"Did he stash any cash?"
"He probably had some money in a foreign bank account."
My mom walks out from the kitchen. "Hello, Joel," she says. She's having a good night. "Have things settled down at the office?"
"Nice to see you, Mrs. Daley. Things have quieted down. We're hoping things will get back to normal in a few weeks."
Joel's son Alan marches outside with the bravado of a six-year-old and gives my mom a big hug. Little kids can spot a grandmother a hundred yards away. He is holding a piece of challah in his right hand. "Uncle Mike," he says, "Mommy says it's time for you and Daddy to come inside for dinner."
"Are you sure, Alan?"
Still clutching the challah, he points his index finger toward me for emphasis. "Uncle Mike, Mommy says you and Daddy have to come in right now, or you'll have to take a time-out."
"Okay," I say. "Tell Mommy we'll be right there. Oh, Alan? Can I sit next to you?"
He smiles. "Sorry, Uncle Mike. I always sit next to Daddy."
A large oak table overwhelms the small dining room. Alan and his twin brother, Stephen, are impressively well-behaved as they sit quietly on opposite sides of the table, at right angles to their father. Joel sits at the head. Grace sits between Rosie and me with our backs toward the windows. My mom is next to me. Doris and Jenny are across from me. Naomi sits at the foot of the table.
Wendy Hogan is next to Doris. Her son, Danny, sits next to her. Wendy and her husband split up a couple of years ago. She went through the mother of all custody battles. I can relate. She keeps her sad brown eyes hidden behind large wire-rimmed glasses. Her frizzy hair and mousy demeanor belie the fact that she's an absolute terror in negotiations with the IRS. I like her. We divorced, recovering Catholics have a lot in common. And S&G has treated her like shit for the past five years. Someday, I'm going to summon the courage to ask her out. She's a little gun-shy around men these days. She looks serious and says to me, "I think I may get laid off."
"No way," I say. "There will be nobody left to do the work."
"Every department is making a ‘hit list.’ They won't keep any of us part-timers. My billables aren't good enough."
She may be right. She works four days a week, but she's paid only about 60 percent of what a full-time associate makes. According to the firm, if a lawyer works four days a week, you still have to pay rent and a secretary five days a week. As a result, it's unfair for the firm to pay the attorney a straight prorated salary. Most people think it's just another way to screw the part-timers.
Rosie pipes up. "Don't worry, Wendy. The economy is good. You'll find something."
"It doesn't make things easier. Whenever my finances change, Andy's lurking, trying to figure out ways to break up our custody and child-support deal."
Danny frowns. He's a good kid. He's watched his parents fight over custody his entire life. I don't say it out loud, but I'm betting he's on his way to years of therapy.
The kids finish first and they wander to the small den in the back of the house to do what children do these days—watch videos and play computer games. As we're clearing the table, there's a knock at the door. Joel looks up. "Mom and Dad are here."
Alan comes bouncing down the hall. "Grandma and Grandpa!" he shrieks with six-year-old glee. He runs through the dining room and down the interior stairs to open the door. His brother is a step behind him. Naomi smiles. A moment later, Alan comes back up the stairs, a troubled look on his face. "Daddy, there's a policeman downstairs. He wants to talk to you."
What the hell? Joel freezes. Naomi looks alarmed.
"Okay, Alan," he says. "Daddy will go down and see what this is all about. Don't worry."
Alan goes over to his mother and grabs her hand. Joel walks downstairs.
A moment later, we hear loud talking at the bottom of the stairs. Rosie goes to the living room in the front of the house and looks out the windows. I follow her. She turns to me and says, "This doesn't look good."
I look out and see two police cars parked in the small driveway. My stomach tightens. There are four policemen. One is having a heated discussion with Joel.
Grace comes up to us. "Is something wrong, Daddy?" she asks.
