MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did. In fact, he was prepared to testify that he saw you.”

  His voice remains perfectly even. “He was mistaken.”

  I move in a step closer. “Are you aware that Mr. Tsai was unable to testify because he was stabbed to death shortly after he spoke to the police?”

  The right side of his mouth turns up slightly. “That was quite unfortunate, but he was still mistaken.”

  I try to rattle him. “You found out that he was going to testify, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  “And you killed him, didn’t you?”

  His tone is indignant. “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you know that Mr. Fineman’s attorneys attempted to introduce testimony from Mr. Tsai’s brother about your presence in the alley that night?” It’s a bluff. Wendell was deemed too unreliable to put on the stand. Any testimony about what Eugene may have told him would have been hearsay.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you know that the trial judge didn’t allow his testimony because of some technical evidentiary rules?” This isn’t true, either. I’m looking for a reaction.

  He doesn’t fluster. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Daley.”

  “Well, I am, Mr. Bryant.” I glare straight into his condescending eyes until he blinks. “I was able to persuade Judge Stumpf to allow Mr. Tsai’s brother to testify. He told us that his brother saw you in the alley behind the Golden Dragon.” It’s a bluff—in reality, Tsai testified that Eugene saw a man who may have resembled Bryant in the alley. “Would that information cause you to reconsider your story?”

  He doesn’t move. “No, Mr. Daley.”

  I get right into his face. “Eugene Tsai saw you, Mr. Bryant.”

  His smugly confident expression never changes. “He was mistaken.”

  “I’ll bet you figured you were off the hook after you killed him.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Mr. Daley.”

  “You’ll feel a lot better if you finally get this off your chest and tell the truth.”

  “That’s absurd, Mr. Daley.”

  Grim gets to his feet and invokes a respectful tone. “Your Honor,” he says, “Mr. Daley is intentionally mischaracterizing prior testimony and badgering the witness. Mr. Bryant has answered his questions. There is nothing to be gained by repeating these baseless accusations. We therefore respectfully request that you instruct Mr. Daley to move on.”

  The judge nods. “Please, Mr. Daley.”

  I come back swinging. “Mr. Bryant,” I say, “does the name Jasmine Luk mean anything to you?”

  He makes no attempt to mask another condescending smirk. “I’m afraid not.”

  “She lived in an apartment behind the Golden Dragon. She walked home with Eugene Tsai on the night that three people were killed. She testified that she and Mr. Tsai saw you in the alley behind the restaurant immediately after the shootings. Ring any bells?”

  He doesn’t move. “She was mistaken, too, Mr. Daley.”

  “A lot of people seem to be mistaken about you, Mr. Bryant.” I turn my back to him and take a couple of steps toward the defense table, then stop and spin around and face him. “Let me fill you in on some of the details,” I say. “Ms. Luk and Mr. Tsai saw you running down the alley. You stopped right in front of them and threatened them. In fact, you showed Ms. Luk precisely how you planned to slash her throat. Is any of this coming back to you, Mr. Bryant?”

  “She was mistaken, Mr. Daley.”

  I can feel the back of my neck starting to burn. “It turns out that you caught another break. After Mr. Tsai was killed, Ms. Luk got scared and left town. Conveniently for you, she never had a chance to testify in this case—until today.”

  Bryant repeats his mantra: “She was mistaken, too.”

  “We have a witness, Mr. Bryant.”

  “She was mistaken or she was lying.”

  “She was not mistaken, Mr. Bryant. And she had no incentive to lie. In fact, she was so terrified of you that she left town and changed her identity.”

  Judge Stumpf’s courtroom is deathly silent as Bryant wags a menacing finger at me and gets up on his soapbox. “You defense lawyers will say anything to get your clients off. I’m the biggest employer in the Bayview. I’ve built a community center and baseball fields in a place where people like you never come. I am not about to let you or anyone else take shots at my reputation.” He takes a deep breath. “Your accusations are completely false. I wasn’t at the Golden Dragon that night. In fact, I was home with my wife. She would be happy to testify on my behalf. Are we done with this blatant attempt at character assassination?”

  He might as well stand up and scream, “Catch me if you can!” I glare into his arrogant eyes. “You understand that perjury carries serious penalties?”

  “Yes, Mr. Daley.”

  “Last chance. Do you wish to reconsider your prior testimony?”

  His right fist is clenched in a tight ball. “No, Mr. Daley. I told the truth back then. I’m telling the truth today.”

  “You were lying back then, and you’re lying today.”

  “Objection,” Grim shouts.

  “Sustained.” Judge Stumpf is glaring at me. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Daley. Move on.”

  I walk back to the defense table to take a moment to gather my thoughts. I look down at a note that Rosie has written on a pad that she’s placed where I can see it. It simply says, “Nail him.”

