"That seems to be the jump in logic they're making."
"And I threatened Diana at Harrington's and lured her back, just so I could kill her?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that's a bunch of bullshit. You think I'd kill Bob and ruin my life because they didn't make me a partner? You think I'd kill Diana because she didn't finish a set of escrow instructions on time? This is fucking preposterous."
He's right, of course. But only if he's telling the truth.
"I'm going to meet with Skipper," I say.
"I expect you to get this thing dismissed by the end of the day."
NFC. No fucking chance.
12
"NICE OFFICE, SKIPPER"
"We are going to upgrade our facilities and computers. The San Francisco District Attorney's Office will be state of the art."
—Skipper Gates. Acceptance speech.
The only thing state of the art about the San Francisco District Attorney's Office is the remodeled suite that now belongs to Skipper Gates. The ADAs sit in cramped offices behind metal desks with dented olive-green file cabinets. The lucky ones get their own offices. The real lucky ones get windows looking out at the bail-bond shops across Bryant Street.
On the other hand, as soon as the election results were in, Skipper began tearing up half the third floor at the Hall to make some major capital improvements. His office has been expanded and he's built a large area for press conferences. The space allocated to the ADAs has shrunk and now only three senior ADAs have their own offices. The remodeling hasn't been met with a great deal of enthusiasm among the rank and file.
On Saturday afternoon, Skipper's office is a sea of splendor. He's dressed in khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. He props his feet on his desk. I decline a Perrier from his new wet bar.
"Nice office, Skipper," I say. "I don't recall the hardwood floors and paneling when your predecessor occupied this space."
"Thanks. I'm glad you like it. We're trying to upgrade the image of the office." He's a master at accepting compliments, even when they're given facetiously.
Upgrading is one thing. Ostentatious is another. Hardwood floors, oak paneling, overstuffed chairs and an antique desk are more than an upgrade. I must admit the large photo of himself shaking hands with the mayor and the governor that he's hung behind his desk is very flattering.
"Skipper, if you don't mind my asking, don't you think this might be a little bit much?"
He laughs. "It's okay. The remodeling's being done on my nickel. It's very important to me to work where I'm comfortable."
"Don't you think the new press room is a little overdone?"
"Nonsense. I'm the district attorney. That makes me the chief law-enforcement officer in the city. If you're going to act the part, you've got to look the part."
I feel like quoting the old Billy Crystal "Fernando" routine on Saturday Night Live: "You look mahvalous, Skipper, simply mahvalous."
Sitting quietly in one of the overstuffed chairs and observing this banal exchange is a trim, middle-aged man with short gray hair and thick glasses. Bill McNulty, the ADA in charge of homicide cases, is a native San Franciscan and a career prosecutor. He thought his number had come up last year for the DA job. There were only two problems. First, there isn't a single ounce of charisma anywhere in Bill's body. Put him in front of a TV camera and he makes Richard Nixon look photogenic. Second, Skipper tossed his hat into the ring and outspent Bill by about ten to one. Skipper annihilated him in the election in a vicious negative campaign. For twenty-six years, McNulty has been on a mission from God to put the bad guys away. He's good at it. What he lacks in charm, he makes up for by being careful, hard-nosed and meticulous. He has a reputation as a fighter and his nickname around the Hall is Bill McNasty.
"Mike," Skipper says, "I'm sure you've met Bill McNulty."
"We've worked on several cases over the years." I turn to McNulty. "Nice to see you again."
He nods and grimaces. A man of few words.
"Are you the ADA assigned to this case?"
He nods again.
"Good." Bad, actually. McNasty's good. He's tough. He's tenacious. And he's probably prosecuted about fifty murder cases. He's won most of them. Skipper has made an astute choice for help on his first big case.
McNulty looks at me. "The arraignment is scheduled for ten o'clock on Monday. We'll see you there." He starts to get up.
"Wait a minute, Bill. I thought we might take a few minutes to talk about this."
