“That’s what the archbishop said.”
“He’s always stolen my best lines. He came by to see me. He said you convinced him to let you represent Father Martin.”
“Just until you get better,” Donley said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the morning edition, holding it up for Lou to see. “Here’s today’s headline.”
Priest of Polk Street
Arraignment Today
District Attorney Promises to Act Swiftly
“Today?”
“Bright and early before Maximum Milt.”
His uncle let out a sigh. “Ramsey is such a jackass.”
“I met him yesterday.”
“What’d he want?”
“I’m not certain. I think he wants to make a deal, but everyone says I’m crazy.”
“What kind of deal?”
“A plea if Father Martin confesses. At least that’s what he hinted at.”
“Life without parole?”
“We didn’t get that far. The minute I brought it up, he backed off like I was out of my mind.”
Lou furrowed his brow.
“The thing is, I can’t figure out why he’d even hint at it. According to Ramsey, they have all the evidence they need to convict the priest. About the only thing I can figure is that he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty before his final campaign push . . . actually, that was Ruth-Bell’s theory. I just adopted it. Ramsey supported Father Martin and the shelter.”
Lou didn’t look or sound convinced. “Do they have aggravated circumstances?”
Donley put down the paper. “They say the kid was beaten and tortured before he was killed.”
Lou momentarily closed his eyes and shook his head. “You don’t have to do this, Peter. This is not something you have to do for me. Just find him another lawyer. Don says he had Larry Carr on board. Let him handle it.”
“You know I can’t do that, Lou.”
“Have you called Max Seager yet?”
The question caught Donley off guard. “How do you know about that?”
“Never mind how I know. I know. Call him. He can pay you a hell of a lot more money and offer you things I can’t. You don’t owe me a thing. Your responsibility is to your wife and son.”
“We don’t need to have this discussion now.”
Lou said, “Listen to me. When you were a boy, you were always sad. Your mother was always sad. I suspected something, but she was too proud to say anything. It just wasn’t our way back then. You married who you married and you stayed married, in good times and in bad, for better or for worse. And I was always too goddamn busy . . . there was always a case, or a client, or a friend who needed me.” Lou shut his eyes, but a tear leaked out and rolled down his face. He quickly wiped it away. “You were my family. You were my nephew. I should have done something.”
“Lou, you don’t have to—”
He put up a hand. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I suspect your aunt is going to be doing enough of that from now on.” He swallowed with some difficulty. Donley found a cup on the tray by the bed and guided the straw to Lou’s lips. He sipped the water before continuing. “I was wrong, Peter. I should have stepped in and stopped it. I’m sorry. I wanted you to know that.”
Donley tried to make a joke. “Is this a deathbed confession? Because I spoke to your doctor, and she says you’re not dying.”
“You can bet your ass I’m not dying. Your aunt would kill me if I died.” He took a deep breath, again with a grimace. “All I’m saying is, if you don’t want to take this case, you just tell Judge Trimble that you’re in the process of securing defense counsel for Father Martin. If he gives you any crap, tell him I’ll climb out of this bed and personally kick his ass.”
Donley smiled. “Will you bail me out of jail?”
Lou touched Donley’s hand. He couldn’t remember Lou ever touching him. “You don’t need me to bail you out of anything. In case you missed it, that was the point of that beautiful speech I just gave. You’re an excellent lawyer, Peter, better than I ever was at your age. You have perfect instincts, and you’re quick on your feet. More importantly, you have a good heart.” Lou took another deep breath and squeezed his hand. “I went out on my own about your age because I wanted control over the clients I chose to represent and what I charged them, even if it meant charging them nothing. I made less money, but I was a hell of a lot more satisfied at the end of the day. I was scared at first. You take a lot of bumps and bruises. Next thing you know, it’s been forty years, and doctors are telling you that you can’t do it anymore.”
“You heard that?”
