MD02 - Incriminating Evidence Read online

  “Mike,” he says, “I hope we can put our differences behind us and handle Skipper’s case in a professional manner.” Grandpa Ed is here to make everything all better.

  “Of course,” I reply.

  The lizard grin broadens. “That’s just what I was hoping you would say.” He slides into the ergonomically correct leather chair that looks as though it was borrowed from the space shuttle. It doesn’t jibe with the rolltop desk. He offers me coffee and buzzes his secretary. It’s a warm day. You would think he would be more comfortable if he took off his jacket. No chance. His navy suit seems to be surgically attached to his body.

  A moment later, his secretary appears with two small bone-china coffee cups. She looks as if she were taken intact from a feature article in Cosmo. I take a drink of the scalding espresso. It’s tastier than the Maxwell House we pour over at Fernandez and Daley. Ed takes out a gold fountain pen, removes the cap and pulls a white pad of paper out of the top drawer of his desk. He’s all set to go. “What have you found out so far?” he asks.

  “Not much more than you’ve read in the papers.”

  He leans back in his chair, takes off his glasses and says, “Skipper wants me to take a significant role in the case. He wants my input on strategy and all major decisions.” He replaces the cap on his pen. “If it goes to trial, you’ll sit first chair and try the case. I’ll be Keenan counsel.”

  In California, death penalty cases are divided into two parts. First there is a determination of guilt or innocence. If the defendant is found guilty, the trial proceeds to the penalty phase. The penalty phase attorney, known as Keenan counsel, is almost always different from the trial attorney. It’s good to show the jury a fresh face, and the penalty phase attorney often argues that the trial attorney was incompetent. If the same lawyer handles both parts of the case, the lawyer might have to argue that he or she screwed up.

  “I want to address one other issue,” I say. “The only way I’m going to represent Skipper is if I have full authority to make all final decisions on strategy. I have told him this. Is that clear?”

  “I was thinking we’d make it more of a partnership.”

  “Not good enough. I get to make the final calls on strategy or I’m walking.”

  “Let me talk to Skipper about it,” he replies.

  “There is nothing to discuss. I make the final calls on strategy or I’m out.”

  He pauses for just a moment and says, “I understand.”

  I decide to change the subject. “How well do you know him?” I ask.

  “We see each other socially. We’re both members of the P.U. Club and the Calamari Club.” The Pacific Union Club is housed in the old Flood mansion across the street from the Fairmont. It takes decades to get in unless you’re well connected. People from my old neighborhood don’t get in at all. The old-moneyed gentry of San Francisco gather there to play dominoes. The Calamari Club is even more exclusive. It’s a group of about two dozen politicians, labor leaders, businesspeople and lawyers who meet for lunch at a restaurant at the Wharf every Friday and decide who’s who and what’s what. Its existence isn’t exactly a secret, but it certainly isn’t well publicized. You can buy your way into the P.U. Club, but you have to wait for somebody to die before you can get a seat at the table at the Calamari Club. Fast Eddie may be a hothead and his ancestors may have been of modest means, but the fact that he has been able to gain entrance into the P.U. Club and the Calamari Club is conclusive evidence that he’s a player. He reflects for a moment and then adds, “You could describe us as friends.”

  Not an especially enthusiastic response. “Do you believe his story?” I ask. Might as well see where he’s coming from.

  He pulls a long Cuban cigar from the humidor. “I think so,” he says.

  “But?”

  “You never know with Skipper.”

  I give him a puzzled look. “How does a dead male prostitute fit in?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ed,” I say, “Skipper is straight, isn’t he?”

  “As far as I know,” he answers. I’m inclined to think he’s right.

  “We need to talk,” I tell Skipper. I’ve come by myself. It’s time to clear the air.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

  “The composition of the defense team.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re in charge. Ed is Keenan counsel. That’s it.”

  “Ed has other ideas.”

  “He’s mistaken.”

