MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

“Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “It was irrelevant. She didn’t provide any useful information.”

  “Tsai’s brother said she walked home with Eugene and saw the same black man in the alley.”

  “Not according to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She said she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She was so scared that she fled.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Mike.”

  I can feel my right hand squeezing into a tight fist. “You aren’t telling me everything, Roosevelt.”

  “I’ve told you everything that I can.”

  “What haven’t you told me?”

  “Nothing.”

  My face is turning red. “There were two witnesses in the alley who saw the same black man. You didn’t mention either of them to me.”

  “They provided no evidence that we could use.”

  “How can you withhold information less than a week before an execution?”

  He folds his arms. “You can’t expect me to do your job for you, Mike.”

  “Did the police plant the murder weapon?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  We stare at each other in silence for a long moment. “Do you have any idea what happened to Jasmine Luk?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “She just disappeared into thin air?”

  “As far as we could tell.”

  I look into the eyes of my father’s old partner. “Doesn’t this bother you?”

  “We did all that we could, Mike.”

  We haven’t. “Any chance you could spare an unmarked car to keep an eye on my backside?”

  “Probably. Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes. Just as soon as your people are in place to guard this house.”

  “Is Rosie okay with that?”

  “She doesn’t want me hovering around here. It makes everybody nervous.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Pete and I are having dinner at the Golden Dragon.”

  22/ MY COUSIN VINNY

  Monday, July 13. 7:38 p.m.

  5 days, 4 hours, and 23 minutes until execution.

  “Party of two?” Vincent Hu asks in a modulated voice, looking at us over the top of a pair of thin Calvin Klein reading glasses. Jeff Chin’s cousin is a meticulously dressed man of indeterminate middle age whose custom navy suit, powder blue shirt, and pressed kerchief exude understated professionalism. He’s standing behind the ornate podium inside the entrance to the Golden Dragon.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  The glasses come off. “Right this way.”

  He escorts us through the inviting space that’s decorated with intricate figurines of mythological winged beasts. Pete and I are enveloped in the aroma of spring rolls, broccoli beef, shrimp in lobster sauce, and Peking duck. The Golden Dragon is one of San Francisco’s finest Cantonese restaurants. It’s also its most notorious––a reputation that evolved long before the deaths of Terrell Robinson, Alan Chin, and Lester Fong. In 1977, a long-standing feud between two Chinatown gangs––Joe Boys and Wah Ching––boiled over into a botched assassination attempt in this very room. The dispute erupted after the Wah Ching had vandalized the graves of members of the Joe Boys. The surviving Joe Boys descended on the Golden Dragon––a Wah Ching stronghold––seeking vengeance. None of the Wah Ching were injured, but five innocent bystanders were killed and eleven others were hurt. The incident came to be known as the Golden Dragon Massacre. The attendant publicity took a significant toll on the restaurant’s business and Chinatown’s tourist trade. It led to the formation of the SFPD’s Gang Task Force, which has been a model for similar units in other cities.

  The dinner crowd is beginning to arrive as Pete and I take our seats in a red booth in the spacious dining room on the ground floor. “Your waiter will be with you momentarily,” Hu tells us in unaccented English. He undoubtedly also speaks several dialects of Chinese. We accept his offer of tea. He quickly motions to a busboy to bring us water. “Would you care for forks?” he asks. The Golden Dragon’s clientele is made up mostly of locals, but it also caters to the tourist crowd.

  “No, thank you,” I say. “Jeff Chin said you might be able to help us.”

  The mention of his cousin’s name elicits a wary look followed by a rehearsed smile. “I am always happy to help friends of my cousin,” he says.

  Well, if you’re offering. “My name is Mike Daley. This is my brother, Pete. We’re handling the final appeal for Nathan Fineman.”

  The smile disappears. “It is my pleasure to meet you,” he lies. “Welcome to the Golden Dragon.”

