter that says she's retaining the law office of Michael J. Daley to represent her on all legal matters. There is a copy of her will.
"Doris," I begin.
She interrupts me. "Mikey," she says, "how many clients do you have?"
I look down.
"I thought so," she says. "Well, now you have one."
"Look, Doris, I can't…"
"Yes, you can. This isn't charity. I need you to review my will."
"Doris," I say, "I'm sure there are people at S and G who could help you."
She holds up her hand. "If I wanted somebody at the firm to represent me, I wouldn't be here. How long did we work together?"
"About five years."
"And how many arguments did we have?"
"A few."
"And how many of those arguments did I win?"
"All of them."
"And I'm going to win this one, too." She smiles. "You don't have to cash the check."
"If it's okay with you, I think I'll frame it."
"That's fine. The law offices of Michael J. Daley are now officially open for business."
"Can I buy you lunch?"
"Absolutely. The moo shu pork smells pretty good."
6
"A GREAT HUMANITARIAN"
"HOLMES, John Robert, Jr., died December 31, at age 48. Beloved husband of Elizabeth, father of seven. A respected partner at the international law firm of Simpson and Gates. Services will be held at Grace Cathedral, San Francisco, on Tuesday, January 6, at 10:00 A.M. Donations in his memory may be made to the Legal Community Against Violence."
—Obituary notice, San Francisco Chronicle. Tuesday, January 6.
"Did you read Bob's obit, Mike? Jesus, you'd have thought he was fucking Mother Teresa." Arthur Patton is talking to me on a misty morning as Rosie and I stand waiting for Joel on the front steps of the city's magnificent Grace Cathedral, which sits atop Nob Hill. His second trophy wife, Shari, a one-time model and former S&G receptionist, smiles politely. She's certainly come a long way since she was a giggly nineteen-year-old working our phones four years ago. From her appearance, you would never have a hint that she and Art are going through a nasty divorce.
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