“A couple of energy bars.”
“Anything nutritional?”
“I’m working on it, Rosie.” Just not as hard as I should. “I weigh as much as I did when I was in college.”
“You can’t fool your body. Your blood pressure and cholesterol are still too high. In three years, you’ll be eligible for a city pension. You’ll enjoy it more if you’re still alive.”
I was in decent shape for a fifty-seven-year-old, but age, children, and Hershey bars had taken a toll. “I’m going to walk the steps in the morning.”
“Give my best to Zvi.”
“I still want to be just like him when I grow up.”
I played football and baseball in high school, but my days as a gym rat were history. When my cholesterol and blood pressure spiked a couple of years earlier, my doctor insisted that I give up fried foods, chocolate chip cookies, and Diet Dr Pepper. She also suggested that I start exercising more regularly. In lieu of accompanying Rosie to Pilates classes or joining a health club, I decided to walk up and down the one hundred and thirty-nine steps connecting Magnolia Avenue to the hills above downtown Larkspur. I performed this ritual three times a week, after which I strolled over to St. Patrick’s Church, where I confessed my sins to my old pal, Father Andy Shanahan. Most days, I was greeted at the steps by the cheerful presence of Zvi Danenberg, a ninety-three-year-old retired science teacher who walked more than a million steps a year. Zvi was my idol.
Rosie lowered her voice. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. We’ve handled bigger messes.”
“Anything I can do?”
“I may want to consult with you on strategy from time to time.”
“I’ll be available.”
“Thanks.”
She leaned over, pulled me close, and kissed me.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I told you that if I liked your report, I would give you a bonus.”
* * *
At five-thirty on Friday morning, I was awakened from a restless sleep by my iPhone. I struggled to focus on the display in the darkness of Rosie’s bedroom. The call was from an unknown number.
“Michael Daley,” I said.
“This is Sergeant Chuck Koslosky of the San Francisco County Sheriff’s Department. Your client, Ms. Low, had convulsions and lost consciousness. We are transporting her to San Francisco General. You’ll want to meet us there.”
22
“THIS IS A DIFFICULT PROCESS”
The name embroidered in blue lettering on the resident’s starched white coat was Dr. Alice Yee. Her expression was stern. “Ms. Low had a rough night.”
“Is she conscious?” I asked.
“She just woke up.”
Dr. Yee and I were standing outside Lexy’s room in a bustling corridor at San Francisco General. A sheriff’s deputy stood guard next to the door—as if Lexy was going to make a run for it. The huge public hospital never slept. At six-forty-five a.m., you couldn’t tell whether it was day or night outside.
Dr. Yee’s tone was clinical. “They gave her Suboxone to wean her from the heroin. She had a bad reaction, which isn’t uncommon. This is a difficult process.”
Yes, it is.
She fingered her stethoscope. “Realistically, she’s going to be fighting addiction for the rest of her life. There will be ups and downs. It will take several weeks just to get the heroin out of her system and control her cravings. We’re starting her on a limited dose of Methadone, which takes longer and has its own side effects.”
“How long will she be here?”
“If things continue to progress, a few days.”
“Do they have sufficient resources to continue her treatment at the jail?”
“Yes, but as you would surmise, the infirmary at the Glamour Slammer isn’t an ideal environment for addiction treatment.”
No, it isn’t.
“The medical staff is excellent,” she continued, “but they’re overworked. They’ve assigned an addiction counselor to her case, but she has time to see patients only twice a week. Ideally, Ms. Low should be talking to a specialist every day—at least for the first few weeks.”
“She doesn’t have the money to pay for a private therapist.”
“What about family or friends?”
“None.”
“This isn’t an ideal scenario to promote a full recovery, Mr. Daley.”
That much was painfully apparent. “Other than withdrawal issues, how is she doing?”
“Her physical health is pretty good. She’s young, reasonably strong, and in better shape than many addicts. Her blood pressure is high, but her heart is fine. The psychological issues are a bigger problem.”
“Will she be able to help us with her defense?”
“At times.”
“We have a preliminary hearing in less than two weeks.”
“That isn’t ideal, either.”
I asked if I could see her.
“Yes, but please keep it short.”
* * *
Lexy forced a weak smile. “I must look like hell.”
Better than I expected. “You look fine.”
“I’m sorry, Mike.”
You didn’t become a heroin addict to inconvenience me. “No reason to apologize. We need you to get healthy.”
“Working on it.”
She was lying in the center bed in a triple room in San Francisco General’s oldest wing. The cramped space was jammed with IVs and monitors.
I nodded at Nady, who was standing next to Lexy’s bed. “Thanks for coming over.”
“No problem.”
Lexy struggled to talk. “What happens now?”
First things first. “You need to get well enough to get out of here.”
“They’ll send me back to jail.”
“It’s better than the hospital.”
“What can I do now?”
“We need to know more about Jeff King. Several people used the bathroom upstairs where you said King left the heroin. We want to argue that one of them put it there or spiked it.”
