MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  I turn back to Rosie. “I wouldn’t mess with her,” I say.

  “Neither would I.”

  “Are you all right?” I say.

  The crow’s-feet at the corners of her dark eyes become more pronounced as she frowns. “Somebody is taking pictures of our daughter and smashing the windows of our cars. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed off. I’m most definitely not all right.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Her eyes flash. “Remind me to rip your lungs out the next time you bring in a last-minute death-penalty appeal.”

  “Deal.” I take her hand in mine. “Do you want to withdraw?”

  She responds with the resolute expression that I’ve found intimidating and irresistible for the last twenty years. “No, I want to find out what really happened at the Golden Dragon. Somebody is going to a lot of trouble to try to keep us from doing that. I want to know why.”

  “Maybe we should pick another battle, Rosie.”

  “We’re taking this one to the finish, Mike.”

  That’s the end of the discussion.

  She closes the brief. “We’ll file with the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit at nine o’clock,” she says. “We’ll have papers ready to go to the U.S. Supremes if we’re rejected.”

  “What are we arguing this time?” I ask.

  “That the Sodium Pentothal doesn’t always work properly, which could lead to excruciating pain. Bottom line: death by lethal injection is cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “Is there any hope they’ll buy it?”

  “A little. There are some new studies that suggest that the Sodium Pentothal doesn’t always make the defendant lose consciousness completely. We’re also going to claim that it’s illegal to kill a dying man. We’ll argue that he’s entitled to reasonable medical care.”

  “Our theory is that by killing him, they’re depriving him of medical attention?”

  “Essentially, yes. Unfortunately, there isn’t any case law on point.”

  It’s a creative, albeit somewhat circular, argument.

  “Realistically,” she says, “our appeals are going to be long shots unless we can find some new evidence or the courts decide they’re in the mood to make some new law.”

  “N-F-L,” I say.

  She smiles knowingly. She’s read all of Nick’s books. “Did you and Nick have a good dinner?”

  I would have appreciated it more if I hadn’t stuffed myself at the Golden Dragon an hour beforehand. “Indeed we did.”

  “Knock it off.” She listens attentively as I fill her in, then pronounces her judgment. “There’s nothing that will get us a stay.”

  “What about Tsai’s claim that his brother saw an African American man in the alley that night?”

  “There was no positive ID. Besides, it’s also uncorroborated hearsay.”

  “We’ll have to try.”

  “We will. It doesn’t prove freestanding innocence by itself.”

  “We’ll also try to find Jasmine Luk.”

  She glances at her watch. “Where are you planning to start?”

  I’m going to try to track down Luk’s aunt. Then I’m going to meet with Alex Aronis and his ex-wife.”

  Rosie nods. “It would help if we could place Bryant in the alley that night.”

  The unyielding voice of reality. “There are only about a hundred thousand African American men who fit his description in the Bay Area.” I look around her silent living room. “How is Grace?”

  “She’s more worried that she won’t be able to spend time with Jake than she is about getting herself killed. I talked to Jake’s parents. I suggested that their son may want to steer clear of our house for a few days. Maybe you can explain the gravity of the situation to our daughter. I can’t make her listen.”

  “She’s fourteen, Rosie.”

  “Believe me, I know. Nowadays, I get a lot more out of Tommy than I do from her.”

  “That’s what being the parent of a teenager is all about.”

  “I’m trying to keep things low-key. If all else fails, we could ground her––it’s for her own good.” She yawns. “She thought she heard somebody outside her window about an hour ago. The cops descended upon our backyard with everything they had.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “My neighbor’s kitten.”

  “I trust they let her go with just a warning?”

  “They did.”

  I lean over and take her hands in mine. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Nobody is going to intimidate us.” A sideways grin crosses her face. “Besides, if anybody tries something funny, they’ll end up on the business end of my mother’s frying pan.”

  26/ SHE WAS SCARED

  Tuesday, July 14. 9:30 a.m.

  4 days, 14 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

  It doesn’t take long for Pete to track down Jasmine Luk’s aunt. Sunshine Printing is a high-tech operation housed in an old building on Webster Street in Oakland’s Chinatown. It publishes Chinese-language phone directories, menus, and coupons for the local businesses. A dozen employees are manning state-of-the-art computers and noisy, industrial-strength printers. The smell of photocopier ink hangs in the cold, dry air.

  The petite woman with short gray hair eyes me suspiciously from behind the counter. She strikes me as the sort who hasn’t missed a day of work or taken a vacation in forty years. She’s wearing a tidy blue house dress. Her reading glasses hang from a simple gold chain. I’d guess she’s in her sixties, from the depth of the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes.

  “How may I help you?” she shouts over the sound of the machines.

  I extend a hand. “My name is Mike Daley,” I say. “This is my brother, Pete. We’re looking for the owner.”

  “I’m Amanda Wong.”

  I look around. “How long have you been in business?”