Lou nodded. “But that was my life. It doesn’t have to be yours. Talk to Seager. If he offers you a job, take it and don’t look back.”
“We’ll discuss that later. I have an arraignment this morning.”
“Did you talk to the priest?”
“I tried, but he just sat there in his cell with his eyes closed.”
Lou seemed to give that some thought. “Let me tell you one more thing. When they brought me in here, I was strapped to a gurney, lights blurring past. I couldn’t move. For the first time in my life, I had absolutely no control over the situation. I suspected it was bad. The thought crossed my mind that I was dying, that I might never see my wife again. People were asking me questions, sticking me with needles. I had piss in my underwear and tubes coming from places I didn’t even know existed. I wanted to grab somebody by the hand and tell them my name, tell them that I had a wife. I wanted to see a familiar face. Then I felt someone grab my hand, and I heard your voice, and I knew you would take care of things.”
Donley felt a moment of pride. His father had never praised him, not even for his football exploits. They seemed only to make him angrier, probably because they made him realize the depth of his own failures. “You think the priest is scared.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Donley nodded. “I’ll handle things, Lou. You just get better.”
“You’ve climbed higher mountains than I ever had to climb, but you have one more mountain to climb, and you know it. The past is always the highest peak, and the hardest to scale. But when you finally pull yourself to the top and peer over the edge, there’s nothing before you but the rest of your life.”
The nurse walked in the door and nodded to Donley.
It was time to go.
Donley parked his Saab on Bryant Street, a block from the Hall of Justice. At precisely nine in the morning, or in little less than thirty minutes, deputies would escort Father Martin from his cell in solitary confinement to a holding tank, where a tape recording would advise him of his right to a jury trial, the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses, the right to remain silent, and other constitutional guarantees. Then they would lead him into the courtroom of the Honorable Milton Trimble.
“Maximum Milt” had earned his nickname as a deputy district attorney who always sought the maximum penalty for convicted offenders. Based on what Donley had been able to learn, Trimble’s years on the bench had not softened him.
Donley turned off the car engine and tried to rub the fatigue from his face. The four Advil he’d chased with a glass of water had helped to alleviate the throbbing headache but had done nothing to remove the cobwebs. He picked up the morning newspaper from the passenger seat and reconsidered the article he had not shown Lou. Andrew Bennet’s relatives in the Midwest, the same relatives who hadn’t spoken with him in years, were said to be sorting through the résumés of plaintiffs’ lawyers, some of whom had flown across country to pitch their services and try to convince the family that death could be an economically prosperous event.
Nauseated by the thought, Donley put down the paper and reached for the door handle just as someone knocked on the passenger-side window, startling him. Mike Harris stood in his police uniform holding two cups of coffee, his breath small, white wisps.
Donley inserted the key and lowered the window. “What are you
doing here?”
“Freezing my ass off. Open the door.”
Donley disengaged the locks, and Harris pulled open the passenger door and handed Donley a cup.
“Thanks.”
“That’s not for you.” He slid his long legs into the passenger seat and took back the cup, setting it in the cup holder that popped from the dash. “That’s for Rochelle. I’m going to be late getting home, and this is my peace offering.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“You called me, remember?”
“Yeah, like yesterday.”
“Sorry, but I had the shift from hell. I called your house after I got off. Kim said you had the hearing at nine. I figured you’d be too cheap to pay to park in one of the lots and looked for the car.” Harris frowned. “You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit. What else did Kim tell you?”
“She said you were a terrible lay, but then we already knew that.”
Donley laughed.
Harris sipped his coffee. “She’s worried about you; she said you’ve been having a rough couple of days. She said you mentioned your father.”
Donley and Harris had met at the Potrero Hill Boys’ Club. Harris came from a broken home but had become an all-city basketball player and escaped by playing in college and briefly in Europe. He’d wanted to be an FBI agent, but the background check revealed three juvenile arrests, one with Donley. He’d joined the San Francisco Police Department instead.
