by Penny Warner
The San Francisco County Jail doesn’t look like a jail. It looks more like a modern apartment building, only with frosted windows and bars instead of curtains and blinds. A Pulitzer Prize-winning architecture critic, Allan Temko, once called the place “a stunning victory for architectural freedom over bureaucratic stupidity.”
Gotta love that.
However, for most of us locals, the jail is a strong reminder not to break the law. Unfortunately, not everyone heeds the warning. There are nearly sixty thousand men and women incarcerated in the eight jails operated by San Francisco County.
And now my friend Delicia was one of them.
I’d read up on the jail at their Internet site, and after making a few phone calls, I’d discovered that Delicia would have been brought to the “intake and release” center on Seventh. She would be held in one of nineteen “holding tanks,” along with three hundred other prisoners.
I shuddered to think of her in there.
I also learned they’d fingerprint her and issue her a new orange outfit and colored plastic wristband with her name and jail number. Then she’d be allowed to make a phone call and arrange to see a public defender if she didn’t have an attorney. After twenty-four hours she’d be moved to more permanent housing where the female prisoners were kept—County Jail 8 on Seventh Street.
Permanent housing.
A chill ran down my back.
I parked the MINI as close to the jail as I could, hoping to deter any car thieves lurking about the run-down area. The jail is located adjacent to the Hall of Justice, referred to as “850 Bryant.” The Internet site calls it “a national model for program-oriented prisoner rehabilitation.”
I also learned that I could visit on the weekend for twenty minutes. Luckily, today was Sunday. Plus I had to bring an ID, I would be subject to search, and I couldn’t be under the influence of any drugs.
Did caffeine count?
Furthermore, I would not be admitted if I wore gang-related clothing or extreme hairstyles. I hoped my bobbed hair would allow me in. There was no way I could hide a file in there. But my mother could have secreted away a chain saw in her puffy, heavily sprayed, swept-up style.
The worst part was, I wouldn’t be able to bring Dee any personal items or even hug her.
Mother and I stood in line for several minutes before being metal-detected, purse-scrutinized, and identity-checked. We shuffled into the general waiting room, which was barred, locked, and sparsely decorated with metal picnic tables and warning signs: “No physical contact,” “Do not leave children unattended,” “No one under eighteen without accompaniment,” “All visitors subject to search at any time.” The dingy walls looked as if they’d been repainted many times, thick with paint and lumpy drips.
“They could really use a decorator in here,” my mother whispered as we sat down at an empty table. We watched the eclectic crowd of visitors chat while they waited their turn to see their loved ones, clients, or pimps. While Mother watched their faces, I checked their shoes. The loved ones usually sported well-worn loafers, oversized athletic shoes, or blingtrimmed flip-flops. The lawyers wore black Italian shoes. And the pimps had on everything from bejeweled cowboy boots to red patent-leather platforms.
It wasn’t long before my mother struck up a conversation with a haggard-looking woman at the next table. While she talked the woman’s ear off, I spent the waiting time diagnosing personality disorders according to shoe style. I had just diagnosed a woman in Gladiator sandals as possibly narcissist when a pair of men’s New Balance Zips appeared in front of me.
I looked up.
Brad.
“What are you doing here?” we both said simultaneously.
Behind him stood a thin young man, maybe late twenties, with perfectly trimmed and combed dark hair, black-rimmed glasses, and an off-the-rack black suit that looked slightly askew on his ramrod-straight posture. He held a ragged brown briefcase in front of him with both hands, as if he planned to use it as armor. His shoes, brown lace-up Dockers, matched his briefcase rather than his suit.
“I asked you first,” Brad said, channeling a second grader.
“Did not!” I replied, channeling a first grader. I couldn’t keep myself from grinning. It was good to see him.
He sat down next to me in defeat. The other man remained standing, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his jacket sleeve.
