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  JUDGMENT DAY

  a Mike Daley Mystery by Sheldon Siegel

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-59692-897-8

  M P Publishing Limited

  12 Strathallan Crescent

  Douglas

  Isle of Man

  IM2 4NR

  via United Kingdom

  Telephone: +44 (0)1624 618672

  email: [email protected]

  Originally published by:

  MacAdam Cage

  155 Sansome Street, Suite 550

  San Francisco, CA 94104

  www.MacAdamCage.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Siegel, Sheldon (Sheldon M.)

  Judgment day / by Sheldon Siegel.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59692-290-7

  1. Daley, Mike (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 2. Fernandez, Rosie

  (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 3. Lawyers-Fiction. 4. San Francisco

  (Calif.)-Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.I3823J83 2008

  813'.54-dc22

  2007050795

  Book design by Dorothy Carico Smith.

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

  For David Poindexter

  Also by Sheldon Siegel

  Special Circumstances

  Incriminating Evidence

  Criminal Intent

  Final Verdict

  The Confession

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Acknowledgments

  1/ WELCOME TO THE ROW

  Friday, July 10. 11:03 a.m.

  8 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

  The oldest man on death row is eyeing me from his wheelchair. Despite his frail appearance, his grip is firm and his baritone is still forceful. “Welcome to the Row, Mr. Daley,” he says to me. “We need your help. We’re running out of time.”

  More than 650 inmates are awaiting lethal injections on California’s death row. Every one of them is running out of time.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he continues. “Did you have any trouble getting inside?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. Sometimes it seems harder for lawyers to get into San Quentin than it is for our clients to get out. It took me an hour to fill out the stack of forms, sign the multiple releases, and pass through the two metal detectors, before I was locked inside one of a dozen windowless six-by-six-foot cells separated by interlaced steel bars covered by scuffed Plexiglas. The death row visitors’ area is just a stone’s throw from the little green chamber where the State of California conducts its executions. It’s a dark reminder of the burdens borne by the denim-clad prisoners, who pass their time going about the mundane business of being incarcerated while their lawyers try to prolong their lives. “Mr. Fineman––” I say.

  “It’s Nate,” my host insists in a genial manner.

  Fine. “I’m Mike.” Nate Fineman may be confined to a wheelchair, but I’ve learned the hard way never to let my guard down. The first client I ever visited on the Row was a remorseless psychopath who had stabbed his ex-girlfriend twenty-seven times with an ice pick. Instead of shaking my hand, he introduced himself by slamming me against the wall. His hands were clasped around my throat when the guards finally wrestled him to the floor. He never got around to thanking me for getting his death sentence commuted. Every lawyer who handles death-penalty appeals has a similar story. “I’m flattered that you’d like us to help with your defense,” I say, “but practically speaking, it’s really too late to replace your lawyer.”

  He strokes his trim gray goatee. “I have no intention of replacing my lawyer,” he assures me. “That would be crazy.”

  Crazy as a fox, perhaps. At seventy-seven, Nate Fineman has been on the Row for ten years. This bootlegger’s son doesn’t fit the usual demographics of his neighbors, most of whom are poor, undereducated, and African American. He’s the last of a long line of flamboyant San Francisco legal legends whose ranks included Joseph Alioto, Melvin Belli, Jake Ehrlich, and Nate Cohn. Known as a street-smart hustler with a glib manner and a photographic memory, Nate “the Great” finished first in his class at Hastings Law School, married the daughter of a superior-court judge, then went to work at the public defender’s office, where he developed a reputation for courtroom histrionics and self-promotion. He also won a lot of cases. He earned a spot in the San Francisco Legal Hall of Fame when the DA took a swing at him on the steps of the Hall of Justice after he manipulated the California Rules of Evidence to convince an overmatched judge to dismiss a murder charge against a man who had shot a police officer four times at point-blank range in front of two witnesses. That incident cost the DA his job and made Nate a household name.

  An inveterate publicity hound and savvy opportunist, Nate parlayed the notoriety to open his own shop in the graceful Russ Building on Montgomery Street. He used his father-in-law’s connections to become the head of the Jewish Community Federation. He became a regular contributor to Herb Caen’s legendary gossip column, which ran for years next to the Macy’s ad in the middle section of the Chronicle. He was also one of the ringleaders of the fabled Calamari Club, a group of businessmen, politicians, labor leaders, lawyers, and influence peddlers who have been meeting for lunch in the back room of Scoma’s at the Wharf every Friday afternoon for a half century.

