Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3

by Sheldon Siegel

  “No. You can’t see any of them in the video when the shots are fired.”

  “Good.”

  She responded with a puzzled look. “Why is that good?”

  “If we can make a decent argument that Ortega, Tony, or Hector is lying about anything, it will impair their credibility on the self-defense claim and cast doubt on everything they told the cops. Juries don’t like to convict people based on perjured testimony.”

  “It will be hard to prove perjury.”

  “We don’t need to prove it. We just need to suggest it. And we will have no trouble bringing the security guard’s credibility into question because he was arrested last night for buying crystal meth from an undercover cop.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “Ortega told me. Turns out he’s lending Hector money for bail and a lawyer.”

  My niece smiled. “Would you lend me money if I’m ever arrested?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s why you’re my favorite uncle.”

  “I’m your only uncle.”

  Rolanda wiped her glasses. “Do you think Ortega is saying that he shot Tho in self-defense to protect his son or his nephew?”

  “I doubt it, but we may want to make the argument. If we can catch him in a lie—any lie—it will work to our advantage.”

  “Rosie says you’re good at the little things.”

  I hoped that she was referring only to my qualities as a lawyer. “Little things add up to acquittals.”

  “What about truth and justice?”

  “That stuff is nice, too, but our job is to find holes in the prosecution’s case and cast doubt on the credibility of their witnesses. Then we let the jury decide.”

  “Have you always been this cynical?”

  “Ask your aunt. I’m just a humble pawn playing in an imperfect legal system. Did you find any dirt on Pham?”

  “A couple of shoplifting charges and a speeding ticket. No convictions.”

  It wasn’t much. I asked about Odell Jones.

  “He did time for armed robbery thirty years ago. Nothing since.”

  “He was carrying a gun when Pete and I met with him.”

  “He’s the licensed owner of several handguns. It doesn’t mean that he shot Tho.”

  “Anything on Ortega’s ex-wife or daughter?”

  “Working on it.”

  I didn’t need to explain the urgency. “Did you talk to Candace?”

  “Yes. I e-mailed her a copy of the security video.”

  “Good.” Candace Greene was Rosie’s classmate at San Francisco State. She had a Ph.D. in Special Education with an emphasis on teaching children with hearing disabilities. She was a superb lipreader and an accomplished expert witness. “Is she available to testify?”

  “Yes. I’ve already put her on our witness list. Standard rates.”

  “Perfect.”

  Pete’s name appeared on the display of my iPhone. “Are you still at the office?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “How soon can you get to Gino and Carlo’s?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. I chased down the P.I. that Sandy Tran hired to work on this case. Did Rolanda mention who it is?”

  “No.”

  I could hear the chuckle in his voice. “Nick the Dick.”

  21

  “INDEED I AM”

  The Rossi Family has operated Gino and Carlo’s on Green Street since 1942. The dive bar is housed in a ramshackle two-story building constructed shortly after the 1906 earthquake. Flanked on one side by Caffe Sport and Sotto Mare and on the other by Golden Boy Pizza and Tattoo Boogaloo, Gino and Carlo’s has always been popular among cops, firefighters, and blue collar workers because it’s one of the few watering holes in North Beach that opens at six a.m. In addition to hosting countless celebrations and memorials, it was also the informal office of the legendary one-eyed muckraking journalist, Warren Hinckle, who held court at a table in the back with capable assistance from his ever-present basset hound, Bentley.

  Pete and I were sitting at a table next to the bar in a room that smelled of beer and pretzels. Sitting across from us was a diminutive P.I. who was busy repositioning the fresh red rose on the lapel of his five-thousand-dollar Wilkes Bashford suit. He sounded like Humphrey Bogart. “If you’re in your seventies,” he was explaining, “you’re a septuagenarian. If you’re in your eighties, you’re an octogenarian. Do you know what you are if you’re in your nineties?”

  I had to play along. “No idea.”

  Nick “The Dick” Hanson re-aligned his toupee and took a gulp of chianti. “A nonagenarian.”

