MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  Please. “Multimillion-dollar contracting businesses like Bayview don’t use small-time currency exchanges like yours to handle their banking needs. They certainly don’t pay them over a hundred grand a year for the privilege.”

  Joey doesn’t respond.

  “Mr. D’Amato, I’m going to ask you once again. Why has Mr. Bryant been paying you ten grand a month for the last eight years?”

  Every eye in the courtroom is fixed on Little Joey. He makes the tactical error of trying to stonewall again. “For financial services,” he repeats.

  “You know that isn’t true, Mr. D’Amato.”

  No answer.

  “And as a former police officer, you are undoubtedly well aware of the penalties for perjury, aren’t you, Mr. D’Amato?”

  Little Joey is no longer smirking.

  My mind flies into overdrive. “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “you saw Mr. Bryant in the alley behind the Golden Dragon on the night of the shootings, didn’t you?”

  No answer.

  “And you didn’t report it, did you?”

  Still no answer. Grim could object, but he’s choosing to sit on his hands. Clearly, he’s prepared to let the chips fall where they may—

  perhaps after a discussion with Roosevelt.

  I move within two feet of Joey’s face. “Bryant killed Terrell Robinson, Alan Chin, and Lester Fong, didn’t he?”

  Joey shakes his head. “No.”

  “He’s paying you to keep your mouth shut, isn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “You helped him plant the gun and frame my client for murder, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “That makes you an accessory after the fact.”

  “No.”

  Grim finally stands and tries to slow me down. “Objection,” he says. “This is pure speculation on Mr. Daley’s part.”

  “Overruled.”

  I haven’t moved from the front of the witness box. “Mr. D’Amato,” I say, “you decided to blackmail Mr. Bryant about the events at the Golden Dragon, didn’t you?”

  His eyes are now darting. “No.”

  “And you’ve been taking ten grand a month from him ever since, haven’t you?”

  “No. You have no evidence.”

  “How about a million dollars of payments over the last eight years?”

  His voice turns defensive. “You can’t prove anything.”

  “I already have. You’re already in for obstruction of justice, extortion, and maybe even murder, Mr. D’Amato. If you come clean now, you might be able to avoid adding a perjury charge.”

  Little Joey slinks back in his chair. “I want to talk to my lawyer,” he says.

  I shoot a look at Roosevelt, who closes his eyes. I turn back to the judge and say, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Cross-exam, Mr. Grim?”

  “Just a few questions, Your Honor.” He walks up to the witness box and says, “Mr. D’Amato, do you have any evidence placing Marshawn Bryant inside the Golden Dragon Restaurant on the night that three people were killed ten years ago?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any information suggesting Mr. Bryant was involved in a scheme to kill three people?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any proof that Mr. Bryant was involved in payoffs in connection with the killing of three people?”

  “No.”

  “Were you involved in planting evidence or any sort of cover-up in connection with the events at the Golden Dragon Restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Judge Stumpf strokes his chin as he looks at the clock on the wall in the back of his courtroom. “We’ve already gone over our allotted time,” he says, “but I’m willing to give each of you a moment to make a very brief closing statement. You’re first, Mr. Grim.”

  Grim keeps it succinct. “Your Honor,” he says, “in order to grant a stay, the law requires the appellant to prove freestanding innocence. While we have heard some interesting testimony and raised some new possibilities, the fact remains that the appellant has not met that threshold. In such circumstances, the law requires that the petition for a writ of habeas corpus be denied.”

  The judge’s stoic expression hasn’t changed. “Mr. Daley?”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “we have placed Marshawn Bryant at the Golden Dragon Restaurant on the night in question. We have heard testimony that Mr. Bryant has paid Officer D’Amato over a million dollars to buy his silence.” I look over at Nate, whose eyes are fixed on mine. I turn back and face the judge. My voice starts to crack as I offer a final plea. “You get to play God today, Your Honor. You get to decide whether Nate Fineman will live or die.” I swallow hard and fight to regain my composure. “I don’t know for sure if we’ve succeeded in proving freestanding innocence precisely in accordance with the letter of the law. I do know for sure that the testimony we’ve heard this morning would make it a tragic and unconscionable and…immoral miscarriage of justice if you permit this execution to proceed.”

