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  “Was he abusive to her?”

  “He never hit her, but he gave her a lot of grief. They tried counseling, but that didn’t work. Things got progressively worse until my mother decided she’d had enough.”

  I probe for additional details, but his relationship with his parents is clearly a difficult subject for him. “What happened when you got to your father’s house?”

  “I knew something was wrong right away. The front door was open.”

  “Did he have a security system?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t turned on. Sean was the last one at the house. He doesn’t always remember to turn it on. It drove my father nuts.”

  Teenagers. “What did you do after you went inside?”

  “I flipped on the light. A small table and a coat rack were knocked over in the front hall.”

  “Was anything else vandalized?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “I don’t know. I called out to my father, but he didn’t answer. I found him in the laundry room. He must have been coming in from the garage when somebody hit him in the head with a hammer. There was blood everywhere.”

  “Was it your hammer?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Just wondering.” A professional killer probably would have brought his own equipment.

  “Yes, it was ours,” he says.

  “Did you touch it?”

  “I moved it when I tried to help my father. I picked it up and tried to give it to the cops when they arrived. They told me to put it down on the floor.”

  Which means his prints are probably on the murder weapon. “When did you call 911?”

  “As soon as I found him.” His eyes turn down. “The cops and the paramedics came right away, but my father was already gone. I tried to reach my mother, but she didn’t answer her cell or her pager, so I left a message. She may have been in surgery. I tried Sean’s cell, but he didn’t answer, either. Then I called Grace.”

  “Inspector Johnson said you were uncooperative.”

  “I was upset.”

  “He also said there was blood on your hands.”

  “I told you I tried to help my father.”

  “What else did you tell him?”

  “The same thing that I just told you.”

  “He said you told him your father got what he deserved.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did anybody have a grudge against your father?”

  “He got death threats from people he’d put away. Things got bad during the Savage case. They put a police car in front of our house during the trial.”

  “Any threats in the past couple of weeks?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t always tell us.”

  “Did you notice anything different in his behavior?”

  “Not really.”

  “What else can you tell me, Bobby? Any detail may be very important.”

  “During the Savage case, my father got a permit to carry a gun.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “A lot of judges pack.”

  Given the number of recent attacks on judges, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. “Did he know how to use it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he have it with him last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Loaded?”

  “They’re generally more effective that way.”

  I’ll say. “He took a loaded gun to the Bohemian Club?”

  “Do you think they were going to strip-search a judge?”

  “Nope. And he took it to his girlfriend’s house?”

  “He took it everywhere.”

  I can see the headline in tomorrow’s Chronicle: Murdered Judge Was Packing Heat. “Did he have the gun when you found him?”

  He nods. “It was still in the shoulder harness. The police took it as evidence.”

  “Had he fired it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why didn’t he use it?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have a chance.”

  Or maybe he was killed by somebody he knew. “Is it possible the killer sneaked up on him?”

  “Maybe. The laundry room is pretty tight, but somebody could have hidden behind the door.”

  There’s a knock. A clean-cut deputy lets himself inside. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “your law partner and your client’s mother are here. They’d like to see you right away.”

  6/ I WANT TO SEE MY SON RIGHT NOW

  Saturday, June 18, 4:38 a.m.

  Dr. Julie Fairchild’s voice fills with maternal desperation. “Where’s my son?”

  “I’ll take you inside to see him in a minute,” I say. “We need you to stay calm.”

  “How can you expect me to stay calm?”

  “I know you’re upset, Julie. But if you lose it, he will, too.”

  The neurosurgeon wills herself to be composed. “Understood,” she says.

  We’re standing in the vestibule outside the intake center of the Glamour Slammer. Julie is wearing a black Nike windbreaker over her surgical scrubs. From her short, highlighted blonde hair to her chiseled facial features, she’s a study in intense precision. She attacks every aspect of her life with the same intensity that she approaches complex microsurgeries.

  “How is he?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say. Except he’s in jail and he’s been charged with murdering his father. “Did you find Sean?”

  “Yes. We took him over to my house. My sister is staying with him. Grace is there, too.” She quickly returns to the matter at hand. “How soon can you get the charges dropped?”

  “It may take a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  “Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days.” Or maybe not at all.

  Her voice gets louder. “You have to get my son out of here, Mike.”

  “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “Do it faster.”

  I hold up a hand. “You may want to consider bringing in another attorney who doesn’t have a personal relationship with Bobby.”

  “I want you to handle Bobby’s case.”

  I quickly describe the possible conflicts of interest that may arise because of Grace’s potential involvement in the case.

  “Bobby trusts you,” she says. “That’s all that matters to me.”

  “We’ll talk about it again later.”

