MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “You were still living in that apartment when three people were killed at the Golden Dragon, weren’t you?” Rosie asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You walked home from your job at the hospital that morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave work?”

  “A few minutes before one.”

  “Were you alone?”

  She glances at her great-aunt. “I was with Eugene Tsai. He also worked at the hospital.”

  “What time did you get to the alley?”

  “About ten minutes after one.”

  “Were you with Eugene the entire time?”

  She nods a little too forcefully. “Yes.”

  “Did he walk with you all the way to your apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  Rosie gives her a reassuring nod. “Did you hear any gunshots?”

  Luk’s delicate features contort into a pronounced grimace. “No.”

  “Did you see anyone in the alley?”

  “Police and paramedics.”

  I can see a hint of frustration in Rosie’s eyes. “Did you see anyone before the police and the emergency personnel arrived?”

  My heart starts beating faster when Luk hesitates. “A black man,” she finally says.

  “Was Eugene still with you when you saw this black man?”

  Luk clamps her mouth shut tightly as she nods. “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Did Eugene see him, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you standing when you saw him?”

  “In front of the door to my apartment building.”

  Rosie moves in closer and cuts off Luk’s view of Grim. “What was this man doing in the alley?” Rosie asks.

  “Running,” Luk says.

  “Did he see you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do when he saw you?”

  “He stopped.”

  “How far away from you was he when he stopped?”

  “I’d say about five feet.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  Luk shoots another look at her aunt. Her voice is barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Did you see his face clearly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he gesture at you?”

  Her eyes close as she nods. “Yes.”

  “Can you show us what type of gesture he made?”

  Luk swallows hard and then painstakingly pantomimes the act of slitting her throat.

  Rosie turns to the court reporter. “The record will reflect the fact that the man threatened to slit Ms. Luk’s throat.” While Luk regains her bearings, Rosie approaches the bench and introduces into evidence an enlarged photo of Bryant. Grim has already seen it and doesn’t object. Rosie then holds the picture up in front of Luk and says, “Was this the man?”

  Luk’s petite body tenses. Her voice cracks when she whispers, “I think so.”

  Rosie turns to the court reporter and says, “Let the record reflect that Ms. Luk has identified a photo of a man named Marshawn Bryant.”

  There are a few scattered whispers in the gallery. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jerry Edwards writing furiously in his notebook. We’ve done what we’ve set out to do: placed Bryant in the alley––albeit tenuously.

  Rosie tries to neutralize Grim’s cross by providing a reason why Luk didn’t come forward ten years ago. “Ms. Luk,” Rosie says, “I understand you talked to the police a couple of days after you saw the man in the alley.”

  Luk’s eyes turn downward. “I did.”

  “But you told them that you didn’t see anyone in the alley that night.”

  Luk forces out a heavy sigh. “That’s true.”

  “I guess that means you didn’t exactly tell the truth.”

  Her voice cracks. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Could you please explain to Judge Stumpf why you chose to do that?”

  Luk dabs her eyes. “They killed Eugene. I was afraid.”

  “Is that when you decided to leave town and change your identity?”

  “Yes. My great-aunt helped me. I moved to Oakland.” She shoots a helpless look at Wong. “I wanted to be safe.”

  “Why did you decide to come forward now?” Rosie asks.

  Luk closes her eyes for a moment, then reopens them. “I wanted to tell the truth. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.” Rosie takes her seat at the defense table, but her eyes remain locked on Luk’s. Her testimony lasted less than three minutes.

  Grim jumps up and looks like a tiger on the prowl as he heads for the witness box. “Ms. Luk,” he says, “had you ever seen the man in the alley before?”

  “No.”

  “Was it dark outside?”

  “Yes, but––”

  “And raining?”

  “Yes, but––”

  “Objection,” Rosie says. “Mr. Grim is not allowing the witness to answer.”

  “Sustained.” The judge instructs Grim to let her have her say.

  An emboldened Luk juts her delicate chin forward. “As I explained to Ms. Fernandez, the man stopped right in front of me and threatened to kill me. I could see him very clearly. I will never forget that face.”

  Grim pushes forward. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “A black jacket.”

  “Do you remember the color of his eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  “How long was his hair?”

  “He had an Afro.”

  “How tall was he?”

  “Over six feet.”

  “Are you pretty sure about that?”

  “Objection,” Rosie says. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. Luk,” Grim continues, “exactly how long was he standing in front of you?”

  Luks shrugs. “A couple of seconds.”

  “Two seconds? Five seconds? Ten seconds?”

  “Objection,” Rosie says. “Asked and answered. The witness has already said a couple of seconds.”

  “Overruled.”

  Luk shoots a helpless glance our way, but we can’t help her now. Her features rearrange themselves into a scowl. “A couple of seconds,” she finally whispers.

  “You mean two seconds?”

  She shrugs. “Probably.”

