Serve and Protect (Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 9) Read online

  “We’ll deal with it in the morning, Luca.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To the Fillmore.”

  12

  “IT WAS AN EXECUTION”

  Pete held up a hand. “Over here, Mick.”

  He and Roosevelt were standing in front of the post office on Geary, a half-block west of Fillmore. A cold drizzle was falling, but neither of them used an umbrella. Traffic was blocked off. The narrow street in front of the post office was bounded on the north by a chain-link fence separating upper Geary from the six-lane sub-surface Geary Boulevard built in 1961 when the Redevelopment Agency flattened a portion of the Fillmore to create a faster route between downtown and the Richmond. The sledgehammer approach to urban renewal had improved traffic flow and created an unsightly freeway through the heart of a vibrant neighborhood that survived the 1906 earthquake. More than a half-century later, people are still unhappy about it.

  I walked by the old Fillmore Auditorium, a twenties-era ballroom that became the home of the Grateful Dead in the sixties. A makeshift memorial to Juwon Jones was set up outside the yellow tape on the sidewalk in front of the post office, a boxy structure flanked by the auditorium and a Korean massage studio. Three police units, an SFPD evidence van, and Roosevelt’s unmarked SUV were parked in front of the gate to the parking lot. Two crime scene techs were finishing their work. Down the block, a dozen onlookers huddled under umbrellas behind a police barricade. Through a megaphone, their leader repeated the phrase, “Justice for JuJu.”

  I could see Roosevelt’s suit and tie beneath his raincoat. He always wore dignified attire to a crime scene. “Thanks for sticking around,” I said.

  “I can’t stay long.”

  I pointed at the contingent behind the police line. “Is that Reverend Tucker?”

  “It is.”

  Reverend Isaiah Tucker was the pastor at First Union Baptist Church on Golden Gate Avenue, where he had tended his flock for three decades. The tireless community advocate wasn’t afraid to stir the pot.

  “Did he know the victim?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Roosevelt chewed on a toothpick. “And his mother. She was here earlier. She left to make funeral arrangements.”

  How sad.

  Roosevelt eyed me. “Reverend Tucker is going to make your life complicated.”

  “It won’t impact how I do my job.”

  “Yes, it will. You may be able to control what goes on inside the courtroom, but Isaiah will pull the levers outside. And you’d better be prepared for a civil suit. Jones’s mother has already been approached by several plaintiff’s attorneys to file a wrongful death action against the City and your client.”

  This was inevitable. “We’ll deal with it.”

  He got a faraway look in his eyes as he stared at the post office.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Bad memories. You remember what was here?”

  “Of course.”

  The post office was built on the site of the notorious Peoples Temple, a cult established in Indiana by a charismatic con man named Jim Jones. In the early seventies, Jones moved his flock to Mendocino County, and later relocated to the former Albert Pike Scottish Rite Temple on this spot. The Peoples Temple preyed upon the neighboring African-American community, which was being displaced by urban renewal. The opportunistic Jones aligned himself with Mayor George Moscone, Governor Jerry Brown, Speaker of the Assembly and future Mayor Willie Brown, Supervisor Harvey Milk, and many elected and appointed officials. Many people—including my dad—believed that illicit campaign activities by Temple members swung the 1975 mayoral election to Moscone. A few months later, D.A. Joseph Freitas ordered an inquiry on possible charges of extortion, battery, arson, kidnapping, drug use, and even homicide. Freitas’s office eventually issued a report stating that there was ‘no evidence of criminal wrongdoing.’

  The press continued to pursue the story and hound Jones. After unflattering media reports were published and several lawsuits were filed, Jones and hundreds of his followers fled to the jungles of Guyana. The rest of the tragedy has been well documented. Jones’s supporters lived in squalor until November 18, 1978, when he ordered them to drink cyanide-laced Flavor Aid. At the end of a day of unspeakable tragedy, 918 people were dead, including 270 children and Congressman Leo Ryan. It was the greatest single loss of American civilian life in a non-natural disaster until 9/11.