  “Does that mean you’re a nonagenarian, Nick?”

  He smiled triumphantly. “Indeed I am.”

  Over the years, for better and worse, my hometown has produced more than its share of characters. It started during the Gold Rush when a failed businessman named Joshua Abraham Norton started calling himself “Emperor Norton,” and proclaimed that he was the emperor of the United States. When he died penniless in 1880, more than 30,000 people lined Market Street for his funeral procession. In the 1890s, the gauntlet passed to Mayor Adolph Sutro, who used his fortune from the Comstock Lode silver mine to build monuments to himself, including the Sutro Baths, an indoor swimming complex next to the Cliff House that was more elaborate than the fantasy pools in Hawaii. The Baths closed when I was a kid, but you can still see the ruins. Over the decades, other luminaries included beat poets Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, a stripper named Carol Doda who headlined the city’s first topless club a few blocks from where we were sitting, and a high-end madam named Sally Stanford who became a restaurateur and later the Mayor of Sausalito. The list would not be complete without mentioning flamboyant lawyers like Melvin Belli, Jake Ehrlich, Vincent Hallinan, Tony Serra, and Nate Cohn.

  Nick “the Dick” was one of San Francisco’s few remaining characters. The son of a bootlegger was born in North Beach during Prohibition. He drove an ambulance during the bombing of Pearl Harbor and served in the Pacific. He came back home and opened a detective agency next to the Italian Athletic Club across the street from Washington Square Park. Nick was a charter member of the legendary Calamari Club, a group of politicians, lawyers, labor leaders, restaurateurs, newspaper columnists, and other movers and shakers who have been meeting for lunch in the backroom at Scoma’s at the Wharf since the fifties. He played liar’s dice at the Washington Square Bar and Grill with Chronicle columnist, Herb Caen, who dropped his name at least twice a week. After Caen died, he became a regular at Mayor Willie Brown’s power lunches at Le Central. In his spare time, he had written a dozen semi-readable mystery novels based loosely on his favorite character: himself. At four-foot-ten and barely a hundred pounds, he looked like a cross between Edgar G. Robinson and Danny DeVito.

  He took a bite of the clam and garlic pizza that Pete had brought in from Golden Boy next door. Gino and Carlo’s serves food only on special occasions. He spoke to Pete. “You keeping busy? There’s always a place for you at the agency.”

  “Thanks, Nick. Got more work than I can handle.” Pete had worked for Nick for a short time, but preferred being his own boss. “Everybody okay at home? Kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids?”

  “Everybody’s fine. At last count, the Hanson Investigative Agency employs nineteen members of my extended family. Not bad for an old guy, eh?”

  “Not bad at all. You still working cases?”

  “A few.”

  “I thought you retired.”

  “I got bored.”

  He couldn’t sit still. “I’m helping my big brother with the Nguyen case.”

  “I heard.” Nick arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Is this kid really your great-nephew?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jerry Edwards is going out of his mind.”

  “He’ll calm down.”

  “We’ll see. From everything I hear, your case is a loser.”

  “We were hoping y
ou might have found something that would tilt it our way.”

  “N-L, Mike. Not likely.” Nick pushed a slice of pizza toward me. “Try this. The secret to becoming a nonagenarian is garlic.”

  I couldn’t possibly turn him down. “How did you pick up the Nguyen case?”

  “Sandy Tran called my son, Rick. He’s running the agency now.”

  Rick may have the title of managing agent, but Nick would always be running the show.

  Nick ordered another glass of wine. “Rick handed the case over to my grandson, Nicholas the third. He passed it over to my great-grandson, Dick, who got busy on another case, so I graciously volunteered to step in.”

  Pete kicked my foot. It took every ounce of self-control to keep me from asking Nick whether they called his great-grandson “Dick the Dick.” I gulped some water and turned to the matters at hand. “How much time did you spend on the case?”

  “Couple days. I did it as a favor to Sandy. Nguyen couldn’t afford us.”

  “The store owner, his son, and the security guard all told us that Ortega Cruz acted in self-defense. A deliveryman and a customer in the back of the store said they didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “They told me the same thing.”

