MD01 - Special Circumstances

by Sheldon Siegel

  She holds up her hands. "It isn't a perfect world, Mike," she says. "They'll be fighting about it with the insurance company until hell freezes over, anyway."

  I give up. "Doris," I say, "I still don't get it. Why do you hate them so? Even Bob—Jesus, you put up with his shit for more than twenty years. I know he treated you like dirt, but murder? Even to protect Jenny's share of the trust, how could that justify killing him in cold blood?"

  "Oh, Mike," she says softly, as if she's spent. "It wasn't the money. I couldn't kill for money. You should know that. It's Jenny."

  "Jenny?"

  I see her take a deep breath. "Bob was sleeping with her, Mike."

  Dear God. A married man more than twice her age preying on the daughter of his secretary. Bob was an even fouler bastard than I thought. But I still find myself thinking why the leap to murder?

  "I begged him to stop." She's crying now. "I begged him over and over, and he refused." I can hardly hear her for the sobs. "Oh, Mike, I had to, don't you see? He was Jenny's father."

  Jesus fucking Christ. "Did he know?" I ask softly.

  "Of course he knew. From the very beginning. That's why he left all that money in the trust for her."

  "And Jenny?"

  "No. I never told her. I didn't think she had to know." She's trying to pull herself together. She takes a deep breath. "I asked him to stop and he wouldn't. He was infatuated. He wouldn't even acknowledge he was doing anything wrong. My God, I even went to Art Patton. He wouldn't believe me. He said I was making it all up. I got so furious I threatened him. I said I'd reveal things that would bring down the whole damn firm—and he… he sneered at me, Mike, as if I was a piece of dirt. He said he'd crush me."

  She looks at me imploringly. "What was I supposed to do?" she asks. "What else could I do? What would you have done if it were Grace?" She takes a deep breath. "I did what I had to do, and I'd do it again. Twenty-two years ago I made a mistake when I slept with Bob. He controlled my life. I wasn't going to let him control Jenny's. Destroy it. No way. So I did it."

  I realize Jenny was the new girlfriend that Bob talked about, the woman Beth's investigator had seen at the Fairmont. I know why now, and I feel sick. We stare into the backyard and hear the joyous voices of the party behind us.

  "You going to turn me in?" Doris asks.

  Actually, I'm prepared to shred my state bar card right now and lose my license. But I won't. "Nope. You're a client. I can't do it."

  "Thanks, Mikey."

  Jesus Christ.

  "What are you thinking about, Mike?" Rosie asks.

  At eleven o'clock the same night, Rosie and I are sipping champagne on her back porch in Larkspur. Naomi gave us a bottle as we were leaving. I glance at the full moon.

  "Nothing, Rosie."

  "You're a lousy liar."

  "Oh, I don't know. Sometimes the legal system just sucks everything out of you. And sometimes, it just sucks."

  She smiles at me. "Don't beat yourself up on this one. Your client is free. He didn't do it, and now he's back home with his kids. What's so bad about that?"

  "Nothing, I guess. I'll probably get to fulfill my lifelong dream of being the first lawyer to grace the cover of a Wheaties box."

  I get a chuckle. "You're upset, though."

  "It's the way I'm drawn."

  "Why do you always do this to yourself? The system got the right result this time. That's not so bad. Half the time it gets the wrong result and puts the good guys away or sets the bad guys free. This isn't like figure skating. You don't get style points. Your client ended up in the right place. So for once in your life, take what you can and enjoy it."

  "Okay, Rosie. But just for tonight. Tomorrow I get to go back and be my usual guilt-ridden, tortured self."

  "It's a deal." She drinks her champagne. "There's more to all of this than you're telling me, isn't there?"

  I remain silent.

  "He didn't do it, did he?"

  "He didn't do it. That's all there is to it."

  She grins. "It wasn't a suicide, was it?"

  "I'm not talking."

  "What's it going to take to get it out of you?"

  "I'm not talking."

  "I can be very persuasive."

  "I know."

  "Let's try this. I'd like you to become a full partner in the firm."

  "Sounds pretty good so far. I'll have my people talk to your people and we can set up a meeting to discuss terms." We can use the settlement agreement from our divorce as the model form for our partnership agreement.