  Roosevelt’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Never should have happened.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t involved in the investigation.”

  “SFPD was. We should have seen it coming. Jones was crazy.”

  “A lot of people missed it.”

  “Not your dad.” He looked at Pete. “He had Jones pegged. He said that there was something wrong with him.”

  “He had good instincts.”

  Roosevelt corrected him. “He had great instincts.” The old warhorse shook his head. “I grew up over on Turk Street. This was our neighborhood. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a good community until the idiots in the Redevelopment Agency decided to ‘improve’ our lives by tearing down our houses and putting up the projects.”

  I had no good answer. “It was a mistake.”

  “It was racism.”

  Yes, it was. The rain started coming down harder. I pointed at the parking lot. “Would you mind letting us take a look?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Follow me. I’ll sign you in. Do exactly as I say and keep your mouths shut. And don’t touch anything.” He pointed down the street. “Your client and his partner pulled over Jones in the Safeway parking lot. Jones knocked your client down as he was getting out of the car and fled on foot through the plaza. He turned right on Fillmore and ran up to Geary, where he was cut off by a backup unit. He turned left and came this way. Another unit cut him off here, so he climbed over the gate into the parking lot and hid behind the postal van. Officer Bacigalupi pursued him on foot. His partner followed him a moment later.”

  Roosevelt lifted the yellow tape and led us into the parking lot, which was enclosed by the post office, a twenty-foot retaining wall, and the Korean spa. He signed us into the log. “Once Jones got inside, there was no way out.”

  We walked around the postal van parked perpendicular to the loading dock. Roosevelt nodded at the CSIs, who were picking up a dozen numbered plastic markers. “Almost done?”

  The more senior of the two technicians answered him. “Yes, Inspector.”

  I glanced at Pete, who took my cue. It was better to let the ex-cop take the lead at a crime scene. He pointed at the markers. “Jones died here?”

  Roosevelt nodded. “The shots also came from behind the van. Your client was about eight feet from Jones. Four shots. All direct hits to the chest. We found the shell casings. They match Officer Bacigalupi’s service revolver. No casings from any other weapons.”

  Johnny had admitted it that he had fired the fatal shots.

  Pete spoke to the senior technician. “Was Jones pronounced here?”

  “Yes. No pulse. No vitals. Nothing. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

  “I understand that you found a weapon under his body.”

  “Officer Bacigalupi and Sergeant Murphy said that they found a weapon under Jones’s body.”

  “Is there any doubt?”

  “No comment.”

  Pete looked at Roosevelt. “Is there evidence suggesting that the weapon was planted?”

  “No comment.”

  “What type of weapon?”

  “Kel-Tec PMR-30.”

  It was a Saturday Night Special. “Have you identified the registered owner of the gun?”

  “No. The serial number was filed off.”

  “Is there any record of a weapon of this type registered to Jones?”

  “None.”

  I spoke up. “Our client told us that he ordered Jones to put his hands up. Then he instructed Jones to lie down with his arms spread.”
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  “That’s consistent with the story that he told us.”

  “He said that Jones reached for the gun, whereupon Johnny shot him in self-defense.”

  “That’s his story.”

  “You have a different version?”

  “It was an execution.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  “You’ll find out in due course.”

  “Witnesses? Video?”

  Roosevelt’s repeated each word slowly. “In. Due. Course.”

  “You have a legal obligation to provide all relevant evidence.”

  “I have a legal obligation to provide evidence that might tend to exonerate your client. At the moment, there is none. We’ll get you everything that you are legally entitled to see.”

  We went back a long way, but he wasn’t going to budge.

  Roosevelt glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to headquarters.”

  “But Roosevelt—,”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  He pulled up the collar on his raincoat and escorted us outside the restricted area without another word.

