"I see. And how was this wound generated?"
"He must have been struck by a hard object."
I look at the pictures again. "Can you figure out the size or the shape of the object, Doctor?"
"No. It was heavy enough to do some damage. There were no traces of paint or wood or metal in the skull. It's not like he was hit by a car."
"Is it possible it may have been an old wound? Maybe he bumped his head a few weeks ago."
"No. It was fresh. It's tough to see it in the picture, but if you had the body in front of you, you'd see the bump was just beginning to form. Of course, the swelling would have stopped as soon as his heart stopped beating. And if he had been hit after he was shot, there would have been no hematoma because there would have been no blood pumped to the wound."
Too bad. "Doctor, can you tell if he was unconscious when he was shot?"
"Probably."
This isn't helping. On the other hand, a big part of their case may turn on his ability to convince the jury that somebody hit Bob on the head. The gunpowder on Bob's hand is evidence he was holding the gun when it was fired. "One last question. Are you sure somebody bopped him on the head?"
He strokes his beard. "In my best medical judgment, the answer is yes."
Sandra Wilson is the best field-evidence technician, or "FET," in the SFPD. She gathers evidence at crime scenes. Now in her late thirties, this articulate black woman may be the ideal prosecution witness—the voice of authority combined with a tone of reason. There will be no Dennis Fung in this case.
I've left Dr. Beckert and climbed the stairs to Sandra's small office on the second floor, which she shares with another criminalist. Her office reflects her meticulous approach. Her pens and paper clips are lined up neatly in front of a small picture of her husband. There's a picture of a toddler on the top of her computer. No pictures on the walls, although her diploma from UCLA is on display. Her short black hair and dark brown skin frame intense eyes. Her sensible clothing isn't accessorized. Her husband is a cop. They aren't rolling in extra cash.
She smiles. "If my boss finds out I'm fraternizing with the enemy," she says, "I'll catch hell."
"I'll never tell." I like her. She's a straight shooter.
"All right," she says, "I've got work to do. What do you need to know?"
"The usual. Got any nice evidence that will exonerate my client?"
She laughs. "Of course. We've been sandbagging you." She takes out a thick manila folder containing crime-scene photos. "As you can see," she says in a matter-of-fact tone, "Holmes was on the floor beneath his desk, Kennedy by the door. They were both pronounced dead at the scene at eight-twenty-two. Gun was on the desk. Your client said he found it on the floor and unloaded it." She studies her notes. "Friedman's fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and the unused bullets. Also on the computer keyboard, the door handle, the desk."
"We know he was at the scene."
"There's no doubt about that."
"You got anything to help me prove he didn't fire the gun?"
She hands me a photocopy of a diagram showing exactly where Joel's fingerprints were found on the gun—something she doesn't really have to do. "See for yourself," she says.
I study the diagram. "Did you find Bob's fingerprints on the gun?"
"Several. Just the handle, however."
"What about the trigger?"
"Just an unidentifiable smudged print."
I put the diagram in my pocket. I want Pete's input. "Did you test Joel's hands or clothing for gunpowder residue?"
She pauses. "No, I didn't. He wasn't a suspect at the scene. By the time he was a suspect, he'd showered and his clothes had been laundered. It would have been too late to get anything."
"Meaning that if you'd done it a couple of days later, it wouldn't have shown anything."
She acknowledges that this is true.
"You know, Sandra," I say, "I'll probably have to use that at the prelim."
"I know. I know. You're just doing your job."
"What can you tell me about the gun?" I ask.
"It's a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver. Forensics matched the bullets. The blood-splatter analysis indicates that Holmes was sitting in his chair when he was shot."
"What about the keyboard? Skipper thinks Joel typed the suicide E-mail."
"I hope you aren't going to try to come up with some hokey chain-of-custody argument." Defense attorneys frequently argue the cops mishandled or even planted evidence.
"I know better than to try to nail you on chain of custody. I'm curious, though. Did you find Joel's fingerprints on all the alphabetic keys?"
