MD02 - Incriminating Evidence Read online

  Time to go. Rosie extends her hand to the woman. She shakes it. Rosie offers her hand to the man, but he ignores it. She hands him a business card that he accepts reluctantly, then glances around the room and sees a brown paper bag with a familiar logo on it. “You ever shop at Tony’s Produce?” she asks him.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you know Tony?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  There’s a crack in the facade at last. He gives us the tiniest hint of a grin. “Everybody knows Tony. I deliver vegetables to him.”

  “What’s your name?” Rosie asks.

  “Hector Ramirez.”

  “Hector,” Rosie says, “do you think you might be able to help us get some information about Johnny Garcia and his family?”

  The grin broadens into a full-blown smile. “Tell your brother I’ll make a few calls and see what I can find out,” he says. “And tell him he owes me.”

  11

  “YOU REALLY NEED TO TALK TO HIM”

  “With the preliminary hearing for District Attorney Gates less than ten days away, his defense team is scrambling to refute mounting evidence of his guilt.”

  —NEWS CENTER 4 LEGAL ANALYST MORT GOLDBERG. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13.

  I’ve arrived in the office early Monday morning to prepare for a meeting with Bill McNulty and Hillary Payne. Ann was standing by the door when I got here. It’s always nice to find an uninvited guest waiting for you first thing in the morning.

  “We spent yesterday down in the Mission,” I tell her. “We found somebody in the apartment where Johnny Garcia used to live.”

  “That’s it?”

  “This case is six days old, Ann. We’ve been going door-to-door in the area around the projects and near St. Peter’s. We’ll find more.”

  “I’m not sure you have the resources to do this.”

  “We’ll find out what happened, Ann,” I repeat.

  “What time is your meeting with McNulty and Payne?”

  “In an hour.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Damn. “I think they want to meet with your father’s lawyers.”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “But you’re not representing him.”

  “That may change. I’m coming to the meeting.”

  I have no choice. “I’ll see you there.”

  McNulty and Payne look like twins who were separated at birth as they sit on one side of the conference table in the corner of Skipper’s office later the same morning. There are papers and manila envelopes on the table in front of her.

  Ed Molinari is at my right. His breathing is heavy. He has placed a legal pad on the table in front of him. He glares alternately at McNasty and at Payne. Ed’s ready for war. I’ve assigned him the role of the bad cop. He’s a natural.

  Rosie pours herself a cup of coffee and takes the seat to my left. She’s prepared to cast doubt on every piece of evidence that we’ve been told about so far. We may not be able to stop the freight train, but we may be able to slow it down.

  Ann is standing by the window. She hasn’t said a word since she walked in. Skipper has assured me that he has asked her to be discreet. I’m still concerned that she’ll disrupt this meeting.

  We discuss the autopsy report and Sandra Wilson’s findings. Then I decide it’s time to see their cards. I ask, “Why did you ask us to come down here, Bill?”

  “Your client is in extraordinarily serious trouble,” McNasty says.

  Tell me. I try not to react.

  “The police found some very disturbing evidence at the house,” he continues. “You really need to talk to him.”

  “What’s the new evidence, Bill?”

  He signals to Payne. Her eyes never leave the legal pad on the table in front of her as she says, “We found two sets of handcuffs in his study. They match the handcuffs found at the scene.”

  I already knew about the handcuffs, but I don’t want to let on that I’ve been talking to Roosevelt. “Skipper is the DA,” I say. “He’s a law enforcement officer. He carries handcuffs from time to time. You guys must have them, too.”

  Payne’s lips form a frown. She picks up a manila envelope and removes three copies of Hustler magazine wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag. “We found these in his study, too,” she says. “And just so we’re clear on this, we law enforcement officers don’t keep Hustler around the house.”

  Molinari jumps in. “You have no evidence to prove those magazines are relevant to this case,” he says. “There’s nothing illegal about having copies of Hustler. He may have had them to work on a pornography case. You’ll never get these into evidence.” He glares at her, as if to say “So there.”

