MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  I tap the dashboard of my old Corolla and force myself to remain patient. I’ve learned to defer to Pete when it comes to finding witnesses. A moment later I say, “Why don’t we just ring the doorbell?”

  “I want to catch him as he’s leaving. He’s less likely to slam the door in our faces.”

  Perhaps. “What makes you think he’ll be leaving anytime soon?”

  “He walks his dog at this time every night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re paying me to know things like that.”

  On cue, the door opens. A fit man with perfect military posture and a silver crew cut leads an energetic German shepherd across the street to the fence that separates the golfers from the neighborhood. Fitz is better dressed than your average retired cop. He’s wearing an Eddie Bauer work shirt, an REI vest, and a pair of top-of-the-line Nike running shoes. He’s also better preserved. His chiseled face has a healthy tan that he obtained on a vacation somewhere sunnier than the Richmond.

  Pete and I get out of the car and approach him cautiously from behind. “Lieutenant Fitzgerald,” I say, “can we have just a moment of your time?”

  He turns around and flashes a half smile. “Tommy Daley’s boys,” he observes. “I heard you were working on the Fineman appeal. I figured you might show up on my doorstep sooner or later.”

  “I guess this means it’s sooner,” I say. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “You’ll have to walk with me.”

  “That’s fine.”

  As he’s leading us at a brisk clip through the weeds along the fence, he turns to Pete and says, “You still working as a PI?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you got a bum deal. Let me know if you ever decide to apply for reinstatement. I’ll make a few calls.”

  “Thanks,” Pete says. He’ll ask for his old job back a couple of days after they’re ice fishing in hell.

  We’re still making our way along the fence when I say to Fitz, “We understand you handled the IA investigation for the Fineman case.”

  “I did.” He slows his pace slightly. “In fact, I got a call from the records office about it earlier today. They said you subpoenaed the case file.”

  “We did. It’s missing.”

  “So I understand.” His tone turns accusatory. “I heard your father was the last person who checked it out.”

  “According to the log, he was.”

  He shifts to a patronizing voice. “It doesn’t mean he took it, Mike.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  He’s a little too anxious to tell us what we want to hear when he adds, “It was a long time ago. It probably got lost.”

  “Probably.”

  “For what it’s worth, there was nothing in it that would help your appeals. Mort Goldberg made the usual wild claims about mishandled evidence. At one point, he even suggested that our guys planted the murder weapon. Everybody knew he was just blowing smoke. The guys who secured the scene were some of our best people. Everybody was cleared—including your father.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Of course. He was a good cop with a spotless record. It was the only time he ever was investigated by IA.”

  Pete has been taking this in while studying every nuance of Fitz’s body language. “The same can’t be said for his partner,” he says, trying to elicit a reaction.

  Fitz doesn’t bite. “Joey was a good cop, too,” he says in a measured tone.

  Pete isn’t backing down. “Then why was he forced out?”

  Fitz shakes his head a little too forcefully. “He took early retirement. You know I’m not allowed to talk about personnel matters. Department policy.”

  Weasels always try to hide behind procedural subterfuge. “Roosevelt told us that you and Joey were pals,” I say.

  “We went to the academy together.”

  “Wasn’t there a conflict of interest when you were asked to handle the investigation in the Fineman case?”

  “Not really.” Pete and I follow him as he leads his dog across the empty street. “Cops in IA are allowed to go out for a beer with their friends every once in a while.”

  “They aren’t allowed to investigate them,” I say.

  He holds up a dismissive hand. “We weren’t that close,” he says without looking at me.

  “Do you have any idea what happened to the file?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “When I closed the investigation and sent it to storage.”

  “You didn’t keep a copy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you willing to testify as to its contents?”

  “If I have to.” He waits a beat. “You’ll have to pull a subpoena.”

  “We will.”

  “Fine.” He comes to an abrupt halt and squints at me through the fog. “Look,” he says, “every time a big case comes down, the lawyers try to foist the blame over to the cops. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they’re cleared.”

  And in cases that you investigated, they were cleared every time.

  He isn’t finished. “There wasn’t any dirt in that file.”

  “At the moment,” I say, “they can’t even find it.”

  The genial tone turns decidedly testy. “I can’t help you there. All I can tell you is that everybody was cleared. I’m prepared to testify to that effect if you insist on sending me a subpoena, but I can assure you that my testimony won’t help your client.” He gives me another snarky glare before he adds, “Unless you have any other questions, I need to get home.” Without waiting for a response, he and his dog make their way into the foggy night.

  As soon as he’s out of earshot, I turn to Pete and say, “It’s about what I expected.”

  His take is slightly more cynical. “He’s an asshole.”