  The judge takes off his glasses and folds his hands. His tone is solemn when he says, “I understand the gravity of the situation. I am going to take this matter under advisement. I will rule later today.”

  57/ YOU DID EVERYTHING YOU COULD

  Saturday, July 18. 5:15 p.m.

  6 hours and 46 minutes until execution.

  It takes us more than an hour to get back to San Quentin, where the narrow road outside the east gate is jammed with news vans, placard-waving advocates, and idealistic clergy. The turnout is overwhelmingly anti–death penalty. The surreal, carnival-like atmosphere also includes the group of gawkers and hangers-on who seem to materialize at every significant public event, as well as a few mercenaries who are peddling anti–capital punishment T-shirts and bumper stickers. It’s sometimes difficult to discern where the protests end and the parties begin. The crowds will get larger as midnight approaches.

  Nate is in a philosophical mood when we finally get back to the Row. He, Ilene, Rosie, Rabbi Friedman, and I regroup in the somber holding cell adjacent to the execution chamber. “It was nice to get out for a while,” Nate says. “It’s been a long time.”

  Almost ten years. We can hear the solemn chants of the demonstrators outside through the thick prison walls. “We aren’t done yet,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath. “Before all hell breaks loose, I want to thank you. We knew the odds were long when we brought you in. Freestanding innocence is a lot tougher to prove than reasonable doubt. It’s damn near impossible unless somebody confesses.”

  “We gave the judge a lot to work with,” I say. “We placed Bryant at the Golden Dragon. The payments to Little Joey showed the cops knew something—or that they were in on it.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says.

  “We still have more than six hours,” I say. “We aren’t giving up yet.”

  “You did everything you could. How did you figure out that Bryant was paying Little Joey?”

  “Roosevelt.”

  His tired eyes open wide. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Let’s see if Judge Stumpf buys it.”

  “I think he will.” In reality, I’m not sure.

  Nate gives me a thoughtful look. “You got us a lot closer than I ever imagined. I never figured we’d get a hearing.”

  “Judge Stumpf has enough to grant a stay,” I say. “We still have a chance with the governor, too.”

  “At least we’re going down swinging.”

  “We haven’t gone down yet.”

  “We’ll see. You guys reminded me of my favorite lawyer today.”

  “Perry Mason?”

  “Nathan Fineman.” He chuckles heartily. “For a moment, I thought you were going to accuse everybody in the courtroom of murder.”

  I can feel a lump in my throat as I return his
smile. “I didn’t accuse the judge.”

  “Maybe you should have. We had nothing to lose.”

  He has six hours to live and he’s trying to make us feel better. The banter stops and the cramped cell goes silent. I look straight at my client. “Can you tell us anything else about what happened at the Golden Dragon that night?”

  “Jews don’t do confessions,” he says.

  “I’m not looking for that. I want to know if there’s anything else we can use before we call the governor again.”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “Not when I know I’m right.”

  “It’s a fair question,” he says. “I guess Judgment Day is here.”

  “So it would seem.”

  He holds up a tired hand. “I didn’t kill those people, Mike. With God as my witness, I’m telling you the truth.”

  # # #

  A clean-cut young guard knocks on the door at seven o’clock. “You had a call from Judge Stumpf’s clerk,” he says.

  “Good news or bad news?” I ask.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What did he say?”

  “The judge wants to meet with you in his chambers as soon as possible.”

  58/ JUDGMENT DAY

  Saturday, July 18. 7:45 p.m.

  4 hours and 16 minutes until execution.

  “I’m sorry for the short notice,” Judge Stumpf says to us.

