I address the rabbi. “I think it may be better if we speak to Nate in private.”
Nate answers for him. “I keep no secrets from my rabbi.”
“There are privilege issues,” I tell him.
The rabbi removes his glasses and uses them to gesture. “I am not going to testify against Nate,” he says.
“The prosecutors can send you a subpoena.”
His large chin juts forward. “They can’t make me testify.”
“They can hold you in contempt.”
“I already hold them in contempt. I’m prepared to deal with the consequences.”
Nate can’t pace, so he starts rocking in his wheelchair. He’s been unfailingly upbeat every time I’ve spoken to him. Now the façade is showing a few cracks.
“I need to ask you some hard questions,” I say.
Nate shoots a quick glance toward Ilene, then turns back to me. “Fire away.”
“Aronis’s ex-wife claims Aronis was going to offer to pay you a million bucks to kill Robinson and Chin.”
“That’s crazy.”
“She pulled this whole story out of thin air?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“Alex never talked to me about it. He may have discussed it with her, but he never discussed it with me.”
I don’t have time for parsing. “Why, pray tell, did she come forward now?”
“It’s a golden opportunity to nail her husband—and me.”
“She may be willing to testify that her husband was trying to hire somebody to kill Robinson and Chin. That could help us.”
“She’ll also point a finger at me. I’ll be left hanging out to dry.”
“Unless we can prove he paid somebody else to do it.”
“Like who?”
“Bryant.”
“Do you have any evidence to that effect?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you’d better find some.”
“We were hoping you might be able to point us in the right direction.”
“If I had the goods on Bryant, I wouldn’t be here.”
I take a deep breath. “We also talked to one of your neighbors.”
“Somebody from St. Francis Wood?”
“Somebody from the West Cell Block. Does the name Floyd Washington ring a bell?”
He nods. “He worked for East Bay Scavenger. He was convicted of selling heroin from his truck.”
“He told us he was dealing for Aronis, who got his inventory from Robinson and then Bryant.”
His face twists into a frown. “Alex has never been convicted of dealing drugs,” he says.
“Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not. I’m just stating the facts.”
My hands start to shake in frustration. “Aronis is a bad guy. He wouldn’t hesitate to throw you under a bus to save his own ass. I don’t understand why you’re covering for him. He sure as hell wouldn’t do the same for you.”
He lifts himself up to his full sitting height. “Alex was never convicted of selling drugs. I have no evidence that he had anything to do with the events at the Golden Dragon.”
“Give us something to work with, Nate.”
“I’m not going to make some wild accusations about a former client and friend. Besides, the courts aren’t going to accept the word of a woman who has a grudge against her ex-husband and me, or a convicted felon who will say anything to get out of here.”
“It’s new information,” I say.
“It isn’t enough to prove freestanding innocence.”
The room fills with intense silence. Ilene takes her husband’s hand and whispers softly to him. The resignation in his colorless face says more than any words.
# # #
Rosie and I regroup in my rented car in the San Quentin parking lot at six-thirty on Tuesday evening. The local TV stations have completed their early newscasts. The reporters and cameramen mill around a short distance from where we’re sitting. I can see the fog rolling toward Berkeley. My mood matches the gray sky.
Rosie punches the End button on her cell phone. Her voice sounds fatigued. “My mother says everything is quiet over at the house.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, it is.” She gets a serene look in her eyes as she watches the seagulls fly overhead. I’m always amazed by her ability to notice simple beauty during moments of great stress. She snaps back to reality. “I’m not going to be able to sleep until we find the person who delivered that picture of Grace and Jake to my house,” she says.
“Neither will I.” My cell phone rings and I answer it.
“It’s Pete,” the voice says. “How soon can you get across the bridge?”
“Twenty minutes,” I say. “Why?”
“I just got a call from one of my operatives. Marshawn Bryant just walked into Little Joey’s currency exchange.”
33/ ARE YOU THREATENING US?
Tuesday, July 14. 7:02 p.m.
4 days, 4 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.
Rosie and I drive separately from San Quentin to the nearby Larkspur ferry terminal, where I park my rental car and get into Rosie’s Civic. Traffic is heavy as she weaves southbound on the 101 freeway through Corte Madera. An unmarked San Francisco police cruiser is keeping its distance behind us. I use the opportunity to eat an energy bar and gulp down a bottle of water. For the next few days, my diet will consist of products that you can purchase at your local gas station.
“Why is Bryant at Little Joey’s office?” Rosie asks.
“He isn’t there to cash a check,” I say.
My cell phone rings again as we’re heading down the Waldo Grade. “It’s Tony Popovich,” the husky voice says. The Mission District cop was an all-city offensive guard when I was a running back at St. Ignatius. He moonlights as a subcontractor for Pete. “Bryant and D’Amato left the currency exchange a few minutes ago. Bryant was heading toward his office. Joey went over to Shalimar for dinner.”