  Grim spreads his arms and invokes a sarcastic tone. “So,” he says, “you’re absolutely sure it was the same man, even though you saw him for two seconds on a dark and rainy night ten years ago?”

  I nudge Rosie, but she holds up a hand. It will undercut Luk’s credibility if we try to protect her. Rosie’s instincts are rewarded when Luk doesn’t fluster.

  “I know what I saw, Mr. Grim,” she says.

  A frustrated Grim takes her in another direction. “Ms. Luk,” he says, “you said you were born in China.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you came to this country when you were a child, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There were some problems with your immigration papers, weren’t there?”

  “Objection,” Rosie says. “Relevance. This has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of this hearing.”

  “Your Honor,” Grim says, “this has direct bearing on Ms. Luk’s credibility.”

  Judge Stumpf’s raised eyebrow signifies his skepticism. “How’s that, Mr. Grim?”

  “Ms. Luk is in this country illegally. We think she intentionally misled the police in order to avoid drawing attention to herself. We believe that Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez have offered her legal assistance in order to elicit testimony that will help their client.”

  “Your Honor,” Rosie says, “Ms. Luk’s immigration status is irrelevant to this case. She did, in fact, talk to the police shortly after the events at the Golden Dragon. She’s already acknowledged that she misled the police about what happened that night bec
ause she was afraid that she would have been killed like her friend Eugene.”

  “Your Honor—” Grim says.

  A visibly annoyed Judge Stumpf interrupts him. “Ms. Luk’s immigration status has nothing to do with the matters at hand. The objection is sustained.”

  Grim moves within two feet of the front of the witness box. “Ms. Luk,” he says, “did Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez agree to help you with your immigration problems in exchange for your testimony today?”

  Rosie jumps up again. “Objection,” she says. “Your Honor has already determined that Ms. Luk’s immigration status has no bearing on this hearing.”

  “Sustained. Anything else for this witness, Mr. Grim?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Grim turns back to Luk and asks, “Did you see the African American man inside the Golden Dragon Restaurant that night?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Do you have any personal knowledge as to whether he was inside that establishment that night?”

  There’s a hesitation before she whispers, “No.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Redirect, Ms. Fernandez?”

  “No, Your Honor.” It will only open the door to more abuse from Grim.

  Nate leans over and whispers to me, “Is it enough?”

  “Not yet.” Luk’s ID might have been enough to establish reasonable doubt at the trial. It isn’t enough to prove freestanding innocence.

  “What next?”

  “We’re going to start slinging mud at Aronis and Bryant.”

  The corner of Nate’s mouth turns up. The old warrior suddenly seems to be enjoying the battle. “Lou said you were a fighter.”

  “I’m just warming up.”

  52/ MONEY TALKS

  Saturday, July 18. 11:05 a.m.

  12 hours and 56 minutes until execution.

  Floyd Washington beams as he struts to the stand. He’s pleased to be out of San Quentin for a few hours. Dressed in khaki pants and one of my light blue dress shirts, he now contains the anger that he displayed at San Quentin. He seems to view this as an opportunity for some form of vindication. I’ve told him to keep his expectations low and his answers short.

  “How long have you been incarcerated?” I ask.

  His left eye twitches nervously. “Twelve years.”

  “For what?”

  His shoulders hunch forward slightly. “Selling heroin.”

  “Did you sell the drugs from your house?”

  “No, I sold them from my garbage truck. I used to work for a company called East Bay Scavenger.”

  So far, so good. “Would you please tell us the name of the person who provided the heroin that you were selling?”

  His gold teeth gleam as he smiles triumphantly. “Alexander Aronis.”

  Perfect. “The chairman of the board of East Bay Scavenger?”

  The grin broadens. “Yeah.”

  “He actually furnished the heroin directly to you?”

  “No, but his people instructed us where to pick it up and where to drop it off.”

  The whispering in the gallery stops when Judge Stumpf taps his gavel.

  I move up in front of Washington. “When you were arrested, did you tell the police about Mr. Aronis?”

  “Yeah.” He wiggles his head like a football player getting loose during pregame warm-ups. “He hired a sleazy lawyer who cut him a deal with the prosecutors.”

  “Move to strike,” Grim says. “Mr. Washington couldn’t possibly have any personal information about such matters.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Who was Mr. Aronis’s lawyer?” I ask.

  He looks over my shoulder toward Nate. “Your client.”

  The whispers in the gallery turn to murmurs as I let his answer hang. “Did Mr. Aronis testify at your trial?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he asked if he supplied the drugs that you sold?”

  “Yeah. He lied.” His upper body starts shaking in anger. “Money talks, Mr. Daley.”

  “Move to strike,” Grim says. “Foundation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Washington,” I say, “are you suggesting Mr. Aronis bribed the prosecutors to drop any charges against him?”

  “Objection,” Grim says. “Foundation.”

