MD06 - Judgment Day Page 3

  “Yes.”

  My pragmatic ex-wife starts reciting her conditions. “You and your brother will not play cops and robbers.”

  “Agreed.” It’s a long-standing bone of contention. I like to tag along with Pete when he’s working. Rosie thinks we take unnecessary chances.

  “You will also let the police handle any matters involving illegal activities.”

  “Understood.”

  Her eyes turn to cold steel—it’s the sign that she’s ready to go to war. “Okay,” she says. “I’m in.”

  When push comes to shove, she’ll never back down. That’s why I will always love her––no matter what.

  There’s a knock on the door. My brother saunters in with his thumbs tucked inside his pockets. Pete is five years younger than I am. He’s a stockier version of the standard Daley family model, but there isn’t an ounce of fat in the two hundred pounds he carries on his five-eight frame. His slicked-back hair was once a darker brown than mine. It’s still thick, yet now almost completely gray. A two-day stubble covers his pockmarked face. His silver mustache is neatly trimmed. Ever a slave to fashion, he’s wearing black jeans and a faded orange Giants T-shirt with Dusty Baker’s picture on the front. He’s never forgiven the team for letting his favorite manager go to the Cubs.

  He’s spent the last week doing round-the-clock surveillance on an unfaithful husband. He’s in no mood for pleasantries. “What’s the big emergency?” he rasps.

  “We have to talk to you about a new case,” I say.

  “Are we still going to the Giants game tonight?” First things first.

  “That may be a bit of a problem.”

  Not the answer he wanted. He turns to Rosie. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been asked to work on Nate Fineman’s appeal,” she says.

  Pete’s expression indicates that he thinks we’ve lost our minds. “Isn’t his execution a week from Sunday?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Next you’ll say we have a week to find the real killer.”

  “Essentially.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “We know the odds.”

  My brother takes a seat on the windowsill. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

  It’s my turn to respond. “It’s what we do.”

  “The guy is pure slime.”

  “He’s entitled to a defense.”

  “He defended the guys who sold bad heroin to a bunch of kids.”

  “Allegedly sold.”

  “Gimme a break, Mick.”

  “They were entitled to a defense.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that three kids died from that crap?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Then why do you want to represent the scum bucket who defended them?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  He shakes his head with disdain. “How much is he paying you?”

  “Fifty grand up front.”

  “So you’re willing to sell your soul for fifty grand?”

  “We’re willing to represent a client who is prepared to pay us.”

  He turns to Rosie and says, “You’re okay with this?”

  “For now.”

  His annoyed expression gives way to an inquisitive look as he turns back to me. “Where do I fit into this picture?”

  “They’ve asked for your help.”

  “Does that mean I’m getting paid, too?”

  “Two thousand dollars a day, plus expenses––in advance.”

  “They’re serious.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  He stares out the window.

  I wait a long beat. “Are you in?” I ask.

  My brother’s response is equal parts surprising and troubling. “I wouldn’t touch it,” he says.

  3/ MURDERERS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES

  Friday, July 10. 1:32 p.m.

  8 days, 10 hours, and 29 minutes until execution.

  Pete and I have had our share of brotherly issues over the years, though we get along reasonably well nowadays. Nonetheless, Rosie correctly surmises that we may get more out of him if she initiates this discussion.

  “How much did your father tell you about the Fineman case?” she asks him.

  “A little.” My brother inherited our dad’s proclivity for short answers. “He said he was guilty.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Pop was genetically hardwired to tell the truth.”

  So is Pete. His expression indicates he’s prepared to leave it there, but I’m not. “I met with Fineman earlier today,” I say. “He didn’t strike me as your garden-variety murderer.”

  “Maybe he’s your garden-variety sociopath.”

  “Gimme a break, Pete. He was a defense lawyer.”

  “Same thing. He spent his life hanging out with drug dealers and mobsters. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes.”

  “Pop could have been wrong.”

  “He was never wrong.”

  “Sure he was.”

