MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  Yank Sing is a neatly appointed, white-tablecloth, Hong Kong–style dim sum emporium, where weekend brunch is in full swing at two forty-five on Sunday afternoon. Extended families in their Sunday best come to sample handcrafted dumplings, barbecued pork buns, and crab delicacies. Waitresses clad in white uniforms are pushing double-deck carts loaded with exquisitely prepared dishes.

  Rosie and I wait in the atrium. Pete has gone inside the restaurant to look for Chin’s son, who had a two o’clock reservation.

  My brother scowls as he walks out of the packed restaurant. “He’s inside,” he says, “with his wife and four kids and a couple of aunts and uncles.”

  Swell. “I take it this wouldn’t be an opportune time to approach him?”

  “Good thinking, Mick. His car is probably in the garage. There’s no way he’s going to make the kids and relatives traipse down there. He’ll pick them up outside.”

  “So, all we have to do is find his car and wait for him?”

  “Correct.” He pulls out a piece of paper with a few handwritten notes. “He drives a black Mercedes.” He recites the license number.

  Pete’s attention to detail is unmatched. “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?” I ask.

  “That’s where we’ll need your silver tongue.”

  # # #

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chin?” My tone is respectful as Pete, Rosie, and I follow him into the Rincon Center garage.

  A middle-aged man with black hair and a custom-tailored Hong Kong suit turns around to face me. At five-five and 130 pounds, Jeffrey Chin isn’t an imposing physical specimen, although the intensity in his eyes transcends his slight build.

  It will serve no useful purpose to be antagonistic or disingenuous. “My name is Michael Daley,” I say to him. “We’re representing Nathan Fineman. We would appreciate a moment of your time.”

  His wiry body tenses. “You’ll have to call my office. My family is waiting for me.”

  “Is there a possibility that we might be able to meet in the next couple of days?”

  He remains polite. “I’m afraid not. My schedule is completely filled.”

  It could be true. In addition to running the largest independent bank in Chinatown, he’s the president of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, commonly known as the Six Companies, a legendary community group that dates back to the 1860s. Its membership includes representatives of each of the six traditional huiguans, or Chinese social organizations. Originally formed to protect Chinese immigrants from discrimination, it has evolved into one of the great social institutions in Chinatown.

  “Please, Mr. Chin,” I say. “This will take just a minute.”

  The politeness turns to pointed anger. “Your client murdered my father.”

  Instinctively, I hold up my hands in a defensive posture. “I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I know it must have been very difficult for you and your family.”

  There’s more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone when he says, “Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

  I have to push forward. “Mr. Fineman’s attorney died suddenly on Friday night. Our firm was just hired to assist with his final appeals. As you’re probably aware, the execution is scheduled for a week from today.”

  “So you decided to shortcut the process by accosting the victims’ survivors in parking lots?”

  It’s a fair point. “We tried to reach you at the office. We need just a few moments of your time.”

  “Your client shot three people––including my father––in cold blood.”

  I’m not going to be able to convince him otherwise. “Were you anywhere in the vicinity of the Golden Dragon that night?” I ask.

  “Are you suggesting I was involved?”

  “No, Mr. Chin. We’re simply trying to figure out who was there.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Do you know anybody who was working at the Golden Dragon that night?”

  He ponders for an instant before he decides to throw us a bone. “Vince Hu is the manager. He’s also my cousin.”

  Which means he’ll tell us precisely what Chin tells him to say. Nevertheless, we’ll talk to him. “Do you know why your father was meeting with Mr. Robinson?”

  He measures his words. “It has been well documented that they were trying to resolve certain disputed matters relating to the distribution of illegal substances. My father was involved in some endeavors that brought great embarrassment to our family. I have never condoned what he did to provide for us.”

  This would not be an ideal time to point out that his hands may not be squeaky clean, either. It’s possible that he used some of the money his father earned from drug sales as seed capital to start his bank. “I’ve been through the record in detail,” I lie. “I haven’t found any suggestion of your involvement in your father’s business activities.” We will, of course, continue to look.

  “The reason you found no such evidence is because there is none.” His eyes remain locked on mine. “My relationship with my father was strained. The media coverage about his death was very difficult for our family. The revelations about his illegal activities were also very hard on all of us.”

  And I thought it was tough living with a father who was a cop. “I can’t begin to imagine how difficult it must have been for you,” I say.

  “No, you can’t. In my mother’s memory, and in an attempt to rehabilitate our reputation, I started a community bank that focuses on providing funding for small businesses in Chinatown. I’m very proud of our work. It has taken our family almost ten years to try to put this terrible episode to rest. Now you show up unannounced and want to reopen all of the bad memories. Is this a new form of ambulance chasing? Are you so desperate for new clients or cheap publicity?”