I tell him that we’ll be there as soon as we can, then hit the End button. I turn to Rosie and say, “Got a taste for Pakistani food?”
“Absolutely.”
# # #
The traffic gods smile upon us, and our trip to the Tenderloin takes only twenty-five minutes. We find a parking space on Jones Street, two doors from Shalimar, a scruffy hole-in-the-wall with rock-bottom prices and the ambience of a truck stop. Rosie and I nod to Popovich, who is hunkered down in his dented Dodge van across the street. The unmarked police car that’s been following us pulls in behind him.
We push open Shalimar’s metal door and are met by the aroma of exotic spices. The floor is checkered linoleum, the tables are better suited for poker than for dining, and the chairs are secondhand Wal-Mart specials. Modern Pakistani music blares from the open kitchen. You place your order at the counter and carry your food to your table––if you’re lucky enough to find one. The customers range from a Pakistani softball team to a group of button-down yuppies trying to appear hip by dining downscale on lamb chops, skewered chicken, and flatbreads stuffed with onion and potato. I order the palak aloo methi, a stew with spinach and herbs. Rosie opts for the chicken korma, a spicy curry with tender meat that falls off the bone.
Little Joey is leaning over a plate of skewered lamb at a table in the corner. “What now?” he snaps as we approach him.
“Nice to see you, Joe,” I say.
“I thought you were trying to stop an execution.”
“We still have to eat.”
His rodentlike eyes gleam. “How long have you been watching me?”
“What makes you think we’re watching you?” I say.
“I saw Tony Pop outside. I know he works for your brother.”
Busted. Rosie and I pull up a couple of chairs. “Mind if we join you?” I ask.
“Do I have any choice?”
“No.”
He sets down his fork. “Why are you harassing m
e?” he asks.
“You were one of the first officers at the scene,” I say. “You’re the only person who can give us firsthand information.”
“Your father and I got there after the shooting stopped.”
“Then give us the name of somebody else who got there before you did and we’ll get off your back.”
“Dave Low was already securing the scene.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.” He wipes his lips with his napkin and tries to change the subject. “Did they find the IA file?”
“No.”
“Did your father take it?”
“Of course not. The log said he checked it back in.”
“It doesn’t prove that he did.”
“It doesn’t prove that he didn’t. Your name was on the log, too. What did the report say?”
He shoves another helping of lamb into his mouth. “The charges that somebody planted the gun were crap being spread by the defense lawyers. We were cleared.”
Rosie takes a bite of bread and tries another direction. “How long have you known Marshawn Bryant?” she asks.
He looks up as he pauses to think about it. “About eight years.”
“We understand you got together with him earlier this evening.”
“I did.” He looks down at his plate for an instant, then looks back up. He starts talking faster. “He handled the build-out of my business. I’m expanding my space. I asked him to submit a bid. He’s a good contractor.”
It’s a convenient explanation. I decide to see if I can get a reaction from him. “Were you guys talking about our case?”
“Nope.”
“Some people think Bryant is involved in drug dealing.”
He’s becoming more agitated as he sets his fork down. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Have you ever met a man named Alex Aronis?”
“Nope.”
“His ex-wife claims he’s running a big-time heroin-distribution operation in the East Bay. He was hot to break into the San Francisco market. She claims he was looking for somebody to take out Robinson and Chin. She said Aronis was going to talk to Nate about it.”
“You really think Aronis paid Fineman to pop Robinson and Chin?”
“We think he paid somebody else to do it—like Bryant.”
He takes a big bite out of a roll. “That’s bullshit.”
“Are you sure about that, Joe?”
His beady eyes form tiny slits. “Yes.”
“Did you ever meet a guy named Floyd Washington?”
“Nope.”
“He used to work for Aronis. He was convicted of selling heroin from the back of his garbage truck. He told us Aronis was trying to move into San Francisco. He also claimed Aronis was prepared to pay big money to take out Robinson and Chin.”
“I don’t know anything about it. You guys must be really desperate if you’re trying to get an execution stopped with the testimony of a jailhouse snitch.”
We are.
Little Joey wipes his lips with a greasy paper napkin and starts to stand. “Anything else?” he snaps.
Rosie never loses her composure, but her balled fist indicates to me that she’s as frustrated as I am. “Washington told us that Bryant was supplying Aronis with the heroin that was being distributed by the employees of East Bay Scavenger,” she says. “He claimed Bryant was competing with Robinson.”
“So you think Bryant was competing with his boss?”
“According to Washington, yes.”
“Lots of luck proving it. If you ask me, that’s nuts. At this point, you guys will say anything to try to stop the execution.”
Rosie’s eyes are locked on Joey’s. “We think Aronis paid Bryant to set up the hit on Robinson and Chin,” she says.
He responds with a patronizing smile as he shakes his head vigorously. “Marshawn isn’t a drug dealer or a killer.”
His heartfelt endorsement has a hollow ring. I try a measured bluff. “A witness saw Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon right after the shootings.”
