MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Juries are made up of idiots.”

  I let it go. “Does that mean you think he’s innocent?”

  “It means I think Joey wasn’t giving us the whole story. Did you see the weasel look in his eyes when you asked him about a planted gun? He was covering his ass.”

  “Or Pop’s,” I say.

  “Pop said Joey was the biggest asshole he ever worked with.”

  Our dad expressed similar feelings about all of his partners after Roosevelt. His animosity toward Joey turned into outright hostility when Joey failed to watch his back after Pop tackled a gunman who had knocked over a convenience store in the Mission.

  “We need to find something besides the possibility of some crooked cops,” I say. “It’s going to be damn near impossible to find anybody in SFPD who will break ranks—especially for Nate.”

  “Where does that leave us?” he asks.

  “We have to find Tsai’s brother,” I say.

  “I’ll see what I can do. We should also try to track down the guy who took over Robinson’s heroin-distribution business,” he says. “Maybe he had a grudge.”

  “Or maybe he was the black guy in the alley,” I say.

  “Maybe.”

  We turn into the alley behind the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, where Pete illegally parked his old police-issue Chrysler. He comes to an abrupt stop and glares at the smashed windows of the gray car. “Goddamn it,” he mutters.

  I survey the wreckage. “Did they take anything?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “You didn’t check.”

  “There was nothing to steal. I never keep anything in the car except water bottles and energy bars.”

  The diet of a PI. “It was probably some punk trying to steal your car,” I say.

  “You lawyers don’t have a clue about life on the street, do you? It takes an experienced thief about ten seconds to hot-wire an ignition. A rookie would have smashed just one window. It’s tough to drive without windows––even criminals don’t like to get cold and wet.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Somebody is trying to tell us to mind our own business.”

  # # #

  “So,” Rosie says with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek, “did you have a nice day, dear?”

  “A great day to be a lawyer,” I say.

  Pete is in no mood for banter. “Are you guys done?” he snaps.

  It’s four-fifteen on Saturday afternoon. Rosie’s cramped office smells of a combination of coffee and Friday’s lunch special downstairs at the El Faro. My head feels like somebody hit me with a two-by-four. My gray polo shirt is sticking to my back and I’m in desperate need of a shower. The extra shirts that I keep at the office are at the cleaner’s. Still, I’m in better shape than Pete, whose mood turned outright foul after we had his car towed to his favorite repair shop in the Mission. He’s very possessive about that old Chrysler. His disposition got worse after we spent the afternoon talking to some of his old friends at Mission Station, all of whom gave us a decidedly cold shoulder.

  Rosie is sitting behind her desk. Her arms are folded as she looks at us over piles of manila file folders and black binders. She listens intently as Pete and I describe our less than enlightening conversations with Mort the Sport and Little Joey. She spent the day in a marathon session with Cohen’s associate. Her prognosis is as depressing as it is succinct. “Realistically,” she says, “unless we can show the SFPD planted the murder weapon, our only prayer is to find new evidence that would prove freestanding innocence.”

  I’d put our odds at a thousand to one.

  Rosie holds up a palm in frustration. “What about Little Joey’s claim that Nate wanted to take over Robinson’s business?”

  “I asked Nate about it,” I say. “He denied it.”

  “You didn’t expect him to admit it, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you get anything that might be remotely useful?” she asks.

  “We’re trying to locate Eugene Tsai’s brother,” I say. “I also put in a call to Nick Hanson. He promised to meet with me Monday night.”

  “That’s all you have?”

  “We were hired yesterday afternoon.”

  “We only have a week. We need to make every second count.”

  I’m all too aware of that. “Did you get the subpoena served for the IA file?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “When do you expect to get a copy?”

  Rosie’s lips form a tight line across her face. “I don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the file is missing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said. It was in a box at an off-site facility. They found the box, but the file was gone.”

  “How could that have happened?”

  “The bureaucrat who runs the records division didn’t know. He’s only been working there for about six months. The box was sent to storage ten years ago. He had no idea if the file was stolen, misplaced, or purged.”

  My mind shifts into overdrive as I speculate about who had access to it. Fitz prepared it. Little Joey may have looked at it. “Somebody must have taken it.”

  “We shouldn’t rule out the possibility.” She clears her throat. “There’s another problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “If you’re the subject of an investigation, you can review your file in the IA office. You can’t take it with you or make photocopies.”

  “Did they keep a checkout log?”

  “Yes. They found it. Roosevelt looked at the file. So did Joey D’Amato.”

  No big surprise. “So what’s the problem?” I say.

  “Your father was the last person who checked it out.”

  9/ THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING

  Saturday, July 11. 4:22 p.m.

  7 days, 7 hours, and 39 minutes until execution.

  “Did he check it back in?” I ask Rosie, desperately trying not to jump to conclusions.

  “According to the log, yes.”

  “Then they can’t point a finger at him. Somebody must have been watching him when he looked at it.”

  “Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure. The guy who was running the records division at the time died a few years ago.” She takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “This changes everything. We have seven days to try to exonerate Nate Fineman. Now we may have to clear your father, too.”