  “Did you look at the video?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Did you see a gun?”

  “Indeed I did not.” The charismatic P.I. flashed the smile in the author photo on the dust jacket of his books. “Legally, it probably doesn’t matter. The D.A. just needs to show that Ortega Cruz thought his life was in danger. Put yourself in his shoes. A sketchy-looking kid walks into your store with a hand in his pocket and asks for money. You would have been scared, too.”

  “Maybe we can show that he’s a hothead with an itchy trigger finger. He shot a robber a couple of years ago.”

  “I heard.” Nick took another gulp of chianti. “I’m still not hearing anything that’s going to get you around a reasonable argument that Cruz acted in self-defense.”

  “Did you find any other witnesses?”

  “A couple of people mentioned that there was a homeless guy who used to hang out in front of Cruz’s store. He might have been there that night.”

  “Got a name?”

  “No, but he calls himself the ‘Lion of the Loin.’”

  “Any idea where we might find him?”

  “Not sure. He might have left town.” He pointed at Pete. “Fortunately, your new investigator is very resourceful.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  He finished his chianti. “I hope your defense isn’t going to come down to the testimony of a homeless guy.”

  * * *

  Rosie’s name appeared on my iPhone as I was driving west on Geary. “How did it go tonight?” I asked her.

  “Shook a bunch of hands, raised some money, and nibbled at some rubber chicken.”

  “Still glad you decided to go into politics?”

  “Looking forward to the day after the election.”

  Me, too. “Is Tommy okay?”

  “Fine. Are you heading home soon? Maybe you should come over to the house for a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour. I need to make a stop first.”

  22

  “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

  “Why are you doing this, Mike?”

  “Doing what, Roosevelt?”

  “Representing Thomas Nguyen.

  “It’s my job.”

  My father’s first partner and the most decorated homicide inspector in SFPD history was nursing a cup of green tea. At eighty-two, Roosevelt Johnson’s melodious baritone was still commanding, but its forcefulness had been tempered by years and a battle with throat cancer. “You could have kicked it over to a Deputy P.D.”

  “There are extenuating circumstances.”

  Roosevelt was sitting in a well-used armchair in the living room of a fifteen-hundred square-foot bungalow three blocks from Dunleavy’s. He and his wife had bought the place almost a half-century earlier when he was working with my dad. They were the first African-American family in the neighborhood. “Is he really Tommy’s grandson?”

  “Yes. Pete’s DNA guy at UCSF ran the tests.”

  He gave me the knowing look that I had seen countless times at our dinner table on Sunday nights. “I wish your mom and dad were still here.”

  “So do I.” I glanced at the kitchen and lowered my voice. “How’s Janet?”

  “So-so. The chemo seems to be working, but she gets tired.”

  His wife was battling lung cancer. “She’s in good spirits.”

  “She’s a fighter. And she puts up a good front.” He took a sip of tea. “Why did you want to see me at this hour?”

  “I was hoping you would help me with the Nguyen case.”

  “I’m retired.”

  Technically, this was true. “I hear you’re working on cold cases.”

  “A couple. With DNA and new technology, sometimes they’re worth another look.”

  “Heard anything about the Nguyen case?”

  “I just told you that I’m retired.”

  For fifty years, Roosevelt always had a suit and tie laid out in the spare bedroom. “You know more about what’s going on at the Hall of Justice than our D.A.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  I waited.

  He cleared his throat. “I read the papers just like everybody else. As far as I can tell, Tho walked into the store with a gun. The shopkeeper killed him in self-defense.” He set down his cup. “I’ve never thought much of the felony murder rule, but you don’t have time to get the law changed before the trial starts on Monday.”

  “Heard any gossip?”

  “A little. Your client’s odds are lousy. Ortega Cruz said that he killed Tho in self-defense. He found Tho’s piece under the body. Cruz’s son and nephew will corroborate his story.”

  “For a retired guy, you seem to know a lot.”

  “You now know everything that I do.”

