“Maybe.” He uses his fork as a prop to gesture. “It never made sense to me. Nate was a great lawyer. Not a popular guy, but somebody you’d call if you got in serious trouble. He didn’t need the money. He didn’t want to run a drug ring. The cops went after him because he made them look bad in the Posse case. There’s no way that he killed those people. N-F-W. No fucking way.”
I get the message. “He had some debts,” I say.
“He owed some dough to the Garbage King of Oakland. B-F-D. Big fucking deal. His wife paid it. He didn’t kill three people for the money.”
“Jerry Edwards claims Aronis was going to forgive Nate’s debt if he agreed to blow away his competition.”
The piece of calamari that’s been sticking to his right cheek for the last ten minutes finally falls harmlessly to his plate as his face transforms into a pronounced frown. “Edwards is full of shit. If Aronis really wanted to kill those guys, he would have hired a professional hit man. Lawyers are notoriously unreliable killers.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a dig. “Aronis’s ex-wife has a different take.”
“Patty Norman is a nutcase. It was all a setup.”
I always feel like the straight man when I’m talking to him. “By whom?”
“If I knew the answer, Nate would be home playing with his grandchildren.”
I got a similar response from Mort. “We’re trying to prove the cops planted the gun.”
“So did we, but we didn’t get very far. They closed ranks.”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“Over the years, I’ve learned that almost anything is possible.” He takes a long drink of his wine. “Unfortunately for you, it will be almost impossible to prove.”
“I hear Aronis isn’t such a solid citizen, either.”
“Indeed he is not. He supplemented his garbage business with real estate investments. Some of them went south, so he supplemented them with drug money. He was a small-time drug runner who wanted to break into the big time. He hated Robinson and Chin.”
“Did he know about the meeting at the Golden Dragon?”
“Everybody who was anybody in the drug world knew about it. They were waiting to see how Robinson and Chin would split the pot.”
“You’re saying Aronis had motive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Was he anywhere near Chinatown that night?”
“Absolutely not. He was in Vegas.”
“He could have contracted it out.”
“Anybody could have contracted it out. You have five days to prove it.”
My mind races. “Did Aronis ever use muscle in his trash business?”
“Indeed he did.”
“Any chance he sent one of his enforcers to the Golden Dragon?”
“There’s a chance.”
“Any idea where we might start to look?”
“Take your pick: San Quentin, Folsom, Pelican Bay, Chino.” He takes a sip of his espresso. “Lots of luck. First, you have no evidence that Aronis sent somebody over there. Second, even if he set it up, your chances of finding the triggerman are nonexistent. Third, the crime scene wasn’t the work of some punk from East Oakland. Some idiot off the street would have killed Nate, too.”
“Are you saying somebody was trying to frame Nate from the start?”
He shakes his head. “That seems unlikely. There’s no way the killer could have known that Nate was going to jump out the window and go down the fire escape. A more likely scenario is that it was a crime of opportunity.”
“By whom?”
“Somebody who knew how to stage a crime scene. They found a perfect set of prints on the gun that was carefully placed underneath his body to avoid contamination.”
“Does that mean you think it was the cops?”
He arches a bushy gray eyebrow. “It means you’ll never be able to prove it.”
“Why didn’t Aronis take over the San Francisco heroin business after Robinson and Chin were killed?”
“He got pushed out by a guy named Marshawn Bryant. He took over Robinson’s business and muscled out Chin.”
“Why haven’t the cops busted him?”
“He’s smart.”
“We talked to him yesterday. He said he was an honest businessman who was nowhere near the Golden Dragon that night.” I’m looking for a reaction.
“He’s a liar who is one of the biggest heroin distributors in town.”
“Do you think he’s also a murderer?”
“I couldn’t prove it.”
“Did he know about the meeting at the Golden Dragon?”
“He must have. He was Robinson’s right-hand man.”
“Is there any way of placing him in Chinatown that night?”
“N-F-L, Mike. Not fucking likely.”
“A man named Eugene Tsai told the cops that he saw an African American man in the alley behind the Golden Dragon. Did you ever talk to him?”
“No, but I talked to his brother after Eugene was killed. The brother told me that Eugene saw an African American man in the alley, but he couldn’t identify him. The brother also told me that a woman named Jasmine Luk was in the alley with Eugene.”
“Did you ever talk to her?”
“Nope. According to my sources, she told the cops that she didn’t see anybody in the alley. She disappeared after Eugene was killed. We tried to find her, but she vaporized.”
And Nate was convicted of capital murder. “Do you think Luk was killed, too?”
“Maybe. They never found a body.”
I lay it on the line. “Do you think Bryant was involved in Tsai’s death and Luk’s disappearance?”
“Maybe. We couldn’t prove it.”
Which takes us back to square one. “Lou Cohen recently contacted Tsai’s brother,” I tell him.
“I know.”
Huh? “How do you know?”