He gives me an impatient expression. "What's there to talk about? The next step is the arraignment. I assume your guy will plead not guilty and we're on our way."
Skipper holds up his hand. "I've just put Bill on this case," he says. "He's understandably reluctant to talk to you before he's been through the file. Isn't that right, Bill?"
McNasty scowls. I can't tell if he's pissed off about being here, being put on this case or having to suck up to Skipper. Probably all of the above.
"Well," Skipper continues, "maybe I can answer a few questions for you. And by the way, I'm sorry about all the hoopla last night. We didn't know you were going to be there. We sure as hell didn't know his kids and parents were going to be there."
Right. Where the hell did you think his kids would be at seven o'clock on a Friday night?
"Skipper," I say, "maybe you could just tell me what you've got in mind. You can't be serious about charging Joel based upon the skimpy evidence you've got so far."
His face turns solemn and he folds his arms. "You bet your ass."
I look at McNulty, who is completely still. He has a good poker face. I turn back to Skipper. "Maybe you can enlighten me. What evidence?" I want to find out everything that I can. And I don't want to give them anything else.
"You can't expect me to tip my hand," Skipper says. "All in due time."
McNulty looks pained. "You're going to have to tell him sooner or later. Now, tell him what you've got, or I will."
This is beginning to sound a little too rehearsed for my taste. "Well, Skipper?" I say.
"All right," he says. "We know he was there at the time of the murders."
"Alleged murders," I correct him.
Eye roll. "Alleged murders. He was the only one there. He knew where the gun was. He knew how to use it. He'd used it at the range. So we've got opportunity."
"Fine, Skipper," I say. "We know he was there. He told you so. And we all know about the gun. So what?" I'm tempted to ask Skipper where he was, but I let it go.
"There's the physical evidence. His fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and the unused bullets. So, we've got direct contact with the murder weapon."
"Not good enough," I say. "It shows he disarmed the gun. He told you that. He did it for the safety of the others in the firm. You aren't close to probable cause, let alone a conviction." Actually, he zoomed past probable cause a few minutes ago and he's about a quarter of the way to a conviction, but he doesn't have to hear that from me.
Skipper scratches the bottom of his chin and takes a drink of Perrier. I wonder if Perrier has ever found its way into this building before. "Then, of course, we have the question of motive."
I sit back in my chair and lock my fingers behind my head. I realize the chair is nicer than anything I have at home. This should be a gem. "And what motive have you concocted, Skipper?"
"Actually, he has motive in both cases. Let's talk about Diana first. He was really pissed off at her. They got into a big screaming match at Harrington's. The bartender saw it. She tossed a drink at him and stormed out."
"They were fighting about work. She fucked up some closing documents. It doesn't mean he killed her."
"That's what your guy is telling you. She went home, had a drink and went to bed. Then around twelve-fifty, after he had a chance to stew about it a little, he called her up and lured her back to the office. He waited for her, then he blasted her. Right there in Bob's office."
"You're dreaming, Skipper. What makes
you think he called her?" I know what's coming.
"We have the phone records. A call was placed from his private line at the office to her apartment at twelve-fifty-one. The call lasted two minutes. She showed up at the office fifteen minutes later at about one-ten. We got the time of her arrival from the building security cameras."
This is getting interesting. At least the timing of things is becoming clear. I make a mental note to ask for all of the security tapes. "Assuming your phone records are right," I say, "I'll grant you that a call may have been placed from Joel's phone. But it doesn't show he made the call. Even if he did, he was undoubtedly calling to ask her to come to the office to help with the closing." I'm kind of enjoying the cat-and-mouse aspect of this. It's been a while.
He smiles confidently. "That's where you're wrong. We know exactly what he said to her in that telephone conversation. And it wasn't anything close to the way you described it."
"How's that, Skipper? Are you listening in on Joel's calls? Or did you bug his phone?"
"You see, the entire conversation was taped on Diana's answering machine."
Uh-oh.
The condescending smirk. "We got this yesterday. She must have been asleep and didn't pick up her phone until the answering machine started taping. She didn't erase the message when she left."
