MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  Pete nods. “What about Edwards’s claim that Fineman was paid to kill Robinson and Chin?”

  “I find it hard to believe. We’ll need to ask our client about it. And his wife.”

  “Where are you starting in the morning?” he asks.

  “The deputy attorney general who is handling the case has agreed to meet with us about the IA file.”

  “Is the missing file enough to get a stay?”

  “I doubt it.”

  My car comes into view as we approach my usual parking space in a cheap pay lot around the corner from the bus terminal. “Look at that,” Pete says.

  My eyes struggle to focus through the thick, moist air. It takes me a moment to realize that the windows of my Corolla have been smashed.

  “So,” he says, “do you think this is just a coincidence, too?”

  13/ THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS

  Sunday, July 12. 9:03 a.m.

  6 days, 14 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

  Deputy Attorney General Irwin Grim is a small, intense man in his late fifties who has represented the state in more death-penalty appeals than any other lawyer in California history. The aptly named capital-punishment zealot has been dubbed “Dr. Death” by his colleagues. He has the thankless job of responding to everything we throw at him for the next six days. Dr. Death seems to enjoy the battle.

  “You are overreacting, Mike,” he lectures me.

  “You’ve lost a critical file in a capital murder case,” I say.

  He strokes his gray hair, which is combed straight back. “I didn’t lose it,” he snaps.

  “Either way,” I say, “a key piece of evidence is missing.”

  He exhales heavily. Grim has turned sighing into an art form. “You’re blowing things out of proportion.”

  “No, we aren’t.”

  We’ve attracted a crowd to the SFPD file center in the bowels of the Hall of Justice on Sunday morning. The current director of Internal Affairs, an assistant chief, and the head of the records division are here. So is Fitz. Despite his attempts to downplay the situation, the presence of the assembled masses suggests Grim may be more concerned than he’s letting on.

  After less than four hours of sleep, I’m running on empty. I’m also in no mood for diplomacy. “The execution is in a week,” I snap. “You need to find that file.”

  “We will,” Grim assures me.

  “I sure as hell hope so.” Then again, maybe I don’t. The California Supremes or the Ninth Circuit may be more amenable if we can demonstrate that a critical piece of evidence has vanished. “This is a matter of life and death.”

  Grim responds with another sigh. It’s frustrating to argue with him because he never raises his voice. “It isn’t that critical,” he says. “It will turn up sooner or later.”

  He’s perfectly content to try to run out the clock. “It had better be sooner, or we’re going to have a serious problem.”

  “We’re doing everything we can. If all else fails, Lieutenant Fitzgerald is prepared to submit a sworn statement as to the file’s contents.”

  Fitz can’t contain a smug nod. “I’d be happy to do a full debriefing,” he offers.

  He’ll solemnly swear that he prepared his report with utmost care and diligence and was able to clear the hardworking and dedicated members of the SFPD. I turn to Grim and try to play to his fears. “This creates a major appealable issue,” I tell him.

  “Be practical, Mike.”

  “I am, Irwin. You’re going to look terrible if you can’t produce that file.”

  “You know as well as I do that no appellate court is going to stop the execution because of a missing file.”

  “It reflects sloppy police work.”

  “No judge will buy it.”

  “We’re going to file papers first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s your prerogative. We will respond as quickly as possible.” He knows that we’re going to file a new appeal tomorrow and every day thereafter. That’s the way death-penalty cases work. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I understand your father was the last person who checked it out.”

  This was going to come up at some point. “According to the log, that’s true.”

  “You understand that we will have to mention that in our papers.”

  “That’s your prerogative.”

  “Do you have any information about its whereabouts?”

  “Of course not. My father followed the procedure to look at the file. If you’re suggesting he kept it, you’re dead wrong.”

  Dr. Death responds with a sigh.

  # # #

  Rosie and I are back at the San Quentin visitors’ area two hours later. During our drive over here, we agreed to take a more direct approach with Nate. There isn’t enough time to be diplomatic.

  Rosie leans forward on the heavy table and addresses our client. “At the moment, we’re focusing on an argument that the cops planted the gun and then tried to cover it up. That’s why Internal Affairs was called in.”

  The bags under Nate’s eyes have grown visibly larger and his voice has become raspier since yesterday. “You got any proof that the fix was in with the cops?”

  “We were hoping you could give us some ammunition.”

  “The IA report was a piece of crap,” he says. “Fitz did a quick and dirty investigation. He went through the motions and papered the file.”

  “Which is now missing,” Rosie says. “We’re going to file papers in the morning to argue for a stay because a key piece of evidence is missing.”

  “Do you think it will fly?”

  “Hard to say,” Rosie says. “Fitz is prepared to testify that he did everything by the book and everybody was cleared.”

  “Which means we need more.”

  “It would help. Did you find any evidence that the cops covered for each other?”

  “Nope. They closed ranks.”

  Rosie keeps pushing. “Did you find anything to suggest Fitz was protecting Little Joey?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about Dave Low?”

