She struggles to keep her hands from shaking as she grasps her coffee cup. Rabbi Neil Friedman is sitting in one of the antique armchairs next to her. He reaches over and touches her hand. The charismatic community leader has been holding court at Temple Beth Sholom for three decades. “Everything is going to be fine,” he whispers to her. “Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez are here to help.”
Ilene sets the cup in a saucer on the antique end table. The walnut-paneled walls are covered with photos of her three grown children and eight grandchildren. Through the picture window I can see her seven-year-old grandson and her four-year-old granddaughter playing on a new swing set in the yard. Their gleeful voices are a stark contrast to the somber mood inside the house. A wedding photo of Ilene and Nate is on the mantel. Their youthful smiles seem forever frozen in time. There is no indication that Nate hasn’t been home in almost a decade.
Rosie’s touch is softer than mine. We agreed before we arrived that she would take the lead. “Thank you for seeing us,” she says.
“I’m ever so grateful for your assistance,” Ilene replies. Her diction has the clipped inflection of a woman educated at boarding schools. Her lips tighten and she wills herself to maintain her composure as she tells us that the retainer was intended to cover only our initial costs. She assures us that she’s happy to provide additional resources. “Whatever it takes to save Nate,” she says.
Rosie’s voice fills with genuine compassion. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been going through,” she says.
“Thank you, Ms. Fernandez.”
Rosie folds her hands and places them in her lap. “We’re sorry to trouble you, but we need to ask you some questions about Nate’s case.”
“Of course.”
She’s interrupted gently by the rabbi. “We appreciate your efforts on Mr. Fineman’s behalf,” he says. “He devoted countless hours to the Bay Area Jewish community. I am appalled that the legal system has treated a distinguished citizen with such callous disdain.”
His views have been documented in several op-ed pieces that he’s published in the Bay Area Jewish Bulletin. His opinions are unlikely to influence the course of the legal system.
“We’re doing everything we can, Rabbi,” I tell him.
“I hope that’s going to be enough.”
So do I.
“It’s all right, Neil,” Ilene says. “Nate spoke very highly of Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez.”
I suspect that relatively few members of Rabbi Friedman’s synagogue call him by his first name. More important, I hope we can justify her faith in us and somehow match her grace under the most trying of circumstances.
Rosie starts slowly, by asking about her family. Ilene paints a picture of a tightly knit group that’s held together through difficult times. She tells us that two of her children are lawyers. The third is a teacher. All of them have been unfailingly supportive of Nate. Her grandchildren range in age from eight months to nineteen years. The eldest is a sophomore at Stanford; the youngest is a freshman at nursery school. Ilene looks out the window at the children on the swing set. “The younger children have never met their grandfather,” she says. “It’s a terrible loss for them––and for Nate.”
I catch a glimpse of Rosie’s eyes. Her father never got to spend time with Grace or Tommy.
Ilene’s voice flattens as she provides a somber description of the night Nate was arrested. She’s been through this exercise countless times, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Her tired eyes take a downward cast when Rosie shifts the discussion to her husband. “He’s a lot sicker than he’s letting on,” Ilene says, trying to mask the cracks in her voice. “It’s hard for me to watch. He’s more worried about us than himself. He’s putting up a good front.”
So is she. In the Daley household, we handled our problems through a cathartic process of yelling, followed by days of recriminations leading to grudging apologies. I can’t imagine how we would have handled the circumstances she’s been facing.
Her anger and frustration finally bubble to the surface. “I don’t know why they’re so obsessed with killing my husband. His kidneys are failing. He needs round-the-clock medical care. The doctors have told us he won’t live longer than a year. Even if by some miracle he’s released from jail, he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a nursing home. It isn’t enough that they took away the last ten years. Now they want to take away his last shred of dignity.”
The words of comfort I learned at the seminary are escaping me now.
The rabbi tries to soothe her frayed nerves with a gentle pat to her shoulder. Seeming irritated by the gesture, she pulls away. “What are his chances of a stay?” she asks bluntly.
