"What am I gonna tell Naomi and the kids?"
"I'll take care of that. We'll take this one step at a time. Rosie's there and so are your mom and dad. We'll get through this. Right now, you've got to stay calm and be smart. You got it?"
"Yeah." There's panic in his voice.
The deputy opens the door. "Time to go," he says. "We need to finish his paperwork."
"Just one more minute," I say. He steps back outside. "Joel, one other thing. I'll do everything I can to help you if you want me to represent you. But I don't want you to feel obligated to hire me as your lawyer. You don't have to tell me tonight. But you're going to have to decide soon."
He looks me in the eye. "I wouldn't trust anybody else. You're the man."
"Good. Now do what these nice deputies say. I'll take care of everything else."
He looks back at me as they lead him out the door. He mouths the word "Thanks."
At ten-fifteen, I'm at the pay phone in the lobby of the Hall. I should have brought my cellular. I dial Joel and Naomi's number. Rosie answers.
"It's Mike."
"No bail," she says.
"That's right. How did you know?"
"We saw it on the news. Fucking Skipper got in front of the cameras and said he's charging Joel with first-degree murder."
"The duty judge wouldn't set bail."
"I figured. I didn't think they'd let him out tonight." If it's first-degree, they may not set bail at all. "Here's Naomi."
"Hi, Mike." Her voice cracks.
"Look, Naomi, I just talked to Joel. He's doing okay." A small lie. "I know the desk sergeant. He's going to put Joel in his own cell. He'll be all right for the night."
"What am I supposed to tell the boys?"
I pause. What is she supposed to tell the boys? "The legal system works slowly, so we have to stay calm." Easy for me to say. People hate it when their lawyer tells them their only choice is to be patient. "I'll be right over," I say. "Have Rosie screen any calls. And don't talk to the press." "Whatever you say."
The kids are asleep at eleven-thirty when Rosie, Naomi and I sit down in the dining room where we'd been eating Naomi's chicken a few hours earlier. The minicams left after the eleven o'clock news programs ended. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman just went home. Pete picked up my mom an hour ago.
Naomi turns her puffy red eyes toward me. "What do we do now?" she asks.
I take her hand. "I'll talk to another judge. It would help if you have access to some money."
"We'll find it. They said on the news they may not grant bail."
I look at Rosie. If Skipper goes for special circumstances (that is, the death penalty), there will be no bail. Not even for a pillar of the legal community. Not even for the rabbi's son. "Naomi," Rosie says, "sometimes they don't set bail. It depends on the charge."
Naomi is holding back tears. "What's next? You guys are the lawyers."
"He'll probably be arraigned on Monday," I reply. We lawyers often forget how Byzantine the legal system sounds to civilians. "We go to court and formal charges are read. Joel pleads not guilty. It takes about five minutes. Then I'll go have a big fight with the DA."
"And if they don't drop the charges?"
Rosie and I glance at each other, and I say quietly, "We'll get ready to go to trial, if we have to."
"I see." It's sinking in. Naomi pauses, then asks, "When will that be?"
"Technically, we can demand a trial within sixty days, but almost everybody agrees to a delay so they have more time to prepare." She's starting to lose it. "One other thing," I say. "You and Joel may decide to let somebody else handle the case. If you do, I'll understand." Rosie looks at me as if I've lost my mind.
Naomi shrugs. "I'll talk it over with Joel. I'm sure he'll want you. I do."
"Thanks, Naomi. I'd better get going."
I carry Grace to Rosie's car. She's getting heavy. "Rosie," I say, "mind if I stop by for a few minutes on my way home?"
"You were reading my mind."
"Just business tonight. I seem to have a murder case to prepare for."
"Absolutely."
I smile at her. "How do you think George Costanza would describe us?"
"I believe the term is ‘crisis sex,’ with a few doses of ‘sympathy sex’ and ‘guilt sex’ thrown in."
"One of these days, you're going to find a guy you really like and we're going to have to shut this down."
"I know. But, for the time being, this works all right for me."