"No, sweetie," I lie, trying to keep my voice calm. "I don't think so. It looks like the policemen want to talk to Uncle Joel for a few minutes. I'll go downstairs to find out what's going on." She moves closer to Rosie.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and open the heavy wooden door. I'm stunned to see a middle-aged policeman, whose face I remember, but whose name escapes me, putting handcuffs on Joel.
"You have the right to remain silent."
This is bullshit. "Excuse me. May I ask what's going on?" I try to keep my tone nonconfrontational. It's important to remember the guys with the uniforms have the guns.
"You have the right to an attorney."
The policeman looks at me. "Please step back, sir. This matter does not concern you."
"Anything you say can he used against you in a court of law."
What the fuck is this all about? "Officer, Mr. Friedman's wife asked me to find out what's going on."
"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will he appointed for you."
Naomi is coming out the door as the policeman says, "Mr. Friedman is being arrested for the murders of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. We have a warrant for his arrest and we're taking him into custody. Please step aside."
Un-fucking-believable. Skipper's pulling a publicity stunt.
Naomi screams. Joel tries to calm her down. "It's okay. We'll get this straightened out."
Although Naomi doesn't realize it, her kids have followed her. They start to cry. "Naomi," I say calmly, "let me handle this. Why don't you take the kids back up?"
She nods and takes them upstairs. She returns without them a moment later.
Joel is trying to reason with the policeman when a black Lincoln drives up and Skipper steps out. The pieces are starting to fit together. "It's under control," he says to nobody in particular. He turns to Joel. "Well, young man, I knew you had a temper, but I didn't think you'd kill two people."
A white Channel 4 minivan pulls up behind Skipper's car. Rita Roberts and her cameraman leap out.
Joel is furious. "Are you out of your fucking mind, Skipper? You think I'd kill two people because I didn't make partner?"
"There's a lot more to it, and you know it. You'll have your day in court."
I try to interject before things deteriorate further. I address the policeman. I point to the handcuffs. "Officer, do you really need those? Mr. Friedman is a respected attorney. He's not a threat."
The cop shrugs. I see the name D'Augustino on his nameplate. "Standard procedure, sir."
I take Skipper aside. "What kind of stunt are you trying to pull here?"
His expression is condescending. "Look who's here. My favorite ex-partner. The one who just got fired. And with good reason. Always spend your free time with murderers?"
It's hard for me to believe what I'm hearing. I clench my teeth. "For God's sake, Skipper, if you wanted to arrest him, you could have called. He would have surrendered without all the theatrics. He's not exactly a flight risk."
"Bullshit, Mike. You don't know the half of it."
"And I suppose you called the TV stations to make sure they were here in time for your collar?"
"I don't know anything about that. They must have heard it on the police band."
Now it's my turn. "Bullshit, Skipper."
"Fuck you. This doesn't have anything to do with you, so stay out of it."
Through sheer willpower, I don't retort. Joel is in enough trouble without my getting into hand-to-hand combat with Skipper on the front steps of Joel's house.
At that moment, Joel's mother and father arrive. They look startled at the sight. Joel's mother, Mollie, a heavyset woman, has a knack for saying the right thing or deciding to stay mum. She usually elects to remain silent. It keeps her out of trouble with the congregants.
Joel's father keeps his face impassive as he asks politely, "Is there a problem, Officer?"
Skipper steps up. "Rabbi, I'm sorry I'm the one who has to tell you, but your son is under arrest for the murder of two people."
The rabbi looks stunned. He takes a step back. "There's been a mistake."
"I'm afraid there's no mistake, Rabbi. Now, if you'll excuse us."
Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman huddle with Naomi, who is standing behind me. I turn around to look at them and say, "I'll figure out what's going on. You guys stay put."
The uniforms push Joel toward one of the squad cars. "For God's sake," I say, "take off the handcuffs."
Skipper can't resist. "Bob and Diana would have wished he'd been in handcuffs the night he killed them."
Asshole.
One of the uniforms says they're taking him to the Hall of Justice. Before they put him in the car, I say to him, "Joel, I'll be right behind you. Be cooperative and above all, don't talk to anyone. These people are not your friends. Nobody down there is your friend. Got it?"