  “I want you to make that very clear to him.”

  “I will.”

  Good. “There’s another issue I want to discuss.”

  “What else?”

  “Your daughter.”

  He sighs. “You certainly play your cards faceup, don’t you?”

  “It’s the way I’m wired.”

  He asks me what I want to talk about.

  “I am having issues with Ann.”

  “What sorts of issues?”

  She’s bitchy. “She’s hostile. She second-guesses everything I do. I don’t understand her agenda.”

  “She’s concerned,” he says. “And she’s entitled to her opinions.”

  “Which she is more than willing to express.”

  “She’s opinionated. She’s very independent. I can’t help that. That’s the way she’s wired.”

  “I understand,” I say, “but we’re all on the same side in this case. I’m worried that she may say something to the press that will come back to bite us.”

  His response surprises me. “Frankly, so am I.” He reflects and adds, “She simply hasn’t been the same since her divorce. She’s become very unpredictable.”

  I’ll say. “Skipper, this stays in this room. Maybe it would help if you’d tell me what happened.”

  He holds up his palms. “She was married to Richard Stanford, Turner’s nephew. The marriage lasted only a couple of years. It seemed like a great idea at the time. He’s from a good family and he had a job as an investment banker.” He sighs. “It all came apart in a hurry. They were very young. We encouraged them to have counseling, but it didn’t work. Ann blamed Natalie for pushing her into marrying Richard. And she blamed me, of course. She became terribly strident. She said she’d never let us interfere with her personal life again.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Mike,” he says, “she’s my only daughter. I know she can be difficult, but this is a very hard time for her. My current situation hasn’t helped. I hope you’ll take her as she is and help us deal with everything.”

  “I can deal with almost anything, and I’ll do the best I can,” I say, “but I don’t want her to do something that might interfere with our defense.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” he promises.

  Rosie and I are sitting on the sofa in her living room. The TV is tuned to the late news, but the sound is turned down. I brief her about my meeting with Skipper. She’s worried about Ann, too, but is pleased that I was firm about being the one in charge. “Molinari’s an asshole,” she says, “but he’s smart and at least we know where he’s coming from. I try not to worry about things I can’t control.”

  I grin and ask, “Do you still worry about me?”

  “All the time.”

  “I thought you said you don’t worry about things you can’t control.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Oh, I can control you when I want to.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You’re a man.”

  “So?”

  “Men can be controlled. Not all the time, of course, but most of the time. You can control a man when he’s hard up. In my experience, most men are hard up about ninety percent of the time. In your case, the percentage is a little higher.”

  “You still want to do this case?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says. “We’re only a week into it and we’ve already got a client we can’t stand and a co-counsel we detest. Sounds pretty good so far. Besides, you’re going to need me.”<
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  That’s true. I look at the TV and see Skipper’s picture. I turn up the volume. “There has been a startling new development in the case of District Attorney Prentice Marshall Gates the Third,” the anchor tells us. They replay footage of Skipper being led into the Hall. They show me proclaiming his innocence. Leslie Sherman gives a brief statement that the criminal justice system must take its course. A few days ago, she was fifteen points down in the polls. Today, they’re dead even. Elaine McBride recites the party line that the police have important, compelling evidence tying Skipper to the crime. She says she’ll have no further comment.

  The scene shifts to the front of Skipper’s house. Reading from a prepared statement, Ann says that her father is innocent and she strides back inside. The camera then turns to the man who was standing next to her on the front step of the house. It’s Fast Eddie.

  “What’s he up to?” Rosie asks, startled.

  I put a finger to my lips. Molinari looks into the camera and says that he’s been retained by Skipper’s family. “We expect Mr. Gates to be released early next week,” he says. He spends another minute pleading Skipper’s case.