Rosie answers her honestly. “Not so good, I’m afraid. We’re trying to prove the police planted the murder weapon, but we haven’t been able to find anybody who can corroborate that theory. We’re also looking for new evidence that might lead to the identification of the real killer. We’re in regular contact with the California Supreme Court, the Federal District Court, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals, and the U.S. Supreme Court. They understand our urgency.”
Ilene leans forward in the high-backed blue velvet chair. “Is this just a rote exercise for them to paper the file?” she asks.
“The people who handle the final stages of death-penalty appeals are very conscientious,” I say, in hopes of providing some comfort. It’s a high-pressure, low-reward endeavor––not unlike being a public defender. People seek out the positions because they have strong feelings about the death penalty. The courts try to recruit qualified people because there is no margin for error. I suspect my message rings a bit hollow, though, when I add, “We can’t give up hope.”
Ilene’s tone fills with frustration. “Why are they doing this to my husband?”
Rosie responds with a truthful, albeit highly unsatisfying, answer. “It’s the law.”
“It says you should execute a dying man who has spent ten years in a wheelchair?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s the law.”
We all sit in stark silence for a surreal moment in which the only sound is from the high-pitched voices of Ilene’s two grandchildren as they play outside on the swings.
Rosie tries to refocus Ilene back to Nate. “Was he a good husband?” she asks.
The question elicits a bittersweet smile. “The best. He is a kind, thoughtful, and funny man who never missed any of our children’s Little League games or birthdays. Nate was a fighter in court, but he has a gentle soul.”
“Did it ever bother you that he chose to represent drug dealers?”
“All the time. It reflected his personality. He came from modest beginnings. He started as a public defender. He always fought for the underdog. It was his nature. In the end, it became his undoing.”
Some of us might not consider drug dealers and mob bosses to be underdogs. I glance at Rosie, whose eyes are locked on Ilene’s. “It’s been suggested that Nate wanted to take over his client’s operations,” Rosie says.
This elicits an indignant look from Ilene. “That’s nonsense.”
“But you would acknowledge that he liked nice things?”
“So do I.” She looks around at the tasteful furnishings. “Nate had a successful practice. I come from an affluent family. He never needed to solicit for the purpose of acquiring wealth. That was contrary to everything he stood for.”
“Were you having any financial difficulties or personal problems?”
“No.”
“Mike and I have two children,” Rosie says. “We’ve represented some tough characters. We know about some of the issues that you faced. Did you ever fear for Nate’s safety, or the safety of your children or grandchildren?”
“Sometimes. Things were very tense when he represented the Bayview Posse.”
“Is there any chance Nate might have felt threatened by any of the people who were killed at the Golden Dragon?”
To me, her responses are starting to sound a little forced.
Rosie shifts subjects. “We were contacted by a reporter named Jerry Edwards last night. He said Nate owed a million dollars to a man named Alex Aronis in connection with a real estate deal. Evidently, Aronis needed the money in a hurry.”
We get another hint of impatience. “I paid the debt. What’s your point?”
“Edwards claimed you were unhappy about it.”
“I was, but it was a legitimate debt. If Edwards is suggesting Nate killed those people because he needed money, he’s wrong.”
“He also suggested that Aronis may have offered to forgive the debt if Nate agreed to kill Robinson and Chin.”
Ilene shakes her head slowly from side to side. “That’s beyond preposterous.”
“Why didn’t any of this come up at the trial?”
Ilene now has a stranglehold on the arms of her chair. “Because it had nothing to do with the case. Nate and I weren’t trying to hide anything.”
I wonder if there is anything else that she and Nate have tried to conceal.
Rabbi Friedman signals his irritation by holding his palms face out. “I think those are probably all the questions Mrs. Fineman has time to answer today.”
