MD06 - Judgment Day Page 4

  “He hired me,” I say. “He’s entitled to a lawyer.”

  He adjusts the cuffs of his blinding white shirt. He still wears a dark suit and a subdued tie to work every day. He dresses conservatively in deference to the victims whose cases he investigates. Pop used to say that he also does it to set an example for his younger subordinates who have the audacity to wear business casual. He believes their clothing choices reflect a lack of respect for the sanctity of their jobs. “Why are you really doing this?” he asks.

  “He was one of the most respected defense attorneys in the Bay Area.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’m more forgiving than you are.”

  “That’s why you’re a defense lawyer and I’m a cop. He defended Danny Cortese and the Bayview Posse. He wrote the book on keeping mobsters and drug dealers out of jail. Doesn’t it bother you that you’re being paid with drug money?”

  It’s my turn for a little indignation. “You don’t know that for sure. Besides, I never ask my clients where they get the money to pay me.”

  “Perhaps this would be a good time for you to start.”

  He’s a little testier than usual tonight. “Nate had a thriving law practice,” I say. “He made a lot of money legitimately.”

  “He also made a fortune representing drug traffickers and pimps.”

  “That isn’t illegal.”

  “Some people think he was doing more than providing legal services.”

  “Then you should have arrested him.”

  He wipes his wire-rimmed glasses. “You’re as obstinate as your father,” he says.

  I wink. “I got my independent streak from my mom.”

  This elicits an amiable smile as he tugs at the perfect Windsor knot in his tie. I’m willing to duck the few live shells that he’ll lob in my direction in exchange for information. He gestures to Angelo, who freshens his coffee. “Have you looked at the files?” he asks me.

  “Briefly.” It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. I start with sugar. “As far as I can tell, it was a clean conviction.”

  He’s pleased. “So why are we having this conversation?”

  “Because you’re the only person who might be willing to talk to me.” I wait a beat and add, “And because I’m family.”

  He knows I’m saying it for effect. It also happens to line up with the truth. His family lived a few blocks from us. They used to come over for dinner every Sunday night. He taught my older brother how to throw a spiral. He showed me how to grip a changeup. Out of respect for my father, he’s helped me on several cases over the years.

  His mouth turns down. “Lou Cohen had ten years to appeal,” he says. “You aren’t going to change the outcome in eight days.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that they’re going to execute a seventy-seven-year-old man who can’t walk?”

  “You know I’m more interested in finding the truth than executing people in wheelchairs.” He shoots another glance at Angelo, who returns with a traditional zabaglione, served as always in a sixteen-ounce beer schooner. Roosevelt looks at the frothy concoction that the waiters call “honeymoon sauce” for its alleged restorative properties. “It was a legitimate conviction,” he tells me. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll drop it. I’m trying to save you some time and aggravation.”

  “I have plenty of time, and I like aggravation.”

  This gets another smile. “Just like your father,” he says. “We’re off the record.”

  “Fair enough.” I want to see if he’ll tell me who was there and what led to the allegations that the murder weapon was planted. Realistically, he’ll tell me exactly what he wants me to know—and nothing more. I ease into the discussion slowly. “I understand my father and his partner helped secure the scene at the Golden Dragon.”

  “They did. Dave Low got there first.”

  Low was an undercover cop who earned a Medal of Valor for busting a Chinatown drug ring. He was killed in the line of duty about five years ago while making an arrest a few blocks from the Golden Dragon. He left a wife and three young kids. A thousand cops showed up at his funeral.

  “Any chance he was involved?”

  “He didn’t get a Medal of Valor for writing parking tickets. He had a stellar reputation.”

  “Was anybody with him?” I ask.

  “He worked alone.”

  “Were there other undercover cops in the area that night?”

  “We always had undercovers in Chinatown. If you’re asking if anybody else was watching the Golden Dragon that night, the answer is no.”

  “I understand there were claims that the murder weapon was planted.”

  He responds with a well-practiced look of disdain. “Every defense lawyer tries that one to see if it will stick,” he says. “There wasn’t a shred of evidence.”

  “Then why was Internal Affairs called in?”

  “Standard procedure.” He places his coffee mug in its saucer and measures his words. “IA conducted a full investigation. Everybody was cleared.”

  That’s all he intends to tell me. “Who handled the IA investigation?”

  “Kevin Fitzgerald.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah. Solid cop.”

  “Would he have covered for his friends?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What about Joey D’Amato?”

  “What about him?”

  “It’s no big secret that my father didn’t like him.”

  “He and your father didn’t see eye to eye, but Joey was a good cop, too.”

  “Why did they make him take early retirement?”

  “He liked to spend time at the track.”

  “I heard he liked to shake people down.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Roosevelt is old-school. He isn’t going to rip another cop unless he has the goods. “What do you know about the victims?” I ask. I’m looking for anything that wasn’t revealed at the trial.

  “Read the record,” he says.

