MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  He’s still talking. “In order to remain competitive in the new millennium, I try to focus on strategic goals and new markets. I think it’s important to do some forward thinking. Since I took over management of the company, most of our growth has come from branching out into nonconventional areas.”

  I wonder if he’s referring to the sale of heroin. He sure talks a good game. I’ll bet he likes to quote pithy articles from airplane magazines.

  “Have you ever thought about selling the company?” I ask.

  He shakes his head vigorously. “I have no intention of retiring, Mike. I think it’s important for my children to work hard and develop a sense of personal responsibility.”

  It’s a refreshingly old-fashioned sentiment––even if it’s bullshit. I sometimes wonder how my dad would have reacted if I’d told him I wanted to become a cop. It probably would have killed him on the spot. I don’t have time to reminisce. “We’re representing Nate Fineman,” I say.

  “I know.” He pours himself a Perrier. “Nate was one helluva lawyer. I still can’t believe he killed those people.”

  His admiration seems genuine enough—for now. “How well did you know him?”

  “Pretty well. We had him on retainer. He helped us with several cases.”

  “Criminal cases?” I ask.

  “I prefer to think of them as unsubstantiated and baseless accusations.”

  So do all of my clients. “What were the charges?”

  He dismisses me with the back of his huge hand. “People in the garbage business get hit with bogus claims all the time. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they’re completely false.”

  And every once in a while, they turn out to be true. I try again. “What were the charges?”

  His jowls quiver as he starts shaking his head again. “You name it, pal: money laundering; check kiting; financial fraud; tax evasion; payoffs; kickbacks; intimidation. Once they tried to get me for trying to hire somebody to kill someone. That was a bunch of crap.”

  “How about drug dealing?”

  “That’s more recent and equally baseless.”

  Of course. “I take it nothing was ever proven?”

  “None of the cases ever got to trial. The charges were bogus, and Nate was an excellent lawyer.”

  Clients judge defense attorneys by a single criterion: whether we get them off. “I understand you’re currently under investigation by the Alameda County DA.”

  “More crap, bud. They’re saying I tried to buy off a couple of members of the Oakland City Council. I make plenty of money without doing that kind of stuff. Besides, they’ll never be able to prove it.”

  To guys like Aronis, you haven’t done anything wrong until somebody proves it beyond a reasonable doubt in court, they lead you off to San Quentin, and your appeals are denied. “I understand you’re also a real estate entrepreneur.”

  “You bet.” His chest pumps out as he glances at a large schematic drawing of a condo complex in Aspen. “It’s like playing Monopoly with real money.”

  I wouldn’t know. “Nate told us that he invested in one of your projects in Vail.”

  “He did.” He’s smart enough to know that he shouldn’t volunteer any information.

  “He almost defaulted, didn’t he?”

  “He paid his debt. That was the end of it.”

  Not quite. “We heard you had to lean on him.”

  “We had a couple of telephone conversations. Guys like Nate can’t be intimidated.”

  “I understand Nate’s wife wasn’t happy about the deal.”

  The semipermanent frat-boy smile finally disappears. “She paid it just the same.”

  “Do you know anything about the events at the Golden Dragon?”

  “Just what I’ve read in the papers.” He quickly adds, “I was in Las Vegas that night.”

  “Did you know about the meeting beforehand?”

  He laughs a little too hard. “Are you kidding? Guys like Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin didn’t consult me about their business operations.”

  “There aren’t a lot of secrets,” I say.

  “I’m not in the loop, I guess.”

  I ask him if he ever met Marshawn Bryant.

  “I’ve known him for years. He managed the build-out of these offices. He’s an excellent contractor.”

  It’s a connection. I didn’t realize they had a long-standing professional relationship. “Was he working for Robinson when you first met?”

  “Yes. Terrell was one helluva contractor.”

  Evidently, he was also one helluva heroin dealer. “Did you know that he was also in the drug business?”

  He tries to impress me with a solemn nod. “Not until it all came out during Nate’s trial.”

  He’s full of crap. “You know that Bryant took over Robinson’s contracting business.”

  “Of course.”

  “Some people whose opinions I respect think he also took over Robinson’s drug-distribution operation.” They also think you tried.

  He shakes his head emphatically. “Can’t help you there, bud. I don’t know anything about it.”

  On to the main event. “I understand you were married to a woman named Patty Norman.”

  “I was. We both grew up in Piedmont. Her family was in the cement business. Our parents were friends.”

  “How long were you married?”

  His large face rearranges itself into a scowl. “Eighteen challenging years.”

  “I’ve been reading a lot about you in the papers the last couple of days. Your ex-wife has made some serious accusations.”

  The last vestiges of gregariousness disappear as his tone turns somber. “Patty is a frustrated, angry woman who needs to move on with her life.”

  “What caused the breakup?”

  “We grew apart. It happens.”

  He doesn’t want to talk about it. “Nate tells me you had her committed to rehab.”

  “I had no choice,” he says emphatically. “Her drinking got out of control. It was very difficult for all of us––especially the kids.”