  "Good. Oh, by the way, matrimony is out of the question in these negotiations."

  "Absolutely."

  "Now that we're partners, everything you say to me is completely confidential within the confines of our firm."

  "I like the sound of that. Our firm."

  "I thought you would. It's what we should have done from the start."

  "I know."

  "Now, about your little secret."

  Well, you see, Rosie, my former secretary —the one I've been trying to get to come to work for me —murdered two people in cold blood and is going to get away with it —scot-free. She probably had a good reason to kill Bob, but she killed Diana just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, hey, don't worry —she hasn't killed anybody else in the last four months and she promised me —pinky swear —that she'd never do it again.

  "It's going to take more than a partnership to get it out of me."

  "What did you have in mind?"

  She pours the rest of her champagne into my empty glass.

  "If I didn't know better," I say, "I'd say you're trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me."

  "You could say that."

  Her dark brown eyes reflect the moonlight. I remove the elastic band that holds her hair in a tight ponytail. I pull her close. "Where's Grace?" I whisper into her ear.

  She kisses me softly on the mouth. "Staying with her grandmother." Her warm breath smells like champagne.

  "I see." I smile. "Well, a second ago you said that for tonight, I should just take what I can and enjoy the moment."

  She shakes her hair. "After all, you won your big case, but you didn't get your trip to Disneyland." She begins to unfasten the buttons on my shirt.

  "I've got another trip in mind."

  "What do you suppose George Costanza would call it?"

  "Victory sex?"

  "Victory sex. I like that. It has a nice ring to it."

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  During the day, I'm a corporate and securities lawyer. When I began to write a book about a murder trial, I realized right away that I needed a lot of help. I'm very lucky that I know many wonderful and generous people. I have to say a lot of thank-yous, so you'll have to bear with me.

  To my extraordinary editor, Ann Harris, and to Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib and the entire team at Bantam. Your thoughtful work and dedication helped make this book a lot better than the draft that found its way to your in-boxes. Thanks for everything.

  To Margret McBride, the finest literary agent in the business, and the gang at the Margret McBride Literary Agency: Kris Sauer, Donna DeGutis, Sangeeta Mehta, Rachel Petrella and Faye Atchison. Thanks for all of your hard work. You've made my life a lot easier. You're the best. Special thanks to my colleague, Chris Neils, who introduced me to Margret.

  To my generous and talented writing instructors, Katherine V. Forrest and Michael Nava. This book simply would not have happened without you.

  To the Every Other Thursday Night Writers’ Group: Bonnie DeClark, Gerry Klor, Peggy Stiefvater, Kris Brandenburger, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka and Janet

  Wallace. Thanks for your thoughtful comments. I'll look forward to seeing your work in bookstores in the very near future.

  To criminal-defense attorney David Nickerson, who helped me figure out the ins and outs of criminal procedure. If you ever get in trouble, David's your man.

  To Inspector Sergeant Thomas Eisenmann and Offi
cer Jeff Roth of the San Francisco Police Department, who helped me with police procedural issues. If Tom or Jeff arrests you, not even David will be able to get you off.

  To Dr. Gary Goldstein and Dr. Dan Scodary, who taught me more about the anatomy of the human brain than I ever wanted or needed to know. If you ever get sick, they're your guys.

  To my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton, who have been wonderfully supportive of my literary efforts and who have relaxed the firm's stringent billable-hour requirements from time to time so that I could meet my publishing deadlines. I am proud to work with you and I'm glad you're my friends. Unlike the lawyers portrayed in this book, you embody all of the ideals that are honorable about our much-maligned profession. In particular, my heartfelt thanks to Randy Short, Bob Thompson, Joan Story, Lori Wider, Becky Hlebasko, Donna Andrews, Phil Atkins-Pattenson, Julie Ebert, Geri Freeman, Jim Hodge, Kristen Jensen, Tom Counts, Ted Lindquist, Bill Manierre, Betsy McDaniel, John Murphy, Tom Nevins, John Pernick, Joe Petrillo, Maria Pracher, Ted Russell, Rick Runkel, Ron Ryland, John Sears, Mark Slater, Bill Wyatt, Bob Zuber, Aline Pearl, Terry Meeker, Kathleen Shugar, Sue Lenzi, Nancy Posadas and Donna Luksan. Special thanks to my secretary, Cheryl Holmes, who read every word of this book, helped me scout locations in San Francisco and has put up with me every day for more years than either of us cares to admit.

