MD06 - Judgment Day

by Sheldon Siegel

  For the first time in a week, a sense of calm envelops me. We may never be able to demonstrate for certain that Dave Low pulled the trigger. It will take years of legal maneuvering to make any charges stick against Aronis and Bryant. Nevertheless, after ten long years, there finally may be some modest degree of justice for Nate Fineman.

  59/ GIVE HIM THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

  “It’s your deal,” Nate says.

  I lean back in my card chair. “You cleaned me out,” I tell him.

  “I can spot you a few extra bucks.”

  “I’d have to put up my Corolla as collateral.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  A week ago, it was inconceivable to me that I’d be playing five-card stud with Nate the Great, Mort the Sport, and Nick the Dick in the sunny courtyard of the Jewish Home under the smiling gaze of Ilene Fineman. Nate was released from San Quentin late last night. There was a celebration up at St. Francis Wood. This morning, there was a brunch at Temple Beth Sholom. Rabbi Friedman led the community in prayers of thanksgiving. Then we drove Nate to the Jewish Home, where he moved into a room not far from Mort. After all these years, they’ll be down the hall from each other once again.

  Nate holds up his cigar. “You got a light?” he asks.

  “Afraid not,” I say. “Since when do they let you smoke here?”

  “I cut a deal with the board of directors. I get one cigar a week.”

  I look over at Mort. “Aren’t you on the board?”

  “Yes, I am. I have the same deal.”

  I might have known. The raucous poker game continues for a few minutes; then Nate looks around at his old compatriots. “A toast to all of us,” he says. “We’re finally back together. We’re going to start making up for lost time right now.” He raises a glass. “L’Chaim.”

  Ilene beams. Nate will spend much of his time over here. He will also have regular visits to St. Francis Wood.

  Nate pulls me aside a few minutes later. “I’m sorry Rosie couldn’t make it.”

  “She wanted time with Grace and Tommy.” She’s also trying to negotiate a final schedule with her contractor to finish the work on her kitchen.

  “You’ll bring her over here so that I can properly express my gratitude?”

  “Of course.”

  “When is Pete coming home?”

  “Hopefully soon. I’ll bring him over as soon as he’s able.”

  He winks. “Do you think you guys could have cut it any closer?”

  “We had four hours to spare.”

  The old lawyer’s eyes turn melancholy. “I owe you big-time,” he says.

  “I knew you weren’t a killer, Nate.”

  “I’m glad somebody thought so. You’ll send me a final bill?”

  “You’re all paid up.”

  He takes a deep breath of the warm breeze. “I’m an old man. I’m not in a position to offer much. If there is anything I can do for you, just name it.”

  “It isn’t necessary, Nate. We did our job. You paid our bill.”

  “You saved my life.”

  I’m not the type to call on favors, but I’m prepared to make an exception in this case. “First,” I say, “there’s a girl in Oakland who needs a heart and lung transplant. Her parents are gone and she’s living with her grandparents. They have no insurance.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred grand. Jeff Chin and Amanda Wong are raising the money.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Second,” I say, “I’d like you to hire our firm to handle your civil case for wrongful imprisonment.”

  “I wouldn’t think of hiring anybody else. I want you to take them for every penny.”

  “I have a condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want you to donate a portion of the judgment to the California Appellate Project.”

  “Done.”

  “Third, I was wondering if your son still has seats next to the Giants’ dugout.”

  His eyes light up. “When do you want them?”

  “The Dodgers are in town in a couple of weeks.”

  “How many do you need?”

  # # #

  “The usual?” Big John asks.

  “Thanks,” I say. Two weeks later, Pete and I are sitting at one of the worn wooden tables along the wall at Dunleavy’s.

  My uncle hands me two pints of Guinness. “When did you get home?” he asks Pete.

  “This afternoon.”

  “You came over here on your first night home?”

  “This is home, too. Donna needed a little break, so I made my big brother take me out for a beer.”

  “I’m honored,” Big John says. Our genial host gives him a bartender’s smile. “How long are you going to be in that wheelchair?”

  “A couple more weeks.”

  “Are you supposed to be drinking beer?”

  “Nope.”

  “You want another one?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Big John heads back to the bar. I turn to Pete, who is wearing a Giants jacket and cap. “How’s it feel?” I ask.

  “Better than it did two weeks ago.” His doctors want him to heal a little before they start talking about hip-replacement surgery. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stay out of hospitals for a while.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can keep an eye on Donna and Margaret. You can take me out for a beer every once in a while.”

  “Deal.”

  His eyes brighten when I offer him a field-level seat to the Giants/Dodgers game next week, but then his expression turns serious. “I may have to close the agency,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not quite as mobile as I used to be. I would also like to do something where the hours are a little more regular.”

  “You don’t have to make any decisions for a while,” I say. “Give it some time. See how you’re feeling.”

