# # #
“Nice work,” Rosie says to me.
“Requiem was very appreciative,” I reply.
“I’ll bet.” Rosie’s cobalt eyes twinkle as we’re standing in Judge Chandler’s empty courtroom. “You just made the world a safer place for consumers of sex toys.”
“It will be my lasting legacy to the justice system—and mankind.”
Her right eyebrow shoots up in a manner I still find irresistible. “Did you tinker with the switch to make sure it wouldn’t turn off?”
“That would have been dishonest.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I trust you appreciate the irony of an ex-priest representing a client named Requiem in a case involving a sex toy?”
“I wasn’t planning to tell the Archbishop.” Enough gloating. “Is Grace going out with Bobby again tonight?”
“Yes.”
Our sixteen-year-old daughter was one of the few positives to emerge from our marriage. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together,” I observe.
“Yes, they have.”
Bobby Fairchild isn’t Grace’s first boyfriend. He is, however, her most serious. They met at a high school science fair last October. As far as we can tell, their relationship has been reasonably tame. He’s the sort of kid that I’d like Grace to marry—in another twenty years. He graduated last week from the prestigious and very private University High School in Pacific Heights. He’s on his way to Columbia in the fall. His father is a Superior Court judge who is on the fast track to the federal bench. His mother is a neurosurgeon at UCSF.
“You need to start dealing with it like an adult,” Rosie says.
“I’m trying. Is your mother staying with Tommy tonight?”
“Yes.”
Our energetic four-year-old son was an unplanned surprise long after Rosie and I split up. Around the same time, we decided to move forward as a permanent—albeit unmarried—couple. Life is full of compromises.
“Does that mean we have time for an early dinner to celebrate my great victory?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
The door swings open and San Francisco’s newly elected Public Defender strides forcefully down the center aisle. After three decades of toiling in the trenches, Robert Kidd finally got his chance to fill the top spot of the Office he’s served capably for so long.
“What brings you to the civil courthouse?” I ask him.
“Slumming.”
“Us, too.”
In a modest accommodation to the realities of modern political campaigning, our former mentor has ditched his Men’s Wearhouse suits for a more polished Wilkes Bashford look. Nevertheless, the charismatic sixty-year-old still embodies the working-class values of his upbringing in the Mission District. His hair is thinner and his jowls are larger, but his clear blue eyes still radiate the same intensity I first saw when he was promoted to the head of the felony division. At six-two and a lean two hundred pounds, he starts every morning with a sixmile run across town to the functional new building a half-block south of the Hall of Justice that houses the PD’s Office.
“I just saw Putty Chandler heading to his car,” he says.
“Did he have his golf clubs?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, he did. He said you’re developing a new specialty in the law of sex toys.”
“It was a cameo appearance on a pro bono case. On Monday, we’ll be back in the trenches fighting the good fight on behalf of drug dealers, pimps, and other small-time crooks.”
“Glad to hear it.”
My ever-practical ex-wife interjects. “You didn’t come looking for us on a Friday afternoon just to give us a hard time for taking a civil case,” Rosie says.
“I wanted to see if you’ve had a chance to consider my very attractive offer.”
He’d asked us to take over his old job as head of the felony division at the PD’s Office.
“We’re still thinking about it,” I say. “We’ve been busy.”
“Working on civil cases.” It’s the ultimate put-down to a defense lawyer.
“We take a few pro bono referrals from the Bar Association. Ninety-nine percent of our work is criminal.”
“One hundred percent of our work is criminal. You aren’t a civil lawyer.”
“I’m a very civil lawyer. We just don’t handle many civil cases.”
“We don’t handle any.”
“We like to pick our clients,” Rosie says.
“Most of whom are flaky or deadbeats—or both,” he says. “Not to mention the long hours, the little thanks, and the lousy pay.”
“That’s no different from the PD’s Office,” Rosie says.
“True enough, except you’d be working for me—that should count for something.” He turns serious. “I’m trying to upgrade the quality and reputation of our office. I need competent people like you to train the next generation.”
“We’re flattered,” I say, “but we’re trial lawyers. We don’t want to spend the next ten years shuffling paper.”
“I’ll get you help with the admin stuff. I’ll let you pick some cases to try. We have decent health benefits and a good retirement plan. You aren’t going to get rich, but you won’t starve. It’s a pretty good deal when you have one kid heading to college soon and another who’s starting grammar school. I might even be able to offer you some flexibility in your hours.” He flashes the recently developed politician’s smile that’s still a work in progress. “What’s it going to take to get your answer today?”
“You sound like a used car salesman, Robert.”
“Cars. Lawyers. It’s all the same.”
“We understand the urgency. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco nods and heads toward the door.
“What do you think?” Rosie asks me as soon as he’s out of earshot.
“It may be a chance to work on some interesting cases for a good guy. We’d get to train some talented young lawyers. It would be a regular paycheck and decent benefits. He’s even willing to let us work part-time.”
“But?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to cash in our chips to go back to a job that we left fifteen years ago. It’s a step backward.”
