Last Call (Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 13) Read online

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

  Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

  Copyright © 2022 Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover Design by Linda Siegel

  ISBN: 978-1-952612-06-0 E-Book

  ISBN: 978-1-952612-07-7 Paperback

  ISBN: 978-1-952612-08-4 Hardcover

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. “WHO’S NEXT?”

  2. “YOU GOTTA GET HIM OUTTA HERE”

  3. “I DIDN’T DO IT”

  4. “I CAN’T TALK ABOUT IT”

  5. “IT WAS A RIGHTEOUS ARREST”

  6. “I NEED TO SEND A MESSAGE”

  7. “I DIDN’T KILL HIM”

  8. “WE GOT YOUR BACK”

  9. “HE WON’T SURVIVE”

  10. “NOT GUILTY”

  11. “STAB WOUND”

  12. “ALWAYS START WITH THE DECEDENT”

  13. “HE WAS HAVING A HARD TIME”

  14. “I NEVER MET HIM”

  15. “THEY GOT INTO A BIG ARGUMENT”

  16. “I’M THINKING OF SUING THE CITY”

  17. “ONCE OR TWICE A MONTH”

  18. “I RUN A LIQUOR STORE”

  19. “GOOD AFTERNOON, YOUNG LADY”

  20. “I’M NOT GOING TO LAST MUCH LONGER”

  21. “HELLO THERE”

  22. “I NEED YOU TO BE STRAIGHT WITH ME”

  23. “HE WAS CHARGING ‘STREET TAXES’”

  24. “WE HAVE EVERYTHING COVERED’”

  25. “I HEARD VOICES”

  26. “I’LL HAVE A ‘HERB CAEN’”

  27. “IT WAS NOTHING”

  28. “STAY WITH ME”

  29. “MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS”

  30. “YOU GOT NOTHING”

  31. “IT’S THE BEST THAT WE CAN DO”

  32. “NO WAY”

  33. “LEAVE THIS TO THE PROFESSIONALS”

  34. “HAVEN’T SEEN HIM”

  35. “THIS ISN’T GOING WELL”

  36. “OFFICIALLY, NO”

  37. “SEE YOU THURSDAY”

  38. “WE CAN DO THIS THE EASY WAY OR THE HARD WAY”

  39. “LAST CHANCE”

  40. “I CAN’T DO IT”

  41. “WE’LL TAKE IT TO TRIAL”

  42. “ALL RISE”

  43. “I COLLECT TRASH”

  44. “WE WERE THE FIRST OFFICERS AT THE SCENE”

  45. “A MASSIVE AND RAPID LOSS OF BLOOD”

  46. “THEY EXCHANGED HEATED WORDS”

  47. “TWO PEOPLE WERE ARGUING”

  48. “HE WAS UNCOOPERATIVE”

  49. “LET ME TAKE THE HIT”

  50. “THERE WAS A LOT OF BLOOD”

  51. “HE COULD BE DIFFICULT”

  52. “HE EXPECTED FAVORS”

  53. “WHAT ARE ‘STREET TAXES’?”

  54. “HARD TO SAY”

  55. “I’LL GET HIM THERE”

  56. “HE LIED”

  57. “YOU JUMPED TO THE WRONG CONCLUSION”

  58. “IT WASN’T ENOUGH”

  59. “SHE DOESN’T DO SHTICK”

  60. “I WENT HOME”

  61. “INDEED I AM”

  62. “THE WITNESS HAS RIGHTS”

  63. “I TRUST YOU HAVE NO OBJECTION?”

  64. “MERRY CHRISTMAS”

  Acknowledgments

  About Author

  Excerpt from FIRST TRIAL

  Also By Sheldon Siegel

  For my nieces and nephews

  —you give me hope for our future:

  Stephanie, Stanley, and Will Coventry, Matt Falco and Sofia Arnell, Kim Harris, Margie Siegel and Joe Benak, Andy Siegel, Sophie Harris, Aiden Stewart, and Ari Stewart.