I'm getting a bad feeling about this.
McNulty stands up. "While we're being so open about our evidence, let me play something for you." He walks over to Skipper's desk, takes out a small cassette player and presses the start button.
Beep. "Wednesday. December thirty-first. Twelve-fifty-one A.M." Beep. "Pick up, Diana. God dammit." "Hello?" "Diana, it's Joel. I was talking to Bob. We need you to come down here right away. We've got a bunch of things to go over for the closing. We really need you to get your ass down here right now." "Joel? What time is it?" "About ten to one." "I'm exhausted. Can't it wait until morning?"
"No. It can't wait. I've got to see you now."
"I don't want to deal with this right now." "You have to. I need to see you right now. Bob wants to resolve this stuff right now. ASAP. So get your tight little ass over here right away." "Fuck you. You're a piece of shit." "Fuck you too, you little tramp. If you're going to treat me like shit, I'll treat you like shit. Now get your ass over here or I'll come over there and get you myself." "All right, asshole. I'll he right over. But this is the last time. We're finished. You understand? You can find another lackey to push around." "I wouldn't have it any other way, you hitch." Beep.
Skipper is triumphant. "Sounds to me like they were talking about a lot more than business."
I strain to sound incredulous. "That's it? That's what this is all about? A late-night telephone call where he tells her to come back to work? From that you get murder? You're dreaming. This isn't an old episode of LA. Law, you know."
Out of the corner of my eye, I think I can see McNulty nod, but I'm not sure.
Skipper becomes more strident. "No," he says, "that's not it. Let me play something else for you." He fusses with the cassette player until he becomes frustrated and McNulty steps in and pushes the right button. I recognize the sound of our voice-mail prompts.
"Bob, Joel. I just found out about the new policy on partner elections. I came by your office, but you were with Vince. I want to tell you something. I think this whole thing stinks. You could have told me. You should have told me, but, as usual, you didn't have the balls. I'll get you for this, you little prick. I'm not gonna take this shit lying down. Call me right away."
I try to look skeptical. "I suppose you're going to say this represents a threat?"
"Damn right," Skipper snaps. "It speaks for itself."
I turn to McNulty. "Bill, you know there's no way this will ever add up to a conviction."
McNulty gives Skipper an inquisitive look. Skipper nods.
"What?" I ask.
McNulty turns to me. "There's something else. It seems that your boy was having an affair with Diana Kennedy. We have a witness who is prepared to testify he saw the two of them in the same room at your last firm retreat. Let's just say that she wasn't fully clothed."
"No way."
"Yes way," Skipper says. "And that's what ties it all together. Kennedy was sleeping with Friedman. She pulled the plug on him and told him she was sleeping with Holmes. That's what led to the fight at Harrington's. He came back and confronted Holmes. That's what led to the phone call to her home."
"You're dreaming. Joel wasn't sleeping with her. You can't prove it."
McNulty speaks up. "Yes we can. We've got a witness. There's only one other living person who can rebut his testimony."
"And that would be Joel."
"And that would be correct."
"And who is this honest soul who will step forward and swear my client is an adulterer?"
McNulty stops. "I can't tell you."
"You mean you won't tell me."
"All right. I won't tell you. Not now, at least. Not until I have to."
I turn to Skipper. "Are you prepared to tell me?"
"No. We're only obligated to give you evidence that would exculpate your client. All the evidence we've given you so far points directly toward a conviction."
The key witness has to be an attorney at S&G. I have no idea who it is, but I will find out. "Skipper," I say, "you've got some shaky circumstantial stuff here, but nothing close to a case."
McNulty looks at me. "There's one more thing."
At this point, I'm wondering how many more things. I'm prepared for almost anything.
"She was pregnant."
Shit.
"And before you ask, we don't know who the father is. But we'll find out."
This is going to get messy. "Look," I say, "there's a lot of hard evidence this was a suicide, pure and simple. He shot himself with his own gun. He left a suicide note. Before you embarrass yourself on Monday, don't you think you ought to wait for the coroner's report?"
