Bohemian Heart

by Dalessandro, James

  "You wait here," she said. We could hear her voice, faintly, as she went into another room and talked on the phone. If necessary, I knew I could get the number she was calling from my friend at the phone company.

  "He'll be waitin' for us at eight o'clock tomorrow mornin'," she said when she returned.

  "You be ready at seven, and don't be so fucked-up you can't talk, understand?" Arnie's heels clicked as he took a few steps across the bare floor. Then he stopped. "How'd a couple of horse players like you two case a place like the Farraguts'?" he asked. "You got a pimp?"

  "I ain't got no pimp, I ain't no fuckin' 'ho. I just likes to get high."

  "Then who was it? I know you and that other bitch ain't that smart, and I want to know in case some dude comes lookin' for his silver plates."

  There was a long silence.

  "Dude named Tommy Rivera. He was fuckin' that rich dude's wife, but she dumped his ass. He set it up, he set up a couple of other jobs we done. We ain't talked to him since Candira fucked up and shot the dude. You ain't got nothin' to worry about."

  Then we listened as Arnie shut the door behind him and came back down the hall.

  An hour later, Arnie, Martha, Zane Neidlinger, Vincent Halloran and I were in the living room of Judge Marilyn Walters's house. I didn't have any of the evidence I had of Calvin's betrayal of Colleen. The last thing I wanted now was a mistrial.

  We sat and listened to the tape recording we'd just made.

  Magdallena's story was every bit as dramatic the second time. Judge Walters sat in stunned disbelief. When the tape was finished I clicked off the recorder.

  "That's incredible, gentlemen. But it's not admissible evidence. You had no court order to record her conversation. For all I know, you could have staged it."

  I was ready for that. I pulled Ghiberti's silver plate out of my briefcase and handed it over with the copy of the police report and the insurance photographs.

  "There's the plate that Magdallena sold Arnie. You'll see it matches the photo perfectly, and any art historian can verify its authenticity."

  I waited as she made the comparison, fighting the fatigue, reminding myself to talk slowly, deliberately. "Your Honor, we're not asking you to use this tape as evidence against Magdallena Mason. As you heard, she has AIDS—and judging by the looks of her, not many months left. Prosecuting her might be useless; she'll be dead before a jury could ever be seated. But right now the jury is deliberating Colleen Farragut's fate, and Magdallena's statements and this evidence prove beyond any doubt that she's innocent.

  "You heard what she said about Tommy Rivera. We believe Tommy Rivera lied in his testimony for two reasons: his vindictiveness toward the defendant, and his desire to have the case closed before the police found out he was responsible for setting up the burglary—which, as you know, makes him indictable for murder one." I waited for Walters to reply.

  "If Mr. Rivera lied, Mr. Fagen, I could declare a mistrial."

  "You can't declare Mr. Rivera's testimony as perjured until contrary evidence is entered into record, Your Honor," Vincent put in. "And if he did perjure himself, the prosecution must be exculpated. To declare a mistrial after the two years of hell that Colleen Farragut has been through would be the ultimate travesty. She's innocent, your honor, and all of this proves it."

  Juice; that's why we brought in Vince. Judge Walters thought for a minute.

  "We know you can't authorize a wire to be worn by a private detective," I said before she could speak, "but you can send a cop with Mr. Nuckles tomorrow when he goes to find the other silver plate. I'd suggest a black female detective and that she go as Mr. Nuckles' wife. And that you call the chief of police and have it arranged tonight." I wasn't sure how Walters would respond to me telling her how to do her job.

  Vince jumped in again. "If necessary, you may have to offer immunity on the burglary rap to Magdallena Mason in exchange for her testimony. The same for the pawnbroker, whoever he is. What's most important here, Your Honor, is that an innocent woman may be a day or two away from conviction for a crime she did not commit."

  "Have you informed either the prosecution or the defense of any of this?" Walters asked.

  "No, Your Honor," Vince replied. "We came only to you, as friends of the court."

