The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  “This is the hammer, Gil. If he survives the beating he took, Father Martin’s facing a death sentence,” St. Claire said.

  “Exactly. And Mr. Donley knows there is no guarantee he will win his motion and keep the evidence out, and we can’t guarantee the judge will let it in,” Ramsey said. “The difference is, if we gamble and lose, we have options. We may find more evidence when we go into the shelter, and even if we don’t, we go forward with our case and get to a jury. If he gambles and loses, he has no options. This evidence will convict his client, and after his appeals are exhausted, Father Martin will die by lethal injection.”

  St. Claire sat back. “He can’t take that chance.”

  “No, he can’t, no matter how big a set of balls he has. So go to your office, get on the telephone, and tell him the news. Then tell him Father Martin has until Thursday morning, before the hearing, to plead guilty. If he does, we will strongly consider a sentence of twenty-five years to life and recommend twenty-five years. If he does not, the offer is off the table, we will seek the death penalty, and Mr. Donley will be playing Russian roulette with Father Martin’s life.”

  The door to the office opened without a knock. Augustus Ramsey paused in the doorway, considering St. Claire.

  “Hello, Governor,” St. Claire said, standing.

  “Hello, Ms. St. Claire. Did you enjoy yourself the other night?”

  “I did. Thank you for having me.” St. Claire turned to Gil Ramsey. “I’ll go make that call.” She excused herself and walked out.

  Augustus Ramsey followed her with his eyes. When the door closed, he turned to his son. “Are you getting a piece of that?”

  Ramsey returned to his desk. “Why are you here, Dad?”

  “Your mother and I missed you Christmas Day. We missed seeing our grandchildren.”

  “Change of plans,” Gil Ramsey said. “Linda wanted to see her parents.”

  Augustus Ramsey didn’t pursue it. He sat in the chair St. Claire had vacated.

  “I’m very busy, Dad.”

  “Just thought I’d check in and see how the priest case is coming along. I understand you have a positive match on the blood.”

  Gil Ramsey felt his stomach grip. “How would you know that, Dad?”

  “A man has his sources.”

  “Not all men, Dad. Just you.” Ramsey walked to the window behind his desk but closed his eyes to the view, feeling nauseated. “Why are you so interested in this case, Dad?”

  “I told you why. I’m just looking out for your best interests. It’s unfortunate what happened to the priest. I heard he nearly died. Mistakes happen, I guess.”

  Nothing had been printed about the screwup at the county jail that resulted in the priest’s jacket file being changed from red to yellow. Yellow-coded jacket files indicated general-population prisoners. Red was for isolated prisoners. The deputy who had come on duty swore that Father Martin’s jacket had been yellow. Other than the sheriff’s office, which was investigating the matter, and Gil Ramsey, no one knew that information. Ramsey hadn’t even told St. Claire.

  Ramsey turned and looked at the man sitting in the chair across his desk. “How do you know that?” Augustus Ramsey did not answer. “What the hell did you do?”

  Augustus Ramsey lifted his hands like a priest greeting his congregation. Irony had always been one of his strengths. “I did what a father does for his son. I took care of things for you.”

  The nauseated feeling intensified. “For me? Or for you?”

  “I wouldn’t have had to do anything if you had done your job and convinced that attorney to take the plea,” Augustus Ramsey said. “Instead, he made you look incompetent on national television. I hope this time you’ll be more persuasive.”

  Ramsey looked at the man sitting across from him and felt nothing but disgust. “I’m washing my hands of this.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m no fool, Dad.”

  His father did not reply.

  “And I want no more of this. I want no more of you. I want you out of here. I want you away from me and my children. If you interfere again, I’ll . . .”

  Augustus Ramsey smiled. “You’ll what? Go to the police? How is that going to look, the district attorney offering a murder-one suspect a plea agreement?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why would you do that when everyone knows the DA doesn’t plea murder-one suspects? Why would you do it in this case unless you had some personal interest?”

