MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Was he serious?”

  “Alex never joked about two things: money and murder.”

  She’s clearly prepared to implicate her ex-husband, but it’s still a decidedly mixed bag for us. We could use her to show that Aronis had motive, money, and a propensity for murder. Unfortunately, she’s also likely to further implicate Nate—unless we can show that Aronis hired somebody else. We’ll also have to deal with significant credibility issues. Dr. Death will undoubtedly paint her as a bitter and alcoholic ex-wife who is out to get her ex-husband. Ultimately, it will be Alex’s word against hers.

  “Why are you bringing this up now?” I ask.

  The pride in her eyes is evident as she looks around her store. “I finally thought it was time to clear the air.”

  “This isn’t just some cheap publicity stunt to sell books?”

  “I wrote a self-published memoir with a very limited audience. All the free publicity in the world isn’t going to help.”

  “Would you be willing to testify about what you just told me?” I ask.

  She cocks her head to one side. “How would that help you?”

  It might not. “It raises the possibility that he paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin.”

  “I will also have to testify that he was going to hire your client to

  do it.”

  It’s a risk we may have to take. “We’ll try to show that he paid somebody else.”

  “Lots of luck.” Her eyes narrow. “More important, why in God’s name would I want to help you?”

  That’s a more difficult question. “Because you strike me as someone who is interested in the truth.”

  This elicits a sarcastic glare. “You lawyers are completely full of shit, aren’t you?”

  For the most part. “You also seem more interested in justice than seeing an innocent man put to death––even if his behavior toward you was abhorrent.”

  She quickly corrects me. “I didn’t say your client was innocent.”

  “Does that mean you think he did it?”

  She answers me honestly. “I don’t know.”

  I have only one arrow left in my quiver. “It may be a opportunity to nail your ex-husband.”

  She ponders the possibility for an interminable moment before the corners of her mouth turn up into a wicked smile. “I think we might be able to work something out.”

  Never underestimate the motivational value of revenge.

  29/ HE’S AT SAN QUENTIN

  Tuesday, July 14. 2:27 p.m.

  4 days, 9 hours, and 34 minutes until execution.

  “Where are you?” Rosie asks.

  “On my way to the office,” I tell her. “Is everything calm at home?”

  There’s an edge to her voice. “My mother called and said Grace, Tommy, and Jake are watching DVDs.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary?”

  I can hear the exasperation in her tone when she says, “My house is surrounded by cops. My kitchen is filled with contractors. Other than that, it’s life as usual.”

  I’m driving south on the 101 freeway past the Marin Civic Center. We’ll be going around the clock for the next four days. The struggle will only intensify as the hours wind down.

  “Has anybody been following you?” she asks.

  I glance in my rearview mirror at the unmarked San Francisco police car that’s been following me all day. “Not as far as I can tell. What about you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  My relief is tempered by weariness. It will take a while before my paranoia dissipates.

  “How did it go with Aronis’s ex-wife?” she asks.

  “She’s willing to testify that her ex-husband talked about taking out Robinson and Chin. She said he was prepared to pay for it.”

  “That helps.”

  “Maybe. She also said that he was going to approach Nate about hiring him to kill Robinson and Chin.”

  “That doesn’t help. Did she have any proof that he cut a deal with Nate?”

  “No.”

  “Can she provide any direct link between her husband and the killings?”

  “No. And there are other issues. Her credibility is questionable and her motives are suspect. She may be doing this just to get back at her ex-husband.”

  “Or to get publicity for her book.”

  “It’s a self-published memoir, Rosie. It’s never going to sell a lot of copies.”

  “Sounds like a mixed bag. Besides, it doesn’t get us any closer to freestanding innocence.”

  Rosie is the poster child for cold, hard reality. I ask if she’s heard anything from the courts.

  “The California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit are about to reject our latest petitions. Our papers are already on their way to Washington to the U.S. Supremes.”

  It is customary to make an anticipatory filing with the U.S. Supreme Court when you file your papers in the lower courts. The U.S. Supremes won’t rule officially until the California Supreme Court and the Ninth Circuit have handed down their decisions.

  “The odds are long at the U.S. Supreme Court,” she says. “We have time to file a couple more habeas petitions. We need something new.”

  Swell. “Is there any good news?”

  “Two things, actually,” she says. “First, they finished my kitchen counter this morning. I have a faucet and a sink. I may have running water by tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. What was the second thing?”

  “I did a search of the civil cases brought against East Bay Scavenger. The company was sued by one of its former employees on a wrongful-termination claim. Aronis testified against him. The company ultimately prevailed.”

  Which means the former employee may be looking to get back at East Bay Scavenger or Aronis. “Can you find him?”

  “I already did. His name is Floyd Washington. He’s at San Quentin for selling heroin.”

  It’s a potential connection to Aronis’s drug-distribution business. We need to follow up right away. “What makes you think he’ll talk to us?”

  “I think he’ll appreciate the company of a couple of defense attorneys who might be in a position to try to make his life a little easier.”