  Ever the consummate host. “We were hoping you would show us where Mr. Fineman met with Mr. Chin’s father.”

  Hu purses his lips for an instant. “There is nothing of interest in that room. It has been used as a storage area for many years.”

  I’d still like to see it. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, we’d appreciate it if you’d let us take a quick look.” I can’t imagine he’s going to make us get a subpoena.

  He glances at the line forming at the podium. “This is our busy time,” he says. “I would be happy to show it to you a little later.”

  It seems unlikely that he’ll run upstairs and rearrange the room. I opt for politeness. “Thank you, Mr. Hu. If you have just a moment, we’d like to ask you a couple of questions about what happened that night.”

  His eyes dart toward the line and then back to us. He’s savvy enough to understand that it would be unwise to appear unhelpful. There is also the matter of seating his patrons. “It was a long time ago,” he says.

  It was also an event that he would prefer to forget. “Please, Mr. Hu?” I say.

  He responds with a slight grimace. “Very well,” he says.

  “Were you here when the trouble started?”

  “No. I left around midnight. Mr. Chin arrived a few minutes before I went home. I asked him to lock up for me after his meeting was concluded.”

  “Was anyone with him?”

  “Just Mr. Fong.”

  I ask him if it was his policy to entrust his business to non-employees.

  “Mr. Chin was my uncle and a cousin of the former owners. He dined here regularly. He used the room upstairs for meetings. We always obliged him when he requested access to the restaurant after hours. As family, he was afforded some special privileges. He brought us a substantial amount of business. So did Mr. Fong.”

  Sort of like the high rollers in Vegas. They also undoubtedly provided substantial gratuities to the owners and the staff for their service. On to the matters at hand. “Are you aware that your uncle was suspected of engaging in illegal activities?”

  The first hint of defensiveness creeps into his voice. “I am not a lawyer, Mr. Daley. Those charges were never proven.”

  “Were you familiar with his operations?”

  “He had banquets and family celebrations here.”

  Not the answer to my question. “Did you know that he was meeting another drug dealer that night?”

  “I read about it in the papers.”

  It’s another evasive answer. “Did you know about it beforehand?”

  He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “My uncle valued his privacy. We respected his wishes. I really must take care of our customers. I will take you upstairs after you enjoy your dinner.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “It would be my pleasure to order for you. Our chef does an exquisite Peking duck.”

  It would be impolite to refuse. “Sounds great,” I say, hoping he can put it together quickly. Despite the lovely surroundings, Pete and I have no time for a leisurely dinner.

  I watch him closely as he returns to the podium. He ignores the line that now extends out the door. He picks up the phone, punches a number and glances
in our direction as he speaks. He listens intently and nods several times. His expression turns somber. Then he hangs up the phone and begins to seat his patrons.

  Pete and I wolf down our five-course feast in twenty minutes. Hu reappears as we’re finishing our Peking duck. “I trust everything was to your satisfaction?” he says.

  “Yes,” I reply. “Thank you very much. We’ll take the check, please.”

  “That will not be necessary. Your dinner is courtesy of Mr. Chin.”

  It’s been a long time since the son of a man who was allegedly murdered by one of my clients bought me dinner. I protest to no avail. “Please express our deepest gratitude,” I say.

  “I will. He also asked me to extend his regrets for his abrupt behavior when you met him yesterday. He hopes he did not offend you.”

  We accosted him in a parking lot to question him about the man who was convicted of murdering his father. Now he wants to apologize to us? Interesting. “There are no hard feelings.”

  “I will inform him.”

  “Did you speak to the police officers who secured the scene?”

  “Yes. We cooperated fully.”

  “Did you know any of them?”

  “Yes. Many of the officers who work in the area are regular customers.”

  My dad used to say that you can always tell a good restaurant by the number of black-and-whites parked outside. “Do you recall seeing any of them in the restaurant earlier that night?”

  “I am afraid not, Mr. Daley.”

