MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  She tosses her long black hair away from her face. Her full lips form an exaggerated pout. “Does that mean I’m grounded until Sunday?” she asks.

  “More or less.” I take a sip of Diet Dr Pepper. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Rosie is sitting at her desk, reworking our latest brief. She looks up over her laptop. “We’ve talked about this a couple of times, Grace,” she says.

  “Jake has tickets for the Giants game on Saturday.”

  “You can go later in the season.”

  “It’s fireworks night.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What if the cops come with us?”

  Everything is a negotiation. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about a movie?”

  Rosie’s patience is not unlimited. “Next week,” she says.

  Grace isn’t going down easy. “Nobody has bothered us for a few days. There are a zillion cops outside.”

  “We don’t want to take any chances.”

  “You should have thought of that before you took this case.”

  It’s a classic standoff between two strong-willed people who are used to having the last word. It’s difficult to argue with someone who can mimic your entire repertoire of facial expressions.

  “We’ll consult you next time,” Rosie tells her.

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Our daughter’s language tends to turn a bit salty when she’s angry. Rosie doesn’t react. It’s a bad idea to wallow in the mud with an angry teenager.

  Grace’s anger bubbles to the surface. She heaves a melodramatic sigh that would make Irwin Grim proud. “This case is ruining my life!” she says.

  Rosie tries a patient tone that Grace will almost certainly interpret as patronizing. “It’s almost over. We’ll take a break after it’s done.”

  “Sure you will.” Grace drops her chin and her nostrils flare in a dead-perfect imitation of the annoyed expression that Rosie has honed over forty-seven years. She makes a point of saying goodnight to her grandmother, but not to Rosie or me. In some respects, I will be greatly relieved when she leaves for college.

  # # #

  “She isn’t happy,” Sylvia says with characteristic understatement.

  “She’ll be okay,” Rosie says.

  “Take it easy on her.”

  “We will, Mama.”

  Sylvia isn’t quite finished. “I mean it, Rosita. It isn’t her fault.”

  Her implication is more than clear: it’s ours.

  “Is there something else?” Rosie asks her mother.

  Sylvia touches her daughter’s cheek. “Nothing,” she says.

  “Come on, Mama.”

  The Fernandez family matriarch arches an eyebrow. “She reminds me of you.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “For the most part.”

  # # #

  “Are we crappy parents?” Rosie asks me. Her question is not merely a rhetorical one. We’re sitting a few feet from each other at opposite ends of her sofa at one-ten on Thursday morning.

  “At times,” I whisper. I try to avoid asking myself those types of questions, because I rarely like the answers. I pull a couple of pages from the printer that’s perched on a card table next to Rosie’s couch. Her house is silent. We’ve been editing for the last hour. Sleepless nights are not conducive to writing pithy briefs. We have to keep our voices down because Tommy is sleeping soundly on a blanket on the floor. He came out for his nightly visit about a half hour ago, and he promptly fell asleep in front of the TV.

  “What percentage of our parental time falls into the ‘crappy’ category?” she asks.

  I glance at Tommy. “The last few days have been pretty bad for our approval ratings. Generally, I’d say just a couple of hours a week. We make it into the ‘exceptional’ category for about the same amount of time.”

  “I’m serious, Mike.”

  “So am I.”

  “And the rest of the time?”

  “I’d say we’re about average.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Maybe a little above. I didn’t want to brag.”

  “Do you ever stop making wisecracks?”

  “Not if I can help it. It keeps me going.”

  Her tired eyes show the hint of a twinkle. “Do you think we have much to brag about?”

  I lean over and peck her on the cheek. “Given our inherent limitations and the fact that we manage to eke out a living representing criminals, I think we’re doing okay.”

  “But we could do better.”

  “You can always do better. Grace and Tommy are pretty well-adjusted in spite of us.”

  “How do we take it to the next level?”

  “It might help if we stopped taking on last-minute death-penalty appeals. In the meantime, we shouldn’t dwell on our shortcomings––at least until this case is over.”

  She acknowledges that it isn’t a great idea to reevaluate your major life decisions two days before an execution.

  I tap the completed petition. “I think we’re finished,” I say.

  “Then we’re set to file at nine o’clock this morning.” She yawns. “We need more time.”

  Time is not on our side. Nick Hanson called a little while ago and said he hadn’t been able to locate anybody else who may have seen Jasmine Luk. He correctly noted it seemed unlikely that he’d find her walking the empty streets of Chinatown at this hour. Pete is parked across the street from Amanda Wong’s apartment. Her doors were locked and her lights were out. I’m starting to measure time in hours and minutes instead of days.

  # # #

  I’m about to turn out the light in my musty bedroom at two-thirty on Thursday morning when Pete calls from Oakland. “Something’s up,” he says. “Amanda Wong just drove over to a building beneath the 880 freeway. The lights are off.”

  “What the hell is she doing there at this hour?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Is anybody else there?”

  “I can’t tell.” The reception from his cell phone starts to break up. I can hear the unmistakable sound of tension in his voice when he says, “Somebody’s coming, Mick. I gotta go.” He quickly gives me an address. I can barely make out his voice when he says, “How soon can you get here?”

