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  My first instinct is parental. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  He struggles to maintain his composure. “No,” he whispers.

  The initial meeting with a new client frequently evokes many of the same dynamics as a first date. It takes on magnifed importance because it establishes the direction and tone of the relationship. Conventional wisdom says you shouldn’t represent somebody you know because your lawyer’s judgment may be impaired. At the moment, I can’t tell Grace that we won’t help her boyfriend because conventional wisdom says it’s a bad idea.

  I go to my priest voice. “I’m so sorry about your father, Bobby. We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

  “Thanks, Mike. Is Grace okay?”

  “Yes.” I’m appreciative of his concern for my daughter. However, it’s a rather abrupt shift in the topic. “She’s having a long night, too.”

  “I don’t want to get her involved in this mess,” he says.

  “She already is.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “Not for a while.” We have more important issues at the moment. “They’ll only let you see your lawyers and immediate family.”

  “Where is she?”

  “With Rosie. They’re looking for your mother.”

  “She’s probably up at the hospital. I tried to page her. She was on call.”

  “What about Sean?”

  “He was staying with one of his classmates.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Kerry Mullins.”

  I’ll call Rosie in a moment to pass along the information. First, I need to cover some essentials. “I know this is the worst night of your life, but we need to talk about some lawyer stuff for a minute.”

  “Does that mean you’re my lawyer?”

  “For the moment. I wanted you to have somebody to talk to right away.” More important, I wanted to make sure he didn’t talk to anybody before I arrived. "It would probably be a good idea for you to hire somebody who doesn’t have an existing personal relationship with you.”

  “I trust you, Mike. I want you to be my lawyer.”

  “I appreciate that, but it may not be the best thing for you.” It may not be the best thing for Grace, either. “It would be better if you brought in somebody with more professional detachment.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to be my lawyer?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then I want you to be my lawyer.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure.”

  “Then it’s settled—at least for now. I may reconsider after I talk to Rosie.” And he may reconsider when he realizes he’ll have to reveal some deep, dark secrets to his girlfriend’s father. His mother may reconsider when she finds out her son wants to hire a lawyer who works in a walk-up building across the street from the Transbay bus terminal.

  “I need to talk to my mother about paying you,” he says. “She’s been a little hard up for cash. You know—the divorce.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  We’ll get paid. I’m more concerned about having access to some quick cash to post bail—assuming I can persuade a judge to allow it. Julie’s assets may be tied up. From what I’ve gathered, she’s burning through her spare cash to subsidize the lifestyle of her divorce lawyer. If all else fails, we can call Rosie’s cousin Sal, a bail bondsman who plies his trade in dingy quarters across Bryant Street. He’s one of our best sources of referrals.

  “Now that I’m your lawyer,” I say, “I need to explain a few ground rules. First, everything you tell Rosie and me is absolutely confidential. We won’t repeat anything you say to us—not even to your mother and Grace—unless you give us permission. Understood?”

  He nods.

  “Second, I don’t want you to say a word to anybody in this building. Not the cops. Not the guards. Especially not the other prisoners. Nobody here is your friend. You only talk to Rosie and me. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Third, you have to be absolutely straight with us. We can’t represent you effectively unless you tell us the truth. Rosie and I have been doing this for a long time. It’s our only hard-and-fast rule. I know this sounds harsh, but if you lie to us or you withhold anything, we’ll withdraw.”

  His voice is barely audible. “Understood.”

  Now for the hardest one. “You and Grace were together last night. That makes her your alibi—and a person of interest to the police. It is essential that your stories match up.”

  There’s an almost imperceptible hesitation. “They will.”

  I hope so. “Grace may be called as a witness. It is also possible— albeit unlikely—that they may bring charges against her.”

  “For what?”

  Aiding and abetting—or worse. “It doesn’t matter. For now, you just need to know that if her interests conflict with yours, we’re going to represent her.”

  “I understand.”

  “Any questions?”

  “How soon can you get me out of here?”

  That’s always at the top of the list, and the answer is always unsatisfying. "I can’t tell you for sure. Maybe a few hours. Maybe a few days. Maybe longer. If they charge you with murder, bail will be more difficult.”

  He takes a moment to process the first mention of the word murder. “How difficult?”

  “It depends.” Almost impossible if they go for first degree. Absolutely impossible if they ask for the death penalty—which is unlikely for someone with no criminal record who is as young as Bobby. Then again, our DA may view this as an opportunity to get some easy TV time and political traction on a high-profile case. “Let me worry about it,” I tell him.

  “You aren’t in a cell with rapists and drug dealers.”

  “I’ve asked them to keep you separated. I need to call Rosie to tell her where she can find your mother and your brother. When I get back, you’re going to tell me everything that happened last night—minute by minute—from the time you picked up Grace until the cops arrived at your father’s house. Don’t embellish and don’t sugarcoat. Every single detail could be important.”