  “Didn’t you remind me that we can’t swap legal services for testimony?”

  “We can still talk to him, Mike.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “This afternoon. He isn’t going anywhere.”

  “How much longer does he have?”

  “The rest of his life.”

  30/ YOUR COOPERATION WILL NOT GO UNNOTICED

  Tuesday, July 14. 4:32 p.m.

  4 days, 7 hours, and 29 minutes until execution.

  A dozen news vans are parked haphazardly in the driveways along the narrow road leading to San Quentin as I inch my way toward the east gate. The locals make a few extra bucks by selling their parking spots to the highest bidders. The most desirable locations are the driveways that are free from overhanging branches, which could interfere with satellite transmissions. The media mob has set up an encampment just outside the gate. The dearth of hard news has left most reporters with little to do except speculate and take turns filming background footage in front of the grimly photogenic San Quentin State Prison sign, which is conveniently placed directly in front of the building that houses the execution chamber.

  Rosie and I meet in the parking lot. Despite the lack of sleep, she still looks great as we shove our way through the crowd of reporters and shout the usual platitudes about Nate’s innocence, then go through the time-consuming procedures to gain entrance to the prison grounds. Inside the walls, the days leading up to an execution feel like the week before the Super Bowl. The air is filled with tense anticipation. In reality, little really happens unless you’re one of the direct participants in the big event. The prisoners must endure lockdown conditions until the process plays its course. Rumors about final appeals and last-minute clemency deals become a form of entertainment. Certain inmates with a morbid strea
k and an entrepreneurial bent go so far as to make book on the possibility of a stay––with bets being paid in cigarettes. Such activities are strictly forbidden, of course. But the authorities have more important concerns and often turn a blind eye. One of my clients once collected a year’s supply of Marlboros when an execution was called off at the final hour. It didn’t do much for his health, but the win left him in good spirits.

  We’re escorted to the visitors’ area for the general population, which is separate from the space reserved for the condemned. The guards express surprise when we tell them that we’re here to see Floyd Washington instead of Nate. The dreary room with gray walls and a cracked linoleum floor has the same ambience as Little Joey’s currency exchange. One of my clients once observed that the Plexiglas windows and mismatched chairs resemble the private viewing area in the adult theater that he frequented––until he was arrested, that is.

  We have to communicate with Washington through the Plexiglas divider via a marginally functional wall phone. Our conversation will be conducted under the steady gaze of two armed guards and may be recorded.

  Washington glares at us through the bulletproof shield. Aronis’s former employee is an angry African American man whose rippled muscles and massive torso place a significant strain on his tattered jeans and tight-fitting cotton shirt. His head is shaved. His arms are covered with tattoos. It comes as no surprise that our reception is somewhat south of cordial.

  “Who the hell are you?” he barks into the phone.

  “My name is Michael Daley,” I tell him. “This is my law partner, Rosita Fernandez.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Nice. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

  He probably hasn’t spoken to an attorney in years. “What’s his name?”

  “Forget it. He won’t return my calls.”

  “He might if we call him. We’re representing Nate Fineman.”

  He grips the phone more tightly. Attorneys for the condemned have a slightly higher stature in the prison hierarchy in the weeks leading up to an execution. Such fame tends to be short-lived. Your stock can plummet precipitously if your client is executed.

  He invokes a marginally more civil tone. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “I don’t know anything about Fineman.”

  “We want to ask you a few questions about Alex Aronis.”

  He pauses. “What’s in it for me?”

  “We’ll put in a good word with the warden. Your cooperation will not go unnoticed.”

  “What are you going to do if I don’t talk? Throw me in jail?”

  It’s a legitimate observation. We have limited leverage. “You know we can’t make any promises,” I say.

  “I’m stuck in this shithole for the rest of my life. You want something from me, but you can’t make any promises?”

  That’s the gist of it. “We’ll try to find somebody to help you.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “We have a client who is scheduled to be executed on Sunday morning.”

  “Then you’d better come up with something for me before then.”

  Rosie takes the phone from me––just the way we’d planned it. A man who has been incarcerated for a decade may be somewhat more likely to listen to reason when it’s articulated by an attractive woman.

  “We’ll find someone to help you,” she tells him calmly.

  Washington becomes engaged. Rosie is pressing the phone to her ear and I can barely make out his words. “Why the hell should I trust you?” he asks.

  “When was the last time you had a visitor?” she says.

  “Six months ago.”

  “It’ll be another six months unless you help us.”

  “Your partner said you can’t make any promises.”

  “Let’s cut the crap, Floyd. We have a client who has an appointment with a needle on Sunday morning. I looked at your case file. You may have some legitimate grounds for appeal. You can take a chance with us or you can wait for a lawyer who doesn’t return your calls.” She leans toward the glass. “We’re the only game in town.”

  His eyes dart from her face down to her breasts and then back up. “Are you really going to talk to somebody?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He considers his options for a long beat. “Not good enough,” he finally decides.