  “That’s fine.” She moves full speed ahead. “It may take some time to get you a retainer. Money’s been a little tight since we started the divorce proceedings.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. It would help if you could put your hands on some funds for bail.”

  “Does that mean they’ve agreed to bail?”

  “It means we’re going to start looking for a judge.”

  Her eyes fill with disappointment. “Let me know how much you need,” she says. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Bobby said he tried to call you.”

  “He did. I was up at the hospital handling an emergency surgery. I tried to call him as soon as I was finished, but he didn’t answer.”

  “He was probably already on his way over here. What time did you go to the hospital?”

  “Eleven o’clock. The surgery started at one fifteen.”

  “Were you there the entire time?”

  This elicits an icy glare. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You’ve watched enough cop shows to know they always start with the victim’s spouse.”

  “I was at the hospital the entire time. Satisfied?”

  “Yes.” We’ll double-check. “Bobby told me things were pretty tense between you and Jack.”

  “We hadn’t spoken in months. We were handling our communications through our lawyers.” She doesn’t elaborate.

  “Is there life insurance?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “A lot.”

  “Did Jack change the
beneficiaries after you filed divorce papers?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Rosie and I exchange a quick glance. The cops are going to want to talk to her, too.

  “Bobby told me Jack was carrying a gun last night,” I say.

  “Do you see why I was trying to get custody of the boys? Jack was getting more paranoid every day.”

  “Why didn’t he use it?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have the chance.”

  “The police are going to say it was because he knew the killer.”

  “Let me make this very easy for you,” Julie says. “You can rule out Bobby, Sean, and me. I want to see my son right now.”

  I turn to Rosie. “I’m going to take Julie inside. Why don’t you start looking for a judge.”

  “I will.” As I’m about to escort Julie toward the intake center, Rosie pulls me aside and whispers, “Meet me in the lobby as soon as you can. Julie didn’t tell you everything.”

  7/ HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?

  Saturday, June 18, 5:06 a.m.

  Rosie is waiting for me in the cavernous lobby of the Hall after I return from an emotional meeting between Bobby and his mother. During the daytime, this area is crowded with police, attorneys, judges, jurors, witnesses, and other hangers-on. At the moment, it’s eerily silent. “Where’s Julie?” she asks.

  “On her way to see Sean,” I say. “There’s nothing she can do here.”

  “How did it go with Bobby?”

  “They didn’t say much. It’s hard to have a meaningful discussion through a Plexiglas divider with a guard breathing down your neck. Did you find a judge?”

  “Yes. Betsy McDaniel was on call.”

  This is reasonably positive news. Judge Elizabeth McDaniel is a conscientious and good-natured Superior Court veteran who attends yoga classes with Rosie. “Is she willing to consider bail?” I ask.

  “She said we can talk about it at the arraignment. It’s set for ten o’clock this morning.”

  “That’s quick.”

  “Nicole smells blood—and TV time.”

  Nicole Ward is a strident publicity hound and photogenic law-and-order zealot who doubles as the District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco. Nowadays, our resident media darling is devoting much of her energy to a divisive and mean-spirited re-election campaign. The latest polls show her running neck-and-neck against a former subordinate whom she unceremoniously canned after he committed the unforgivable political sin of endorsing her opponent in her last divisive, mean-spirited—and ultimately successful—run for DA. For those of us who view San Francisco politics as a spectator sport combining the most entertaining elements of roller derby, pro wrestling, and reality TV, it doesn’t get any better.

  “Did you talk to her?” I ask.

  “Get real, Mike. Media stars like Nicole don’t talk to peons like us. She’s called a press briefing in a little while. She’ll be the lead on the morning news shows.”

  Ward has a knack for finding media time. “Did you get anything from Betsy?”

  “They’re going to charge Bobby as an adult. We can fight it, but we’ll lose.”

  She’s right. Bobby picked an inconvenient time to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. “Did Betsy know the charge?”

  “First degree murder.”

  “It’s a bluff.” Prosecutors frequently overcharge as a negotiating ploy to extract a plea bargain for something less. “Nicole will never be able to prove premeditation. She’ll go down to manslaughter.”

  “Not for killing a judge in an election year.”

  “Maybe Betsy is trying to push us to cut a deal.”

  “Betsy McDaniel isn’t Putty Chandler. She isn’t going to play games or pimp Nicole’s case just to get a quick resolution or lighten her workload.”

  Rosie’s instincts are usually right. “Bobby told me Julie hired a PI who found out Jack was rolling around with his law clerk.”

  “That’s true. Among his many qualities, Jack was a highly accomplished and insatiable philanderer. Julie has dropped almost a half million bucks in legal fees on the divorce—and they aren’t any closer to a settlement than they were six months ago.”

  In hindsight, Rosie and I handled our separation with greater finesse than I originally realized. We weren’t being magnanimous; we didn’t have more than a handful of assets worth fighting about.