  “She claimed you hired somebody to take out Robinson and Chin.”

  He flashes an incredulous look. “Absolutely false. It’s ridiculous. It’s a last-ditch attempt to smear my name. I thought she had finally put the past behind her when she opened the bookstore––now she pulls this stunt. I’m thinking of bringing legal action against her for slander.”

  “And her insinuation that you’re involved in the drug business, too?”

  “Also absolutely false. I’ve helped set up several drug-education programs here in the East Bay. Our company has mandatory drug testing for our employees that’s far more rigorous than the steroid-testing program in professional baseball. I’ve had offers to sell this company that run into nine figures. I don’t need to do anything illegal to make big money.”

  Forgive me if I’m skeptical. “So you’ve never been convicted of a crime?”

  “Not even a parking ticket.”

  “How about your employees?”

  He pushes out a derisive sigh. “We’re in the garbage-collection business, Mike. We can’t afford to hire people with doctorates from Stanford. We have a firm policy that we terminate any employee who is convicted of a crime––no questions, no discussion.”

  “Have you ever been sued in a civil case?”

  “Everybody gets sued. It’s a cost of doing business.”

  That much is true. I’m fishing for somebody with a grudge who might be willing to talk to us. “Have you ever lost one?”

  “What does that have to do with your case?”

  “Nothing. I was just curious if Nate ever lost a civil case for you.”

  “Nope. That’s why we hired him—he won.”

  Yes, he did. It also gives me an idea.

  # # #

  “I have a hunch about Aronis,” I tell Rosie. My cell phone is plastered against my ear. The sun is hitting my face as I walk down Franklin Street in downtown Oakl
and, toward the lot where I left my rental car. “Let’s see if we can find somebody who might be willing to give us some inside skinny about his organization.”

  “You’re looking for a snitch?” Rosie asks, her mood uplifted.

  I might have used a slightly more diplomatic term. “Yeah.”

  “That would rule out Aronis’s children,” she says. She loves this stuff.

  “It doesn’t rule out former employees. Aronis said his company has been sued a couple of times. Let’s check the filings against East Bay Scavenger to see if any employees were named. Maybe somebody got fired and has a grudge. We should also cross-reference the names of the former employees against the inmate rosters at some of California’s nastier prisons.”

  “Why would they talk to us?”

  “Have you ever known an inmate who wouldn’t talk to a defense lawyer?”

  “We can’t swap legal services for testimony.”

  “There’s nothing that would prevent us from talking to a potential new witness.”

  “Right, Mike.”

  “Did you get our papers filed?” I ask.

  “Yes. According to my sources at the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit, the current betting is that the courts aren’t crazy about the argument that death by legal injection is cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “We’ll see. Did you hear anything from Dr. Death about the missing file?”

  “He hasn’t found it, but he sent over a sworn statement from Fitz describing its contents. Bottom line: Internal Affairs found no evidence of any wrongdoing. For the record, everybody was cleared.”

  Big surprise. “Did you hear anything from Nick Hanson?”

  “He’s scouring Chinatown for leads on Jasmine Luk.”

  The law-abiding citizens of Chinatown are being subjected to a full frontal attack by Nick the Dick and his offspring.

  “Where are you going next?” Rosie asks.

  “To find Patty Norman,” I say. “I want to see how her story lines up with her ex-husband’s.”

  28/ HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMEBODY TO HANDLE A ‘DELICATE MATTER’

  Tuesday, July 14. 12:37 p.m.

  4 days, 11 hours, and 24 minutes until execution.

  I extend a hand to Aronis’s ex-wife. “I’m Mike Daley,” I say.

  Patty Norman responds with a firm handshake and a feisty attitude. “I know who you are,” she says. “What took you so long? I thought you’d be here two days ago.”

  She’s sitting behind the counter of her tiny bookstore in downtown Petaluma, a bucolic burg about thirty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Its main drag, Kentucky Street, looks much the same as it did fifty years ago, except the feed stores have given way to boutiques, restaurants, and a popular multiplex movie house.

  When I opened the door to Iron Woman Books, I expected to find a meek librarian type wearing a cable-knit sweater. Instead, I found a statuesque brunette who stands six-two and looks as if she could do laps around people half her age. Her long brown hair cascades down her back. Her skin is creamy. Her trim figure has the toned muscles of a professional athlete.

  Iron Woman Books is squeezed inside a tight storefront where the floor-to-ceiling stacks are jammed with an eclectic assortment of new and used volumes emphasizing women’s issues, physical fitness, and new age topics. Somehow, she’s managed to fend off the chain stores that have sprung up in the vicinity. The walls are covered with photos of Patty as she’s finishing various grueling triathlons all over the world. In a less than modest attempt at self-promotion, her window display has a poster of her recently released self-published memoir, the cover of which shows her arms upraised as she finished the Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii last year.

  “I’d like to buy a copy of your book,” I tell her.

  She sits up taller. “You’d like to talk about the Fineman case.”

  “That too. Can I still buy a book?”

  She flashes a charismatic smile. “Of course.”

