MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “If there’s anything we can do––” I say.

  “I’ll let you know. I’m glad Margaret is too young to understand what’s going on.”

  Me too. Grace isn’t, of course. Rosie spoke to her a few minutes ago. The children of criminal-defense lawyers learn that phone calls in the middle of the night are part of the program. She took the news with stoic concern. It will give her additional ammunition in our ongoing war of disapproval.

  Donna tugs at the strings of her gray sweatshirt. “I just want Pete to be able to watch Margaret grow up,” she says.

  “He will,” I assure her.

  The minutes turn into an hour. An hour turns into two. Donna keeps glancing at her watch. Rosie and I try to help her pass the time by keeping her engaged in strained small talk. In an effort to do something productive, I donate a pint of blood for Pete. It makes me woozy, but I can’t possibly sleep now. I try to reach Roosevelt and Nick several times. Neither of them answers. I still don’t know if they talked to Amanda Wong, or why she drove over to a dark building under the freeway.

  I close my eyes and my mind starts to wander. I think back to the days when Pete and I used to throw a football at the foggy Sunset Playground, a few blocks from our house; his graduation from St. Ignatius; and his first day in uniform. I think of his strained relationship with our father––a man he couldn’t please, though he never stopped trying. There was something in their wiring that wouldn’t allow them to breathe. Maybe they were too much alike. I fast-forward past his dismissal from the SFPD and the subsequent opening of his PI agency. Past the cases we’ve worked on together. I chastise myself for asking him to help me for free on countless occasions. My mind flashes to his smiling face in the wedding photo on my living room wall, next to Margaret’s baby picture. Like all brothers, we’ve had our differences. Pete’s fundamentally a good man who deserves another opportunity. I have my own selfish interests, too––I don’t want to lose my only living brother.

  At seven-thirty in the morning, a young surgeon wearing a light green gown enters the waiting area, accompanied by an officious-looking nurse. My heart is pounding. They always come with a nurse when the news is bad. I take Donna’s hand in mine.

  The doctor removes his mask. He looks at us through wire-framed glasses. “I’m Dr. Nguyen,” he says.

  “How is he?” Donna whispers.

  I’m holding my breath.

  “Stable, but not out of the woods,” the doctor says. “If we can keep the bleeding under control and avoid infection, he should be okay.”

  Donna lets out a deep breath. She hugs the doctor, the nurse, Rosie, and me. Then she bursts into tears. I hold her gently as her emotions pour out.

  I squeeze Rosie’s hand as we try to focus on Dr. Nguyen’s quiet voice. He explains that Pete has a broken leg and a shattered hip socket. He’s lost a substantial amount of blood. The leg will heal. The hip will require replacement. The blood loss may create complications, so the doctor has ordered him into intensive care. If all goes well, he’ll start light physical therapy in a few weeks. “All things considered,” Nguyen says, “he’s very lucky.”

  So are we.

  “Can we see him?” Donna asks.

  “He’s going to be in recovery for a while. He’ll be under heavy pain medication when he wakes up. We’ll let you know when you can go in for a few minutes.”

  I fight back tears and offer a silent thanks to the Almighty. It’s the closest I’ve come to praying in a long time. Life is too short, and frequently unfair. We just caught an enormous break.

  # # #

  “Hey, Mick.” My brother’s whisper is barely audible.

  “How are you feeling, Pete?”

  “I’ve been better.” His left leg is immobilized in layers of bandages, and an IV is attached to his arm. He’s wearing an oxygen mask. “I’m thirsty,” he says.

  I pour him a cup of water from the hospital-issue plastic pitcher. He drinks it slowly through a straw.

  “Thanks for donating the blood,” he says. “They told me I may need it.”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from. You would have done the same for me.”

  This gets the hint of a smile. He glances down at his leg. “Look at that mess.”

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Damn right. I told the doctor that my brother is a hotshot lawyer who will shut this place down if I’m not up and running in a couple of weeks.”

  That very same brother almost got him killed. “It may take a little longer,” I say.

  “I’m patient.”

  No, you’re not.

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  “Ten after ten.”

  “Where’s Donna?”

  “Rosie took her down to the cafeteria to get some breakfast. They’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you need anything?”

  “A new hip.”

  “The doctor is working on it.”

  “How about a corned beef sandwich?”

  “I’ll talk to the nurse.”

  “Get your ass over to Saul’s.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Pete.”

  This elicits a weak smile. “I can still guilt-trip you into doing anything.”

  “You can work me all you want.”

  He grimaces. “Remember the time Pop took that bullet?”

  “Yeah.” I was twelve when our dad took one in his foot while he and Roosevelt were trying to stop a liquor store robbery. It wasn’t life threatening, but it was certainly more than a flesh wound. “Remember when he insisted on going to work the next day?”

  “The next day? Hell, he refused to let them take him to the hospital.”

