Pete is the master of ceremonies. He's been through this exercise many times. "The tape starts at eight o'clock," he says. "At eight-eleven, you'll see Doris Fontaine leaving the building."
Lo and behold, we see Doris insert her security card into the scanner at the guard desk at exactly 8:11 and fourteen seconds.
Pete gives us an "I told you so" look. "At eight-thirty-seven, Mike leaves."
I see myself leaving the building at 8:37 and eighteen seconds. It strikes me that everyone in a security video looks like a criminal.
Mort chirps, "I presume this means we can rule out Mike as a suspect?"
Rabbi Friedman glares at him, and his smile disappears.
There are no surprises in the first two hours. Most of the people attending Skipper's reception leave by 8:30. The evening word processors show up at 9:00. Skipper and the mayor and their respective entourages leave at 9:15. Everything is just as I'd expect—so far.
At 9:30, the people working on Russo's deal begin to leave for dinner. I take notes. I want to confirm Joel's time line. Jack Frazier and Dan Morris leave at 9:32, followed almost immediately by Bob Holmes and Vince Russo. At 9:48, Joel and Diana leave. Frazier's lawyer, Martin Glass, and Ed Ehrlich, from the city attorney's office, leave at 10:00.
Pete reminds us Frazier and Morris went to Aqua, Holmes and Russo went to Tadich's, and Joel and Diana went to Harrington's. Glass and Ehrlich went home. Pete says he's talked to eyewitnesses and confirmed everybody went where they said they did.
Joel loads the second tape. Not much between 10:00 and 11:15, except for Joel's return at 10:25. At 11:15, the rest of the dinner crowd begins to return. Holmes and Russo check in at 11:16. It's hard to tell, but I think Vince is staggering. At 11:18, Frazier and Morris sign in. Nobody looks refreshed after dinner. The videotapes are consistent with the list provided by the security guards.
It's after nine o'clock when Joel starts the third tape, which should contain everything from midnight to two A.M.— the key times, as far as I'm concerned. Our first surprise is at 12:20. Pete looks at his list in disbelief. "He isn't on the list," he mutters, as we stare at the shadowy figure of Skipper Gates passing the guard desk and walking toward the elevators.
I ask Joel to rewind the tape. The NFL isn't the only place where slow-motion instant replays help. "Look," I say, "he walked past the guard desk, but he doesn't run his card through the scanner. He isn't on the list because the guard let him in."
"He isn't supposed to do that," Pete says.
"Happens all the time," I reply. "I can't tell you how many times I've been waved through after hours. You get to know the guards. They let you in."
Pete shakes his head. He's still a cop at heart. This stuff really bothers him. You should see my mother's house. It's a fortress.
"What the hell was Skipper doing there?" Rosie asks.
"Beats me," I say. "We'll find out." I turn to Pete. "Do you have a checkout time?"
He scans his list. "Nope. As far as the guards were concerned, he was never there."
"Either he left without running his card through the scanner, or he didn't leave that night."
Nobody else comes or goes before one o'clock. We're getting into prime time now, and the rabbi's living room is silent. All eyes concentrate on the black-and-white images on the nineteen-inch Zenith. Nobody is eating Naomi's popcorn.
At 1:10, we see the slender figure of Diana Kennedy hurrying toward the guard desk on her way into the building. She's dressed only in a light sweat suit. At 1:10 and fifteen seconds, she waves to the guard, who lets her in without running her card through the scanner. The building managers will have a fit if they see this tape.
One-fifteen. Skipper saunters past the guard desk. We replay the tape twice. My heart races. Silently, I hope he'll be splattered with blood. He isn't, of course. And even if he was, it would be tough to see on the black-and-white video. He waves to the guard, but doesn't run his security card through the scanner. It confirms Skipper was in the building after Diana returned. I make a note to figure out how long it takes the elevators to get down from the forty-seventh floor to the lobby. Skipper may have been there when Diana died. I'm not ready to accuse him of anything—yet. On the other hand, I want to keep my options open. If nothing else, he has some explaining to do.
