MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “She disappeared ten years ago.”

  “Pete is watching her great-aunt. Nick Hanson is still looking for people in Chinatown who may have seen her.”

  “It’s beyond a long shot.”

  “Death-penalty appeals always are.”

  “It’s time to get real, Mike.”

  “That isn’t helpful,” I snap.

  Terrence the Terminator walks into the office and interrupts us with a peace offering in the form of some cold pizza. “You might find a way to channel your energy more productively,” he observes. “Go home and get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”

  # # #

  My cell phone rings as Rosie and I are driving home through a thick blanket of fog at two-forty on Wednesday morning. “Where are you, Mick?” Pete asks.

  “The bridge.”

  “Same old story, Mick—you’re packing it up while I’m working.”

  Enough with the jokes. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Something’s going on at Amanda Wong’s place.”

  “I’m not in the mood for twenty questions.”

  “A guy in a Ford Escort has driven around her apartment building a couple of times. The driver is staying low and wearing sunglasses.”

  “You think it’s a cop?”

  “I doubt it. He’s too conspicuous. It isn’t professional.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’ll call you back when I find out.”

  35/ THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA WAS WRONG

  Wednesday, July 13. 3:04 a.m.

  3 days, 20 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

  I get the answer when my phone rings as I walk into my apartment. “False alarm,” Pete says. “Edwards was in the Escort. I followed him back to the Chronicle.”

  Not exactly a smoking gun. “Why is he watching Wong?”

  “For the same reasons we are, Mick—he must think she knows something about the whereabouts of Jasmine Luk.”

  “Maybe.” I shift gears. “Can you pull the bank account records for Aronis and Bryant around the time of the shootings?”

  “Sure, but it may take a little time. I take it this means you think Aronis paid Bryant to take out Robinson and Chin?”

  “Maybe.” I think about it for a moment and add, “While you’re at it, why don’t you pull up the financial records for Little Joey’s business?”

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “Be discreet, Pete.”

  “I will.” He waits a beat. “You got something, Mick?”

  “I’m just playing hunches now. It’s all that we have left.”

  # # #

  I’m awakened from a brief and uneasy sleep by my ringing phone at five-thirty on Wednesday morning. I can tell that it’s Edwards as soon as I hear the hacking smoker’s cough. “Where the hell are you?” he barks.

  “In bed.” Don’t you ever sleep? “Where the hell are you?”

  “At the east gate to San Quentin. You promised me a live interview with your client this morning. I’m over here with a crew. Get your ass in gear.”

  # # #

  “What were you doing at Wong’s apartment last night?” I ask Edwards.

  He tries to play it coy. “What makes you think I was there?”

  “My brother saw you.”

  “You guys are so desperate that you’re keeping reporters under surveillance?”

  “He was watching Wong. Evidently, so were you.”

  It’s a few minutes after eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. Edwards is gathering his belongings in the makeshift studio area where he just finished a live interview with Nate. Though Nate’s hands were shaking uncontrollably throughout the session, he summoned every remaining ounce of strength to plead his innocence.

  The wily reporter ponders for a moment. “I think Ms. Wong may know something,” he says.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  For the first time, I hope he’s right. “I don’t have time for this, Jerry. I had to pull a lot of strings to get you an interview with a man who is scheduled to be executed in three days. We know what that will do for your ratings.”

  “It isn’t that I’m not appreciative. On the other hand, your client didn’t say anything except that he was wrongly convicted. That isn’t what I would call breaking news.”

  “What did you expect him to say?”

  “He might have started by apologizing to the families of the victims.”

  “He has nothing to apologize for.”

  “Not according to the State of California.”

  “The State of California was wrong.” I ask again. “Why were you really watching Wong?”

  “Just a hunch. I think she knows what happened to her great-niece.”

  “Hunches are inadmissible in court. What haven’t you told me?”

  He pulls out a cigarette but doesn’t light up. “Wong’s business used to sell phony immigration papers for people who were trying to get out of China.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of my former colleagues did a series about it twenty years ago.”

  “You’re suggesting she prepared false papers to help her great-niece disappear?”

  “It’s just a theory, Mike.”

  # # #

  My cell phone rings again as I’m driving into San Francisco a short time later. “How did Nate’s interview go?” Rosie asks.

  “Fair. Edwards was hoping for a last-minute apology to the families, but Nate didn’t accommodate him. Edwards also told me that he thinks something may be going on with Amanda Wong.” I tell her about Edwards’s claim that Wong’s print shop used to produce phony immigration papers.

  “Does he have any proof?” Rosie asks.

  “Not yet. What’s going on at home?”

  “Things get tense when your house is surrounded by cops. My mother heard something outside last night. The cops came out in full force with their guns drawn. It looked like a scene out of Kojak. Fortunately, it was a false alarm.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s a little shaken up, but she’ll never admit it.”