  I wheel around and walk forcefully across the well of the courtroom until I’m standing inches from the witness box. I start asking questions in rapid succession. “You used to work for a contractor named Terrell Robinson, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was one of the victims at the Golden Dragon, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were a vice president in his business, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was also involved in drug trafficking, wasn’t he?”

  He doesn’t move. “No.”

  My tone is incredulous. “You didn’t know that he was one of the biggest heroin distributors in San Francisco?”

  “Correct.”

  “You took over Mr. Robinson’s business after his death, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get the money to buy out a successful contracting business?”

  “Our bank gave me a loan.”

  “Which you supplemented with money that you earned when you took over his heroin operation, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  I keep pushing. “You’ve benefited quite handsomely from Mr. Robinson’s death, haven’t you?”

  “I never intended things to happen the way that they did.”

  “Of course not. Do you know a man named Alexander Aronis?”

  “I’ve known him for years.”

  “You know that he’s also a heroin dealer, don’t you?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You knew that he wanted to take out Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin and move into the San Francisco heroin market, didn’t you?”

  He doesn’t flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Objection,” Grim shouts. “Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  His icy demeanor never cracks. He’s going to deny everything until they walk Nate into the execution chamber. I have nothing left to lose. “You and Mr. Aronis pooled your resources and killed Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Or maybe Aronis paid you to set up the hit so he wouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

  “No.”

  “And you and Mr. Aronis planned to split the San Francisco market, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s precisely how everything worked out, isn’t it, Mr. Bryant?”
/>
  “Objection,” Grim shouts. “Asked and answered. Argumentative. Foundation.”

  All of the above.

  “Sustained,” the judge says.

  I haven’t moved from my spot in front of the witness box. As far as I’m concerned, Bryant and I are the only two people left on the face of the earth. “What were you doing at the Golden Dragon that night, Mr. Bryant?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I wasn’t. You can’t prove it.”

  “We already have. You aren’t going to be able to talk your way out of it this time.”

  Bryant is now sitting ramrod straight with his fists clenched. He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “This is obviously nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to save your client’s life.”

  I level a final desperate blast. “This is nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to deny the truth. You were at the Golden Dragon that night. You killed three people. You set up Nate Fineman. You killed Eugene Tsai. You threatened Jasmine Luk. You may have gotten away with it ten years ago, but you aren’t going to get away with it now.”

  “Objection!” Grim shouts. “Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  My hands are shaking as I glare at Bryant. “No further questions,” I say.

  “Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  As I trudge back to the defense table, I’m already starting the postmortem on what else we could have done. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to extract a confession from Aronis or Bryant. As a practical matter, all they had to do was sit back and deny everything—which they did. Because we had little hard evidence against them and almost no time to prepare, the deck was stacked against us from the start. This awareness still provides little solace as I take my seat next to Nate, who is staring straight ahead with his arms crossed.

  Judge Stumpf is looking at me. “Any other witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

  “One moment, Your Honor.” I huddle with Rosie and Nate at the defense table.

  “You got anything else?” Nate asks.

  I don’t say it out loud, but we’re down to Hail Mary passes. I look at Rosie and say, “What’s left?”

  Rosie glances around the courtroom for an instant. Then she hands me a note that’s written on a yellow Post-it. “A uniform handed this to me a few minutes ago,” she says. “It’s from Roosevelt.”

  I look down at it and recognize Roosevelt’s meticulous handwriting. It says that the ten-thousand-dollar monthly payments to Little Joey’s currency exchange came from an account controlled by Bayview Construction. I reach for the folder that contains the bank statements from Joey’s business that we found in the trunk of Pete’s car.

  “What does it mean?” Rosie asks.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I’m going to find out.” I look toward the prosecution table, where Roosevelt has taken a seat next to Grim. He gives me a subtle nod, then he turns away. The next thing I hear is Judge Stumpf’s voice from behind me.

  “Any other witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

  I can feel my palms sweating as I turn around and face him. “Just one, Your Honor. The defense calls Joseph D’Amato.”

  56/ I WANT TO TALK TO MY LAWYER

  Saturday, July 18. 12:09 p.m.

  11 hours and 52 minutes until execution.

  My adrenaline is pumping as I carry the file containing Little Joey’s bank account information to the front of the courtroom. Judge Stumpf has already informed me in no uncertain terms that Little Joey will be my last witness. I look down at the file for an instant when I reach the witness box; then I look up at Little Joey. “Mr. D’Amato,” I begin, “what do you do for a living?”

  Little Joey is dressed in an ill-fitting black suit with a gaudy polyester tie. He’s sitting back in the chair. “I run a currency exchange in the Tenderloin.”

  “How long have you operated that business?”

  “About eight years.”