“I’m all right.”
“So, why’d you call?” Harris spoke over the collar of his jacket, which was pulled up to cover his neck. “Turn the heat on in here.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“I can see my breath. It’s like a refrigerator. This time next week, I’ll be sunning my black ass in Hawaii and sipping tropical drinks in the sand.”
“I didn’t think black people tanned.”
“Please, white boy, do not make me hurt you. Turn on the damn heater.”
Donley turned on the engine and flipped a few switches. “There’s something strange going on, Mike. I met with Ramsey yesterday, and he hinted at a plea—”
“Not for murder one.” Harris shook his head. “DA doesn’t plea murder one.”
“How come everyone knows that except me?”
“’Cause you’re a dumb shit.”
“Maybe so, but I’m telling you Ramsey did everything except say the word.”
Harris seemed to contemplate this. “You didn’t hear this from me, OK? It could be my job.”
“OK.”
“Word is, they have some major problems with the evidence against your guy.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Problems with the way they got it, which means problems with using it.”
The light went on. “No warrant. Illegal search and seizure,” Donley said.
“One of the detectives apparently went to the scene and turned everything upside down, including breaking down some locked doors and opening locked cabinets.”
“They’re worried,” Donley said. “It’s a business, but it also could be considered the priest’s personal residence—maybe even the boys’. Different rules apply.” He wished he’d have known earlier, so he could have done some research.
Harris sipped at his coffee. “I don’t know about the legal crap, but I can tell you the detective was suspended.”
“You think they might be hiding him?”
“I don’t know, but this guy is liable to say or do almost anything,” Harris said. “He’s a GI Joe–type, medals in Vietnam, hero cop. He’s also a racist, homophobic asshole, though he does a pretty good job of hiding it. I don’t know what happened at the shelter that night, but I suspect there is more to it. Connor is an asshole, but he’s not dumb when it comes to police procedure and evidence.”
“Connor? That’s the detective’s name?”
“Dixon Connor. He’s been in homicide more than twenty years, and his old man was a cop before they kicked him out, too.”
“So, he had to know that breaking down doors would cause problems,” Donley said.
“One would think, my friend. One would think.” Harris reached for the door handle. “I need to get home so Rochelle can get to work. Remember, you did not hear any of this from me. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“At your party. Christmas Eve? Goodwill to men? Ho, ho, ho?” Harris took his hand out of his pocket long enough to give Donley a halfhearted handshake. “I love you, brother. Give that asshole Ramsey hell.”
Donley waited for Harris to leave before stepping from the car. The traffic on Bryant Street had become more congested. Black-and-white police cars lined the curb, along with television trucks. Men taped cables to the sidewalk with duct tape while well-dressed men and women holding microphones mapped out positions with camera crews so the news shot would include the large seal of the State of California affixed to the building. Apparently, everyone was expecting a show. Donley wasn’t about to provide one. Get in and get out, as Ruth-Bell and Lou had both said. He went over his three main notes. Do not enter a plea, waive time, and otherwise say as little as possible.
The second floor of the Hall of Justice was a marbled tunnel, devoid of windows and dimly lit by fluorescent lights. The mood seemed subdued for a morning calendar. A few anxious-looking men sat huddled on worn benches talking to their lawyers as security guards and court personnel strolled past in no apparent hurry. One wore a red-and-white Christmas hat, but that was it for the Christmas spirit.
As Ruth-Bell advised, Judge Milton Trimble would temporarily preside over Courtroom 13, the ceremonial courtroom usually reserved for public functions. Ramsey expected a crowd and was likely to get it. Donley checked the criminal calendar posted on a bulletin board just outside the fifteen-foot doors. The clerk had placed the arraignment of case number C87–0545, State of California v. Thomas Wilson Martin, first on the calendar, likely to get it over with and get back to routine.