  For a moment, Ramsey couldn’t speak. His throat had gone dry. He licked his lips. “You set me up?”

  “My career is over,” his father said. “Who has the most at stake, the most to lose? Who had the greater motivation to make this go away, to make that kid go away? It’s a crime to use your office to obstruct justice.”

  A cold sweat overcame him. He felt chilled to the bone. His legs weak, he sunk into his chair. “You knew. You knew about the tapes,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I’ve had reason to suspect they existed, yes.”

  “And Connor? You’re aware of Connor?”

  “Not initially, no. We’ll raise the money and put this behind us.”

  “And you used me,” Ramsey said. He looked up at the ceiling and laughed, disbelieving.

  August Ramsey picked a piece of lint from his coat sleeve and rubbed it from his fingers, watching it float to the ground. “Grow up, Gil. Here’s a news flash: Everybody uses everybody. It’s how you get to the top. It’s how you stay on top. And I intend to stay on top. The only question is, do you?”

  Late Monday afternoon, Donley sat in a chair in Linda St. Claire’s office in the Hall of Justice building. Donley had spent most of the weekend and all day Monday researching the law for his motion to exclude the evidence. So far, the results had not been encouraging. The last thing he’d needed or wanted was a call from St. Claire. She had greeted him without the same confrontational demeanor she’d displayed in their first two encounters, surprisingly cordial, even friendly. In fact, her whole appearance had softened, with her hair pulled back in a loose clip. She wore khaki slacks and a red-knit sweater.

  She handed him a single sheet of paper. “They’ve confirmed Father Martin’s blood type on Andrew Bennet’s clothing.”

  Donley remained determined not to allow St. Claire to do another tap dance on his face, but her words struck hard, like an anvil to the chest. “The evidence is not going to come in, Ms. St. Claire. It was obtained illegally.”

  She shook her head. “The clothing was not in the locked office. There’s no argument to keep it out.” Before he had a chance to respond, she stood and raised a hand, though again it seemed conciliatory. “Look, I know you’re confident in your legal position, but I believe the law is more favorable to admitting the evidence. It would have been found eventually under Nix v. Williams. Be that as it may, I’m not here to debate the law with you. You’ll argue your case, and I’ll argue mine. But you have to agree, at the very least, neither of us can predict what Judge Trimble will ultimately do.”

  She was back to the plea. Donley remained silent.

  “I guess the real issue is consequences,” she continued. “If you lose your motion, how do you explain this evidence to a jury?” St. Claire again raised a hand as if to cut him off, though Donley had no intention of answering her question. “You have to acknowledge it is a problem.” She sat back in her chair. “If I lose this motion, I still have a dead boy at Father Martin’s shelter with Father Martin covered in his blood and his blood type on the victim’s clothing. I know you’ll argue Father Martin lived there and went to the boy’s aid, but how do you explain Father Martin’s blood? I also think I still have a better than fifty-fifty chance of getting the letter opener into evidence. It was in plain sight on his desk and not locked in a cabinet. It’s circumstantial, certainly, but if I’m right, I have the murder weapon, the body, the circumstances, and now, the blood. Murder one. Father Martin goes away for
life—I think that’s the worst I do. If you lose, it all comes in, and I have aggravated murder. Father Martin gets the death penalty.”

  “And you have something for Father Martin to consider in light of that risk?” Donley asked, tired of the hints.

  She sat forward. “We’re prepared to recommend a sentence of between twenty-five years to life and let Trimble decide the number.”

  Donley tried to show no emotion. “A chance with Maximum Milt? Not much of an offer.”

  She put up a hand. “We would strongly recommend Father Martin receive twenty-five years, with the possibility of parole after twenty. When he gets out, he’s still a relatively young man, mid-fifties.”

  Donley sat back. “You know, I’ve been told numerous times now that the DA doesn’t plea murder ones.”

  St. Claire diverted her eyes. “Sometimes doing justice requires that we consider reasonable plea agreements.”