  Notwithstanding Ed’s heavy-handedness, it’s a legitimate point. His bulldog persona may prove useful.

  Payne doesn’t even acknowledge him. She turns back to her notes and says, “We found a key to a storage locker at the Public Storage on Geary. We’re getting a search warrant.”

  I knew about this from Roosevelt, too. “Suit yourself,” I reply. Hopefully, they won’t find a bunch of back issues of Hustler.

  “You may want to check with your client to see what’s in the locker,” McNulty says.

  I assure him that I will. I ask if they have any other information.

  Payne holds up the index finger on her right hand and says, “One more thing.” She opens another manila envelope and removes three Polaroids that are enclosed in clear plastic bags. “Look at these,” she says as she hands them to me.

  I place them on the table between Rosie and myself. They’re pictures of three young women, all of whom are naked and handcuffed to the posts of a bed, eyes and mouth covered with duct tape. “Where did you get these?” I ask.

  McNasty says, “The top right drawer of the desk in your client’s study.”

  Rosie says, “Those pictures have nothing to do with this case. They could have come from a case file or an investigation.” Or they could have been from Skipper’s personal pornography gallery.

  Molinari leans forward and adds, “They could have been planted. This doesn’t prove anything.”

  Payne is indignant. “They weren’t planted, Ed,” she says.

  I eye the pictures. Without looking up, I say, “Did you find any fingerprints on the pictures?”

  “None that we can identify,” Payne says. “The prints were smudged.”

  Good. “Do you know anything about these women?”

  McNulty points to one of the photos and says, “This is the same woman who was on the news the other night. She’s prepared to testify that Skipper used to pay her to tie her up and have sex.” He pauses. “The same way he tied up and had sex with Johnny Garcia.”

  “You can’t be serious about building your entire case around this woman,” I say. “She’s a drug addict. You can tell from her eyes.”

  Payne answers for him. “She’s in protective custody. She’s going to be clean by the preliminary hearing. She’s very bright. College degree. Just down on her luck.”

  “We want to talk to her,” I say.

  “Right away,” Rosie adds.

  “We’ll make the arrangements,” Payne says.

  “Mike,” McNasty says, “I want you to go back to your client and tell him about this conversation.” He hands me a duplicate set of the photos. “I want you to show him these pictures and I want you to take him a message. I’m willing to offer him a deal. We’ll take the death penalty off the table right now if he’ll plead guilty to second degree.”

  Molinari says, “You’re out of your mind.”

  McNulty taps his index finger on the table. “Look at the pictures, Ed. Think about how they’ll play in front of a jury. Think about this woman’s testimony.”

  “We’ll tear her apart on cross,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Payne says. “But if you do, the jury may become even more sympathetic.”

  “It’s a good deal,” McNulty tells me, “and I’ll t
ake a lot of heat if I settle for second degree.”

  “He’ll never go for it,” I reply.

  “Maybe not,” he says. “But you have a duty to take our proposal to him.”

  Skipper’s response to McNulty’s proposal is succinct. “Second degree?” he says. “No way!”

  We’re all in the small consultation room in the jail wing. We’ve just sat through five minutes of invective from our client. We let him vent. It’s better to let him get it out of his system.

  I ask about the handcuffs in his study.

  “I’m a law enforcement officer,” he says. “I keep a few extra sets at the house and a couple of sets at the office. So does McNulty. So does Payne.”

  Ed joins in. “What about the copies of Hustler?” he asks.

  “I’m the district attorney. I have a unit that investigates pornography. I had a couple of copies of Hustler to study their advertisements.”

  So Molinari had pointed out. It’s plausible if not persuasive. “What about the storage locker?” I ask.

  “Just some old records from my law practice.”

  “So we shouldn’t object if they want to search it?”

  “Tell them to be my guest.”