Rosie gives me a thoughtful look. “Maybe it’s a step forward,” she says.
# # #
I’m lying in bed, thinking about Robert Kidd’s offer, when my phone rings. I can tell immediately from the tone of Rosie’s voice that some thing is terribly wrong. “I need you to come over right away,” she says.
“Are Tommy and Grace okay?”
“They’re fine.”
“What about your mother?”
“She’s fine, too.”
I flip on the lamp in the bedroom of the tiny fifties-era apartment where I’ve lived since Rosie and I split up. There’s just enough room for a sagging double bed, a worn oak dresser, and a couple of mismatched nightstands. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light as I squint at the watch my grandfather acquired for a sack of potatoes in Galway City over a hundred years ago—or so our family legend goes. Gramps was also an accomplished pickpocket. Either way, I know for a fact my father wore the same watch as he walked the beat in San Francisco’s toughest neighborhoods when I was born fifty-four years ago.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” I say to Rosie.
“If you wanted to work regular hours, you shouldn’t have become a defense lawyer.”
It would be a serious tactical error to elevate this discussion into a full-blown argument. “What is it?” I ask.
“Bobby called. It’s his father.”
“Is Judge Fairchild sick?”
“No,” Rosie says. “He’s dead.”
2/ YOUR DAUGHTER IS AS STUBBORN AS MY DAUGHTER
Saturday, June 18, 2:04 a.m.
“Did he have a heart attack?” I ask Rosie.
“No,” she whispers. “He was beaten to death. Bobby found the b
ody when he got home. It may have been a botched robbery.”
Dear God. “What else did Bobby tell you?”
“I didn’t talk to him. He called Grace on her cell. I tried to call him back, but he didn’t answer.”
“Does this have anything to do with the Savage case?”
“I don’t know.”
Judge Fairchild recently presided over the highly charged racketeering trial of the owner of San Francisco’s most notorious towing company. George Savage is a warm and fuzzy guy who cut a sweetheart deal with the City to rid our overcrowded streets of illegally parked cars. In performing this valuable public service, his highly trained professionals developed a propensity for cruising upscale neighborhoods and towing vehicles seemingly at random, with a particular affinity for high-end sports cars. When Savage’s people took your car hostage, you had to find a cabbie who was willing to risk his life to drive you down to the massive impound lot in the most dangerous corner of the Bayview, where you had to pony up three big bills plus a highly recommended gratuity in cold, hard cash to liberate your vehicle. If you were lucky, your car was missing only its side mirrors and hubcaps. If you were unlucky, it was stripped clean. If you were really unlucky, you never saw it again.
A zealous investigative reporter at the Chronicle (with the assistance of a couple of our City’s erstwhile auditors) determined that Big George had also developed a proclivity for lining his pockets with millions of dollars that rightfully belonged to the hardworking taxpayers of the City and County of San Francisco. Our media-savvy DA filed charges and our well-trained prosecutors spent six months going toe-to-toe in a bloody war of attrition against Savage’s well-paid army of defense lawyers. During the trial, Savage made no secret of his contempt for the prosecutors, the jury, and especially Judge Fairchild. Rumors of intimidation and jury tampering were rampant. After three long weeks of deliberations, the jury convicted Savage of a single count of failing to pay his local business taxes and levied a million dollar fine. Most people considered it a slap on the wrist. His well-oiled operation never missed a beat.
“Is Bobby still at his father’s house?” I ask.
“As far as I know.”
Bobby’s mother and father separated acrimoniously about six months ago. Their respective barracudas have been trying to divvy up the spoils and work out support and custody arrangements ever since. At Bobby’s graduation last week, his parents sat in separate corners and didn’t say a word to each other. His mother, Julie, still lives in what used to be the family home in Cole Valley, a quiet neighborhood wedged between the UCSF Medical Center, Golden Gate Park, and the Haight. His father rented a remodeled Victorian a few blocks away. Bobby and his younger brother, Sean, have been shuttling between the two houses.
“Were you able to reach Julie?” I ask.
“Not yet. I paged her and left a message. The hospital said she was in surgery.”
Damn it. “What about Sean?”
Bobby’s brother just finished his freshman year at the exclusive Urban High School in the Haight. He’s a shy, sensitive kid who has borne the brunt of his parents’ separation.
“He didn’t answer his cell,” Rosie says. “Grace said he was spending the night at a friend’s house. I would assume the cops—and Julie—are looking for him.”
No doubt. “Where did Grace and Bobby go last night?”
“To dinner and a movie.” She waits a beat before she adds, “In the City.”
“I thought we agreed that they would stay closer to home.”
“Yesterday was Bobby’s eighteenth birthday. Grace politely asked for permission.”
“Which you granted?”
“You don’t get to second-guess my parental decisions if you aren’t available for a consultation.”
That’s never stopped me. “What time did they get home?”
“One o’clock.”
“That’s way too late, Rosie. She’s only sixteen.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mike. I made my feelings known to them.”
So will I. “The cops are going to want to talk to him,” I say. “And to Grace.”