  Rosie nods to me and we stand; then she turns back to Washington. “We don’t have time for bullshit, Floyd,” she tells him. “The warden knows where to find us if you change your mind.” With that, she places the phone into its cradle. She turns and walks toward the door.

  Her hand is on the doorknob when we hear banging against the Plexiglas. I can’t hear him through the divider, but I can read his lips. “Wait!” he shouts.

  Rosie takes her own sweet time walking the three steps back to the Plexiglas. She picks up the phone and begins speaking quietly to him. They talk for a couple of minutes. Then the guard comes up from behind Floyd to cuff him and lead him away. I give Rosie an inquisitive look. Fully aware that the room and the phones are wired for sound, she leans forward and places her lips against my right ear. “I’ll tell you about it outside,” she whispers.

  31/ I WOULD RATHER NOT BASE OUR FINAL APPEAL ON THE TESTIMONY OF A CONVICTED FELON

  Tuesday, July 14. 5:15 p.m.

  4 days, 6 hours, and 46 minutes until execution.

  “All right,” I whisper to Rosie. “Give.”

  We’re standing in the neatly landscaped area just outside the oddly shaped little building that houses the execution chamber. It’s hard to imagine that the nondescript structure made of locally hewn limestone can generate the level of anger, controversy, and division that it does.

  Rosie glances at the armed guards who are awaiting authorization to let us enter the Row to see Nate. “We have to find Washington a lawyer,” she whispers to me.

  “Do you really think he has a chance on appeal?” I ask.

  She arches an eyebrow. “I have no idea.”

  Huh? “You just told him you’d read his case file.”

  “Where would I have gotten it?”

  “You lied?”

  “I needed to get him to talk. I’ll try to find somebody who can look into filing an appeal for him.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “I’ll deal with it myself.”

  This isn’t an ideal time to reprimand her for taking on work for a client who can’t afford to pay us. “What did he tell you?”

  “He was a crew chief for Aronis.”

  “Trash or drugs?”

  “Both.”

  “Who supplied them?”

  “Terrell Robinson.”

  “Aronis wouldn’t have arranged a hit on his own supplier,” I observe.

  “They had a falling out. Aronis had to find a new guy.”

  “Anybody whose name I would recognize?”

  “Marshawn Bryant.”

  Hello again. It’s another connection—if we can somehow fit the pieces together. “The guy who looked us straight in the eye and insisted he’s never been involved in the drug business?”

  “One and the same.”

  “You were able to get a lot from Washington.”

  She winks. “I can be very persuasive—especially when I’m talking to a desperate man.”

  I’m familiar with her powers. “Bryant worked for Robinson,” I observe. “You’re saying he went into competition with his boss?”

  “Evidently, he was doing some freelancing on the side.”

  All’s fair in love, war, politics, and drug dealing. “Is it possible that Aronis and Bryant got together to set up the killings?”

  “They already knew each other, but they’ll deny it. We have no hard evidence.”

  “What about Aronis’s ex-wife?”

  “She still thinks Aronis approached Nate. She can’t finger Bryant. Besides, her moti
vation and credibility are questionable.”

  Terrific. I ask her if Washington is willing to testify.

  “I think so. I would rather not base our final appeal on the testimony of a convicted felon who will be here for the rest of his life.”

  Neither would I. My mind races into overdrive. “Why didn’t Washington cut a deal to testify against Aronis?”

  “Because Aronis had already made his own deal to testify against Washington. Evidently, Washington was pocketing some of the drug money that he was supposed to pay over to Aronis. Guys like Aronis don’t like to get ripped off by their own people, so he decided to teach Washington a lesson.”

  “Did it involve broken limbs?”

  “He came up with something more creative. Aronis set up a bogus heroin sale. He made sure the cops were tipped off.”

  “He set up his own guy?”

  “Yeah. It was brilliant. He turned Washington in and was the star witness at his trial. He made sure everybody knew that he’d crossed him. Washington got fired and went to jail. He still believes Aronis bought off the cops and the prosecutors.”

  “Did Aronis think of this scheme by himself?”

  “Nope. According to Washington, our client did.”

  32/ IT ISN’T ENOUGH

  Tuesday, July 14. 5:30 p.m.

  4 days, 6 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

  “Did you find anything?” Nate asks. His staccato delivery reflects a higher sense of urgency. His hair is disheveled and his face is red.

  “We’re looking into some new possibilities,” I say. He listens attentively as I brief him on our plans for another round of habeas petitions. “We’re going to try to prove the current procedures aren’t administered uniformly.” I purposefully leave out any use of the words execution, death penalty, and capital punishment. “We’re also going to claim that Wendell Tsai has new and exculpatory information based on his discussions with his brother.”

  “It’s inadmissible hearsay.”

  “We’re still going to try.”

  “Do it faster,” he says.

  Duly noted. A somber Ilene Fineman is sitting next to her husband. Rabbi Friedman stands and gives us a pensive look. Rosie is next to the door. I’m sitting at the wooden table.