Pete’s grin widens. “Nope. He wasn’t in the security videos.”
I decide the head of security at the Fairmont may be having a career-interruption event in the near future.
7
“MAKES YOU WANT TO CRY”
“A funeral mass for John Paul Garcia will be held this afternoon at St. Peter’s Catholic Church. In lieu of flowers, donations should be made to the Mission Youth Center.”
—SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10.
The next morning, Rosie and I are sitting about ten rows from the front in St. Peter’s. We’re here for Johnny Garcia’s funeral. We have had an unspoken understanding for years. If either of us has to go to a funeral, the other one goes, too. We observed this rule even during the darkest days of our divorce and our custody battle. There are times when you just have to set aside your differences for a few hours.
The first two pews of the large church are half full. The next thirty are almost empty. Unlike the balmy weather outside, it’s cool here. Elaine McBride and Roosevelt Johnson are sitting two rows behind us. It’s customary for homicide detectives to attend the funeral of the victim. We’ve stationed Pete outside the church to see who else shows up.
Ramon Aguirre walks to a small lectern, brushing his flowing hair away from his eyes. The sanctuary becomes silent. He shuffles some notes. “We are here today to celebrate the life of one of our companions,” he begins. “Johnny Garcia has gone to a kinder place. His youthful spirit will always be with us. From this we can take comfort.” He looks at the small group of mourners as he describes Johnny’s troubled life.
When I was a priest, I did a lot of funerals. I used to give the standard eulogy about five times a week. Most of the time, I didn’t know the deceased. I found it very difficult to muster the conviction that Ramon conveys. I listen as he tells us Johnny lived in the projects with his great-aunt after his mother died. By the time he was fifteen, he was living on the streets. “That’s when Johnny got into drugs,” he says.
Rosie takes my hand. If I’m guessing right, she’s thinking about Grace. I gaze at the empty pews and remember the Sunday mornings when I sat there next to my mom and dad. I recall watching my older brother Tommy when he was an altar boy. Some of my earliest and fondest memories were of this church. I still get the chills when I’m here.
Ramon asks us to rise. He calls on a woman to lead us in a hymn. Then he nods to a heavyset middle-aged man with a bald head and a thick mustache, who strides to the lectern. The church becomes silent. “My name is Ernesto Clemente,” he says. “I am the executive director of the Mission Youth Center.”
I’ve known Ernie Clemente for years. A native of the Mission and a leader of the Hispanic community, he used to work for the San Francisco Redevelopment Agency. About fifteen years ago, he decided to attack the problems of San Francisco’s urban youth head-on. He personally raised the money to start the Mission Youth Center, a combination dormitory, social hall, halfway house and drug counseling center for the poor kids of the Mission, Bay View and Hunters Point neighborhoods. When I worked at Simpson and Gates, I used to do pro bono work for him. My former partners were never happy about it. Except for a few enlightened souls, they thought law firms were formed for the sole purpose of making money. I’m embarrassed to realize I haven’t done any free work for him since I moved to Rosie’s office. I guess it’s easier to give your services away when somebody else is footing the tab.
Clemente scans the faces of the scattered mourners. “We lost a good friend,” he says. “We worked with Johnny Garcia. We had his life back on track.” He pauses. “At least I thought we did. We found him a place to live. We helped him get off drugs. And then …” His voice trails off. “We lost him. It is a great tragedy.”
He takes a deep breath. “Johnny Garcia came to us two years ago,” he says. “He had no home. No family. So we gave Johnny a home. We became his family.”
There are a couple of kids in the front row whom I presume are from the Mission Youth Center. If it weren’t for guys like Ernie Clemente, boys like these wouldn’t have a chance. My eyes catch those of Dan Morris, Leslie Sherman’s campaign manager, who is looking back over his shoulder and surveying the empty church. Rosie sees him, too. “I can’t believe he showed up here today,” she whispers.
Turner Stanford is no better. He’s sitting on the other side of the aisle. I squeeze Rosie’s hand.
Clemente continues his eulogy. “It isn’t easy being young and poor and homeless.” He pauses. “And gay. Johnny Garcia lived his entire life alone and scared. We let this one get away from us, my friends. We let Johnny Garcia slip through the cracks. We let him down. And when we did we let ourselves down. We mustn’t let it happen again.”