“I know.”
“Am I the only person who sees a potential problem here?”
Rosie invokes the sanctimonious tone I’ve always found infuriating. “Bobby graduated third in his class at University High. He was an allconference baseball player and the editor of the school newspaper. He got early admission to Columbia.”
“To the cops, he’s also a person of interest.”
“It doesn’t make him a suspect.”
“I didn’t say he was. It’s also no secret that he and his father weren’t getting along.”
“It isn’t uncommon for teenagers to have strained relationships with their parents—especially during a divorce.”
Tell me about it. “How strained was theirs?”
“Bobby wouldn’t hurt anyone, Mike. Besides, he has a perfect alibi.”
Our daughter.
# # #
“Come in, Michael,” my ex-mother-in-law whispers.
Sylvia Fernandez is standing inside the front doorway to Rosie’s house. Except for her gray hair and crow’s feet, she could pass for Rosie’s older sister. She celebrated her seventy-ninth birthday last month by having her left hip replaced so she could keep up with Grace and Tommy. At times, I think she can outrun them. She recently instructed her doctors to accelerate her rehabilitation program. If they’re smart, they’ll do exactly as she says.
“Is Tommy asleep?” I ask.
She gives me the knowing smile of a grandmother. “Not anymore.”
I see my four-year-old son’s wide brown eyes peeking out from behind his grandmother. Tommy’s round, cherub-like face breaks into an enthusiastic smile. Sporting his trademark San Francisco Giants pajamas, he gives my right leg a tight bear hug. “Hi, Daddy,” he shrieks with glee.
It’s been a while since I got a similarly warm welcome from his sister. “Hi, Tom. What are you doing up so late?”
“I heard Mommy talking to Grace.”
He’s a happy kid, but he’s also a worrier—a trait he inherited from me. “It’s no big deal,” I say. “Everything is going to be fine.”
“No worries?” he asks. I’m not sure if he picked up the line from me or Barney the Dinosaur.
“No worries,” I reply.
I take off my jacket and look around at the cluttered space serving as Rosie’s living room, home office, and playroom. Rosie, Grace, and Tommy live in a post-earthquake era cottage in Larkspur, a quiet burg about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge where the neighborhood is safe and the schools are good. Their house is three blocks from my apartment behind the fire station. From time to time, we talk about trying to cohabitate under one roof. Invariably, we find the buffer zone allows us to diffuse our occasional differences of opinion. It also means Rosie takes the brunt of living with a teenage daughter. When Grace directs her angst my way, I try to remind myself she’s an honor student and the starting shortstop on the Redwood High School varsity softball team. She’s also a mercurial soul who inherited my propensity for stubbornness and Rosie’s independent streak—traits that are not always becoming in a teenager.
“Why are you here so late?” Tommy asks.
“Lawyer stuff,” I say. It’s my standard answer. Tommy has no real comprehension of what Rosie and I do. He understands our work frequently requires us to go downtown in the middle of the night to help people who get into trouble.
“Do you have to go to work?” he asks.
“Maybe for a while. We’ll be home soon.”
“Can we go to the park tomorrow?”
“You bet.”
This elicits a smile. If it were only so easy with Grace. “Is Grandma going to stay with me?” he asks.
“Of course.” I take his small hand and squeeze it. “You go back to bed, Tommy. I’ll come in and say goodbye before we leave.”
“Okay, Daddy.” He squeezes my leg again before h
e sprints down the narrow hallway toward his bedroom. Four-year-olds move at only one speed—fast.
I turn to Sylvia. “Where’s Rosie?”
“Talking to your daughter.”
Translation: they’re arguing. I can hear the muffled sounds of a heated debate through the thin walls. I’ll get a blow-by-blow from Rosie later. “What are they fighting about?” I ask.
“Whether Grace is going to go with you to see Bobby.”
“Is there any doubt?”
“No. Your daughter is as stubborn as my daughter.”
# # #
“Talk to us, Grace,” I say.
No answer.
Rosie is behind the wheel of her Toyota Prius—a recent upgrade over her ancient Honda Civic. We’re barreling down the 101 Freeway toward the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m riding shotgun. Grace is in the back seat. Her lips form a pronounced scowl as she stares out the window.
“Grace?” I say.
“What, Dad?”
Until last year, I was still Daddy. When Bobby arrived on the scene, I became Dad. “What did Bobby tell you?” I ask.
“This isn’t a cross-exam.”
Every question is a personal affront. “We’re just trying to help, honey.”
“You’re going about it the wrong way.”
Nowadays, we go about everything the wrong way. “What did Bobby tell you?”
“That his father’s dead.”
“Was he able to reach his mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Sean?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Did Bobby call the police?”
“Of course. They were on their way to his house.”
They’re undoubtedly already there. “They’re going to want to know what he was doing tonight.”
“He was with me.”
“They’ll want details.” So do I.
“Can you stop talking like a lawyer?”
“I’m talking like a parent.”
MD07 - Perfect Alibi Page 2