He shakes his head. “Eugene Tsai said he saw a black man in the alley,” he says. “That description fits thousands of people in the Bay Area.”
“It was Bryant,” I insist.
“There was no positive ID. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Marshawn is a legitimate businessman.”
“Who deals heroin.”
“Prove it.”
“We will. Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“He’s a reputable businessman. That’s all.”
Rosie pushes her tray toward Joey and points a long finger at him. “I want you to pass along a message to your friend Marshawn,” she says. “We’re going to be watching both of you. If we see any funny business, we’re going straight to the DA. Understood?”
The left side of Joey’s mouth turns up into a smug half grin. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.
“I’m making a promise.”
He gives her a mocking smile, crumples his paper napkin in his fist, and slithers out of the restaurant without saying another word.
34/ I WANT TO MAKE THEM NERVOUS
Tuesday, July 14. 8:05 p.m.
4 days, 3 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.
“Do you think it was a good idea to antagonize him?” I ask Rosie. We’re sitting in her car down the street from Shalimar.
“We don’t have time to be subtle,” she says. “I want Pete to have his people watch Little Joey and Bryant. I want to know if they talk again.”
“What if they do?”
“We’ll know they’re in on something. I want to make them nervous.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
She glances in her rearview mirror at the unmarked police car. “That’s why we have an army of cops watching us. It can’t be a coincidence that one of the first cops at the Golden Dragon met with a drug dealer who may have been spotted near the restaurant that night. They had to be talking about more than blueprints.”
# # #
I’m in my office at ten o’clock on Tuesday night, pacing. I just got off the phone with Rabbi Friedman, who left San Quentin a few minutes ago. He had spent a sobering evening with Nate going over the wrenching details associated with his impending death: updating his will and funeral plans. The rabbi said Nate was showing the first significant signs of accepting the inevitable. Even heavyweight fighters start to break down in the final rounds.
First Street is silent except for the tolling of the Ferry Building clock. I sit on the edge of my desk and punch in the number to Roosevelt’s cell phone. He answers on the first ring. “Sorry to call you so late,” I say. “Are you at the office?”
“Yes, I am. How is the family doing?”
“They’re okay.” I quickly reconsider. “Actually, they’re doing amazingly well. Rosie comes from a strong gene pool.”
“How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“God, you need to get some rest,” he says. “I can tell by your voice that you’re running on empty.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m always right. So, what is the purpose of your call?”
“Did you ever talk to Alex Aronis about Nate’s case?”
“Yes. We talked to several of Fineman’s clients. Aronis didn’t provide any relevant information.”
I play my cards faceup. “Did you seriously consider the possibility that he paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin?”
“Yes. We had no evidence pointing in his direction.”
“He admitted to me that he knew Marshawn Bryant.”
“As far as we could tell, it was purely professional. I take it these questions aren’t coming out of thin air?”
“We met a guy named Floyd Washington at San Quentin today. He used to work for Aronis. He was convicted of dealing heroin from his garbage truck. He said Bryant was supplying the hero
in to Aronis. He also thought Aronis might have paid somebody to kill Robinson and Chin.”
“You believed him?”
“I had no reason to disbelieve him.”
“We found no evidence that would support your theory, Mike.”
# # #
Rosie and I spend another long and sleepless night at the office, generating yet another set of papers. The pressure and fatigue finally overtake our better judgment as I’m sitting on the corner of Rosie’s desk and reviewing a draft of the latest habeas petition at two-fifteen on Wednesday morning.
“They aren’t going to let Wendell Tsai testify about what his brother told him,” I say.
“He has new information,” Rosie says. “He can talk about Jasmine Luk.”
“It’s hearsay.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mike.”
“You asked me what I thought.”
Her dark eyes flash anger. “I asked you for constructive comments. That wasn’t.”
“I’m trying to be realistic.”
“Then come up with something better.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder. What’s your plan?”
“The plan,” I say, “is to continue filing new petitions every day until 12:01 a.m. on Sunday. You know how it is with death-penalty cases. This isn’t like a trial, where we have months to talk about strategy and prepare witnesses. We’ll keep looking for anybody who might be able to cast some doubt on Nate’s guilt. We’ll take whatever we can find and throw it into a brief and hope we can persuade some overworked judge who has no incentive to help us to grant a stay.”
Rosie takes off her reading glasses and slowly sets them down on her desk. Her tone is patronizing when she says, “Are you finished?”
I take a moment to regain my composure. “Yes.”
“Do I really need to remind you that it will serve no useful purpose to snipe at each other?”
“No.”
“Good. In that case, where does it leave us?”
I set the brief down in my lap. “We’ll file this brief in the morning. In the meantime, Pete has people watching Aronis and Bryant. Our best bet is to try to foist the blame onto them. It would help if somebody can affirmatively place Bryant behind the Golden Dragon.”
“How do we do that?”
“We need to find Jasmine Luk.”
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