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

  “Artillery.”

  “Must have been hard keeping the equipment working in the desert.”

  “It was a hundred and ten in the shade every day.”

  “Tough duty. How many tours?”

  “Three.”

  “Our older brother died in Vietnam.”

  “Sorry. Army?”

  “Marines.” I waited a beat. “How long have you been living on the street?”

  “Couple years.”

  I might have guessed longer. “You have trouble finding work?”

  “It was okay for a while. Then I lost my job as a mechanic. Then my wife left me. Then I got into meth. You know the drill.”

  “I do. I know some people who might be able to help you.”

  “So do I.”

  “At the very least, they can find you a place to stay with a roof.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Looks like it’s going to be a long rainy season.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  I pulled out my wallet and dropped five twenties onto the table. “Maybe that will get you a place to stay for a night or two.”

  He scooped up the cash.

  “I understand that you might have some information for us about what happened yesterday morning.”

  “I might.”

  “The amount of your gratuity will depend on the quality of your information.”

  “That’s fair.”

  I waited.

  Dwayne took a second to decide what he wanted to tell us. He pointed across the plaza. “I was in my regular spot in front of Panda Express.”

  “All night?”

  “Until the cops showed up.”

  “You saw everything?”

  “Maybe.” He held out his hand.

  I slid a twenty across the table.

  “I’ll need more,” he said.

  I palmed another twenty and held it in front of him. As he reached for it, I pulled it back. “Did you see Juwon Jones run across the plaza?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “You saw him turn onto Fillmore and head north?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Officer Bacigalupi following him?”

  “Yes.” He confirmed that Murphy was a half-block behind Johnny.

  “Did you see any other police officers?”

  “I heard a siren and saw flashing lights near the corner of Geary and Fillmore.”

  That would have been Rick Siragusa. “Did a police officer get out of the car in the intersection?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything after Jones ran up Fillmore.”

  “Did Jones say anything?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t remember. It happened very fast.”

  I slid a twenty across the table. “Dwayne, was Officer Bacigalupi’s gun drawn?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about his partner?”

  “Him, too.”

  “Did Jones have a gun?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  Crap. “They found a gun under his body.”

  “I heard.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “No. He was across the plaza. It was raining.”

  “Maybe it was inside his pocket.”

  “Could have been. Or maybe it was inside your client’s pocket. Wouldn’t be the first time a cop planted a piece.”

  “Do you have any evidence that my client planted a gun?”

  “No.”

  “What about one of the other cops?”

  “No.” He’s eyes narrowed. “I know what I saw. And I know what I didn’t see: a gun.”

  This isn’t helping. “Did you talk to the police?”

  “Yes. I always cooperate with the cops—especially the white ones.”

  “You ever had any trouble?”

  “Occasionally. You know the drill. White cops with guns sometimes make for an unhealthy combination for a black guy without one.”

  True. “You don’t pack?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a knife?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “What did you tell the cops?”

  “The same thing that I told you: I saw Jones run across the plaza. I didn’t see a gun.”

  Terrific. “Who did you talk to?”

  “The homicide inspector. Old black guy.”

  “Roosevelt Johnson?”

  “Yeah.”

  Figures. “Was anybody else around last night?”

  “I didn’t see anybody.”

  I slid another twenty across the table along with my business card. “Would you mind asking around?”

  “Sure.” He picked up his extra bag of chips. “If you ask me, your client doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “When a white cop shoots a black kid, the cop always walks.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Pete took a sip of coffee from a cup bearing the Subway logo. “That didn’t help, Mick.”

  “No, it didn’t.” I glanced out the window, where Dwayne was sitting next to his cart. “You think he’s telling the truth?”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

  “You think he knows something?”

  “I don’t know, Mick. At the moment, I don’t have any better ideas. You going home?”

  “I’m going back to the office. Rolanda is helping one of Luca’s associates prepare document requests.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be doing this outside the P.D.’s Office.”

  “I am. Rolanda is moonlighting out of the goodness of her heart.”

  “She’s a nice kid.”

  “Yes, she is. And she isn’t a kid anymore. She’s a terrific lawyer.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Rosie’s okay with this?”

  “Let’s just say that she’s decided to look the other way.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Mick. You get along better with your ex-wife than I get along with my current wife.”

  “I’ve learned to pick my arguments carefully. Everything okay with you and Donna?”

  “We’re fine.”

  Pete’s first marriage didn’t work out. His second marriage wasn’t perfect, but it was better. “You got time to do some asking around the neighborhood here?”

  “Of course, Mick.”

  23

  “WATCH THE VIDEO”

  I was driving north on the Golden Gate Bridge at two-thirty on Thursday morning when I punched in the familiar number on my iPhone.

