MD02 - Incriminating Evidence Page 12

  “How long did he live here?” I ask.

  “A few months.” He says that Johnny worked at the Pancho Villa, the taqueria across the street. I know the place myself. It’s a hole in the wall with a long counter, industrial-strength Formica tables and chairs and zero ambiance, but I’m one of the aficionados who think it serves the best burritos in town.

  “Did you see Johnny the night he died?”

  “I saw him leave.”

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Was he by himself?”

  “Yes.”

  Ellis isn’t the forthcoming type. I ask him whether Garcia was walking or driving.

  “Somebody picked him up in a car.”

  “Do you know what kind of car it was?”

  He holds up his hands and says, “No. I didn’t really see it. I was coming in as he was leaving. I said hello to him as he walked by. We didn’t stop to talk.”

  “Would you be able to identify the driver or the car?”

  “Nope.”

  I’m not going to get any more about that, so I ask him to tell us about Andy Holton.

  “Andy worked at the Pancho Villa, too,” he says.

  Pete glances up the street toward the restaurant and asks, “What happened to him?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t seen him in weeks,” he replies. He tells us that Holton is early twenties, brown hair and eyes, slim build. “I barely knew him,” he adds.

  “Any idea where we might find him?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “You might ask over at the Pancho Villa.”

  “Is there any chance he may have been driving the car that night?”

  “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t see the driver.”

  “Did Johnny have any other friends?”

  “He used to spend some time with a social worker—the guy from the mayor’s office.” He adds, “I saw him on TV at the funeral.”

  Pete ponders. “Did you ever see the district attorney around here?” he asks.

  This produces a chuckle. “Not in this part of town.” He tells us the Mission doesn’t attract a lot of attention from the DA’s office or City Hall. “The guys over at Mission Station do the best they can, but they’ve got their hands full just trying to deal with all the crack and the heroin.”

  “Were Johnny and Andy lovers?” Rosie asks.

  Ellis exhales. “I don’t know,” he says.

  I ask if there is anybody else who knew Holton or Garcia.

  “I didn’t know them very well. In this neighborhood, it’s better not to ask too many questions.”

  A police officer interrupts us and says he wants to talk to Ellis. He tells Pete, Rosie and me that he has to clear the area in front of the hotel. Pete used to work out of Mission Station. He still knows most of the beat cops. He nods to the officer and asks, “Did you guys find anything, Jim?”

  The officer’s nameplate says “Meeker.” He shrugs and says, “I’m just trying to seal the area.”

  Pete nods. “Mind if we talk to some of the other residents of the hotel?”

  “You can talk to anybody you want, but you can’t go inside until I say so.”

  I hand Ellis a business card. “Call us if you recognize anybody else who knew Garcia or Holton,” I say.

  Later the same afternoon, we’re eating burritos with Pete at the Pancho Villa. The lunch crowd has left and the place is quiet. It didn’t take long to interview the residents of the Jerry Hotel once the police let us inside. All we learned was that Johnny Garcia and Andy Holton kept to themselves. Many of the residents have drug problems of their own. All of them were reluctant to take any role in a police investigation.

  Pete takes a bite of his carne asada. “I’ll make the rounds of the businesses in the vicinity,” he says.

  Rosie glances around the restaurant and motions to the young man behind the counter. He’s slim, with two earrings in his left ear. She asks him in Spanish if he can take a break for a moment. He comes around the counter and stands next to our table. She asks him if he’s seen Holton.

  We see him freeze for a moment. “I don’t want any trouble,” he says in English.

  “Neither do we,” she replies.

  “Are you guys cops?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply. “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Even worse.”

  Over the years, I’ve learned it’s better to let people take their shots at members of my esteemed profession. “We’re looking for Andy,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  I don’t want to say much to him. “We think he may have some information.”

  “I haven’t seen him since Johnny died,” he says.

  Pete asks whether Johnny appeared upset in the weeks before he died.

  “Yeah. He and Andy weren’t getting along very well. They were fighting.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Andy still work here?”

  “He quit about three weeks ago.”

  I ask why.

  “He didn’t say. He just left. I haven’t seen him since then.”

  “Is he a nice guy?”

  He takes a moment before he answers, “He’s an operator.”

  “Is he involved in drugs?”

  “He’s involved in a lot of stuff.”

  “Do you have any idea where we might find him?” I ask.

  “Ask around the BART station,” he says. A customer enters the restaurant. “I have to get back to work,” he says, sounding relieved.

  I thank him for his time. “If Holton had anything to do with this, he’s probably left town,” I say to Rosie and Pete.

  “Maybe he’s hiding,” Pete says. “Maybe he’s scared.”

  Rosie crumples the tinfoil from her wrapper into a tight ball, tosses it across the restaurant into the trash can and says, “Maybe he’s dead.”

  13

  THE CHAMELEON

  “Unlike many political consultants, I believe that there is still a place for ethics and values in politics. I am very proud of my work.”

  —POLITICAL CONSULTANT DANIEL R. MORRIS. SAN FRANCISCO DAILY LEGAL JOURNAL. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15.