Donley turned when he heard a commotion in the hall behind him. Gil Ramsey and Linda St. Claire had stepped from the elevator followed by five or six reporters, including a camera crew. Both had dressed in navy blue and were smiling so bright they could have been doing a chewing-gum commercial. Donley wanted no part of it. He reached for the handle to the large wooden doors. Locked. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
“This is Peter Donley,” Ramsey said as the horde arrived. “He has been retained to represent Father Martin.”
The questions came rapid-fire, some too idiotic to generate a response.
“Will Father Martin enter a plea this morning?”
“Do you have any comment on reports the evidence in this case is overwhelming?”
“The police say pornographic material was found in Father Martin’s office. Can you confirm that?”
“Was there an accomplice?”
“Will the archdiocese be involved in his defense?”
Donley knew he should say, “No comment,” but his competitive juices kicked in when he saw St. Claire and Ramsey enjoying the attack. He cleared his throat. “I am aware of no such evidence. If the district attorney has overwhelming evidence of Father Martin’s guilt, they’ve certainly done a good job of hiding it from all of you folks. Your articles and news stories have been a bit bland.”
The reporters smiled. “What have you been told?” a woman in front asked.
Donley gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m afraid the DA has kept the defense in the dark also.”
Ramsey stepped forward. “As you know, this matter is moving quickly. The evidence and authorized statements were withheld pending notice of the deceased’s next of kin. They will be presented to the court this morning.”
“I’m just surprised all of you were able to find the next of kin so quickly when the DA apparently couldn’t,” Donley said, holding up the Chronicle. The group chuckled. Ramsey did not. Donley continued. “As for the evidence, let me say this.
” He looked to Ramsey. “The police department engaged in an unauthorized search, without a warrant, of Father Martin’s shelter in violation of his Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable searches.”
Ramsey and Linda St. Claire exchanged a glance. The reporters moved the tape recorders closer to Donley’s chin. Others wrote furiously, firing off additional questions. Donley talked over them.
“We are considering bringing a motion to suppress all evidence illegally obtained as a direct result of that unlawful search. I would also seek to question the detective who conducted that search, but I understand he has been suspended for his acts of indiscretion.” Donley paused. “But as the district attorney said, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll leave that to him and Ms. St. Claire to present to the court this morning.”
The crowd shifted to Ramsey and St. Claire. Timing being everything, as Lou liked to say, someone had unlocked the wooden doors. Donley pulled one open and ducked inside as the reporters began again with their series of questions.
Inside, Donley realized he’d failed at the first of his three notes—say as little as possible. His temper and competitiveness had gotten the better of him again. Lou would have called it an amateur’s move: you push me, and I’ll push you back. Donley thought of Mike Harris and hoped no one would put two and two together. Then he thought again of Lou and smiled.
It had been a hell of a lot of fun.
He pushed through the swinging gate in the wooden railing that separated the gallery from the temporary altar of His Holiness, Milton Trimble. He set his briefcase on the table closest to the jury box and removed his notepad, file, and his notes and then set them on the table, along with the silver Waterman pen Kim had given him upon his graduating law school.
The volume of voices from the hallway increased, indicating the doors had opened behind him. Spectators filed in, and within minutes the courtroom, usually as reserved as a funeral parlor, bristled with energy and hushed voices. A reporter seated behind the railing tried to get Donley’s attention, but Donley ignored him. He crossed his legs and stared straight ahead, calm and poised, his courtroom demeanor well rehearsed. It had been that way since his first trial. His nerves usually raged until he entered the courtroom and spoke his first words. Then he relaxed. The singular focus of a hearing or a trial inside a courtroom brought Donley a certain sense of peace, though this courtroom was bigger than any in which he had previously appeared. The centerpiece was an ornate, elevated bench flanked by flags and bathed in a dull light from candelabra-style light fixtures along the walls and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A massive gold seal of the State of California hung on the dark-wood walls behind the bench.
The 7th Canon Page 9
