The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  I’m sure you didn’t do a lot for his life, either, Donley thought but did not say. “How did you meet him?”

  Devine stared at his desk. “I was partying a lot back then; it was part of the nightclub scene.” He reached into his pocket and took out a tube of ChapStick, applying it as he spoke. “When I was at the club, four or five people a night would buy me a vodka or want me to do a bump in the bathroom. My wife partied as much as I did, though her family doesn’t know that.” Divine looked out the window and rubbed a finger over his lips, spreading the lip balm. “It was a business, and I did what needed to be done to make the business succeed. The nightclub did well from the start because of me, but the restaurant took more time. You have to develop an identity and get some publicity. My wife’s family had some connections. Her father made a couple of telephone calls, and we were featured in the Chronicle. I used to keep the article framed on the wall in the restaurant.”

  “How often did you see Bennet?” Donley asked.

  “Who?”

  “The victim.”

  “Not often. He lied. He told me he was eighteen.”

  “How did you find him when you wanted to see him?”

  Devine shrugged. “I asked for Alphabet. That was the name I knew. I’d send my wife home and tell her I was going to close. There were places to go.”

  “How did he blackmail you?” Ross asked, clearly wanting Devine to get on with it.

  “How?”

  “Yes, how? Did he send a letter, stop by the house—”

  Devine closed his eyes and shook his head. “I wish. The little fucker had a video.”

  Ross and Donley exchanged a glance.

  “How did he get a video?” Donley asked.

  Devine gave them a grim look. “I was so stupid,” he said. “At first, we stayed in my car. I stuck with him, you know, in case the police were doing an undercover thing.”

  Donley wanted to vomit. Frank Ross looked like he’d bit into a lemon.

  “One night he told me about a place he wanted to take me, a room below a video store on O’Farrell. A party room. I was pretty wasted and wasn’t thinking clearly. We went there, and he turned on this strobe light and loud music. I couldn’t see or hear anything.” Devine cleared his throat and looked out the window. “They filmed us.”

  “They?” Donley asked.

  “Well, I assume he had someone else filming. He had to, didn’t he? Anyway, he must have seen the article in the Chronicle about the restaurant with my picture and name because he showed up at work one night and had a waiter hand me a copy of the videotape. I met him in the alley in back. He asked for five hundred dollars.”

  “And you paid it,” Ross said.

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “But he didn’t go away,” Donley said.

  “No,” Devine said. “He said he had copies. When I told him I wouldn’t pay any more, he threatened to mail the tape to my wife. He threatened to go to my boys’ school and put it in the VCR. I was up against the wall. The restaurant wasn’t doing well. Two of my chefs had quit. I couldn’t handle it anymore. So I went to the police. Then I had to tell my wife.”

  Donley had no doubt that was the order of Devine’s confessions. “Did the investigation reveal the names of the other boys who did the filming?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m curious,” Ross asked. “How did you get the DA not to prosecute you, to let you go without even having to register as a sex offender?”

  Divine shrugged. “I don’t know. I left that to my father-in-law and his lawyer. He knew the governor.”

  “Augustus Ramsey?” Ross asked.

  Devine nodded. “They knew each other through the Bohemian Club. They golfed together on Saturdays.”

  “Outside you said, ‘God help him’ when I said I thought someone was trying to frame my client,” Donley said. “Why did you say that?”

  Devine looked to the window before reengaging Donley. “Because of something he said to me once when I told him I wouldn’t pay.”

  “Bennet?”

  Divine nodded. “He said he had a lot of tapes of people like me. And he said he was going to make them all pay.”

  “And you believe that to be true?” Donley asked.

  Devine looked off again, like he was seeing all the way back to those years. “I called his bluff once and paid for it with my life,” he said. “I wasn’t about to call his bluff again.”

