“Nope. We ordered pizza.”
Rosie leans in closer. “Sean,” she says softly, “did you and Kerry do any funny stuff?”
“What do you mean?”
“Beer? Wine? Booze?”
Sean darts an almost imperceptible glance at his mother. “Nope.”
“What about dope?”
Sean responds with an indignant, “I don’t do that stuff.”
“Does Kerry?”
“Nope.”
Julie’s protective instincts kick in. “Is this necessary?”
“The police are going to ask him a lot of questions,” Rosie says. “I want to avoid any surprises.” She’s also looking for a reaction.
Sean shakes his head a little too emphatically. “I don’t do that stuff,” he repeats. “Neither does Kerry.”
Rosie takes his response in stride. “Did you talk to Bobby last night?” she asks.
“I sent him a text that I was at Kerry’s.”
“He said he tried to call you after he found your father.”
“I was asleep. I didn’t get the message until after he had been taken downtown.”
“Will Kerry confirm everything you just told us?”
“Yep.”
“Are we finished?” Julie asks.
“For now,” Rosie says.
# # #
“Where did you go after the movie?” Rosie asks Grace. “How many times do we have to go through this?”
“Once more.”
Rosie and I are sitting on the black leather sofa beneath two rows of framed diplomas in Julie’s immaculate home office. Grace is sitting on a matching side chair. Sean is hunkered down in his room. Julie is with him. Roosevelt is still outside chomping at the bit.
Grace exhales heavily. “We went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“I already told you. We went to Amoeba, then back to the car.”
Rosie shoots a glance in my direction, then her eyes lock onto Grace’s. “We understand Sean sent Bobby a text about a party at Kerry’s house.”
This is a decidedly different spin on Sean’s story. Rosie is playing a hunch.
Graces shakes her head. “There was no party, Mother. Sean texted Bobby that he was staying at Kerry’s house. That’s it.”
“You didn’t mention it earlier.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“You should have told me about it.”
“Nothing was going on, Mother.”
“Did you go to Kerry’s house?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to get mad at you, Grace.”
“We didn’t go to Kerry’s house, Mother.”
“If there’s anything else that we should know, this would be an excellent time to tell us.”
“There’s nothing, Mother.”
Rosie’s stilted nod indicates she isn’t satisfied. She looks my way for help.
“Grace,” I say, “did you notice anything unusual around Bobby’s father’s house when you went to get the car?”
“Not really.”
“Think hard, honey.”
She ponders for a moment. “Some idiot parked his car very close to Bobby’s. It was practically touching Bobby’s front bumper. It was parked in front of the fire hydrant.”
“Was there a ticket on the windshield?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you remember what kind of car it was?”
“A big, boxy American car.”
“Do you remember what make?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t paying attention.”
11/ MOTHER’S INTUITION
Saturday, June 18, 7:22 a.m.
We’re sitting at Julie’s kitchen table, where Roosevelt is questioning our daughter with the gentleness of a grandfather. He was equally patient with Sean.
“What color was the car?” he asks.
“Gray,” Grace says.
“Did you notice anything unusual about it? Was it dented or missing a light?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Did you happen to pick up any part of the license plate?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, honey. You’re doing fine.”
I interject politely. “Any chance it was an unmarked police car?”
“No,” Roosevelt says, never taking his eyes off Grace. “What time did you see this car?”
Grace swallows hard. “About twelve fifteen.”
“Was anybody in it?”
“No.”
“Was Judge Fairchild home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were the lights on inside the house?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did you see Judge Fairchild’s car?”
“No, but it may have been in the garage.”
“Did you see anybody inside the house?”
“No.”
“Did you see anybody leave the house?”
“No.”
Roosevelt sighs. “Gracie,” he says, “did you or Bobby go inside Judge Fairchild’s house when you got back to the car?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Roosevelt waits an interminable moment. “Anything else you want to tell me, Gracie?”
“I’ve told you everything, Roosevelt.”
He gives her one more chance. “You’re absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
# # #
“What did you make of that?” Rosie asks as soon as Roosevelt leaves.
“Grace was poised. Roosevelt was discreet.”
“I agree.”
“Is there a but coming?”
“Roosevelt knows more than he’s letting on,” she says.
“What makes you think so?”
“Lawyer’s intuition.” Her expression changes to one of concern. She adds, “Grace hasn’t told us everything.”
“How can you tell?”
“Mother’s intuition.”
12/ DOES YOUR CLIENT UNDERSTAND THE CHARGES?
Saturday, June 18, 10:01 a.m.
“All rise.”
The sweltering utilitarian courtroom on the second floor of the Hall of Justice comes to life as Judge Elizabeth McDaniel walks purposefully to her high-backed leather chair. She’s a thoughtful jurist whose maternal nature and soft-spoken drawl complement an intense intellect and an unyielding desire to be fair. She expects the lawyers who appear before her to be prepared and concise—a standard she applies even more rigorously to herself. She doesn’t need to bang her gavel to silence her courtroom. All it takes is a raised eyebrow.