"Me too. I'll see you at home."
9
LARKSPUR
"You're moving to Larkspur? Marin County? You're kidding, right? You can't move to Marin. You're a city boy, Mike. The fresh air will kill you."
—Joel Friedman.
Rosie and I live about three blocks from each other in Marin County in a little suburb called Larkspur, which is about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Larkspur's eleven thousand residents live in small, well-tended houses on the flatlands between the 101 freeway and the base of Mount Tamalpais. In Marin, the single folks live in Sausalito, the artists and writers live in Mill Valley, the nouveau riche live in Tiburon and the old money live in Ross. The few working stiffs tend to congregate in Larkspur and its sister city, Corte Madera, although housing prices are getting so high that only the truly affluent will be living there soon.
Moving to Marin was one of our many compromises. It's a move we never would have made if Grace hadn't been born. If it had been up to me, we'd have moved back to Berkeley. If Rosie had had her way, we wouldn't have left the city. Kids change things. A lot. The scary thing is I like where we are. Maybe you don't have to make a political statement with every aspect of your life.
It's a few minutes after midnight now and I've just crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The Corolla strains up the Waldo Grade toward the tunnel above Sausalito. If it weren't raining so hard, I'd have a great view of the city out my right window.
As usual, I'm listening to KCBS, the all-news station. Joel is a hot topic. "In tonight's headlines, Joel Mark Friedman was arrested for the murder of two prominent attorneys at the Simpson and Gates law firm."
Randy Long, my mentor at the PD's office, used to say you know your client is in really big trouble when they use all three of his names on the news.
"District Attorney Prentice Gates will hold a press conference Saturday morning to discuss the case. KCBS will cover it live. KCBS news time is twelve-ten." I switch the station to jazz.
I take Paradise Drive west past the upscale Corte Madera mall. I head north on Magnolia, Larkspur's main street. A mile later, I turn right onto a side street called Alexander Avenue, and pull into the narrow driveway of Number 8, across from the Twin Cities Little League field. Because of its proximity to the ballpark, it's known as the hey-batter-batter house. Rosie has been renting the tiny white bungalow since Grace started school last year. Many homes in Larkspur were built as temporary housing after the 1906 earthquake. Some have been remodeled, but most are still quite small. Rosie's was built in 1925 for a local schoolteacher, who paid twenty-five hundred dollars for it. Today, the seven-hundred-square-foot house would set you back at least six hundred thousand.
The light's on. Rosie is watching the rebroadcast of the late news. I knock quietly on the door and let myself in. It's a good sign when your ex-wife lets you have your own key. It wasn't always the case when we were in the middle of our divorce. Her dark eyes light up. She holds a finger to her lips and motions me into the living room. Grace is asleep.
"Joel's the lead story."
"So I gather. I was listening to it on the radio."
"They got your little speech in front of his house on camera."
"Great."
"They got another shot of you walking out of the Hall."
"Nike will be calling tomorrow to offer me a sneaker contract. The ‘Air Daley’ line."
She smiles. She's heard this one before. "They said you had no comment."
"That would be corre
ct."
"You could have said he was innocent."
"I know. I want to save my best lines for my interview with Ted Koppel."
"Probably smart."
"I hope so."
We stare at the TV. NewsCenter 4 loves to send its mini-cams all over the Bay Area to do live "team coverage," even when it makes no sense to do so. Why TV news directors think we want to see their reporters catching pneumonia escapes me. I guess if you have the fancy toys, you might as well use them. Rita Roberts is standing in the pouring rain on the dark, empty street in front of Joel's house. As she gets soaked, they show videotape of the arrest a few hours earlier. They show my speech to the cops and a brief interview with Skipper. The second reporter, a tall man with beautiful dark hair and a cleft chin, is getting drenched on the dark, empty street in front of the Hall. They show videotape of Joel being escorted into the building. Then they show me hustling up the front steps of the Hall.
Rosie shuts off the TV. "Joel has a big problem."