Ilene overrules him. “I am not just going to sit here and play the role of the hand-wringing widow, Neil. We have to do something. As uncomfortable as it might be for me, I am prepared to answer any questions and to do whatever it takes to save Nate’s life.” She turns back to us and it all comes pouring out. “I tried to be supportive, but his career made my life a living hell. Nate is right where I told him he would be if he didn’t stop representing those lowlifes. He couldn’t stop himself. He never wanted to turn away a client—especially the high-profile mobsters and drug dealers. It wasn’t about money. He lived for the adrenaline rush in court. He loved the attention from the press. He was like a kid in a candy store during the Bayview Posse case.
“I started thinking about divorcing him even before he was arrested. The stress was unbearable. Do you know how many nights I stayed up late with the children while he was attending a meeting with a mobster or a drug dealer? Do you know what it’s like when you have no idea if your husband is going to come home alive? To have your children ask you when you’re putting them to bed, ‘Why can’t Daddy be here now?’”
Kind of. My father was a cop.
“On the night Nate was arrested,” she says, “I was certain they were calling to tell me that he had been killed. What sort of life was that?” Her eyes shift from Rosie to me. “I talked to a lawyer several times before Nate was arrested. I got so angry that I had him draw up divorce papers. Nate never knew about it. A few years after he was convicted, I went to San Quentin and told him that I wanted to start a new life. He said I should divorce him and that he would let me keep everything except a few stocks to cover his legal fees. That’s Nate.”
“You’re still married,” I whisper.
“After all these years, I’ve never filed the papers. I couldn’t leave him. I still love him and I always will. Nobody could replace him––not for me.”
Rosie notices the tears welling in Ilene’s eyes and hands her a tissue. “We’ll do everything we can to help you,” she tells her.
“I know.” The room fills with an awkward silence. Finally, Ilene Fineman wipes the tears from her eyes. “My husband is not a murderer,” she says softly. “If you can stop this execution, you’ll be getting two people out of prison: Nate and me.”
15/ YOUR CLIENT MURDERED MY FATHER
Sunday, July 12. 2:17 p.m.
6 days, 9 hours, and 44 minutes until execution.
“Johnson,” the familiar baritone says. I called his cell phone.
“Daley,” I reply.
“Where are you?” Roosevelt asks.
“On our way downtown.” Rosie is driving––her car still has windows. We left Ilene fifteen minutes ago. We’re heading down Market past Castro. The fog has lifted. It’s a spectacular summer afternoon. Holding the cell phone, I’m also trying to shave with an electric razor that’s plugged into the cigarette lighter. Death-penalty cases require creative multitasking. I turn off the razor and ask, “Are you at work?”
“Why would I want to be anywhere else on a beautiful Sunday?”
I knew it. “Have you ever heard of a man named Alexander Aronis?”
“He runs a big trash-disposal business in the East Bay. He’s also a reputed heroin distributor.” His tone is businesslike.
“Did his name ever come up during the Fineman investigation?”
“Just once.” He waits a beat. “His ex-wife claimed he wanted to hire somebody to take out Robinson and Chin.”
“That would be Patty Norman?”
“That would be correct.”
“I didn’t see her name in the trial transcripts.”
“She didn’t testify.”
“Why not?”
“Her story wasn’t credible. She had an ax to grind against her ex-husband. She was spinning out of an ugly divorce and rehab.”
“Why didn’t you mention it to me when we talked?”
“It was irrelevant.”
Bullshit. “Aronis had a huge motive to take out Robinson and Chin.”
“So did every other drug dealer in the Bay Area. It doesn’t mean that he did.”
“Are you holding anything else back?”
He turns testy. “I’m a cop, Mike. It isn’t my job to help you defend Nate Fineman.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes.”
“You can take it any way you want.”
He knows more than he’s telling me. “Did you happen to see Jerry Edwards’s column in this morning’s Chronicle?”
“I did.”
“Why is Patty Norman making these accusations about her ex-
husband now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she sees it as an opportunity to settle some old business.”
“Is there any chance Aronis was involved in the events at the Golden Dragon?”
