MD07 - Perfect Alibi Read online

  We drive the rest of the way to Marin in silence.

  31/ NOW I NEED YOU TO HELP ME

  Monday, June 20, 11:00 a.m.

  Sean Fairchild's best friend slouches on the tired camelback sofa in the living room of his mother's fixer-upper on Ashbury, just above Haight, a five-minute walk from Judge Fairchild's house. It's the first day of summer vacation and Kerry Mullins looks like he just woke up. “Is Sean in trouble?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply.

  I'm flying solo. Rosie is at the office piecing together our presentation for a prelim that's less than forty-eight hours away. Pete is out on the street looking for anybody who might have seen something on Friday night. We have two days to find a needle in a haystack. So far, the haystack is ahead.

  “I'll do what I can to help,” Kerry says.

  “You can start by telling me where you were Friday night.”

  “Right here,” he says. “So was Sean.”

  For someone who looks like the antichrist, he's a surprisingly engaging young man. His cherubic face is camouflaged by two gold nose rings, a cobra tattoo, and dyed jet-black hair that cascades down his shoulders. His youthful features evoke images of a young Leonardo DiCaprio—although it seems unlikely that Leo ever wore army fatigues and ankle-length black leather boots to high school.

  “Where's your mother?” I ask.

  “At work. She's a nurse at UCSF. She's worked there since my father split.”

  I glance around the disheveled living room littered with empty pizza boxes and soda cans. The large color TV is tuned to Comedy Central. Dishes are piled up on a chair next to the small kitchen. Kerry probably spends most of his time without adult supervision. “How long ago was that?” I ask.

  “When I was a baby. I don't know him.”

  Tough stuff. “I'm sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “My whole life. This house belonged to my grandparents. They died when I was a baby.”

  That might explain how Kerry and his mother can afford to live in a house worth more than a million bucks in San Francisco's insane real estate market. I give his mother credit. She is making ends meet and sending her son to an excellent private school. Putting aside his quirky appearance, he seems to be reasonably well-adjusted. “Why did you decide to go to Urban?” I ask.

  “I like the focus on technology and the environment.”

  It's a more thoughtful answer than I expected. “What do you do in your spare time?”

  “I work at a juice bar on Haight. I hang out with Sean.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Drinking coffee. Surfing the Net. Checking out the scene.”

  “Is that what you and Sean were doing Friday night?”

  “Nope. We stayed here. We ordered a pizza and played video games.”

  “What time did he get here?”

  “Around eight.”

  “How well do you know Sean's brother?”

  “Not that well. We don't have a lot in common. He's a jock and a brain.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. Good for him.”

  “How was he getting along with his father?”

  “Not great. You know—the divorce.”

  “What about Sean?”

  “He never got along with his father. The judge wasn't an easy guy to like. He and Sean didn't talk.”

  “Did Sean tell you anything about the divorce?”

  “He said that his father cheated.”

  “Did that bother him?”

  “Wouldn't it bother you?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “Sean doesn't say much, but he's a solid guy. He gets good grades, but he couldn't please his father.”

  “Does he have a temper?”

  “Nope.”

  “Kerry, do you know if Bobby was into any funny stuff?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Alcohol. Drugs. That sort of thing.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “What about Sean?”

  “Not really.”

  “A little?”

  “This is the Haight. Everybody does a little.”

  True enough. “Were you guys doing any funny stuff on Friday night?”

  “Nope.”

  “You won't get into trouble, Kerry.”

  “We weren't doing any funny stuff.”

  His story is matching up with Sean's. I hand him a business card. “Will you call me if you talk to anybody who saw anything on Friday night?”

  “Sure.”

  # # #

  “Hey, Mike,” the familiar monotone says.

  “Hey, Requiem,” I reply.

  My favorite pro bono client used some of the proceeds from our victory on Friday for a makeover, including new purple spikes in her hair and a third nose ring. I'm standing at the counter of Amoeba Music at noon on Monday. Hip hop music pulsates through the sound system. An eclectic mix of high school slackers, hip young professionals, leftover hippies, and a few well-mannered street people fill the long aisles of the old bowling alley. The checkout line is where we used to rent bowling shoes. The walls behind the beat-up counter are covered with psychedelic posters from shows at the old Fillmore Auditorium. To my right is one of the largest collections of new and used CDs and vinyl LPs in the Bay Area.

  “How are things?” I ask.

  “Okay.”

  This represents chattiness for Requiem. “Got a gig this weekend?”

  “Friday at midnight. Private party in the Mission. You want to come?”

  “I'll have to take a rain check. We have a new case.”

  “What kind?”

  Requiem isn't much for watching the news. “Murder. A judge got killed. He lived in the neighborhood.”

  “No shit?”

  Such a delicate way with words. “No shit. Were you working Friday night?”

