MD04 - Final Verdict Page 5

  “We have too much history.”

  He looks at the photo of his daughter and says, “She’s only twelve. I don’t know what my ex has told her about me, but I don’t want her to grow up believing that her father was a murderer.” His tone turns deadly serious when he adds, “I’ll tell you everything that happened last night–the whole truth. I promise.”

  I go with my all-too-benevolent gut and against my better judgment when I decide to hear him out. “I’m listening.”

  I can see a slight smile in the corner of his mouth as his eyes bore into mine. “I make a few dollars sweeping up the store a couple of nights a week. I finished my shift and I was on my way home. I was walking by the loading dock when somebody came up from behind and hit me. That’s the last thing I remember until the cops woke me up this morning.”

  At least he hasn’t concocted an elaborate, far-fetched tale, but it will be difficult to confirm his story unless somebody else was in the alley. I challenge him. “Can anybody corroborate your story?”

  “Amos Franklin is the night clerk. He saw me leave.”

  I need to fill in the details. “What time was that?”

  “A few minutes after two.”

  I ask him if he saw anybody outside.

  “No, but I heard people arguing out by the loading dock. I don’t know who it was.”

  “Male or female?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Even if he’s telling the truth, it will be difficult to persuade anybody else who was in the vicinity to talk. “Your story has a few gaping holes in it,” I say.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” he insists.

  “I’ve just finished the easy questions. Let me try a few harder ones.”

  He doesn’t appear fazed. “Shoot.”

  “You could start by explaining why they found a bloody hunting knife in your pocket.”

  “I didn’t put it there.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. It was probably the guy who hit me.”

  Not good enough. “They also found blood on your clothing.”

  “Somebody hit me.”

  “I don’t see any cuts or bruises.”

  “Maybe it was the blood from the guy who hit me, or maybe somebody wiped the blood from the dead guy onto my jacket.”

  “They’re going to ask for a sample of your blood.”

  “I’m prepared to give it.”

  I haven’t rattled him yet. “What about the money they found in your pocket?”

  “It isn’t mine.”

  At least he admitted it. “How did it get there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I heard similar denials in the same tone ten years ago. “Come on, Leon.”

  “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to walk around this neighborhood with that much cash in my pocket? I may be sick, but I’m not an idiot.”

  No, you’re not, but you haven’t answered my question. I repeat, “How did it get there?”

  His emphasizes each word when he says, “I don’t know. The guy who hit me must have put it there to try to frame me.”

  “You think somebody from this neighborhood left two grand in your pocket?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t somebody from this neighborhood.”

  I try to push his buttons. “The cops have this crazy idea that you murdered the victim for his money. They think you stabbed him, then you took the cash and he fell into the Dumpster.”

  “And then I conveniently collapsed right next to the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can barely walk across the room. How the hell do you think I could have done it?”

  I look at his trembling hands and conclude that he appears to have a legitimate point. I ask, “Did you see anything else in the alley?”

  “A red Mercedes.” He doesn’t recall having seen it before. “I don’t know if anybody was inside. The next thing I remember is a cop tapping me with his billyclub.”

  “Does the name Tower Grayson mean anything to you?”

  “Nope.”

  “They found his body in the Dumpster. He lived in Atherton and it was his Mercedes.”

  He’s unimpressed. “What was a rich white guy from Atherton doing down here?”

  I’ve been asking myself the same question. “The cops said he stopped to buy cigarettes.”

  He thinks about it and says, “Somebody came into the store right before I left.” He describes him as white, mid-forties, tall and athletic.

  It must have been Grayson.

  He adds, “I thought it was odd that he stopped in our store.”

  So do I. There may have been more to Tower Grayson than venture capital investments.

  I try to digest his story. My gut tells me he’s telling the truth, but my instincts aren’t infallible. Leon Walker is articulate and convincing. It’s possible that he may be an articulate and convincing liar. “If you’re lying to me,” I say to him, “I’ll kick your ass all the way to the Hall of Justice.”

  “I’m not lying to you, Mike.”

  “You did last time.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.” My better judgment is screaming at me not to stick my toe in this quagmire. Then he catches me by surprise. He points toward a tattered magazine photo that’s tacked to his door. He asks, “Do you know the name of that picture?”

  I recognize it immediately. “The Last Judgment,” I say. “It’s on the wall of the Sistine Chapel.” It’s one of Michelangelo’s greatest works.

