“Sustained.”
McNulty is nonplussed. “Mr. Stone,” he says, “you have a drug problem, don’t you?”
“Objection,” I say. “Relevance.”
“Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Daley opened the door when he brought up the fact that Mr. Stone lives on the street. We should be able to probe the reasons why.”
“He lives on the street because he’s unemployed and he can’t afford an apartment,” I say. It’s my turn to invoke a little self-righteousness. “Mr. Stone is a veteran of the first Gulf War. It is a disgrace our country doesn’t do more to help its veterans. Mr. McNulty’s personal attacks on Mr. Stone are offensive and mean-spirited.”
Judge McDaniel nods. “Move along, Mr. McNulty.”
“Mr. Stone,” McNulty continues, “a little while ago, you expressed concern that you and your dog might have run into a police officer when you were out for your walk last Friday night.”
“That’s true.”
“Is that because you’ve been arrested?”
“Objection,” I say. “Relevance.”
“Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Stone brought up his desire to avoid contact with police officers. He opened the door. We have the right to cross-examine him about it.”
“Overruled.”
Legally, it’s the correct call.
Lenny’s tone turns indignant. “I’ve been arrested several times, but—"
McNulty cuts him off. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. McNulty didn’t let Mr. Stone finish his answer.”
“Did you wish to add something, Mr. Stone?”
“Yes. I was going to say I’ve done a few things that I’m not especially proud of, but I’ve never hurt anybody.”
Sometimes you get help from unexpected sources.
McNulty moves in closer. “Mr. Stone,” he says, “Mr. Daley paid for a hotel room last night, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And he bought you those new clothes, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And he paid for your dinner last night and your breakfast this morning, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he promise to help you with your legal problems?”
“No.”
“Did he promise to find you a place to live?”
“No.”
“What else has he promised you, Mr. Stone?”
“Nothing.”
I warned Lenny this onslaught was coming. It will only look worse if I interrupt. So far, he’s holding his own.
“Mr. Stone,” McNulty says, “it seems to me you would say just about anything to stay on Mr. Daley’s good side.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“But you’d be willing to fudge it a little to get another hot meal, wouldn’t you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“And you might be willing to fudge it a lot—maybe even to change your story completely—if Mr. Daley found you a place to live, right?”
“No.”
“Come on, Mr. Stone. Perjury is a felony.”
Enough. “Objection,” I say. “Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
“No further questions,” McNulty says.
Rosie leans over. “Should we put on Savage?” she whispers.
“It won’t help,” I say. “He’ll deny everything. So will Newsom.”
I can hear the judge’s voice from behind me. “Any more witnesses, Mr. Daley?”
“Just one, Your Honor. If we might have a brief recess to confer.”
“We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
When it will all come down to Grace.
49/ YOU NEED TO DECIDE WHOSE SIDE YOU’RE ON
Wednesday, June 22, 1:44 p.m.
“You need to talk your daughter,” Sylvia says. She makes no attempt to conceal her frustration as she stands guard outside the file room in the basement of the Hall, where she and Grace have been holed up since early this morning.
“What now?” Rosie asks.
“She doesn’t want to testify.”
We don’t have time for this. “Why not?” I ask.
“Maybe she’s tired of being browbeaten by her own parents.”
Arguing with Sylvia is even more difficult than arguing with Rosie. “That’s not fair, Sylvia.”
“Sure it is. While you’ve been giving Bobby all of your time and energy, you’ve ignored your own daughter.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“We’re doing our job.”
“That’s crap, Mike. You take everything he says at face value, yet you question everything she says.”
Rosie’s left hand balls up into a tight fist. “That isn’t true, either, Mama.”
“Isn’t it?” Sylvia’s voice gets louder. “You barely know this boy. You certainly don’t know anything about his parents. It’s obvious they weren’t the All-American couple—far from it. Yet you’ve accepted everything his mother has said as gospel.”
Rosie flashes anger. “No, we haven’t, Mama. We’ve spent the last week taking unending grief from her. We’ve talked about withdrawing from this case more than once. Julie has threatened to fire us.”
“Maybe that would be in everybody’s best interests.”
“Maybe it would.”
Sylvia isn’t finished. “You need to decide whose side you’re on, Rosita.”
There is no hesitation. “Grace’s.”
“From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look that way to me.”
“You don’t know the whole story, Mama.”
“Clearly, neither do you.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“No, I’m not.”
Rosie drums her fingers against her thigh. “We don’t have time for this now, Mama. Grace is going on the stand in a few minutes. If you have something you want to say to us, just say it.”
