Serve and Protect (Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 9) Read online

  Serve and Protect

  A Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Thriller

  SHELDON SIEGEL

  SERVE AND PROTECT Copyright © 2018 by Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Sheldon Siegel

  Visit my website at www.SheldonSiegel.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9996747-0-3

  Print Book ISBN: 978-0-9996747-1-0

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violations of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BOOKS BY SHELDON SIEGEL

  Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Novels

  Special Circumstances

  Incriminating Evidence

  Criminal Intent

  Final Verdict

  The Confession

  Judgment Day

  Perfect Alibi

  Felony Murder Rule

  Serve and Protect

  David Gold/A.C. Battle Novel

  The Terrorist Next Door

  CONTENTS

  BOOKS BY SHELDON SIEGEL

  1 “I HOPE IT ISN’T SOMEBODY WE KNOW”

  2 “THERE COULD BE RIOTS”

  3 “I’M JUST BEING CAUTIOUS”

  4 “THEY WON’T LET ME TALK TO MY SON”

  5 “PROTOCOL”

  6 THE SEVENTH SON OF THE SEVENTH SON

  7 “YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS”

  8 “THEY’RE SAYING OUR SON IS A MURDERER”

  9 “I HAVE A PROPOSITION FOR YOU”

  10 “ALWAYS GOOD TO SEE YOU”

  11 “NOT TODAY”

  12 “IT WAS AN EXECUTION”

  13 “WE’VE MET”

  14 “SOMEBODY MUST HAVE SEEN SOMETHING”

  15 “YOU GOTTA GET ME OUT OF HERE”

  16 “THEY’RE MARCHING DOWN GEARY”

  17 “THERE WERE INCONSISTENCIES”

  18 “IT WAS A MISTAKE”

  19 “SO THE KID SHOT HIM”

  20 “THE SITUATION JUST GOT MORE COMPLICATED”

  21 “WE THOUGHT YOU COULD USE A LITTLE HELP”

  22 “I KNOW WHAT I DIDN’T SEE”

  23 “WATCH THE VIDEO”

  24 “THE NEXT ELECTION IS THREE YEARS FROM NOW”

  25 “I ALWAYS HAVE TIME FOR GOD”

  26 “MAYBE YOU AREN’T AS GOOD AS I THOUGHT”

  27 “I’D RATHER BE JUDGED BY TWELVE THAN CARRIED BY SIX”

  28 “THEY TOLD ME NOT TO TALK TO ANYONE”

  29 “I’M GETTING PRESSURE FROM MY BOSS”

  30 “I DIDN’T SEE IT”

  31 “CAN THEY STOP IT?”

  32 “DID ANYBODY SEE A GUN?”

  33 “DON’T SHOOT”

  34 “YOU CAN SEE IT IN THE VIDEO”

  35 “LET ME DO MY JOB”

  36 “THIS ISN’T GOING TO END WELL”

  37 “I’M SURE”

  38 “A GREAT AND UNNECESSARY TRAGEDY”

  39 “LOOKS BAD”

  40 “YOU CAN’T GO BACK DOWN THERE”

  41 “TAKE THE DEAL”

  42 “I’M NOT PLEADING GUILTY”

  43 “THEY’RE TRYING TO SQUEEZE US”

  44 “HE DID IT FOR HIS FATHER”

  45 “WHERE DOES THAT LEAVE YOU?”

  46 “IT’S HARD TO SAY NO TO MY DAD”

  47 “WORKING ON IT”

  48 “SOMEBODY HAS TO PROVIDE ADULT SUPERVISION”

  49 “WE MAY NEED YOU TO TESTIFY”

  50 “HE SHOULD BE TREATED LIKE A HERO”

  51 “THAT’S IT?”

  52 “LET HER BE HAPPY AND SAFE”

  53 “ALL RISE”

  54 “IT WAS A COLD-BLOODED MURDER”

  55 “A VERY RELIABLE WEAPON”

  56 “HE MAY NOT NEED ANYBODY ELSE”

  57 “HE WAS PLEADING FOR HIS LIFE”

  58 “THEY ALL LIED?”

  59 “WE STILL HAVE CARDS TO PLAY”

  60 “HE HAD A GUN”

  61 “YOU THINK I’M MAKING IT UP?”

  62 “JUSTICE IS ELUSIVE”

  63 “A WIN FOR EVERYBODY”

  64 “WE CAN END THIS RIGHT NOW”

  65 “IT’S BETTER THIS WAY”

  66 “I WORK HERE”

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY SHELDON SIEGEL

  ACCLAIM FOR SHELDON SIEGEL’S NOVELS

  For Ben, Michelle, Margie, and Andy Siegel

  “Oro en paz, fiero en guerra.”

  “Gold in peace, iron in war.”

  — San Francisco Police Department Motto.

  1

  “I HOPE IT ISN’T SOMEBODY WE KNOW”

  The Honorable Elizabeth McDaniel tapped her microphone, and her overflowing courtroom went silent. She looked my way and flashed a wry grin. “Haven’t seen you in a few months, Mr. Daley.”