  “What did you do prior to that time?”

  His tone fills with pride. “I was a San Francisco police officer for twenty-four years.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I took early retirement to open my business.”

  It will serve no useful purpose to delve into the circumstances of his departure from the force. “Mr. D’Amato,” I continue, “you were one of the first officers at the scene on the night that three people were killed at the Golden Dragon Restaurant almost ten years ago, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was an investigation into your actions that night, wasn’t there?”

  Joey’s eyes narrow. “The charges were dropped.”

  “Those allegations included planting the murder weapon, didn’t they?”

  A sneer crosses his face. “The charges were dropped,” he repeats.

  I glance down at the bank statements for an instant, then move in another direction. “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “are you acquainted with a man named Marshawn Bryant?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s done some work for my business.”

  “When did you meet him?”

  “About eight years ago. He handled the build-out work on my business.”

  “That was after the events at the Golden Dragon?”

  “Yes.”

  I shoot a quick glance toward Roosevelt. I turn back to Joey and ask, “Did you happen to see Mr. Bryant anywhere near the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings?”

  “No, Mr. Daley.”

  “You’re sure about that, too?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “You didn’t see him in the vicinity when you were on your way to the restaurant?”

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

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Bryant,” I continue, “would your testimony change if I told you that another witness testified earlier today that she saw Mr. Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings?”

  Little Joey’s tone turns patronizing. “No, Mr. Daley.”

  I push him harder. “Why are you protecting him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you would acknowledge that you have an ongoing relationship.”

  He scowls. “He’s a reputable contractor.”

  “Is he also a reputable drug dealer?”

  “Objection,” Grim says. “Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  I turn to the judge and hand him the bank statements. “Your Honor,” I say, “we would like to introduce these bank statements from Mr. D’Amato’s business into evidence at this time. We have already provided copies to Mr. Grim.”

  I turn around and see Roosevelt whispering into Grim’s ear. “No objection, Your Honor,” Grim says.

  “You may proceed, Mr. Daley,” the judge says.

  I hand the papers over to Joey, who puts on a pair of cheap reading glasses and pretends to study them intently. “Where did you get these?” he asks.

  “From your bank,” I say. Precisely how Pete got his hands on them is a topic for another forum. “Would you please confirm that these are copies of the statements for the checking account of your currency exchange for the last eight years?”

  He’s trying to speed-read the documents. “I think so.”

  Grim offers a halfhearted objection. “I fail to see the relevance, Your Honor.”

  “I was just getting to that, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Daley.”

  Trial lawyers will tell you that there is nothing more exhilarating and terrifying than following your gut instincts in open court. I move in closer to Little Joey and point to an entry on the first bank statement. I realize that I’m speaking faster than usual when I say, “There appears to be a recurring monthly deposit reflected on each of these bank statements.”

  Joey nods grudgingly. “Yeah.”
/>   “They seem to have started eight years ago.”

  Joey curls his lip. “Yeah.”

  “Would you mind telling us how much it is?”

  He swallows his words when he says, “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars,” I repeat. “Would you please tell us who has been paying you ten grand a month?”

  No answer.

  My voice is filled with sugar. “Mr. D’Amato?”

  Still no answer. Joey is now squeezing the rail tightly.

  “Your Honor,” I say, “would you please instruct the witness to answer?”

  “Mr. D’Amato,” the judge says, “you’ll have to answer Mr. Daley’s question.”

  Joey responds by pouring himself a cup of water.

  “Mr. D’Amato?” the judge says.

  Joey’s narrow eyes are now staring straight ahead.

  “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “you’ve been receiving these payments from an offshore account controlled by a company called Bayview Construction, haven’t you?”

  He clamps his mouth shut.

  “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “we’ve subpoenaed the wire-transfer information. You can save us a lot of time if you simply answer my question.”

  Little Joey bites down hard on his lower lip. “It is against our policy to reveal confidential information concerning our clients,” he says.

  “It’s also against the law to commit perjury,” I say.

  “I can’t help you, Mr. Daley.”

  “Your Honor?” I say.

  “Answer the question, Mr. D’Amato.”

  “But Your Honor—”

  “Answer the question or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

  “Yes,” Joey grunts. “It’s from Bayview.”

  “That would be the firm owned by your good friend Marshawn Bryant?”

  He hunkers down in his chair. “Yeah.”

  “A moment ago, you testified that Mr. Bryant’s firm had performed construction contracting services for you.”

  “Yeah.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “If he was doing work for you, wouldn’t it follow that you should have been paying him?”

  The courtroom is silent as Joey tugs at his garish tie.

  “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “why has Mr. Bryant been paying you ten thousand dollars a month for the last eight years?”

  Little Joey pulls at his ear. “For financial services,” he finally says.