  “Did you notice anything suspicious in the days leading up to the meeting?”

  There’s a hesitation. “No, Mr. Daley.”

  I probe for a few more minutes. He has precious little information to share. Finally, I say, “Would you mind showing us the room upstairs?”

  He responds with another practiced smile. “Of course, Mr. Daley.”

  Way too easy. “Thank you, Mr. Hu.”

  # # #

  “What was that all about?” Pete asks.

  At nine-thirty on Monday night, we’re standing beneath the fire escape from which Nate Fineman fell and broke his back. The only illumination in the alley comes from a single streetlamp that casts an eerie glaze on the heavy fog. If Nate had fallen today, he would have landed in a Dumpster emitting a putrid smell of leftovers from tonight’s dinner.

  “Hu was too accommodating,” I say.

  “I’m well aware of that,” Pete says. “The question is why.”

  In addition to giving us a free dinner, he took us for a guided tour of a packed storage room on the third floor where three people–– including his uncle––met a violent end. It was jammed full of old kitchen equipment, tables and chairs, sacks of rice, and the remnants of a remodeling project that was finished years ago. He showed us the painted-over window through which Nate leapt to the fire escape. He pointed out the still-functional bathroom down the hall where Nate supposedly planted the gun. Finally, he took us down the narrow stairway that led from the meeting room to the alley. He said it was customary for Chin’s guests to arrive through the back door.

  “He wanted to appear cooperative,” I say to Pete. “He knows we’ll be back if we think he’s trying to hide something.”

  “Why did Jeff Chin buy us dinner?”

  I plant my tongue firmly in my cheek. “He’s a generous soul who is trying to appear forthcoming.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I ask Pete if he thinks Hu was working for Chin’s organization.

  “He didn’t strike me as the type who would have been selling drugs on the street. He probably made the restaurant available to Chin whenever he asked. Drug lords have a lot of free time. I’m sure he was getting a nice gratuity for being discreet.”

  No doubt. “Did you notice anything about the meeting room?”

  “The door opened directly into the hallway leading to the back stairway. It means the murderer––assuming it wasn’t our client ––probably came in the back door and left the same way. Presumably, the door would have been guarded unless somebody paid off the security people.”

  It’s always helpful to get the impressions of a former cop. “What about the bathroom?”

  “It had an old-fashioned toilet with a very small tank. There was no cabinet under the sink. It would have been very difficult for Fineman to have hidden a gun.”

  23/ NICK THE DICK

  Monday, July 13. 10:00 p.m.

  5 days, 2 hours, and 1 minute until execution.

  Antonio LaTona was born in Palermo more than six decades ago into a family that cooked on Italian ocean liners. At the age of seven, he was apprenticed to a master art restorer who specialized in churches. He moved to San Francisco as a young man and opened Caffé Sport in the heart of North Beach in 1969. Antonio furnished the two narrow rooms with his own artistic creations. He painted and carved every table and chair, tiled surface, and enameled pot. Majolica tiles and brightly colored paint cover the walls. He brings the same perfectionism to his cuisine. His seafood and handmade Sicilian pastas are covered with carefully selected Italian cheeses, shrimp, scallops, lobster, zucchini, and, most important, garlic.

  Over the years, the curmudgeonly Antonio has become a Sicilian version of Seinfeld’s fabled Soup Nazi. His mercurial management style has filtered down to his waiters, who have developed their own reputation for surliness. In fairness to Antonio and his people, it’s all a matter of understanding the context in which the restaurant operates. For more than thirty years, Antonio has created, selected, and prepared the entire menu. The waiters––fellow Sicilians and protective family members ––know how much attention he gives to every dish. If Antonio can’t find the ingredients or the time on a given evening to prepare a dish on the menu to his demanding standards, the waiters simply tell their patrons it isn’t available. You can never go wrong if you listen to them.

