Ever the voice of practicality. “It won’t happen,” I say.
“She’s Bobby’s alibi. The prosecutors are going to put as much heat on her as they possibly can.”
“They have no evidence against her.”
“They don’t need a shred of evidence to make her life—and ours— miserable.” Rosie’s cobalt eyes turn to cold steel. “There’s only one way to make sure this mess comes out the way we’d like. We have one more day to find out what really happened to Judge Fairchild.”
36/ IT’S BEEN A SLOW NIGHT
Monday, June 20, 11:30 p.m.
“How long have you been sitting here?” I ask Pete.
He’s parked across the street from the Sunshine. The Tenderloin is quiet at eleven thirty on Monday night. “A couple of hours,” he says.
The locksmith shop on the ground floor is dark, but the porn shop is busy. “Were you able to figure out who owns this upstanding establishment?” I ask.
“A privately held California corporation known as Sunshine Investments, Inc.”
I ask him how he was able to obtain that information.
“They’re licensed by the City. Their filings with the Secretary of State are up to date. If you didn’t know any better, it looks like everything is on the up-and-up. They also own the locksmith shop and the sex shop.”
“Sounds like it’s a fully integrated X-rated conglomerate.”
“You might say that, Mick.”
“Do you know who owns Sunshine Investments?”
“According to their filings with the City, a husband-and-wife team named Richard and Amanda Kim.”
“That would be Miss Amanda?”
“So it would seem.”
“They aren’t trying to hide their identity.” The blinds are drawn on the top two floors of the building, but the lights are on inside the Sunshine. “Any customers tonight?”
“Just a couple,” Pete says. “It’s been a slow night.”
“Anybody I might recognize?”
“Judge Weatherby and a member of the police commission.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why would I lie?”
He wouldn’t. “Is Jasmine working tonight?”
“Probably.”
“Have you talked to her again?”
“Nope. She hardly ever leaves the building.”
I shoot another glance across the street. “Do you think this is a dead end?”
“I don’t know. This isn’t our only possibility. I have people watching Savage and Hannah. I have somebody watching Julie’s boyfriend.”
“Any proof any of them may have been involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”
“Not yet. As far as I can tell, everybody is going about their business. I don’t expect them to confess to murder.”
Neither do I. “We need something by Wednesday morning.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Mick.” He points at the Sunshine. “Looks like a customer is going inside.”
A slight, middle-aged man wearing a blue sport jacket and a beige beret walks up to the metal gate and pushes the buzzer. He looks around impatiently as he waits for an answer. A moment later, the muscular young man who showed me inside on Saturday night appears on the other side of the gate. A brief discussion ensues. Money changes hands. The customer waits outside for a few minutes. Then I hear the sound of the buzzer. The customer pushes open the gate and heads upstairs.
“Miss Amanda approved,” Pete observes.
We watch in silence for a few more minutes. A couple of toughlooking youths wander into the peep show.
“Do you want me to go inside to see what they’re doing?” Pete asks.
“I think we already know.”
“Yes, we do.” He’s about to say something else when he stops. “Look at that. The light just went on inside the locksmith shop. It’s the second time it’s happened tonight.”
“Why would somebody be inside the locksmith shop at this hour?” I ask.
“It can’t hurt to find out,” he says.
“How do you plan to do that?”
A crooked smile crosses his face. “I guess I’ll have to ask Jasmine.”
37/ THEY’RE PLAYING IT BY THE BOOK
Tuesday, June 21, 3:30 p.m.
Rosie looks up over the top of a manila file folder as I enter her office. “Any word from Pete?” she asks.
“He has people watching Savage and Hannah,” I say. “He has somebody camped out at UCSF to watch Julie’s boyfriend.”
“Anything we can use?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Damn it.” Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. It’s been a whirlwind day of serving subpoenas, preparing exhibits, and briefing our witnesses—and we’re nowhere near finished. “What about the Sunshine?” she asks.
“He’s trying to hook up with Jasmine again.”
“What are the chances he’ll get something useful?”
“Slim.” I shift to the matter at hand. “Did you get a final witness list from McNulty?”
“Yes,” she says. “Just what you’d expect. Roosevelt. Beckert. The first officer at the scene. A field evidence technician. A fingerprint expert. Treadwell. Mrs. Osborne.”
“That’s it?”
“They’re playing it by the book. They’re going to show just enough to get to trial.”
“Is Julie on the list?”
“Nope. She has nothing to add to the prosecution’s case. Neither does Dr. Newsom.”
“What about Grace?”
“They don’t need her, either.”
“But we do,” I say. “Are we in agreement that we’ll build our case around her alibi?”
“Unless Pete finds something in the next eighteen hours, we have no choice.”
“It will give McNulty a chance to go after her on cross.”