“They were a few months from collecting a fortune on the IPO.”
“A lot of people disliked King.”
“Not enough to kill him.”
“Work with me, Lexy. Maybe somebody was trying to scare him.”
“Giving somebody high-octane heroin is a helluva way to do it.”
“We don’t need to prove it. We just need to give the jury a few plausible options to get to reasonable doubt.”
She pushed out a sigh. “Can you get the charges dropped at the prelim?”
“That’s going to be difficult.”
Her somber expression indicated that the reality was sinking in.
I tried another angle. “Do you have information that might be of interest to the D.A.?”
“Why would I help the D.A.?”
“To minimize your potential exposure. If we can cut a deal for voluntary manslaughter, the minimum sentence is three years with a maximum of eleven. For involuntary, it’s two to four, and the court might let you serve in county jail. Both options are a lot better than first-degree murder, where the minimum is twenty-five, or second-degree, where it’s fifteen.”
“I didn’t kill Jeff.”
“They have video of you injecting him.”
“He asked me to do it. He provided the heroin. A jury will believe me.”
“They’re unpredictable.”
“I’m not interested in a deal.”
“I’m just explaining your options. Do you know where King bought the heroin?”
“No.”
“Where did you buy your stuff, Lexy?”
“On the street near the Sixteenth Street BART Station. The cops know the dealers.”
“I’ll be back to check on you later today.”
* * *
My iPhone vibrated as I was walking through the parking lot of San Francisco General. Pete’s name appeared on the display.
“How soon can you get to Philz Coffee on Middlefield in Palo Alto?” he asked.
“About an hour. Why?”
“It’s down the street from Samayama Yoga, the in-spot for hot yoga in the Valley.”
He liked playing cat-and-mouse more than I did. “You’ve taken up hot yoga?”
“No, but King’s widow did. And she always goes to Philz afterward.”
23
“WE HAD AN UNDERSTANDING”
Pete gestured subtly with his index finger. “Here she comes, Mick. Behind you in the fancy top and the expensive yoga pants. Act natural.”
We were sitting at a table on the covered patio outside Philz Coffee in one of Palo Alto’s “modest” residential areas, where the fifties-era Eichler ranch houses on the leafy cul-de-sacs would set you back “only” about two and a half million dollars. At nine-thirty on Friday morning, Pete and I were the oldest people in the café. The patrons were a mix of grungy programmers bent over laptops, young mothers sitting next to children in two-thousand-dollar strollers, well-appointed venture capitalists studying term sheets, and parents of kindergarteners discussing the fundraiser for their kids’ private school.
Pete took a sip of his Jacob’s Wonderbar, described on the chalk board as “a dark blend with elements of chocolate, smoke, and nuts.” According to the Philz mythology, it was named after the founder’s son. “Not bad for a five-dollar cup of coffee,” he said.
“It’s fine.” Since my college days in Berkeley, I had been loyal to Peet’s. The individually brewed offerings at Philz were also very good, but the lengthy production process required you to develop a long-term relationship with your barista. I glanced inside, where Chloe King was standing in line. “How’d you know that she would be here?”
“You think I’m the only P.I. watching her?”
Guess not. “How many phone calls did it take?”
“One.”
I should have known. “She’s pretty.”
“Yes, she is.” He shot a subtle look at Chloe, a tiny woman with porcelain features and straight black hair. “She’s also young with big eyes, a full mouth, and large breasts. Remind you of anybody?”
“Lexy.”
“And probably many others that King slept with over the years. Maybe that’s why Chloe is playing tennis and going to yoga a few days after her husband died.”
“She was more upset when we saw her on Monday.”
“Seems she’s recovered from the initial shock. I presume that you’d like to talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“Stay here, save two seats, and give me five minutes.” He held out a hand. “I need cash to buy each of us another designer coffee. The Jacob’s Wonderbar isn’t bad.”
I slipped him a twenty, and he headed inside. I tried to be patient as I checked my e-mails and texts and wondered whether one of the young guys at the next table was creating the next Facebook. Ten minutes later, Pete emerged with Chloe, chatting like old friends. He offered her the seat next to mine, and he sat down across from her. Her handshake was firm, her tone cordial. I had no idea what Pete had said to her inside, but she was willing to talk to us.
I invoked my priest-voice. “We appreciate your time, Ms. King.”
“Chloe.”
“Mike. And we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It’s been a difficult week.”
“Given the circumstances, I hope you’re doing okay.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“And your daughter?”
“She’s with the nanny. Thankfully, she’s too young to understand what’s going on.”
We exchanged stilted small talk for a moment before I turned to business. “We’re representing Lexy Low.”
“I know. I don’t envy you.”
And I don’t envy you. “I’m just doing my job. I know that this is a hard time for you, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“I have nothing to hide. I’ve been cooperating with the police.”
I waited a moment, hoping that she would feel compelled to fill the void. My patience was rewarded when she took a sip of her coffee and started talking.