  “My family started this business seventy-five years ago,” she says proudly.

  Oakland’s crowded Chinatown is a modest stepcousin to its more famous counterpart across the bay. The working-class community is a combination of mom-and-pop businesses, restaurants, low-rise tenements, and modern apartment buildings, all within a few blocks of the 880 freeway. Except for the computers and a fresh coat of bright blue paint, Sunshine Printing probably hasn’t changed much since World War II. It fends off competition from larger, national operations by focusing on the needs of the Chinese-speaking community.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” she asks in perfect English. She was giving instructions to her staff in Chinese when we walked in.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  A burly young man appears from behind a row of printers. He surveys the situation and responds with protectiveness. “Is there a problem, Mother?”

  She touches his arm. “Let me handle this, George.”

  The dutiful son takes the hint and returns to the printers. The fact that she spoke to him in English suggests she has nothing to hide. In all likelihood, it also means she has nothing useful to tell us.

  I spot a collection jar packed with bills on the counter. A handwritten note in English and Chinese says that an effort is under way to raise money for medical treatment for the girl whose photo is taped to the jar. I pull a twenty from my wallet and stuff it inside. It’s a good-faith gesture of concern and an attempt to curry favor.

  I get the grateful nod from Amanda that I was hoping for. She reminds me of Sylvia. “That’s very kind of you,” she says. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “We represent Nathan Fineman,” I say.

  “I recognized you. I saw you on TV last night.”

  So much for the element of surprise. “We were hoping you might be able to help us locate a woman named Jasmine Luk. We understand she was your niece.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Actually, she was my great-niece.”

  I gingerly ask, “When was the last
time you saw her?”

  Her eyes dart toward Pete, and then back to me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “We think she may have some information about the Fineman case.”

  Her lips form a small ball as she measures her words. “I can’t help you.”

  “Could you tell us the last time you saw her?”

  She absentmindedly fidgets with the ballpoint pen that she’s been clutching since we arrived. “Almost ten years ago.”

  There’s no way to ask the next question delicately. “Do you know if she’s still alive?”

  Her eyes fill with a pronounced sadness. “I’m not sure, Mr. Daley,” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “What can you tell us about her?”

  “Jasmine was a beautiful, intelligent girl who was born in China. She was only twelve when we brought her to America with her mother.”

  “And her father?”

  “He never made it here.” She doesn’t elaborate. “Jasmine and her mother stayed with me for a short time when they first arrived. Then they moved to San Francisco, next door to my cousins. Jasmine’s mother worked at my cousin’s grocery store on Stockton Street. Jasmine picked up English quickly.”

  “Can we talk to her mother?”

  “No. She took sick shortly after Jasmine graduated from high school. She passed away a few months later.”

  “How about your cousins?”

  “I’m afraid they’re gone, too, Mr. Daley.”

  “I’m so sorry. Did Jasmine move in with your cousins after her mother passed away?”

  “No, she kept the apartment. We offered to help her with the rent, but she was very independent. She found a job at the Chinese Hospital and took classes at State. She wanted to be a nurse.”

  “We understand she knew a man named Eugene Tsai.”

  “They worked together at the hospital.” She anticipates my next question and quickly adds, “They were just friends.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No. Jasmine was more interested in school than boys. She spent most of her time working and studying.”

  I start fishing. “We’ve been told that her apartment was across the alley from the Golden Dragon Restaurant.”

  “It was.”

  “We understand she walked home with Eugene on the night that three people were killed at the restaurant.”

  “She did.”

  “We’ve also been told that they saw an African American man in the alley who may have been involved in the shootings at the restaurant.”

  Her tone turns more adamant. “She didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The police asked her about it. She told me that she didn’t see anybody in the alley.”

  “We understand she left the area shortly after the events at the restaurant.”

  “Jasmine left after Eugene was killed,” she says. “She was scared. I don’t blame her. Somebody must have threatened her.”

  “Who?”

  “She never told me.”

  Or you won’t tell us. “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  There is a hesitation. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “We had some distant cousins back in China.”

  “How would she have gotten there?”

  “She was very resourceful.”

  It will be almost impossible to find her there. “Do you still keep in touch with the cousins?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley. I was terribly upset when she left. We hired a private investigator to try to find her. He couldn’t.”

  “Would you mind giving us the name of the investigator?”

  “He’s dead, Mr. Daley.”

  I try another angle. “The police told us that there were problems with Jasmine’s papers.”

  She tenses. “Jasmine came into this country legally. You can look up the records.”

  We will. “Was she a U.S. citizen?”

  “No.”

  “Did she have any other relatives in the Bay Area?”

  “Just my cousins in San Francisco.”

  “Our client is scheduled to be executed on Sunday,” I say. “Do you have any idea where we might find her?”

  There is a quiver in her voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Daley.”