  It sounded like a rehearsed speech. “But this isn’t what you want, is it? No offense, but your record speaks for itself, and I can see it in your demeanor. You’d prefer to try Father Martin. I’m not casting aspersions. It’s just a deduction.”

  St. Claire wasn’t about to say, but her lack of fire and brimstone betrayed her. “It’s simple percentages, Mr. Donley. I’m weighing the percentages and calculating where this is likely to shake out. It’s a gamble. We all realize that. But you’re the only one who’ll be gambling with Father Martin’s life.”

  Father Martin sat up in his hospital bed. “Peter. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  Donley dropped his briefcase at the foot of the bed and undid the knot of his tie. “They found your blood type on Andrew Bennet’s clothing.”

  Father Martin closed his eyes.

  Donley paced, one hand rubbing his forehead. “I can’t keep that out. It wasn’t in the office. How do we explain it?”

  Father Martin sighed. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

  Donley stopped and turned. “Stop being sorry, OK? That’s not getting us anywhere. How do we explain it, Tom? I need to know, because I am running out of time and options.”

  “Do you see any reason why a man in custody, going nowhere, has to have his blood drawn at eleven p.m. on Christmas Eve when the officer is going off duty?”

  “No, I don’t, but now we’re going from someone planting evidence to a vast conspiracy to frame you, and the farther we go out on that limb, the weaker it becomes. When we first met, I told you the courtroom was not the real world. It’s the world I create. How do I sell that to a jury? How do I sell a conspiracy theory to a jury when we don’t have a clue who the conspirators might be, or what their beef is with you?”

  “You indicated the other evidence was illegally seized, that it might not come into evidence.”

  Donley put up a hand to cut him off. “I said that I would bring a motion to exclude it. I can’t guarantee anything. I’ve been doing research for three days, and I’d say our chances are less than fifty percent of keeping it out.”

  “What do you want me to do, confess to a crime I did not commit? I didn’t kill Andrew Bennet.”

  Donley stopped pacing. “The DA is offering twenty-five years with the possibility of parole after twenty.”

  Father Martin shut his eyes. “If I plead guilty.”

  “Yes. I can’t guarantee you I can do better than that, Tom, and I’m obligated to bring you the offer. If we lose, best-case scenario, you get life, no parole. Worst-case, the State of California puts you to death.”

  Father Martin opened his eyes. “You’ve never guaranteed me anything.”

  “What?”

  “From the very beginning, you have told me the evidence against me was very bad. You told me the chances of keeping it out are, at best, even. I listened to your counsel because it is your job, but what I truly care about is that you believe me when I tell you that I did not kill Andrew Bennet.”

  “Whether I believe you or not is not important—”

  “It is to me.”

  Donley looked away and blew out a breath.

  “If I have to spend the rest of my life in prison, then so be it. I’ll accept it as God’s way of calling me to minister to those who need it most.”

  Donley spoke without turning. “Do you know what they do to child molesters in prison?”

  Martin scoffed and spread his arms. “Uh, yeah!”

  Donley faced him. “They’ll kill you this time.”

  “Another reason for me not to plea to any deal. This is my decision, Peter. Do not put this burden on your shoulders. If this is my cross to carry, then I will carry it. I make it willingly and knowingly. I am prepared to die, if that is my fate, and nothing you do or not do will have contributed to it. Do you understand that?”

  Donley didn’t answer. How could he not feel like it would be his fault? “That’s very noble,” he said. “But just the same, I’d prefer you didn’t die on my watch.”

  “I ask only two things of you.”

  “What?” Donley said.

  “Believe me when I say I did not kill Andrew Bennet.”

  “I believe you,” Donley said.

  Father Martin nodded. “Thank you.”

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “Andrew’s killer remains free. Find him. Find him for all the boys I was trying to help. Do it for them, not for me.”

  Donley thought about it, and the more he did, the more he realized Father Tom had just hit on maybe the only thing that would save his life—finding the killer.