  1

  “WHO’S NEXT?”

  At ten-thirty a.m. on Tuesday, December first, Judge Elizabeth McDaniel was running an hour behind schedule. She took a deep breath of the sauna-like air in her packed courtroom and spoke to her bailiff in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. “Who’s next?”

  “The People versus Chester Choy and Fred Yee.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Betsy McDaniel was a thoughtful jurist and former prosecutor who had been running her steamy courtroom on the second floor of San Francisco’s crumbling Hall of Justice with merciless efficiency for a quarter of a century. Now north of seventy, she had gone on senior status to escort her grandchildren on trips around the world, teach criminal procedure at Hastings Law School, and take pre-dawn spin classes with my ex-wife and current boss, Rosie Fernandez, who also happened to be San Francisco’s Public Defender. From time to time, Judge McDaniel sat in for her colleagues and presided over arraignments, preliminary hearings, and motions.

  She looked over the top of her reading glasses at the gallery filled with Assistant District Attorneys, Deputy Public Defenders, and private defense attorneys waiting for a few minutes of assembly-line justice. She tugged at her shoulder-length auburn hair and spoke to her bailiff in a voice that still bore traces of her native Alabama. “Are the defendants here?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He motioned to the burly sheriff’s deputy who gently escorted two octogenarian retirees into court. Chester Choy used a walker. Fred Yee used a cane. Neither topped five feet. It took the deputy a full two minutes to walk them down the center aisle to join me at the defense table.

  Judge McDaniel rested her chin in her palm, turned to the prosecution table, and softened her tone. “Counsel will state their names for the record.”

  “Andrew Erickson for The People, Your Honor.”

  Andy Erickson had recently turned forty. I had been around long enough to remember his first day in court—in front of none other than Judge McDaniel. The alum of St. Ignatius High (also my alma mater), USF, and USF Law School had meticulously worked his way up the food chain at the D.A.’s Office to his current position as the head of the Felony Unit. He was now eyeing a move into the Chief Assistant’s slot—the final steppingstone before throwing his hat into the ring for a run at D.A. I didn’t always get everything that I wanted from him, but he was fundamentally honest and didn’t play games. He also let me use his father’s tickets behind the Giants dugout once or twice a year. As a result, I gave him a little more deference than some of his colleagues.

  The judge nodded at me.

  “Michael Daley for the defense,” I said.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Daley?”

  I was tempted to respond with a gentle wisecrack such as, “I am the co-head of the Felony Division of the Public Defender’s Office, and I work here.” In fairness to Judge McDaniel, her question was legit. My job was mostly administrative, so I rarely appeared in court. Since she was already running late, I decided that levity might not be well-received. “My colleague, Ms. Nikonova, was called away to handle a medical emergency.”

  Judge McDaniel’s voice filled with genuine concern. “Is Nady okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Nadezhda “Nady” Nikonova was one of our best young attorneys. I didn’t feel compelled to explain to Judge McDaniel that the medical emergency was for Nady’s dog, Luna
, a fourteen-year-old Keeshond mix who slept under Nady’s desk and was the most beloved member of the Public Defender’s Office.

  The judge turned to Erickson. “Why are we here?”

  “This is an arraignment for Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Again.

  “Charge?” the judge asked.

  “Misdemeanor public nuisance under California Penal Code Section 415.”

  “Where did the alleged crime take place this time?”

  “Costco.”

  Her tone was stern as she addressed Chester and Fred. “Last time, I dropped similar charges against you with a warning, didn’t I?”

  They responded with simultaneous nods.

  “Yet here we are again.”

  The octogenarians looked down at the floor.

  I turned around and nodded at Fred’s daughter, Pamela, who was sitting in the front row of the gallery. She had been the evening custodian at the P.D.’s Office since the days when I was a rookie Public Defender twenty-five years earlier. Her father and Chester were lifelong friends who grew up in Chinatown, worked in various restaurants, and now lived in the Lady Shaw Senior Housing Center, an independent living facility above the Broadway Tunnel. It was run by Self Help for the Elderly, the pre-eminent support organization in the Chinese community.