  “What about Grace and Tommy?”

  “About the same.”

  “And you?”

  She waits a beat before she responds. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I mean it, Rosie. Are you okay?”

  I can hear her take a deep breath. “I’ll be glad when this is over, Mike. Then we’ll have a long talk about how we got ourselves into this mess and how we can avoid it in the future.”

  “Rosie, I agree. Anything from the courts?”

  “Another day, another habeas petition. I filed first thing with the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit. The Supremes have already said no to our request for a hearing to allow Wendell Tsai to testify. According to my sources, the Ninth Circuit will probably come to the same conclusion later this afternoon.”

  I’m glad somebody is doing the real legal work. “I’ll be there with you as soon as I can,” I tell her.

  “Do what you have to do, Mike. Let’s focus on moving ahead.”

  I hit the End button. My phone rings again a moment later.

  “It’s Pete. I should have the bank statements for Aronis and Bryant soon.”

  “Great. What about the financial information for Little Joey?”

  “I’m hoping by the end of the day.”

  We’re running out of time and options. “Are you still watching Wong?” I ask.

  “Yeah. That’s why I called you. At the moment, she’s in San Francisco.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Meeting with Jeff Chin.”

  Huh? “Where?”

  “The office of the Six Companies.”

  What’s this? “Why is she meeting with the son of one of the victims?” I ask.

  “Beats me.”

  “Don’t take your eyes off her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  36/ I WANTED TO THANK YOU FOR DIN
NER

  Wednesday, July 15. 10:04 a.m.

  3 days, 13 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see me on short notice,” I say.

  Jeff Chin is sitting behind his cherrywood-inlaid desk. His understated office at the Six Companies has matching bookcases and a console. The walls are covered with subdued artwork from China. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies. “I only have a few minutes. What brings you here?”

  “First, I wanted to thank you for dinner the other night.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “It was my pleasure. I must apologize for my behavior the last time we met.”

  No, you mustn’t. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

  “There is no excuse for rudeness.”

  Instead of debating whose manners were worse, we agree to call it a draw.

  He rearranges a stack of papers and stands up, signaling that our conversation is coming to an end. “It was generous of you to come down to express your gratitude,” he says. “It was also well beyond the call of duty. I know your schedule is very busy. If there is anything else that I can do for you, please feel free to call me.”

  He intended it as a token gesture, but it creates an opening. “Actually, there is.”

  He starts backpedaling. “I need to leave for a meeting.”

  “This will take just a moment. A young woman named Jasmine Luk lived behind the Golden Dragon. We’ve been told that she and a man name Eugene Tsai were walking in the alley around the time of the events at the restaurant. We think she saw somebody in the alley shortly after your father was killed. Unfortunately, she disappeared a few days later.”

  He holds his palms up. “I don’t know anything about it. I’m sorry.”

  So are we. “Do you have any idea where we might find her?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I raise the stakes. “Ms. Luk’s great-aunt is Amanda Wong.”

  He looks down at the gold letter opener on his desk. Now he knows that we’ve been watching Wong—and perhaps him. He considers his response carefully. “That’s quite a coincidence. I just met with Ms. Wong here in my office.”

  I decide to play it straight. “I know. We’ve been watching her.”

  “Why?”

  “We think she might know more than she’s told us about the whereabouts of her great-niece.”

  “You’ll have to ask her about it.”

  “We already have.”

  “She’s a very respected member of the community.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you suggesting that she had something to do with my father’s death?”

  I shake my head. “No. We were simply hoping to discover what happened to her great-niece.”

  His eyes narrow. “You’re really quite desperate, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we are. Would you mind telling me why Ms. Wong came to see you?”

  “Certainly, but it had nothing to do with the events at the Golden Dragon.” He clears his throat. “She came to us for assistance in raising money for the treatment of a girl in Oakland who needs a heart and a lung transplant. The girl’s parents are dead. She’s living with her grandparents. They have no medical insurance.”

  I feel like a jerk as I recall the contribution jar on the counter at Sunshine Printing. “What’s her prognosis?”

  “It depends on how soon they can find a donor. They’re trying to raise a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Now I feel like a bigger jerk. I flash back to the three nights that Grace spent in the intensive care unit at Marin General after she got hit in the head by a batted softball during practice last summer. The doctors described it as a mild concussion with a slight bruise to her brain. I found it incomprehensible that anybody could have described any injury to the brain as slight. Thankfully, Grace recovered and our insurance took care of most of the costs.

  “Will you be able to help them?” I ask.

  “I believe so.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “It’s kind of you to offer, but our community takes care of its own.”

  It’s the answer I should have expected. “Do you know anything about Ms. Wong’s great-niece?”

  “No, Mr. Daley.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  “No, Mr. Daley.”