  Early the next morning, we’re in Hillary Payne’s office, where the prostitute known as Candy is telling her story to Rosie and me. Her eyes are dull. “He paid me for sex,” she says. “He liked to handcuff me to the bed and put duct tape on my face.” Her dirty-blond hair cascades into her eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her skin has a pallor you often see in drug users.

  Payne is sitting in the corner. She’s giving us some leeway. The fact that she’s letting us talk to Candy indicates she believes her story.

  “How long were you involved with Mr. Gates?” Rosie asks Candy.

  “About a year.”

  “How much did he pay you?”

  “Five hundred dollars a night.” Her eyes never leave Rosie’s.

  “Why did you stop seeing him?”

  Candy dabs at her eyes. “He got rougher and rougher. I was afraid he was going to kill me.”

  A few minutes later, Payne intercedes and says, “I think you get the gist of Candy’s story. That’s it for now.”

  The Mission Youth Center is housed in a fortress-like building that used to be a high school around the corner from St. Peter’s. Fifty boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen call the center home. Ernie Clemente’s staff provides counseling and services for over three hundred other kids. The facility has grown substantially over the years. Every penny that Ernie raises goes into the programs. A couple of years ago, he was able to purchase two of the adjoining apartment buildings, which he has converted into dormitory space.

  Ernie’s small office is just inside the main entrance. His beat-up wooden desk is covered with piles of papers, books and magazines. He has an open-door policy. In fact, he has no door at all. He told me that he never wanted a needy kid to see a closed door.


  In the ten minutes we’ve been sitting here, Rosie and I have watched dozens of teenagers walk past toward the dining room and the dorm. Although the place seems chaotic, Ernie runs a tight ship. He knows every kid by name. A tall boy with a wisp of a mustache pokes his head inside the office and says, “Everything’s ready for the basketball tournament.”

  Ernie smiles. “Thanks, Rick.” He asks whether Rick was able to get enough food to feed the teams.

  “You bet.” Rick heads down the hall.

  Ernie’s pleased. He says, “He just turned eighteen. He was a heroin addict two years ago. He’s going to finish up at Mission High this year. He wants to go to college.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and adds, “You get a small victory every once in a while. That’s why I do this.”

  “That’s why you do the job of three people,” Rosie says. Ernie’s overloaded schedule became a significant issue when he and Rosie were seeing each other last year. He works twenty-four hours a day and he takes no vacations. It’s difficult to sustain a relationship in such circumstances.

  “Somebody has to do it,” Ernie says. “If I didn’t, somebody else would.”

  “Do you ever worry about what will happen to the center when you retire?” I ask.

  “I can’t retire. And I certainly can’t die or get sick. It would help if I could find a couple of clones of myself to help run the place. I know that. I’m fifty-eight. I’ll need to pass the torch in the next few years. The center could use some renovations. We’re running at a deficit. I spend most of my time raising money. Ramon Aguirre has the same problems. St. Peter’s needs a lot of work and the archdiocese is willing to put up only so much money. We commiserate from time to time.”

  Rosie and I glance at each other, thinking the same thing: What a huge difference Ernie and Ramon make. They save lives. They get very little thanks. When I talk to guys like Ernie, I wonder sometimes if I might have done more when I was a priest. I worked for a couple of years at a small church in the Sunset. It wasn’t an affluent community, but it was stable. Although there were drug and alcohol issues, they never rose to the level that Ernie and Ramon see every day.

  “We should have kept a closer eye on Johnny Garcia,” he says. “We let him out on the street too soon. He was too young.”

  “You can’t fix everything,” I say.

  “We can try.”

  Rosie says, “It’s really urgent that we find Andy Holton. We don’t know whether the police turned up anything at the Jerry, but it does look as if he’s the real connection to what happened to Johnny.”

  Clemente clears his throat. He knows everybody in the neighborhood. “If he’s anywhere around here,” he assures us, “we’ll find him for you. I promise.”

  “How would you like Ernie’s job?” I ask Rosie as we’re leaving the center.

  “No thanks.”

  I agree with her. “Could you imagine being responsible for three hundred kids?”

  “Nope. We have enough on our hands dealing with one. And we have to handle only a few cases at a time. That’s plenty for me.”

  “He loves it,” I say.

  “Yes, he does. Ernie takes on the problems of the entire community.”

  “I stopped doing that a long time ago. I couldn’t do it anymore. Do you ever think about trying to heat things up again with him?”

  She shakes her head. “He doesn’t have time for a relationship, Mike. I need more than he can give. It’s not his fault. He has a full plate.” She reflects for a moment and adds, “You’re very different from Ernie. He cares about the kids, but he doesn’t personalize all of their problems. He looks at the big picture much more than you do.”

  This is true. I couldn’t let anything go when I was a priest. Then again, I can’t let anything go in my law practice, either. “He’s very effective at what he does, Rosie.”

  “Yes, he is—terrifically so.”

  “But he’s starting to burn out,” I say.