  Pete isn’t buying it. “Just because Pop’s name was on the log doesn’t mean he took it.”

  “Then who did?” I ask.

  “How the hell would I know, Mick? It doesn’t mean it was stolen. Stuff gets lost all the time at the SFPD.”

  True enough. I’ve gotten acquittals in capital murder cases when key pieces of evidence have disappeared into the SFPD’s black hole. “Have you come across any SFPD files at the house?” I ask.

  “Of course not.”

  “Just checking. Did he ever say anything to you about looking at the IA file?”

  “Nope.”

  Our job just got harder. “Who might know something about this?” I ask.

  “Big John,” Pete replies.

  “Big John” Dunleavy runs a saloon in the Sunset that’s been our family’s second home for decades. He was married to our mother’s sister for forty-seven years before she died, which makes him our uncle and Pop’s brother-in-law. They were more like brothers than in-laws.

  “What makes you think Pop would have talked to Big John about it?” I ask.

  “Because he talked to Big John about everything.”

  10/ BIG JOHN

  Saturday, July 11. 5:25 p.m.

  7 days, 6 hours, and 36 minutes until execution.

  The genial bartender extends a massive hand across the bar. “What’ll it be, lad?” he asks.

  Big John Dunleavy was born at St. Francis Hospital seventy-five years ago. He’s never set foot outside the United States, but he can turn on a lilti
ng Irish brogue at will. He always says that if you run an Irish pub, you have to sound the part.

  “The usual, Big John,” I say.

  My uncle was “Big John” even when he was little––which he never really was. He weighed in at almost thirteen pounds at birth. He was already six-two and a muscular two hundred pounds by the time he finished eighth grade at St. Peter’s. He developed his strong hands by lugging beer kegs up from the basement of his father’s saloon. He was an all-city tight end at St. Ignatius. He would have played at Cal if he hadn’t blown out a shoulder catching the winning touchdown pass in the city championship game almost sixty years ago.

  A wide smile crosses his ruddy face. His large jowls shake as he squeezes my hand. His full head of hair is now more gray than red, yet he retains an infectious youthful exuberance. I pull up a stool as he sets a pint of Guinness on the worn wooden bar that his father built when Big John was in grammar school.

  Dunleavy’s Pub hasn’t changed much over the years. The original dark wood–paneled walls are covered with photos of County Galway. The aromas of Guinness, cod, burgers, and fries waft through the narrow room. You can make out the stench of cigarette smoke baked into the walls from the old days. Smoking is now permitted only on the small outdoor patio. The clientele hasn’t changed much, either. The neighbors are eating fish-and-chips at their regular spots at the small tables as they watch ESPN on the TV above the bar. A couple of people are shooting pool in the back room. Later, a three-piece band will come in to lead the crowd in Irish standards and a few bawdy folk songs.

  The old building on the Judah streetcar line would fetch well over a million bucks if Big John were inclined to sell it. He isn’t––not now or in the future. It would be tantamount to selling his heritage. His youngest son, known as “Little John” even though he stands six-four and was a star defensive lineman at St. Ignatius, is beginning to take over the day-to-day operation of the neighborhood icon. The saloon is an extension of every home in the vicinity. Big John relishes his role as everybody’s uncle.

  He wipes the bar with a worn dish towel. “Haven’t seen you around much lately,” he says. It’s his standard lament. I stop in to see him at least once a week. He longs for the days when Pete and I used to come by on our way home from school.

  “Tommy and Grace are keeping us pretty busy,” I tell him.

  “I never should have let you move to the suburbs, Mikey.”

  He’s the only person on the face of the earth who calls me by my childhood nickname. He’s earned the right. He was in the waiting room with my father on the day I was born.

  “I see a lot more of your brother,” he says.

  “He lives around the corner,” I observe. Big John lives in an identical house two blocks from Pete.

  “It’s only a fifteen-minute drive for you,” he says.

  “Across the bridge.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  No, it isn’t. He inquires about Rosie and Grace. I assure him that they’re fine. “How’s your son?” he asks. He still finds it difficult to mention Tommy by name. To Big John, there will always be only one Tommy Daley––my dad.

  “Tommy’s fine, too,” I tell him.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He means it.

  “So,” he says, “to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from one of my favorite nephews?”

  “I’m working on a new case.”

  “I know.” He nods toward the TV. “I saw you on the news earlier this afternoon. Why are you getting involved in a death-penalty appeal for a slimy lawyer who defended a bunch of lowlifes who were selling bad heroin to kids?”

  “Because he asked. He’s actually planning to pay us for our services.”

  He glances at the Dunleavy family crest, which hangs from the ceiling. My uncle has an endearing habit of trying to communicate with deceased relatives. “Tommy,” he says to my father, “I don’t know where you went wrong with this one.”

  No reply.

  Big John gives me a skeptical look. “What do you think you’re going to do in a week?” he asks.

  “Stop the execution.”

  “Sure, Mikey. What brings you here?”