  “Yeah.” She says she started at five and got off at midnight.

  I pull out photos of Bobby and Grace. “Did you see these people?”

  She chews her gum forcefully as she studies the pictures. “Maybe,” she finally decides. “It was crowded. I don't remember.”

  “This young man has been accused of killing his father. This young woman is his girlfriend, who happens to be my daughter. They said they were here on Friday night.”

  “You don't believe your own daughter?”

  “We need to check out their story.”

  “In other words, you want me to provide an alibi.”

  “If you can. I helped you. Now I need you to help me.”

  The caustic smirk disappears. She studies the photos intently for another long moment. “I'm sorry, Mike,” she says. “It was busy. A lot of people come and go.”

  “You hesitated,” I say.

  She shrugs. “They may have been here. I just don't remember.”

  Which means she can't testify that she did. “Do you have security cameras?”

  “The system's been broken for a couple of weeks.”

  That rules out the possibility we'll find Grace and Bobby in the security videos from Friday night. “Mind if we talk to your co-workers?”

  “Be my guest. The cops were here asking questions earlier today about the people in the photo.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “A couple of beat cops and a homicide inspector—African American. Old. Deep voice.”

  “Roosevelt Johnson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The same thing that I just told you, which is the same thing that everybody else told him. The store was crowded on Friday night. Your daughter and her boyfriend may have been here—I just didn't see them. As far as I can tell, neither did anybody else.” Requiem looks at the line that's forming to my right. “I need to get back to work.”
r />   “Did the cops talk to anybody outside?”

  She gestures toward a homeless man guarding the entrance to the store. “They spent some time with Lenny,” she says.

  “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  “You'll have to ask him.”

  # # #

  The disheveled man of indeterminate age sits in the doorway between a shopping cart loaded with empty cans and a sleeping German shepherd. His wild gray hair, leathery face, and unkempt beard reflect a lot of nights sleeping outdoors. His soiled military fatigues and worn Giants sweatshirt haven't seen laundry soap in a long time.

  He nods toward his dog as I approach him. “Would you be kind enough to spare some change so I can get Fidel something to eat?” he asks. San Francisco has many well-educated street people. Many of them have drug, alcohol, and psychological problems. In Lenny's case, it could be a combination of all three.

  I take a whiff of the urine-soaked sidewalk as I hand him a dollar. “What's your name?” I ask.

  “Lenny. What's yours?”

  “Mike.”

  “You're representing the judge's son,” he says. “I saw you on TV.”

  “You're right.” I wonder how a guy whose worldly belongings are loaded in a shopping cart happened to see me on TV. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  He looks down at the dog again. “Fidel's going to need a little more love.”

  I hand him a ten-dollar bill. “I understand the cops were here earlier today.”

  “There were.”

  “Were they asking you about Judge Fairchild's murder?”

  “They were.”

  “Mind telling me what you told them?”

  “Maybe I happened to be in the vicinity of Judge Fairchild's house on Friday night.”

  “Where exactly were you?”

  “That information might require a slightly larger donation for Fidel's college fund.”

  I hand him a twenty. “You got a taste for a burger, Lenny?”

  “You bet.”

  32/ HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING ON THE STREET?

  Monday, June 20, 12:30 p.m.

  “Are you from around here?” I ask Lenny. I’ve discerned that his full name is Leonard Stone.

  “I grew up in the Richmond,” he says. “Graduated from Washington High.”

  “College?”

  “Nope. Too expensive. I volunteered for the army after I graduated. Served in the first Gulf War. I was an auto mechanic for a while after I got back, but I had a little trouble readjusting to civilian life.”

  So it appears. “Where do you sleep?”

  “The Muni tunnel over at Clayton and Carl. It’s warmer than the park.”

  Pete has joined us. We’re seated at one of the three picnic tables in front of BurgerMeister, a hamburger joint on Carl, just east of Cole, where the Niman Ranch burgers and curly garlic fries are a cut above the pedestrian décor. They make their shakes from scratch with ice cream from Mitchell’s in the Mission.

  “Where do you hang out during the day?” I ask.

  “I spend the mornings in the park.” He slips a piece of his burger to Fidel, who is sleeping at his feet. “Fidel needs exercise. I spend the afternoons in front of Amoeba. There’s a lot of foot traffic. I usually pick up a few bucks for dinner.”

  “How long have you been living on the street?” I ask.

  “Almost ten years.” His tone is business-like. “I lost my last job when my crack habit got a little out of hand. I lost my apartment when it got even worse.”

  Not an uncommon story. “Do the cops hassle you?”

  “A little. They usually leave us alone at the park. It gets dicier on Haight. The shop owners hate us because we’re bad for business. It’s going to get worse. The mayor wants the cops to clear everybody out.”