  # # #

  At eleven-thirty on Saturday night, I’m back in my office, going over a draft of the first of several habeas petitions that we’ll be filing over the course of the next seven days. Rosie is down the hall. Pete is parked in front of his laptop outside my office. He’s searching the internet for information about Eugene Tsai.

  There’s a knock, and the imposing figure of Terrence “the Terminator” Love fills my doorway. Our receptionist’s gentle eyes have an uncharacteristically serious cast. “You have a call,” he says to me.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Jerry Edwards is on hold.”

  My day is now complete. Edwards is the Chronicle’s self-appointed watchdog on real and imagined issues relating to morals, ethics, graft, and corruption. He uses his daily segment on Mornings on Two as a bully pulpit to whine about depravity in local government and the justice system. Our rocky relationship dates back twenty years, when he accused Rosie and me of manufacturing evidence in a murder trial when we were PDs. The accusations were dropped only after Rosie and I were put on leave for three excruciating months. The last time we were in his crosshairs was a couple of years ago, when he raked us over the coals in his column until we grudgingly agreed to take on the pro bono representation of a dying man accused of killing a hotshot venture capitalist who was buying drugs on Sixth Street.

  “What does he want?” I ask.

  “To congratulate you on your new case.”

  For a man with no formal education who used to beat the daylights out of people for a living, Terrence has a fairly advanced sense of irony. I punch the blinking light on my speakerphone. “This is Michael Daley,” I say.

  I’m greeted by an emphatic smoker’s hack. “Jerry Edwards,” he wheezes. “San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “Nice to hear from you, Jerry,” I lie.

  “Long time since we last talked,” he says.

  Not long enough. “What can we do for you?”

  “I understand you’re taking over Nate Fineman’s appeals.”

  “We are.”

  “You have no qualms about rep
resenting the guy who manipulated the system to get the charges dropped against the Bayview Posse?”

  I know better than to engage. “No comment.”

  “Are you going to get a stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem pretty confident.”

  “I am.”

  His coughing cuts his guffaw short. “I sat through your client’s trial,” he says. “He was guilty as hell.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You really think you’re going to get an appellate court to overturn the jury?”

  “Yes.” Enough. “Why did you call, Jerry?”

  “I got an interesting call from Lieutenant Kevin Fitzgerald. I understand you’re looking for the IA file on the cops who were involved in the investigation of the Fineman case.”

  “We are.” Fitz isn’t wasting any time trying to control the spin.

  “Lieutenant Fitzgerald also told me that the file is missing.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Lieutenant Fitzgerald also informed me that your father was not only one of the subjects of the investigation, but he was also the last one to check out the file.”

  “Also true.”

  He clears his throat. “You have to admit that it’s quite a coincidence. I was hoping you might care to provide a comment.”

  “That’s all it is, Jerry—a coincidence. It’s a matter of public record that my father was one of the first officers at the scene. He signed out the file legitimately.”

  “Does that mean you’re denying the obvious implication that he took it?”

  “That’s correct.” I can feel my throat starting to tighten. “He had no reason to keep it. There isn’t a shred of evidence that he did.”

  “Then what happened to it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a question for Lieutenant Fitzgerald.”

  “He said he didn’t know, either.”

  “Maybe he took it. Maybe he’s trying to hide something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Evidence that proves the cops planted the murder weapon in the Fineman case.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation. Do you have any evidence to corroborate it?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “Are you suggesting your father may have been involved in a cover-up?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Lieutenant Fitzgerald told me that he concluded there was no wrongdoing by the SFPD.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I am absolutely certain that there was no wrongdoing by my father. Otherwise, I have no way of making any other determinations, because the file is missing. We’re also looking into the conduct and scope of Lieutenant Fitzgerald’s investigation.”

  “Can I quote you for the record on that?”

  “You bet.” I decide to stir the pot. “Incidentally, our sources in the SFPD have refused to talk to us about the case.”

  “Are you saying they’ve been instructed not to discuss it?”

  Not exactly. “It appears that way.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Report it.” I can feign moral indignation with the best of them. “The public has a right to know about corruption within the SFPD—especially when it may result in the execution of an innocent man.”

  “You’re blowing smoke.”

  Yes, I am. “We’re trying to find the truth, Jerry.”

  His voice fills with sarcasm. “How admirable.”

  “My investigator’s car was also vandalized after he started asking questions.”

  “San Francisco is a big city. Random acts of vandalism happen all the time.”

  “We believe this one was a blatant attempt to intimidate us.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That isn’t news. It’s speculation.”

  So is your daily column. “If you help us find the real killer, that would be news.”

  I can hear him wheezing as he ponders his next move. “If I agree to make a few calls,” he says, “are you willing to give me exclusive access to your client?”

  “Sure.”

  “Deal.”

  “Was there some other reason that you called me at this hour, Jerry?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. I finally figured out why your client killed those people at the Golden Dragon.”