  “I already have another offer.”

  “From whom?”

  “Nick Hanson.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  Dear God. “Are you going to work for Nick?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to talk like Nick?”

  He smiles. “I haven’t decided that either.”

  We watch the Giants game on TV for a few minutes. Pete downs his beer and wipes his lips with a brown paper napkin. His tone is somber when he asks the question that I’ve been expecting for the last two weeks. “Why didn’t Pop say something?”

  It’s the first time we’ve talked about it. “Maybe he was trying to protect Low and D’Amato,” I say. Or himself.

  “Do you really think Pop bought into the Code of Silence crap?”

  “He was a pretty old-fashioned guy.”

  “He wasn’t old-fashioned enough to let Nate rot in jail for ten years.”

  “Maybe he really didn’t see anything. Maybe he really was trying to settle an old score with Nate after the Posse fiasco. We’ll never know for sure. Frankly, it doesn’t matter anymore.” As I say it, I realize that I’m trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince him.

  “You’re in an awfully forgiving mood.”

  “He’s gone, Pete. There’s nothing we can do about it. Rosie says I should let it go.”

  “Doesn’t it bug you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But?”

  “I guess sometimes you discover that your heroes have feet of clay.”

  He gives me a thoughtful look. “Was Pop really one of your heroes?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “You guys were at each other’s throats for forty years.”

  “I still respected him as a cop.”

  “How about as a father?”

  “I thought he needed a little work there.”

  “So did I.” He arches an eyebrow. “Do you think Margaret will be saying the same thing about me
in twenty years?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You don’t seem to have big problems with Grace.”

  “She reserves most of her venom for Rosie.” I tap my brother’s arm. “Are you going to be able to deal with this?”

  “Eventually.” His scowl becomes more pronounced. “Donna and I have been talking about making some changes.”

  Uh-oh. “What kind?”

  “We’re thinking about selling the house and moving out to the burbs. It’s probably a good time to cash in our chips. We saw a little place in San Anselmo that we liked.” He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

  “Of course. Why now?”

  “I’ve been living in the same house for more than forty years. I’m tired of the fog. Besides, it will be better for Margaret. The schools are better in Marin.”

  We’ll also be neighbors. “Are you sure about this?” I ask.

  “I think it’s time to move on.”

  It’s a big change for Pete. If you ask me, it’s also the right one. There are too many memories in our parents’ house—good and bad. He’s overdue for a fresh start. I point toward the bar. “Have you cleared this with Big John?” I ask.

  “Not yet.”

  “He isn’t going to be happy about it.”

  “I’ll break the news to him gently.”

  Big John returns with another round of beers, including one for himself. The bar is empty and he’s a talker. He pulls up a chair. “These are on the house,” he says.

  “I’d feel better if you’d let me pay for them,” I say.

  He waves his huge paw. “Your family kept us in business in the lean times. The least I can do is spot you a couple of beers.”

  “Thanks, Big John.”

  He gives me a sideways look. “Are you lads okay?”

  “We’re fine,” I say.

  “You don’t look so fine. Bartender’s intuition.”

  His is finely tuned. “It’s been a couple of long weeks,” I tell him.

  “You got a good result for Nate Fineman.” He turns to Pete. “You’re out of the hospital.”

  “That’s true,” Pete says.

  “So what’s the big deal?”

  I take a long drink of my beer. “We discovered that our father may have withheld information during the original trial that could have changed the result. It’s possible that he did it to try to settle some old business with Nate.”

  “You mean the Bayview Posse case?”

  “Yeah.”

  He responds with a bartender’s knowing half smile. “Does that have anything to do with the arrest of Marshawn Bryant and Alex Aronis?”

  “It does.”

  “So what?”

  “We’re having a little trouble dealing with the fact that some things we thought about our father may have been untrue. Did he ever say anything to you about seeing Bryant on the night of the shootings?”

  “Afraid not, lad.”

  I take another sip of my Guinness. I look my uncle straight in the eye. “So,” I say to him, “now that everything’s said and done, maybe you can tell us what really happened to that IA file.”

  “What makes you think I know something, Mikey?”

  “Lawyer’s intuition.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “Is this conversation covered by the attorney-client privilege?”

  “It’s also covered by the bartender-customer privilege and the uncle-nephew privilege.”

  “Good enough.” There’s a long pause. “He took it, Mikey.”

  “He stole it?”

  “You might say that he borrowed it.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he didn’t intend to keep it. He didn’t trust Fitz and the guys in IA. He wanted to make a copy in case somebody started asking questions down the road. He never quite got around to returning it. After a while, I guess he figured nobody was going to ask about it.”

  Until now. “Did you see it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I’m sure it’s long gone, lad.”

  He’s undoubtedly right.

  “Don’t look so sad, Mikey. Fitz told you the truth about what was in the report––everybody was cleared.”