“I told you I would get Delicia a good lawyer.” He nodded to the man, who sneaked a glance at me, then forced a brief, tight smile. “Presley, this is Andrew. He owes me a favor. Don’t you, Andrew?” Brad gently punched the man’s shoulder.
The man nodded curtly and released his grip from his briefcase to shake my hand. His hand was damp and cold and bony. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
“You too, Andrew,” I said. “Thanks for doing this.”
Andrew took a step back and returned to his lint removal preoccupation. His behavior was a little odd, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a good lawyer. I appreciated Brad’s attempts to help.
I turned to him, tempted to kiss him, but touched his arm instead. “I . . . don’t know what to say . . . except thanks.”
“No problem. You’re here to see her too, I take it?”
“Trying,” I said. “If she’ll see me. She thinks I ratted her out to the cops, so she may refuse my visit.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not!” I snapped. “But someone did. That’s what I want to explain to her. And I want to let her know I’m trying to get her out of here.”
“Tell you what.” Brad rested his hand on my knee, sending a jolt through my body. I hope it didn’t show. “Let me go in first. I’ll introduce her to Andrew, explain things, including what you just told me. Then you go in. I’m sure she’ll believe you. You guys are good friends. This isn’t going to change that in the long run.”
I nodded. I didn’t want him to take his hand away from my leg, but if he kept it there another second, we might have to get a room. I wondered where they held the conjugal visits around here.
“Good idea. So you’ll tell her it wasn’t me?”
He squeezed my leg, then removed his hand. “Promise.”
The jailer called my name, apparently on the list before Brad’s, but I explained that I wanted him to go first. Brad headed inside to the inmate/visitor meeting room, with the lawyer at his heels like a loyal, albeit nervous, puppy.
Judging from first impressions, I wasn’t sure this was the right attorney for Delicia. There was something about Andrew that bothered me. But if Brad knew him and vouched for him, then I could only trust his judgment. When things got serious, Brad had never let me down, in spite of our petty conflicts.
Fifteen minutes later Brad and Andrew reappeared. By then my mother had recipes for beer-can chicken and Coca-Cola cake from the woman she’d been chatting with, and I had a sore butt from sitting on the cold, hard bench. I jumped up to greet him. I was anxious to hear what he’d learned, and to see her.
“How did it go?”
“Good. Andrew’s going to represent her. They hit it off immediately. We went over a few things, and then I told her you were here to visit her.”
“How did she react?”
“She made a face, but after I explained things, she started crying. I think she really wants to see you.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Okay, thanks. Would you mind staying with my mother while I go in there? I’m afraid she might organize a revolution or lead a breakout while I’m gone.”
“Sure. She’ll be safe with me.”
On my way inside, I told my mom I’d be back in a few minutes and thanked Andrew for seeing Dee. He stood stiffly, again clutching his briefcase to his chest with both hands. He nodded, but again didn’t meet my eyes. With a sense of trepidation, both for hiring Andrew and seeing Delicia, I hurried off to see my incarcerated friend.
The meeting room was a twin to the waiting room—same heavy paint, same cold tables
, same signs on the walls and doors. The only difference was that this room was less crowded, yet at every table sat a woman in prison orange, along with her family, friends, or attorneys. Some of the women were weeping, while others looked either depressed or angry as they chatted with their visitors. Only a few smiled.
Delicia sat at a far table, looking down at her folded hands. I couldn’t read her expression; her face appeared uncharacteristically blank for such an animated woman. She looked up as I approached and broke out into a smile tempered by tears. I wanted so much to reach out and hug her, then remembered the warnings of no contact. I hugged her with my own teary eyes and sat down opposite her.
“You look beautiful!” I said. “Even in orange!”
She laughed self-consciously and smoothed her hands over her baggy top. Her nail polish was chipped, which was also unlike her. “I don’t know. You think it makes me look fat?”
We both laughed. The tears rimming my eyes broke free and ran down my face. “Dee, I just wanted to tell you . . . I didn’t tell the police anything they didn’t already know.”