  12/ HE’S MADE A FORTUNE IN GARBAGE

  Saturday, July 11. 11:37 p.m.

  7 days and 24 minutes until execution.

  I’m still staring at my speakerphone. “What’s the motive?” I ask Edwards.

  “Money.”

  Oh, please. “Couldn’t you come up with something a little more original than the old saw about the greedy lawyer?”

  “I have. Your client owed a developer a million bucks on a project in Vail.”

  My airless office is silent. It’s pitch-black outside my small window. There is no traffic on First Street. The blinking fluorescent ceiling light is the only source of sporadic illumination. It’s hard to read the notes that I’ve been scribbling on the legal pad in my lap. “A million dollars is pocket change for a guy like Nate,” I say.

  “He was fronting the costs for a couple of big cases. Cash got tight.”

  It isn’t uncommon for defense attorneys to advance thousands of dollars in investigation costs. Still, it seems like a stretch. “His wife has family money,” I say. “She lives in St. Francis Wood. They were loaded.”

  “Evidently, she was unhappy about the deal and didn’t want to pony up. The developer was one of his clients. A default would have brought more than a nasty letter from a collection agency.”

  “You’re saying his own client threatened him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What happened to the debt?”

  “Fineman’s wife paid it after he was arrested.”

  “Who was the client?”

  “A man named Alexander Aronis. He’s made a fortune in garbage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Aronis’s company has a monopoly on trash collection from Vallejo to San Jose. He’s used his garbage money to fund real estate investments.”

  “Where did you get this information?”

  “A source in the Alameda County DA’s office. Aronis is under investigation for allegedly trying to bribe a member of the Oakland City Council. The DA’s investigator found some old correspondence about the Fineman investment. He remembered that I had covered the trial for the Chronicle and he called me.”

  “Is your source willing to testify?”

  “Probably. I can’t imagine it will help your client’s case.”

  Neither can I. “Am I to take it you’re planning to publish this information?”

  “It’s news. I was hoping you’d be willing to comment.”

  “You had to ask me about it in the middle of the night?”

  “I also wanted to ask you about the IA file. I was guessing you might still be at the office. That seems to be standard operating procedure for death-penalty specialists the week before an execution.”

  “You guessed right. We have no comment.”

  “Then I’ll just have to run with it as is.”

  Something doesn’t add up. “Are you saying Nate intended to take over his client’s heroin-distribution business to cover a debt to the Garbage King of Oakland?”

  “Not exactly,” he replies. “According to a second source, it may have been a quid pro quo deal. Aronis was going to forgive the debt if Fineman popped Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin.”

  “That makes no sense. Robinson was his client.”

  “My source tells me Aronis also controls several major heroin-

  distribution channels in the East Bay. He wanted to move into the San Francisco market. In lieu of paying the debt, Fineman agreed to kill two of the big players in the city.�
�

  I’m staring at the phone in disbelief. “He didn’t need the money,” I repeat.

  “Yes, he did, and the other pieces fit. Fineman had access to Robinson and Chin. Aronis had a track record for this sort of thing. He was once investigated for allegedly offering a hit man a hundred grand to kill one of his competitors.” His voice fills with smug satisfaction. “Guess who Aronis hired to represent him? Guess who got the charges dropped?”

  “Nate?”

  “Correct.”

  It seems Nate has represented every scumbag in the Bay Area at one time or another. “Do you have any hard evidence that Aronis talked to Nate about setting up the hit?”

  “Just the word of my source.”

  “Was your source present when this alleged conversation took place?”

  “No.”

  “Then how the hell would he know?”

  “Let’s just say my source was close to the situation.”

  “Nate never mentioned it,” I say.

  “Do you think he was going to admit somebody offered him a million bucks to pop his own client?”

  Now he’s starting to sound like Pete. “Who’s your source?” I ask.

  “I can’t reveal it.”

  “You mean you won’t reveal it. The execution is in a week. You have an obligation to come forward.”

  “I have an obligation to my source,” he says.

  “An innocent man is going to be put to death.”

  “You’re the one who claims he’s innocent—not me.”

  “You have to give us something, Jerry.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’ll go to a judge and get a court order.”

  “Be my guest. My newspaper has an army of lawyers who are very good at First Amendment cases.”

  We’ll be arguing those legal issues long after Nate is executed.

  # # #

  First Street is empty at one o’clock on Sunday morning. Rosie went home a half hour ago. Pete and I are walking through a shroud of cool fog. I can see my breath in the heavy air. The sound of our footsteps echoes off the dark buildings around us.

  “Do you think Pop took the file?” he asks me.

  “He wasn’t the kind of guy to cover his tracks by stealing a file.” He was, however, the kind of guy who would have done everything in his power to put away a lawyer who represented San Francisco’s most notorious heroin dealers.