  I backpedal quickly. “You have an excellent reputation in the community,” I say, attempting to move the conversation in another direction. I try not to sound too defensive when I add, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You must be able to appreciate why I am reluctant to talk to you about this subject.”

  “I’m sure it brings back difficult memories for you.”

  “It does.”

  “We simply want to be sure that our client gets a fair hearing.”

  He adjusts the sleeve of his blue oxford shirt. “We aren’t interested in retribution, Mr. Daley, and we aren’t planning to attend the execution. I believe it is better to have justice than revenge. I am absolutely certain of Mr. Fineman’s guilt. I would also acknowledge that it would be highly unfortunate if the wrong man is put to death.”

  Yes, it would. “Do you know if anybody had a grudge against your father?”

  “I wasn’t involved in the business. However, I was told that my father and Mr. Robinson were having difficulties dividing the market for their products.”

  Even drug lords worry about market share. “What can you tell me about Lester Fong?”

  “His death was almost as devastating to me as my father’s. He was my father’s lawyer and best friend. I regarded him as my uncle.” There’s a hint of a reserved smile. “Living in Chinatown, we adopted many aunts and uncles over the years.”

  “Is it possible that somebody may have been out to get him?”

  “That isn’t what happened, Mr. Daley.” I’ve worn out his patience. He pulls his keys from his pocket and pushes the remote door opener.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Alexander Aronis?” I ask.

  He turns to me and gives me a look as if to say, “Are you clueless?” He gets into his car and puts his key in the ignition. “He was one of my father’s competitors.”

  I continue hurriedly before he slams the door. “We’ve heard that he was attempting to procure the services of a professional killer.”

  “I read that in the paper this morning. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Do you know if your father had any contact with Mr. Aronis?”

  “Whether it’s banking, law, or drug trafficking, the pla
yers tend to know each other––at least informally. Most likely, the answer to your question is affirmative.”

  I shoot a frustrated look at Rosie, then turn back to Chin. “Did Mr. Aronis want to take over your father’s business?”

  He closes the door and starts the Mercedes. The automatic window descends an inch. “Every drug dealer in the Bay Area wanted to take over his business,” he says, as if he’s stating the obvious. “Instead of bothering me, you should be talking to the man who took over my father’s drug-distribution business.”

  “Was that Aronis?”

  “No. It was the man who took over Robinson’s construction business: Marshawn Bryant.”

  16/ ALL I KNOW IS WHAT I’VE READ IN THE PAPERS

  Sunday, July 12. 4:37 p.m.

  6 days, 7 hours, and 24 minutes until execution.

  Marshawn Bryant stands at midcourt in the spacious gym of the recently completed Yvonne and Marshawn Bryant Community Center in the heart of the Bayview. The new facility boasts two full-size gyms, a pool, a weight room, five classrooms, a library, and several meeting rooms. The gleaming glass structure provides a hopeful contrast with the crumbling housing projects across the street.

  “Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” I say to him. Rosie is with me. Pete went back to Chinatown to try to find people who were in the vicinity of the Golden Dragon on a rainy night ten years ago.

  “Not a problem,” Bryant says. The owner of Bayview Construction is a tall, athletic man whose meticulously cropped black hair, chiseled shoulders, and unblemished skin make him appear younger than his forty-one years. Clad in a Nike sweatshirt and state-of-the-universe Air Jordans, he looks as if he could hold his own against the Warriors’ starting backcourt. He flashes an engaging salesman’s smile. “Give me just a minute,” he says.

  He blows his whistle and a dozen enthusiastic eight-year-old girls surround him. Their eyes open wide as the charismatic Bryant towers over them like the pied piper. He tells them to break up into small groups to practice free throws. He takes an extra moment to give the smallest girl a few pointers on how to grip the ball. She gives him a passionate high five and joins her teammates.

  A glowing Bryant joins Rosie and me back on the sidelines. “That’s my daughter,” he says. “She isn’t the tallest player, but she has the biggest heart.”

  As a veteran of six seasons managing Grace’s baseball and softball teams, I give him credit for being involved. “Do you have any other kids?” I ask.

  “Our son just turned three.”

  I gaze up at the electronic scoreboard. “Nice place you have here.”

  “Thanks. We’ve needed something like this in the community for a long time. Yvonne and I grew up across the street. We think it’s important to give something back.” He explains that the city donated the land for the facility. His firm donated time, labor, and materials. “We’re very happy with the way it turned out. It gives the kids someplace to go after school.”

  “Do you still live here in the neighborhood?”

  “We live over in Noe Valley.”

  It’s a couple of miles north of here. It’s also considerably more affluent. I keep my tone conversational. “We understand your wife runs an interior design firm,” I say.

  “Yes, she does.” He flashes another proud smile. “Yvonne was written up in San Francisco magazine last month.”