“That’s inevitable, Mike.”
“We can wait until trial. We’ll know more of the facts and she may be in a better emotional state of mind.”
“We have no choice,” she repeats.
She’s right. “We have other witnesses,” I observe. “We have Kaela Joy.”
“Her testimony will prove the judge liked underage girls.”
“It will also prove he was still alive at midnight. That narrows the time frame.”
“Not enough.”
“We can put on Lenny Stone.”
“He can testify he didn’t see Bobby when he walked by the judge’s house, but a homeless drug addict is inherently unreliable.”
“Then we need to give the judge some options,” I say. “We’ll start with Savage.”
“He’ll deny everything.”
“He threatened the judge.”
“That was months ago.”
“So what? He called Hannah at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”
“Hannah works for him.”
“We need to stir the pot. We can call Hannah, too. He’s admitted he was down the street from Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”
“We can’t place him inside the house.”
“Let’s put him on the stand and rough him up a bit. He’s unsympathetic. He might turn on Savage. Maybe he’ll tell us something we don’t already know.”
“You’re beginning to sound desperate, Mike.”
“If we don’t come up with something by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we will be desperate.”
38/ I’M NOT SURE I CAN DO THIS
Tuesday, June 21, 4:30 p.m.
“When do I testify?” Bobby asks.
“You don’t,” I reply.
Dressed in his orange jumpsuit, he’s sitting in the consultation room, hands at his sides. This is likely to be our last chance to talk before the prelim starts tomorrow morning. “Why not?” he asks.
“Too risky. The prosecutors will take you apart.”
“I can hold my own.”
His bravado is unconvincing. “You’ve never been in court under cross-exam. Everything happens ver
y fast. A good lawyer like McNulty will tie you in knots.”
His shoulders slump. “Am I ever going to get to tell my story?”
“Probably not.” Certainly not until we get to the trial, and even then not unless we’re desperate.
Bobby responds with a cold stare.
“How are things inside?” I ask.
His lifeless tone matches the vacant look in his eyes. “Bad.”
“How bad?”
“Real bad. The guys in the next cell told me they’re coming after me.”
“Stay in your cell.”
“I will.”
“The guards are supposed to give you meals in your cell until the prelim is over.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll deal with it after the prelim if we have to. You have to hang in there.”
“I can’t do this much longer.”
“Everything is going to be fine, Bobby.”
“Sure,” he says.
# # #
“We need to go through your testimony one more time,” I say.
Grace’s lips turn down. “Again?” she says.
“Just once more.”
“We’ve been through this twenty times. It’s late, Dad.”
“Please, honey.”
“Fine,” she says.
The air is still in Rosie’s office at ten thirty on Tuesday night. It’s been a long day of planning, strategizing, and rehearsing. The two hours we spent with Lenny Stone were among the most frustrating. Our grim mood is exacerbated by the fact that our efforts to find new witnesses have been futile.
Grace sitting is in one of the uncomfortable swivel chairs. I’m standing next to the open window hoping to find a breath of fresh air. We considered doing this exercise at home. Ultimately, we decided Grace would get a better sense of the pressure and urgency of the situation if we stayed here. Not surprisingly, she’s gotten testier as the evening has grown longer.
“So,” I say, “what’s the first rule of being a good witness?”
Grace’s monotone reminds me of learning my catechisms. “Answer only the question that was asked,” she recites.
“Good. What’s the second rule?”
“Don’t volunteer anything.”
“And the third?”
“Keep your answers short.”
“That’s great, honey.”
“Right, Dad.”
Rosie temples her fingers in front of her face. “Okay,” she says, “let’s go through your direct testimony one more time. Follow my lead.”
Grace nods. Rosie takes her through a moment-by-moment highlight trip of her evening with Bobby: dinner; the movie; the walk to Amoeba; driving home. Grace’s delivery is smoother on the third goaround, although her voice is tinged with fatigue.
“That’s good, honey,” Rosie says.
“Thanks.”
“Let’s talk about the cross-exam again.”
“Do we have to?”
“Yes.”
Grace tenses. “Okay,” she says.
“Where did you go after the movie?”
“To Amoeba. We stayed there until they closed at midnight. Then we walked back to Bobby’s car.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was Bobby’s car parked?”
“On Grattan, on the side of his father’s house.”
“What time did you get back to his car?”
“Twelve fifteen.”
“Did you see anybody?”
There’s a hesitation. “No.”
Rosie’s interest is piqued. “Grace?”
“What?”
“Did you see anybody when you got back to Bobby’s car?”
“No.”
Rosie leans back. “Did you hear anything?”
“No.”
“Did you see anything unusual at Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Grace takes a deep breath. “Damn it, Mother, why are you harassing me?”
