They had to get this man off the streets as soon as possible.
But as soon as they did that, it would get ugly very fast. And the basic situation with Jameson wouldn’t be helped by the other indignity he’d suffered today, which was Dismas Hardy’s filing of his recusal motion, news of which had swept through the Hall like a hurricane. Yes, it was going to get very ugly.
Juhle looked out his high windows, heard the howling of the wind outside. Taking a deep breath, he finally stood up, picked up a black Sharpie, and went around his desk. He took another few seconds, then sighed and wrote on Line Ten: Hector Valdez/Tully & McCaffrey.
Right there for the whole world to see.
God help him.
Picking up his phone, he punched in some numbers and waited for a ring, then a second one.
“Tully,” she said. “What’s up, Dev?”
“I’m on board with you on Valdez,” he said. “Go pick him up.”
23
* * *
“CityTalk”
by Jeffrey Elliott
As District Attorney Ron Jameson gets to the end of his second month in office this week, the question of his basic competence to handle the rigors of his position, especially after the events over the past few days, has never been more in doubt.
Regular readers of this column will remember Mr. Jameson’s decision to fast track the investigation into the gunshot murder of a Mission District bar manager, Hector Valdez, pinning the crime, without much show of evidence or credible witness testimony, on a 19-year-old undocumented woman named Celia Montoya. Only now are the tragic consequences of his actions in this matter beginning to become clear.
To recap: Rather than let the homicide investigation into Mr. Valdez’s death proceed at its natural pace, with extensive witness interviews and the analysis of crime scene evidence, Mr. Jameson went around the regular SFPD inspectors assigned to the case and then sought and obtained a grand jury indictment against Ms. Montoya, who—fearing arrest because of her undocumented status—had fled the city in the immediate aftermath of the shooting.
Subsequently, Ms. Montoya was arrested in Ukiah and taken into custody on the murder charge. She was scheduled to be returned for trial to San Francisco the following afternoon, but instead she hung herself that evening in her cell.
This would be tragic enough if the story ended here. It was entirely possible, after all, that Ms. Montoya had committed suicide rather than face a trial and a lengthy imprisonment; or perhaps she felt guilty about the murder of Mr. Valdez, and took her own life out of remorse.
But what if she hadn’t killed Mr. Valdez? What if this whole chain of events was a direct result of Mr. Jameson’s rush to judgment based on faulty witness testimony? What if Mr. Jameson’s actions and decisions, and those decisions alone—first targeting and then arresting an innocent young woman—had driven Ms. Montoya to a state of despair from which the only escape was taking her own life?
When I first became aware of this possible interpretation of events and the alternative reason for Ms. Montoya’s suicide—that is, as a direct consequence of Mr. Jameson’s intrusion into the case—I found them compelling as a theory. But I told my source that unless Mr. Jameson was flat-out wrong in focusing on Ms. Montoya as a suspect, which forced her to run and led to her arrest and, arguably, her suicide, then he could not be held to blame for the way the tragedy played out for her.
Then, last Friday night, the original homicide inspectors whom Mr. Jameson had effectively removed from the Valdez case arrested a new suspect on this same case (incidentally, without a warrant, thereby circumventing our esteemed DA). Adam McGowan, who had recently been released after serving seventeen years in Avenal State Prison, was positively identified in statements by two of his associates at El Sol as the actual killer of Mr. Valdez.
If only Mr. Jameson had waited until the SFPD inspectors had done their jobs and finished their interviews with witnesses before he’d named his own suspect. Would Celia Montoya’s story have turned out differently? Would she still be alive today?
No one can say for sure, of course.
But the district attorney, who is already facing a recusal motion and a civil suit for other misconduct since he has taken office, might do well to consider the rule of law before he bends it again to suit his own purposes.
* * *
24
AT 10:00 ON Sunday morning, Dismas Hardy went outside to pick up his newspaper. The cold spell continued and—strangely for San Francisco in the middle of winter—had even gotten more severe. The sky was a cloudless deep blue. The shadow of his house behind him blocked any warmth from sunlight, and the outer pages of the paper crinkled slightly with a rime of frost.
He hustled back inside to the warmth of his house and sat down at his dining room table, where Frannie had poured him a cup of coffee. They’d had a bit of a physically satisfying morning that had kept them upstairs until this relatively late hour, and now Frannie, who almost never cooked, was frying eggs and bacon and toasting English muffins.
Hardy sipped at his coffee and opened up the paper. “Are you okay in there?” he asked. “Anything I can do?”
“I’m good. You read your paper and enjoy your coffee. I’m content to be pleasing my man.”
“And that you are.”
“I know,” she said. She turned at the kitchen counter, met his eyes, and placed her palm over her heart. “And for the record, just between the two of us, I’m pretty pleased myself.”
He nodded. “Good to know,” he said. “So good to know.”
• • •
“CITYTALK” RAN TWO columns wide on page three and Hardy read it once as fast as he could, said “Listen to this,” and then read it again, aloud.
When he finished, Frannie said, “Well, that ought to get the bastard’s attention. I’m assuming you might be somehow related to this mysterious source.”
