MD01 - Special Circumstances

by Sheldon Siegel

  I lean over and say just loud enough so Rosie and the two of them can hear me, "Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you're using the word ‘fucking’ in this context."

  Rosie stifles a chuckle. Shari keeps smiling. Art ignores me. They walk inside.

  "They never knew what hit them," Rosie says.

  Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like Princess Di's, except Bruce Springsteen would sing "Born to Run" instead of Elton John singing "Candle in the Wind." As it turns out, the funeral Beth Holmes has arranged isn't far from Bob's wish.

  The front steps of Grace look like the Academy Awards. The TV cameras, minicams and A-team reporters are here. The service itself is going to be filmed. Two traffic copters hover overhead. Some people are here just to see the celebrities. Everybody is dressed to the teeth. A thousand people are expected.

  Rosie is being a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best of circumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband's former law firm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriage and divorce, we always went to funerals together. It's our unspoken pact. We wait for Doris to arrive.

  I've never really been very good about funerals. It goes back to my days as a priest. When you're the low priest on the totem pole, you tend to get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing five of them in one day for people I'd never met. I felt bad for the families. I did my standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Tough gig, funerals.

  The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance and I have naive hopes this will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper's black Lincoln arrives and the feeding frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position as the reporters shove microphones into his face. His long-suffering wife, Natalie, a well-known society matron, looks embarrassed. Skipper mouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner's funeral and says the DA's office is working day and night to solve the case. To his credit, Skipper seems to be resisting the urge to turn Bob's funeral into a press conference.

  My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries to ignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I've always liked Ellen. For the life of me, I can't figure out how an outgoing interior decorator who serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay married to Chuckles for thirty-two years. Maybe she's a closet tax-code junkie.

  Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shake hands with Rosie. Jenny's pretty face is pale and she looks sad in her dark dress. She's taking this harder than I would have thought. Doris never warmed up to Rosie. It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things were pretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at the Simpson firm. We had a big fight over custody. Big mistake on my part. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have let Rosie have custody from the beginning. It's amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks when emotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie's mom and my mom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace's entire life if we didn't stop acting like idiots. I'm glad we listened to them.

  "Pretty rough time, Doris," I say.

  "You got that right."

  I turn to Jenny. "How are things at Stanford?"

  "One more semester to go."

  "Are you still thinking about law school?"

  "I'm not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We'll see. I have a lot on my mind."

  I'd like to be twenty-two again just to see what it feels like to have a lot on my mind.

  Joel and Naomi Friedman arrive by cab and join us. Joel has been asked to speak and he looks nervous. Naomi is a petite brunette with curly hair and dark features who teaches nursery school at the Jewish Community Center. She's a ball of fire. Perfect for Joel.

  We head in and pay our brief respects to Bob's widow, Beth, and her three children, ages two to five, all of whom are sitting in the front row. The second row is reserved for Bob's three ex-wives and their current spouses and significant others and Bob's four children from his previous marriages.

  The Simpson and Gates contingent occupies about twenty rows on the left side of the cathedral as you face the front. We take our seats opposite them on the right side. I'm not in the mood to visit with my former colleagues today. The back of the house is packed. The legal community has turned out. So have the politicians and the upper crust of Pacific Heights. Somber organ music emanates from the front of the cathedral. I never had a chance to work such a big crowd when I was a priest.

  At ten-fifteen, the organist plays a loud chord, signaling the service is about to begin. A young minister welcomes us and says a few perfunctory words about Bob's life and career. He clearly never met him. He introduces Art Patton, who tries to appear respectful, but looks like David Letterman preparing to deliver a monologue as he saunters to the front. Rosie is thinking the same thing and she whispers to me, "He thinks it's the firm Christmas party."

  "Thank you for coming," Art says. "Bob would have been pleased to see such a large turnout. It's sad that it takes a great tragedy to bring us together. I hope we will have a chance to meet on a happier occasion." His eyes gleam. He takes a deep breath. It's hard to look somber with a smirk plastered on your face. "Bob Holmes was a great lawyer and my best friend."

  Murmurs from the S&G section. Art's taking some license. He and Bob coexisted, but it's a stretch to say they were friends, let alone great friends. Some people think they hated each other's guts.

  "He was also a great humanitarian."

  Someone in the S&G section laughs out loud.

  "It's appropriate that we gather here to celebrate his life and pay our respects to his memory." He describes Bob's humble beginnings in Wilkes-Barre, his education at Penn and Harvard Law School, his admission to the partnership at the age of thirty-two. He says Bob was a loving father, but doesn't linger on the subject of his four marriages. Bob's eldest son once told me that the children from his first three marriages stopped speaking to him several years ago.

  After a brief description of Bob's achievements, he introduces Joel, who walks slowly to the lectern, a faraway look in his eyes.

  "My name is Joel Friedman. Bob Holmes was my colleague, my mentor and my friend. This is the most difficult thing I've ever had to do."

  Easy, Joel.

  "Bob taught me how to be a lawyer. He taught me how to handle difficult situations. And, despite what some people may think, he taught me how important it is to treat everyone with respect. He was a fine man whose legacy is in this room. He leaves his family, colleagues and friends with memories of a man who worked hard, loved his family and loved his job. I will miss him."