  “What about the pictures of the women?” I ask. “How did they find their way into your desk?”

  We wait. Skipper holds up his hands. “I have no idea,” he says at last.

  I try to give him an out. “You didn’t need them for a case, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Who else has access to your study?”

  “Just Natalie and the servants.”

  Molinari looks him right in the eye. “Skipper,” he says, “if there’s something you need to get off your chest, now would be a good time to do it.”

  “I’ve never seen those women in my life.”

  “He’s lying.” Ed Molinari is sharing his views on Skipper’s credibility on our way back downtown. “I’ve listened to his bullshit for thirty years. If you’re going to be a successful defense attorney, you have to develop some instincts for whether your client is telling the truth.”

  Thanks for bringing that to my attention.

  He continues to lecture. “The bullshit has gotten thicker in recent years,” he says. “He’s convinced those Hustler magazines were in his desk because he was working on a case. I’m sure he believes he’s never seen the pictures they found in his desk. When Skipper becomes adamant or indignant, nine times out of ten he’s lying. It’s very natural for him. In fact, he believes what he’s saying at the time. It’s part of his persona.”

  “Why didn’t you call him on it?”

  “You have to catch him red-handed,” he replies. “That’s the only time he’ll level with you.”

  “I talked to Joseph Wong, the room service waiter at the Fairmont,” Pete says. We’re sitting in the dining room in my mother’s house at Twenty-third and Kirkham the same evening. The fog shrouds the Sunset district. I can barely see the wall of the house next door through the small window.

  My sixty-nine-year-old mother walks in with a platter of roast chicken. Margaret Murphy Daley is about four foot ten, with short gray hair and hazel eyes. Her full-time attendant, a young British woman in her early twenties, follows right behind her. “Eat your chicken, Tommy,” my mom tells me. About half the time she confuses me with my older brother, who died in Vietnam. I glance at Tommy’s picture on the mantel in the living room. He’s been frozen in time at the age of twenty-one. He was a star quarterback at Cal before he volunteered for the Marines.

  “It looks real good, Mama,” I say as I take a piece of chicken and pass the platter to Pete. She and her attendant adjourn to the kitchen. I turn to him. “What did you find out from the waiter?”

  “Very discreet. Didn’t want to talk. Been working at the Fairmont his entire life. Started as a kid. Straight out of Chinatown. Lives in the Richmond now.” Pete still talks like a cop. “Skipper had ordered breakfast the night before. Wong knocked at seven. When there was no answer, he opened the door and began to wheel in the cart. He found Skipper sleeping in the chair. Garcia was in the bed. He woke up Skipper, who called downstairs right away. Skipper tried to revive Garcia, but he couldn’t. Then the security guards, the cops and the paramedics arrived.”

  “Did he see anybody else or hear anything?”

  “Nope.”

  This whole business is fishy. Pete says what I’ve been thinking all along: “None of this adds up. If you had just killed a guy, you wouldn’t go to sleep in the same room. You’d get the hell out.”

  12

  THE HEART OF THE MISSION

  “We are attempting to balance the economic needs of the Mission District while still retaining its character. We are proud of our community.”

  —FATHER RAMON AGUIRRE. SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14.

  Ernie Clemente calls me at the office the next morning. “I found out where Johnny Garcia lived,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “The Jerry Hotel.”

  I don’t recognize the name. “Where is it?”

  “Sixteenth and Mission. Across the street from the BART station. It’s a dive.”

  So is every residential hotel in the immediate vicinity. “What about Andy Holton?”

  “He lived there, too.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “Not yet. I’m still checking.”

  “I take it you aren’t prepared to reveal your sources.”

  “That would be correct.”

  I hit the End button on my cellular and punch in Rosie’s cell number. When she answers, I tell her about my call from Ernie.

  “Do you plan to call the police?” she asks.

  “Absolutely. That’s my next call. Do you think I’d go there by myself and let Hillary Payne claim I tampered with the evidence? Where are you?”