  They drove along the same dirt path, away from the winery. With the sun having set, Ross turned on the Cadillac’s headlights. The beams cast two funnel cones on the road and shimmered in the brush and tree branches. In town, the remaining storefronts in Saint Helena had darkened, the old-fashioned street lamps lighting the streets. It wasn’t for half an hour, until they reached the freeway and started south, that Ross spoke, his voice subdued.

  “I have to commend you. I wanted to reach across the desk and tear his face off. Tell me where in life it says that guys like Jack Devine always end up on their feet? Why is that?”

  “It’s just the way it is,” Donley said. “You know that. We all know that. People say the justice system is color-blind, but it isn’t. It sees color, and it sees green. It will always see green. We like to think our courts are the great equalizer between the powerful and the powerless, but more times than not, money and power still prevail. To the Jack Devines of this world, Bennet wasn’t the victim because in Jack Devine’s way of thinking, everything was OK because he paid for it.”

  “Bennet was just trying to survive,” Ross said. “He wouldn’t have been doing it if it wasn’t for the Jack Devines of the world.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Donley replied.

  “He’s not even sorry. That’s what pisses me off most. I could tell watching him sitting there that the son of a bitch wasn’t even sorry for what he did.”

  “I once heard a judge tell a defendant there was a difference between being sorry for his actions and being sorry he got caught,” Donley said. “I agree with you. Jack Devine is only sorry he got caught.”

  “He’s not on the road to recovery; he’s on the road dictated to him by his wife and his father-in-law,” Ross said.

  “You’re probably right.” Donley watched the yellow line at the side of the road blur past the window. “That’s why I kept thinking about his kids.”

  Ross remained agitated. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll bet old Jack doesn’t spend much quality time alone with the boys.”

  “They’re suffering just the same,” Donley said. “They’re growing up with a bad father, which is worse than growing up without a father. When I was a kid, all I wanted was for my father to leave.” He continued to focus on the hypnotic yellow line. “It wasn’t until Benny was born and I sat in that hospital room holding him and thinking of all the things we would do together, all the things I would teach him, that I realized the beatings weren’t the worst part about having a bad father. The worst part was all those things my father could have offered me and didn’t, all the things he could have been for me and wasn’t.”

  Frank Ross adjusted in his seat. “I’m sorry.”

  Donley didn’t respond.

  “So, that’s the demon you’re trying to exorcise.”

  Donley looked at him, half his face in the shadows. “You said you hated nights—that you couldn’t sleep because that was when you were alone with your demons? You couldn’t have hated nights more than I hated them. My demon was flesh and blood, and usually drunk.”

  They sat somber, like two penitents. In the distance, one of the spires of the Golden Gate Bridge peaked over the ridge, red lights flashing a warning to planes. Beyond the spire, the lights from the San Francisco skyline were a soft glow in the darkening sky.

  Donley spoke without taking his eyes off the horizon. “You wonder how I listened to a guy like Jack Devine without going across the desk? You didn’t see me gripping the chair. I’ve been gripping the chair with both hands all
my life.”

  Chapter 18

  The video store was across the street from the O’Farrell Theatre, an infamous flesh house where patrons paid a high price to watch naked women engage in live sex acts with one another. San Francisco’s streets were starting to buzz with energy, the storefronts lit with flashing lights, people milling about or cruising in cars to loud music. Donley watched a group of Japanese businessmen enter the O’Farrell, then turned his attention to the video store. He could guess its primary customers; it wasn’t competing with the new-releases section at the local Blockbuster.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Donley asked.

  “Let’s go find out,” Ross said.

  When Donley and Ross walked in the front door, several young men dressed in tight blue jeans and T-shirts, despite the brisk weather, eased their way to the exit, leaving the lingering, sweet smell of marijuana. A quick inventory revealed the merchandise was not limited to videos but included magazines and sex gadgets not for the faint of heart. No soft porn here, Donley thought. Hard core all the way.

  The man behind the counter was bald and dark-skinned with a silver loop earring and a manicured goatee. Donley guessed him to be of Middle Eastern descent. He seemed unbothered by Ross and Donley, ignoring them while continuing a conversation with a tall black woman with flowing hair and dressed in high heels and a tight, red-sequined dress.