  Well done. He steps away from the podium to compose himself. The minister comforts him.

  Skipper's up next. Rosie whispers, "This should be a beaut."

  Skipper does his best to look serious. He faces the television camera and says, "I knew Bob for twenty-two years. He was one of the finest lawyers I've ever met. More than anyone else, Bob built Simpson and Gates into a powerhouse." He pauses. "More importantly, I want to say a few words about Bob, the man. Bob was sometimes difficult to get along with. That's the price you pay for dealing with genius. He never demanded more from his colleagues than he expected from himself. Yes, he was a perfectionist. Yes, he was driven. Yes, he screamed at times. It was never out of malice. He simply wanted to be the best he could be, and he expected the same from his colleagues."

  More coughing from the S&G section. Rosie whispers, "This is really getting thick."

  "It is tragic Bob won't have an opportunity to see his children grow up. It is sad he won't have a chance to fulfill his dreams. A great life. Cut short." He stops to wipe away a tear that isn't there. "The legacy he leaves us is great. In his honor, I promise to each of you, and to Bob, that I will not rest until I find out the true circumstances surrounding his death. It is my solemn pledge."

  Doris nudges me and whispers, "For God's sake, he's making a campaign speech at a funeral."
<
br />   Skipper finishes his remarks with a tribute to Bob's distinguished record as a husband and as a father, which brings audible laughter from several members of the firm. Two of Bob's college friends say a few words about his life's achievements. A neighbor reads a poem. The minister reads two psalms and a small choir sings "Amazing Grace." Finally, the organist plays "Born to Run." At eleven-thirty, we begin to file out.

  The TV cameras jockey for the standard shot of the pallbearers bringing the casket down the steps. Bob would have loved the fact that the pallbearers include Skipper, the two surviving members of X-Com and three of his partners. When we reach the bottom of the steps, I gaze around and my eyes meet those of Roosevelt Johnson, who is standing on the sidewalk, a respectful distance away. He is looking discreetly through the crowd. It is common practice for a homicide inspector to show up at the funeral of the subject of his investigation, but somehow, I didn't expect to see him today.

  Joel and Naomi find us and we watch the pallbearers load the casket into the hearse. I say good-bye to Doris and Jenny. Skipper's Lincoln pulls up behind the hearse and the reporters surround him.

  "Mr. Gates," a reporter calls out, "any new information on the case?"

  Skipper elects to take the high road. "This is an inappropriate time to discuss the investigation," he says. "I will talk to you at the office." The hearse pulls away and begins the long drive to the town of Colma, just south of the city, where San Franciscans bury their dead.

  You won't find Bill's Place in Gourmet magazine. Housed in an old building at Twenty-fifth and Clement, it was a diner before diners became fashionable and it served "comfort food" four decades before food critics coined the term. The long counters, huge chandeliers and Formica tables are a throwback to simpler times. The waitresses have hair in varying shades of blue and orange and call their customers "honey." It's the best place in the city to take screaming children for hamburgers and milk shakes. It may never be the subject of an American Express commercial, but it's been one of my favorite places since my dad took me here when I was a kid.

  Naomi Friedman is eating a french fry. "Mike, I'm worried about Joel," she says. Joel is in the men's room. Naomi takes off her red-framed glasses. Rosie, Joel, Naomi and I are eating a quick lunch before we head south on the 280 freeway to Colma for our second funeral of the day. Diana's funeral is going to be a graveside affair for immediate family and friends. I've been asked to say a few words.

  "What's the problem?" I ask.

  "He was at police headquarters all day Sunday. They asked him a lot of questions."

  Rosie and I glance at each other. I take a bite out of my cheeseburger. "I'm sure they're just trying to be thorough," I say. "This is a high-profile case."

  Joel returns and there's an uncomfortable silence. "What?" he asks.

  "Nothing," Naomi says.

  "Come on," he says.

  "All right," Naomi says. "I was just telling them about your glorious afternoon Sunday."

  "I already told you. It's nothing to worry about."

  She gives him a sharp look. "It's a lot to worry about. Why are they so interested in talking to you for so long?"

  I sense annoyance. They've been through this already and Joel doesn't want to replay it in front of Rosie and me. He picks up his hamburger, turns to me and says, "I don't know how you can eat this stuff. It'll kill you."

  "My grandfather ate this stuff every day of his life for eighty-seven years."

  "Imagine how long he would have lived if he had taken better care of himself."

  Naomi is annoyed. "Can you guys stop it for a minute? This is serious. Mike, why do you think they're giving Joel the third degree?"

  Joel answers her. "They're just trying to figure out what happened. That's it. Nothing more to it. Jesus, it's not like I'm a suspect. Two people are dead and the cops are just doing their job. They said they'd probably declare it a suicide in the next couple of days."

  Naomi scowls. "What about Vince Russo?" she asks.

  "No word yet," Joel says.

  "Did the cops tell you anything more about what happened?" I ask.

  "Not much. The bullets came from Bob's gun."