“Be seated,” she says.
The standing-room-only crowd settles into the five rows of hardbacked seats. The local news outlets are well-represented. The sketch artists in the back row have their pencils poised.
Rosie and I take our seats at the defense table. Bobby is sitting between us. His hair is combed, but his orange jumpsuit makes him look guilty of something. Julie is sitting directly behind us in the gallery. She’s surrounded by the always-tactful members of the fourth estate. Grace and Sean are at Julie’s house. We decided to minimize the chances of an emotional outburst.
Bobby leans over to me. “You have to get me out of here,” he whispers. There is no sense of entitlement in his voice. It’s pure desperation.
“We’re doing everything we can.” I realize my answer isn’t especially reassuring.
Judge McDaniel dons her reading glasses and switches on her microphone. She looks at the prosecution table, where a radiant Nicole Ward is sitting next to a grim Bill McNulty. It’s hard to find two lawyers with more contrasting—yet effective—styles. The charismatic Ward is a shameless grandstander. The owlish McNulty is a meticulous craftsman. “Is the prosecution prepared to proceed?” the judge asks.
Ward stands. “Yes, Your Honor. I will be addressing the court on behalf of the People.”
She never misses a photo op. McNast
y will undoubtedly sit firstchair at the trial—if we get that far. Ward wants to stay focused on her campaign and McNulty has both the expertise and the stamina for trial work. More important, she can lob the blame over to him if things go south.
“Mr. Daley,” the judge says, “does your client understand the charges?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“How does he plead?”
“If we might take a moment to discuss a couple of preliminary issues.”
Ward is still standing. “Your Honor,” she says, “the sole purpose of this proceeding is for the defendant to enter a plea. We can address other issues at the appropriate time.”
“Your Honor—” I say.
Judge McDaniel cuts me off. “I need your client’s plea, Mr. Daley.”
I nudge Bobby. As he stands, I whisper, “Be respectful, but firm.”
He clears his throat and musters a barely audible, “Not guilty.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fairchild?”
He’s a little too loud the second time. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Thank you.”
Bobby sits down as the judge recites the standard catechism to record the plea. Several reporters quickly head to the door to file the first news reports—as if the not-guilty plea was any surprise.
“Your Honor,” I say, “we would like to take a moment to discuss bail.”
Ward pops up again. “The People oppose bail.”
“Your Honor,” I say, “my client is an exemplary young man with substantial ties to the community. He has lived here his entire life and will stay with his mother. He recently graduated with honors from University High School and will attend Columbia University in the fall. He is prepared to surrender his passport and wear an electronic monitoring device. In the interests of justice and fair play, we respectfully request that bail be set in a reasonable amount.”
Ward is still on her feet. “Your Honor,” she says, “the defendant stands accused of murdering a sitting judge. Bail is inappropriate in a first-degree murder case.”
“The judge always has discretion to set bail,” I reply.
Ward isn’t giving an inch. “The defendant has the means and the wherewithal to flee. It’s also a matter of public safety to keep a murderer off our streets.”
“Alleged murderer,” I correct her.
“Alleged murderer,” she repeats with sarcasm. “Your Honor, it is more than just a bad idea to set bail in this case. It’s illegal.”
Judge McDaniel raises an eyebrow. “How do you figure, Ms. Ward?”
“Section 1270.5 of the Penal Code prohibits bail in connection with a capital case.”
What the hell? “Who said anything about a capital case?” I ask.
“I just did.”
I turn to my left and see the panic in Bobby’s eyes. I turn back to the judge and say, “May we approach the bench, Your Honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Daley.”
We make the pilgrimage to the front of the courtroom, where Judge McDaniel turns off her microphone. “What is it, Mr. Daley?”
“Nobody said anything to us about this being a capital case.”
“He killed a judge,” Ward says. “He was lying in wait. That’s a special circumstance.”
It’s California’s euphemism for a death penalty case. “He’s a kid,” I say.
“He’s no longer a minor,” Ward says. “He’s therefore eligible for the death penalty.”
“He just turned eighteen,” I say. “No jury is going to impose the death penalty on a young man with no criminal record.”
“It is within our prosecutorial discretion to file a first-degree murder charge with a special circumstance even if a jury elects not to impose the death penalty. We believe Your Honor will see the benefit of sending a clear message that we take the killing of a judge very seriously.”
Ward’s predecessor was voted out of office after she didn’t ask for the death penalty in a cop-killing case. Ward isn’t going to make the same mistake—especially in an election year.
I strike an indignant tone. “This is just a grandstand play. It’s a blatant attempt to try to squeeze us into a plea bargain.”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” Ward insists.