She glances at her notes and frowns. "Yes," she replies.
I make a mental note to see if Bob's E-mail used all twenty-six letters in the alphabet. That seems unlikely. "What about the numeric keys and the function keys?"
"We found your client's fingerprints on all of the numeric keys and three of the function keys."
That's odd. Lawyers use the keyboard to send E-mails and to do some word processing. They rarely touch the numeric or function keys. "Did you find Bob's fingerprints on the keyboard?" I ask.
She frowns again. "No."
That's really odd. "I see. Let's talk about the tapes for a minute."
"The voice mail from Friedman to Holmes was recorded at twelve-thirty. We tested the system. We're sure about the time. We'll call an expert if we have to."
It's probably not worth fighting over the time of the call. "What about the call to Diana?"
"Phone company records indicate the call was initiated at twelve-fifty-one A.M. It lasted one minute and thirty-four seconds. We found the tape in Diana's answering machine."
"You're sure of the timing?"
"Yes. We tested the timing mechanism on the answering machine. It was working. And don't even think about arguing the tapes were tampered with, Mike. The fact is, they weren't."
"You guys aren't doing me any favors."
She looks serious. "This is a high-profile case. Word came from above—no screwups. That's why I'm involved. That's why Rod Beckert did the autopsy. That's why Roosevelt is in charge of the investigation. They put the first team on this one. If Skipper loses this case, it won't be because we screwed up. If you're looking for Mark Fuhrman, he doesn't work here."
Swell. "Sandra, do you have anything else that might be useful?"
"I'll send you copies of the security tapes."
"Any other fingerprints?"
"We found prints from everybody you'd expect—from his partners to his secretary. We found Vince Russo's fingerprints on his desk. We even found one of your fingerprints on his desk, Mike." She grins. "We'll be keeping an eye on you."
I glance at the picture of her son. "Rod Beckert seems to think that somebody smacked Bob on the side of the head with a heavy object. Did you find any blood or hair on anything in his office that could have been used to knock him out? Maybe a book or a stapler or something?"
"No."
That helps our suicide argument. I thank her for her time. She's going to kill us at the trial.
18
"NOBODY'S TALKING"
"Simpson and Gates has no comment concerning Mr. Friedman's case. We have faith in the system and we are confident justice will be served."
—Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. FRIDAY, JANUARY 16.
"Mr. Patton will see you now, Mr. Daley." At nine o'clock the next morning, I'm back in familiar territory—the reception area at Simpson and Gates.
Art Patton's secretary ushers me to his museumlike corner office on forty-six. Like most high-powered civil litigators, there are no files in his office. He has slaves to handle the grunt work. The Louis-the-something furniture contrasts with the heavy oriental rugs. Several modern sculptures adorn his credenza. The walls are covered with photos of Patton with local politicians. He stands to greet me. Chuckles is sitting in one of Patton's overstuffed chairs. He doesn't get up.
&nb
sp; Patton's all smiles. "It's good to see you," he lies. He doesn't sit down. If he has his way, this is going to be a short visit.
"I didn't realize you were going to convene an executive committee meeting on my behalf."
Not surprisingly, Patton is going to act as spokesman. "When you called, we thought it would be better to do this together. We're extremely busy." His eyes dart toward Chuckles. "Look," he says, "I know you want to talk about Joel's case. It's a very serious subject. A great tragedy." He nods solemnly. "We have given our statements to the police. We've put Joel on administrative leave and we're going to let the justice system take its course. It's all we can do."
Smooth. And carefully rehearsed, no doubt. I decide to attack quickly. "The police reports said you were in the office that night. I was wondering what time you left."
"If you're suggesting somebody in this room was involved, you're mistaken."
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just trying to piece together what happened." He knows I'm lying. On the other hand, he'll appear evasive if he doesn't answer.
"I left at one-thirty. Charles left a little later. We were working on the Estimate. Neither of us saw or heard anything."
