The second thing I focused on was Colleen's previous lover, Tommy Rivera. I knew he'd be testifying soon and his involvement in Colleen's prosecution had bothered me since she'd first told me. Why would Rivera go through such an ordeal, committing perjury to convict what he must have been sure was an innocent woman? Why would he lie on the witness stand with half the world watching? There had to be more to it than jealousy or revenge if he was lying.
I called Colleen into my office. She came in smiling, dressed only in a black satin teddy that came to just above her hips, a thin black string between her cheeks, exposing legs and butt and Frankie's carnal weakness. I smiled back. I went over, put my arms around her, backed her to the closet, pulled out a black robe, wrapped it around her and tied it at the waist.
I was getting ready to ask her about the burglaries in her neighborhood when the phone rang.
It was Henry Borowski. "Bearden is leave house now, he carries big briefcase, haves nervous face, lookink everywhere around before he gets in car."
"Follow him and keep me posted on the cellular."
I told Colleen to stay inside and do exactly what Martha told her, grabbed my own cellular, and ran to the bike.
Plugging in the adapter, I started the bike and tore off down Lombard. I sped through North Beach, past the cappuccino liberals, hit Broadway, and headed through the tunnel. When I popped out on the other side near Van Ness, I hit the speed-dialer and got Henry in the van.
"He iz go toward Great Highway, past zoo."
"Stay with him until I catch up," I told him. I figured the fastest route was out Fell Street, through Golden Gate Park to the Pacific Ocean and the Great Highway.
If Bearden turned north on the Great Highway, he'd be coming straight at me. If he was going south, I could probably hit ninety or a hundred on the beach-hugging four-lane highway heading to Pacifica.
As I sped through the park, Henry called, saying Bearden had turned south. The entire coast along the Great Highway was heavy with fog. It made it harder to speed and greatly improved the chances of dying.
I caught up to Henry, struggling to stay close to Bearden in the fog. The visibility was about a hundred feet as we headed down the Pacific Coast Highway through Pacifica, to Sky Line Boulevard, turning south toward Woodside. We'd "put Bearden in the cradle," me in front in case Henry lost him, Henry on his tail.
Bearden turned off the road in Woodside and headed for a large farmhouse on top of a hill. With the fog clearing, there was an expansive view of the surrounding Santa Clara Valley and the San Francisco Peninsula. I circled back to see Bearden speaking into an intercom box at the gate. It opened and Bearden drove in.
Henry and I stopped at a deep turnout a hundred yards from the drive, a spot with a good view of everything. I grabbed the infrared binoculars from the van and we ran up a hill in time to see Bearden get out of his car.
Through the green haze of the glasses I saw a figure step outside the farmhouse. Rigid bearing, aquiline nose, disappearing hair: Calvin Sherenian coming to greet his protégé. Bearden handed Sherenian the large briefcase.
It got even more interesting fifteen minutes later when Tommy Rivera arrived and drove through the gate.
Bearden and Sherenian both came to the door to greet Tommy Rivera. They shook his hand, looking nervously about to make sure Tommy was alone. Henry had a camera and telephoto lens prepared. Using his shoulder for a tripod, I snapped a couple of quick photos.
The three men entered the house. I couldn't figure it.
Rivera was the prosecution's witness, the guy trying to bury Colleen. So why were Calvin and Bearden, the defense, meeting him down in Smokey Bear country?
I got a little excited, hopeful. Maybe they were paying Rivera extortion money. Perhaps they'd called Rivera, asked for a meeting and were acquiescing to his demands. If he recanted his affidavit, refused to testify, the remaining evidence against Colleen slid back to circumstantial. Her chances for acquittal would grow tremendously, back to a merely scary fifty-fifty.
Soon after, paranoia began to serve me well.
I called the office and asked Colleen who would be the administrator of William's estate if she were unable.
"Calvin Sherenian, why?" I told her I was just curious and suggested she try to get some sleep.
I was afraid to say it aloud, to tell Henry what I really suspected.