  He jabs his finger in my direction. “About parenthood, yes. About murder, no.”

  Pete was always more protective of our parents than I was. He also spent more time with them. After our father died, he moved back home to take care of our mother when her Alzheimer’s got worse. Pete lives with his wife and daughter in the little house at Twenty-third and Kirkham that my parents bought over forty years ago––back in the days when cops could afford them. I’ve suggested that it might be healthier if he moved somewhere with fewer memories. He insists he’s staying put.

  “Pop was losing interest in police work toward the end,” I observe. “Remember that stakeout in the Tenderloin?”

  Pete chased a couple of crack dealers into a roadblock set up by our father and his partner, but they weren’t able to stop them. Pop insisted it was bad luck. Pete said our dad lost his nerve.

  His tone turns testy. “What does that have to do with the Fineman case?”

  “Pop told me he wasn’t going to get his ass kicked before he collected his pension.” Ironically, he died within months after he retired. “Maybe he wasn’t at the top of his game when the Fineman case came down.”

  “Easy for you to say. You never worked on the street.” My brother divides people into two categories: those who have experience in law enforcement and those who don’t. Pete was always the first to come to Pop’s defense in police matters. “He wouldn’t have let Fineman rot in prison if he knew he was innocent. Neither would Roosevelt.”

  “Pop was near the end of the line,” I say. “Roosevelt was interested in getting a conviction.”

  “Are you saying they covered for each other?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t like to mix business with family,” Pete says.

  Neither do I. “Pop’s gone,” I say. “He didn’t testify.”

  “He was one of the first officers at the scene. There were allegations that the cops planted the murder weapon. Lou Cohen is no dummy. He’s bringing you in for a reason.”

  “You think he’s using us?”

  “Call me a cynic.”

  Or a realist.

  “Besides,” he adds, “Fineman is a first-rate asshole.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Pop. He spent years working on the task force that finally pieced together enough evidence to bring charges against the Bayview Posse. It was dangerous work. They were really bad guys. They had a rock-solid case, and then Fineman found a way to weasel them out of jail.”

  “Just because he represented gang bosses and drug dealers doesn’t mean he committed murder. He started the San Francisco Legal Aid Society. He raised a ton of money for charity.”

  “Spoken like a defense attorney. He was a mob lawyer who made a mint manipulating the legal system to keep drug dealers out of jail.”

  Spoken like an ex-cop. “Drug dealers are entitled to representation, too.”

  “They aren’t entitled to sleazebags w
ho will do anything to get their clients off. He was paying people down in the Bayview to intimidate witnesses in the Posse case. There’s a fine line between defending criminals and becoming one yourself. Fineman crossed it. He wasn’t just a lawyer––he was part of the problem. It wasn’t just dirty clients or shady courtroom tactics. The word on the street was that he wasn’t just representing the drug dealers––he was helping them run their operations. There were also allegations that he was getting things fixed at the Hall of Justice.”

  “Who?”

  “You name it: cops, judges, bailiffs. Maybe even some of the ADAs. The head brass wanted him so badly that we had him under surveillance. We knew there were payoffs, but the money was always laundered through an intermediary. We never had enough to nail him until he killed those guys at the Golden Dragon.”

  “Can any of this be corroborated?”

  “Not a chance, Mick.”

  “Is there a chance the cops nailed Fineman as payback?”

  “Pop wasn’t that kind of a cop.”

  “He wasn’t the only one involved in this case.”

  “I know.”

  I ask him straight up. “Do you think Fineman killed three people?”

  “Pop thought so.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  “Is there a chance he may be innocent?”

  “There’s a chance he didn’t kill the guys at the restaurant, but he’s far from innocent.”

  I need to lower the volume. “What did Pop do that night?”

  “He and Joey D. helped secure the scene.”