  “Will you sign it for me?”

  “Absolutely. How would you like it inscribed?”

  It wouldn’t be a good idea to ask her to write a note to Nate. “To Mike and Rosie,” I tell her as I hand her the cash. She signs a copy and gives it to me. “What made you decide to write a memoir?”

  Her expression turns thoughtful. “I had something to say to women in abusive relationships.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t take any shit from anybody.”

  “Good advice. I understand you went through some hard times with your ex-husband.”

  “I did. After what Alex and your client put me through, it’s a miracle that I’m here. Doing triathlons is cathartic. Writing the book was therapeutic.”

  “Tell me about your ex-husband,” I say.

  “He’s an asshole.” Her long hair moves rhythmically as she talks. “It’s a wonder our marriage lasted as long as it did. He treated me like living shit. I should have left him before things got out of hand.”

  She certainly seems willing to sling arrows at her ex. Hell, she wrote an entire book about it. My goal is to keep her talking long enough to see if she’ll reveal anything that we can use. “What caused the breakup?” I ask.

  “How much time do you have?”

  “I’m not in any rush.” Although I have a client who’s scheduled to die in four days.

  “He was possessive and jealous. You can add manipulative and mean-spirited to the list. He cheated. He lied. He was abusive to the kids. Do you want more?”

  “I get the idea.”

  “I’m not sure you do. When my father lost his business, I lost my job and my mother had a nervous breakdown. Alex’s idea of being supportive meant having an affair with his secretary. A divorce wasn’t enough. He wasn’t satisfied until he had me locked up like an animal. The truly sick part is that he seemed to enjoy it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” She points her pen toward me and adds, “Your client wasn’t any better. He came up with the idea of having me put away. I was dealing with depression and alcoholism when he hired a couple of male hookers to flirt with me so they could get some compromising photos. How low can you get? Compared to Nate Fineman, Alex’s divorce lawyer was Mother Teresa.”

  “You seem to be doing okay nowadays.”

  “I am. I’m proud of this store. It’s helped me regain my dignity. It’s a meeting place for people who are trying to work their way through destructive relationships. I’m donating the profits from my book to the Sonoma County Women’s Shelter.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “There’s more to life than money.”

  Tell me about it. “Do you have any contact with your children?”

  “A little. Alex did everything he could to turn them against me. He convinced them that I was a drunk and an unfit mother. He took them into his business. He pays them a lot of money—in part to keep them away from me.” She exhales heavily. “Despite his influence, they’ve turned out pretty well. I always see them on Mother’s Day. I’m proud of them. I just wish I could have had a bigger part in their lives.”

  I genuinely feel for her. “I understand your ex was involved in the distribution of heroin in the East Bay.”

  There is no hesitation. “He still is. I’ve been waiting for the cops to nail him for years.”

  “I talked to him earlier today. He denied any involvement in the drug business.”

  “What did you expect? He’s an exceptionally accomplished liar.”

  I need to push her. “He’s never been convicted.”

  “He’s always hired good lawyers––especially your client.”

  “How do you know that he’s still involved in the drug business?”

  “Money and the power are like drugs to him.”

  “Jerry Edwards claims you told him that your ex was looking to hire somebody to take out Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin at the Golden Dragon.”

  “That’s true. It was befo
re our marriage really went to hell. We were still on reasonably civil terms.”

  “Didn’t it bother you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you do something about it?”

  She gives me an incredulous look. “What was I supposed to do? Call the cops and tell them my husband was going to hire a killer to take out two competing drug dealers?” She pauses to regain her composure. “In that respect, maybe I was part of the problem, too. I could have done something to stop him. I’m not especially proud of it.”

  “Exactly what did he tell you?”

  “He said he was looking for somebody to handle a ‘delicate matter.’”

  “I take it that was a euphemism for committing a crime?”

  “A murder.”

  I stand corrected. “Are you saying he killed three people?”

  “Absolutely not.” She laughs derisively. “He never would have done it himself. Alex hates to get his hands dirty.”

  “But he was prepared to pay somebody else to do it?”

  “You bet.”

  “That’s a very serious accusation.”

  “It was a serious matter.” Her voice fills with resignation. “You’ll never be able to prove it. Alex was very good at covering his tracks.”

  “Why did he come to you for the name of a hit man?”

  “His contacts in organized crime weren’t interested. He was looking for someone in disorganized crime––punks, hoodlums, and thugs.”

  Not unlike most of the clientele of Fernandez and Daley.

  “I worked for my father’s cement business,” she continues, “where I met some pretty marginal characters. I knew some people who were willing to do anything for the right price.”

  “But you didn’t help him?”

  “Of course not. I told Alex that I wasn’t interested in getting involved in some half-baked murder-for-hire scheme.”

  “And that was that?”

  “Not entirely. He told me that he was going to talk to your client about working out an arrangement.”

  “What sort?”

  “He didn’t say, but reading between the lines, it was clear to me that he intended to talk to him about killing Robinson and Chin.”

  “How much was he willing to pay for it?”

  “A million dollars.”