She nodded and began picking at her polish again. “Brad told me. I’m sorry I said those things. It . . . it just took me by surprise. The knife. The body. The blood. And then to be arrested. It all seemed so surreal. And now jail . . .” She glanced around at her surroundings.
I patted the table, as if I were patting her hand. “I know. It’s unbelievable, for sure. But no one thinks you had anything to do with it.”
“No one but the cops, you mean,” Dee said bitterly. “And I’d still like to find out who blabbed that off-the-cuff remark I made about wishing Mary Lee was dead. Someone told Melvin what I said—which was a joke, people!” A bit of her dramatic nature was beginning to shine through as she spoke.
“We all believe that. Brad and I are working hard to find out who really killed Mary Lee and get you out of here. He even hired that attorney for you.”
“That was nice of him, although I still don’t know why I even need a lawyer—or why I’m here. This is all so crazy.”
I spent the next few minutes catching her up on the latest news; then, realizing time was running out, I asked, “Dee, do you have any idea who might have wanted Mary Lee dead? Her ex-husband? Someone on her staff? Her son, maybe?”
Dee shook her head. “No. Corbin’s too much of a mama’s boy to commit murder, even if she deserved it.”
I shushed her and glanced around. “Hey, talk like that is what got you here.”
She bit her lip, then said, “Anyway, I don’t think he did it. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ll talk to him if he comes to visit and see if he has any ideas.”
I looked down at the graffitied table, marred by permanent markers, and thought for a moment. Based on my conversation with Corbin, I had a strong suspicion he wouldn’t be coming by to visit, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Did she still have feelings for him?
“Is there anyone you can think of who could have gone into that room and stabbed her before you found her?” I asked.
“Besides the whole cast?” she said sarcastically. “Seriously, not Raj or Berk—they had no reason to kill Mary Lee. But that museum curator—Christine? She’s kind of weird. I think she and Dan Whatshisname are hot for each other. They were always shooting these looks at each other. At least, when Mary Lee wasn’t around.”
Hmmm. Although Christine appeared to be a couple of decades older than Dan, maybe the two were a clandestine couple. If they were in a relationship, maybe Mary Lee didn’t like the idea, for some reason. She was a very controlling person. But did that give them enough reason to get rid of Mary Lee?
A loud buzzer rang, startling me and signaling the end of the visiting time. We both stood up slowly. I had started to reach for Dee when a guard yelled, “No contact!” I pulled my arms in and hugged myself instead. She gave a limp wave and shuffled toward the line of women at the door, her legs shackled. The sight of her in chains gave me a chill, and I had to fight to keep control over more tears. As she moved through the doorway, she gave me one last wave. I forced a smile and waved back, hoping she could read my mind: I will get you out of here, if it is the last thing I ever do.
Brad and my mother were still sitting at the table when I entered the room. Andrew had joined them, and looked like he was busy scrutinizing a bunch of papers. He tapped his pencil vigorously—nervously?—in between jotting down notes. When Brad stood up to greet me, Andrew hurriedly gathered his papers. In his haste, he dropped them on the floor. As he leaned over to retrieve them, he nearly fell off the bench.
I turned to Brad with a raised eyebrow.
“Andrew is a brilliant lawyer, Presley,” he whispered. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t believe he could help your friend.”
I frowned skeptically but said nothing.
Andrew stood up, disheveled papers in hand, and placed them neatly in his open briefcase. He closed the case, snapped the locks at exactly the same time, and hugged the case as if it were filled with treasure.
“Do you have your own firm, Andrew?” I asked, trying to get acquainted.
“I work for Siegel and Associates, the largest law firm in the city,” he said flatly, although his enunciation was perfect. “We have to go now, Bradley. I’m due back at the office by four o’clock. I can’t be late.”
Brad shot him a look. Something passed between them. Andrew turned to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Parker. Have a nice day.”
Without offering his hand, he spun around and headed out the door.