  Walters hesitated for a minute, gathering her thoughts. "I'll call the chief and I'll issue the warrant for a wire to be worn by the detective," she said. "If necessary, I will grant immunity to Magdallena and the pawnbroker, whoever he is, but on one condition. If there is evidence that Magdallena was inside the house at the time of the shooting, or that in fact it was she who pulled the trigger, I'll have her arraigned on murder charges. No immunity."

  "And as for Mr. Rivera, if any of this proves valid, I'll issue a warrant for his arrest." She rose. "I'll call the bailiff to cease jury deliberations and have the jury returned to the courtroom tomorrow. I'll also have the defense and prosecution in my office tomorrow at ten. By that time, let's hope we know where we stand in regard to this missing silver plate."

  "Thank you, everyone. You'll have to excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."

  She showed us outside, where the starry, moonlit view of the city from Diamond Heights was spread out before us. Two blocks below was Bruce Bearden's house, where the story had first started to unravel. I couldn't wait to send him a thank-you card at Folsom.

  I thanked Vince and Zane, arranging to meet them in court the following day. Arnie, Martha, and I climbed into the van.

  "Are we going to tell Colleen?" Martha asked.

  "Not yet. I'm afraid something might still come unglued. She's suffered this long, she'll just have to make it until tomorrow."

  As we started to drive back to the office in silence, I remembered Henry was still baby-sitting Patsy in the loft. I plugged in the cellular phone, called Henry and asked him to take her to a hotel, rent a suite and sleep in the outer room. I told him if she made any trouble to tell her she wouldn't get another dime.

  When we got home, I staggered upstairs and collapsed on my bed with my clothes and shoes on. But exhausted as I was, sleep wouldn't come, and I lay staring up at the ceiling. Years of frustration welled up in me. My grandfather having to live with the memory of William Farragut II murdering a poor immigrant after his son had been crushed to death in a Farragut slum during the 1906 earthquake. My father never being able to pass a Farragut Construction sign without getting sullen. My own public humiliation after the verdict in the DiMarco murder case.

  The curse was over, the incubus destroyed, a hundred years of horror and heartbreak skidding to a halt. I'd saved my client, my friend, a love I never expected to find. If history is the lie most commonly agreed upon, I was about to rewrite history, Farragut history, so that people would see them for the scum they really were. The diaries would prove that.

  I could feel the tears running down the sides of my face, into my ears and onto the pillow. I squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to stop them. It didn't work. I didn't care anymore. I just let them come.

  I fell asleep.

  Chapter 34

  At one thirty the next afternoon, two dozen deputies and courthouse security guards wrestled with a crowd of almost two hundred journalists, photographers, and television people in the hallway outside Judge Marilyn Walters' courtroom.

  Walters informed the jury that new information had come to light which was significant to the case, and that they were to give the new evidence the same weight as all the evidence they had heard and seen earlier. The jury nodded their agreement.

  Magdallena Mason was sworn in. A somber Calvin Sherenian approached.

  For the first time, Colleen looked at me in court. She seemed frantic, almost terrified. I smiled a tiny victory smile. That did it. She breathed a long, slow, subtle sigh of relief.

  "Miss Mason, you are testifying under the grant of immunity, isn't that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Where were you on the night of September third two years ago?"


  Magdallena looked blank. "I don't know. What was September third?"

  My heart sank for a minute. A reluctant Calvin was forced to make it easier.

  "A home belonging to William Farragut the Fourth was burglarized in Presidio Heights that night."

  "I was there. Me and my partner, Candira."

  "Do you know her full name?" This was killing Calvin.

  "Candira Anne Chandler. She's dead. She died a couple a months ago."

  "Did you burglarize the house?"

  "We started to, but this dude showed up right after we walked in the back door."

  "And who was this dude, do you know?"

  "I seen his pitcher in the paper. It was that dude you said, Faggarut."

  That got the courtroom laughing.

  "You mean Farragut?"

  "Yeah. The rich dude that owned the place. I seen his pitcher in the paper and on TV, like I said. It freaked me out."