  Something bad is happening. The line is dead by the time I say, “I’m on my way.”

  41/ SOMETHING’S WRONG

  Thursday, July 16. 2:35 a.m.

  2 days, 21 hours, and 26 minutes until execution.

  The first call is always to Rosie, who answers immediately. “Something’s wrong,” I say. I tell her about the call from Pete.

  There is no hesitation. “I’ll pick you up in five minutes,” she says. There is also no discussion about who is going to drive us. Rosie could race at Daytona.

  My second call is to Nick Hanson. “How the hell are you?” he chirps.

  I’m not sure. “Pete may have found something. Can you meet us in Oakland?”

  “Indeed I could.”

  The final call goes to Roosevelt. “I’ll meet you there,” he says.

  # # #

  Rosie and I are speeding across the Richmond Bridge when my cell rings. “Any word from Pete?” Roosevelt asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “He’ll call.”

  I hope so.

  “Is there a black Dodge van behind you?” he asks.

  I turn around and look. “Yes.”

  “It’s one of our guys.”

  Doesn’t surprise me. “Thanks for the escort.”

  “You’re welcome. Could you ask Rosie to slow down to seventy-five? If my guy gets stopped, you’ll have no cover.”

  “Sure.” I ask him if he’s found out anything about the building where Pete saw Wong.

  “Title is held in the name of Sunshine Printing. We think it’s used as a storage facility for Wong’s business.”

  I don’t ask him how he managed to obtain this information in the
middle of the night.

  # # #

  My mind is playing tricks on me as we’re heading south on the elevated 880 freeway near downtown Oakland. This stretch replaced the infamous two-level Cypress Structure that collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and crushed dozens of people. The new single-level roadway is wider and easier to navigate––especially when there is no traffic, at three o’clock in the morning. I’m concerned about Pete, who still hasn’t checked in. I’m trying to play out the ramifications if he’s found some new information about Jasmine Luk. I keep thinking we need to find a connection between Aronis and Bryant. I’m still wondering what happened to the IA file, and whether Little Joey is somehow involved with its disappearance.

  Finally, and perhaps inevitably, I keep flashing back to my dad. The memories are like old snapshots now. I think of all the late-night calls that used to send my mom into a state of abject fear. The time he got rolled by a car while he was making an arrest in the Mission. The trips to Las Vegas, the football games at St. Ignatius, and the wild celebration after Cal beat Stanford in my older brother Tommy’s last game. The look on his face when the two marines came to our house to inform us that Tommy was missing in action. Pop was never the same. I think of how hard he pushed us––not so much because he could, but because he wanted us to have more than he did. With the benefit of age and parenthood, I’ve started to appreciate the fact that my father, Officer Thomas Daley Sr., was a complex man who saw the world in black and white. I’m a simple man who sees the world in shades of gray. There was plenty of room for both of us. Time has made me more forgiving of his real and perceived shortcomings. For sure, it would have been great to have had more time together. Little Tommy is sleeping back at Rosie’s house. I wonder how he’ll remember me in another forty years.

  I call Pete’s cell number again, but I get his voice mail. “Why doesn’t he answer?” I ask, frustrated.

  Rosie tries to reassure me. “He will.”

  We drive in silence to the Broadway off-ramp. We make our way to Sixth Street, which runs adjacent to the freeway at the edge of Chinatown. It’s poorly illuminated. Homeless people sleep in abandoned vehicles. The once thriving residential neighborhood near the Alameda Tube was bifurcated when the freeway was built forty years ago. We drive past a dilapidated playground called Railroad Square Park, where children must avoid broken bottles on rusted equipment.

  Rosie drives slowly down the empty street toward the only remaining structure on the block, a boarded-up two-story building. A single streetlight throws off a spooky glow through the heavy fog.

  “Something’s definitely wrong,” I tell her.

  “Try Pete again,” she says.

  I punch in his cell number. Once again, the computer-generated voice asks me to leave a message. Roosevelt doesn’t answer. Neither does Nick.

  We inch toward the entrance to an alley, where I spot Pete’s gray Chrysler. The lights are off. There is no sign of my brother.

  “Do you want to wait for Roosevelt?” Rosie asks.

  “No.” I motion toward the two plainclothes cops who are getting out of the Dodge behind us. “We have reinforcements.”

  She parks next to Pete’s car and kills her engine. We get out of the car. The street is eerily silent. There is no sign of Wong or Pete. “Where the hell did he go?” she asks.

  I walk past the passenger side of Pete’s car toward the building, when I hear Rosie’s voice from behind me. “Oh shit,” she hisses.

  I spin around and see her standing next to the driver’s side door of Pete’s car. “Call 911!” she screams. “Pete’s in the car. He’s been shot!”

  42/ YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE

  Thursday, July 16. 3:30 a.m.

  2 days, 20 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

  Roosevelt’s expression is grim as he kneels down on the rutted sidewalk next to the bullet-riddled door to Pete’s car. “The ambulance will be here in a minute,” he says.