  “Homicide. Johnson.”

  “It’s Mike, Roosevelt.”

  “I know.” He chuckled. “You’re the only defense attorney whose number is programmed into my cell.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You should be. You’re also the only defense attorney on Planet Earth whose call I would have taken at this hour.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  “It’s early.”

  Yes, it is. “Are you still at the office?”

  “Where else would I want to be on such a beautiful morning?”

  “You going to make it home tonight?”

  “Eventually. You?”

  “I’m on the bridge.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I will.”

  He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping that I could persuade you to convince our hardworking D.A. to drop the charges against my client.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “You can save yourself a lot of time and trouble.”

  “I have lots of time, and I like trouble.”

  “In that case, I’m calling to inquire as to whether you have any new evidence that you’d like to share with me.”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “I don’t need to remind you that you have a legal obligation to share any evidence that might tend to exonerate my client.”

  “There is none.”

  “Come on, Roosevelt.”

  “This is where I’m supposed to tell you to read the police reports.”

  “You haven’t provided them.”

  “In due course.”

  I wasn’t going to get anything from him before the arraignment. “You will be receiving requests for copies of all evidence relating to Johnny’s case. I would appreciate it if you would respond as quickly as possible.”

  “We will.”

  I drove into the Robin Williams tunnel between the bridge and Sausalito. When I came out on the other side, my windshield was pounded by rain. “Mind if I ask you something off the record?”

  “You can ask me anything that you’d like. I’ll decide whether I want to respond.”

  “What do you have that made you decide to arrest Johnny so quickly?”

  I envisioned Roosevelt pressing the phone to his ear as he considered his answer. “Watch the video.”

  “You have video of the shooting?”

  “Watch the video,” he repeated.

  It was all that he was going to say. “Thanks, Roosevelt. Give my best to Janet.”

  “I will. I’ll see you in court.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Rosie’s name appeared on my iPhone as I was driving through Mill Valley on Highway 101. “Did you make it home?” she asked.

  “On my way. Why are you still up?”

  “I’m catching up on e-mails.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Rosie would never admit to anything less than ‘fine.’ “Everything okay at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  Good. “Thanks for coming over with Rolanda.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “She and Luca’s associate put together a stack of document requests. She said that Nady is very good.”

  “I know. I just talked to her.”

  “I appreciate it, Rosie.”

  “You’ll make it up to Rolanda—and me.”

  Yes, I would.

  “Why don’t you stop at my house for a few minutes?” she said.

  It was an offer that I couldn’t refuse. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  24

  “THE NEXT ELECTION IS THREE YEARS FROM NOW”

  The light was on in Rosie’s living room as I walked up the steps of the post-earthquake bungalow at 8 Alexander Avenue across the street from the Larkspur Little League field. Rosie and I had rented the cheery white-shingle a few months after Grace was born, and Rosie kept the house after we got divorced. One of our few affluent clients (a one-time mob lawyer) graciously purchased it for us a couple of years ago as a thank-you after we got his death penalty conviction overturned. In the Bay Area’s other-worldly real estate market, it was the equivalent of winning the lottery.

  Technically, Rosie “lived” in a rented one-bedroom apartment across the street from her mother’s house in the Mission, but that was for show. The San Francisco Public Defender had to list an official residence in the city. In reality, she spent most of her time over here in Marin. Although I stayed at Rosie’s place a couple of nights a week, I still lived at the utilitarian one-bedroom apartment behind the Larkspur fire station where I’d moved after our divorce. The rent was expensive, but it was a small price to pay for the buffer zone that we needed to maintain our sanity.

  I unlocked the door and let myself in. It’s nice when your ex-wife lets you keep a key. I smiled at Rosie, who was staring at her laptop on the kitchen table that doubled as her home office. I nodded at her mother, Sylvia, who was sitting in her usual spot in an armchair next to the fireplace in the living room. As always, her attention was split between her knitting and CNN.

  I hung my raincoat on the rack next to the door. I was taking off my wet shoes when I received an enthusiastic greeting from an unexpected source who came barreling in from the hallway leading to the two bedrooms in the back of the house.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said.

  “Hi, Tom.”

  Our twelve-year-old son gave me a hug. A recent growth spurt had made him almost as tall as I was, and he was skinny as a rail. His facial features were closer to Rosie’s than mine, but his light brown hair suggested a smattering of Daley genes. With a little luck, the braces on his teeth would come off in another six months or so.

  “Why are you still up?” I asked. “It’s almost three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I heard something outside.”

  He was a light sleeper. And, like his mother and grandmother, he was a night owl. “It was just the rain.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Then it was me.”