Skipper looks amused. "We got a preview. The cause of Bob's death will be a gunshot wound. But there is evidence that somebody hit him on the head before the shots were fired."
"In other words," I say, "you're saying somebody tried to make it look like a suicide?"
"Right."
"What about the suicide note, the E-mail?"
"Joel's fingerprints are on Bob's keyboard."
What? How the hell did Joel's fingerprints get on Bob's keyboard? "So? He could have used Bob's keyboard anytime. It still doesn't show he typed the E-mail."
Skipper takes a drink of his Perrier. "Look, Mike, it's against my better judgment," he says, "and Bill is going to kill me for saying it, but I'm prepared to discuss a plea bargain."
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm prepared to discuss a plea bargain. I'll go down to second-degree and recommend a lenient sentence if he admits to it."
Second-degree means at least fifteen years in jail. "Bullshit. You've got no case."
"You're wrong. We do have a case. I'm going to try it myself."
"You're crazy."
Skipper's eyes gleam. "Tell him we're going to charge him with first-degree murder. We're considering special circumstances. If he's willing to save the taxpayers the cost of a trial, we'll agree to a plea of second-degree with a recommendation of fifteen years. We'll take the death penalty off the table. Our offer is open until the arraignment on Monday. You have an ethical obligation to convey it to your client."
"I won't recommend it. Not in a million years."
"I know you're a little rusty. Bill is my right hand on this case. He hasn't had a chance to study the file in detail, but he's damn sure we've got a strong case. A very strong case. Right, Bill?"
McNulty nods. I can't tell if he's sincere or just trying to appease his boss.
I turn to McNulty. "You're thinking about going for the death penalty in a circumstantial case in San Francisco? Have you lost your mind?"
He doesn't answer.
I leave.
&
nbsp; 13
"I HAVE TO CONSIDER WHAT'S BEST FOR MY SON"
"Joel Mark Friedman will be arraigned on Monday for the alleged double murder of two colleagues. District Attorney Prentice Gates says he may seek the death penalty. In an unusual twist, Gates says he will try the case himself."
—KCBS news radio. Saturday, January 10.
At three-thirty the same day, I'm at the pay phone in the lobby of the Hall. "Hello, Rabbi Friedman," I say.
He gets right down to business. "How are things going with Joel's case?" he asks.
"As well as can be expected." I describe my meetings with Joel and Skipper, judiciously leaving out any references to Joel's alleged infidelities or Skipper's plea bargain proposal. "It looks like they're going to charge Joel with murder on Monday."
Silence.
"We're doing everything we can. It's going to take some time."
He clears his throat. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I was talking to a couple of my congregants after services last night. A number of lawyers are members of the temple."
"I know." Probably half your board of directors.
"This is difficult, so forgive me for being blunt. A couple of members of my congregation whose judgment I respect suggested you may not be the right person to handle this case for my son."
It feels like a piece of sharp glass going straight through my stomach. Thankfully, he can't see my grimace. "Excuse me, but why did they say that?"
He's choosing his words carefully. "One of my congregants said you haven't spent a lot of time in court the last few years. He said you may be a little rusty after your tenure at the Simpson firm."
He's right, of course. "I defended over a hundred murder trials when I was at the PD's office. I've been defending white-collar criminals at the Simpson firm for the last five years. I'm completely current on the law." I'm trying not to sound too defensive.
He gathers his thoughts. "Another attorney suggested that you may have been something of a renegade at the public defender's office."
It's true. My bosses thought I took too many cases to trial. That's bad for business in the PD's office. The supervisors are paid for disposing of cases quickly, not necessarily winning them. "I took a lot of cases to trial when I was at the PD's office. That's what PDs get paid for. I won some cases others would have lost. I won some cases others would have pled out." And, in fairness, I probably lost a few that could have been pled out. "That's what you want from a defense lawyer. You want somebody who will go to bat for your client."
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