  He stares at it longingly and says, “Do you know why I keep a copy of it here?”

  He doesn’t strike me as a student of art history. “I have no idea.”

  He gives me a thoughtful look and says, “To remind me that other people’s opinions aren’t important. Jesus adds up the debits and credits and makes the last judgment when we die.”

  That’s the way I learned it.

  His tone is philosophical when he asks, “Have you ever seen it in person?”

  “Leon,” I say, “we really don’t have time for this.”

  His eyes flash and he repeats, “Have you ever seen it?”

  “Once.”

  “You’re lucky. Before or after it was restored?”

  “Before.” It was almost impossible to make out anything through the centuries of grime.

  “Do you know what they found while they were restoring it?”

  “It wasn’t quite what they thought it was.”

  “That’s right. In fact, it was far more colorful and complex.”

  I wasn’t expecting a theology or art history lesson from a dying man in a hotel room on skid row. “What’s your point?”

  “I keep that photo to remind me to be forgiving and to look into people’s souls with an open mind. It isn’t the initial judgment that matters, Mike. It’s the last one that counts.”

  This is pretty profound stuff from a guy who used to find meaning in his life by dunking basketballs. Michelangelo probably never imagined that his art would be the topic of a theological discussion between a former basketball player and an ex-priest in a run-down hotel in a ghetto on the other side of the ocean in city named for St. Francis.

  I say, “I don’t do absolutions anymore.”

  “I’m not looking for that and I don’t expect you to administer the last rites. I’m asking you to give a dying man his last request. I need you to help me prove my innocence. I have only a few weeks and I have nobody else to call. I don’t need a priest–I need a lawyer.”

  I’m looking helplessly into the desperate eyes of a dying man. My mind sprints into overdrive as I try to analyze the hard realities. In normal circumstances, my job is to persuade a jury that there is reasonable doubt about my client’s guilt. In this case, he’s asking me to do something infinitely more difficult–to prove that he’s innocent. There will be no time for legal maneuvering and there will be no appeals or last minute plea bargains. In the final analysis, I can’t win this case. And eve
n if I do, my client is going to die.

  He tries again. “If you won’t do it for me,” he says, “then do it for yourself or for my daughter. You have nothing to lose and everybody already thinks I’m guilty. It will be good publicity for your firm and it won’t take long. There’s a chance I might die with a shred of dignity, and Julia may not be stigmatized for the rest of her life as the daughter of a murderer.” He takes a deep breath and adds, “If you won’t help me, I’ll find somebody who will.”

  We sit in stark silence for a long moment, then it’s Leon’s turn to put his cards face up. “Will you represent me?” he asks.

  “I have to talk to Rosie about it.”

  “I need to know soon.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Hall later today.”

  There’s a knock on the door and Banks leads two uniforms inside. I say to Banks, “For the record, I don’t want you to question my client.”

  “Understood.”

  The uniforms ease Leon to his feet. They’re about to handcuff him when I say, “You won’t need those, gentlemen.”

  Banks gives me the obligatory skeptical look, then relents. The uniforms escort Leon down the stairs and they load him into a waiting black and white. Then Banks turns to me and says, “My nephew played against him in high school. He was tremendous.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Such a waste.” He heaves a frustrated sigh, then asks, “Did he give you any idea why he did it?”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Come on, Mike.”

  “You saw him, Marcus. He didn’t have the strength. He could barely make it down the hall and Grayson must have outweighed him by a hundred pounds. And why would he have killed a guy from Silicon Valley?”

  “Money. He saw a guy with fancy clothes and an expensive car walking down a dark alley. Grayson was a sitting duck.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His tone becomes emphatic. “Then why did we find two grand in his pocket?”

  “You don’t know that it belonged to Grayson.”

  “I’d be willing to take that bet from you.”

  So would I. He heads toward an unmarked police car without another word. I pull out my cell phone and punch in Rosie’s number. When she answers, I say, “Can you meet me at the Hall? I need to talk to you.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Leon Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “No way.”

  “I just want to talk to you about it for a few minutes.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. We aren’t going to take on a murder trial.”

  “There isn’t going to be a trial.”

  There’s a hesitation. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s sick, Rosie. He’s going to die.”

  There’s a long pause. She exhales loudly and says, “I’ll meet you by the intake center in the jail.” She hesitates and adds, “No promises.”

  *****

  Chapter 5

  “Bad Memories”

  “Many people disagreed with the resolution of the Walker case. It was a long time ago and I have no further comment.”