  He played with the sleeve of the Golden State Warriors T-shirt that he used as his pajamas. “Maybe.”

  “No kidding, Tom.” He inherited his propensity for worrying from me. “You have school in less than five hours. I need you to go back to bed.”

  He responded with a grudging, “Okay.”

  “I’ll come in and say good night before I leave.”

  He changed the subject. “I saw you on TV. They said that you’re going to represent the officer who shot that guy behind the post office.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t been on TV since you went back to the Public Defender’s Office.”

  “I don’t do high-profile cases anymore.” Until now. “I’ll tell you about it over the weekend.”

  “Are we still going to the Warriors game next week?”

  “You bet.”

  This elicited the smile that I was hoping for. “Night, Dad.”

  “Night, Tom.”

  He bounded down the hallway into the bedroom that he used to share with his sister, and now frequently shared with his grandmother.

  I walked across the living room and pecked Rosie’s mom on the cheek. “You okay, Sylvia?”

  “Fine, Michael.”

  “You’re up late.”

  “You know that I’d be up in another hour.”

  True. She was always watching CNN and drinking coffee by four a.m. “Your knee working okay?”

  “Good as new.”

  Sylvia was the proud owner of two new knees and a new hip. She liked to say that she was fully refurbished.

  I pointed at the TV. “Anything new?”

  “Twenty-five people were arrested in the Fillmore. Two people were stabbed. Ten marchers and four police officers were taken to the hospital.”

  “Not good.”

  “Not good at all.” Her hands worked furiously on her knitting. “Why in God’s name are you getting involved in this disaster?”

  “Johnny is my godson. I’ve known his father since we were kids.”

  “There are other lawyers, Michael.”

  “Johnny’s grandfather worked with my dad.”

  Her expression suggested that she was less than satisfied with my response.

  I walked into the newly refurbished kitchen. After Rosie won the election, her first unofficial action was to replace the workman-like sixties-era appliances with workman-like new millennium appliances straight from the floor of Home Depot. Her salary didn’t warrant a splurge on a Subzero refrigerator or a Wolf range.

  “Did you eat?” Rosie asked.

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  “Anything with nutritional value?”

  I hate this. “I had a kale and arugula salad with free-range chicken and organic feta cheese topped with oil and vinegar dressing.”

  “What did you really eat?”

  “A chicken sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and cucumber.”

  “Subway?”

  “It’s sort of fresh.”

  “Processed chicken patties aren’t fresh. Did you have a bag of chips?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a Diet Soda?”

  “Just water
,” I lied.

  “Dr. Yee says that you need to eat better and exercise more.”

  “I’m working on it, Rosie.”

  “Work harder. There’s salad in the fridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you go to the gym today?”

  “I walked the steps.” I played baseball in high school and used to be a gym rat. Those days were long ago. Nowadays, I climbed the nearby stairway connecting Magnolia Avenue with the houses up the hill. It’s a hot-spot for Marin County’s fitness fanatics. “I did five up-and-downs.”

  “Not bad. Did you see Zvi?”

  “Yes. He asked about you.”

  Zvi Danenberg was a ninety-two-year-old retiree who had taught physics at Mission High for forty years. The spirited nonagenarian did twenty up-and-downs every morning. He was one of the most beloved figures in Marin County.

  Rosie smiled. “He’s still my hero.”

  “Mine, too. Why are you up?”

  “I was in meetings all day. I needed to catch up.”

  Rosie never had trouble sleeping until she became P.D. “It couldn’t wait?”

  “I don’t get a lot of quiet time during business hours.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You decided to represent Johnny B.”

  Fair enough. “Sometimes you do what you think is right.”

  “And, in your case, sometimes you take on everybody else’s problems.”

  I switched topics. “Thanks for coming over tonight with Rolanda. She was a big help.”

  “She always is.”

  “Did you really appoint her as Head of the Felony Division?”

  “For now.”

  “What happens when I come back to the office?”

  “We’ll talk about it then.” Her expression indicated that this topic was closed. “Were you and Pete down in the Fillmore tonight?”

  “We were interviewing a potential witness.”

  She pushed out a sigh. “A bunch of people ended up in the hospital. For my own selfish reasons, I would prefer that you and your brother don’t get yourselves killed.”

  “We’ll be careful.”

  Her expression indicated that she wasn’t so sure. “How bad was it?”

  “It was quiet when I got there. Some broken windows. The police are out in force.”

  “Was the witness a cop?”

  “No, he was a homeless guy who was on the plaza early yesterday morning.” I filled her in on the details of our conversation with Dwayne.

  “Will he testify that Jones was carrying a gun?”