  “Tony’s market.”

  “Can you meet me at the hotel in twenty minutes?”

  “You bet.”

  The area around the BART station on the corner of Sixteenth and Mission is a mixture of run-down two-and three-story buildings housing burrito shops, produce stands, fast-food restaurants and seedy hotels. According to a recent article in the Chronicle’s magazine section, there are fifty-six residential hotels within walking distance of the BART station. Most of them are on Mission and the surrounding numbered streets and alleys.

  Sixteenth and Mission is the center of San Francisco’s heroin trade. It isn’t something neighborhood residents are proud of. They understand the problem and they don’t try to hide it. They acknowledge it can’t be fixed easily. The J. C. Decaux public toilet next to the BART station has become a center of commerce and is known as the Green Monster. People hop off the BART trains, buy their stuff and get back on. It gives new meaning to the term “one-stop shopping.” The Mission police station is just around the corner on Valencia. It doesn’t seem to deter the dealers. The area gained notoriety a few years ago when the son of a local rock star died of an overdose in one of the residential hotels on Valencia.

  The sun hits my face as I come up the escalator from the underground BART station and look around the familiar red brick plaza, which is dotted with sad-looking palm trees and fenced-in shrubs. A Wells Fargo bank branch greets me as I reach ground level. At least ten people are lined up at the automated teller machine. Two young men ask me for money as I step off the escalator and turn toward Sixteenth. I glance behind me toward Mission, a busy street with a colorful array of small stores, restaurants and produce markets. Tired banners hanging from the streetlights proclaim that we are standing in the “Heart of the Mission.” Cars and orange Muni buses sit bumper to bumper on Mission in front of the BART station. The street is too narrow to have any hope of keeping up with the volume of traffic. It’s a lively corner, but the assortment of homeless people, prostitutes and drug dealers would be intimidating to those who are unfamiliar with the territory. Things have changed a lot since I was a kid.<
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  A large man wearing a dirt-covered windbreaker stands next to the Green Monster. He’s chatting with a middle-aged prostitute who is dressed in a short green skirt, a halter top and high heels. She’s been around the block a few times. Up Sixteenth, I see a bar called the Skylark, which used to be a transgender and gay Latino bar called La India Bonita. Now it’s a hangout for the young professionals who are moving into the neighborhood. Farther up Sixteenth, just past Valencia, is another popular yuppie hangout called Ti Couz. They line up on Friday night to eat crepes. It’s common knowledge among those of us who spend time down here that people in the hotels across the street are shooting up. The Mission has something for everybody.

  The police have moved quickly. Four squad cars are already parked on Sixteenth, directly across the street from the BART station. A hand-lettered sign above a black metal door denotes the entrance to the Jerry Hotel, which occupies the top two floors of a decaying three-story building. El Pollo Supremo, one of those fast-food chicken places, is on the ground floor. Pete and Rosie are standing just outside the hotel entrance, talking to one of the five police officers who are cordoning off the area. I dodge the cars on Sixteenth and head toward them.

  “They won’t let us in,” Rosie says. “Roosevelt and Elaine are upstairs. They’re searching the room. The evidence techs are on the way. They won’t be finished for a while.”

  From all outward appearances, it’s hard to imagine that the Jerry was ever a decent hotel. I glance inside the open metal door at the steep staircase beyond. There is no lobby. The ceiling light over the entrance area reveals a urine-stained linoleum floor and flocked red wallpaper that must date back to the Eisenhower administration. I can make out two uniformed officers guarding the stairs.

  Pete nods toward an African American man with a tattoo of a St. Bernard on his arm. “This is Ellis,” he says. “He lives upstairs.”

  Ellis eyes me with suspicion. “Johnny was a nice kid,” he says. “It shouldn’t have happened to him. He was starting to get his life together.” His voice is an octave too high for a guy who weighs over three hundred pounds.