  Our father’s last partner was a punk from the Excelsior District with anger-management issues, a gambling problem, and a Napoleon complex who also happened to wear a uniform. “Little Joey” D’Amato placed a higher priority on making arrests than on observing legal niceties. There were rumors that he extracted protection money from the businesses on his beat. Later, he was “asked” to take early retirement after he was accused of shaking down some pimps in the Mission District to cover his gambling debts. The allegations were dropped when he agreed to retire.

  “What’s Joey up to nowadays?” I ask.

  “He’s running a currency exchange in the Tenderloin.”

  “Is it legit?”

  “As legit as any business that gouges people to cash their welfare checks. Some people whose opinions I respect think it’s a front to launder drug money.”

  “Is he still playing the ponies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t the cops nail him?”

  “Joey is still one of the smartest assholes you’ll ever meet––especially when it comes to looking out for himself.”

  He also hated my dad’s guts––a sentiment that was reciprocated in kind. They came at police work from opposite ends of the spectrum. Pop did things by the book. Joey believed in expedience—even if it meant stretching the rules and taking a few bucks on the side.

  “What do you know about the three victims?” I ask.

  “Christ, Mick. The damn trial was on the front page of the Chronicle for weeks. Fineman’s client was a guy named Terrell Robinson. He operated out of the Sunnydale projects. He was a construction contractor who controlled the heroin trade down to South City. He came from the Saddam Hussein school of management––he killed anybody who disagreed with him.”

  “Not a consensus builder.”

  “Nope. Robinson was at war with a Chinatown gang run by a man named Alan Chin, who was every bit as ruthless. He controlled everything north of Market Street. The third victim was Chin’s attorney. His name was Lester Fong.”

  I recognize the name. Fong was Chinatown’s most flamboyant contribution to the San Francisco criminal-defense bar. The cagey lawyer was a regular at the Hall of Justice, where he had a reputation as a zealous advocate for his clients. He was also a well-known spokesman for political interests in Chinatown at City Hall.

  “Why would Fineman have killed the lawyer?” I ask.

  “Maybe he was the only witness. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Maybe.”

  Pete quickly adds, “They all died of gunshot wounds from bullets fired from the pistol found on Fineman.”

  You need a scorecard to keep track of all the drug dealers. “What made them think Fineman was involved?”

  His voice fills with sarcasm. “It may have had something to do with the fact that they found his fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  “Look at it this way,” I tell him. “It’s two weeks of work for a fat paycheck. You may get some good publicity. You may even help save a man’s life. What’s the downside?”

  “For one,” he says, “I was still on the force when this case came down. Fineman and his lawyers took a bunch of potshots at the cops. Nobody down at the Hall of Justice was heartbroken when he was convicted ––including me. Some people are going to be unhappy if the execution is delayed.”

  “Since when did you start worrying about hurt feelings at the Hall?”

  “I still have friends down there.”

  Pete won’t duck a case just because a few people might get their noses out of joint.

  “For two,” he continues, “Mort Goldberg made a big stink that the murder weapon was planted. Pop said it was a bunch of crap, but they still brought in IA to investigate. All things being equal, I’d rather not work on a case where we may have to smear Pop’s reputation to help a client.”

  His point is well taken––even though neither of us had an especially warm and fuzzy relationship with our father. “Aren’t you remotely interested in trying to find out what really happened?” I ask.

  “I’m willing to give Pop the benefit of the doubt. So should you.”

  “If he was telling the truth, we have nothing to worry about.”

  He looks intently at Rosie for an interminable moment, then he turns back to me. “You really want to do this, don’t you, Mick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you prepared to pay for backup for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to second-guess everything I do?”

  He knows me too well. “Probably,” I say.

  His mouth turns up slightly. “It’s just a couple of weeks of my life that I’ll never get back. I’m in if you are.”

  Swell.

  “Where do you want me to start?” he asks.

  “With the victims. We need everything you can get about Robinson, Chin, and Fong. Then I want you to track down Joey D’Amato.”

  “Okay.”

  Rosie stands up. “I’ll start looking at the trial transcripts and the appellate briefs,” she says. “Where are you going first?”

