MD07 - Perfect Alibi

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Eyewitness testimony is inherently unreliable—especially late at night on a dark street.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “No deal,” Rosie says.

  “Have it your way.”

  Rosie and I are about to leave when McNulty stops us. “There’s a lot more,” he says.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” I ask.

  “In due course.”

  “Come on, Bill. If you want us to play ball, give us something to work with.”

  “I’ve already given you more than I should have. Against my better judgment, I’ve made a generous offer. If you don’t cut a deal now, things are going to get very unpleasant for your client—and your daughter.”

  28/ I HAVE NO LEGAL OBLIGATION TO TALK TO YOU

  Sunday, June 19, 1:45 p.m.

  “Thank you for seeing us on short notice,” I say, mustering as much sincerity as I can.

  Retired Assistant District Attorney Keith Treadwell takes a bite of his sausage-and-mushroom crêpe at one forty-five on Sunday afternoon. “I figured I’d hear from you sooner or later,” he says.

  “I guess this means it’s sooner.”

  Treadwell is a lanky man with angular features and a pronounced widow’s peak that makes him resemble Bela Lugosi. A pair of hornrimmed Coke-bottle glasses rest on his hawk nose. He was on the front line in San Francisco’s drug wars for three decades. His heavy-handed tactics, blunt manner, and single-minded determination led to numerous commendations and more than a few complaints from the defense bar. He generously passed down the secrets of his combative streak to McNulty, one of his most enthusiastic disciples.

  “You realize I have no legal obligation to talk to you,” he observes.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Rosie, Treadwell, and I are seated in the back corner of Crepes on Cole, an airy breakfast and lunch spot at the corner of Cole and Carl that once housed the Other Café, a legendary comedy club where Robin Williams and Dana Carvey learned their craft. If you look closely, you can still see the faded Other Café sign hanging above the door.

  “Helluva thing about Jack Fairchild,” I say.

  “Now they’re killing judges,” he says.

  “We understand you were neighbors.” Treadwell lives at the corner of Belvedere and Rivoli, about two blocks south of the judge’s house.

  “We were also friends. I watched his kids grow up.”

  “We were surprised to see your name on Bill McNulty’s witness list.”

  He points toward an athletic black Lab sitting at attention, tethered to the parking meter outside the restaurant. “I took my dog out for a walk on Friday night.”

  “Bill said you walked by Judge Fairchild’s house shortly after midnight.”

  “I did. That’s where I saw your client.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Twelve ten.”

  “Where were you when you saw him?”

  “Walking north on Belvedere. Bobby was running west on Grattan.”

  “You’re sure it was Bobby?”

  “I’ve known him since he was a kid.”

  “Any chance it could have been somebody else?”

  “Nope.”

  I nod to Rosie.

  “Keith,” she says softly, “did you say Bobby was running away from his father’s house when you saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he was running away from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you saw him from behind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how could you have seen his face?”

  He lowers his voice. “It was Bobby.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you say anything to him?”

  “No. He was too far away. He was also clearly in a hurry.”

  Rosie responds with a skeptical expression. “You didn’t feel compelled to talk to your neighbor’s son when he was running down the street after midnight?”

  “I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Did you consider the possibility that he might have been in trouble?”

  “Nobody else was around.”

  “Did you see him leave his father’s house?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know if he was inside his father’s house on Friday night, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anybody else inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “No.”

  Rosie keeps pushing. “Where was he going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you notice a Crown Vic parked in front of the fire hydrant on Grattan?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did you see a truck from Bayview Towing double-parked farther down Grattan?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  Rosie takes a sip of cold coffee and pauses to gather her thoughts. “George Savage made some rather pointed comments about Judge Fairchild recently.”

  “I know.”

  “Some people interpreted those remarks as a threat.”

  Treadwell nods. “That’s a reasonable interpretation.”

  “One of Savage’s employees was parked down the street from the judge’s house on Friday night. A convicted felon named Brian Hannah.”

  “I know him. I prosecuted him for armed robbery a few years ago.”

  “Savage placed a call to Hannah’s cell phone at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Any chance you saw Hannah running down Grattan on Friday night?”

  Treadwell shakes his head emphatically. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Any chance Hannah might have been involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”

  “I have no idea.” Treadwell takes a final swallow of his coffee and wipes his lips with his paper napkin. “Look,” he says, “I take no pleasure in any of this. I’ve known Bobby since Jack and Julie were pushing him around in a stroller. He’s a nice kid who’s never been in trouble. I know things were tense between Jack and Bobby for the past few months. I’d love to foist this disaster off on Savage and his people just as much as you would—probably more. Frankly, I was disappointed my former colleagues couldn’t bring him down when they had a chance. On the other hand, I know what I saw. I can’t provide any connection between Savage or Hannah and Jack’s death.”