Judge McDaniel stops us with an upraised hand. “For the purposes of this proceeding, I am required to resolve all ambiguities in favor of the prosecution. For now, the defendant stands charged on a first-degree murder count with a special circumstance. The defense is entitled to file motions in due course to contest the appropriateness of the charges.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“I’ll look forward to reading your papers, Mr. Daley.”
Her signal is clear: she can’t do anything about it today, but she isn’t happy about Ward’s attempt to turn this into a capital case.
“Your Honor,” I say, “that still leaves open the possibility of bail.”
“Not in a capital case,” Ward says. “Section 1270.5 of the Penal Code says a defendant charged with an offense punishable by death cannot be admitted to bail when the proof of his guilt is evident or the presumption thereof is great.”
“Your Honor,” I say, “this offense is not punishable by death.”
“It is until you file your papers, Mr. Daley.”
“The proof of his guilt is not evident and the presumption thereof is not great.”
Judge McDaniel gives me a sympathetic look. “You’re free to make that argument in your papers,” she says. “I have no choice, Mr. Daley. For now, bail is denied.”
My anger is exacerbated by Ward’s smug grin. “Your Honor,” I say, “my client’s life has been threatened in the San Francisco County Jail. We request that you order the Sheriff’s Department to house him in a separate cell.”
“Your Honor,” Ward says, “I can assure you the Sheriff ’s Department will take all necessary steps to ensure the defendant’s safety.”
Judge McDaniel throws us a bone. “That’s going to include his own cell, Ms. Ward.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“Listen to me carefully, Ms. Ward. I am holding you personally responsible for the defendant’s safety. You’re going to make arrangements with the Sheriff ’s Department to ensure that he is detained separately from the rest of the prison population. He will have a guarded escort whenever he leaves his cell for meals and exercise. Understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
It’s a small victory. “Your Honor,” I say, “we further ask you to impose a complete media blackout on all parties involved in this case.” It’s a blatant attempt to tweak Ward. A gag order in an election year is almost as bad as an acquittal.
Ward can barely contain herself. “Your Honor,” she says, “the public has a right to be fully informed of developments in this case.”
“They aren’t going to hear about it from you.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“Let me make this simple for you, Ms. Ward. I am imposing a gag order on everyone involved in this case. If I see either of you talking to the press or appearing on TV, I’m going to fine you and send you to jail. Period.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“Don’t push me on this issue, Ms. Ward. Anything else, Mr. Daley?”
“We would like to schedule a preliminary hearing as soon as possible.”
“I understand the urgency, but I want you to have adequate time to prepare.”
“Bobby Fairchild shouldn’t be forced to stay in jail on these egregious and unsubstantiated charges. He has a statutory right to a preliminary hearing within ten days. We’d like to schedule it sooner if possible.”
The judge takes a moment to study her calendar. “I might be able to squeeze you in at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning.”
That’s quick. “We’ll be ready, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor,” Ward says, “we’ve just started our investigation. It will strain the resources of our office to prepare for a preliminary hearing on such short notice.”
“It didn’t strain your resources when you filed charges and demanded this proceeding on short notice, Ms. Ward.”
“A prelim requires more preparation than an arraignment.”
“That’s why I’m giving you until Wednesday.”
# # #
Julie’s frustration bubbles to the surface in the empty courtroom after Bobby is led out. “That was a disaster,” she says to me.
“We’re doing everything we can,” I tell her.
“You’re doing great so far. You couldn’t get the charges dropped. You didn’t get bail. You couldn’t stop Ward from turning this into a death penalty case.”
“She’s playing to the press,” I say. “She’s over-reaching to try to get us to consider a plea bargain.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“I agree.” I lower my voice. “The prosecutors always have the advantage at this stage. The special circumstance will never stick.”
“The murder charge better not stick, either.”
“It won’t.”
“You’d better be right.”
“You have to trust us, Julie.”
“Then get your asses in gear and get Bobby out of jail.”
Enough. “We’ve already told you it might be a good idea to hire another lawyer. For what it’s worth, this would be a good time to do it. Bobby won’t be back in court until Wednesday.”
“Bobby and I want you to handle this case,” she says. Her anger is replaced by the steely eyed calm of a surgeon. “What do we do next?”
I’m beginning to tire of the whole passive-aggressive thing. “We have until Wednesday morning to gather as much information as we can for the prelim. I want you to go back to our office with Rosie and tell her everything you can about your husband. We need a list of his friends, neighbors, colleagues, co-workers, lovers, and, most important, enemies—especially anybody who may have had a grudge. We’ll feed the information to Pete, who is already talking to people in Cole Valley. We should also consider the possibility of bringing in a psychiatrist to do some testing.”
“You think Bobby is crazy?”
“No, but we may want to consider one or more psychological defenses.”
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