  “We can protect her.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  Pete leans across the counter and plays a hunch. “Ms. Wong,” he says, “has anybody else been asking about her lately?”

  Her thin lips turn down. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He pushes a little harder. “Did somebody threaten you?”

  “No.”

  “We can protect you, too.”

  She’s now visibly agitated. “That won’t be necessary.”

  He slides a business card toward her. “If anybody asks about her, would you mind giving me a call?”

  She stares at the card for a long moment. “Yes.”

  # # #

  “That didn’t help,” I say to Pete. We’re standing in front of his rented white Ford Taurus, which is parked around the corner from Sunshine Printing.

  “You weren’t paying attention,” he says.

  “You think she knows where her great-niece is?”

  “I think she knows more than she told us.”

  “Then why didn’t she say something?”

  “Somebody got to her, Mick. Or maybe she was trying to protect her great-niece.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Rosie believes Pete is endowed with supernatural powers. In my opinion, he’s just an astute observer of human nature. “How do we find out if you’re right?”

  “Let me watch her.”

  “We have only four days until the execution. I need you to watch Bryant.”

  “I’ll have somebody else take care of him.”

  “You’re supposed to be helping Nick Hanson look for witnesses in Chinatown.”

  “Nick can take care of it himself. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “You aren’t going to do anything illegal, are you?”

  He responds with a crooked smile. “Of course not, Mick. That would be wrong.”

  27/ I PREFER TO THINK OF THEM AS UNSUBSTANTIATED AND BASELESS ACCUSATIONS

  Tuesday, July 14. 10:02 a.m.

  4 days, 13 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

  “Nice place you have here,” I say to Alex Aronis. I’m trying to sound reasonably genuine.

  “Thanks, Mr. Daley,” he replies. The garbage king of the East Bay is a big, gregarious man who once played offensive line at Cal. He now leads cheers on the sidelines at the football games. His wide face, flat nose, full head of gray hair, and enormous jowls evoke a grandfatherly air.

  The world headquarters of East Bay Scavenger Service is on the twentieth floor of one of several nondescript steel-girder office towers that sprang up in downtown Oakland in the eighties and nineties. The new buildings obliterated much of the character of the once thriving shopping and business district adjacent to Lake Merritt, an urban oasis for over a century. Entire blocks have been bulldozed to make way for hermetically sealed office towers that are surrounded by asphalt parking lots.

  “It’s Mike,” I tell him.

  He extends an enormous paw. “Alex,” he says. “Are you a Cal guy?”

  “You bet.” It couldn’t hurt to soften him up with a little rah-rah.

  “Good man, buddy.”

  I’m always leery of people who pepper their speech with words such as buddy and pal. “Go Bears,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  “Go Bears.”

  I’m as much of an Old Blue as the next guy, but I’m relieved when he doesn’t break into a rousing rendition of “Sons of California.” I sit back in my chair and admire his expansive office—a tribute to trash collection, sports,
and himself. The walls are lined with photos of Aronis with Reggie Jackson, José Canseco, Mark McGwire, Tony La Russa, Al Davis, and Jeff Tedford. His immaculate mahogany desk is reserved for pictures of his two sons and six grandchildren. Conspicuously absent are shots of his ex-wife. Also missing are photos of his father and grandfather, who built the company he inherited.

  “How long have you worked here?” I ask him. It won’t take much to get him started. He’s a talker.

  “Since I was a kid, Mike.” He looks like a basset hound trying to please. “My family is the living embodiment of the American Dream. My great-grandfather emigrated from Greece. He started this company in the early part of the last century. He ran it for fifty years, then my grandfather took over. My dad followed him. I’m an only child. It was a foregone conclusion that I would run the business. Both of my kids work here, too.”

  Putting aside the smarmy clichés and the jingoism, the essence of the message is probably true. “I take it you grew up around here?”

  “In Piedmont. I still live there.”

  The leafy enclave on the north side of Lake Merritt became a separately incorporated municipality in 1907 when its wealthy residents decided they didn’t want to fraternize with the common folk in Oakland and Berkeley. By the 1920s, it had more millionaires per capita than any other city in America. The affluent burg still maintains its own schools, firefighters, and police force. Though most of the original estates have been subdivided, it still boasts some of the most expensive homes in the Bay Area.

  I resist the temptation to ask him if his company sells heroin to the students at Piedmont High. I look at the fully stocked wet bar and the polished conference table. I nod with feigned awe toward the life-size portrait of himself that he’s had mounted on the wall opposite the flat-screen TV. “When did you move into this office?” I ask.

  “Shortly after my father died, about fifteen years ago.”

  “So he ran the business from the garage?”

  “Yeah. He always said it was important to keep an eye on things. Nowadays, we have too many employees to run the operation from there.” He winks and adds, “Besides, my kids like to work in more pleasant surroundings––if you know what I mean.”

  I do. People who inherit their businesses frequently don’t like to get their fingernails dirty.