“Not that I could prove. I leave the rumors and innuendos to lawyers.”
The only currency Roosevelt accepts is hard evidence that will stand up in court. “Why didn’t you arrest Aronis for selling drugs?”
“That’s up to the law enforcement authorities in the East Bay. He operates outside my jurisdiction.”
I feel like throwing my razor through the windshield. “Let me ask you about something else,” I say. “It seems the IA report on the Fineman case has disappeared.”
“So I’m told.”
“My father was the last person whose name appeared in the log.”
“I’ve heard that, too. It doesn’t mean that he took it, Mike.”
We can agree on that. “Did you ever read it?”
“Yes.”
“We’re going to make a stink about it. Was there anything in it that will make my father look bad?”
“No. Everybody was cleared––including your father.”
“And the allegations that the cops planted the murder weapon?”
“Completely unfounded.”
“Did you have any reason to question the conclusions in the report?”
“It isn’t my job to second-guess IA investigations.”
That’s all I’m going to get. “Did I mention that the windows on my car were broken?”
“You didn’t.”
“I think somebody involved in the Fineman case is trying to intimidate us.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Your people aren’t investigating it with a great deal of enthusiasm.”
“We have limited resources. Perhaps you should ask the mayor to put a few more uniforms on the street.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Incidentally, we haven’t gotten an especially warm reception from the cops we’ve interviewed.”
His tone turns pointed. “Your client is guilty,
Mike. You shouldn’t expect any extra cooperation from the highly trained and hardworking professionals of the San Francisco Police Department.”
I punch the Off button. My head throbs as I lean back and close my eyes.
Rosie senses my frustration. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Roosevelt isn’t giving you the full story, is he?”
“He’s still a cop, Rosie. Realistically, there’s only so much that he can do for us. He doesn’t want to blow a conviction or implicate any other cops after all these years.”
“Even if it was a bad conviction?”
“That’s up to us to prove.”
“Where does that leave us?”
My mind races at a hundred miles an hour. “We can’t expect to get a stay just based on the missing file. We need a backup.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“There is none. You know as well as I do that death-penalty cases are improvisational theater. We need to keep pounding until we find somebody who might give us something that would convince a judge to stop the execution.”
“Snapping at me isn’t going to make this exercise any easier.”
I feel like a jerk. It’s my turn to squeeze her hand. “Sorry, Rosita.”
“Forget it. The next six days will be hard enough without us going at it with each other. I take it that means you want to talk to Patty Norman and Alex Aronis?”
“I do. And I want to talk to Marshawn Bryant and anybody else who might have known something about Robinson’s operations. I want to see what we can find out about Alan Chin’s business, too. Pete is down in Chinatown, looking for Eugene Tsai’s brother.” My cell phone vibrates. I flip it open and see Pete’s name. “Did you find Tsai’s brother?” I ask.
“Not yet. I’ve run his name through all of the usual databases. He has no phone—listed or unlisted. No driver’s license. No listed address. I’m going to try to track him down at Brandy Ho’s later today.”
Wendell Tsai isn’t the only person who lives in the shadows in Chinatown. “Why did you call?” I ask.
“I need you to meet me at Rincon Center,” he says. “I found Alan Chin’s son.”
# # #
The best spot in San Francisco for dim sum isn’t in Chinatown. The place to go for the traditional appetizers and tea cakes is in a cavernous space in the old post office on Rincon Hill, just north of the Bay Bridge, in what has become a trendy residential neighborhood. The mail-sorting room was remodeled in the eighties into a mixed-use property with office space surrounding a five-story atrium that houses a dozen restaurants. Rincon Center is especially lively during weekday lunch hours, when a pianist plays show tunes and contemporary standards on a baby grand adjacent to a man-made waterfall that flows down from the glass-covered ceiling. It’s a little like eating your burritos at Nordstrom, but the overall effect is a significant upgrade from your typical shopping-mall food court.
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