It's certainly convenient they can alibi each other. "Thanks. I'm sure your story will be borne out by the security videos." They glance at each other. Let them sweat a little. "I understand from the investigating officers that somebody from the firm said Joel was having an affair with Diana."
"I don't know anything about that. If I did, I'd tell the cops—not you."
"I was hoping you'd confirm you made those statements to the police."
"We've given our statements to the police." He starts walking toward the door in an effort to escort me out.
I don't move. "I know you told the cops you thought Joel and Diana were having an affair."
"We have given our statements to the police," he repeats in an even tone.
I decide to try a different angle. "Is it true the firm defaulted on its equipment loans to First Bank?" I want them to think I know more than I really do.
Patton takes the offensive. "The financial health of the firm is excellent. If I were in your shoes, I would be preparing a defense for my client, not harassing us."
"I can subpoena the firm's financial records if you won't answer my questions."
"This meeting is over, Mike."
Things aren't improving later the same morning. First Bank's general counsel, Jeff Tucker, is a tight-assed little man in his mid-thirties who started his career at S&G. He went to work at First Bank two years ago when he didn't make partner. Bob Holmes stabbed him squarely in the middle of the back at the partner election. He's still bitter. He works in a ten-by-ten office with a small window on the third floor of a boxy seventies office building on the south side of Market Street. In the mid-eighties, First Bank was a highflier. By the early nineties, the real-estate market tanked and so did First Bank. Its chairman was indicted for cooking the books and a Japanese conglomerate took over. To cut costs, the bank moved its headquarters from palatial space on the fortieth floor of the Four Embarcadero Center tower to offices formerly occupied by a now-defunct insurance company.
It's a quarter to twelve and Jeff wants to go to lunch. He squints at me through uncomfortable-looking contact lenses. "I don't know anything that would help you," he says.
Not a bad strategy. When in doubt, try to deflect. "I understand S and G is having some financial troubles."
He scratches his balding head. "You know I can't talk about the bank's customers."
"I'm a former S and G partner. If the firm goes belly-up, I may be called upon to cough up money to help cover its debts. As a result, in a very real respect I'm your customer. If you'd prefer, I'd be happy to come back with a subpoena. I'd rather not." A little overbearing, perhaps. But the tough-guy act usually works with people like Jeff.
He performs some sort of mental calculus. "What do you really need to know?"
"I need to know if the firm is in financial trouble."
"The answer is yes."
"Has the firm defaulted on its equipment loans?"
His lips get tighter. "Yes."
"How big were the loans?"
"About twenty million."
"Have you foreclosed?"
"Not yet. My superiors said it would be bad PR to foreclose on the firm right after the tragedy."
"I see."
"So we gave them an extension."
Very unbanklike behavior. "Really? How long?"
"Sixty days. Either they raise the twenty million by the end of February, or we'll foreclose. It'll probably throw the firm into bankruptcy."
Great.
He stands. "I've already told you more than I should have. I'm late for lunch."
At noon, I'm eating a quarter pounder at the McDonald's on Pine Street and talking to Rosie on my cellular. "Were you able to reach Beth Holmes?" I ask.
"Yeah. She isn't saying much. She claims she doesn't know anything about Bob's finances or investments. She doesn't know anything about his will or his life insurance."
"Great."
"Guess who's the executor of the estate?"
Easy question. "Charles Stern?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"Everybody at the firm uses Charles. Dead people feel very comfortable around him."
She laughs. "How did your meetings go with your former partners?"
"Lousy. Nobody's talking. Total stonewall."
"No big surprise. I gotta run."
At one o'clock, I'm admiring the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the thirty-eighth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. Jack Frazier, Continental Capital Corporation's mergers-and-acquisitions stud, occupies a corner office that's far too large for a thirty-two-year-old. He's a tall blond with a vacant expression who looks out of place behind his large mahogany desk. It's hard to believe this guy persuaded his corporate masters in Connecticut to pay nine hundred million dollars for Vince Russo's company. From what I gather from Joel, he's one of those young MBAs who got out of school at just the right time. At the next downturn in the economy, he'll be driving a cab.