  I turn down the sound and I dial Fast Eddie’s cell phone number. I get a recording. “Ed,” I say, “I just saw you on TV We need to have an understanding about the press. I don’t want you talking to the media without telling me first.” I slam down the phone. I turn back to Rosie and say, “This is going to get ugly.”

  She doesn’t answer. She points at the TV. A frightened-looking young woman with long blond hair has appeared on the screen. She is standing in front of a BART station at Sixteenth and Mission. I turn up the volume again. We hear her identified only as Candy.

  The reporter asks, “Did Mr. Gates pay you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you and Mr. Gates engage in rough sex?”

  Her glassy eyes water. “Yes,” she says. She glances away from the camera. The reporter says that Candy may be a witness at Skipper’s trial.

  “Looks like we may have another problem,” Rosie whispers.

  9

  “THEY’LL NEVER CALL HER AS A WITNESS”

  “Hooker Says DA Made Her Have Kinky Sex.”

  —SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11.

  I’m jolted out of an uneasy sleep by the ringing phone the next morning, Saturday. The first thing I hear is Ann’s strident tone. She’s furious. “Who is this prostitute that they interviewed on the news last night? You don’t seriously think Father is sleeping with hookers, do you?”

  “It was the first we knew of it, too,” I tell her. “We’ll talk to her, Ann. We’ll get her story as soon as possible.”

  “Damn right we will. I’ll meet you at the Hall. Somehow we’re going to have to try to explain this to Father.”

  Skipper is indignant. “That prostitute is lying,” he says. “She’s a plant.” He paces in the consultation room. Turner, Fast Eddie and Ann are here with Rosie and me. Skipper is going to tell his story to the entire team today. “It’s a setup,” he insists as he points a finger in my direction. “This proves it.”

  I’m not so sure. “Who’s setting you up?” I ask.

  “Sherman’s people. Dan Morris. It’s politics.”

  “Have you ever seen this woman?” Turner asks. He shows him the morning Chronicle. It’s a front-page story.

  “Of course not.”

  Ann asks, “Where did they find her?”

  Skipper takes a drink of water from a paper cup. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he says. “Probably on the street.” He points to her picture. Her eyes are glazed. “She’s a junkie. She’s looking for publicity and drug money. They’ll never call her as a witness.”

  I wish. Still, she doesn’t have a commanding look of authority.

  Molinari is surprisingly reserved. He takes off his glasses and fixes his eyes on Skipper. “Are they going to find anybody else out there who is going to make these accusations?” he asks.

  Skipper’s eyes dart. “If you’re asking whether I sleep around with hookers, the answer is no.”

  Ann looks at me triumphantly.

  I’m having lunch with Roosevelt Johnson at Tommy’s Joynt, a bar and hofbrau on Van Ness and Geary. We’d set this up yesterday; I wanted an update on the police findings. Tommy’s isn’t the most politically correct restaurant in the Bay Area. Moose heads hang from the walls. A long cafeteria-style counter where burly men cut brisket, turkey, roast beef and even buffalo extends the length of the restaurant. It smells like a cross between a deli and a gymnasium. People from all walks of life show up here. You stand in line and tell them what to carve for you. Except for an occasional paint job, the place hasn’t changed much in the last forty years.

  Roosevelt picks at his turkey sandwich. “I called your mama last night,” he says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “She didn’t sound too good.”

  The doctors are trying to control her Alzheimer’s with medication. The disease is winning. “She’s having more bad days than she used to.”

  “Getting old is no fun,” he says.

  The proprietors of Tommy’s boast that they serve over a hundred different beers. Roosevelt and I drink coffee. He looks around the busy restaurant. A gruff busboy who looks as if he’s been working here since the place opened asks Roosevelt if he wants more coffee. He accepts. This is a good sign. If he didn’t want to talk, he would be standing up. “They found some interesting things at the Fairmont,” he begins. “Skipper’s fingerprints were on the handcuffs.”

  I nod. This isn’t news. We’ll argue he got his fingerprints on the handcuffs when he tried to release them.