At one-thirty, Art Patton lugs his stomach, chins and eyebrows past the guard desk and runs his security card through the scanner. Though there's no sound on the videotape, it's clear Patton harrumphs at the guard. Even in the middle of the night, Art can find a way to be pissed off at somebody he barely knows. Five minutes later, Dan Morris and Jack Frazier walk out together. They seem to be having a friendly conversation. They're an odd couple—the political fixer and the investment banker. I make a mental note to check it out.
Vince Russo waddles out on the heels of Morris and Frazier. He scowls at the guard and walks tentatively toward the escalator to the garage.
Finally, Charles Stern brings up the rear at five minutes after two o'clock, looking, as always, as though he has the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. He looks even worse in black and white than he does in living color, although there's very little difference.
We quickly fast-forward through the next two hours of videotape. Other than the departures of the S&G night-shift word processors, nobody comes or goes. It's eleven-fifteen when Joel turns off the VCR and Pete turns up the lights.
Naomi brings cold sodas from the kitchen. Mort excuses himself to use the bathroom for the seventh time. He's gone out to the back porch twice for cigar breaks.
"Is that it?" Rabbi Friedman asks Joel.
Joel's rewinding the last tape. "That's it," he replies.
"Before you head home," I say, "let's take a few minutes on these tapes."
Mort was already halfway out the door. Rosie hasn't moved from the sofa.
"Michael," Rabbi Friedman says, "is there anything from these tapes that may help us?"
I look at my notes. "There's a lot that may help us." More importantly, there's nothing terrible in there that could hurt us. "First, we can place everybody at the scene and we know what time everybody left. Everybody was in the S and G offices after Diana returned from her apartment. Even Skipper was there."
"How does that help us?" Rabbi Friedman asks. "It doesn't prove any of them did anything. And it doesn't exonerate Joel."
"Rabbi," Mort interjects, "it's always good to be in a position to argue that there were other people around. It gives us options. It helps to give the jury an opportunity to blame it on somebody else. Especially if somebody else isn't particularly likable."
Joel isn't happy with his explanation. "I thought our defense is going to be suicide," he says.
"It is," I say. "But Rod Beckert is going to testify that Bob was knocked unconscious before he was shot. We'll put on our own expert to rebut his testimony. But we also want to keep our options open—and that means we want to identify as many potential suspects as we can. Tonight, we identified a bunch of people who were in the building at the right time—Vince Russo, Jack Frazier, Dan Morris, Arthur Patton and Charles Stern, by my count."
"Don't forget Skipper," Rosie points out. "He was still there when Diana came back."
"I'm supposed to meet with him first thing tomorrow. I'll ask him what he was doing there at one in the morning. The distinguished district attorney of the city and county of San Francisco will be the first name on our witness list." Under the California rules of criminal procedure, you're required to provide a list of potential witnesses. You can get in trouble if you try to call someone who isn't on the list. You can't get in too much trouble, however, if you put someone on the list and you don't call him or her at trial. Prosecutors and defense attorneys play all sorts of games with their lists. If I thought I could get away with it, I would include every name in the San Francisco phone book on ours.
Mort grins. "I like it," he says.
Rosie is more realistic. "They'll never let him testify."
"I know," Mort replies. "But it'll give them something to think about."
We start to gather our belongings when Joel looks in the Macy's bag in which I brought the tapes. "There's one more tape," he says.
Shit. I'm tired.
Rabbi Friedman wipes his glasses. "It's awfully late," he says. "Can't this wait?"
I look at Joel. "It's your call. I can come back in the morning."
"You're supposed to meet with Skipper in the morning. We'd better look at this tape tonight and see if there's anything else on it."
We return to our seats as Joel pops the tape into the VCR. Pete's puzzled. "The inventory says we've seen all the security tapes," he says.
We leave the lights on. It's getting close to midnight.
The tape starts. It isn't another security tape. First we see a black screen. Then we hear a badly dubbed sound track of familiar music. I realize it's the theme from L.A. Law. After about ten seconds, some homemade credits appear. SIMPSON & GATES FIRM RETREAT-S.F. LAW. The music continues as the scene shifts to the lobby of the S&G offices. The picture is grainy. Somebody did a real hatchet job with a hand-held camera. S&G lawyers are videotaped as they walk into the reception area. Bob Holmes mugs. Diana Kennedy smiles. Art Patton scowls. Charles Stern says something that I can't make out.