Calvin and Bearden could easily have been bribing Tommy Rivera to recant his testimony. But the longer I thought about it, the more I doubted it. Too many people had too much to lose if Colleen was acquitted and Farragut's diaries fell into her hands. They all feared that she'd turn them over to the newspapers.
I feared the worst.
Calvin Sherenian was trying to get Colleen convicted. He was paying Tommy Rivera to testify against his own client.
Chapter 16
We tried to eavesdrop on the conversation inside the farmhouse, sneaking up to the building, listening with stethoscopes, creeping near windows. Nothing. They were inside somewhere, out of enhanced-listening range. All we got for hours worth of effort was sewer breath, splinters, a few minor ankle sprains.
I called Arnie and had him get his cousin Phillip out of bed. Phil McPherson is an Alameda County sheriff's deputy, an ex-Army Ranger and former boxer, weight lifter, martial artist, and SWAT team member. I could sleep in Beirut with Phil guarding me.
I had a working defense plan for my own house, as I'd sheltered a number of witnesses before. Triggered by my suspicions of Calvin's treachery toward his own client, I decided to go to my version of ready alert.
Martha would sleep in the room at the top of the steps, protecting the access to my bedroom, where Colleen would sleep.
There was a seldom-used security system with exterior camera's covering all the doors and first-floor windows in the house, a gift from a security company I'd sent dozens of customers to. From the monitor inside the garage workshop, Phil could watch every entrance. When Phil arrived, I instructed Arnie to recon the neighborhood once again. He would also be Phil and Martha's backup.
At four thirty in the morning we returned to the farmhouse in Woodside, listening, finding nothing. We contented ourselves with waiting across the road for everyone's departure.
At 5:35 A.M. Tommy Rivera walked out, carrying Bearden's black briefcase, beating the sunrise by less than fifteen minutes. I got a few more quick photos, this time from a tripod set on a tree stump a hundred yards from the house.
I left Henry to follow Bearden and tailed Rivera back to the city, riding the Norton without lights. About twenty minutes later we'd reached Pacifica, when Henry called over the cellular to tell me Bearden and Sherenian had left and were headed in the same direction.
Tommy arrived at his house in the Mission District at a little past six. I found a spot to park the Norton where I could watch the house without being seen. Tommy reappeared at exactly 7:50, showered, groomed, and dressed in a blue pinstripe suit. Court clothes.
He looked around nervously as he got into his car, then drove straight to the courthouse.
Henry called and told me Sherenian was leaving his building. All of a sudden, I realized I'd made a potentially dangerous mistake. What if Calvin called Colleen, found out she had stayed away from home, grew suspicious and decided to have her followed?
I called home frantically and got Martha. She'd called Consuela the night before and had Consuela activate the call-forwarding so Colleen's number would ring on my private line without detection.
Calvin hadn't called. Martha had already phoned for a cabdriver we trusted to take Colleen home. Phil would escort them through a basement maze below my house and out through a neighbor's garage a block away. Martha and Phil would follow the cab in Martha's car to within a block of Colleen's house.
Calvin sent a car and a driver to transport Colleen to court every morning. I worried for Colleen's safety but didn't figure they would make a move against her en route to the courthouse, in broad daylight. I thought of having
Phil or Martha tail Colleen, but was afraid they might be spotted.
I went home, showered, shaved, dressed, and guzzled strong coffee to fight the effects of another night without sleep. Then I headed back to the courthouse to see if Tommy would testify, and if his testimony would confirm my suspicions.
Chapter 17
At 10:20 A.M., Tommy Rivera walked into Judge Marilyn Walters' courtroom and prepared to take the stand. The media squirmed and frothed like sharks in shallow water.
This was what they came for, the main event, the Lions and Christians portion of the show, the "Ladies and Gentlemen . . . the Rolling Stones" portion. It's what got their lace panties wet, their little peters twitching. The good stuff, the above-the-fold-stuff; the lead-in to the first hemorrhoid commercial. Big. Bigger than massacres in Eastern Europe, famine in Africa.