  Over the years, Nate represented many of San Francisco’s most notorious mobsters and drug dealers. He was never apologetic in expressing his view that it was his job to do whatever it took to keep them out of jail. He proudly boasted that his most famous client, Danny “the Meat Hook” Cortese—a dapper man-about-town who also happened to be the longtime boss of the San Francisco mob—never spent a day in prison over the course of a criminal career that spanned five decades. Never one to shy away from controversy, Nate defended three thugs who ran the Griffith Housing Projects and were accused of distri
buting bad heroin to local high school kids—three of whom died. Through a series of creative (some would say questionable) legal maneuvers, Nate persuaded a judge that a cache of drugs found in the apartment of the ringleader of the “Bayview Posse” had been obtained through an illegal search and seizure. This led to the dismissal of the charges—much to the chagrin of the DA and the SFPD. Paradoxically, Nate also garnered numerous community-service awards for setting up San Francisco’s first legal-aid clinic and donating millions to charity. Depending on who was telling the story, he was either a principled crusader who stood up for the underprivileged and the unpopular, or a highly paid mercenary who was as much a part of the drug and underworld culture as the criminals he represented.

  Nate was at the top of his game when he was charged, ten years ago, with killing three people in a back room of the Golden Dragon Restaurant in Chinatown during a summit conference of drug dealers on a rainy night. One of the victims was Nate’s own client. The second was a competitor, and the third was the competitor’s lawyer. Nate was found unconscious in the alley behind the restaurant with a semiautomatic pistol under his arm. Ballistic tests proved the slugs had been fired from that gun. Nate steadfastly claimed the weapon had been planted. He had fallen off a fire escape while leaving the building following the shootings, and sustained the injury that cost him the use of his legs. The prosecutors argued he was attempting to flee. Nate insisted he was only trying to dodge the bullets.

  He hired an all-star lineup of San Francisco’s best-known criminal-defense attorneys to represent him. His legal team was led by his law school classmate and card-playing buddy, Mort “the Sport” Goldberg, a theatrical showman who presided over a carnival-like trial that drew almost as much national media attention as the Laci Peterson case. The prosecutors portrayed Nate as a man who had spent his career helping mobsters and crack dealers stay out of jail—a charge that Nate never denied and Goldberg couldn’t refute. Goldberg trotted out a dozen character witnesses to testify that Nate was a doting husband and father who had raised millions for charity and never turned away a potential client just because he couldn’t afford to pay. Nate even took the stand in his own defense. Throughout intense questioning that lasted for days, he insisted the shootings were part of a coup by disloyal members of his client’s organization. Without a witness to corroborate Nate’s claim that he was ambushed by a masked assailant, it took the jury less than three hours to convict him of first-degree murder—much to the delight of the SFPD. The legal system has played its course, and Judgment Day is fast approaching.

  Unlike most death row inmates, who view attorney visits as an opportunity to vent their frustrations and plead their innocence, Nate’s tone is professional. “I want to hire you as special co-counsel,” he explains. “I think you can provide some additional perspective on my case.”

  He needs more than perspective. He’s scheduled for a lethal injection a week from Sunday at 12:01 a.m. By law, a death warrant must be carried out on a specified date. California conducts its executions at one minute after midnight at the very beginning of the twenty-four-hour window, to provide the maximum amount of wiggle room if there are any glitches and to reduce the number of protesters who gather at the gates of San Quentin. By my watch, that gives us eight days, twelve hours, and fifty-two minutes to do what his dream defense team couldn’t do in ten years. Am I nuts to be in this room?

  The third person in the cramped cell clears his throat. Louis Cohen is an eloquent former public defender who looks like Joseph Lieberman. One of California’s top appellate specialists, he grew up a few doors from Nate in the Richmond District. He’s been fighting the good fight on behalf of his childhood friend for the past decade. “We’ve filed new habeas petitions with the California Supreme Court, the Federal District Court, and the Ninth Circuit,” he explains. “If they turn us down, we’ll take it up to the U.S. Supreme Court. We’ve also asked the governor for clemency.”

  Despite countless well-intentioned attempts by our legislators to speed up the system, the Byzantine appellate process in death-penalty cases remains excruciatingly slow. You start with a mandatory direct appeal to the California Supreme Court––a fine idea with limited practical value. The California Supremes have time to hear just a handful of these cases, and you may only assert claims that arise from the trial record itself. It took them four years to turn down Nate’s appeal––which had no chance from the start. It took the Feds three more years to come to the same conclusion.