“I’ll never reveal it, and Jeff won’t, either. But I think he’s got it about exactly right. It’s true that we’ll never know for sure, but I’ve got to believe that she would never have killed herself if Ronnie boy hadn’t put the crosshairs on her back.”
She came in with the plates and put them in their places. “Did you know that they’ve already arrested Phyllis’s brother?”
“I did. Although who they got from the DA’s office to charge it remains one of God’s mysteries. But anyway, Beth Tully called me yesterday, which is when I called Jeff. She was a little nervous now that the word’s out to God and all about it, to say nothing of going around Jameson, but she did the right thing. No way could they have let Adam run around free for another weekend. He would either have absconded or maybe even killed the witnesses who turned against him, or both. In any event he’s in custody now, and that’s where he belongs.”
“Even if Phyllis asks you, you’re not going to be defending him, are you?”
Hardy shook his head. “Never.”
“Phyllis isn’t pushing for that?”
“Not even close. First of all, there would be a huge conflict. Besides, this whole experience has kind of been a wake-up call for her. It turns out her brother is really not a very nice person. She kept wanting to believe that he was going to change his ways—I mean, right up until Tully and McCaffrey showed up to arrest him.”
“And this time they’re pretty sure they got the right guy?”
“As sure as they can get. Plus, that little bonus on the gun.”
“Which gun was that?”
“The one that he shot Valdez with.” He took a bite of bacon and chewed for a moment. “He’d wiped his fingerprints off of it before he gave it to Phyllis, but he either forgot or didn’t know that when he’d loaded the thing he’d left a print on a casing. Jameson was in such a goddamn hurry that even when the lab told him they had a partial print on one of the casings that was too small for the fingerprint computer, he didn’t give them the time to do a hand check against any possible suspects. His position was ‘Her prints are o
n the gun. Screw it, that’s enough.’ Now Len Faro has gone back and checked that partial against Adam and got himself a match, big as life. So, as an ex-convict, Adam is screwed on the weapons charge alone. The bottom line is he’s going to prison again, maybe for the rest of his life. And this is a good thing, believe me.”
“I do. And what about Ron Jameson?”
“Well, at the very least, he’s got some ’splainin’ to do. Worst case for him, or best for me, is maybe the judge who’s got my recusal motion will read Jeff’s column this morning and get a little ex parte idea of what a crappy lawyer and even worse human being Jameson is.”
“But never forget, he is still actually the sitting DA.”
“Maybe not for too much longer.”
“Okay, maybe not. But while he’s got the position, he’s got the power. It would not be smart to forget that.”
“I never would.”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me.” She gave him an exasperated look. “The point is, he’s nobody to treat lightly, and yet you decided to pick on him as your personal project.”
Hardy, mock offended, slid back in his chair. “Hey! He’s the one who picked this fight. I was minding my own business . . .”
“Plus campaigning for Wes.”
Hardy waved that off. “That, too. But really, that was just business as usual, trying to get my man elected. Nothing personal about Ron Jameson. But this thing with me and him started when he went after Phyllis, who is, after you, possibly the sweetest woman in the world.”
“And what’s happening with her now?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the charge against her. Accessory after the fact, isn’t it?”
“Well, since the person she was allegedly an accessory after the fact to is now dead and presumably innocent of the murder, and since they’ve gone ahead and arrested a whole different person for that crime—I’m talking Adam now—Phyllis is clearly not guilty of being an accessory to a murder committed by Celia, and that’s what she was indicted for. So, at the very least, that case has to be dismissed and they’ve got to start over. And I can’t believe that with all that’s happened, even Jameson would have the balls to do that.”
“And after how his inspectors manhandled her, that’s not exactly going to be another feather in Mr. Jameson’s hat, is it?”
Hardy allowed himself a small grin. “Sadly, you may be right.”
“And you’re still not worried?”
“Not too much, no. By any rational standard, I’ve got to believe I’ve taken this round.”
“Yes, but how about the next round? Taking one doesn’t mean you’ve beaten him.”
“Well, for the time being, what’s he going to do? I’ve got all the cards here.”
“But he’s got all the power of his position. And apparently no scruples about how he wields it. That strikes me as a dangerous combination.”
He put his hand over hers. “You’re right. And I’m not taking him lightly. Really. He’s got my full attention. I’m just glad we landed a punch or two. Maybe that will give him pause the next time he’s tempted to screw around with how he’s supposed to do things. That’s all I’m hoping for.”
• • •
IF RON JAMESON thought he’d been nearly apoplectic with anger and frustration when he’d first read Jeff Elliott’s column after the wake-up call he’d gotten from Chet Greene this Sunday morning telling him about it—and he had been—those reactions and emotions were mild as a spring shower compared to the rage he battled now as he faced his two children.
Aidan was now a sophomore at Stanford via St. Ignatius, randomly home for the weekend, and Janey, still living with her parents, went to Mercy High School. Although neither of their parents were even remotely religious, both kids had finely honed moral sensibilities from their years in Catholic schools. When Aidan first saw the “CityTalk” column, it seemed to hit him right between the eyes. No doubt, it hadn’t helped that Ron had folded up the paper when he was done with it and put it in the recycling bin so that his son, when he finally got up, had to go looking for it.