The rich widow, the wicked tramp of Presidio Heights. Farm girl. Teenage waitress in a tits-and-ass joint. Society do-gooder with pinup beauty. The woman who married it all and then shot him, the suspended millions, the gas chamber, the cold cell at Frontera with the bad light and terrible wardrobe.
Now the Latin stud with the golden hammer, the record, the charm, the degree from Berkeley. Info on the heartless bitch and dead hubby, good shit, inside dirt, dick-in-the-middle-of-it stuff.
The media pushed and shoved and cursed each other in the hallway until Walters sent two bailiffs to restore order. They peered through the doors as they swung open and shut for the deputies. Pleading, baggy eyes. Watery eyes, high-test, coffee-and-menthol-cigarette eyes. Give us anything, they pleaded. Bestiality, bondage, maybe a little Lesbian Home Porno!! Dare they dream of . . . satanic ritual? Did she nibble on the body? Help us, please.
After the bailiffs made a few terse but highly believable threats, they became quieter, more rigid. Mummy-like.
Tommy Rivera was sworn in, Ian Jeffries approached. "Please state your name and occupation."
"Thomas Angel Rivera." He sniffed a little, pulled himself up in his seat. He gave Angel the Spanish pronunciation. "Ahn-hel."
He was an impressive sight. Lean, slick black hair, obsidian eyes, conservative suit, white shirt, colorful tie, handmade shoes. The street kid who'd made it, the glib outlaw with the master's degree from Berkeley. Connections downtown, good seats everywhere, the really big parties. Headed for the supervisor's office? Too small. Rivera was ready for his own Series, a big stage for a new matinee idol.
He was so taken with himself he neglected to answer the second part of the question.
"And could you state your occupation."
"I'm a special consultant to the Office of Redevelopment."
"And what do you do in this capacity?"
"I examine renovation plans and projects, make recommendations to the director and to the mayor's office. I meet with private parties, developers: I try to cut red tape, follow the guidelines set by the city."
He looked at Colleen for the first time, who looked back, quietly staring him down. Rivera turned back to Ian Jeffries.
"Mr. Rivera, after you give us your testimony the defense is going to try to discredit you as a witness, say that you lived a life of crime as a teenager, that you are not an honorable man, that you are not to be trusted. I'd like to clear the air about who you are, where you came from, and what you've done."
"I have nothing to hide, as long as I get a chance to tell the whole story."
"You were born and raised in San Francisco, in the Mission District, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"What was your mother's occupation?"
"She was a prostitute."
"And your father's occupation?"
"I never saw my father. My mother told me several different stories about who he was, depending on how drunk and loaded she was at the time. All I know was that he was one of her tricks."
"You are the oldest of five brothers and sisters."
"Yes."
"And what was your relationship to the other children?"
"I was their surrogate father. I cooked their meals, made them breakfast before school, washed their clothes."
"How old were you when you began caring for your siblings, Mr. Rivera?"
"I was eight. Maybe younger."
"What else did you do for them?"
"I supported them financially. I think I was nine when I assumed that responsibility as well."
"How does a nine-year-old support four other children?"
"By stealing. First it was things that were left in neighbors' yards and in unlocked garages. Then I graduated to car stereos, fencing stolen merchandise, things like that."
"How old were you when you paid the family's rent for the first time?"
"I was nine. The landlord came and threatened to evict us—my mother was so loaded she didn't care. So I broke into someone's house and stole their stereo and a few watches. I would have stolen the TV but I wasn't big enough to carry it."
"The records show your mother received welfare payments, and you say she worked as a prostitute. What did she do with the money she got from those two sources?"
"She spent it on dope and booze."
"Have you ever done drugs, Mr. Rivera?"
"Not even once in my life."
"When were you first arrested?"
"When I was sixteen I was arrested for grand theft auto and fencing stolen auto parts. I was sentenced to eighteen months in juvenile hall. White I was there I stabbed an older boy who tried to rape me, and I wound up doing a full two years."