  Chapter 16

  December 29, 1987

  Donley pulled out the business card and double-checked the address. The inordinate number of cheap motels and corner liquor stores with gated entrances and barred windows confirmed the building remained in the heart of the Tenderloin, just blocks from his own office, though the deterioration was significant. How like Lou to choose a private investigator who couldn’t afford a business address better than the Tenderloin. He hoped Frank Ross was a better investigator than his choice of neighborhoods would otherwise indicate. After a fitful night of sleep, Donley was more convinced that Father Martin was correct—the only way Donley was going to win was if he found Andrew Bennet’s killer. Arguing some vast conspiracy without the evidence to support it was not going to get them anywhere. In fact, it would make them look desperate.

  Donley’s breath formed white wisps as he dodged a couple of cars crossing the street. The stucco of the three-story building had been tagged with graffiti, and the wood trim had flaked so badly, he couldn’t be sure what color it had once been painted. A homeless woman sat on the top step pulling a dark-blue ski cap low on her head and dipping a doughnut into a steaming cup of coffee.

  The building lobby smelled like mold, though the floor was a cracked orange tile. A glass-enclosed, black-felt board identified the building tenants, though so many of the white letters had fallen and become wedged at the bottom of the case, the board looked like an unsolved crossword puzzle. Donley ran his index finger down the list of remaining vowels and consonants.

  F ANK RO S P IVA DIC ECT V

  Frank Ross’s office was on the second floor at the end of a drab, dimly lit hallway. Donley noted the misspelled word Dictective on the smoked glass. When he knocked, the door swung open, the office empty.

  He called out. “Mr. Ross? Hello?”

  The bright December sun streamed through a stained-glass window, coloring everything purple. Enough time in here, and Donley would have a major headache.

  Uncertain what to do, Donley stepped inside. The furnishings were spartan, an industrial-size metal desk and chair, multiple cardboard boxes, and a tattered couch. Built-in shelves held framed photographs, a few books, and miscellaneous stacks of paper.

  Donley picked up one of the frames and considered the picture. A young man with a crew cut sat in a police officer’s dress-blue uniform. The officer’s brown eyes sparkled like he wanted to smile but had been given an order to look serious. Donley put the pict
ure back on the shelf. The other photographs were of the same officer, older, shaking hands with a former mayor, Muhammad Ali, and 49ers quarterback Joe Montana. The Ali and Montana photographs were both autographed To Frank. A medal draped over a framed certificate from the city and county indicated Frank Ross had received the police department’s Gold Medal of Valor for bravery.

  On the second shelf a framed wedding picture sat between two photographs of a boy in a football uniform. The boy was big for his age, a smaller version of Frank Ross.

  “You better have a good reason for being in here.”

  Donley startled at the sound of the voice. Turning, he said, “Sorry, the door wasn’t shut all the way. It opened when I knocked.”

  Ross checked the latch and shook his head. “I was in the head.”

  “You don’t lock your door?”

  “Somebody wants to steal the stuff in here, I’ll help them carry it out.”

  Donley gestured to the door. “Detective is misspelled.”

  “Don’t remind me. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Peter Donley. I work with Lou Giantelli. I tried to call.” Donley glanced at the answering machine. A red light blinked. “Your answering machine must be full.”

  “I have a client who isn’t too happy with me at the moment.” He stuck out his hand. “Frank Ross.”

  “Lou said he hired you to work on the Father Martin case.”

  “He did, but I wasn’t sure about my status with Lou in the hospital. How’s he doing?”

  “Getting better, but not fast enough to handle this.”

  “So, you’re representing the priest?”

  “At the moment, and I have an evidentiary hearing Thursday—”

  “Read about it in the paper.” Ross looked about. “I’d offer you a chair.”

  “Couch is fine.”

  “Wouldn’t. Guy in here before me made movies. I haven’t had the manpower to get it out of here.”

  Donley stepped away from the couch into a stream of purple light and raised a hand to deflect the glare. “Isn’t that window a bit distracting?”