“I’m trying to give you an idea of what to expect tomorrow.” Rosie takes Grace’s hand. “Actually, honey, I’ve been pretty easy on you. If anything, the prosecutor will be nastier. It’s his job to try to trip you up. He’s going to look for any conceivable inconsistency in your story. You have to stay focused, Grace.”
Grace stares down at the piles of paper on Rosie’s desk. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” Rosie says. “I know this is hard, but we need you to testify. Bobby needs you to testify. You’re his best chance.”
Grace swallows hard. “I’ll do the best I can, Mother.”
“That’s all we can ask, honey.”
Grace looks up. “Maybe it would be better if Dad did the direct exam.”
“Whatever would make you more comfortable, Grace.”
“I think Dad should do it.”
“That’s fine, honey.”
Grace is fighting to hold back tears. “Can we go home now?”
“Sure, honey.”
# # #
“There’s something she isn’t telling us,” Rosie whispers as she packs her briefcase a few minutes later. Grace is in the bathroom.
“What makes you think so?” I ask.
“Instinct.”
Rosie is the most intuitive person I know—especially when it comes to our daughter. "Did she say something else to you?” I ask.
“It isn’t what she said. It’s how she said it. I just hope it doesn’t explode in open court.”
“It’s going to be all right,” I say.
“It can’t get much worse,” she replies.
# # #
It gets worse almost immediately. My cell phone rings a few minutes after midnight, as I’m driving mid-span on the Golden Gate Bridge. “It’s Roosevelt,” the voice says.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I need you to come down to the Hall right away. Your client just tried to kill himself.”
39/ I’M FINE
Wednesday, June 22, 1:14 a.m.
“Are you okay?” I ask Bobby.
“I’m fine.” He says it without conviction. “I don’t want you to tell my mother about this.”
“I already told her. She’s on her way here.”
He nods grudgingly. His right wrist is wrapped in bandages. A blanket is draped over his shoulders. He’s sitting on an antiquated gurney in the Dickensian infirmary in the basement of the Glamour Slammer. The buzzing fluorescent light emits an eerie glow. The room smells of industrial-strength disinfectant. An irritated deputy is standing guard at the door.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Nothing.” His voice is lifeless.
“They said you cut yourself on the bed frame.”
“It was an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was.”
We stare at each other for an interminable moment. He doesn’t budge. Finally, I tell him they’re going to keep him here overnight for observation.
“Fine,” he says.
“We’ll ask for a delay in your hearing.” "No, you won’t.”
“Yes, we will. You can’t go to court if you aren’t a hundred percent.”
“I won’t make it to court if you don’t get me out of here.”
“Be reasonable.”
“I don’t have time.”
“We’ll talk again later.”
“No, we won’t. We’re moving forward.”
# # #
Rosie and I huddle with Julie in the empty lobby of the Hall at two fifteen on Wednesday morning. We’re due in court in less than eight hours. The guards let Julie see Bobby for an all-too-brief ten minutes. She’s exhausted, and understandably upset.
Rosie’s tired voice echoes off the tile floor. “We should ask for a delay.”
“The hell you will,” Julie snaps. “You have to get Bobby out of here.”
“It doesn’t work
that way.”
“Then make it work that way.”
Rosie remains unfailingly patient. “We’re doing everything we can. The legal system moves slowly.”
“My son is going to get killed.”
“He’s in no shape to sit through a prelim.”
“You can’t leave him in this hellhole until someone kills him—or he tries to kill himself again. You’re the geniuses who know how to make the system work. Start doing your job.”
“You’re paying us for our judgment on legal issues,” I say. “It would be a serious strategic mistake to proceed today.”
“I don’t care about legal strategies. I’m worried about my son.”
“Let’s regroup at nine and see how Bobby is doing.”
# # #
Rosie finishes a brief conversation with Grace and snaps her cell phone shut. We’re driving across the Golden Gate Bridge at a quarter to three on Wednesday morning.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Putting up a good front.”
“Just like her mother.”
Rosie frowns. “She isn’t going to get any sleep tonight.”
“Neither are we.”
“What if Bobby really insists on moving forward?”
“He’s the client,” I say. “We’ll do what he says.”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“I know.” I try to stay focused. “We’ll use the old ’rush to judgment’ defense. Then we’ll give the judge some options.”
“Does that mean you’re still planning to try to foist this off on Savage and Hannah?”
“It’s our best bet.”
“We haven’t found a shred of evidence placing Hannah at the scene.”
“Savage called Hannah’s cell phone on Friday night,” I say. “Hannah was around the corner from the judge’s house.”
“For all we know, he was playing basketball. What’s the back-up plan?”
“Kaela Joy and Lenny.”
Rosie shakes her head. “Great. We’re going to base our defense on the testimony of a former cheerleader and a homeless guy.”
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