  Calvin showed her a photograph of Farragut.

  "Is that the man?"

  She answered yes and Calvin read into the record that Magdellena had identified William Farragut IV.

  "Why did it freak you out?"

  Magdallena seemed close to a coronary. She looked at the jury, her wide, sunken eyes pleading. Then she stared at the judge.

  "We discussed the conditions of your immunity, Miss Mason. Please answer the question."

  Magdallena looked away from Judge Walters, back at Calvin, the walking dead man.

  "Cause Candira killed him. I told her let's just get out, put the gun down, but she had to stay behind and get somethin' for her troubles. She took them plates, and while she was takin' 'em, that dude Far'gut went for the gun. That's what she told me. It was his gun, we found it lyin' on the bar when we walked in."

  "She told you but you didn't see it?" He was still working it, Calvin, trying to destroy his own witness."I didn't see it, but I heard it. Two shots. Then she come runnin' out with them silver plates. I wish I'd never seen them plates. Anyways, she was laughin' and all high and shit. . . ." She looked at the judge. "Sorry."

  "And what did you do with the plates?"

  "She took one and I took one. She sold hers to a pawnbroker she knew in Oakland. I kept mine 'cause I was afraid 'cause I seen on TV the next day that the dude was dead." Her hands shook so hard I thought her fingers might break.

  "I never killed nobody, I never shot nobody. Tommy Rivera made us do it. We done other burglaries for him, he was pissed off—Magdallena caught herself again—"he was mad, 'cause Faggarut's wife give him his walkin' papers. He said it would be a piece of cake, he said the maid was off on Monday nights, they all the time left the back door open. He said we could rob the place, and if her and her husband reported it, he'd tell the newspapers he was screwin' her and embarrass both of 'em. Shiiit."

  That got the courtroom going. Walters banged for order. Calvin looked like he wanted to curl up and die. His brilliant little game was being destroyed by a raving, dying junkie.

  Magdallena crossed her arms and stared sullenly at Calvin. "No further questions, Your Honor," he said.

  "Will the prosecution cross-examine at this time?"

  "The prosecution will wait until after the next witness is called by the defense, then cross-examine both of them, Your Honor."

  Calvin called Oscar Appell, a Berkeley pawnbroker who looked like he was down to his last forty breaths. His glasses were so thick his eyes seemed to be swimming at the bottom of an aquarium. He walked with an aluminum walker. I just hoped he didn't cash in his chips before he made it from his seat to the witness stand.

  An electric buzz went through the courtroom as people twitched and whispered while Appell was seated. Judge Walters banged her gavel for silence. Appell took the oath in a clear, strong voice.

  "State your name and occupation, please," said Calvin.

  "Oscar Appell. I'm a retired pawnbroker. I live above my old shop on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley."

  "You are testifying under immunity from prosecution, isn't that true?"

  "Yes. Judge Walters said if I told the truth, the police would leave me alone."

  "Did you purchase a silver plate from Magdallena Mason shortly after September third, two years ago?"

  "No. I purchased it from a woman named Candira Chandler. But Miss Mason was with her at the time."

  "How much did you pay for the plate?"

  "One hundred dollars."

  "Do you have your receipt?" To most it appeared that Calvin was trying to preempt the prosecutions cross-examination; in reality he was slyly trying to destroy his own witness.

  "No. I destroyed it several days after I bought the plate."

  "And why did you do that?"

  "The police came by and showed me pictures of two silver plates that were stolen during a burglary. I remember because Mr. Farragut had been murdered and his picture was on television and in all the papers."

  "Did you know the plate was stolen when you bought it?"

  "I wasn't sure, but I had a hunch. I bought it anyway. I could tell by the workmanship it was a very expensive piece. I had no idea it was as rare as it was, that it was a Renaissance treasure."

  "Is this the plate?" Calvin handed it to Appell, who examined it cautiously.

  "Yes, it is. The police confiscated it this morning. It isn't something you're likely to forget. I used to just stare at it sometimes." Calvin had it tagged for evidence.