  Ross gave the woman the thumb as he approached the counter. “Take a hike, sweetheart.”

  The woman blew them a kiss. “You too old for me, sugar.” She turned to Donley. “But you look yummy.”

  “Lucky you,” Ross said to Donley.

  On closer inspection, the woman had a more prominent Adam’s apple than Ross.

  She gave them a flirtatious flick of her hair with two-inch, bright-red fingernails before sauntering out.

  Ross turned to the man behind the counter. “Sorry to burst your bubble. You the owner?”

  The man straightened but kept both palms flat on the counter. “Yeah. So what?”

  “So, what’s your name?”

  The man smirked. “Joe.”

  “OK, Joe,” Ross said, apparently willing to play along. “Do you know an Andrew Bennet, goes by the street name Alphabet?”

  “Never heard of it; lots of other movies on the shelf, though.”

  “Cute.” Ross laughed. “Here’s a better clue. He was stabbed to death last week. Prior to dying, he ran quite a little business for himself making videotaped movies. Something tells me a kid like that can’t afford a studio. How do you think he got access to one, Joe?”

  Joe shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Name doesn’t ring a bell, and I don’t read the paper. It’s too depressing.”

  “Still no bells, huh?” Ross snatched Joe’s wrist, pinning his hand to the counter. His other hand flicked out just as quick and gripped the earlobe with the earring, pulling Joe closer. The remaining customers scattered. “Maybe you didn’t hear me standing all the way over there,” Ross said, bending down to talk into Joe’s ear. “I said Andrew Bennet. Stabbed. Video equipment. The party room below your store. Illegal. Violations of building and fire codes. Jail. Heavy fines. Loss of business license. Am I making myself heard now?”

  Joe grimaced. His free hand inched under the counter.

  Ross twisted the earring. “Don’t be stupid, Joe. If you move your hand another inch, I’ll rip this earring right out of your ear.”

  Joe put his free hand back on top of the counter.

  “You have a piece under there, Joe?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Then what is worth losing your earlobe over?”

  “Alarm,” Joe said through clenched teeth.

  “Alarm? Don’t bother.”

  “You guys been hassling me for two weeks. I’m tired of being hassled.”

  “Who’s been hassling you, Joe?”

  Joe gave him a curious look. “SFPD.”

  “Same guy or different guys?”

  “Same guy.”

  “Big guy, crew cut, square head?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said.

  Ross looked to Donley. Then he let go of the earring.

  “You need a lawyer? It’s your lucky day. I brought one.” Ross turned to Donley. “You’re a lawyer. What is your assessment of Joe’s operation here?”

  Donley grimaced as if weighing the consequences. “I have to be honest, Joe. A quick review indicates illegal drugs and probably illegal reading and viewing material. Plus, if we find the party room, you’re looking at perhaps accessory to extortion and a host of other crimes. Hell, they’d probably even want to question you regarding Andrew Bennet’s death. I could make a pretty good case, couldn’t you, Detective? Greedy store owner got worried about his liability, decided to kill his partner. I wouldn’t want to stand up in court and argue in your defense, though I would, after you paid me a hell of a lot of money. My advice to you would be to listen to the detective and answer his questions. It will be cheaper in the long run.”

  Joe stepped back, massaging his earlobe.

  “We already know about the room downstairs. We just need you to show it to us,” Donley said. “I’m not here to hassle you.”

  “Yeah, right, lucky me. And I’m nobody’s partner. I’m not worried about that crap.”

  “So, you do know Andrew Bennet?” Ross said.

  Joe paused. “I recognized his picture from the paper, OK?”

  “Is that the paper you don’t read because it depresses you?” Ross asked.

  “I thought you weren’t here to hassle me.”

  Ross pointed to Donley. “He said he wasn’t here to hassle you. I am.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with anything like that.”