  — Rosita Fernandez. State Bar Journal.

  There are no secrets at the Hall of Justice. At three o’clock, there are more TV minivans than police cars parked on Bryant. The media vultures pounce as soon as I step out of my cab.

  “Mr. Daley, are you and Ms. Fernandez going to represent Leon Walker again?”

  “Mr. Daley, has the murder weapon has been found?”

  “Mr. Daley, are the prosecutors talking about the death penalty?”

  “Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

  I push through the cameras and stop in front of the entrance to the Hall just long enough to turn around and say, “We have no information at this time. Inquiries should be directed to Inspector Marcus Banks.”

  My sincere and heartfelt non-comment does little to discourage the throng, and the reporters continue to shout questions to my back as I yank the door open and squeeze inside. I hustle through the metal detectors in the lobby and head down the passageway to the Plexiglas-covered monstrosity that is shoe-horned between the Hall and the freeway. Our new jail was completed in the early nineties and is known to the cops as the “Glamour Slammer.” A moment later, I’m standing outside the antiseptic-clean and surrealistically-quiet intake center where the prisoners are housed behind bullet-proof glass. It’s a lot different than the chaotic old booking hub on the sixth floor of the Hall, which at times resembled a tailgate party at a Raiders’ game.

  It may be Friday afternoon, but our public servants are still hard at work. Accused criminals are mingling with uniformed officers, plain-clothes inspectors, ADAs, defense attorneys and public defenders. A couple of the crime beat reporters are chatting with the desk sergeant. The epicenter is a high tech control console that looks as if it was transported intact from the Johnson Space Center.

  Rosie’s hands are folded and her eyes are somber as she waits for me on the metal bench at the end of the corridor. Her tone is subdued when she asks, “How serious is Walker’s illness?”

  “Terminal.”

  “How much time does he have?”

  “If he’s lucky, a couple of months.”

  She doesn’t respond immediately. Since her breast cancer diagnosis, she’s become more attuned to her own mortality, and that of everyone around her. She gets together with a group of cancer survivors once a month and her mood often turns melancholy after the meetings. I make an effort to provide extra support during her down times and Grace has been very understanding. I fought off depression when I was a priest and I know the warning signs. She’s acutely aware of her mood swings and never takes out her frustrations on Grace. She considers the possibilities for a moment and then lobs the ball back into my court. “What do you want to do?” she asks.

  It’s vintage Rosie: smoke out the opposition before you show your hand.

  “He needs a lawyer,” I say. “I want to try to help him.”

  Her body language indicates that this suggestion has not been met with resounding enthusiasm. “I appreciate your good intentions,” she says, “but wouldn’t it make more sense to try to get him some state-of-the-art medical treatment?”

  It’s a fair point, but academic. “He isn’t going to get better, Rosie. I called his doctor at the South-of-Market Clinic. He knows how to work the system and he got Leon into an experimental liver program at UCSF where he agreed to be a human guinea pig. It didn’t work, but they gave him some conventional therapy as a small token of their appreciation.”

  “And?”

  “That didn’t work, either.”

  Her tone is clinical when she asks, “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Unless he has a transplant or a miracle, he’s going to die.”

  “What are the chances of a transplant?”

  “Nil.”

  “And the miracle?”

  “About the same.”

  The news is met with a sigh. She goes through her extensive repertoire of nervous mannerisms: scratching her head; tugging her ear; folding her hands; rubbing her eyes. Her tone is sympathetic, but her words are pragmatic when she says, “I know this sounds harsh, but he’s going to die no matter what. At this stage, anything we do is just window going to be dressing.”

  “Not to him.”

  Her troubled expression doesn’t change. “Realistically” she says, “we’ll never get to trial. We can try the case in the press, but we won’t be able to show he’s innocent unless we catch someone red-handed or somebody else confesses. What’s the point?”

  I won’t win this argument by playing to her practical side, so I appeal to her sense of obligation. “He’s entitled to a defense,” I say. “He wants to try to clear his name so his daughter won’t have to live with the stigma of a father who was a murderer.”

  Her arched eyebrow indicates that she’s willing to acknowledge my point, but her response is still business-like. “We aren�
�t public defenders anymore,” she says. “We get to choose our clients. They can assign his case to a PD.”

  “Leon will be dead before the PD’s office gets anybody up to speed. In the meantime, maybe we can get the DA to drop the charges or negotiate a plea bargain.”