Ramon Aguirre escorts Clemente from the lectern, then introduces a clean-cut man in his mid-twenties. Kevin Anderson works for the mayor’s office. I’ve seen him on TV from time to time. He’s the mayor’s adviser on youth issues and has political aspirations of his own.
Anderson looks solemnly over the podium at the small crowd. He adjusts his paisley tie and buttons his navy blazer. “I knew Johnny Garcia,” he says. “I was his social worker. I thought we had a chance with Johnny,” he says. “Obviously, we didn’t do enough.” He fills in some of the blanks in Johnny’s short life. Heroin addiction. Prostitution. He describes how they found Johnny a job at a local restaurant. He says Johnny was self-sufficient and was living on his own. “And now this,” he says. He turns and walks away. Ramon Aguirre puts his arm around his shoulder.
At the conclusion of the service, we file out of the church into the warm afternoon sun. Before my eyes can adjust, I’m bombarded by microphones. I stand tall next to Rosie and we push them aside. “No comment,” I say. The cameras swarm around Turner Stanford and Dan Morris. They stand on the top step of St. Peter’s, trying to look solemn while they argue about which of their respective clients is more sorry about Johnny Garcia’s death. Political consultants are never off duty.
Rosie is offended.
A moment later, we see Ernesto Clemente saying goodbye to Father Aguirre. Clemente nods in our direction. He comes over and we exchange small talk. I ask him how well he knew Johnny Garcia.
“Pretty well,” he says, sounding sad.
Rosie takes his hand. They were seeing each other for a short time a few years ago. It didn’t work out, but they have remained friends. “Ernie,” she says, “you don’t want to go back to work, do you? You look like you could use a bite to eat.”
He smiles.
I look back and see Kevin Anderson heading for his limo. “Rosie,” I say, “I’ll meet you down at La Victoria in a few minutes. I want to talk to somebody.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Daley,” Anderson says as he gets into his waiting car. “I’m on my way to the airport.” He says he’s going to London, where his father is buying an office building.
He tries to close the door and I grab the handle. “I was hoping you might be able to give me a little information about Johnny Garcia.”
“I’ll call you when I get back.”
Not good enough. I keep my grip on the door. “I need just thirty seconds of your time. How long were you his social worker?”
“About a year.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“Do you know where he lived?”
“He was living in a place on Capp Street for a while. Then he moved into a room at a hotel near the BART station. I don’t recall the name of it.”
Some social worker.
“Mr. Daley,” he says, “I don’t work with a lot of kids. I wish I had more time for them.”
I ask whether Garcia had any friends.
“He had a job at a restaurant on Sixteenth. I don’t know the name. He had a roommate, but they weren’t getting along very well. He wanted his own place.”
“Do you know the name of the roommate?”
“Andy Holton.”
“Any idea where
we might find him?”
He shrugs. “I’ll call you when I’m back in town.”
La Victoria is a hole in the wall at the corner of Twenty-fourth and Alabama. It’s a bakery and small grocery store and it’s been there since I was a kid. The sweet smell of freshly baked cakes and cookies surrounds you. Handmade piñatas line the ceiling. We come here every year just before Grace’s birthday to pick out a special decoration. When you walk in the door, the women behind the small counter hand you a metal tray and tongs. You select baked goods from the racks in the window and along the wall. A long counter runs the length of the store and there’s a small refrigerator in the rear that holds drinks. There are a few seats near the back. It will never make the Chronicle’s list of the fifty best restaurants in San Francisco. On the other hand, it’s reliable and cheap.
La Victoria sits in the heart of what was once the Irish enclave at the south end of the Mission, and my mom and dad passed by this corner thousands of times. But that’s long gone. The business district on Twenty-fourth now caters to the Hispanic neighborhood. Tony’s produce market is across the street. When you’re at the corner of Twenty-fourth and Alabama, you can smell the mesmerizing aroma of baked goods, burritos and ripe fruit.
The neighborhood is changing again. Affluent new arrivals are moving down the hill from Noe Valley to the west into the traditional working-class area. As a result, rents are on the rise. Longtime residents are feeling the squeeze and they’re fighting back. Community organizers are trying to retain the Mission’s character, but sometimes things get a little out of hand. Every now and then, there’s a story on the news about tires being slashed on a BMW. Rosie’s mom insists that the Hispanic community won’t give up its neighborhood without a fight.