  "Why didn't you come forward the first time the police came looking for it, after the murder of Mr. Farragut?"

  "I was scared. I'm an old man. I didn't think my heart could stand even one night in jail. I had been in trouble once before —I bought some stolen items that I thought were legitimate and I was certain they would send me to jail. My wife had been ill; I thought it might kill her as well."

  "You knew Mr. Farragut's wife was standing trial for his murder?"

  "Yes. But I didn't see how they could convict her. I read about all the good things she did, trying to help poor people and children. I just didn't believe she was guilty, or that they would convict her. I'm sorry . . . I was afraid."

  "No more questions."

  Ian Jeffries asked for a brief recess, and the courtroom exploded as soon as Walters banged the gavel.

  A half hour later Jeffries, shaken, defeated, made a halfhearted attempt to discredit a sweating, trembling Magdallena Mason and a very poised Oscar Appell. By four o'clock Judge Walters was amending her instructions to the jury, and by four fifteen they were filing out.

  Now came the hard part.

  Chapter 35

  My euphoria over finding the plates, Magdallena Mason, and Oscar Appell, died like a snowflake in the noonday sun the minute the jury filed out to deliberate for the second time.

  For three days and three nights, Colleen and I stalked my house like zombies, unable to go anywhere for fear of her being recognized and mobbed. Even when we went up on the roof to escape the shrinking house, she wore a hat and a coat with a high collar.

  We tried everything possible to keep ourselves occupied, to keep the spirit alive, except making love. There was too much fear this time for us to ignore. We spent hours just clinging to each other, talking about where we would go and what we would do with the rest of our lives.

  We both agreed that it was Oscar's testimony, not Magdallena's, that had turned things around. I still hadn't told her about Calvin's treachery. I could get a conviction overturned on a mistrial, but I was too afraid to think about it. If a jury could convict her after Magdallena's confession and Oscar Appell's statements, after seeing Ghiberti's plates, a second jury might convict her all over again.

  We slept fitfully. Colleen woke up with nightmares half a dozen times, crying and shaking in terror.

  I had three armed guards working around the clock, two in the house, one watching the neighborhood. I was still afraid for Colleen, for myself. What was Calvin thinking, what were Bearden and Helen Smidge planning, what was John Naftulin up to? Would they try
to kill her if she was acquitted, to keep her from getting the diaries?

  We talked about how we'd get her out of the courtroom after the verdict—never mentioning the possibility that she'd be convicted. She would say nothing, would not acknowledge me in the courtroom at all. The minute it was over, she'd be hustled out the side door, where she would leave in the Firenze Plumbing van with Arnie, Martha, Henry, and Arnie's cousin Philip. Once they were sure they weren't being followed, they'd take her to my house and stand guard until I arrived.On Friday at 4:04 p.m. the phone rang. Zane told me the jury had come back. At five, with the ranks of the media swollen to mob-like proportions and over forty harried officers and security guards struggling to maintain order, Zane Neidlinger, Vince Halloran, and I squeezed through a human tunnel formed by the deputies and found our seats in the front row.

  The jury filed in. The judge and the bailiff did the formalities. The foreman handed over a slip of paper that was passed and read and then passed again to be read aloud.

  The bailiff cleared his throat. Colleen stood between Bearden and Sherenian. I could see that she was trembling.

  "In the matter of the People versus Colleen Farragut, case number 687731-50, on the charge of murder in the first degree with special circumstances, we find the defendant not guilty."

  Pandemonium. Shouts and screams of "Not guilty" echoing through the hallway. Colleen leaned forward, putting both hands on the table as her knees gave way and tears streamed down her face.

  Calvin looked lost, Bruce Bearden positively terrified.

  Walters banged the gavel. She thanked and dismissed the jury, who were only too happy to flee the scene, and told Colleen she was free to go.

  Bailiffs hustled her out a side entrance, where Martha and Arnie were waiting to take her to the van.

  "Your Honor," Vincent Halloran said as we both stood. "May we have permission to approach the bench?"