  “Which was completely wrong.”

  “It was a fitting testament to Fitz’s investigative prowess.”

  Amen.

  Big John straightens out a faded black-and-white photo of Juan Marichal that hangs on the wall above our table. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Did you know that my father went to the seminary?” he says.

  Pete and I exchange a glance. Big John’s dad was a world-class carouser. “He never mentioned it,” I say.

  “Do you know how close he came to being ordained?”

  “Nope.”

  “One day.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep. If he hadn’t changed his mind at the last minute, I never would have been born.” He winks and adds, “Your aunt used to say that sometimes she wished he’d decided to go ahead and become a priest.”

  It sounds like her. “The priesthood isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be,” I say.

  “You were a good priest, Mikey.”

  “You may be the only person who thinks so. What does that have to do with us?”

  Big John glances up at the Dunleavy crest. “My dad and I didn’t always get along real well,” he says, “but I always figured I owed him something for giving up the priesthood. Whenever I got really mad at him, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “So?”

  Big John sets his mug on the table. “I don’t know for sure what your daddy knew about the Fineman case. I don’t know anything about a grudge against Nate Fineman. I sure as hell don’t know what possessed him to lift that file. I will grant you that it wasn’t the smartest thing he ever did. What I do know for sure is that Tommy Daley was my brother-in-law, my best friend, and the most stand-up guy that I ever knew. You lads can choose to remember him any way you’d like. If I were in your shoes, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  # # #

  “What time is Grace coming home?” I ask Rosie. Our daughter went to a movie with Jake.

  “I told her that she could stay out until midnight. She’s had a couple of tough weeks.”

  So have we. We’re sitting in front of Rosie’s fireplace, both of us relieved that we’re no longer living in an armed camp. I just put Tommy to bed for the third time tonight. We’re enjoying a glass of merlot and a quiet moment.

  “How’s Pete?” she asks.

  “All things considered, not bad.”

  “Donna called and said she appreciated that you took him out tonight.”

  “They’ve had a couple of tough weeks, too.”

  “Yes, they have.” The fire reflects off her eyes. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m fine, Rosie.”

  She leans over and kisses me. “You’re a lousy liar. You’ve been in a different world for the last two weeks.”

  “Death-penalty appeals are exhausting.”

  “Maybe we should go away.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Where do you go with a teenager and a toddler?”

  “Disneyland.” It isn’t my first choice, but our options and finances are limited.

  “I’ll check it out,” she says. Her tone turns serious. “What’s bugging you, Mike?”

  “The case.”

  “I think everything turned out pretty well. Nate was released. Bryant and Aronis were arrested. Roosevelt may have enough to prove that Low was the triggerman. If everything works out, we’ll collect a pile of fees in Nate’s civil case. That isn’t bad for less than two weeks of work, Mike.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “You might even finish the remodeling job on your kitchen before Grace goes to college.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” she asks.

  “Pete got shot.”

/>   “He’s going to be fine.”

  “We destroyed the reputations of some good cops.”

  “Dave Low was a murderer. Joey D’Amato was a blackmailer.”

  “I was talking about my dad, too.”

  “I know.” She takes a sip of her merlot. “He wasn’t perfect, Mike.”

  “I thought he was a perfect cop.”

  “It turns out that he wasn’t.” She cups my face in her hand. “It’s a tough job. Maybe he had a problem with Nate. He was getting close to retirement. He made some bad decisions. Give him a break.”

  “Tell that to Nate.”

  “He was no saint, either. Think about the parents of the kids who died from the drugs they bought from the Bayview Posse. You’re always looking for perfect justice. You need to accept the fact that we live in an imperfect world. There are things that lawyers just can’t fix.” She pulls me toward her and kisses me.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “For never changing. If I take you to Disneyland, will you promise to let it go?”

  “Yes, Rosie.”

  “If you don’t behave, I’ll make you ride the flying Dumbos until you puke.”

  “I get the message.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “I need to show you something.” She hands me a large manila envelope. “This came in the mail from Ilene Fineman. It’s addressed to both of us.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I was waiting for you to get here before I opened it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She tears open the envelope and looks at the first of two stacks of neatly bundled papers. She studies the first pile for a moment. I can see her blinking back tears.

  “What?” I ask.

  She hands the papers to me. “Look,” she says.

  They are the divorce papers that Ilene mentioned when we first met. The handwritten note expresses her gratitude and indicates that she won’t be needing them. I can feel a tear in the corner of my eye. “That’s very nice,” I say.

  “Very nice indeed.” She pulls out the second stack. Her eyes get wider. “Oh my God,” she says.

  “What is it?”

  She stares at the papers in disbelief. “The deed to this house.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She swallows hard. “Nate and Ilene bought it for us. We’re now the proud joint owners of a 950-square-foot palace with no kitchen and a leaky roof.”