  Both widowed, Fred and Chester were inseparable. The outgoing Fred had a knack for pushing the reserved Chester’s buttons. On occasion, they got into shouting matches in the dining room at Lady Shaw and on field trips. A couple of months earlier, they had a disagreement in the produce aisle at Costco. A well-intentioned clerk intervened and received a bump on his ankle after Fred accidentally hit him with his cane. Cooler heads prevailed, but the store manager filed a police report. At Pamela’s request, I represented Fred and Chester, and I was able to get the charges dropped after they both agreed to write a “sorry letter” to the clerk.

  The judge turned to Erickson. “What happened this time?”

  “Mr. Choy, Mr. Yee, and some of their neighbors at Lady Shaw took the facility’s van to Costco for their weekly visit.”

  “They went to shop?”

  “No, they went for lunch. The residents enjoy the free samples.”

  “So do I, Mr. Erickson.”

  So do I.

  “In any event,” Erickson continued, “it seems that Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee had a disagreement when they got in line for sliders.”

  “Sliders?”

  “Mini-hamburgers, Your Honor. According to Mr. Yee, Mr. Choy cut in front of him. Evidently, they were running out of samples, and Mr. Yee was concerned that he wasn’t going to get one. They’re very tasty.”

  Yes, they are. I gave Andy credit for keeping a straight face.

  He shot a look at Chester and Fred. “Mr. Yee hit Mr. Choy on the arm with his cane. Mr. Choy responded by stomping his walker on Mr. Yee’s foot. Mr. Yee lost his balance and knocked over the display of sliders.”

  “Was anyone injured?”

  “Thankfully, no. The woman working at the slider station—a Ms. Gladys Wu—got out of the way. Mr. Choy sustained a bump on his elbow. Mr. Yee had a bruise on his toe. Fortuitously, the blow was cushioned by a tennis ball on the foot of Mr. Choy’s walker.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “Ms. Wu summoned Costco security, who contacted the police and called an ambulance. Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee were transported to Saint Francis Hospital, where a doctor determined that their injuries were not serious, and they were discharged. Pursuant to SFPD policy, the police filed a report based on statements provided by Ms. Wu and the security guard.”

  “Costco decided to press charges?”

  “Correct, Your Honor. Company policy places a premium on customer safety.”

  “Legitimately so, Mr. Erickson.” Judge McDaniel pushed out a sigh and spoke to me. “Do your clients dispute any of these facts, Mr. Daley?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “How do your clients wish to plead?”

  I glanced at Chester and Fred, who were staring at the ground. “Your Honor, before they enter their pleas, I would note that Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee are both very sorry.”

  “Noted.”

  “They have apologized in person and in writing to Ms. Wu, the security guard, the officers who came to the scene, the EMTs, and the doctors and nurses at Saint Francis.”

  “Further noted.”

  “I would also like to introduce into evidence copies of the letters written by Chester and Fred to the aforementioned people in which they apologized in writing.”

  “Thank you. How do your clients wish to plead, Mr. Daley?”

  “We were hoping that their expressions of remorse might persuade Mr. Erickson to consider dropping the charges.”

  The judge turned to Andy. “How do you feel about it, Mr. Erickson?”

  “Sorry notes aren’t enough, Your Honor. Somebody could have gotten hurt. The previous incident demonstrates a pattern of inappropriate behavior.”

  “Is there any way that we might be able to resolve this?”

  “Possibly, Your Honor.” He waited a beat. “We will suspend the charges under two conditions. First, if Mr. Yee and Mr. Choy are involved in a similar incident in the next year, the charges will be reinstated.”

  “That’s acceptable to us,” I said.

  “Second, Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee will agree not to go to Costco for one year.”

  Chester swallowed as he looked at the floor. Fred turned to me, panic in his eyes.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “that strikes me as a bit excessive. Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee are unable to get out much. Their weekly visits to Costco provide needed social interaction. I would ask Mr. Erickson to reduce the suspension of their Costco privileges to a period of two weeks.”