  Pete and I put our heads down and ignored the reporters as we walked by the post office. We stopped under an overhang near the entrance to the Fillmore Auditorium. I took a moment to shake the raindrops off my overcoat and get my bearings.

  “What did you make of that?” I asked Pete.

  “Let’s go for a walk, Mick.”

  13

  “WE’VE MET”

  Pete pointed at the rusted Honda Civic parked in the Safeway lot. It was encircled by crime-scene tape and guarded by three uniforms. “That’s where Johnny and his partner pulled over Jones.”

  At three-thirty on Wednesday afternoon, the sky was overcast, but there was a break in the rain. The Safeway was crowded, and the plaza between the parking lot and Fillmore Street was bustling with shoppers, high school students, and homeless people.

  Pete handed me an envelope. “This is Jones’s rap sheet.”

  “You want to give me the highlights?”

  “Eighteen. Single. Lived with his mother in the projects on Turk. One conviction for grand theft auto. A couple of shoplifting hits, one of which got him probation. Suspected of gang activity, but no arrests.”

  “He covered a lot of territory in eighteen years.”

  “He was a fast study. He had a baby face, but he wasn’t a baby.”

  “I don’t recall his name on the logs at the P.D.’s Office.”

  “He had private attorneys.” My streetwise younger brother gave me a knowing look. “It’s one of the perks of gang membership.”

  Got it. “The cops knew him?”

  “Yes. Low-level delivery man. One of my sources said that he thought Jones was being groomed to be a muscle guy.”

  “Any chance the cops were out to get him?”

  My brother stroked his mustache. “Not as far as I can tell, but nobody I talked to would have admitted it.”

  We walked over to the Honda, where we were stopped by an officer whose name plate read “Carter.” She spoke to my brother. “How are you, Pete?”

  “Fine, Christa.”

  “Are Donna and the baby okay?”

  “Both fine. The baby just turned eight.”

  “Time flies.”

  “It does.” He nodded at me. “This is my brother, Mike.”

  “We’ve met.” She didn’t offer a hand. She added, “In court.”

  I didn’t remember the encounter. Then again, I’d “met” hundreds of cops under similar circumstances. I sensed that our previous meeting hadn’t been a highlight-reel experience for her, so I nodded and let Pete to do the talking.

  “Mike is representing Johnny,” he said.

  “I heard. Good cop. Nice kid.”

  “They’ve decided to charge him with murder.”

  “He isn’t a murderer.” Her tone turned pointed. “From what I hear, Johnny shot a gangbanger in self-defense after the kid pulled a gun. Instead of giving him a medal, they charge him with murder. I guess that’s how the mayor, the D.A., and our new chief show us that they have our backs.”

  Pete nodded in agreement. “Were you working last night?”

  “No.”

  “You hear anything about what happened this morning?”

  “You need to talk to Homicide.”

  “Please, Christa.”

  “My orders are to watch this car. For anything else, you’ll need to talk to Homicide.”

  Got it. I extended a business card. “If you change your mind, I would appreciate it if you would give us a call.”

  “I will.”

  You probably won’t.

  Pete tried once more. “Johnny’s arraignment is tomorrow morning. Any information might be helpful. We won’t mention your name.”

  She lowered her voice. “I heard they have something on video.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something bad enough to charge Johnny with murder.”

  “Video from Johnny’s body cam?”

  “Could be. I don’t know.”

  The first item on my expanding to-do list would be to prepare the paperwork to request copies of all relevant videos. In our age of digital technology, most security footage is recorded over within hours or days. Preparing subpoenas to preserve and provide video footage would be an urgent priority.

  Pete pointed at the Honda. “Did they find anything in the car?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “They found a dozen AK-47s in the trunk.”

  Pete was right. Juwon Jones was no Boy Scout.

  14

  “SOMEBODY MUST HAVE SEEN SOMETHING”

  Pete pulled up the collar of his bomber jacket, and we started walking across the plaza paved with red and black bricks in a checkerboard pattern. The rain had stopped, but the wind was picking up, and the temperature was dropping as the sun went down. People who think California has no seasons never lived through a rainy winter in San Francisco.