  Naomi loses interest in her french fries. "Do we have to talk about this at lunch?"

  "Sorry," I say. "I'm just trying to figure out why they're so interested in talking to Joel." I turn toward him. "Which cop did you talk to?"

  "Your buddy, Roosevelt Johnson, and his partner, Marcus Banks."

  "Johnson's a good man."

  He shifts in his chair. "He's a very suspicious man. And his partner isn't a nice guy."

  "Marcus got himself into some trouble a few years ago. He's a little heavy-handed. He beat a confession out of a white man for the murder of a black prostitute. Turns out the guy really did it, but they had to turn him loose because they had nothing besides the coerced confession. A week later, the guy woke up dead."

  "Oops."

  "Don't underestimate them, Joel. They're the best on the force."

  Rosie has heard enough. "Can we change the subject now?"

  Naomi looks relieved.

  "You know, Mike," Joel says, "my dad is doing the service for Diana."

  "I didn't know she was Jewish."

  "Yeah. Well, sort of. She grew up in our neighborhood and went to our temple. Except back then, her name was Debbie Fink, her hair was dark brown, her nose was longer than mine and she weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds."

  "What happened to Debbie Fink?"

  "The way I understand the story, between her senior year in college and her first year in law school, she spent a summer at a fat farm, had her hair dyed and got her nose fixed. Lord knows what else she had taken in. Her personal trainer was a guy named Billy Kennedy. They were married for about six months. By the time she finished her first year in law school, they were divorced. But the remake stuck. Debbie Fink became Diana Kennedy." "Sounds like quite a transformation." "More like a rebirth. She had lots of secrets." "Does anybody else know about this?" "Everybody at the firm… except you, of course." I look at Naomi and she nods. Rosie tosses her head back and laughs. "I just figured out what we're going to inscribe on your tombstone," she says. " ‘Michael Daley. Priest. Lawyer. He was always the last to know.’ "

  Naomi chuckles. We pay the bill and drive southbound through Golden Gate Park to Nineteenth Avenue. It's about twenty minutes to Colma.

  It's drizzling when we reach the old Jewish cemetery at three o'clock. The crowd numbers only about thirty, and we stand under umbrellas on an artificial-turf mat next to the gravesite. Joel's father is wearing a beige overcoat and is standing under a black umbrella. Standing next to him is a woman I assume is Diana's mother.

  We greet him. I've known Rabbi Neil Friedman for years. He's an older, huskier version of Joel, with an eloquent, stained-glass voice with the hint of a New York accent. "Michael, I haven't seen you in a while," he says. He's polite, but somewhat distant. He introduces us to Diana's mother, Ruth Fink. Joel told us Diana's father died when Diana was in her teens. Mrs. Fink is also polite, but brief.

  Doris and Jenny Fontaine join us. Skipper, Arthur Patton and Charles Stern arrive as the service is beginning. A television cameraman stands about a hundred yards away, by the gate to the cemetery. No reporters or minicams this afternoon.

  As Rabbi Friedman begins the service, I notice Roosevelt Johnson standing next to the gate. He nods to me. The rain becomes heavier and Mrs. Fink loses her composure. The rabbi intones the kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning.

  It's been a helluva week.

  7

  "I'VE GOT TO GO BE A LAWYER FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS"

  "We are looking forward to the new year with great optimism."

  —Simpson and Gates Managing Partner Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. Friday, January 9.

  "The firm is starting to implode, Mike. Twenty labor lawyers announced they're leaving. They're talking about staff layoffs and big cutbacks." Joel is describing the state
of the firm three days later, at six o'clock on Friday evening. We're having a beer on his back porch as a light mist falls on the small houses built back-to-back in the Richmond District. This is his going-away party for me from S&G. Rosie and Grace and my mom are here. So are Doris and Jenny Fontaine, and Wendy Hogan, a part-time tax attorney at S&G, and her six-year-old son, Danny. Joel's parents are supposed to stop by on their way to temple for Friday-night services.

  "That's fast," I reply. "Sounds like I got out just in time." "The firm must be in worse shape financially than anybody let on. I guess we really needed the cash from Vince Russo's deal. I've heard First Bank may foreclose on our equipment loans. They may hit up the partners. It may turn out to be a good thing I didn't make partner."

  "Joint-and-several liability is a nasty thing when you've got a bunch of creditors out there." Although most states now permit law firms to be organized as "professional corporations" or "limited-liability partnerships," many firms, S&G among them, are still set up as general partnerships, which means each partner is fully responsible for firm debts even if the partner didn't sign the papers or incur the debt on behalf of the firm. It's an anachronism. Professional-service firms are the only large businesses still organized as partnerships. General Motors wouldn't be structured in a similar way.

  "I heard they found Vince Russo's car," I say.

  "They found his car, keys and wallet in the parking lot at the Vista Point at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. They think he may have jumped. Nobody saw him."

  "Any chance he's still alive?"

  He shrugs. "No body has turned up. He could have planted the car and driven away in another one. He could have walked to Sausalito and taken a cab. Hell, somebody could have picked him up and driven him to the airport. It wouldn't surprise me if he's in a warm climate sipping a fruity drink by the beach."