  Erickson shot back. “Six months.”

  “One month.”

  “Three months.”

  “Two months.”

  Erickson thought about it for a moment. “Fine.”

  In my long and infrequently illustrious legal career, this was the first time I had resolved a case by negotiating the term of a Costco suspension.

  Judge McDaniel flashed a triumphant smile. “It seems that we have a deal.” She turned to her bailiff. “Who’s next?”

  The gregarious barkeep tossed his ever-present dishtowel over his shoulder and spoke to me in a phony Irish brogue. “What’ll it be, lad?”

  “Fish and chips and a Guinness, Big John.”

  He looked over at my boss/ex-wife. “And for the distinguished Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco?”

  “Same for me. Instead of the chips, may I please have a salad?”

  He arched a bushy eyebrow. “You know, darlin’, the kitchen usually doesn’t allow substitutions.”

  Rosita Carmela Fernandez’s jet-black eyes twinkled as she flashed the magical smile that I still found captivating almost thirty years after we’d met in the file room of the old Public Defender’s Office. “Just this once?”

  Game over.

  Big John returned her smile. “I think we can work it out.”

  Rosie and I were sitting in a booth in the back room of Dunleavy’s Bar and Grill, which my uncle, Big John Dunleavy, had been running for sixty-two years. My mother’s older brother was going to celebrate his eighty-seventh birthday on Christmas. The one-time all-City tight end at St. Ignatius was the last living family member of my parents’ generation. Big John was still pretty spry and sharp as a razor, but he had started using a cane to help him carry the two-hundred and forty pounds on his six-four frame. Ten years earlier, he had turned over the day-to-day operations of his pub on Irving Street to his grandson, Joey, a onetime lineman at S.I. Big John still came in three days a week to make the secret batter for his fish and chips and chat with his longtime customers—a combination of cops, firefighters, PG&E workers, senior citizens from the neighborhood’s Asian community, and, more recently, tech kids who w
ere moving out to the foggy Sunset where the rents were a little cheaper.

  He looked at Rosie. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  “Fine. Grace and Chuck have set a date in December of next year.”

  “Excellent. My offer to provide the venue for the rehearsal dinner still stands.”

  “Thank you, Big John. Grace wants something a little more elaborate.”

  “Let me know if she changes her mind.”

  Our twenty-four-year-old daughter, Grace, was a USC Film School alum and a production assistant at Pixar. Her fiancé, Chuck, was a UCLA Film School alum and a senior production assistant at the same company. Grace was born a year after Rosie and I met at the Public Defender’s Office. I had gone to law school after a difficult three-year tenure as a priest. Rosie had just spun out of a brief and unsatisfying marriage. We had an instant chemistry, and Rosie enjoyed teaching a former priest about some aspects of life that were not emphasized at the seminary. The demands of a baby and our jobs collided, and we called things off when Grace was two. I spent the next five years working at a big firm at the top of the Bank of America Building to pay the bills, alimony, and child support. Rosie started her own criminal defense practice and took me in after I was unceremoniously booted from the firm when I didn’t bring in enough clients. We’d been working together ever since—first at our two-person firm on Mission Street, and, more recently, at the P.D.’s Office. Our “colleagues-with-benefits” arrangement has lasted significantly longer than our marriage, and Big John always described us as “being more married than most married people.” Our son, Tommy (named after my dad), was a freshman at Cal, my alma mater. He came along after Rosie and I divorced. Old habits.

  My uncle’s blue eyes twinkled. “I saw that you liberated Chester and Fred again. People are calling them the octogenarian ‘Butch and Sundance.’”

  “Justice was served,” I deadpanned.

  He winked at Rosie, then he turned back to me. “I tell my customers that my favorite nephew is a bigshot at the P.D.’s Office who handles only highly sophisticated cases. Then they see you on TV after you cut a deal for two guys who got into a fight over free burgers at Costco. It’s bad for business, Mikey. I have a reputation.”