  Which means Treadwell is mistaken or Grace and Bobby are lying.

  29/ WE’VE BEEN THROUGH THIS, DAD

  Sunday, June 19, 3:30 p.m.

  “Something has come up,” I say to Bobby.

  His body tenses. He’s sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the consultation room in the Glamour Slammer. Rosie is sitting across from him, her arms folded, her expression stoic.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “A witness says he saw you running down Grattan at twelve ten on Saturday morning.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “He was sure.”

  “He made a mistake. He must have seen somebody else.”

  Rosie holds up a hand and takes over. “It’s Keith Treadwell,” she says. “He says he knows you.”

  “He does. He’s been our neighbor forever, but he’s still wrong.” There’s a slight hesitation. “I swear to God.”

  “I need you to tell us what happened one more time,” Rosie says.

  “Fine.” He taps the table impatiently and lays it out again. “Grace and I went to the movie. Then we went to Amoeba. Then we went back to the car. We drove straight to your house. That’s it.”

  Either he’s telling the truth or he’s internalized his story to the point where he truly believes it himself.

  “You and Grace were together the entire time?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t by yourself even for a minute?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t go inside your father’s house?”

  “No.”

&nb
sp; “Is there any reason Treadwell would be out to get you?”

  “Not as far as I know. He’s a nice guy. He knew my father for years.”

  # # #

  The battle resumes in Rosie’s living room at ten thirty on Sunday night. Grace is standing with her arms folded. An oversized Cal sweatshirt hangs loosely on her shoulders. Rosie is sitting on the sofa. I’m standing next to the doorway to the kitchen. Sylvia is knitting in the armchair near the windows.

  “Where did you and Bobby go after the movie?” I ask Grace.

  “We’ve been through this, Dad.”

  “We need to go through it again, honey.”

  “Come on, Dad.” We’ve moved beyond anxiety into open hostility.

  “Please, honey.”

  Rosie takes off the reading glasses that replaced her contacts. She addresses our daughter in a soft tone. “We need to know exactly what happened on Friday night, honey.”

  Sylvia comes to her granddaughter’s defense. “What’s this about, Rosita?”

  “No offense, Mama, but it would be better if we talked to Grace in private.”

  “She’s my granddaughter.”

  “Technically, you could be called to testify about anything she tells us. There is no grandmother-granddaughter privilege.”

  “Don’t give me lawyer talk. I’ll rot in jail before I testify against my granddaughter.”

  “Please, Mama.”

  Sylvia is savvy enough to pick her fights carefully. “I’m going to check on Tommy.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Sylvia has the last word. “I will find out what this is all about, Rosita.” My ex-mother-in-law makes a melodramatic display of strutting down the hall toward Tommy’s room.

  Rosie moves in closer to Grace. “So?”

  “How many more times do we have to go through this?”

  “Just once.”

  “What’s this about?”

  Rosie struggles to find the right words and inflection. “One of Judge Fairchild’s neighbors says he saw Bobby running down Grattan at twelve ten—alone.”

  Our daughter frowns.

  “Grace?”

  “It wasn’t Bobby,” she says. She bites down on her lower lip, but there is no equivocation when she adds, “He was with me.”

  “The entire time?”

  “The entire time.”

  “You went straight from Amoeba to Bobby’s car?”

  “Yes. Then we came straight home.”

  “You didn’t go inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see anybody on the street?”

  “No.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure.”

  # # #

  “Do you believe her?” I whisper to Rosie after Grace has gone to her room.

  My ex-wife is staring intently at the fireplace in her living room. “I think so.”

  It’s the first hint of doubt. “But?”

  She recovers quickly. “No buts. I know my daughter better than anybody else on the face of the earth. I believe her.”

  Or she’s choosing to believe her. My cell phone rings. The display shows Pete’s number. “Where are you?” I ask him.

  “In the Tenderloin. I need you to get down here right away. I found Judge Fairchild’s girl from the Sunshine Spa.”

  30/ GOOD TIPPER

  Monday, June 20, 12:37 a.m.

  “This is Jasmine,” Pete says.

  The tiny Asian girl with the pale complexion and the plain white dress nods demurely, but doesn’t speak. Her delicate features suggest she’s younger than sixteen, but her hollow eyes look much older. I pick up the scent of the lavender candles that I smelled when I visited Miss Amanda at the Sunshine on Saturday night.

  “I’m Mike,” I say.

  Another nod.

  I glance at Rosie, who is sitting next to me. “This is Rosita,” I say. “She’s my law partner.”

  Jasmine’s eyes open slightly as Rosie extends a gentle hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Jasmine,” Rosie says softly. “I think we might be able to help you.”