Never mind that the other boy was half Tommy's size and claimed Tommy tried to extort money from him.
"What happened to your family while you were in jail?"
"One of my mother's tricks cut her to ribbons with a beer bottle and she bled to death. The county put my brothers and sisters in foster homes."
"Were you ever arrested again?"
"At eighteen I was arrested for stealing typewriters from an office building. While I was in jail I met a counselor, a Roman Catholic priest who befriended me, who tried to help me. Father Mario Vargas. He taught me how to read and write, and I fell in love with books and with learning. I earned my high school diploma while I was in San Luis Obispo Men's Colony."
"What did you do after your release from jail?"
"I enrolled at the City College of San Francisco, got my associate degree in social welfare. Then I transferred to the University of California at Berkeley, where I earned a bachelor's and a master's degree, the first in urban planning, the second in architectural design."
"I was thirty-third in my undergraduate class at Berkeley."
"Have you been arrested for any crimes since you first enrolled at City College?"
"No."
Proof positive that either the cops had been sleeping during that time or Tommy had refined his techniques.
"How did you meet the defendant, Mrs. Farragut?" Ian always called her Mrs. with an oily marinade of condescension. Never by her name, to remind everyone that she was the lesser half of Farragut & Farragut, the murderess shadow of William, whose name he used with great delicacy. Calvin might have objected to the Mrs.-and-William dichotomy and won. At least he'd have gotten it in the record, in the jury's mind. My uneasiness was growing.
"I met her at a number of social functions. Fund-raisers, primarily, for the urban renewal project I ran called SOHO: Save our Homes, Ourselves."
"How did you come to run SOHO, Mr. Rivera?" addressing him with just the subtlest note of respect, reverence.
"I founded it ten years ago, when I was twenty-eight. I got the city to give people back their condemned housing provided the occupants renovated it, turned it into real homes. We got city funds, state funds at first, plus private donations. Mrs. Farragut was one of our biggest supporters."
"You knew her well, then."
"Very well," he said, and allowed himself a smug little grin. Yes, the hot media breath begged silently behind me, how well? How good was she, Tom? Did she sing soprano in the midnight
choir? Help us . . . .
"How long ago did you meet?"
"About four years ago."
"And how friendly did you become?"
"Real friendly."
Rivera's face underwent a strange metamorphosis, slow, subtle, reflecting a much more animated interior, from coy to worried. A nervous smile appeared on his lips.
"Friendly to the point of sex, Mr. Rivera?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
Tommy leaned forward, almost resting his chin on the oak rail in front of him, an intense look transforming his features yet again.
Everyone seemed to lean a little forward with him.
"Are you talking about . . . multiples? Say we're in a hotel room, four, five hours, we do it, three, four times, does that count as one encounter, or three or four?"
Then he leaned back. He owned the place; even the judge fought to keep from showing any reaction. I could hear little hands scribbling away all around me.
"That's one encounter, Mr. Rivera." Heh, heh—Ian sorry he never got to do her himself.
"Perhaps ten times . . . yes, that would be about right." Tommy fighting the nerves again.
"Over what period of time?"
"A month."
"Ten times in one month?"
"Yes."
Colleen looked ready to die, ready to scream, anything to put an end to the horror. She struggled visibly to keep her composure. "Where did these encounters occur?"
"Hotels outside the city limits, where she would be less likely to encounter people who knew her. Marin County or Napa Valley."
"Never at your place or at hers?"-
"No."
"Why didn't you go to Mrs. Farragut's place?"
"It might have gotten a little embarrassing if her husband walked in. I know it would be for me."
They were eating it up, even if he was sweating, swallowing nervously. Something was bothering him. He held his head up, took a long slow breath, sucking it up as Ian Jeffries waited.
"Big hotels, nice hotels, Mr. Rivera?"
"The biggest, the nicest."
Bohemian Heart Page 13