  Nate’s jowls vibrate as he shakes his head. “That’s going to be even harder. You won’t find another cop who will say anything bad about him.”

  “He isn’t around to defend himself.”

  “We’ll need more than unsubstantiated accusations to get to freestanding innocence.”

  He’s right. “Was anybody else out to get you?” I ask.

  He makes no attempt to mask his frustration. “The entire SFPD.”

  Time for full disclosure. “My father was the last person who checked out the file,” I tell him.

  Nate temples his fingers in front of his face as he chooses his words. “He probably wanted to see what was written about him. It doesn’t mean he took it.”

  I’m grateful for the show of support, but it doesn’t help our case. “Nate,” I say, “did you have an overdue debt of a million dollars on a development in Vail?”

  He gives me a circumspect look. “What does that have to do with a missing IA file?”

  “Nothing. We’re looking into some other possibilities.”

  “Did my wife tell you about it?”

  His defensiveness is cause for concern. “No. Jerry Edwards at the Chronicle did.”

  He holds up a hand. “I owed a million bucks to one of my clients. I paid it off after I was arrested.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “From my bank account.” He quickly corrects himself. “More precisely, it came from my wife’s trust fund. I’m using the same account to pay you.”

  A trust fund––it must be nice. “We understand she wasn’t happy about the deal.”

  “That’s true. I didn’t mention it to her until after I’d signed the papers.” He shrugs. “We worked it out.”

  She may have a different take. “Edwards said she didn’t trust the promoter.”

  “She didn’t. My client, Alex Aronis, let me invest in the project as a favo
r after I got the charges dropped when he was accused of offering to pay somebody to take out one of his business associates.”

  I already knew that much. “Was Aronis guilty?”

  Nate’s chin juts out and he points a stubby finger in my direction. “People are innocent until proven guilty. The charges were dropped.”

  Amazing. After all these years, he’s still talking like a lawyer. “You didn’t answer my question. Was Aronis guilty?”

  He summons his remaining strength to find his best lawyer voice. “Guilt is determined by a jury. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

  I get into his face. “You aren’t his lawyer anymore, Nate. You don’t have to defend him. Saving your life trumps the attorney-client privilege.”

  He sits back in his wheelchair. “Let’s just say the accusations were not entirely without merit.”

  Rosie has been observing this exchange in silence. She lowers her voice to a notch just above a whisper. “Any truth to the rumor that Aronis was also distributing heroin in the East Bay?”

  Nate shakes his head. “The cops were never able to nail him. You won’t either.”

  I don’t believe this. “We aren’t trying to nail him,” I say. “We’re trying to save your life. Is he involved in the sale of drugs in the East Bay?”

  “Let’s just say that some people whose opinions I respect seem to think so.”

  “I’m going to take that as a yes. Has he ever been convicted?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he really threaten you?”

  “We had a few pointed telephone conversations about payment.”

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Edwards said Aronis wanted to move into the San Francisco heroin market.”

  “There may be some truth to that statement.”

  “That would have given him a motive to set up a hit on Robinson and Chin.”

  “That would be a logical conclusion.”

  I’m getting frustrated. “We don’t have time for games, Nate.”

  “I’m telling you everything I know.”

  “Edwards also claimed he has a source who is prepared to testify that Aronis approached you to do it.”

  “That’s preposterous. I was a lawyer, not a hit man.”

  Some might argue that the two professions are, in many respects, quite complementary. “I take it that means you’re denying it?” I say.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Edwards also suggested that you were pissed off at Robinson because he wouldn’t give you a piece of his action.”

  Nate is becoming more agitated. “That’s insane. Who’s feeding him this crap?”

  “He wouldn’t give us a name,” Rosie says. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “Because Aronis was your client.”

  Nate doesn’t reply.

  Rosie places her long fingers on the table in front of her and lays it on the line. “If you want us to help you,” she says, “you need to help us. You’ve been living with this case for ten years. We’ve been living with it for two days. We don’t have time for all of this shucking and jiving. You’re in line for a needle in less than six days. That means you need to tell us the truth right now—straight and fast. I’m going to ask you once more and I want a straight answer. Who is Edwards’s source?”

  He thinks about it for a moment. “It might have been Patty Norman,” he finally says.

  “Who’s she?” I ask.

  “Aronis’s ex-wife. Last I heard, she was running one of those new age bookstores in Petaluma.”

  “Why would she be making these accusations now?”

  “To make her ex-husband look bad.” He grimaces before he adds, “And because she hates my guts.”

  14/ MY HUSBAND IS NOT A MURDERER

  Sunday, July 12. 11:35 a.m.

  6 days, 12 hours, and 26 minutes until execution.

  “What did you do to her?” I ask Nate.

  “Long story.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere.”

  He leans forward in his wheelchair. “I got in the middle of the ugliest divorce I’ve ever seen.”

  “How bad could it have been?”