  Sometimes my lawyerly bravado gets a step ahead of my judgment. “Paying a visit to my favorite uncle.”

  “I’m your only uncle, Mikey.”

  “You’re still my favorite.”

  His eyes dart toward the ceiling again. “I know I promised to look after him, Tommy, but there’s only so much I can do.”

  Still no response from above.

  He draws himself a Guinness and sets it on the bar between us. “I’m not a lawyer,” he says, “but I might have started with the convicted man’s attorney.”

  “I already talked to him.”

  “You think a tired old saloon keeper can get your client off?”

  “You aren’t tired and you aren’t old,” I say. “Pop used to stop here almost every night on his way home from work. He must have told you something about the case.”

  “Not much.”

  “He told you more than he told me.”

  He squeezes his dish towel. “Sorry, Mikey. Your dad used to come here to unwind. He didn’t like to talk about work. We spent most of our time talking about our wives and our kids.”

  I start treading gently. “Fineman’s lawyer suggested that the murder weapon may have been planted by the cops.”

  The genial bartender’s tone quickly disappears. “That was crap, Mikey. You defense lawyers are always trying to point fingers at the cops. I never saw your father so angry, and I don’t blame him. He was a good cop. Internal Affairs did a full investigation. The matter was dropped. You should do the same.”

  I’ve touched a nerve. “Sometimes good cops make mistakes.”

  “Not your dad.” He leans forward and places his elbow on the bar. “Let it go, Mikey. He was family.”

  The police Code of Silence is nothing compared with our family’s. “Family members make mistakes, too.”

  He moves a little closer to me. “Not your dad. He said your client was guilty. That was plenty good enough for me.”

  “The cops didn’t like Fineman.”

  “With good reason. He has no conscience.”

  “Did they dislike him enough to set him up for murder?”

  His massive right hand tightens around his pint of Guinness. “I can’t speak for the entire SFPD,” he says, “but I can speak for your father. He wasn’t that kind of a cop.” He snaps his dish towel. “There wasn’t any funny business, Mikey. Drop it.”

  “Then there’s no reason to drop it.”

  He bites his lower lip. “Your dad always said you were the smartest one.”

  He never mentioned it to me.

  “He also said that sometimes you got a little too smart for your own good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said you never knew when to let things go.”

  He had a point. “I’m just trying to find out what really happened.” And maybe save a man’s life.

  He holds up a huge hand. “I don’t know anything that would help you.”

  “Would you tell me if you knew something but you couldn’t say what it was?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I’m going to take that as a no.”

  “You can take it any way you’d like. Are we done?”

  Despite his outgoing nature, my uncle can also be a stubborn cuss. “The IA file is missing,” I tell him. “Pop was the last one who checked it out.”

  He waits a beat before he responds. “Are you saying he stole it?”

  “No, I’m just saying it’s missing.”

  “Things get lost.”

  I place my mug on the bar. “Did Pop tell you that he was going to look at it?”

  There’s a slight hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It was the only time he was investigated by IA. He was getting close to retirement. He wanted to be sure that t
here wasn’t anything in the report that he needed to worry about. It was no fun for him––I can tell ya that, lad.”

  “They couldn’t have taken away his pension.”

  “He didn’t care about his pension, Mikey. After all those years, he cared about his reputation.” He points a finger toward me. “At the end of the day, that’s all you really have.”

  So true. “How was he after he looked at the file?”

  “Relieved. He said everybody was cleared. It was a big load off his mind.”

  That’s good news for my father. It isn’t good news for my client. “Did he mention anything else about the file?”

  “Nope.” He finishes his Guinness and taps the bar to signal that our conversation is coming to a close. “Unless you’re better than I at talking with people who’ve passed on,” he adds, “you’re never going to find out.”

  # # #

  My cell phone rings as I’m leaving Dunleavy’s at six-thirty on Saturday night. I flip it open and hear Pete’s raspy voice. “Where have you been, Mick?” he asks.

  “With Big John.”

  “Did he know anything about the IA file?”

  “He said Pop looked at it and was cleared.”

  “Anything else we can use?”

  “Nope. What have you got, Pete?”

  “Meet me at the corner at Thirty-fifth and Clement at nine o’clock tonight,” he says.

  “Did you find Eugene Tsai’s brother?”

  “No, but I found Fitz.”

  11/ FITZ

  Saturday, July 11. 9:04 p.m.

  7 days, 2 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

  “What are we waiting for?” I ask Pete. I can see my breath as the summer fog begins its nightly creep over the Richmond District between the Golden Gate Bridge and Land’s End.

  “Let’s give him another minute,” he says.

  His eyes are fixed on a carefully tended green Victorian that’s wedged between two apartment buildings across Clement Street from the eighth tee of the picturesque Lincoln Park Golf Course. San Francisco’s oldest public links were laid out a hundred years ago, when this area was covered by sand dunes. It’s showing signs of age. The greens need sod. The rusted fence is too short, but the city lacks the funds to erect a net. As a result, Fitz and his neighbors occasionally find stray Titleists in their living rooms.