“It’s no secret that Jeff and I had a complicated relationship. We separated about six months ago, and I told him that I was going to file for divorce. He asked me to wait until the IPO was completed, and I agreed. It made sense from a business and a personal standpoint.”
It sounded as if their relationship was purely transactional.
Her voice was controlled. “We were starting to work out an arrangement for custody of our daughter. I thought it was better if Julie lived with me, but Jeff wanted to share custody. Obviously, money wasn’t an issue, but I didn’t think it was workable given his schedule and his penchant for sleeping with other women.”
Chilly. “How long were you married?”
“A little over three years.”
“I’m sorry that it didn’t work out.”
“So am I. Then again, he had been cheating on me from the beginning. It got worse after Julie was born.”
“That must have been hard.”
Her voice filled with resignation. “It was, but I should have known better. We started dating while he was still married. It’s an old story. He cheated with me. It was only a matter of time before he cheated on me. Jeff’s issues were exacerbated by the toxic culture in the Valley.”
“Where did you meet?” I already knew the answer.
“I was the personnel director at his last startup. Ironically, I was in charge of investigating sexual harassment claims against members of management.”
“Including Jeff?”
“Especially Jeff. Theoretically, I was there to help our employees. In reality, it was my job to protect him and the company, and I was good at it.”
“Were there a lot of sexual harassment claims against him at Y5K?”
“At least once a month. Sometimes more. Things got out of hand after he and several of the marketing people were detained at a brothel in Bangkok. The lawyers got the charges dropped and kept things quiet, but it cost a fortune. The board adopted a policy that the company wouldn’t reimburse management for strippers and hookers.”
Excellent corporate oversight. “Was it enforced?”
“Are you serious? He packed the board with his pals. They were terrified of him.”
“What did you do when you suspected him of cheating?”
“I hired a private investigator. It took her just a couple of minutes to find his accounts on Ashley Madison and Mature Relations. I confronted him, and he admitted it. We tried therapy, but it didn’t help. We even agreed to try an open relationship for a few months. This is touchy-feely Northern California, right? That didn’t work, either. He was always more interested in women he met online and in clubs. You think you can change somebody, but it never happens.”
No, it doesn’t. “Getting divorced is hard. I have personal experience.” Although I still sleep with my ex-wife. I pointed at Pete. “So does he.”
Pete spoke up. “It must have been insanely difficult for you to have a new baby and a cheating husband. How did you deal with it?”
“We had an understanding. He lived in the City, and I stayed down here with our daughter. He went his way, and I went mine. It wasn’t especially acrimonious.”
“I trust that you’ll be okay financially?”
“I’ll be fine. We had a prenup, but I never needed his money. There isn’t any life insurance. My family has lived in this area since it was apricot orchards. I own a lot of real estate in my own name—including the land on which the Y5K building sits. I’ll be more than okay, but people at the company are going to lose a lot of money if they cancel the IPO.”
I re-entered the discussion. “We understand that Jeff wasn’t a popular guy.”
“He wasn’t, but people respected him. More important, everybody was afraid of him.”
Here goes. “Is there any chance that som
ebody disliked him enough that they would have wanted to kill him?”
“That’s not how things work in the Valley. People lie and cheat and sleep around, but they don’t kill each other. They measure their worth in dollars and stock options. The person with the most private jets wins.” She shrugged. “Besides, Inspector Lee told me that there’s a video of your client giving Jeff a lethal shot of heroin.”
“We believe that Jeff provided the heroin, or somebody else planted it.”
“Good luck with that.”
Thanks.
“Look,” she said, “I’m sure that you’re a good lawyer, but everybody at the party—other than your client and the young women who were invited as eye candy—was going to make millions on the IPO. Nobody in their right mind would have killed him—at least not now. And if the D.A. asks me to testify, I’m prepared to say that.”
That wouldn’t be helpful.
She added, “In case you’re wondering, I wasn’t in the City on the night that Jeff died. I was at home with the baby in Palo Alto.”
This was consistent with the information provided by Inspector Lee.
She finished her coffee. “For what it’s worth, I’d like to know what happened to Jeff just as much as you would—mostly out of morbid curiosity. On the other hand, this wasn’t the first time he did smack with one of his sugar babies. Maybe karma finally caught up with him.”
“Do you know where he bought the heroin?”
“No clue. You can ask his pal, Drew Pitt, but you’ll never get a straight answer.”
“Would you mind giving us the name of your private investigator?”
“Kaela Joy Gullion.”
Pete and I knew her. Kaela Joy was a retired model and one-time Niners cheerleader who developed a following on YouTube after somebody posted a video of her knocking out her ex-husband—a Niners lineman—on Bourbon Street after she caught him with another woman in the Big Easy. Kaela Joy had parlayed the notoriety into a lucrative career as a private eye.
“Mind if we talk to her?” I asked.
“Be my guest.”
“Thanks, Chloe. I know that this is a rough time for you.”
“That’s why I go to yoga, Mike.”
* * *
I finished my coffee. “How’d you convince her to talk to us?”
Higher Law Boxset, Volume 3 Page 61