After a few minutes, the scene shifts to the Silverado Country Club in the Napa Valley. The same S&G lawyers who were shown in their business suits now appear in golf shirts and khaki pants. Some are shown heading toward the golf course. Others are playing tennis. One big, happy family.
"What's the point of all this?" asks Rabbi Friedman.
"This tape was taken at the firm retreat last fall," Joel says. "Why is it here?"
"I can't believe Sandra included this with the evidence tapes by mistake," I say.
Pete looks intently at his lists. He finds a note from Sandra indicating the package includes one miscellaneous evidence tape in addition to the security videos.
After a few more minutes of well-dressed yuppies butchering the tennis courts, the scene shifts to a swimming pool in the outer row of condos in the Silverado complex. I recognize Arthur Patton sitting in a lounge chair.
"The white whale," Rosie says.
"Never mind," I reply.
The theme from L.A. Law continues to play as the tape cuts to a dinner party in the main dining room. It looks like a convention for blue blazers. There's a quick shot of a crowded dance floor. I catch a brief glimpse of Diana dancing with Art Patton.
The video cuts to the bar in the main house that over- looks the golf course. The camera pans across the crowded room. I see myself sitting next to Wendy Hogan at a small table in the corner. Bob Holmes and Skipper are sitting at a table near the door. They're surrounded by some of the best wineries in the world and they're drinking martinis. Art Patton is sitting next to Diana at the bar. He's drinking a Manhattan. Two empty glasses sit in front of him.
The cameraman circles to his left and focuses on Diana, who winks at the camera. She staggers toward the door. Patton follows her. She gives him a condescending look and says something to him. They continue toward the door. As she passes the table where Joel is sitting, she arches her eyebrows at the camera, leaps into Joel's lap, cups his face in her hands and forcefully kisses him on the mouth. She turns and waves to the camera and struts out of the room. Patton follows her. The camera pans back to Joel, who smiles sheepishly. He says something that's drowned out by the LA. Law theme song. The tape ends abruptly.
Rabbi Friedman's living room is stone-cold silent. I glance at Joel. His eyes are closed. His face is red. Rabbi Friedman sits quietly, his hands folded in his lap. Rosie stares at the TV screen. Pete looks at his clipboard. Mort looks at his watch. Naomi doesn't take her eyes off Joel.
"Well," I say, "maybe this would be a good time for us to break for tonight."
Joel says in a barely audible whisper, "That's probably a good idea."
I stop at Rosie's on my way home. I sip a Diet Dr Pepper. She eats a carrot.
"How do you think the scene in the bar will play?" she asks.
"Pretty bad."
"The security videos looked pretty good. At least there were a lot of people there when everything happened."
"Yeah."
"You don't seem very convinced."
"The thing at the bar is inflammatory. What are you supposed to think if you're on the jury? We had a decent defense that Joel's a nice, old-fashioned family guy who's being wrongly accused. Now, they'll trot out this cheesy videotape showing a pretty young woman throwing herself at him. It won't be hard to decide he's been sleeping around. Juries don't like liars. And they really don't like people who cheat on their wives."
She takes a bite of a tuna sandwich. "Don't you think you may be overreacting a little bit? It doesn't prove he was sleeping around."
I crunch a potato chip. "Maybe. I just don't like it."
"Maybe we can get it knocked out. You know, that tape was edited a lot."
"We'll try. We'll see what the judge says."
"You think he was sleeping with Diana?"
"I don't think so. But two weeks ago, I would have said no. Now, I'm not so sure." I look into her dark brown eyes. Rosie and I never cheated on each other. Our breakup was the result of fundamental incompatibility, which we took out on each other. "What do you think, Rosita? You've always had good instincts."
"I wouldn't bet Grace's college fund, if we had one." She decides to say something positive. "We got some good stuff from the security tapes. Do you think Skipper was involved?"
"Hard to say. I can't imagine what motive he had. But he's slippery. I just can't tell."
She kisses me on the cheek and puts her plate in the sink. "I guess you'll just have to ask him in the morning."
21
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING THERE, SKIPPER?"