  “Tell them to hurry,” I snap.

  I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat, trying to keep my baby brother warm. His face is pale. He’s fading in and out of consciousness. I’m pressing a blood-soaked blanket against his left hip to try to control the bleeding. I’m trying to stay calm as my heart races. Pete could bleed out before the ambulance arrives. Rosie stands a few steps away. She’s on her cell, talking to Pete’s wife. Nick Hanson arrived a few minutes ago. He’s helping the cops search for the shooter. The blinking lights of the four Oakland squad cars that Roosevelt summoned create a surreal strobe-light feel as they reflect off the façade of the freeway through the fog.

  Pete labors to take a breath. “Are you going to give me the last rites?” he whispers.

  “No. I got out of that line of work. You’re going to be fine.”

  “When did you become a doctor?”

  “I watch ER reruns on cable every night.”

  “Son of a bitch hurts more than when I broke my collarbone.”

  He ended up on the wrong side of a Pontiac when he and his partner were chasing down a pimp. This one’s much worse.

  “Is it only the leg?” I ask.

  His face contorts into a grimace as the pain shoots through him. He struggles to catch his breath. “Yeah,” he finally manages to say.

  All things considered, this may be reasonably good news if I can keep him from bleeding to death. Then again, a shattered hip isn’t a walk in the park, either.

  Roosevelt leans inside the car and squeezes Pete’s hand. “What happened?” he asks.

  Pete struggles to find his voice. “Wong had just gone into the building across the street,” he whispers. He gasps for air. “A black panel van pulled around the corner. The guy in the passenger’s seat started shooting. African American. Left-handed.”

  Always a cop.

  “He shot low,” Roosevelt observes. “Maybe he was just trying to scare you.”

  “He succeeded. Didn’t get a good look at him. Didn’t see license plates.”

  “Had you seen the van before?”

  Pete coughs. “No.”

  “Why didn’t you answer your cell?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t reach it. I fucked up.”

  “It’s okay, Pete.”

  “Good cops never let their guard down.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not to me.”

  Most cops aren’t put in life-threatening situations by their idiot brothers.

  “Did you call Donna?” he asks.

  “Yes. She’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “She’s okay,” I lie. “She said she’s going to kick your ass as soon as you’re healthy.”

  He forces a chuckle that quickly transforms into a cough. Then his expression turns into one of abject panic. “What about Margaret?” he asks. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”

  “Donna’s sister is going to stay with her.”

  There is a hint of relief in his eyes. His breathing is coming in short spurts. “You can’t let me die, Mick.”

  “I won’t. I still have a pipeline to God. I use it only on special occasions—like now.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I’m going to take a little rest, Mick.”

  “I need you to stay awake with me.”

  “I’ll try.” His eyelids flutter. He summons his remaining strength to point a finger at Roosevelt. “Somebody has been breaking our windows,” Pete says to him. “Somebody has been taking pictures of my niece.” Pete fights to catch his breath. “I must have been getting close to something. You need to find out what really happened before somebody else gets hurt.”

  Roosevelt swallows hard. “I will,” he says. “You need to take care of yourself.”

  Pete doesn’t respond. The ambulance pulls up. Paramedics leap out. It takes them only a moment to pull Pete out of the car and lift him onto a stretcher. The IVs go in. His eyes close.

  “Where are you taking him?” I ask.


  “Highland.”

  The hospital in North Oakland is the nearest trauma center. “I’m coming with you,” I say.

  “Are you family?”

  “I’m his brother.” And I’m not going to let him die.

  43/ I GOT MY BROTHER SHOT

  Thursday, July 16. 5:00 a.m.

  2 days, 19 hours, and 1 minute until execution.

  “You look like hell,” Rosie says.

  At five in the morning, after a sleepless night from hell, I look as good as anybody can. We’re sitting in the worn plastic chairs in the dreary waiting room of Highland Hospital, which makes the visitors’ area at the Row look cheerful. Pete has been in surgery for the last hour. They’re trying to stop the bleeding and piece together his hip.

  “I got my brother shot,” I say, “trying to save a guy who has spent his life defending people who sold drugs to kids. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was. Our daughter has been threatened. Your house is a prison. We never should have taken the case.”

  Her dark eyes narrow. “Don’t beat yourself up. We made the decision together.”

  “It was my call.”

  “There’s plenty of blame to go around.”

  I’m ready to accept most of it.

  My sister-in-law walks in from the hallway. Donna Andrews is an energetic woman in her early forties with shoulder-length blond hair, striking blue eyes, and an unwaveringly calm demeanor. She runs the accounting department of a big law firm. She manages to keep a reasonably positive outlook even though she spends most of her time providing adult supervision to a group of pit bulls whose reputation for winning cases is exceeded only by their penchant for boorish behavior. I’ve known her for more than a decade. This is the first time I’ve seen her come close to losing her composure. Given the circumstances, it’s entirely understandable.

  She pulls at her hair nervously. “He’s going to be okay,” she says. She’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to assure us. “He has to be.”