  “As bad as it gets. Alex and Patty had known each other since they were kids in Piedmont. Both families were loaded. His father made a mint in trash collection. Her father made a bundle in cement.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Everything started out great,” he says. “They bought a nice house. Their kids went to the best schools. He coached Little League. She ran the PTA. He was promoted to the chairman of the board of East Bay Scavenger when his father died. She became a vice president of Alameda County Cement.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Patty’s father had mob connections. The Feds were after him for years. They finally nailed him for supplying crappy cement when a freeway overpass almost collapsed. He cut a deal to plead guilty to fraud charges. He didn’t do any jail time, but it bankrupted the company. They took every penny. Patty wasn’t charged, but she lost her job and a boatload of money.”

  “I take it there were adverse consequences at home?”

  He nods. “Around the same time, Alex hired me when he was being investigated for trying to hire somebody to kill one of his business associates. The charges were dropped, but it created a lot of tension at home. Neither of them handled it very well. He started staying out late. She was drinking. He ignored their kids. She ignored him. It was a mess.”

  “It sounds like something out of Desperate Housewives,” I observe.

  “It got much worse. She hired a PI to watch him. He hired one of his own to watch her. Her PI caught him in bed with his secretary. His PI caught her in bed with her tennis instructor. Counseling didn’t work. A trial separation didn’t help. Things spiraled completely out of control.”

  “These situations generally don’t end well.”

  “This one certainly didn’t. They spent a year ripping each other to shreds. They spent another year fighting about custody. It got really nasty.”

  Rosie hasn’t said a word. I’m sure she’s doing a mental calculation of how much psychological damage we’ve already inflicted upon Grace and Tommy.

  “I can understand why she’s still angry at her ex-husband,” I say, “but you didn’t handle the divorce. Why is she mad at you?”

  “I had to pick sides. I chose Alex.”

  Rosie finally breaks her silence. “There has to be more to this than taking sides in an acrimonious divorce,” she says. “What did you really do to her?”

  Nate takes a deep breath. “I became more involved in the divorce case than I ever intended––or wanted––to be. Alex’s divorce lawyer lacked imagination. I offered a few creative suggestions during the custody hearings.”

  “Like what?”

  He gives us a sheepish look. “I came up with the idea of hiring a couple of good-looking guys to pick her up at bars and get her drunk. We had a PI take a bunch of pictures of her in compromising positions. Then we filed papers to have her declared an unfit mother because of her drinking.” His grimace reflects a hint of remorse. “It wasn’t the proudest moment of my legal career.”

  Rosie’s lips turn down. “The court bought it?”

  “Patty didn’t have the money to fight us. She couldn’t pay her lawyers. She couldn’t afford experts. We overwhelmed them with paper. We paid an army of shrinks to testify that she was a danger to herself and her kids. We were able to get her committed for a year of rehab.” He gives me a thoughtful look and adds, “To her credit, she came out sober.”

  “And without her children.”

  “Alex got full custody.”

  “How did she find out that it was your idea to have her committed?”

  “I brought it up during a settlement conference. I was playing the ‘bad cop.’ I tried to justify it at the time by telling myself that I was helping a client. In
hindsight, I wish I’d never gotten involved. When Alex first asked me to help with the divorce negotiations, Patty was already in bad shape. By the time it was over, she was destroyed. So was her relationship with her kids. It took her years to get back a small degree of self-respect.”

  “Did any of this come up at your trial?” I ask.

  “No. Patty was still in rehab. The prosecutors knew she would have made a lousy witness.”

  “Why would she bring this up now? She certainly has no reason to help us.”

  “Maybe she thinks it’s a chance to finally nail Alex,” he says.

  The chickens always come home to roost at precisely the wrong time.

  # # #

  Ninety minutes later, Nate’s wife is sipping coffee from a bone china cup in the understated living room of her home in St. Francis Wood. This enclave of custom-built houses in the area just west of Twin Peaks was constructed as part of the post-earthquake building frenzy beginning in 1908. The results were most distinguished. The gated entrance to the community is enhanced by fountains designed by John Galen Howard and Henry Gutterson. By edict of the local neighborhood organization, the homes on the tree-lined streets were required to be in the Mediterranean Revival style. Most have picturesque Spanish grillwork, tile roofs, and ornamental windows and brickwork.

  In a tribute to Ilene Fineman’s perseverance, her home has been painstakingly maintained. The colorful red tiles have been freshly scrubbed. The elaborate ironwork has been buffed and polished, and the textured stucco walls have a fresh coat of white paint. Sculpted bushes surround a lush green lawn highlighted by blooming red roses and climbing bougainvillea.

  Ilene is wearing a light blue cashmere sweater, a gray skirt, and a touch of makeup. Now in her mid-seventies, Nate’s wife is the former chair of the symphony, ballet, and library boards. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Barbara Bush. She has the former First Lady’s outspoken streak, too. Her confident smile was once a regular feature on the Chronicle’s society page. Her public presence receded after Nate’s arrest. Nevertheless, she’s been her husband’s most unwavering and outspoken supporter, despite the overwhelming public perception that Nate was guilty. Ilene has been a regular on local television and radio to plead for a reopening of Nate’s case.