  He takes off his glasses and wipes them with a napkin. “We still can’t figure out how the victim got there,” he says.

  I don’t want to tell Roosevelt about Pete’s triumph over the Fairmont’s security system. “Were there any signs of a struggle?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  I ask what else they found in the room.

  He takes out a pad from his breast pocket and consults his notes. “Two empty champagne flutes. The lab techs are testing them to see if they can find traces of any chemicals.”

  I ask about fingerprints on the flutes.

  “Skipper’s prints were on both of them. The victim’s fingerprints were on one.” He finishes his sandwich and adds, “The room service waiter and your client told us the victim’s eyes, nose and mouth were covered with duct tape. The kid couldn’t breathe.”

  My chest tightens. I can visualize Johnny Garcia pulling against the handcuffs and struggling to find air. I wonder how long it took for him to die. “Did you find anything at the house?”

  “They’re still sorting out the evidence. They took Skipper’s computer. One of our tech guys is looking at it. We found a gun in the bedroom safe. It was registered to Skipper. We found a storage locker key. We’re getting a court order to open it.”

  We’ll fight the court order and lose. I make a note to ask Skipper what’s in the locker. “None of this adds up to much of a case,” I say.

  He lets that pass. “Our guys searched his study. They found two pairs of handcuffs in his desk that match the ones we found at the scene.”

  “He was the DA. I’m sure he kept a couple of extra pairs of handcuffs.”

  Roosevelt gives me the I’ve-heard-it-all-a-million-times look. “Could be,” he says. “For now, we just have a bunch of coincidences, a death involving suspicious circumstances and some incriminating evidence. McNulty and Payne are going to have to tie this all together very soon.”

  Which is precisely what they will do. “Any chance the victim was dead or drugged before he got to the Fairmont?”

  “I don’t know. We’re still waiting to receive the final autopsy report. You’ll have to ask the medical examiner.”

  I ask if he’s interviewed the prostitute who appeared on the news last night.

  “Not yet. The vice cops who found her say she’s articulate and
credible. We’re going to talk to her later today. We are very interested in hearing what she has to say.”

  10

  “HE DIED OF ASPHYXIATION”

  “It’s like putting a puzzle together. You have to be patient and it helps if you have an insatiable curiosity.”

  —SAN FRANCISCO MEDICAL EXAMINER RODERICK BECKERT. SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11.

  Two o’clock the same afternoon. I’m in the basement of the Hall, in the antiseptic office of Dr. Roderick Beckert, the chief medical examiner of the City and County of San Francisco. He’s in his early sixties and is a leading expert on pathology and forensics. He eyes me through aviator-style bifocals and forces a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Daley,” he says. His trim beard has grown more gray than brown in the last few years.

  He wears a white lab coat and a striped tie. A thin gold pen sits in his breast pocket. Books on forensics and pathology are arranged in alphabetical order on his matching bookshelves. There isn’t a speck of dust or a piece of paper on his desk. A model of a skeleton grins at me from the corner of the cold room. In what passes for whimsy in this part of the Hall, the skeleton is wearing a black Giants baseball cap.

  “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday,” I say.

  We shake hands. His grip is firm, his manner businesslike. He pushes his glasses to the top of his bald head. “In my line of work, you can’t keep regular hours,” he says. He isn’t the kind of doctor you’d call if you’re sick. He is, however, the kind of doctor you’d call if you’re dead. He teaches at UCSF in his spare time. He’s big on the pathology lecture circuit.

  He hands me a photocopy of his autopsy report and gives me a few minutes to scan it. “I just finished it,” he says. “I wanted to get you a copy as soon as possible.”

  I would have preferred to have seen it before we met. I realize, however, that it isn’t an ideal world and he has no obligation to talk to me. He is doing me a favor by fitting me into his schedule. I’ll study the report in detail after we’re finished. For the moment, I’ll take what I can get from him.