  “Would your opinion change if I told you that I watched the security video and you can’t see a gun in Tho’s hand?”

  “Not necessarily. Cruz will say that he thought Tho had a gun. Given the neighborhood, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. It still supports self-defense.”

  “What if Tho was shot within a couple of seconds after he walked inside the store, and it wasn’t clear if he said anything?”

  “You can argue that he acted unilaterally, but it’s going to be an uphill battle.”

  “Any idea where Tho got the gun?”

  “The paper said it might have been stolen. Evidently, all of the identifying information was removed.”

  “Do you know anything about the store owner or the victim?”

  “Afraid not. This isn’t my case.”

  “Ignacio Navarro told me that Tho was a small-time drug dealer.”

  “Seems we didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him. We don’t know the name of his supplier, either.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I had lunch with Ignacio a couple of weeks ago during his little sabbatical.”

  “Do you think the charges against him were legit?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did he tell you anything else about my case?”

  “No.”

  Roosevelt always played it straight with me. “You worked with Ken Lee.”

  “We were partners when he moved over to homicide.”

  “Is he a good guy?”

  “He isn’t a bad guy. He’s a good detective, Mike, and he doesn’t like to lose. It would be a mistake to go after him. And it would be an even bigger one to underestimate him.”

  Got it. “You think it’s a good idea to prosecute a kid with no criminal record for murder in a case like this?”

  “Not my call. You’re going to have to try this case based upon the law as it’s written. You have the rest of your life to try to change it.”

  “What’s your gut, Roosevelt?”<
br />
  “Your best bet is to discredit Cruz’s testimony or somehow show that he didn’t act in self-defense. If he had no reason to be afraid of Tho, there was no provocative act. I have no idea how you’re going to prove it.”

  His instincts were always solid. “That won’t be easy.”

  “You’re a good lawyer.”

  “Any other options?”

  “Convince your client to accept a plea bargain. It may be the best deal he’s going to get.”

  “You’ll let us know if you happen to hear anything else?”

  “Of course. Give my best to Pete.”

  23

  “JUST LIKE OLD TIMES”

  “Is Tommy okay?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Rosie said. At one-thirty on Friday morning, we were sitting at the butcher block table in her kitchen that doubled as her home office. She flashed a tired smile as she took a bite of a reheated burrito. “He’s asleep.”

  Good. “Heard anything from Grace?”

  “No.”

  Figures. “Is your mom here?”

  “Yeah.” Rosie looked down the hall leading to what used to be Grace’s room, and was now Tommy’s. Sylvia Fernandez bunked with him during her frequent overnight visits.

  “How’s her hip?”

  “Not great.”

  At eighty-four, my ex-mother-in-law liked saying that getting old wasn’t for sissies. “Are you making any headway on the concept of getting her to move out of the house?”

  “No.”

  Rosie was becoming increasingly concerned that her mother’s arthritic hip would cause her to take a fall in the Mission District bungalow that she and her husband had bought almost sixty years earlier for a whopping twenty-four thousand dollars. In San Francisco’s insane real estate market, she could probably clear almost two million if she ever decided to sell. Rosie’s gentle suggestions that Sylvia move into a condo at an upscale independent living facility had not been well received.

  “What time did you get home?” I asked.

  “Midnight.”

  Earlier than usual. “Still enjoying the democratic process?”

  “Living the dream, Mike.”

  The sweet aroma of Sylvia’s burritos filled Rosie’s two-bedroom house across the street from the Little League Field in Larkspur. The cottage had been built for a teacher almost a hundred years earlier. Rosie had rented it after she and I split up when Grace was two. Raising a kid in San Francisco requires elaborate planning for schools or a trust fund. We had neither the patience for the former nor the wherewithal for the latter, so opted for Marin, where the schools are better. Around the same time, I moved into an apartment two blocks away behind the Larkspur fire station. A couple of years ago, one of our few well-heeled clients bought the house for us as a token of his appreciation after we got his death penalty conviction overturned. It was the closest we’ll ever come to winning the lottery.