“Because Lou asked me to track him down.”
“You were working for Lou?”
“Indeed I was.”
24/ IT WAS A VERY BRIEF ASSIGNMENT
Monday, July 13. 11:30 p.m.
5 days and 31 minutes until execution.
“How long were you working for Lou?” I ask Nick.
“It was a very brief assignment,” he says. He’s powering through his second piece of cheesecake. “He called me a few days before he died. He asked me to get him an address and phone number for Wendell Tsai.”
It explains how Cohen got Wendell’s address and phone number. “Did you talk to Tsai?”
“Nope.”
“Did Lou also ask you to try to find Jasmine Luk?”
“We never got that far.”
“Why didn’t they call Wendell Tsai as a witness at the trial?” I ask.
“He had nothing to offer. His brother couldn’t identify anybody in the alley.”
“He could have talked about Luk.”
“She was already long gone. Besides, she told the cops that she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”
Even if we track her down, there is no guarantee that she’ll be willing or able to identify anybody in the alley ten years later. “Do you have any idea where we might find her?”
“Not a clue.”
It may be another dead end. I ask him if he knew anything about the IA investigation.
“Everybody was cleared.”
“Do you think there is any realistic possibility that the cops planted the murder weapon?”
He pulls off the napkin that’s been hanging around his neck. “I don’t know, Mike.”
“Do you think the cops covered for each other?”
“I wouldn’t know. I understand they investigated your father.”
“They did.”
“I read that he was also the last guy who had his hands on the IA file.”
“He was. It doesn’t mean he took it.” I realize I sound too defensive as I say it.
“I didn’t say he did. You have to admit, though, that it does
n’t look so good.”
“I know.”
“For what it’s worth, he had a reputation as a solid cop.”
“That’s true.”
“The same can’t be said about his partner at the time.”
“So I’ve heard. Did you get anything on Little Joey?”
“He was a cowboy.”
“Enough of a cowboy that he would have set up Nate?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t get to the Golden Dragon until after the shooting was over.”
“He could have been involved in a cover-up.”
“Be careful. If you make that accusation, it will also implicate your father.”
We sit in silence for a long moment. Our waiter brings over the check. Nick reaches for it, but I pull it away from him. “Dinner is on me,” I say.
“You’re a good man,” he says, wiping his chin.
Some people still think so. I take a sip of coffee and send up a final flare. “My brother is stretched a little thin. Any chance you might be willing to help us for a few days?”
“Standard rates?”
“Absolutely.”
He smiles. “Indeed I am.”
“Do you know anybody else who spoke to Jasmine Luk?”
“Just Carl Yee.”
What? “The undercover cop?”
He corrects me. “The retired undercover cop. He went with Roosevelt when he interviewed Luk.”
Neither Yee nor Roosevelt mentioned it.
25/ THAT’S WHY YOU CALLED AT THIS HOUR?
Tuesday, July 14. 12:45 a.m.
4 days, 23 hours, and 16 minutes until execution.
Roosevelt answers his cell phone on the first ring. “Is something wrong at home?” he asks.
“No,” I reply.
“Is Grace okay?” The concern in his voice is genuine.
“Yes.” I’m trying to juggle my cell phone, a bottle of water, and the steering wheel. I’m heading north on Doyle Drive toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “I just talked to Nick Hanson. He said Carl Yee was with you when you talked to Jasmine Luk.”
“That’s why you called at this hour?”
“I have a client who has an appointment with a needle in four days.”
“I brought Carl along to interpret, but Luk spoke English.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“It was irrelevant.”
“She saw an African American man in the alley, running away from the crime scene.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She couldn’t have missed him. She was standing next to Eugene Tsai.”
“Evidently she did.”
“She lied to you because she was scared.”
“I had to accept what she told me.”
“How do you know that she wasn’t killed like Tsai?”
There’s a pause. “I don’t,” he says softly.
“What happened to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need more from you, Roosevelt. She may be the key to proving that an innocent man is going to be executed on Sunday.”
I hear him take a deep breath. “She outran a full-blown police dragnet. We finally concluded that she was an illegal alien who was afraid she’d be deported if she came forward. Obviously, we were disappointed that we couldn’t find her.”
So are we.
# # #
“It’s 1:00 a.m.,” Yee snaps.
“I knew you’d be up,” I reply. I’m paying you to be awake and guarding Wendell Tsai at this hour.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“The Golden Gate Bridge. Where are you?”
“Tsai’s room.”
Right where he’s supposed to be. “All quiet on the western front?”
“Yep.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Somebody was watching Tsai at Brandy Ho’s tonight. Middle-aged Asian male. Dark hair. Medium build.”
“That covers half of Chinatown.”
“I know.”
“I understand you talked to a witness named Jasmine Luk.”
“I did.”
“I’m told she was with Eugene Tsai on the night of the shootings.”
“She was.”
“And that she saw an African American man running through the alley.”