  “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Daley.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Washington. “Do you know where Mr. Aronis obtained the heroin that you were selling?”

  “Objection,” Grim says. “Mr. Washington has no firsthand knowledge of such alleged distribution channels.”

  “Yes, he does,” I say. “He worked for Mr. Aronis for many years. He was very familiar with all aspects of Mr. Aronis’s operations.”

  “Overruled.”

  Grim sits down in frustration.

  Washington is starting to enjoy the attention. He shoots a condescending look at Grim. Then his voice turns forceful. “Aronis got the heroin from a man named Terrell Robinson. Then they got into a fight, so he started getting the stuff from a guy named Marshawn Bryant.”

  “Mr. Bryant used to work for Mr. Robinson’s construction company, didn’t he?”

  He nods emphatically. “Yeah.”

  Hang with me, Floyd. We’re almost done. “So Mr. Bryant and Mr. Robinson were running competing drug-distribution businesses?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In other words, Mr. Bryant was in competition with his own boss?”

  “Objection,” Grim says. “Asked and answered. Furthermore, there isn’t a shred of evidence in support of these wild accusations.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “we have already established that Mr. Washington was familiar with Mr. Aronis’s operations.”

  Grim isn’t backing down. “There is no evidence that he was familiar with Mr. Robinson’s operations.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Yeah,” Washington says triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying: Bryant was competing against his boss.”

  “And then his boss was killed at the Golden Dragon?”

  “Right.”

  “Are Mr. Aronis and Mr. Bryant still involved in the distribution of heroin?”

  Grim tries again. “Objection. Mr. Washington has been incarcerated for many years. He has no personal knowledge of what’s currently going on in the drug world outside San Quentin.”

  He probably knows more about the drug world than the SFPD does.

  “Sustained.”

  I’ve gotten everything I can from him. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

  Grim can’t wait. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Here it comes.

  Grim moves to a spot within three feet of Washington’s face. His voice fills with unvarnished contempt. “You currently reside at San Quentin State Prison, don’t you?”

  Washington’s bravado disappears. “Yeah.”

  “You’ll be there for the rest of your life, won’t you?”

  He slinks back into his chair. “Yeah.”

  “You were promised special treatment by Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez if you agreed to testify here today, weren’t you?”

  Enough. “Objection,” I say. “Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Grim rephrases. “Did Mr. Daley and Ms. Fernandez promise to help you with your legal problems if you testified today?”

  Washington darts a concerned look my way, then locks eyes with Grim. “They said they would look into it.”

  “In other words, they’ve offered you legal help if you testify a certain way today, right?”

  I need to stop the bleeding. “Objection,” I say. “We would never exchange legal services for testimony.”

  The judge eyes me suspiciously. “Sustained.”

  Grim tugs at his lapels and continues in a condescending tone. “Let me put it this way,” he says to Washington. “You have a substantial vested interest in testifying in a manner that will assist M
r. Daley’s client, don’t you?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Overruled.”

  Washington gives Dr. Death his own version of a Death Stare and summons his best prison-yard voice. “I’m telling the truth,” he says. “Alex Aronis is a liar and a criminal.”

  Sometimes you get help from unexpected sources.

  Grim astutely realizes that he isn’t going to like the answers if he asks any more questions. “Nothing more for this witness,” he says.

  “Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

  “No, Your Honor.” We need to pile on Aronis a little more, and I have just the person to do it. “We call Patty Norman.”

  53/ HE WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT I COULDN’T GIVE HIM

  Saturday, July 18. 11:10 a.m.

  12 hours and 51 minutes until execution.

  Patty Norman is wearing a beige cardigan sweater when she takes her place in the witness box. Her hair is pulled back into a French twist. A pair of reading glasses hangs from a silver chain around her neck. It’s a subdued look for a mudslinging party.

  I’m standing at the lectern, pretending to study my notes while Patty gets her bearings. The purpose of this exercise is to have her confirm Washington’s testimony that Aronis and Bryant were involved in the drug business. I will also have her testify that her ex-husband wanted to hire somebody to take out Robinson and Chin. Any additional editorial comments that she might like to offer about her ex-husband’s upstanding character will also be gratefully accepted.

  I start with an easy one. “What do you do for a living?” I ask her.

  “I own a bookstore in Petaluma. I do triathlons in my spare time.”

  Here we go. “Ms. Norman, were you married to a man named Alexander Aronis?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Eighteen long years.”

  “He runs a trash-collection company in Oakland, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Her right eyebrow darts up. “He is also one of the most successful heroin distributors in the Bay Area.”

  Just the venomous tone I was looking for. It also gets Grim’s attention. “Move to strike,” he says. “There is no evidence that Ms. Norman has any expert knowledge of her husband’s business.”

  Oh yes she does. “Your Honor,” I say, “Ms. Norman just testified that she was married to Mr. Aronis for eighteen years. She knew everything about her husband’s operations.” And it’s payback time.