Before I can sit down, Frazier announces, "Continental Capital Corporation has no comment with respect to the matters surrounding the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy."
His ever-present attorney, a sour-looking fiftyish drone named Martin Glass, interrupts him. "Mr. Daley," he says, "we have given our statements to the police. We have nothing further to add at this time." He takes off his thick, frame- less glasses and puts them on Frazier's desk. As far as he's concerned, that's the end of the story. It's amazing how everybody clams up when a defense attorney shows up.
Time to play bull in the china shop. "I don't need a lot of your time," I say. "I'm just trying to figure out what happened that night. What time did you guys leave?"
Glass responds. "It's in the police report. I left a few minutes before ten. Jack left around one-forty-five. We went home."
They've compared notes. "Where do you guys live?"
Again, Glass does the talking. "I live in Seacliff Jack is on Russian Hill."
"I see." I know I can confirm the departure times from the security tapes. So far, so good. Now, let's see if I can get anything good. "How was the deal going?"
They look at each other. "Fine," says Glass.
Good answer. Says nothing. "Was it going to close?"
"Yes," says Glass, nodding. "All the papers were signed."
"What happened the next morning?"
"I got a call from your client. He told me what happened."
I pause. "I understand there was a big breakup fee in this deal."
Before Glass can respond, Frazier says, "Yes there was." I make a mental note that Frazier can be jumpy. If he's really as smart as everyone at CCC seems to think he is, he'd shut his mouth.
"How much?"
"That's confidential," Glass says.
"May I assume it was big enough that you didn't want t
o pay it?"
Frazier smiles and says, "You never want to pay a breakup fee, Mr. Daley."
Glass interjects, "I don't see what this has to do with your client."
"I'm just trying to figure out what was going on." And to see if your client had motive.
"Mr. Daley," says Glass, "we've told you everything we know. I feel badly. I like Joel Friedman. I hope he didn't do it. Of course, if he did, I'm sure he'll get what he deserves."
At two o'clock, I walk into Assistant City Attorney Ed Ehrlich's windowless office on the fourth floor of a mid-rise fifties office building near the Moscone Convention Center. The city can't be criticized for spending taxpayer funds to lease opulent offices. The owl-eyed Ehrlich looks at home behind his metal desk. There's no artwork on the walls. "I'm due at the redevelopment agency," he says as I walk in. "Can we talk later?"
"Sure. Can I ask you a few quick questions before you go?"
"Make it fast."
"How late were you at the S and G offices that night?"
"I went home around ten."
"Was the deal going to close?"
"As far as I knew. It was approved by CCC's board. Everything depended on Vince Russo."
"Was the city happy with the deal?"
He looks at his blank walls. "For the most part. Some people were worried about funding for our loan. I didn't think it was a big deal."
"When did Dan Morris leave?"
I see distaste in his eyes before he masks it. Seems Ed and the mayor's political fixer may not be the best of friends. "I don't know."
"Why did he stay?"
"To do what he always does—work the room. He wanted to suck up to the CCC people for a while. Guys like that are always playing the angles."
"See anything suspicious that night?" "No. It was the usual legal bullshit." He looks away. "I gotta go."
At two-thirty, I'm walking up Montgomery Street, talking to Pete on my cellular. "Did you find anything?" I ask.
"As a matter of fact, I did. I did a little checking on Vince Russo. It's correct that he never went back to the Ritz that night. The cop who found his car at the Golden Gate Bridge didn't see anyone. The car was registered to a limited-liability company called Camelot Investments, LLC, which is owned by two trusts in the Bahamas. One is called the International Charitable Trust. The other is the Charitable Trust for Humanity. I'm checking it out."
MD01 - Special Circumstances Page 14