"Tell me about it. What else did they say on the news?"
"The basics. The usual blather about incontrovertible evidence placing Joel at the scene. Inconsistencies in his story. They claim he's been uncooperative and tried to flee." She pauses. "Oh, one more thing. One station quoted ‘reliable sources’ saying Joel was having an affair with Diana."
"I see. Who was saying all that?"
"They didn't say, but it has to be Skipper. It's a DA's wet dream. First week on the job and he's got a high-profile murder case." Rosie has such a delicate way with words.
"Did they interview Roosevelt?"
"Briefly. He didn't say much. He just said they have solid evidence."
I look at the fire in the small fireplace. "Joel's got a big problem."
She grins. The dancing light reflects off her dark eyes. "My little rainmaker. First week on the job and you have already landed a high-profile murder case. Not bad."
"It's a standard marketing technique," I say. "You go to dinner at your best friend's house and hope he gets arrested for murder sometime between the salad and the entree. All those marketing seminars at S and G finally paid off."
She turns serious. "First things first. You're going to do this by the book. I have a standard form of retainer letter on my laptop here. We're going to put one together for you right now. Joel has to sign a retainer letter. And you have to talk to him about what this is going to cost."
I swallow. "I know."
She takes my hand. "I know you hate this stuff. But you've got to take care of business. You're going to have to take this case all the way to the finish line, Mike. I don't want to hear you ever again suggest to Joel or Naomi that they hire another lawyer. This is your case. Period. And if you're going to be the attorney of record, you have to get a retainer letter."
"I will." She's right, of course. Rosie used to lecture me a lot when we were married. More often than not, she had good reason.
"Good. Then I think you should spend tomorrow with your buddy, Joel."
"I'm going to spend as much time as I can with him. Unless I can pull a rabbit out of my hat, he isn't going anywhere any time soon."
At one-fifteen, I arrive at my second-story one-bedroom apartment in an eight-unit walk-up building just behind the fire station in downtown Larkspur. I climb up the short flight of steps, find the afternoon paper and fumble for my keys in the dark. The building is vintage fifties, and it's showing its age. My apartment consists of a small living room, an even smaller bedroom, a dining area big enough for a dinette set and a kitchen big enough for one. It's enough for me, but cramped when Grace stays here. The furniture is basic cheap Scandinavian teak, with a few bookcases built of bricks and boards. The only indication of modern technology is a computer in the corner of my bedroom, a Mitsubishi nineteen-inch TV and a small compact-disc player. Forty-five years old and I'm still living like a college student. It's the price you pay when you have alimony, child support and an ex-wife who wants nice stuff for our daughter. Although Rosie probably doesn't need the money from me, she's absolutely right in demanding it. Given my propensity for frittering it away, it's better that I have a legal obligation to pay it to her. It doesn't help that I have a sixty-eight-year-old mother who isn't in the greatest of health.
I grab a Diet Dr Pepper from the fridge and I look at my reflection in the small mirror in the kitchen. My thick light brown hair is matted to the top of my head. There are a few flecks of gray in the sideburns. The crow's-feet around my eyes remind me that I'm no longer in my thirties. My face is a little more rounded than it used to be. I still have the lean legs and torso of a cross-country runner. Rosie says I look like the consummate middle-aged Irishman—a combination of boiled potatoes and beer. I realize that I'm beginning to look more and more like my dad.
There are two messages on the answering machine. The first one surprises me. "Mike, this is Roosevelt Johnson. I'd appreciate it if you would call me as soon as you can." I jot down his phone number.
The second message is from Rabbi Friedman. "Michael, please call me on Saturday afternoon after services. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you."
I tilt my head back and close my eyes. I wonder if Rabbi Friedman is calling to ask why Joel is still in jail.
Let the second-guessing begin.
10
"FIRST, YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING"
"In our top story this morning, District Attorney Prentice Gates said attorney Joel Mark Friedman will be charged with first-degree murder in the shootings of two colleagues."