  Rosie and I are sitting on a leather sofa in his cramped chambers in the Federal Building. Irwin Grim scowls at his notes as he sits in an antique armchair. Roosevelt stands near the door. It is impossible to discern whether the news is good or bad from the impassive expressions on the faces of everybody in the stuffy room.

  My heart pounds as Judge Stumpf studies a legal pad on which he’s scripted notes in an elegant cursive. He chooses his words with judicial care. “Based upon today’s testimony and additional information provided by Inspector Johnson,” he says, “I am issuing a stay of Mr. Fineman’s execution. I am ordering him released immediately.”

  I can feel Rosie squeezing my hand. My breaths come faster. It’s a complete victory.

  The judge is still speaking. “Mr. Grim and I just got off the phone with the San Francisco district attorney. At my request, she has just concluded confidential negotiations with Mr. D’Amato and his attorney. In exchange for the DA’s agreement not to press charges against him, Mr. D’Amato will testify that he saw Mr. Bryant walking down Broadway when he and your father were driving to the Golden Dragon. Neither Mr. D’Amato nor Officer Thomas Daley reported it.” He looks over at Grim, who nods. “While it may not constitute freestanding innocence precisely within the letter of the law, it certainly complies with the spirit of the statute. Mr. Grim and I have therefore concluded that it would be unconscionable to proceed with Mr. Fineman’s execution under these circumstances.”

  I’m not inclined to quibble about the fact that it merely places Bryant at the scene. Nor does it prove that he pulled the trigger. What matters is that Nate Fineman is going to live. In fact, he’s going to be released from jail. “Did my father see Bryant?” I ask.

  “Mr. D’Amato said he did. We’ll never know for sure.”

  “It didn’t appear in the IA report.”

  “We now believe that the IA investigation was flawed.”

  And the file is gone. “Does that mean Bryant killed three people?” I ask.

  “No.” The judge takes off his glasses. “Inspector Johnson and I went over the timeline again. We now believe that Mr. Tsai and Ms. Luk saw Mr. Bryant in the alley immediately prior to the moment the first shots were fired. We further believe that Mr. Bryant could not have killed three people, planted the gun under Mr. Fineman’s body, and gotten to the corner of Columbus and Broadway in time for Mr. D’Amato––and perhaps your father––to have seen him as they were making their way to the Golden Dragon. There simply wasn’t enough time. We therefore have concluded that he could not have fired the fatal shots.”

  “Then it had to be Officer David Low,” I say.

  Judge Stumpf nods. “Based upon the information now available to us, I think it is very likely that you are right. Inspector Johnson has provided us with Officer Low’s bank account records. In addition to paying a monthly stipend to Mr. D’Amato, Mr. Bryant also paid Officer Low a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars in cash shortly before the shootings. Though we have no hard and fast evidence, we believe it is likely that Mr. Bryant obtained the funds from Mr. Aronis.”

  “Was Low that desperate for money?” I ask.

  It’s Roosevelt who responds. “It was an open secret within the SFPD that he had a gambling problem. There were rumors that he was on the payrolls of the drug lords he was investigating––including Robinson and Chin.”

  It means that Nate walked into a setup. “If Aronis and Bryant were working together,” I say, “how did Bryant end up with control of the San Francisco heroin market?”

  “Aronis got everything else,” Roosevelt says. “He controls everything from Daly City south to San Jose, as well as the entire East Bay. All’s fair in love, war, and drug dealing. Bryant is still his primary source of heroin.”

  Washington was telling the truth. “Why didn’t Bryant do it himself?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t get a gun inside the Golden Dragon. Maybe he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Low was also smart enough to spread the risk. We think he made Bryant clear out the bodyguards himself. That left him with an unobstructed path to Robinson and Chin. We think Low went upstairs and blew everybody away, except for Fineman, who dove out the window onto the fire escape.”

  “Why didn’t he kill Nate, too?”