  We’re sitting in the back of the Grubstake Restaurant, an unlikely landmark inside an old railcar that somehow found its way to the middle of the block on Pine Street between Polk and Van Ness, just north of the Tenderloin. The burgers are terrific and they stay open until four a.m. Harvey Milk held court here until the wee hours as he built his political organization at a table near the front door. Oddly enough, the funky diner with the mismatched chairs and sloping floor offers a full selection of Portuguese dishes. The aroma of cheeseburgers mixes easily with the house specialty, Bacalhau a Tomes de Sa, a codfish platter with potatoes, onions, hard-boiled eggs, parsley, and olives. It’s an unusual—albeit reasonably private—setting for a meeting among two defense lawyers, a tough PI, and an underage sex worker who is probably in this country illegally.

  “We need to hurry,” Pete says. “Jasmine has to be back by one.”

  I will find out later precisely how Pete managed to extricate her from the Sunshine—if only for a few minutes.

  “How long have you worked at the Sunshine?” Rosie asks.

  Jasmine is staring down at the floor. “Nine months. I owe them money.”

  “For what?”

  Her English becomes more stilted. “Bring me here from Korea. Tell me I make lots of money. Now I have to pay travel costs. They charge rent. They charge for food.”

  It will take years to work off her debt. “Can you leave?” Rosie asks.

  “No. They keep my passport. They will harm my family.”

  “How much do you owe them?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  Rosie pushes out a sigh. “How old are you?”

  There’s a pause. “Twenty,” Jasmine decides.

  Rosie isn’t buying it. “How old are you really?”

  Another hesitation. “Seventeen.”

  A year older than Grace.

  “Are you allowed any contact with your parents?” Rosie asks.

  “No. They think I work at a restaurant. They would be ashamed of me.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Jasmine.”

  “I have dishonored my family.”

  “We can help you if you’re willing to help us.”

  Jasmine finally looks up. “How?”

  “We’re lawyers,” Rosie says. “We can get you a visa to stay here legally.”

  “I don’t want to stay,” she says. “I want to go home.”

  “We can help you there, too.”

  “Still need twenty-five thousand.”

  “Are you willing to talk to the authorities?”

  “No. I will get in trouble.”

  Yes, she will.

  “We’ll get you protection,” Rosie says.

  “You can’t protect me. Another girl went to the police. She disappeared.”

  “Are you saying the people at the Sunshine made her disappear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have to trust us, Jasmine.”

  She ponders her situation for a long moment. “Maybe,” she says.

  Rosie shows her a photo of Judge Fairchild. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “The judge.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Good tipper.”

  Rosie touches her hand. “The judge was killed on Friday night.”

  “I know. Miss Amanda told me. Very sad. He was one of my best customers.”

  “For how long?”

  “Three months.”

  “How often did he come to see you?”

  “Twice a week.”

  “For what?”

  “A massage.”

  “What else?”

  Her eyes turn down. “You know.”

  Rosie nods. “Yes, I do. Did he always ask for you?”

  “Yes. He liked young girls.”

  I’m not interested in the detai
ls of the precise nature of their relationship.

  Rosie keeps pushing. “Did you see the judge on Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he arrive?”

  “Eleven.” She says he left at a quarter to twelve.

  “Do you know anybody who may have been angry at the judge?”

  She swallows hard, but doesn’t respond.

  “Jasmine?”

  “My boss.”

  “Miss Amanda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He owed money.”

  “For what?”

  “For me.”

  I believe her.

  “How much did he owe Miss Amanda?” Rosie asks.

  “Five thousand. Miss Amanda was going to take it out of my wages if he didn’t pay.”

  It comes as no surprise that Miss Amanda is quite the hard-nosed businesswoman. "Did Miss Amanda threaten the judge?” I ask.

  “She told the judge she wouldn’t let him see me again if he didn’t pay. The judge said he would put Miss Amanda out of business.”

  # # #

  Rosie is biting on her right fist as we drive across the Golden Gate Bridge at one o’clock on Monday morning. “Jasmine must be desperate,” she says.

  “Can we get her out?”

  “For twenty-five grand. There must be hundreds of girls like her in San Francisco.”

  “No doubt.”

  Rosie’s tone turns practical. “Even if we can liberate her and convince her to testify, it doesn’t help our case. She was with the judge until eleven-forty-five on Friday night. It proves he was a creep who liked Asian girls. It doesn’t tell us anything about what happened after he got home.”

  “What about Miss Amanda’s argument with the judge?”

  “She’ll never admit it. It would be her word against Jasmine’s. It seems unlikely Miss Amanda drove out to Cole Valley to bludgeon the judge to death.”

  “Maybe she set it up.”

  “You can bet she’ll have an ironclad alibi. Besides, we still have no evidence placing her—or anybody else—at the scene.”

  “Then we'll have to find some.”

  “Fine. Call Pete and tell him to have somebody keep an eye on the Sunshine.”