  “And then he passed out. Remember how he wouldn’t use the cane that they gave him? He was as stubborn as they come––just like you.”

  “Stubborn guys make good cops,” Pete says. He points to his leg. “What do you think he would have said about this?”

  “That you’re a hero.”

  “Come on, Mick.”

  “No shit, Pete. In Pop’s book, anybody who got hurt in the line of duty was a hero––no questions asked.” I touch his shoulder. “He was proud of you. He thought you were a good cop.”

  “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “He mentioned it to me––a lot.”

  My brother’s tired eyes open wide. “Really?” he says.

  After all these years, he’s still looking for that elusive fatherly affirmation. “Really.”

  He thinks about it for a long moment. “What are you going to do about the case?” he says.

  “We’ll ask for a continuance.”

  “Do you think they’ll agree to it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” It doesn’t seem quite as important at the moment.

  “Did you talk to Roosevelt?”

  “I left a message.”

  “Did he talk to Amanda Wong?”

  “I don’t know. By the way, he’s posted a uniform outside your door just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  Somebody decides to finish what he started earlier this morning. “Just in case,” I say.

  “Did he find the shooter?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So I got myself blasted for nothing.”

  “He’ll find the shooter. Besides, you were trying to save somebody’s life.”

  “It would have been pretty ironic if I’d gotten myself killed trying to save a dying man who is set to be executed in two days.”

  True enough.

  Pete’s frown becomes more pronounced. “This was no random shooting, Mick. Somebody was following Wong—or me. I must have been getting close to something.”

  “Who?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s got to be Aronis or Bryant,” he says. “Maybe both of them.”

  “How can we prove it?”

  He glances down at his bandaged leg. “That’s up to you now, Mick.” Pete’s eyes close and I think he’s drifting off to sleep.
Then they reopen suddenly and he tries to sit up. “Mick?” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be sure to go down to the impound lot and get my car.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pete. The insurance will pay for the repairs.”

  “I’m not worried about the damage. There was an envelope in the trunk.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Bank account information for Aronis and Bryant.” He quickly adds, “And Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

  “Anything we can use?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to look at it.”

  Pete’s eyes light up when Donna and Rosie return a few minutes later. He points toward Donna’s coffee. “Is that for me?” he asks.

  “Maybe a little later, honey.”

  “Is Margaret okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s going to stay with my sister so I can be here with you.”

  “Are the people at your office going to be okay with that?”

  God forbid she should miss a day of work.

  “They understand, Pete.”

  They talk quietly for a few minutes. Then the nurse shoos us out. Pete’s spirits are reasonably good, but his stamina is not. He’s drifting to sleep as we make our way to the waiting area, where Donna excuses herself to use the phone.

  Rosie and I sit next to each other in silence. The TV is on, but neither of us is watching. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” She means it.

  “What do we do about Nate’s habeas petitions?”

  “They’re already filed.”

  What? “How?”

  “I emailed them to the office last night. Terrence filed them this morning.”

  I don’t know how we practiced law without the former prizefighter with a criminal record a mile long. “They weren’t signed,” I say.

  “He signed them for us. He’s very adept at forging our signatures.”

  “Technically that’s illegal.”

  “Feel free to turn yourself in. I don’t think Nate is going to sue us for malpractice.”

  I turn to more disturbing matters. “We could be next on somebody’s hit list.”

  She remains resolute. “Roosevelt is still providing us with round-the-clock police protection.”

  “He couldn’t protect Pete.”

  “Pete was flying without a net.”

  I ask if she talked to Grace again.

  Her chin juts forward. “Yes. She now has a greater appreciation of the gravity of our situation. She’s planning to spend the day at home.”

  “Swell.” My head is throbbing. “I don’t want to leave Pete.”

  “There isn’t much that we can do. Donna’s parents are here, too. They’ll call if anything changes.”

  The ICU’s volunteer comes in a moment later. “You’ve had two more messages from Inspector Roosevelt Johnson,” she says. “He said you should call him right away.”

  # # #

  “How’s Pete?” Roosevelt asks me.

  “It looks like he’s going to be okay.” I’m standing just outside the main entrance to Highland. I’m holding my cell phone against my right ear.

  “That’s good.”

  “Yes, it is. Have you figured out who shot him?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Roosevelt. Somebody involved in the Fineman case went after him.”

  There is an interminable pause before he says, “I’m beginning to think you may be right.”

  I was hoping for more. “You need to help us fix this, Roosevelt.”

  “I will.”

  “Did you find Amanda Wong?”

  “Yes. Can you come down to the Hall of Justice?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s up?”

  “We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

  44/ SHE WASN’T ALONE

  Thursday, July 16. 12:02 p.m.

  2 days, 11 hours, and 59 minutes until execution.

  “How’s Pete?” The concern in Ted Prodromou’s voice is genuine.