  “To talk to Roosevelt.”

  4/ IT WAS A LEGITIMATE CONVICTION

  Friday, July 10. 9:05 p.m.

  8 days, 2 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

  Original Joe’s is a mecca of California cuisine––of sixty years ago. It was opened in 1937 by a Croatian immigrant named Ante “Tony” Rodin as a fourteen-stool diner with a narrow counter and sawdust on the floor. Nowadays, the muscular grill seats 140 patrons in a groaning building smack-dab in the middle of the teeming Tenderloin District, just west of Union Square. Tony’s place should have gone belly up when the neighborhood went from dicey to outright dangerous in the sixties, but it didn’t. The trend toward lighter fare should have killed it in the eighties, but it couldn’t. Generations of locals still make the pilgrimage to Taylor and Turk to consume twenty-ounce porterhouse steaks, panfried local sole, and huge portions of chicken parmigiana. If you want artisan cheese, baby greens, and arugula, you’re in the wrong spot.

  The mist of grease from the frying calamari hangs heavily in the air. Massive burgers and chops broil over the white-hot coals. Many people erroneously believe the open restaurant kitchen was invented by the designers of stylish eateries such as Boulevard and Chez Panisse. The concept was actually
pioneered by Tony Rodin. He didn’t have room for a full kitchen, so he set up a small assembly line behind his cramped counter and let his patrons enjoy the show. He opted to use mesquite charcoal because it was cheaper, hotter, and longer lasting than regular briquettes. Thus, an entire genre of cuisine––such as it is––was born.

  Tony presided at Original Joe’s until he was well into his nineties. Declining health finally forced him to grudgingly turn over the reins to his daughter, Marie Duggan, who still bucks the trends with a similarly capable iron hand. Tuxedoed waiters who have worked here for decades continue the tradition of serving slightly uptown steaks and chops to loyal customers who squeeze into the burgundy booths. Legend has it that when a snooty food critic had the audacity to point out that the menu hadn’t been updated in decades, Marie responded with a single-digit salute. My dad used to order the mile-high filet, a twenty-ounce slab of tenderloin that’s hand-cut in the basement. I’ve always been partial to the often imitated Joe’s Special, a concoction of ground beef, scrambled eggs, spinach, Parmesan cheese, olive oil, and whatever other leftovers happen to be available in the kitchen. Trendy it isn’t, but the smart money says they’ll be serving oversize burgers and Joe’s Specials on skid row a hundred years from now.

  I take a deep breath of the aroma of mesquite-grilled steak as I look across the starched white tablecloth at the imposing figure of my father’s first partner. Roosevelt Johnson is a dignified African American with a noble presence and a lyrical baritone. Fifty years ago, he and my dad used to eat burgers and drink Budweisers here after their shifts had ended. Times have changed. Roosevelt and this restaurant haven’t. We arrived at nine o’clock on Friday night without a reservation. We were immediately escorted to his favorite booth in the back, away from the raucous counter area. As always, Roosevelt’s every whim is catered to by Angelo Viducic, who has been sweating it out in his ill-fitting tux day in and day out since the sixties. Angelo isn’t the kind of guy to recite a canned introduction or a memorized list of daily specials. He was Joe DiMaggio’s favorite waiter. Without being asked, he brought Roosevelt a gargantuan plate of liver cooked medium and smothered with onions and crispy bacon.

  The homicide inspector takes a sip of scalding coffee from a plain white mug. Roosevelt doesn’t drink decaf. He’s tried to retire three times, but he keeps getting drawn back to work on unsolved cold cases as only he can. He insists he’s going to retire for good at the end of the year. I have doubts. His commanding voice is tempered slightly by seventy-five years of experience as he talks about his children and grandchildren––an exercise that takes him a good half hour. He operates at his own pace and he’s doing me a favor, so I try not to push too soon. Eventually, he finishes his liver and turns to business. His tone is purposefully indignant when he asks, “What is possessing you to represent a convicted murderer like Nathan Fineman?”