  We stopped midway across the plaza. On the south side was an enclosed two-story mall with a Panda Express, a Verizon store, and an Indian grocery. On the north side was a Subway. Across the street, an eighties-era high-rise towered over us. Fillmore Center was built to house some of the residents who had been displaced when the Victorians were bulldozed years earlier. It turned into a financial disaster for the City. It was difficult to imagine that the nondescript shops and restaurants on Fillmore had once been the epicenter of jazz and African-American culture when the neighborhood was inhabited by transplants who had come north during World War II to escape the Jim Crow South and work in the shipyards.

  The aroma of orange chicken from the Panda Express wafted across the plaza. Pete pointed at a lamp post and snapped a photo with his iPhone. “Police camera. You’ll want to request the footage.”

  “Will do.” It was helpful to have an ex-cop on your team.

  “You’ll also want to ask for the security videos from Subway and Panda Express right away. Subway was probably the only thing open at one a.m.”

  “Let’s stop inside and see if anybody was here last night. If you’re hungry, I’ll buy you a sandwich.”

  “Let me look for witnesses, Mick.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “It would be better if I do it on my own.”

  Got it. “Fine.”

  Pete pointed at two street lamps. “If Jones ran by this spot, it might be tough to see anything on the security videos. They throw off some light, but it’s still pretty dark.”

  I made notes on my iPhone.

  The plaza was the dividing line between the gentrified and non-gentrified portions of the neighborhood. To the north were upscale shops and restaurants. The aroma of dim sum from the trendy State Bird Provisions restaurant melded with the aroma of coffee from Starbucks and fresh bagels at the high-end Wise Sons New York Deli. The shops south of the plaza were a hodgepodge of nail salons, hairdressers, Asian restaurants, barb
eque joints, and liquor stores. Things changed from sketchy to dangerous when you crossed Turk and walked past Northern Police Station. The mini-park next to the McDonald’s was populated mostly by homeless people.

  The wind whipped up and the rain started falling as Pete and I walked north on Fillmore. Faded banners on the street lamps proclaimed that we were walking through San Francisco’s historic Jazz District, even though the traditional jazz clubs had long-since closed, and attempts to open new venues had failed. Pete pointed out security cameras inside Starbucks and Wise Sons. He noted another police camera on a lamp post in front of a Korean Barbeque on the ground floor of the Fillmore Auditorium.

  Muni buses clogged the street. A few pedestrians hurried past us, umbrellas blown by the wind. Pete and I paused at the corner of Fillmore and Geary in front of a currency exchange. I could hear the cars beneath the Fillmore Street overpass of the sunken Geary Boulevard. On the north side of Geary was the boxy white Japantown Mall, which towered over its neighbor, the Boom-Boom Room, a hip-hop and blues club.

  Pete took more photos. “I’ll text you a list of places with security cameras. You’ll want to ask for video from Johnny’s body cam and the body cams of the other cops at the scene.” His eyes were moving. “If there’s video showing that Jones had a gun, it will go a long way toward proving that Johnny acted in self-defense.”

  “Can you start looking for witnesses? Somebody must have seen something.”

  “Of course. Where are you off to now?”

  “I’m going to talk to Johnny again.”

  15

  “YOU GOTTA GET ME OUT OF HERE”

  Johnny’s voice was tense. “You gotta get me out of here.”

  “I need you to stay calm.”

  “I’m trying, Mike.”

  The consultation room in the jail wing of the Hall was about ninety degrees and reeked of mildew. I had removed my raincoat and was sweating through my shirt.

  At six-thirty on Wednesday night, Johnny had completed the soul-crushing intake process. He had surrendered his clothing and personal items, been showered with disinfectant, received a perfunctory medical exam, and issued an orange jumpsuit. He no longer looked like a cop—he looked like an inmate.