“Nope.”
“Tsai’s brother said she saw him.”
“That isn’t what she told me.”
Damn it. “Why didn’t you mention it?”
“She said she didn’t see anything.”
“You told me you weren’t involved in the Fineman case.”
“I wasn’t. Roosevelt asked me to come along to interpret. It turned out that Luk spoke English. She said she didn’t see anybody in the alley. That’s all I know.”
It’s consistent with Roosevelt’s version. “Then why did she leave town?”
“She was friends with Eugene. She got scared.”
“Didn’t you offer her protection?”
“Yep. She bolted anyway. May have been here illegally.”
“Did she have any relatives or friends in the area?”
“She had an aunt in Oakland. The aunt didn’t know where she went.”
Or the aunt was trying to protect her. “Did you consider the possibility that the aunt withheld information?”
“Yep.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“Do you recall the aunt’s name?”
“Nope.”
If she’s out there, we’ll find her.
# # #
A moment later, I hit the speed dial on my cell phone. I’ve already pissed off Roosevelt and Yee. I might as well add one more name to the list. My night can’t possibly get any worse, and I can’t worry about hurt feelings.
“Jerry Edwards,” the tired voice answers.
“It’s Mike Daley.”
The Chronicle’s finest coughs ferociously. “Did you find the file?”
“No. Did you?”
“Of course not. Why the hell are you calling at this hour?”
You called me at the same time last night. “Does the name Jasmine Luk mean anything to you?”
“Supposedly, she was with Eugene Tsai in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.”
“Why didn’t you mention her when we talked?”
“She never testified.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Nope.”
“Eugene Tsai saw an African American man in the alley just after the shooting stopped. So did she.”
“That isn’t what she told the cops.”
“Nick Hanson thinks she lied.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I can do without the sarcastic tone. “Maybe we can get her to change her story.”
“You’ll have to find her first.”
“I understand she may have been an illegal alien.”
“I heard the same thing.”
“Is that why she disappeared?”
“Could be. It may also have had something to do with the fact that her friend Eugene got stabbed a dozen times after word got out that he had talked to the cops.”
True enough. “Evidently, she had an aunt in Oakland.”
“She did.”
“Did you ever try to track her down?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have a name?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“The knowledge that you’ve fulfilled your duties of journalistic integrity.”
“Not good enough.”
“I’ll give you an exclusive interview with my client.” I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. It may be the fastest way to find Luk’s aunt. As a practical matter, I can always renege on the deal.
“The aunt’s name was Amanda Wong,” Edwards says. “She ran a print shop in Oakland.”
If she’s out there, we’ll find her. “I’ll make the arrangements for the interview,” I tell him.
# # #
“This case is a nightmare,” Rosie says. She’s sitting on her sofa at
one-thirty on Tuesday morning. The combination of stress and fatigue is starting to take its toll. She’s eating a slice of leftover pizza as she proofreads a draft of yet another habeas petition. In a conspicuous show of firepower, a Larkspur squad car is sitting in her driveway. An unmarked San Francisco police cruiser is in the alley. One of Pete’s best operatives is in a car down the block, next to the plainclothes cop whom Roosevelt assigned to follow me. A smaller crew has assembled around the corner in front of Jake’s house. “We’re living on Domino’s and working on a case we can’t win in a house that’s an armed fortress––without a kitchen. This is insane.”
I’m sitting at the opposite end of her couch. A flip response will not play well. “It’s the best we can do for now.”
“I want to find the asshole who took that picture. We can’t do it sitting here.”
“We aren’t going to play cops and robbers. Roosevelt will find him.”
“He damn well better. I hate this.”
“So do I.”
Sylvia walks in from the kitchen, a heavy frying pan in her right hand. “How much longer are we going to be prisoners in this house?” she asks.
“Less than a week,” I tell her.
“And if you actually manage to get a stay of the execution?”
“We’ll figure it out when the time comes.” Maybe we’ll start digging a moat.
“What if I want to go to the store?”
“The cops will escort you.”
“We’re giving in to the bad guys.”
“It’s better to play it safe.”
“And if Grace wants to see Jake?”
“We’ll talk to the cops about it,” Rosie says.
“She isn’t going to like it.”
“I know.”
Sylvia swings the pan ominously. “If anybody tries anything, I’ll nail him.”
It isn’t an entirely idle threat. Sylvia knocked a man unconscious when he tried to break into her house about ten years ago. It made the Mission District paper and got her a little airtime on Channel Seven. Nobody’s tried it again.
“Hopefully,” I say, “that won’t be necessary.”
My ex-mother-in-law gives me a defiant look. “Bring them on.”
Rosie shakes her head in bemused disbelief. “We all feel much safer now, Mama.”
“In that case,” Sylvia says, “I’m going to bed.” She makes a dramatic display of swinging the lethal pan as she walks down the hall toward Grace’s bedroom.
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