—NewsCenter 4 Daybreak. Saturday, January 10.
"Did you find a judge yet, Mike? When the hell am I getting out of here?" At eight-thirty the next morning, Joel's unshaven face has a look of desperation. The small, gray interview room is stuffy.
"Not yet. Rosie's calling in some favors. The duty judge said we'd have to wait till Monday."
"Shit."
"It's an old trick. They haul you in on Friday night so you have to spend the weekend in the clink. They think it'll soften you up."
He looks incredulous. "Soften me up for what? They think I'm gonna confess to something?"
"I assume you have nothing to confess to."
"You got that right."
"Good. First things first. How did you make it through the night?"
"Like any other night at a fine hotel."
"I'm serious, Joel. Did they give you your own cell?"
"For a couple of hours. Then they ran out of space so they put a guy in with me who was arrested for beating a prostitute. The cops said he wasn't dangerous. He scared the hell out of me."
Swell. Thanks a lot, Sergeant Ramos.
"So, what happens next?" he asks in a dejected tone.
"First, you have to tell me everything. Then you have to tell me what you told the police. You can leave out the part where you got arrested last night. I was there for that. Then I'll find a judge who's willing to set bail. And I'll have a little talk with Inspector Johnson. And with Skipper."
"I don't trust either of them."
"You shouldn't. The only person you should trust is me."
He gives me a weak smile. "I know. Do I get to talk to the judge anytime soon?"
Corporate attorneys haven't the slightest idea how the criminal justice system works. It's probably better that way. "For one thing, Joel, you don't talk to the judge. I do. For another thing, on Monday, we'll go to court for an arraignment. They'll charge you. You'll plead not guilty. Don't get cute. Just say it clear and fast. The judge will schedule a preliminary hearing. That's it. It's as exciting as watching grass grow."
"Can you get me out of here on Monday?"
"Maybe. If we can't get a judge over the weekend, we'll ask the judge at the arraignment."
"What are the chances of bail?"
"Depends on the charge. You're booked on suspicion of murder. If they go murder one, bail may be tough." I don't add that if they ask for the death penalty, there's no way.
He's crushed. It's a shock when somebody first says aloud you're being charged with murder.
"I need to know all the details from you so I can do my job. I need the story straight. Don't embellish it. Don't sugarcoat it. Just tell me everything that happened." This is standard defense attorney jargon. I don't want to ask him flat out if he did it. If he did, and he lies to me, I've got perjury problems. I'm not supposed to let him lie. It happens all the time, of course, but I try to avoid it. If he didn't do it, which I assume, and, coincidentally, I believe, I need his story to put together his defense.
He figures out where this is heading. "I want to get this right out on the table," he says. "I didn't do it. And it is absolutely imperative not only that I be found not guilty, but also that I am fully exonerated. Are we clear on that?"
I pause to collect my thoughts. This part of a defense lawyer's speech is always the most difficult. "Joel, I need you to understand a few things. First, I believe you. I don't think you're capable of killing two people. I've known you for a long time and I'm a very good judge of people."
I get the hint of a smile.
"But," I continue, "my job is to give you the best defense I can. I'll give you all the support I can, twenty-four hours a day. But I don't do absolutions anymore. My job is to try to get you off. I'll do everything I can to do just that. If you need more than that, you'll probably need to go to your rabbi, or at least to another lawyer." I know it sounds harsh. But, it's the truth. My job is to be Johnnie Cochran. I'll play all the cards I have within the scope of the State Bar Rules of Professional Conduct to get him off.
He looks away.
"You can still find another lawyer, you know," I say.
His eyes turn to brown steel. "No. I want you to be my lawyer." He glances at the top of the table. "One more thing," he says. "How much do you think this is going to cost?"
I pause. "If we go to trial, at least a hundred thousand—probably more. If we need a lot of experts, double it.
If you want fancy jury consultants and mock trials, figure a quarter of a million."
"Jesus. I thought corporate lawyers were expensive." "You know how it is. Trials have a life of their own. And
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