  “I will. I was hoping you might give me the highlights.”

  He plays with the handle of his coffee cup as he tries to decide how much he wants to tell me. “There were four people in the room,” he says. “Fineman, his client, another drug dealer and his lawyer. Fineman was the only one who came out alive.”

  “What about bodyguards?” I ask.

  “We think there were some other people in the building, but it should come as no surprise that we couldn’t place anybody else there. Security people for mob bosses are reluctant to testify at murder trials.”

  “Who took over the drug-distribution channels after Terrell Robinson and Alan Chin were killed?” I ask.

  “It never takes long to fill a void in the drug-distribution business.”

  He’s being uncharacteristically coy. It suggests to me that he may be holding something back. “You got any names?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mike.” He finishes his coffee and abruptly reaches for the bill, signaling that this conversation is coming to an end. “My treat tonight,” he says.

  “Hand it over,” I tell him. “You’re doing me a favor.”

  “Forget it.” He places his credit card on top of the check.

  “Thanks, Roosevelt.” I shoot up a final flare. “If you were in my shoes, where would you go first?”

  “Mort Goldberg.”

  I’ve worked with Fineman’s trial attorney a couple of times. The experiences weren’t always pleasant, but they were never dull. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “The Jewish Home.” His expression turns somber. “He may not be of much help. He had a stroke that’s affected his memory.”

  # # #

  “Fitz was a lazy ass-kisser,” Pete says.

  Suffice it to say, Pete’s take on Lieutenant Kevin Fitzgerald is slightly different from Roosevelt’s. Then again, his experience with the Internal Affairs division wasn’t especially positive. I’m stand
ing in the doorway of Original Joe’s with my cell phone pressed against my ear at eleven-thirty on Friday night. “Was he a good cop?” I ask.

  “His record was clean. He worked as hard in IA as he did on the street.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He knew how to play the system. He did his job––and nothing more. Let’s just say that nobody ever sweated too much when Fitz was handling their case.”

  “Was he the kind of guy who would have protected other cops?”

  “He would have given them the benefit of the doubt.”

  Got it.

  “There’s one more thing you should know,” he says. “Fitz went to the academy with Little Joey D’Amato. They were friends.”

  “Good enough friends that he may have been willing to cover for Joey?”

  “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.” He pauses for a beat. “You realize that if he was covering for Joey, he may have been doing the same for Pop.”

  # # #

  The call comes in to my cell phone at ten minutes after midnight. “Where are you?” Rosie asks.

  “The bridge,” I reply. I’m midspan on the Golden Gate in a light fog. I can make out the Alcatraz beacon, but the Berkeley Hills are covered by the mist. The sun-hardened windshield wipers on my ancient Corolla provide little assistance.

  “Can you stop at my place on your way home?” she says.

  “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  “I just got an emergency call from Lou Cohen’s office. Our co-counsel is dead.”

  5/ LOOKS LIKE WE’RE FLYING SOLO

  Saturday, July 11. 1:04 a.m.

  7 days, 22 hours, and 57 minutes until execution.

  My ex-mother-in-law puts a finger to her lips. She motions me into Rosie’s living room, which is cramped with the kitchen table and chairs. It’s been this way since the remodeling project started. Except for her gray hair and the tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, Sylvia Fernandez could pass for Rosie’s older sister. She celebrated her seventy-seventh birthday earlier this year, and she moves at a speed that would put people half her age to shame. Sylvia still lives in the tidy white bungalow in the Mission District that’s served as Fernandez family headquarters for almost sixty years. Luckily for us, she spends much of her time here in Larkspur with her grandchildren. She’s wearing her customary beige velour jogging suit and Reebok running shoes. She gets up every morning at four-thirty and starts her day with a brisk two-mile walk. The unpredictable logistics of our criminal-defense practice would be impossible to navigate without her help.

  “Rosita is on the phone,” she whispers.

  Telephone conversations in the wee hours are in the job description when you handle death-penalty appeals. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee is mixed with tile and sawdust from the remodeling work. The ten-by-twelve room with a brick fireplace serves triple duty as Rosie’s living room, home office, and breakfast room. The area is unlikely to be used in a Sunset magazine spread. The eclectic chaos reflects the lifestyle of a working mother in the new millennium. The furnishings include a small color TV, an overworked mahogany desk, two mismatched steel file cabinets, a tired green sofa, and a soon-to-be-retired playpen. The DVDs in the rack range from Barney the Dinosaur to Britney Spears to Schindler’s List. The gutted kitchen is stripped to the bare two-by-fours and the plywood underfloor. A new refrigerator, dishwasher, stove, and sink are in crates on the back porch.

  Rosie is sitting on a card chair behind her desk. She’s pressing a cordless phone against her right ear. Her hair is pulled back. Wire-framed reading glasses have replaced her contacts. Her navy blue sweatshirt bears the logo of Hastings Law School. She holds her left thumb a half inch from her index finger––the signal that she won’t be long.