  To my friends who read early versions of this manuscript, who (as we lawyers are fond of saying) include, without limitation, Rex Beach, Jerry and Dena Wald, Gary and Maria Goldstein, Ron and Betsy Rooth, Alvin and Charlene Saper, Angele Nagy, Polly Dinkel and David Baer, Jean Ryan, Sally Rau, Bill Mandel, Dave and Evie Duncan, Jill Hutchinson and Chuck Odenthal, Tom Bearrows and Holly Hirst, David and Petrita Lipkin, Pamela Swartz, Cori Stockman, Allan Zackler, Ted George, Nevins McBride, and Al and Marcia Shainsky. Special thanks to Maurice Ash, who quietly sat next to me on the Larkspur ferry for the better part of two years while I composed on my laptop, and his wife, Sandy, who was very supportive.

  Thanks to Charlotte, Ben and Michelle Siegel, Ilene Garber, Jan Harris, Matz Sandier, Scott and Michelle Harris, Cathy and Richard Falco and Julie Harris. Family matters.

  Finally, thanks to my wonderful, beautiful, supportive wife, Linda, the love of my life, my soul mate and my best friend, who reminds me every day that extraordinary things can happen when you believe in yourself. I'll love you forever and ever. And thanks for buying me the computer.

  Last, thanks to the joys of my life, my twin sons, Alan and Stephen, who were very understanding when Daddy had to stay up late or miss a few days of vacation to edit his book. You make every day a celebration. And thanks for letting me use the computer.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SHELDON SIEGEL, a graduate of the University of California/Berkeley Boalt Law School, has been in private practice in San Francisco for over fifteen years, and specializes in corporate and securities law with the firm of Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton. He lives in Marin County with his wife, Linda, and their twin sons. Special Circumstances is his first novel.

  Look for Sheldon Siegel's legal thriller INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE available from Bantam Books

  59

  "WE HAVE A SITUATION"

  "The attorney general is a law enforcement officer, not a social worker."

  FOR CALIFORNIA ATTORNEY GENERAL. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6.

  —Prentice Marshall Gates III, San Francisco DISTRICT ATTORNEY AND CANDIDATE

  Being a partner in a small criminal defense firm isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Oh, it's nice to see your name at the top of the letterhead, and there is a certain amount of ego gratification that goes along with having your own firm. Then again, you have to co-sign the line of credit and guarantee the lease. You also tend to get a lot of calls from collection agencies when cash flow is slow. In this business, founder's privilege extends only so far.

  Unlike our well-heeled brethren in the high-rises that surround us, the attorneys in my firm, Fernandez and Daley, occupy cramped quarters around the corner from the Transbay bus terminal and next door to the Lucky Corner Number 2 Chinese restaurant. Our office is located on the second floor of a 1920s walk-up building at 553 Mission Street, on the only block of San Francisco's South of Market area that has not yet been gentrified by the sprawl of down- town. Although we haven't started remodeling yet, we recently took over the space from a now-defunct martial arts studio and moved upstairs from the basement. Our files sit in what used to be the men's locker room. Our firm has grown by a whopping fifty percent in the last two years. We're up to three lawyers.

  "Rosie, I'm back," I sing out to my law partner and ex-wife as I stand in the doorway to her musty, sparsely furnished office at eight-thirty in the morning on the Tuesday after Labor Day. Somewhere behind four mountains of paper and three smiling pictures of our eight-year-old daughter, Grace, Rosita Fernandez is already working on her second Diet Coke and cradling the phone against her right ear. She gestures at me to come in and mouths the words "How was your trip?"

  I just got back from Cabo, where I was searching for the perfect vacation and, if the stars lined up right, the perfect woman. Well, my tan is good. When you're forty-seven and divorced, your expectations tend to be pretty realistic.