  5/ NOTHING WAS GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM

  Saturday, June 18, 4:22 a.m.

  “I picked up Grace at six o’clock last night,” Bobby says. “We drove to Cole Valley and had dinner at Zazie.”

  I’m studying his body language intently and listening for any hints of equivocation in his voice. “There are restaurants in Marin County closer to Grace’s house.”

  “Rosie said it was okay.”

  And I was asleep at the switch. “Where did you park?” I ask, already knowing the answer. It’s an opportunity to see how the details of his story will match up with Grace’s version.

  “On Grattan Street, next to my father’s house,” he says.

  Good answer. “You couldn’t find anything closer to the restaurant?”

  “It’s only a couple of blocks away. Parking is tight in Cole Valley.”

  “Why didn’t you leave it in your father’s garage?”

  “There’s only room for one car. That’s where he keeps his Jag.”

  You mean that’s where he kept it. “What about the driveway?”

  “He would have given me hell if I blocked the garage.”

  It’s one of the few perks of being the parent of a teenager: we trump their parking privileges. “Did you go inside your father’s house before dinner?”

  “No.” He’s a little too adamant when he adds, “We were running late. We went straight to the restaurant.”

  “Was your father home?”

  “No. He went to the Bohemian Club for dinner.”

  The Bohemian Club was formed in the 1870s as a gathering place for newspaper reporters and men of the arts and literature. Nowadays, it’s an all-male bastion of the powerful and the famous. Many of its two thousand members are directors of Fortune 1000 companies, corporate CEOs, and top-ranking government appointees. Admission i
s highly selective and priority is given to artists, authors, musicians, and people with boatloads of cash. Its social activities revolve around member-produced musical and variety shows performed at the Club’s historic headquarters on Taylor Street, near Union Square.

  The Club derives much of its notoriety from its annual encampment in a grove of old redwoods along the Russian River about seventy-five miles north of San Francisco, near the hamlet of Monte Rio. Spanning three weekends in August, the epic event has evolved into a summer camp for aging white Republican elites, who jockey for cots in the most prestigious “camps" based on their wealth, power, and status. Every spring, many of the Bay Area’s second-tier social climbers try to pull strings to score a guest invitation for a weekend of elbow-rubbing with the first-tier social climbers up at “The Grove.”

  The supposedly hush-hush rituals are some of the worst-kept secrets in the Bay Area. The festivities begin with a ceremony known as the “Cremation of Care,” a pageant in which hooded members conduct a mock sacrifice complete with music and fireworks. Other highlights include an elaborate play called the “High Jinx,” and musical comedies known as the “Low Jinx,” where the female roles are, of necessity, played by men in drag. The campers spend the rest of their time listening to political lectures (dubbed “lakeside chats"), working out the details of multi-billion-dollar mergers, and consuming copious amounts of food and alcohol. At night, the frivolity includes singing light-hearted camp songs around the fire with cheery guys like Dick Cheney, Don Rumsfeld, and Henry Kissinger, and talking about uplifting subjects like the end of Western Civilization.

  “Was your father coming straight home from the Club?”

  “No. He had a date.”

  This is news. Rosie and I met Jack Fairchild only twice. While he was cordial enough to us, you could tell he was intensely driven. We’ve carefully avoided asking Bobby personal questions about his parents. “I didn’t know your father was seeing somebody.”

  “He didn’t talk about it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Christina Evans. She’s a law clerk at the court.” His tone turns acerbic when he adds, “He’s old enough to be her father.”

  It clearly violated the court’s anti-fraternization rules. It also exemplifed profoundly bad judgment. “Did your father tell you about this relationship?”

  “Nope. My mother did.”

  “How did she find out?”

  His tone remains even. “She hired a private investigator to help with the divorce case.”

  All’s fair in love, war, and divorce. “How long had they been seeing each other?”

  “About six months.”

  “Did your father know that you knew about his relationship with Ms. Evans?”

  “Yes. He was unhappy my mother told me about it.”

  He was undoubtedly angrier that his relationship was discovered in the first place. “Was Ms. Evans your father’s only girlfriend?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Did she ever go to the Club with your father?”

  “Nope. Except for the Christmas show, the only women allowed

  inside the Club are the ones who serve food in the dining room.”

  I should have known.

  “Besides,” he adds, “they never went out together in public. That was part of their deal.”

  Lovely. “What was the rest of their deal?”

  “He spent every Friday night at her place.”

  “Even the Fridays when you and Sean were staying at his house?”

  “Most of the time.”

  It sent a clear message to Bobby and Sean about their father’s priorities. “Was he planning to stay at her house last night?”

  “He told me not to wait up for him.”

  “Evidently, he decided to come home early.”

  “I think they were having problems.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  We’ll talk to her. “Where did you and Grace go after dinner?”

  “We walked over to the Red Vic to see Waiting for Guffman.”