  “Where would you go?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Beats the hell out of me. South City isn’t going to roll out the welcome mat for hundreds of homeless people.”

  True enough. Every administration in my lifetime has tried to address San Francisco’s homeless problem with varying degrees of failure. A comprehensive answer is going to be elusive—if not impossible.

  “Ever tried a shelter?” I ask.

  “Too many rules. No dogs.”

  “I know some people who can give you a hand.”

  “No thanks.”

  If there were a simple solution, thousands of homeless people wouldn’t be living on the streets. “So,” I say, “why were the cops asking you about Judge Fairchild?”

  “We were neighbors.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The judge’s house is a couple of blocks from where I sleep.”

  “You know where he lived?”

  “Everybody does. His house was surrounded by cop cars during the Savage trial. I stayed away until it was over.” He takes another bite of his burger. “I’m in with some of the guys at Park Station. They know I’m connected in the neighborhood. We try to help each other out.”

  He’s a snitch. “Is that why they let you sleep in the Muni tunnel?”

  “Let’s just say the fine art of mutual back-scratching hasn’t completely disappeared in our humble community.”

  Well said. “What did you tell them about Judge Fairchild?” I ask.

  “The truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fidel and I went out for our regular walk around midnight on Friday.”

  “Isn’t that a little late?”

  “Nobody hassles us at that hour. We were looking for bottles and cans.”

  “Did you walk by the judge’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes! “What time was that?”

  “Maybe five after twelve on Saturday morning.”

  “Was he at home?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Yeah,” he says. He wipes the grease stains from his beard. “There was a gray Crown Vic parked in front of the fire hydrant on the corner.”

  “There are a lot of Crown Vics in town. How come you noticed this one?”

  “It had tinted windows and no plates. It looked like an unmarked cop car.” He flicks a fry to Fidel, who gobbles it up in one bite. “Notwithstanding my exemplary relationship with San Francisco’s Finest, Fidel and I try to stay away from them.”

  With good reason. “Was anybody inside the car?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you notice a truck from Bayview Towing parked down Grattan?”

  He gives us a knowing look. “You think Brian Hannah had something to do with this?”

  “You know him?”

  “Everybody knows him. I call him if I see an illegally parked car. He gives me a few bucks as a tip.”

  Lenny works every angle. “We understand he isn’t the most popular guy in the neighborhood.”

  “He isn’t. He has a job to do.”

  “His boss didn’t like the judge.”

  “I heard.”

  “Did you see him on Friday night?”

  “Nope.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to protect him, would you, Lenny?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you notice anything else?”

  “The Crown Vic was gone when Fidel and I walked past the judge’s house on our way back.”

  Pete and I exchange a glance. “You passed by the house a second time?” I say.

  “Yes. Fidel and I went up to the playground behind the school. I let him run for a few minutes, then we came back. We walked by the judge’s house on the Grattan Street side.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Probably around twelve fifteen.”

  “Are you pretty sure about that time?”

  “Pretty sure. Could have been a few minutes either way.”

  “Did you see anybody on the street?”

  “Nope.”

  He
should have seen Grace and Bobby returning from Amoeba. Then again, if his timing was just a little off, they might have already left. He’s wearing a dirt-encrusted Casio watch on his left wrist. Whether he checked it as he was walking past Judge Fairchild’s house is questionable. “Did you see anybody inside the judge’s house?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  I pull out a photo of Bobby and show it to him. “Any chance you saw this guy?”

  He studies it for a moment. “Nope.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The cops showed me a picture of the same kid. I presume it’s the judge’s son.”

  “It is.”

  “I told them the same thing I just told you—I didn’t see him. In fact, I didn’t see anybody.”

  It isn’t a perfect alibi, but it could help. “Are you prepared to testify if we need you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s it going to take?”

  “A few more cheeseburgers.”

  “We can work that out.”

  “And some cold, hard cash.”

  I drop a twenty on the table in front of him. “Here’s a down payment,” I say.

  “A couple more of those would be nice.”

  I slide two more twenties toward him. “Where do we find you?”

  “In the daytime, in front of Amoeba. At night, at the Muni tunnel.”

  “Are you going to be around on Wednesday?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” I say.

  # # #

  “It still isn’t enough,” Pete says.

  “It’s a little more than we had an hour ago,” I reply.

  We’re standing on the sidewalk near the corner of Belvedere and Grattan where the phantom Crown Vic was illegally parked on Friday night. Except for the crime scene tape still draped across the front door of Judge Fairchild’s house, there are no visible signs a judge was killed a few steps from here.

  “It doesn’t exonerate Bobby,” Pete says.

  “It helps,” I say. “Lenny can testify that Bobby wasn’t there when he walked by the judge’s house—twice.”

  “He doesn’t know for sure. Bobby could have been inside.”

  “That’s up to the prosecutors to prove.”