"In local news, District Attorney Prentice Gates says he's uncovered new and compelling evidence in the upcoming double-murder trial of accused killer Joel Mark Friedman."
—KCBS news radio. Thursday, January 22.
It's ten-fifteen the next morning, a Thursday. After making me cool my heels in his newly redecorated reception area for fifteen minutes, Skipper grants me an audience. He's brought his faithful companion, Bill McNulty. To even the odds, I've brought Mort, who will play the "bad cop." To his credit, he left his cigars in the car.
"What the hell were you doing there, Skipper?" My methods lack a certain degree of finesse.
Skipper fondles his seven-hundred-dollar MontBlanc pen. He looks great today. He has a press conference at eleven. Turn on the lights.
McNasty has left his jacket in his office. He's wearing a light blue shirt with a blue polka-dot tie. Two Bic pens sit in his shirt pocket. It's easy to see how Skipper creamed him in the election.
Skipper smiles broadly. His blue eyes sparkle. He tilts his head back and laughs loudly. "I take it you've seen the videotapes we asked Sandra to send over?"
"I trust you wouldn't mind telling us what you were doing in the office that night?"
"It's not a big deal. I had to get some papers for a meeting the next morning."
"That's it?" Mort growls melodramatically.
"That's it," he replies.
Mort snaps, "That's the best you can do? That's a piss-poor story, Skipper."
Skipper ignores him.
I take a deep breath. "I don't suppose you considered the possibility that you should have reported your presence at the firm at one in the morning to the police?"
"I did."
"How come it didn't find its way into any of the police reports?"
"Beats me. Ask them. Picking up my briefcase certainly isn't an event that should make the eleven o'clock news."
He's full of shit. "You charged a man with double murder. You decide who gets prosecuted."
"What do you want?" McNulty asks. "He gave his statement to the police. He didn't see anything. He went to his office on forty-s
ix, picked up his briefcase and left."
Mort leaps in. "Bill," he says in a condescending tone, "the security tapes show that he was there for almost an entire hour. What the hell was he doing? And do you plan to testify on Skipper's behalf at the trial?"
"Don't be ridiculous," McNulty replies. "He was preparing for his meeting the next morning."
Mort glares. In the right setting, he can still be effective. He points a stubby finger at Skipper. "You'd better be ready to testify because you're number one on our witness list. You were there and you're going to have to tell your story. In open court. In front of the jury. For the whole world to hear." He practically spits out the last words.
Skipper and McNulty glance at each other. "Mort," Skipper says deliberately, "go ahead and put me on your witness list. Judge Chen will never let me testify. If she does, I'll say exactly what I just told you. I picked up my briefcase. I didn't see anything. Period. End of story."
"I'm glad you've rehearsed your lines," I say, "because you're going to have to explain to Judge Chen why you shouldn't be called." I turn to McNulty. "I'm surprised at you, Bill," I say in my best kindergarten-teacher tone. "I really thought you knew better."
McNulty rubs his eyes. He really does know better. He's just playing along with his boss.
Skipper is amiable. "I don't think we'll be able to resolve this today."
I glance at Mort. Smoke is coming out of his ears. For ten or fifteen minutes a week, he can still trot out some pretty impressive theatrics when he's in the mood.
"So," Skipper says, "did you like the video from the retreat?" He grins. "Pretty cute scene there when Diana gave Joel that big kiss."
"It was nothing," I reply. "She was drunk and she was showing off."
"Whatever you say."
"Where did you get that video, anyway?"
"One of your former partners came forward. He shot it."
I stop to think. "Who?" I ask.
"Hutch was taping that night."
Shit. My former partner Brent "Hutch" Hutchinson is a remarkable package of blond hair, gleaming white teeth and a spectacular line of bullshit. His emotional development came to a screeching halt at a frat party during his sophomore year at USC. After nine years as Art Patton's personal lapdog, he finally sucked his way into the partnership last year. He's not much of a lawyer, but he'd make a terrific TV game-show host. We're hopeful advances in medical science will someday permit his doctors to surgically remove his lips from their permanent position affixed to Art's bottom. Among his other attributes, Hutch thinks he's Cecil B. DeMille. He's always sticking his goddamned video camera in everybody's face. "They should have confiscated his camera," I say.
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