Sylvia Fernandez looks intently into her daughter’s eyes as she invokes the quiet gravitas of her seventy-nine years. “You never should have taken this case, Rosita. I know your intentions are good, but you’re enabling the Fairchild boy to try to get out of trouble while you let Grace twist in the wind. He’ll never understand the consequences of his actions.” She pauses before she adds, "Neither will Grace.”
“Are you suggesting Grace is involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. I do know for sure that she used horrible judgment by staying out until one o’clock on Saturday morning.”
“It isn’t the first time she’s broken curfew,” Rosie says, “and it won’t be the last. At the moment, that’s the least of our problems.”
“If that’s all it was,” Sylvia says.
“What are you saying, Mama?”
“You’re far too willing to believe Grace and her boyfriend.”
“You think they’re lying?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Rosie pushes out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want us to do, Mama? They’re entitled to a lawyer. They’ll get eaten alive by the legal system if we don’t help them.”
“I expect you to teach them that their actions have consequences.”
“It isn’t that simple, Mama.”
“Yes, it is, Rosita.”
“No, it isn’t. Don’t you understand? Their lives are already changed forever. If they end up in jail, their lives will be over.”
“You’re enabling them.”
“We’re helping them. That’s what lawyers do.” Rosie takes a deep breath. “That’s what parents do.”
“You aren’t doing your children any favors by teaching them that their actions have no consequences if they hire a smart lawyer.”
“Thanks for your input, Mama. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
# # #
“What’s bugging you?” I ask Grace.
“Everything.” She’s sitting in a
n uncomfortable wooden chair with her legs crossed. Her laptop is turned off. Her cell phone is silent. Her iPod is sitting on the table. “I can’t do this, Dad.”
It isn’t unusual for a key witness to get cold feet shortly before they have to testify. “Sure you can,” I say.
“No, I can’t.”
She’s scared. “Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
Life with a teenage daughter is frequently an exercise in mind reading. It also requires a knack for making life-altering decisions on an instant’s notice. "Did something happen?” I ask.
“No.”
“I thought we had everything worked out.”
“We did.”
“What’s changed since earlier today?”
“Nothing.”
“Talk to me, Grace.”
“Nothing,” she repeats.
“Are you mad at us?”
She shrugs. “No more than usual.”
“What about Bobby?”
“A little.” Her eyes fill with tears as the frustrations come pouring out. “Why did he have to pick up that hammer? Why did he have to put his clothes in the washer? Why did he have to get into that argument with his father on Friday morning?”
“He was upset.”
“It was stupid.”
“He was under a lot of stress.”
“It makes him look guilty.”
Yes, it does. It’s also an opening. “Is he?” I ask.
“Of course not.”
“Then you have to help him.”
“It isn’t that easy.”
“I never said it was.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Grace?”
She’s looking down when she says, “Yes?”
“If there’s something you haven’t told us, this would be a good time.”
“There’s nothing.”
“We won’t get mad at you, honey. I promise.”
She’s more emphatic this time. “There’s nothing.”
“Did Bobby go inside his father’s house?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
“If I screw this up, Bobby is going to be in more trouble.”
“It will be worse if you don’t testify.”
“I guess.” She’s trying to hold back tears.
“You’ll do fine, Grace. Just follow my lead and keep your answers short.”
“I wish it were over.”
So do I. “It’ll be over soon.”
My baby-daughter-turned-young-woman looks up at me through glassy eyes. “Thanks for helping Bobby, Daddy.”
I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat. “You’re welcome, honey.” I realize it sounds more hollow than reassuring when I add, “Everything is going to be fine.”
50/ THE PERFECT ALIBI
Wednesday, June 22, 2:02 p.m.
“My name is Grace Fernandez Daley.” Her voice is soft, but clear.
“How old are you, Grace?” I ask. The acid in my stomach boils like molten lava.
“Sixteen.”
She’s wearing a simple white cotton blouse and no makeup. Her straight hair cascades down her back. Her hands have a choke hold on the arms of the straight-back chair in the witness box. The courtroom is silent.
“Where do you go to school?” I ask.
She shoots a quick glance at Sylvia, who is providing moral support from the second row of the gallery. “I just finished my sophomore year at Redwood High School.”
“Are you a good student?”
“I’m near the top of my class.”
I take a moment to walk her through her multitude of activities: shortstop on the softball team, drama club, debate team, freshman orientation committee. I want to show she’s a solid citizen. More importantly, I want to give her time to get her bearings.
I move in closer and get down to business. “Do you know Bobby Fairchild?”
“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
“About six months.”
“Are you happy with your relationship?”
“Yes.”
“You’d met Bobby’s parents, hadn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You knew they were getting divorced, right?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” McNulty says, trying to disrupt our flow. “Mr. Daley is leading his daughter.”