  I turn back to Sylvia. “Is Tommy asleep?” I whisper.

  “Yes, Michael.”

  “Did Grace go out with Jake?”

  “They went to a movie.”

  Our daughter has a budding romance with an older man who lives around the corner. He’s a good-looking honor student who is the ripe old age of sixteen. They met five years ago in the traditional way––she was the star pitcher on their Little League team and he was a weak-hitting outfielder. Since then, he’s grown a foot and his fastball tops eighty miles per hour. He pitches for the Redwood High School varsity. Grace is the starting shortstop on the softball team. As far as we can tell, their relationship––such as it is––has been pretty tame. I’m hopeful they’ll continue spending most of their time talking about sports. I get nightmares, though, worrying about the various meanings of getting to second base. Our ability to control matters is likely to become increasingly difficult after Jake obtains his driver’s license. At that point, he and I will have the long talk that I’ve been rehearsing in front of the mirror every night for the last fourteen years. I plan to do most of the talking. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll agree with everything I say.

  “What time did they get home?” I ask.

  “Around eleven.”

  Too late. “Did they spend any time on the porch?”

  “A little.”

  Too much. I’m going to be a wreck by the time she leaves for college. I gesture toward Rosie. “Who’s she talking to?” I ask.

  “Carolyn.”

  Carolyn O’Malley used to be our law partner. She was appointed to the superior-court bench a few years ago, leaving a gaping hole in our firm. She provides a unique resource on state- and federal-jurisdiction issues at all hours of the night. The fact that she’s a judge lends credibility to her views, but we must obtain her advice off the record. We try to seek it judiciously.

  Rosie thanks her profusely and presses the Off button. “Looks like we’re flying solo,” she says.

  “There must be some grounds for delay if the lead attorney dies seven days before an execution,” I say.

  “Not necessarily. It isn’t as if he’s without representation. We can argue it to the California Supremes and the Ninth Circuit. Carolyn says there’s no authority on point.”

  “There’s no way we’ll be able to get up to speed in time.”

  “We’re going to have to try. Cohen’s associate is going to walk me through the record. I’ve already spoken to the CAP attorney who is working on the case.”

  The California Appellate Project, or CAP, is a nonprofit organization that’s been providing counseling on capital cases for two decades. It was organized to provide a “buddy” for court-appointed appellate lawyers, who frequently had limited experience handling death-penalty appeals. The lawyers at CAP help brainstorm strategies and prepare briefs. I derive a modest level of comfort from knowing they’re available.

  “What happened to Cohen?” I ask.

  “His associate called and said he had a heart attack. One minute he was there, the next he was gone.”

  Sylvia puts it into perspective. “All things considered, if your time is up, it isn’t a bad way to go.”

  I ask Rosie if anybody has informed our client about his lawyer’s untimely demise.

  “He’s probably heard about it by now,” she says. “Cohen’s associate is going to see him in the morning.”

  “We should go with her,” I say.

  Grace makes her entrance from the hall that leads to the small bedroom she shares with her grandmother when Sylvia stays here. The resemblance to her mother is striking. The braces on her teeth are gone, her figure is filling out, and her long black hair cascades down her back. She’s wearing a T-shirt for a hip-hop band whose music could sterilize small animals.

  “How’s Jake?” I ask.

  Her tone is guarded. “Fine.” She quickly changes the subject. “Are you here about the Fineman case?”

  Rosie answers for me. “Yes, honey.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to do any more death-penalty cases.”

  She’s inherited her mother’s propensity for directness.

  “Mr. Fineman’s attorney had a heart attack,” Rosie says. “He’
s dead.”

  Grace correctly points out that we started working on the case yesterday afternoon. “He was still alive then.”

  “We’re all that he has left.”

  Our daughter folds her arms in the same manner as Rosie always does. Except for the difference in their ages, it’s like watching someone standing in front of a mirror. “You’re going to work round the clock, aren’t you?”

  Grace could open her own law practice right now.

  “It won’t be long,” Rosie says.

  “How long?”

  “Eight days.”

  Grace tugs at her ear. “So much for our agreement.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. It’s a special situation.”

  “It’s always a special situation.” She scowls. “They said on the news that Nate Fineman represented the Bayview Posse.”

  “He did. Where did you hear about that case?”

  “At school. They warned us about buying bad drugs.”

  High school has changed since I was fourteen.

  Grace’s eyes narrow. “Doesn’t it bother you that you want to represent a guy who defended those people?”

  Yes. “It’s part of being a lawyer, Grace.”

  She pushes out a melodramatic sigh. “You aren’t public defenders anymore. You’re choosing to take this case.”

  She’s right. “We might be able to help him.”

  “As if there aren’t a zillion other lawyers out there.” She looks over my shoulder for an instant, then her eyes lock back onto mine. “They said on the news that Grandpa was the arresting officer.”

  “Actually, he was the first officer at the scene,” I say.