  Nick “the Dick” Hanson and I are sitting at his regular table in the corner of Caffé Sport at ten o’clock on Monday night. The diminutive octogenarian’s rubbery face rearranges itself into a wide smile. He’s chewing a prawn on the left side of his mouth as he speaks to me out of the right. “Nice to see you again, Mike,” he croaks in a voice that is somewhere between Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart. He looks a little like Robinson, only he’s considerably thinner. We had no reservation. We got in just the same because Nick isn’t just a regular––he’s an icon who has been patronizing Antonio’s establishment since day one. He may be the only person outside Sicily who truly comprehends the proprietor’s moods.

  “Same here, Nick,” I say. I tried to persuade him to meet me at his office over on Columbus Avenue. He wouldn’t hear of it. I just finished my first dinner of the night at the Golden Dragon. If you want to meet with Nick, you have to eat with Nick. Pete got the better end of the deal. He went home to check on his wife and daughter and to make sure his operatives are keeping Rosie’s house under guard. True to his word, Roosevelt arranged for a police officer to keep an eye on me. Antonio wasn’t too happy about the black-and-white that’s parked in the valet zone in front of his restaurant. It won’t be there for long––this dinner will have to be short. It’s late and there is still so much to do.

  “You’re looking a little ragged,” Nick says. His meticulous attire is always perfect. I must look like a charity case.

  “It’s part of the drill when you’re in the last week of a death-penalty appeal,” I say.

  “Indeed it is.”

  “How’ve you been?” I ask. It’s an essential part of the rite. I have to give him an opportunity to expound upon his latest accomplishments, his medical report, and his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, most of whom work for him.

  “Just fine, Mike,” he tells me. “I had a little surgery on my knee after I ran the Bay to Breakers. It’s going to be okay. I just started working out at the Bay Club again.”

  I find it hard to picture the nattily dressed man sitting in front of me chugging away on a StairMaster a
t the upscale gym across the street from the Fog City Diner. My spies tell me he’s there four days a week. Nick used to play ball with Joe DiMaggio on the North Beach Playground, and he’s still a remarkable physical specimen. As always, he’s sporting a custom-tailored Brioni business suit with a fresh boutonniere on his lapel. His new toupee is more serviceable than stylish, though still reasonably attractive. It’s closer in hue to his black suit than to the few remaining strands of his natural hair. In traditional San Francisco style, he’s pulled his large cloth napkin up over his chartreuse tie and starched white shirt.

  He takes a long drink of the house red wine, then he powers down the remnants of his Scampi Prawns all’Antonio. He looks at the small plate piled high with prawns that he’s just passed over to me. “Aren’t you going to eat them?” he asks.

  I glance at my watch. “I’m not that hungry,” I understate.

  He points a chubby finger at me. “Your body takes care of itself for the first fifty years. After that, you have to make an effort.” He gulps down his wine and adds, “You need protein.”

  I shovel down a few of the prawns. Then he asks our waiter to bring out a platter of Calamari all’Antonio that’s big enough for six. He castigates me until I eat my share. I’m about to explode from my second helping when Nick finally decides it’s time to turn to business. “How’s Nate?” he asks.

  “Not so good. Putting aside the fact that he’s scheduled to be executed in a week, he’s in a wheelchair and his kidneys are failing.”

  “Why the hell are they so hot to execute a dying man?”

  “It’s the law.”

  “It’s idiotic.” He motions to the waiter to bring him an espresso and a piece of strawberry cheesecake. “I’m trying to get my strength back after my surgery,” he explains.

  “With cheesecake and coffee?”

  “They’re two of the major food groups.”

  “I understand that you were the PI on the Fineman case,” I say.

  “Indeed I was.” His eyes light up. “Mort Goldberg hired me. He was still a real lawyer back then. That was before he decided to become a talking head on TV. What a waste of talent.”

  “I had a long talk with him yesterday. He thinks Nate is innocent.”