  Rosie runs her hand through her thick, dark hair. She's only forty-three, and the gray flecks annoy her. She holds a finger to her full lips and motions me to sit down. She gives me a conspiratorial wink and whispers the name Skipper as she points to the phone. "No, no," she says to him. "He'll be back this morning. I expect him any minute. I'll have him call you as soon as he gets in."

  I sit down and look at the beat-up bookcases filled with oatmeal-colored legal volumes with embossed gold lettering that says California Reporter. I glance out the open window at the tops of the Muni buses that pass below us on Mission Street. This is an improvement over our view before we moved upstairs. When we were in the basement, we got to look at the bottoms of the very same buses.

  On warm, sunny days like today, I'm glad we don't work in a hermetically sealed building. On the other hand, by noon, the smell of bus fumes will make me wish we had an air conditioner. Our mismatched used furniture is standard stock for those of us who swim in the lower tide pools of the legal profession.

  Rosie and I used to work together at the San Francisco public defender's office. Then we made a serious tactical error and decided to get married. We are very good at being lawyers, but we were very bad at being married. We split up almost seven years ago, shortly after Grace's first birthday. Around the same time, I went to work for the tony Simpson and Gates law firm and Rosie went out on her own. Our professional lives were reunited about two years ago when I was fired by the Simpson firm because I didn't bring in enough high-paying clients. I started subleasing space from Rosie. On my last night at Simpson and Gates, two attorneys were gunned down in the office. I ended up representing the lawyer who was charged with the murders. That's when Rosie decided I was worthy of being her law partner.

  I point to myself and whisper, "Does Skipper want to talk to me?"

  She nods. She scribbles a note that says "Do you want to talk to him?"

  Prentice Marshall Gates III, known as Skipper, is the San Francisco district attorney. We used to be partners at Simpson and Gates. His father was Gates. He's now running for California attorney general. His smiling mug appears on billboards all over town under the caption "Mr. Law and Order." Two years ago, he won the DA's race by spending three million dollars of his inheritance. I understand he's prepared to ante up five million this time around.

  I whisper, "Tell him you just heard me come in and I'll call him back in a few minutes." I'm going to need a cup of coffee for this.

  Skipper is, well, a complicated guy. To my former partners at Simpson and Gates, he was a self-righteous, condescending ass. To defense attorneys like me, he's an opportunistic egomaniac who spends most of his time padding his conviction statistics and preening for the media. To the citizens
of the City and County of San Francisco, however, he's a charismatic local hero who vigorously prosecutes drug dealers and pimps. He takes full credit for the fact that violent crime in San Francisco has dropped by a third during his tenure. Even though he's a law-and-order Republican and a card-carrying member of the NRA, he has led the charge for greater regulation of handguns and sits on the board of directors of the Legal Community Against Violence, a local gun-control advocacy group. He's an astute politician. It's a foregone conclusion that he'll win the AC race. The only question is whether he'll be the next governor of California.

  Rosie cups her hand over the mouthpiece. "He says it's urgent." Her eyes gleam as the sunlight hits her face.

  With Skipper, everything is urgent. "If it's that important," I whisper, "it can wait."

  She smiles and tells him I'll call as soon as I can. Then her grin disappears as she listens intently. She puts the chief law enforcement officer of the City and County of San Francisco on hold. "You may want to talk to him," she says.

  "And why would I want to talk to Mr. Law and Order this fine morning?"

  The little crow's-feet around her eyes crinkle. "It seems Mr. Law and Order just got himself arrested."

  "I'll take it in my office."

  My new office isn't much bigger than my old one downstairs. My window looks out on a large hole in the ground that will someday evolve into a high-rise office building across the alley. At least I don't have to walk up a flight of stairs to the bathroom.

  I stop in our closet-sized kitchen on my way down the hall and pour coffee into a mug with Grace's picture on it. I glance at the little mirror over the sink, which is filled with empty cups. My full head of light brown hair is fighting a losing battle against the onslaught of the gray. The bags under my eyes are a little smaller than they were a week ago. I walk into my office, where my desk is littered with mail. I log on to my computer and start scrolling through e-mail messages. Finally I pick up the phone, punch the blinking red button, and say in my most authoritative tone, "Michael Daley speaking."