  I press my cell phone tightly to my ear. “It looks like he’s going to be okay,” I tell him. The wheels of justice are still spinning rapidly as Rosie and I drive across the Bay Bridge. Donna promised to call us immediately if there is any change in Pete’s condition. “Did you get the petition we filed this morning?”

  “I did.” He clears his throat. “It may be my imagination, but your signatures looked a little different than in your last filing.”

  It would be a bad idea to lie to a staff attorney for the California Supreme Court. “We had our secretary sign for us,” I tell him.

  “I wasn’t planning to report you. I would suggest that you not make it a habit.”

  “Thanks, Ted.”

  “You’re welcome.” There is a pause. “I was impressed by your argument about the reliability of the Sodium Pentothal. The new study that you cited was prepared by a well-respected doctor at Stanford.”

  All of which is well and good. “But?”

  “The decision isn’t going your way.”

  It’s been that kind of day. “We’re going to file another one as soon as we can.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Change of circumstance. Our defense has been irreparably impaired because our investigator has been incapacitated.”

  “I don’t know if there’s any authority on point. I’ll look at it as soon as it comes in.”

  It’s his polite way of saying it’s another loser.

  “Have you talked to Ken Conroy?” he asks.

  Conroy is the respected staff attorney at the Ninth Circuit who is assigned to our case.

  “He’s my next call.”

  # # #

  The response from Conroy is essentially the same. He expresses polite concern about Pete. Then he assures me in no uncertain terms that the Feds were unimpressed by our filing.

  “We’re going to file another habeas petition,” I tell him. “Pete’s situation substantially impairs our capacity to handle this matter.”

  “I’m sympathetic. On the other hand, I don’t know if that’s per se grounds to delay an execution.”

  “You can do better, Ken.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike. You know the death warrant is good for just one day—Sunday. If the execution doesn’t happen then, it could be months.”

  It’s true. This isn’t a question of trying to sway public opinion in order to halt an execution. Legally, a death warrant has a twenty-four-hour shelf life. “You can’t fix the mistake if you execute an innocent man,” I say.

  “I’ll present your arguments to the judges.”

  # # #

  “Glad to hear Pete’s going to be okay,” Roosevelt says. I find him sitting behind his cluttered metal desk in the bull-pen area that houses the SFPD’s homicide division. Except for the wanted posters on the walls and the guns worn by each of the plainclothes inspectors, it looks like the back office of an insurance company. “It reminded me of the time your father got shot. I had to carry the old cuss to the car after he passed out. He couldn’t believe it when he woke up at San Francisco General with a cast on his foot.”

  “Pete’s the same way.”

  “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” His eyes narrow. “He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “That’s fair. Do you have any idea who shot him?”

  “Not yet. Oakland PD found a stolen panel van near Jack London Square. The plates were missing. No identifiable prints.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “A contractor in East Oakland. He’s very happy to have his truck back.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  “No. He’s clean.”

  “What about gunpowder residue?” Rosie asks.

  “They found traces. They can’t do anything unless Pete can
identify the shooter.”

  Which he can’t.

  “The investigation is ongoing,” Roosevelt says. “I intend to exert as much pressure as I can on Oakland PD.”

  It’s his way of saying that he isn’t going to rest until he finds the shooter. “Did you have a chance to inventory everything in Pete’s car?” I ask.

  Roosevelt nods. He opens his top drawer and hands me a manila folder. “We found this in the trunk of his car. I made you a copy of everything.”

  “Thanks.” I open the file and glance at the contents. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Bank account information for East Bay Scavenger and Bayview Construction.” He quickly adds, “There’s also some stuff for Little Joey’s currency exchange.”

  “Anything that might be helpful to our appeal?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, Mike. It just came in. I haven’t had a chance to go through it.”

  I will. “Did you talk to Amanda Wong?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was she doing at a building under the freeway in the middle of the night?”

  He looks around to make sure that nobody is within earshot. “Have you talked to Nick Hanson?” he asks.

  “He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

  “That’s because he’s sitting down the hall.”

  What the hell? “Is he under arrest?”

  “Of course not. He helped our guys canvass the area. They found Amanda Wong down the block from where Pete was shot. She wasn’t alone.”

  45/ THIS COULD GET A LITTLE CHIPPY

  Thursday, July 16. 12:30 p.m.

  2 days, 11 hours, and 31 minutes until execution.

  We find Nick the Dick chatting amiably with a uniformed officer outside an interrogation room down the hall. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” he says to me. “Is Pete going to be okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” He points toward the door. “There’s a couple of people you’ll want to meet in there.” He arches an eyebrow. “This could get a little chippy.”

  Roosevelt opens the door and leads Rosie and me inside. When Nick tries to follow us, Roosevelt stops him. “Official police business,” he says.

  Nick tugs at the rose on his lapel and smiles broadly. “Come on, Roosevelt. We go back a long way.”