  “What part did you like the best?” I’m not interested in a review. I want to confirm they did, in fact, go to the movie.

  “The song, ‘Nothing Ever Happens on Mars.’”

  It’s a good bet he saw the movie. “Any chance you have your ticket stub?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Yes, I do. It would also be helpful if we can prove you weren’t anywhere near your father’s house before two o’clock. If the Medical Examiner says the time of death was earlier, their case will fall apart and you can go home.”

  “I don’t have the ticket, Mike. I’m really sorry.”

  “No worries.” I’ll ask Grace. “Would anybody remember seeing you at the theater?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I understand you went for a walk after the movie.”

  “We did.” He reads my look of displeasure. “It probably wasn’t a great idea to be hanging out on Haight Street that late.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” My fatherly instinct to read him the riot act is trumped by my lawyerly training to remain calm. “Where did you go?”

  “We walked over to Amoeba to look at CDs. It’s a big place. We lost track of time.”

  “Did you buy anything?”

  “No.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Until they closed at midnight.”

  “Did you go straight back to your car?”

  “Yes.” He says it was about a fifteen-minute walk.

  “So you got back to the car around twelve fifteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go inside your father’s house when you got back to the car?”

  “No.”

  “Was he home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see his car?”

  “No, but it could have been inside the garage.”

  “Did you drive straight back to Rosie’s house?”

  “Yes.” He says they arrived a few minutes before one.

  “Did you spend any time in the car after you got there?” It’s my unsubtle way of asking whether they spent any time making out.

  “Just a minute,” he says quickly. “We knew we were in trouble.”

  Yes, you were. “Did you see Rosie?”

  “Yes. She wasn’t happy we got back so late.”

  Neither am I. I ask if he drove straight back to his father’s house.

  “Yes. I got there a few minutes after two. I parked around the corner, on Clayton.”

  “Grace tells me you and your father haven’t been getting along so well.”

  He shifts uneasily. “What did she say?”

  I get to ask the questions. “Not much. We don’t gossip as much as we used to. She’s been spending a lot of time with her boyfriend.”

  The corner of his mouth goes up slightly, but he doesn’t respond.

  “Is it fair to say you and your father have had your share of disagreements lately?”

  He flashes the first sign of anger. “I didn’t kill him, Mike.”

  I’d rather hear a vehement denial than a mealy mouthed explanation. Guilty people try to massage their story to fit the circumstances. Innocent people get mad. “You promised to be straight with me,” I say.

  He swallows. “We were barely talking.”

  “Why?”

  “For starters, I didn’t like the way he cheated on my mother.”

  “I take it you blame him for their divorce?”

  “There was plenty of blame to go around, but the answer is yes. I wasn’t crazy about the way he treated me, either. I’m a straight-A student. I’m an all-city baseball player. I’m the editor of the student paper. I got into Columbia. I look out for Sean. That wasn’t good enough for him. Nothing was good enough for him.”

  Grace undoubtedly feels the same way about me sometim
es.

  Bobby’s words start to flow faster as he becomes more agitated. “My father believed there were two sets of rules. The first applied to him. The second was for everybody else. It was bad enough when he was a lawyer. It got worse when he became a judge. Everybody kissed his butt. He expected the same at home.”

  “Did he ever hit you?”

  “No.”

  “What about Sean?”

  “No, but he was very hard on him. Sean likes to push the limits. He grew out his hair. He wears grungy clothes. He got his ears pierced. He hangs out on Haight Street with the goth kids from Urban High.”

  I can understand why Judge Fairchild may have been somewhat less than enthusiastic about his fifteen-year-old son wearing black clothes and sporting Satanist tattoos while loitering with his pals in the Haight. My parents expressed similar sentiments when I grew my hair to my shoulders and wore tattered jeans and psychedelic shirts in the sixties. “How far did Sean push the limits?”

  His voice fills with brotherly affection. “Just far enough to tweak my father.”

  Certain elements of the parent-teenager relationship never change. “Drinking?”

  “A little. Everybody does it.”

  So did we. My teachers at St. Ignatius must have known what was going on behind the bleachers at our football games. “What about drugs?”

  “He might smoke a little weed, but he isn’t into anything serious. Sean looks like an anarchist, but he’s pretty careful. He gets good grades. He’s never gotten into trouble.”

  “Did you talk to him last night?”

  “No. Like I said, he was staying at Kerry’s house. He lives down the street from the old Grateful Dead House. He looks like a freak, but he’s a nice kid.”

  We’ll talk to him. “How are things with your mother?”

  “Okay.” He thinks about it and adds, “She’s already been through a lot with the divorce. This is going to be hard on her, too.”

  His concern seems genuine enough. “How were you and your mother getting along?”

  “Better than I got along with my father. She’s just as intense, but she’s a little nicer about it. Things got better after my father moved out and they started communicating through their lawyers.”