He nods, but I see him biting back panic. "You've got to take care of this, Mike."
"I will. Right now, you've got to do what I say."
The uniform shoves me out of the way. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" he asks. I resist the urge to shove him back.
Joel answers. "He's my lawyer. I'm not saying a word to you assholes unless he's present."
I summon my best authoritative tone. "May I have your attention, please?" I turn and look directly into Rita Roberts's camera. My voice is shaking. "My name is Michael Daley. I am Mr. Friedman's attorney. I have instructed Mr. Friedman not to talk to any of you outside of my presence. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman are witnesses." I turn to Skipper. "If you talk to my client, I'll have you brought up before the state bar."
He turns away. My little speech was just beamed live to households all over the Bay Area. A media star is born.
The two police cars pull away and head down Sixteenth. The Lincoln follows. I turn to Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman. "Let's go in. We have a problem."
Upstairs, Naomi has sent the children to watch TV under my mother's watchful eye. Naomi, Rosie, Wendy, Doris, Jenny and I gather in the living room with Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman.
"What happens now?" Naomi asks.
"I'll go down to the Hall of Justice and ask for bail. He may have to spend the night. They arrested him late on a Friday because it's tough to find a judge right before the weekend."
Rosie looks at me. "You'd better get down there right away."
"He didn't do it, Mike," Naomi implores.
"I know. I'll call you as soon as I can." I ask Rosie to call Pete to take my mother home. She agrees.
I walk to the back of the house where the kids are gathered with my mother. I give Grace a hug. "Daddy has to go out for a while," I explain. "You're going to have to stay with Mommy tonight."
"Okay," she says. Then she adds, "Is Uncle Joel in trouble?"
The wisdom of a six year old. "Yeah, sweetie. But it's a big mistake. Daddy is going downtown to straighten it out. You look after Mommy and Grandma, okay?"
"I will, Daddy. I love you."
"I love you, too."
I turn to my mother. For the first time in five years, her eyes are truly clear. Before I can say anything, she says, "They arrested him."
"Yeah."
I see the look that I saw so many times when my dad got a call at home from his sergeant. It's the look of a policeman's wife. For a moment, she's thirty years younger and her blue eyes are steel. "Do what you have to do to help him, Michael."
"Yes, Mama. Right now, I've got to go be a lawyer for a couple of hours."
"I know. You take good care of him."
"I will. Pete's going to come over and take you home."
"I'll be up late, Michael. Would you please call me when you know what's going on?"
"Of course." After all these years, Margaret Murphy Daley is still the wife of a cop.
8
THE HALL OF JUSTICE
"The Hall of Justice is an incredibly expensive homeless shelter, detox center and drug-treatment center, and an utterly inept way to handle social problems."
—Director of Inmate Release Program. San Francisco Examiner.
In San Francisco, the DA's office, criminal courts and city jail are located in a Stalinesque seven-story structure at Seventh and Bryant that is modestly known as the Hall of Justice. Although a new fifty-million-dollar jail wing was added in the early nineties, the Hall hasn't lost any of its original charm. The new jail was built to ease overcrowding in the system, which has been under a federal court consent decree since the eighties because of poor conditions. The north wall of the new jail practically touches the 101 freeway, and prisoners sleep less than fifty feet from the slow lane.
At seven-thirty, the traffic on Van Ness is heavy as I weave southbound through a driving rain. Surprisingly, I find a parking place on Seventh between two squad cars. I grab my briefcase from the trunk and try to look lawyerly in my jeans and long-sleeved polo shirt.
I'm soaked as I run up the front steps of the Hall and explain to the guard at the metal detector that I'm here to see my client, Mr. Friedman. He motions me through and I detour around the tortoise-slow Depression-era elevators and head for the stairs.