  After you’ve exhausted your direct appeals, you file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus in state and then in federal court. Cutting through the legalistic mumbo jumbo, it means you claim your client has been imprisoned in violation of his constitutional rights. The good news is, it’s the first time you can introduce evidence that wasn’t presented at trial. The bad news is, you have to prove “freestanding innocence,” which means the new evidence must be so clearly and convincingly exculpatory that no reasonable jury could have convicted your client in the first place––a standard that’s almost impossible to prove. It’s customary to file successive habeas petitions right up until the very end, but your chances of prevailing become slimmer as the execution date gets closer. The final judicial recourse is to the U.S. Supreme Court, which rarely soils its hands with death-penalty cases. There’s also a possibility that the governor will grant clemency. Given the current political climate in Sacramento, your chances are about the same as those of winning the California lottery.

  If your client manages to live long enough to exhaust all of his appeals, he will be executed in accordance with a tightly scripted procedure. First, he’ll get an injection of Sodium Pentothal, which causes a loss of consciousness. Next, they’ll administer a dose of pancuronium bromide, which leads to paralysis of the voluntary muscles. Finally, he’ll get a shot of potassium chloride, which induces cardiac arrest and finishes the job. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be nearly as dramatic as an execution carried out by hanging, the guillotine, the firing squad, the electric chair, poisonous gas, or the other methods of killing that humankind has developed over the centuries. The process should be concluded in about fifteen minutes, but it frequently takes much longer. Sometimes it takes the technicians several tries before they can get the needles in the right spots to allow the chemicals to flow properly.

  “What’s the likelihood of a stay?” I ask.

  “Slim,” Cohen replies.

  “And clemency?”

  “About the same.”

  I was a priest for three years before I went to law school. I still believe in miracles, but the Row is a place for cold-eyed pragmatism. “What do you expect me to do in eight days?”

  Nate responds for him. “Prove the police withheld evidence and covered up the identity of the real killer.”

  “You couldn’t do it,” I remind him. “You’ve had ten years to try.”

  “That’s why we need you.”

  “What makes you think I’ll be able to find any new information?”

  “Roosevelt Johnson headed the investigation.”

  The legendary homicide inspector is a meticulous man of unquestionable moral authority who began his career walking the beat with my father fifty years ago. They were the first integrated team in the SFPD, and their partnership turned into a lifelong friendship. Pop was thrilled when Roosevelt moved up the ranks and became the first African American in the homicide division. My dad was at heart a beat cop who turned down several promotions to stay on the street. He died of lung cancer a few months after Nate was convicted.

  “I know Inspector Johnson well enough to get a meeting,” I say, “but he isn’t going to reopen the investigation just because he used to work with my father.”

  “There was a police conspiracy.”

  Every convicted murderer thinks he’s Oliver Stone. “What about the pistol they found under your arm with a perfect set of your fingerprints?”

  “It was planted.”

  “By whom?”


  “The cops. It was payback for getting the charges dropped in the Posse case.”

  “The jury didn’t buy it.”

  “They were wrong. The cops covered up and closed ranks.”

  “What were you doing at the Golden Dragon in the first place?”

  “I was representing a Bayview heroin distributor who was at war with a Chinatown drug ring. I was negotiating a truce.”

  Nate’s trial was the top story on the news for weeks. From what I recall reading in the papers, that part of his story hasn’t changed.

  “We had everything worked out,” he says. “Then a man came in and started shooting. I jumped out a window and ran down the fire escape, but I slipped. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  He fell two stories and landed on his back. “Do you have any idea who the shooter was?”

  “He was wearing a mask.”

  “Did you bring a gun into the restaurant?”

  “Of course not. Everybody was searched when they entered the building. It was a stolen gun. The serial number had been removed.”

  “You’re still saying somebody else brought in the gun and killed three people?”

  “I was lucky they didn’t kill me, too.”

  And all I have to do is prove it in the next eight days. “You didn’t pick my name out of the Yellow Pages,” I say. “There are other lawyers who have contacts with Inspector Johnson and the SFPD.”

  “We want you and we’re prepared to make it worth your while.” Nate nods to Cohen, who reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulls out a white envelope, and places it on the table. “That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer,” Nate says. “It should cover your fees and costs for the next eight days.”

  It should cover us for the next six months. There might be something left over for Christmas presents. I can feel my eyes opening wide, but I don’t take the envelope. Our firm has only two lawyers. We spend most of our time representing small-time drug dealers and petty criminals who frequently have to choose between paying us or making bail. Most opt for the latter. It’s a big day when some poor soul charged with driving under the influence gives us a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer. “It might make more sense to spend your money on a private investigator,” I say.