  “So are you.”

  I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about relationships. Tony’s had it on his mind, too. The first thing he asks me when I stop by the market a little later is whether I’ve been seeing anybody.

  “You mean a woman?” I ask.

  He hands me a bag filled with Fuji apples and says, “Yeah.”

  “You mean somebody other than your sister?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “You know,” he says, “if you don’t mind my saying, it seems you and Rosie aren’t real clear on the concept of being divorced.”

  “People have pointed that out to us from time to time.”

  He smiles. “One of my suppliers has a sister. She’s single. Late thirties. New in town. Works for an insurance company. Are you interested?”

  “I’m always interested.” I stop for a moment and ask, “Are you?”

  “She isn’t my type.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “I’ve seen pictures. Definitely not my type.”

  I put my bag on the counter and say, “Tony, it’s been almost ten years. It’s okay for you to go out on a date every once in a while.”

  “She really isn’t my type,” he repeats.

  We’ve had this discussion from time to time. “Tell you what,” I say. “Why don’t you ask her out? If she says no or you don’t hit it off, then you can send her over to me.”

  He winks. “You’re willing to take my leftovers?”

  “Absolutely.” I wonder if he’ll actually ask her. I decide to shift gears. “Has that source of yours been able to provide any information about Andy Holton?”

  “I asked.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t real happy when I mentioned Holton’s name.”

  “Any inkling why?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t suppose your source might be willing to talk to me?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Is he, well, in a reputable line of business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does his business comply with the customary rules of law of the State of California?”

  “For the most part,” Tony answers. “What is it you lawyers always say? His business complies with the spirit of the law, if not the letter.”

  The following morning, Thursday, begins on something less than a high note when I pay a visit to the office of Dan Morris, political consultant to the stars. The paunchy, fiftyish redhead is dressed in a charcoal Wilkes Bashford suit with a blinding white shirt and a tie that has a picture of a mule on it. “I’m running a campaign for a Democrat these days,” he says through a wide grin. “For the next few months, I have to wear my Democrat wardrobe.” He laughs at his own joke. “We’re all whores, Mike. You’re a lawyer. I’m a consultant. You know what I’m talking about.”

  In some respects, I admire his honesty. As far as I can tell, he has no political agenda of his own. He’s the ultimate political chameleon. I don’t know if he’s a Republican or a Democrat. He’s up front about it. He’s in it for the money. He’ll represent Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Communists and former professional wrestlers if they can come up with the eight hundred thousand dollars he charges to run a campaign.

  Dan is sitting in his memorabilia-filled office on the ground floor of a refurbished gold rush-era building on Montgomery, just north of the Transamerica Pyramid. The space was formerly occupied by a flamboyant personal injury attorney. The desk is covered with souvenirs from his political triumphs. Coffee mugs. Buttons. Banners. Straw hats. One wall is full of political posters. Another has an array of photos of Dan’s favorite person—himself. You can walk up Montgomery and look right into his office. It is a privilege to watch him work.

  I ask him how Leslie Sherman’s campaign is going.

  The freckles on his forehead seem to get brighter right before my eyes. “Great,” he says. “Your client did us a tremendous favor by murdering that hooker.” His smarmy grin broadens. “Not that I’d ever say th
at to the media, of course. For the time being, we’re going to stick with the party line. We’re going to look very serious and say that we have great faith in the justice system and we are sure Mr. Gates will have his day in court.” He beams. “On behalf of everybody involved in Leslie’s campaign, I’d like to express our eternal thanks.”

  I underestimated him. I thought he was just a garden-variety jerk.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he says. Before I can stop him, he recounts the tale of a well-known politician in a southern state who had a big lead. The night before the election, he told reporters that the only way he could lose was if he was found in bed the next morning “with a dead girl or a live boy.” He cackles. “Your client is trying to take this one step further. He’s trying to see whether he can still win after they’ve found a dead boy in his bed.”

  I manage to restrain myself. “I understand you were there that night.”

  “I was.”

  “Who else was there?”

  He leans back and names Skipper, Turner, Natalie and Ann. “Kevin Anderson was there, too.”

  It strikes me as a bit odd that the mayor’s aide and Garcia’s social worker happened to be at the hotel that night. “Why was he there?” I ask.

  “The mayor asked him to help with the arrangements for the debate.”

  Interesting. Young Kevin has more influence with the mayor than I thought.

  He adds, “Bill McNulty and Hillary Payne were there.”

  Really. “Why?”

  “A show of support from the rank and file.”

  I’ll be sure to ask them about it. “I understand your associate was there with you.”

  “Jason was there, too.” Morris’s toady is a young man named Jason Parnelli, who looks and talks a little bit like George Stephanopoulos but has the brain of George of the Jungle. His job consists of agreeing with everything Morris says and shilling for whatever candidate they are currently representing.

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I can tell you what happened.”

  “Let me just ask him a few questions.”

  He pauses and says, “Sure.” He punches a button on his speakerphone and summons Parnelli. I swear he arrives before Morris has hung up his phone.