In October of 1996, a new intake center was opened in the new wing of the Hall. County Jail 9, as the intake center is known, is a far cry from the chaos that reigned at the raucous old booking center on the sixth floor of the old Hall, which at times seemed more like an overcrowded zoo on a busy night. The old jail is now used primarily for high-security housing and prisoner classification. The intake area was the last part of the new facility to come on-line.
The booking hub is antiseptic clean. In contrast to traditional "linear" jails, which have cells lining a central corridor, the holding cells in the new booking center are arranged in a circle around a deputies’ workstation. The prisoners are housed in well-lighted cells behind glass doors. When the doors are shut, the place is relatively quiet. There are no heavy, clanking iron cell doors or shouts of inmates. As always, the usual parade of humanity is awaiting processing.
Whenever I'm in the Hall, I think of my dad. I always expect to see him walking down the corridors, his bearing erect, his chest out, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He was so proud that he was a cop. He put the bad guys away.
Although the Hall serves as the city jail, for historic bureaucratic reasons, it's actually run by the County Sheriffs Department. I survey the sheriffs deputies working behind the desk and I recognize the pockmarked face and thick mustache of Sergeant Philip Ramos. I'm thankful I had the foresight to get some business cards printed. "Good evening, Sergeant Ramos," I say, handing him my state bar card and my driver's license.
The heavyset man looks at my card, then surveys me up and down. About ten years ago, Phil Ramos found himself on the wrong side of a gang fight. A bullet wound in his left thigh moved him behind a desk. He's never been happy about it. He's a good, tough cop. "Mike Daley," he says. "I thought you moved downtown. May I assume your visit this evening is not entirely social?"
"That would be correct."
"And may I ask which one of our guests will have the pleasure of your company?"
"Joel Friedman. They just brought him in."
He types on his computer. "Excuse me, Mr. Big Time. A murder rap. He's being processed. Gonna be a few minutes." He picks up his phone and asks someone to bring Joel to the holding room adjacent to his desk. "Do me a favor and keep it short. They haven't finished booking him." He looks at his computer screen. "What's this about?" he asks.
"You heard about the shootings last week at the Simpson and Gates firm?"
"Yeah."
"I worked there. Friedman still works there. Skipper's trying to pin the shootings on him."
He's surprised. "I thought it was a suicide."
"There's something else going on. Skipper's calling the shots. There's no way th
is guy did it."
He gives me the "I've heard it a million times" look. "Sometimes people do stupid things," he says. "I just process them. Roosevelt wouldn't have charged him if he didn't have a solid case."
"Do me a favor, Phil. I don't know if we'll be able to get a judge to set bail tonight. If he has to stay the night, put him in his own cell, okay? If you put him in with everybody, he'll get eaten alive."
He scowls. "I'll try. We have a full house. Fridays are always busy. I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, Phil."
Two deputies lead Joel into the holding room behind the intake desk. I used to meet with my clients in similar rooms when I was a PD. The lucky ones got five minutes of my time. I didn't create the system. I'd try to come up with a workable deal and move to the next case. I did the best I could. Joel keeps his head down. Intake isn't fun. First you get fingerprinted. Then you have a medical interview. In some cases, you get strip-searched. Finally, you're issued an orange jumpsuit and you're assigned to a cell.
Ramos presses a button and the door opens to let me into the room. The deputies have taken off Joel's handcuffs. He slumps into a chair. I ask the deputies to wait outside. The larger one tells me we have ten minutes.
Joel's eyes are tired. "You've got to get me out of here," he says. His voice is desperate.
"We need to talk fast. First, I'm going to try to find a judge to set bail. I don't know if I'll be able to find one at this hour on a Friday night."
"You can't let them keep me here."
"I know the desk sergeant. He's going to get you your own cell." I don't know this for sure, but I'm hoping Ramos will keep his word. "Don't talk to anybody. Everybody here will lie about you. They'll say you confessed to something. Even the ones you don't talk to will lie. Got it?"
"Got it."
"Good. They're going to finish your paperwork and they'll probably take you to a holding cell."
MD01 - Special Circumstances Page 7