  “Good,” Ross said. “So, show us the room.”

  Joe stretched his neck, a simple gesture of a beaten man trying to maintain a sense of dignity. “Meet me in the alley in five minutes,” he said.

  “One minute,” Ross said. “Don’t even stop to take a pee. If you are one second late, I’ll come back here every night and sit right in the front of your store. You got the rules, Joe?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Good.” Ross looked at his watch. “Time’s running.”

  Joe called into the back room in a foreign language Donley thought to be Farsi. The way he looked at Ross as he spoke, Donley surmised that Joe was calling Ross every swear word he knew. A moment later, a glassy-eyed man who looked to be a younger version of Joe, a brother, came out from behind the curtain.

  “Watch the counter,” Joe said. “I need to go for a walk.”

  The alley smelled of rotting garbage emanating from a beat-up dumpster. Though the facades of the buildings facing the street had been refurbished with stucco, the walls that formed the alley remained original brick and mortar, orange in color from the dull ambient lighting. The pavement under Donley’s feet was uneven and looked wet. He tried not to think about what he was stepping in.

  Ross said, “You’re pretty good at this. You picked up the good-cop-bad-cop routine better than some partners I’ve had.”

  “I watch a lot of television.”

  “Am I that predictable?”

  Donley shook his head. “You would never be on television.”

  A soft yellow light flicked on over their heads, a bulb in a metal cage. A moment later, Joe appeared in the alley with a set of keys. He waved them to the garbage bin, and they helped him push it to the side, revealing a reddish-brown door painted the color of the brick. At night, it was nearly undetectable. Joe opened the door, and Ross and Donley followed him down a dimly lit stairwell to another door. Joe unlocked it, pushed it in, and flipped on the light.

  The room was concrete, the walls painted dark purple with a black ceiling. Worn couches lined the perimeter along with a few sporadic tables and chairs.

  “What does that do?” Ross asked, pointing to a machine hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.

  With a look of pride, Joe f
lipped a switch. Pulsing strobes of lights colored the walls and made their movements look slow and jerky. Joe flipped a second switch, and music burst from speakers hanging in the four corners, causing the air in the room to vibrate. Donley had been in a few similar clubs in the Haight-Ashbury District before Benny was born, before wake-up came at 6:00 a.m., rain or shine.

  Joe stood smiling at Ross, who had his fingers in his ears. “Turn it off,” Ross yelled.

  Joe flipped the switches, and the room stopped spinning and vibrating. “What, you don’t like to party, Detective?”

  “I’m a wine-and-cheese guy, can’t you tell?” Ross looked at Donley. “I thought my office gave me a headache.”

  “It was built during Prohibition,” Joe said. “They used to gamble and drink down here.”

  “We’ll erect a historical plaque on the wall,” Ross said.

  “Now it’s a place for people with what you call alternative lifestyles. It’s popular with the vampire crowd. Tonight the punks have it. They bring their own music. I just rent the room. Helps pay my monthly rent the city keeps jacking me for.”

  “Where are they tonight?” Ross asked.

  Joe shrugged. “It’s early, Detective. They don’t even go out until ten o’clock, sometimes midnight.”

  “And you don’t pay any more attention to it than that?” Ross asked with skepticism.

  Joe’s goatee sagged. He shook his head. “I don’t care what they do here. I just take the money. You want to bust me, go ahead. There are about two dozen other places like this around the city. The way I figure it, I’m doing the city a favor. At least they’re not on the street.”

  “Remind me to nominate you for a citizenship award,” Ross said.

  “What do you know about Andrew Bennet?” Donley asked.

  “I don’t.” Joe put up a hand to protect his ear. “Like I said, I recognized the kid’s picture in the paper. He and his buddies used the room. They had a video camera. I figured they were making movies. Porn stuff, you know. They usually came on an off night during the week. Thursday through Sunday, the place is booked.”

  “He had buddies?” Ross asked.