  It’s another dead end. I’m still curious about one thing. “Why did you really buy us dinner the other night?”

  Chin adjusts his tie. “You were just doing your job,” he says. “I have no hard feelings toward you—even if you’ve chosen to represent Nathan Fineman.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly when he adds, “And perhaps to get you off my back.” His expression turns serious. “My father and I had our differences, yet he was still my father. If your client murdered him, then I believe he deserves to die. If he didn’t, it would only compound the injustice.”

  It is becoming clear to me that he had no involvement in his father’s operations or the events at the Golden Dragon. Aronis and Bryant are more promising options. As I’m leaving the elegant offices of the Six Companies to try to find Bryant, I silently berate myself for wasting an entire morning drilling another empty well.

  37/ YOU’RE IN WAY OVER YOUR HEAD

  Wednesday, July 15. 12:03 p.m.

  3 days, 11 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

  Marshawn Bryant greets me tersely: “I’m busy. You’re going to have to make this quick.”

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome. We’re standing in a hard-hat zone just south of the Transbay bus terminal at the corner of First and Folsom, where the metal skeleton of a thirty-story office tower rises into the clear summer sky. Bayview Construction lost the “beauty contest” to become the general contractor on the project. However, it got a multimillion-dollar consolation prize when it was tapped to handle the build-out of the interiors.

  The air smells of cement and debris. My khaki slacks and polo shirt are covered with dust. Somehow, Bryant’s double-breasted pin-striped suit is spotless. The hard hats are working around-the-clock shifts to complete the exterior before the rains start in November.

  After spending the morning fighting with Edwards at San Quentin and hitting a wall with Chin at the Six Companies, I’m anxious to get something—anything—from Bryant. At the moment, he appears to be our most promising alternate suspect—unless he can produce somebody other than his wife to verify his whereabouts on the night all hell broke loose at the Golden Dragon. I’m prepared to mount a full-blown frontal attack. As a practical matter, this probably means this will be my last chance to talk to him.

  A huge crane revs its engine. I lean forward to shout into Bryant’s right ear. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  He gestures toward a temporary structure near the street. I follow him past the warning signs that admonish us to wear our helmets at all times. The windowless trailer is filled with tools and blueprints. We sit down at a card table. My eyes water from the dust.

  “We’re behind schedule,” he says. “What do you want now?”

  I get right to the point. “We’ve found a witness who saw you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon shortly after the shootings.” I’m stretching Wendell Tsai’s description to suit my purposes. I’m also looking for a reaction.

  This elicits an eye roll. “We’ve covered that issue. It wasn’t me.”

  “What would you say if I told you there was another witness?” It’s another bluff.

  He dismisses me with a wave of the back of his hand. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Then who was it?”

  His tone turns acerbic. “Beats the hell out of me. Go ahead and bring out your witness. Either they’re mistaken or they’re flat-out lying.”

  “We talked to a man named Floyd Washington. He says you’ve met.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Is he in the construction business?”

  “No, he’s in the
incarceration business. He’s at San Quentin.”

  He takes a deep breath of the heavy air. “You pulled me away from a busy work site to ask about some low-level hoodlum with an ax to grind?”

  “He mentioned you by name. He used to work for Alex Aronis. Now do you remember him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know Aronis?”

  “I’ve known Alex for years,” he says with feigned nonchalance. His eyes drift over my shoulder. “I was the construction manager on the build-out of his company’s office space in Oakland.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I was still working for Terrell Robinson. It was probably about fifteen years ago.”

  It lines up with Aronis’s story. “Do you keep in touch?”

  “Sure.” His eyes are still dancing. “A couple of years ago I did some work on his house. What does this have to do with the guy at San Quentin?”

  “Washington said your old boss used to supply heroin to Aronis, which was then distributed from the garbage trucks operated by Aronis’s company. He also told us that Aronis got into a fight with Robinson and needed to find a new supplier.” My eyes bore into his. “That’s when he turned to you.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “So you’re saying he’s lying?”

  He stretches to his full, intimidating height and folds his arms. “Damn right.”

  I’m just starting. “Washington also said you and Aronis were trying to get a piece of the heroin trade in San Francisco.”

  The volume of his voice goes up as he becomes more agitated. “That’s bullshit. It’s obvious that he’ll say anything to get out of jail.” He points a finger at me. “If you’re going to make these wild accusations, I’ll have my lawyers call you.”

  I’ve always found it effective to respond to bullies with an even tone. “Are you threatening to sue me now?”

  “Nope.” He shifts to the dialect of the hood. “I’m talkin’ straight.”

  “Have you been smashing the windows of our cars?”

  “Nope. You should be more careful where you park.”

  I move in closer to him. “Did you have a package delivered to my ex-wife’s house with a photo of our daughter and her boyfriend?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You and Aronis are partners in the drug-distribution business, aren’t you?”