  Roosevelt gives me a knowing look. “It may have been a crime of opportunity. Low was an experienced undercover cop with an aptitude for improvisation. When he found Fineman unconscious in the alley, he realized he had another option. He planted the gun in Fineman’s hand. He told everybody––including Joey and your father––that he got there right after the shooting had stopped. He was a decorated hero. Nobody wanted to question him about it. There was a lot of history between the SFPD and your client after the Bayview Posse case went south. Low was able to pin the murder of two drug dealers on the most infamous mob lawyer in the Bay Area and collect a pile of cash––not a bad result for him. Bryant got control of the San Francisco heroin market and Robinson’s best construction contracts. Aronis got the rest of the Bay Area heroin market. Low knew that Bryant and Aronis couldn’t rat him out without implicating themselves.”

  It was the proverbial win-win situation. “And Eugene Tsai and Jasmine Luk?”

  “They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s likely that Bryant killed Tsai or had him killed. I may never be able to prove it.”

  “Why didn’t he kill Luk, too?”

  “She left town before Bryant could get to her.”

  “Which means the only loose ends were Joey and my father.”

  “Bryant didn’t know that until later. Now we know that D’Amato–– and perhaps your father––withheld evidence. It now appears that Joey and perhaps some of the other officers who secured the scene at the Golden Dragon also took the opportunity to settle some old scores from the Bayview Posse case.”

  “Was Little Joey really blackmailing Bryant?”

  “That’s the only logical explanation. When Joey was forced to take early retirement, he needed money to open his currency exchange. He had the goods on Bryant. He took advantage of the situation.”

  “Was my father involved in the blackmail scheme?”

  “It seems unlikely. Bryant started making payments to D’Amato after your father died.” He waits a beat. “If you must know, I checked your father’s bank records, too. There was no evidence of any payments to him.”

  My relief is tempered by the knowledge that he may have withheld crucial evidence in a murder trial. “It still means he and Joey let Nate take the rap,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Mike,” Roosevelt
says. “Your client may not be a murderer, but he was no Boy Scout, either.”

  “Did Bryant shoot Pete?”

  “If I were a betting man—which I’m not—I would say the chances are pretty good that he ordered the hit.”

  “Why?”

  “He probably thought Pete was getting close to something.”

  He was.

  Rosie asks, “What about the photo of Grace and her boyfriend that was delivered to my house?”

  “We’re going to lean on Bryant’s people to trace it back to him.”

  And hopefully our lives will now return to some semblance of normal.

  Roosevelt takes a deep breath. “I have to give you credit,” he says. “You put the pieces together to stop an execution in less than two weeks.”

  “We had a lot of help,” I say. I’ve also probably ruined my father’s reputation along the way.

  “For what it’s worth,” he adds, “please tell Nate that I’m sorry.”

  “I will.” I turn back to Judge Stumpf. “Where does this leave us?”

  “At this point, it’s up to the DA to decide whether she’s going to file new charges against your client. I intend to discourage it.”

  We will also be bringing a civil action on Nate’s behalf for wrongful imprisonment.

  “What about Bryant and Aronis?” I ask.

  “They’ve been detained for questioning. The investigation will be headed by Inspector Johnson.” Judge Stumpf holds up an authoritative hand. “The system got the wrong result ten years ago. We were less than five hours away from executing an innocent man. We can’t possibly make up for the losses suffered by Mr. Fineman and his family, but I want to be sure that we get it right this time.”

  “Will charges be brought against anybody else?” I ask.

  “Probably not. The DA would have brought murder charges against Mr. Low, but he’s dead.”

  “What about Joey D’Amato?”

  “The DA has agreed to grant him limited immunity from extortion, obstruction of justice, and perjury charges in exchange for his testimony against Mr. Bryant and his agreement to shut down his business.”

  “And my father?”

  “We are unsure of his precise role in the cover-up––if any. The fact that he is deceased means that no charges will be brought against him.”