Yes, I am. I can also do without the attitude.
“Please, Mr. Daley,” the judge says.
“I’ll rephrase.” I haven’t taken my eyes off Grace. “Did you know Bobby’s parents were getting divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Was it acrimonious?”
“Yes.”
“Was Bobby upset about it?”
“Wouldn’t you be upset?”
McNulty tries to fluster her. “Your Honor,” he interjects, “would you please instruct the witness not to ask questions of counsel?”
His pettiness elicits a hint of annoyance from Judge McDaniel. She addresses Grace in a maternal tone. “Ms. Daley,” she says, “please answer your father’s questions.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” She looks at Bobby for an instant. “I would say that he was more frustrated than upset. Bobby’s parents were fighting for a long time.”
Good enough. “Did Bobby get along with his father?”
“Yes.”
“Did they ever argue?”
“A little.”
“About what?”
“Stuff that parents argue about with their teenage kids.”
Don’t play games, Grace. “Grades?”
“No. He’s a straight-A student.”
“Girls?”
“A little.”
“Alcohol or drugs?”
“Absolutely not.”
So far, so good. “Grace,” I say, “did you and Bobby go out on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you get together?”
“Bobby picked me up at six o’clock.” She methodically recites the story Rosie has been drilling into her for the past two days. They drove to Cole Valley and parked on Grattan next to the judge’s house. They walked over to Zazie.
“Did you go inside Judge Fairchild’s house before dinner?”
“No. There wasn’t enough time.”
“Where did you go after you finished eating?”
“We went to see Waiting for Guffman at the Red Vic. Then we took a walk down Haight Street to Amoeba Music, where we looked at CDs. We walked back to get Bobby’s car when they closed at midnight.”
“What time did you get back to the car?”
“A quarter after twelve.”
“You were out late.”
“We lost track of the time.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Bobby’s father when you got back to the car?”
“No.”
“Was he home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see anybody inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“No.” She confirms she didn’t see anybody outside, either.
“Grace,” I say, “were you and Bobby together for the entire evening?”
“Yes.”
“You walked back to the car together?”
“Yes.”
“And you got right into the car when you got there?”
“Yes. Bobby drove me straight home.”
Hang with me, Gracie. We’re almost done. “Grace,” I say, “did you or Bobby go inside Judge Fairchild’s house at any time on Friday night or Saturday morning?”
“No.”
“Is there any chance Bobby went inside his father’s house without your having seen it?”
“No.”
I have what I need. “No further questions.” I give Grace a subtle nod and return to my seat.
Rosie whispers to me, “She did a nice job.”
r /> “Yes, she did.”
“So did you.”
“Thanks.” The easy part is over. Now we’ll see how she holds up on cross.
51/ DO YOU LOVE YOUR BOYFRIEND?
Wednesday, June 22, 2:24 p.m.
McNulty invokes a respectful tone as he addresses the judge from the prosecution table. “May we approach the witness, Your Honor?” he asks.
“Yes, Mr. McNulty.”
Instinctively, I give Grace a reassuring nod. As McNulty moves forward, Rosie leans over and whispers, “Protect her.”
“I will.” The knot in my stomach has grown to the size of a tennis ball.
McNulty parks himself in front of Grace and flashes a transparently phony smile. "Ms. Daley,” he begins, “I am Assistant District Attorney William McNulty. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened Friday night and Saturday morning.”
Grace squeezes the armrests of her chair more tightly. Stay the course, honey.
“Ms. Daley,” McNulty continues, “do you understand that you’re under oath?”
“Yes.”
“You know that means you’re required to tell us the truth, right?”
“Yes.”
“You were telling the truth when your father was asking you questions, right?”
He’s trying to intimidate her. “Objection,” I say. “The witness has already acknowledged she’s under oath.”
“Sustained. Let’s get moving, Mr. McNulty.”
He places a hand on the rail of the witness box and never takes his eyes off Grace. “Ms. Daley,” he continues, “you testifed earlier that you and the defendant went out to dinner and a movie last Friday night, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The defendant’s car was parked on Grattan Street next to Judge Fairchild’s house, correct?”
“Yes.”
Good girl, Grace. Short answers.
“And the defendant drove you straight back to your mother’s house, right?”
“Right.”
I can’t stop McNulty from leading her on cross. Nor can I keep him from referring to Bobby as "the defendant.” He hasn’t raised anything new that could get us into trouble—yet.
“Ms. Daley,” he continues, “I want to focus on the time after you and the defendant left the movie. You said you walked down Haight Street to Amoeba Music, right?”
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