  I stepped to the lectern and returned her smile. “I’m not spending much time in court, Your Honor.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Now in her mid-sixties, Betsy McDaniel was a fair-minded jurist and a gracious soul who had gone on senior status to spend more time with her grandchildren. While she adored them, the former prosecutor had grown bored playing with Legos and going to Pilates classes, so she came back to pinch-hit for her former colleagues from time to time.

  She arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect to see the head of the Felony Division of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office in Misdemeanor Court.”

  “One of our deputies is under the weather.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Just a cold.”

  At nine a.m. on Wednesday, February ninth, her courtroom was packed with small-time criminals and smaller-time lawyers waiting for a moment of small-time justice. A half-step above Traffic Court, Misdemeanor Court was our system’s great equalizer. On good days, the windowless courtroom on the second floor of the Hall of Justice smelled a bit nicer than the men’s locker room at the Embarcadero Y. On bad days, the plumbing backed up and the aroma of sewage wafted through the courts. A few years ago, the monolithic fifties-era building at Seventh and Bryant was declared unsafe from earthquakes, and it was being evacuated room-by-room at a snail’s pace. If the economy stayed strong and the political winds blew in the right direction, there was a chance that the old warhorse would be replaced before I retired.

  Every seat in the gallery and the jury box was taken. People were standing halfway down the center aisle and along the back wall. Many couldn’t afford a Muni ticket, let alone a lawyer or a childcare provider. As a result, the courtroom and the corridor were filled with relatives, significant others, and friends. Children weren’t allowed in court, so they had to entertain themselves in the hall. I felt bad for the parents who would have to write a note to their kid’s teacher explaining that they were absent from school to attend Mommy or Daddy’s court date. I felt worse for the kids.

  Judge McDaniel put on her reading glasses and glanced at her computer. The process in Misdemeanor Court was similar to the long-close
d cafeteria in the basement that was now a storage area. You took a number and waited your turn. She nodded at the baby A.D.A. standing at attention at the prosecution table. He was wearing a brand-new going-to-court suit that looked as if he’d bought it off the rack at the Men’s Wearhouse earlier that morning. The judge spoke to him in a cheerful tone. “Good morning, Mr. George.”

  He tugged at the collar of his starched white shirt that was a little snug around the neck. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

  Ted George was a handsome lad and fifth-generation Californian who had graduated at the top of his class at Stanford Law School. His ancestors had planted the apricot orchards that once dotted Silicon Valley. His father had made a fortune in venture capital. He was a conscientious young man who had the potential to grow up into a competent prosecutor. It brought back memories of the day almost a quarter of a century earlier when I had made my first appearance in this very courtroom in front of a grizzled judge who took his morning coffee with a splash of bourbon. He retired a few years later and lived comfortably in the Pacific Heights mansion that he had inherited from his parents until his liver finally gave out.

  “What brings you here today, Mr. George?” Judge McDaniel asked.

  “The People versus Luther Robinson.”

  “Oh, dear.” The judge pushed out a sigh and turned to me. “Is he here, Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  I motioned to my client, who joined me at the lectern. Luther Robinson was a wiry man of indeterminate middle age. When he had a few bucks in his pocket, he lived in an SRO in the Tenderloin. When he didn’t, he slept in an alley on Sixth Street. A gentle soul with sad eyes and gray stubble, the native of the Fillmore had returned from the war in Kuwait with a severe case of PTSD which he treated by self-medicating with malt liquor. He was wearing a navy sport jacket and a pair of khaki pants that he had selected from the donated clothes closet at the P.D.’s Office. Luther had been one of my first regulars when I was a rookie P.D. working in Misdemeanor Court, and I had a soft spot for him. He was blessed with an engaging manner and a gift for persuading strangers to part with their hard-earned cash for his low-rent scams. He’d never hurt anybody. He ripped people off when he was hungry.

  Judge McDaniel’s tone was more maternal than judicial. “How are you, Luther?”

  “Fine, Your Honor.” His voice was soft. “And you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” She took off her reading glasses. “I saw you here last week, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were selling baby wipes and telling people that they were contraceptives, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the week before, you were selling Tic Tacs and saying that they were Viagra tablets, weren’t you?”

  He lowered his eyes. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “In each case, I let you go on your own recognizance after you promised not to do any more scams, right?”

  “Right.”

  The judge rested her chin in her palm. “Did you break your promise again, Luther?”

  “Sort of.”

  She turned to the prosecutor. “Why are we here, Mr. George?”

  “Mr. Robinson was selling wooden tongue depressors on the street in the Tenderloin.”

  I interjected, “Allegedly selling.”

  “No, he was really selling. One of his customers was an undercover police officer.”

  I shot a glance at Luther, who nodded.

  The judge looked up. “Where did he get the tongue depressors, Mr. Daley?”

  “The Tenderloin Free Clinic. Luther took them during an appointment last week.”

  “Technically, that might be shoplifting, but it seems pretty innocuous.” She looked at her computer. “It says here that Mr. Robinson is charged with misdemeanor fraud.”

  George answered her. “He is.”

  “Strikes me as a bit severe.”

  “Mr. Robinson was charging twenty dollars each.”