I looked back at Brad, my eyes narrowed. “He seems very . . . precise,” I said, almost at a loss for words. “He goes to the office on Sundays? He must be quite dedicated. Or he has no social life.”
“Both,” Brad said. “He works seven days a week—never misses a day. That’s part of what makes him such a good attorney.”
“He called you Bradley. Are you friends from school? Or is he always so formal?”
Brad met my eyes. “Andrew has Asperger’s syndrome. And he’s my brother.”
Chapter 10
PARTY PLANNING TIP #10
Choose vivacious and outgoing people to play the various roles at your Murder Mystery Party. Avoid mumblers, party poopers, and people with irritating idiosyncrasies. There’s nothing worse than a socially awkward suspect.
In spite of the fact that Brad had confirmed my hunch about Andrew, I was still surprised—not only that he had Asperger’s, but that Brad had a brother! How little I knew about this intriguing man in the white Crime Scene Cleaners jumpsuit and Zips.
As for Andrew, he had many of the signs of the disorder. While Asperger’s is a form of autism, it differs in degree for most people. Those with the disorder often function well in society, especially when they find their niche. Apparently Andrew had turned his obsession for organization and detail, plus his interest in solving crime puzzles, into a productive and useful career. It was a challenging accomplishment for anyone, but especially impressive for someone with Asperger’s.
I wondered if all good lawyers fell somewhere along the spectrum of Asperger’s.
Like others with the disorder, Andrew appeared to be intelligent (he’d passed the bar), articulate (his speech was clearly enunciated), and focused to a fault, as witness his intense concentration while compiling his notes. Plus, he hadn’t been comfortable when he was introduced to me. Being socially awkward was another characteristic of Asperger’s syndrome.
But would he really be a good attorney for Dee? I could only hope so.
“I gotta go,” Brad said, interrupting my thoughts.
“Wait a minute. I never knew you had a brother . . .” I was interrupted by my cell phone. I checked the caller ID. Blocked. I said hello. No answer. I hung up.
“Who was that?” Brad asked.
“I don’t know. Someone keeps calling and hanging up.”
“That’s not good,” he said, frowning. “Look, I’ve got to take Andrew back
to the office. But how about we meet later? I have something I want to talk about with you.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Thanks again for getting Dee a lawyer. I just hope he’s . . .” I let my thought drop.
“Good? He is. Don’t worry.” Brad squeezed my arm gently before following his brother out the door.
I pulled my mother away from her new BFF and herded her out of the building and to my MINI. As usual, I was alert to my surroundings, looking for nearby transients, drug dealers, and gang members who might be visiting relatives at the jail. The Hall of Justice area wasn’t the best place to leave a car, but as I approached the MINI from a distance, I could see it still had all four tires. The windshield hadn’t been smashed. And the convertible top hadn’t been slashed. So far, so good.
My mother stopped abruptly as we reached the car. “What happened to your paint job?”
My heart leaped. “What do you mean?”
She pointed at the passenger side of my car.
I looked closely.
A long zigzagging line stretched from one end to the other.
My jaw dropped. “Oh no!”
I followed the mark around the trunk, and surveyed the driver’s side. My darling little MINI had been totally keyed.
“Oh my God!” I said, glancing around the neighborhood as if I’d find the perp with a telltale weapon in his hand. The car would need a whole new paint job. This was going to cost me a fortune to fix. I cursed as quietly as I could so as not to disturb my mother.
But she wasn’t listening to me. Her attention was focused down near her feet. “You know, honey, your tires look kind of flat too.” She kicked the front tire daintily with the sharp toe of her alligator pumps. “I think you need air.”
I looked down at the tires. Flat. I moved around the car. All four—flat as a bottle of day-old champagne.
I cursed loud enough for the inmates in the nearby jail to hear.
My mother blushed. “Presley, such language! In my day, ladies didn’t use language like that. Now, call a tow truck and a cab, so we can be on our way. I have a scrapbooking class at four o’clock.”