  Quite the power couple. She obviously had something to do with the design of this building, too. “How long have you been married?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Congratulations.” Better than me by a long shot.

  “Thank you.” We exchange banal pleasantries for another moment before his smile disappears. “So,” he says, “what brings you here on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “We were hoping you could provide a little information,” I say. “We understand you used to work for Terrell Robinson.”

  “I did. He was my mentor. He gave me my first job when I was seventeen. He taught me everything I know about the construction business.”

  “How long did you work for him?”

  “Thirteen years. I started as an apprentice carpenter. I had just been promoted to vice president when he was killed. It was a devastating loss.”

  It’s a thoughtful sentiment, but his delivery is a tad melodramatic for my taste. “What kinds of projects are you working on nowadays?”

  He slips effortlessly into sales mode. “Mostly design and build,” he says. “We have relationships with several prominent architects. Most of our work involves commercial space. We also handle residential projects from time to time, which is nice because I can get the wife involved––if you see what I’m saying.”

  I do. He constructs and she remodels. “Would you be interested in helping us renovate our offices?” I ask. We aren’t planning to remodel. I’m curious to see if he would work for a small-time operation like ours.

  “It depends on the scale of the project.”

  “Sounds like you have more work than you can handle.”

  “We do. We’re a qualified minority contractor. We’ve done several significant office projects for the city.”

  That’s nice work if you can get it. Every major construction project for the city requires participation by one or more minority-owned firms. In theory, it’s supposed to spread the work around. In practice, certain politically connected companies frequently get more than their share of the pie.

  He adds, “We try to hire people from the Bayview. We think it’s important to provide opportunities for the children in this corner of town.”

  Even though he’s moved to a more upscale neighborhood like Noe Valley.

  His eyes narrow, and the engaging tone disappears. “So,” he says, “why did you really come all the way down to the Bayview today?”

  Rosie is more than ready to get down to business. “We wanted to ask you a few question about the Fineman case,” she says. “We were brought in to help with the final appeal. Unfortunately, our co-counsel had a heart attack on Friday. He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Sure you are.

  “When did you take over Mr. Robinson’s operations?” Rosie asks.

  “A few weeks after he passed away.”

  “It’s very impressive that you were able to raise the financing to acquire his business so quickly.”

  Bryant tries for an offhand tone. “Mr. Robinson’s bank gave me a loan. Most of his clients asked me to finish their projects. I was familiar with their needs. I appreciated their trust.”

  “Mr. Bryant,” Rosie continues, “it’s been documented that Mr. Robinson had other business interests besides his construction firm. In fact, he ran a lucrative heroin-distribution operation, didn’t he?” She’s looking for a reaction.

  “All I know is what I’ve read in the papers. Those charges were never proven.”

  “He never mentioned it to you?”

  The first hint of defensiveness creeps into his voice. “No, he didn’t. I’m a legitimate businessman. I was not involved in any matters that extended beyond the scope of his construction business. My wife and I have funded several antidrug programs in this building. It’s a huge problem. We’re trying to do our part to stop the flow of illegal drugs into this community.”

  I didn’t expect him to admit that he took over Robinson’s drug cartel. Then again, his denial sounds a little too rehearsed for my taste—especially for a natural salesman like Bryant.

  Rosie glances my way and I take the cue. “Have you ever met our client?” I ask Bryant.

  “Once, when he visited Mr. Robinson’s office.”

  “Weren’t you concerned that your boss was meeting with a criminaldefense lawyer?”

  “It isn’t uncommon for people in the construction business to face civil litigation or even criminal charges from time to time. It’s a cost of doing business. The fact that he was never convicted is a testament to his honesty and integrity.”

  Or that he h
ired a smart lawyer. “Some people think Mr. Fineman was involved in Mr. Robinson’s heroin operation. In fact, it’s been suggested that Mr. Fineman killed Mr. Robinson because he wanted to take over his business.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Rosie reenters the discussion. “Would you mind telling us where you were on the night Mr. Robinson was killed?”

  His polished façade shows a hint of impatience. “I cooperated with the police ten years ago,” he says. “Do we really have to go through this again?”

  Rosie keeps her tone measured. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says. “We’re just trying to fill in some details.”

  “You can find them in the police reports.”

  “We were hoping you might be willing to give us the highlights.”

  He exhales melodramatically. “Yvonne and I were working late on a design project at the office.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “Then, well, if you must know, we ended up at her place. Those were our dating days, as she called them.”

  I might have used a slightly more colloquial term.

  “Were you anywhere near the Golden Dragon that night?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  Rosie ups the ante. “The police told us that a witness saw you in the alley behind the restaurant right after the shootings.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he says calmly. “People make mistakes.”

  “Do you really think he would have been mistaken about seeing an African American man in an otherwise empty alley in Chinatown at one o’clock in the morning?”