  “Why would anybody in their right mind pay so much for an item worth a few pennies?”

  “Mr. Robinson represented to his customers that they were home STD tests.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. He instructed them to place the wooden stick under their tongue for thirty seconds. If it didn’t turn blue, they were clean.”

  This elicited a few snickers in the gallery.

  Judge McDaniel templed her fingers in front of her mouth to hide a smile. “How many did he sell?”

  “At least a dozen. Seems they’re in great demand in the Tenderloin.”

  “Is this true, Luther?”

  He nodded.

  The judge’s voice filled with disappointment. “Oh, Luther. Were you trying to get yourself arrested again?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Do you need dental work?”

  “No.”

  “Were you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  She turned to me. “Mr. Daley, would you please see that Luther gets something to eat?”

  “Already did.”

  “Thank you. Is he prepared to enter a plea?”

  “In a moment. First, I wanted to let you know that Luther is very sorry.”

  “That’s a good start.” The grandmother voice disappeared as she spoke directly to Luther. “Do you understand that sexually transmitted diseases are serious business? And if they are not diagnosed properly, someone could become very sick or die? And that they can be retransmitted to somebody else?”

  Luther swallowed. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “Luther sold only a handful of these items and nobody was injured. I would also remind you that he has never been convicted of any crime other than petty misdemeanors. He’s never hurt anybody.”

  George did his best to muster a forceful tone. “We can’t just let this go. Mr. Robinson committed a blatant fraud that could have resulted in serious medical repercussions.”

  Technically, that’s true, but let’s not get carried away. “Your Honor, Luther made a mistake for which he is willing to take responsibility.”

  “What did you have in mind, Mr. Daley?”

  I was hoping you would ask. “First, Luther will refund the money.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Second, he will agree never to engage in the sale of any medical products of any type.” Especially the phony kind.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Third, he will volunteer at the Tenderloin Free Clinic one afternoon a week for the next four weeks.” And he won’t pilfer any more tongue depressors.

  “Even better.” The judge spoke to Luther. “Is this agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That’s good enough for you, isn’t it, Mr. George?”

  The young A.D.A. exhaled heavily. “I guess.”

  “Then we’re agreed.” She picked up her gavel—which she rarely used for its intended purpose—and pointed it at my client. “I want to make something clear to you, Luther. I am going to suspend these charges and grant diversion, but not dismiss them. Subject to the conditions that Mr. Daley just outlined, I am going to release you on your own recognizance—again. If I see you back in this courtroom in the next five years, I’m going to reinstate the charges and make sure that you spend time in jail. If I’m not here, I will instruct my colleagues do the same thing. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good.” Her eyes shifted to me. “Nice to see you, Mr. Daley. Please give my best to our Public Defender.”

  “I will.”

  “Next case.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco flashed the radiant smile that I still found irresistible twenty-five years after we’d met in the old P.D.’s Office and two decades after we’d gotten divorced. “How’s Betsy?” she asked.

  “Fine. I told her that you’d see her at the gym on Monday.”

  �
�Great.” Rosita Carmela Fernandez adjusted the sleeve of her Calvin Klein blouse. Sixteen months earlier, the Mission District native had upgraded her wardrobe when she won a hotly contested election to become San Francisco’s first Latina Public Defender. “Were you able to resolve Luther’s case?”

  “I got him off with a warning and a promise not to sell ersatz STD tests ever again.”

  “Making the world a little safer for victims of scammers.”

  “Indeed. If Luther’s case appeared in a Grisham novel, nobody would have believed it.”

  “Out here in the real world, things are always stranger than anything you make up. Thanks for pinch hitting for Rolanda.”

  “My pleasure.” Rolanda Fernandez was Rosie’s niece and one of our best deputies. “It was fun to be in Misdemeanor Court. It brought back good memories.”

  “You miss it, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So do I.”

  “Thought so.” I flashed back to the days when Rosie was a rising star who had just been promoted to the Felony Division, and I was a newbie Deputy P.D. who had gone to law school after three frustrating years as a priest. In those days, she wore jeans and denim shirts to work. Her two going-to-court suits were in plastic bags hanging from a nail pounded into her door. Her straight black hair used to flow down to her waist. Nowadays, it was shorter and styled into a softer look. She had been San Francisco’s Public Defender for a little over a year, but it seemed longer. She wore the trappings of political influence naturally.

  Her smile broadened. “You’re a helluva lawyer, Mike.”

  “That’s why you made me the head of the Felony Division.”

  “You still work for me.”

  “You never let me forget.”

  “It’s important to observe chain-of-command protocols.”

  “You’re just a higher-ranking bureaucrat.”

  “I prefer to call it public service.”

  One of the reasons that Rosie and I had remained on reasonably good terms at the office and, for that matter, in bed, was the fact that I always let her have the last word. If I had learned this lesson twenty years ago, we might still be married.

  I glanced around at her immaculate office on the second floor of a bunker-like building a couple of blocks south of the Hall of Justice. The P.D.’s Office had moved here in the nineties. While our new digs were no longer under the same roof as the criminal courts and the jail, it had the advantages of adequate ventilation and, more important, functional bathrooms.