  “In some respects,” Rosie continues, “Jack and Julie were mirror images of each other. Jack was a hardass who became a high-powered lawyer and then an even higher-powered judge. Julie’s a super-achiever who became a heavy-hitter at UCSF. They’re used to having things their own way. The divorce has turned into a clash of egos exacerbated by serial adultery.”

  Not a pretty combination. “Julie can afford any defense lawyer in the Bay Area,” I say. “Why is she so adamant about hiring us?”

  “Because we’re good.”

  “Come on, Rosie. Hotshot surgeons don’t hire defense attorneys who practice law in an office above a Mexican restaurant.”

  “For one, she knows us. For two, we’re available immediately. For three, Bobby trusts us. For four, we come highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  The corner of her mouth turns up slightly. “Jack.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. He told Julie that he wouldn’t invite us for a drink at the Bohemian Club, but he’d call us first if he ever got into serious trouble.”

  You never know.

  “There’s more,” she says. “Guess where Julie was before she went to the hospital last night.”

  “I would assume she was at home.”

  “Then you would be wrong. She was at her boyfriend’s house. Evidently, Jack wasn’t the only one getting a little action on the side.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “A couple of months. I’m guessing it wasn’t her first extra-marital relationship, either.”

  Jack and Julie were more alike than I realized. “Bobby didn’t mention it.”

  “He doesn’t know about it. Neither does Sean. Julie figured it would come out now. It’s another reason she wants us to handle it. We’ll be discreet.”

  “We can’t be that discreet. They’re going to find out. It would be better if Bobby and Sean heard about it from her.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t say anything until she had a chance to talk to them.”

  “When is she planning to do that?”

  “Soon.”

  “It had better be very soon. Does the boyfriend have a name?”

  “Dr. Derek Newsom. He’s doing a fellowship in neurosurgery at UCSF.”

  “He’s one of Julie’s students?”

  “Yes. Before you ask, he’s a lot younger than Julie.” Rosie flashes a knowing smile. “It’s very fashionable for mature women to date younger men.”

  “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “I’m perfectly happy with my current boy toy.”

  “Was this some sort of twisted tit-for-tat thing to get back at Jack for doing his clerk?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Divorced. No kids. He lives on Willard, down the hill from UCSF.”

  “Did he go up to the hospital with her?”

  “No. Julie said he’d just gotten home from a long shift. He was exhausted.”

  “Evidently, he still had enough energy to have a roll with her. Can anybody corroborate his whereabouts after she left?”

  “Probably not. He lives by himself.”

  Except when he’s busy with Bobby’s mother. “I presume there could be consequences up at UCSF for Julie and young Dr. Newsom if this becomes a matter of public record?”

  “That’s not our problem, Mike. It’s our job to represent Bobby— even if his mother has decided to turn her life into an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

  “We need to check out her Dr. McDreamy. Did you get the name of her PI?”

  She can’t
contain a smile. “Kaela Joy.”

  Kaela Joy Gullion is a statuesque former model and ex-Niners cheerleader who used to be married to an offensive lineman. We’ve worked with her on a couple of cases. It has never been dull. Her career as a PI got off to an auspicious start when she caught her husband in bed with another woman in a French Quarter brothel the night before a Niners-Saints game. She knocked him unconscious with a single punch in the middle of Bourbon Street. A tourist caught it on video. "The Punch" is still one of the most widely viewed items on YouTube.

  “Any chance she was watching Jack last night?” I ask.

  “We’ll find out. I left her a message.”

  My mind races as I try to sort out this new information. I measure my words carefully. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Bobby wants us,” she says. “So does Julie.”

  “We barely know them.”

  “Grace wants us to help him. She was a basket case when we drove over to get Sean.”

  “She was also with Bobby last night. There could be a conflict of interest.”

  Rosie turns defensive. “Are you saying she was involved?”

  “She was there. That makes her a person of interest and a potential alibi witness.”

  “That doesn’t create a legal conflict.”

  “That doesn’t make it a good idea. This could get ugly if we represent Bobby and things go sideways.”

  Rosie’s full lips turn down. “Do you really think it’s possible Bobby killed his father?”

  “We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if we didn’t consider the possibility. We can’t ignore the fact that Grace is going to be involved in this investigation in some capacity. That’s where our primary loyalties lie.”

  “I agree. That doesn’t mean we can’t take the case.”

  “I have a gut feeling we’re looking for trouble.”

  “That’s what lawyers do. Bobby wants us to represent him. Grace was begging me to help him. How can we say no?”

  “Because it may be the right thing to do.”

  The managing partner of Fernandez and Daley takes a deep breath as she considers our options. “We’ll withdraw if there’s a conflict of interest.”