Ron was in the den watching football when he heard his son’s first exclamation from the kitchen: “Holy shit.” Then, a minute later, from the doorway, the front section of the paper gripped tightly in his fist: “Holy shit, Dad. Are you kidding me? Did you hide this thing outside so I’d never see it?”
Ron muted the television and turned in his chair. “Watch your mouth, Aidan. Your mother and sister are still asleep.”
“And what? I’m not supposed to say ‘Holy shit’? Whoa! My mouth is a way bigger problem for the family compared to my dad making the dead-wrong call on a murder case and driving this poor undocumented girl to commit suicide?”
“That isn’t what it was. It was nothing like that.”
“What else could it be? Look at it. Were you ever going to tell us about this? Or were we just going to pretend it never happened?”
“No, it happened all right. And it’s a tragedy. But also it’s just politics, Aidan. I didn’t do anything other DAs haven’t done a million times. This is the way you have to play the game—”
“The game? This isn’t a game, Dad, this is some girl’s life. And you just decided she was the one you—”
In her pajamas, Janey appeared behind her brother. “What did he do now?” she asked.
“Now?” Ron turned all the way around. “What do you mean, ‘now’?”
But Aidan ignored that question, whirled around and slapped the paper, folded to the “CityTalk” column, at his sister. “Did you see this? Did you know about this?”
Now Ron was all the way out of his chair. “Give me that.” His tone was low and ominous. “Goddamn it, Janey, let me have that right now.”
“Who’s got to watch his mouth now?” Aidan said.
“It’s going to be more than your mouth in a minute,” Ron said.
Aidan brought his palms up as though ready to spar. “Oh yeah? Bring it, Dad. Come on.”
Janey had stepped back and, speed-reading, had already picked up the gist of the story. She came around her brother’s side again, holding up the paper. “This is not how you do things, Dad,” she said. “Did this girl really kill herself?”
“Celia,” Aidan said. “Her name was Celia.”
Janey snapped at her brother. “I know her name, Aidan.” Then, to her father: “Why didn’t you just wait and let the police investigate a little more? I mean, Celia was just the wrong person, it sounds like.”
“It looked one hundred percent like she had done it. Everyone agreed on that.”
“Who’s ‘everybody’?” Janey asked.
“My inspectors, my advisors, everybody. And it still isn’t so absolutely clear it wasn’t her. It still might have been her, and this new arrest is just a smoke screen to embarrass me.”
“Let me get this straight, Dad,” Aidan said. “This girl Celia is dead but the big issue is you might be embarrassed? Is that really what you’re saying?”
“Of course that’s not what I’m saying. My heart goes out to that poor girl, but she shouldn’t have run in the first place.”
“God, Dad. Again?” Janey was completely revved up by now. “Again it’s her fault and not yours? Don’t you see any of this? What’s this job done to you?”
Ron pointed a finger at both of his children. “Are you listening to me? It’s not this job, except to the degree that it gives my enemies ammunition. And obviously they’ve got friends in the press ready to jump on any accusation against me, no matter how far-fetched. This is not about me and my job. This is about my enemies trying to take me down, and that’s all it is.”
“What it sounds like to me,” Aidan said, “is you becoming super-paranoid.”
“You have no idea, either of you, the pressure that I’m dealing with every day. If you look at what this Jeff Elliott says in the column, there’s still no proof of anything. Some cops have gone behind my back and dug up an alternative suspect t
o make me look bad. And what I’d like to see from my two children is just a little show of loyalty and gratitude. I’m not the bad guy here. And I don’t have to listen to this crap from my own kids. You don’t like living under this roof, even if it’s only for a day, and you don’t want to follow my rules here, you’re both welcome to find someplace else to hang out, find another—”
Kate suddenly appeared in the doorway behind the kids. “What is all this shouting?”
25
FIRST THING ON Monday morning, Lieutenant Devin Juhle once again found himself sitting in the back booth at Lou the Greek’s with Beth Tully and Ike McCaffrey. Everyone was drinking coffee. Adam McGowan was being arraigned for the murder of Hector Valdez this morning, and the two inspectors were planning to be in the courtroom for the formality.
Juhle didn’t blame them for their apparent euphoria. They had, after all, reclaimed a high-profile case as their own and were both feeling their oats. But there were other issues they would be wise to consider.
“Well, of course I’m glad for you both,” Juhle said. “I really do think you got the right guy this time. I can’t help but ask, though, how in the name of God did you find an assistant DA who would actually file this case? I mean, it’s one thing to put handcuffs on the guy, but he doesn’t go to court without a complaint, and you don’t get a complaint without the signature of an ADA, and—given the political ramifications—I can’t imagine an ADA crazy or suicidal enough to sign off on this without clearing it with the boss. And Jameson would never cut his own throat this way.”
Ike and Beth shared a look. “Well, Dev,” Beth said. “I have two words for you: Mike Wendler.”
The Rule of Law Page 19