Ernie, Rosie and I sit in a semicricle of mismatched chairs at the back of the store. We’re the only people here. I’m eating a piece of pound cake. Rosie nibbles on a sweet roll called pan dulce. I ask Clemente how he got to know Johnny Garcia.
He takes a bite of his pastry and says, “I found him about two years ago,” he says. “He was living in the streets near the projects.” He looks away. I suspect he’s thinking back to the place where he first saw Johnny. “He was only fifteen. Like a lot of kids, he’d ended up on the street.”
My turn for a long drink of coffee.
“He came to live at the center,” he continues. “He stayed with us for almost a year. He was already addicted to heroin. We got him into treatment—they gave him methadone and it seemed to be working. We found him a room and a job at a restaurant. It wasn’t much, but it was something.”
I ask whether he had any friends.
He leans back in his chair. “I don’t know. We got him a volunteer social worker named Kevin Anderson, the guy who spoke at the funeral.”
“I just talked to him,” I say. “He wasn’t particularly forthcoming. What’s his story?”
“Kevin is a good guy. He works in the mayor’s office and he’s helped us raise money for the center. He’s a little full of himself at times, but his heart is in the right place. His father is a big wheel in the real estate business. Some people think he’s trying to run the working-class folks out of the neighborhood. He bought a couple of buildings on Guerrero Street and has converted them into expensive lofts, and the neighbors weren’t happy about it. But he’s from Visitacion Valley and he’s never forgotten his roots. He’s donated millions over the years to many neighborhood causes. He made a seven-figure contribution to St. Peter’s to help pay for the refurbishing of the building after the fire.”
A cynic might also suggest that Anderson and his father make large donations to neighborhood charities to keep the neighbors from contesting their development projects. I’m inclined to be cynical.
I ask Ernie whether he knows anything about Andy Holton, Garcia’s roommate.
“He’s another kid who was on the street,” Ernie replies. “A little older than Johnny but a very different background. His father runs a biotech company. The family disowned him when he became addicted to heroin. He came through the center a few years ago. He worked at the same restaurant that Johnny did.”
“Could you find out where they lived?”
“Sure.”
“Any idea where we could find this guy Andy?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him in a couple of months.”
We finish our pastries and head out the door. Under the beat-up sign that reads “La Victoria Abardotes y Reposteria,” Rosie takes Clemente’s hand. “I’ll call you, Ernie,” she says.
“I’d like that,” he replies.
Rosie’s brother, Tony, always reminds me of Sylvester Stallone. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s a lot blunter about Johnny Garcia than Ernie. “He was trouble,” he says. “It’s a wonder he didn’t die a couple of years ago.” It’s later the same afternoon and Tony is sweeping the floor of his overflowing produce market. He lives in an apartment around the corner and he’s worked by himself since his last employee quit a year ago. He hasn’t taken a vacation in five years.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask.
“You name it,” he says. “Booze. Pills. Dope. He got in with the wrong crowd.”
“Did the business owners know anything about him?” Rosie asks. “Did you find out where he lived?”
Tony holds up his hands. “Somewhere over near the projects,” he says. “A guy I know is looking into it.”
“Does your guy have a name?” I ask.
“Like I told you,” he says, “a guy is looking into it.”
It is not uncommon in this part of town for the businesses to pay some protection money to the local gangs. Tony undoubtedly participates in the program; he wouldn’t have a choice. He runs a cash operation. He’s never been robbed. “My source promised to get back to me in the next few days,” he says.
—————
Rosie and I are driving toward the office. “I wonder who paid for the funeral,” she says.
“Ramon probably figured out a way,” I say. “He’s resourceful and he probably has some discretionary funds tucked away for situations like this.” I shrug and add “Maybe he found somebody to make a donation.”
“Maybe.” She reflects for a moment and says, “Did you ever preside at a funeral where there was such a small crowd?”
“Many times.”
“What was it like seeing an empty church in front of you? Could you imagine being so alone in the world that nobody came to your funeral?”
I remember presiding over dozens of funerals where nobody showed up. It made me profoundly sad. “There are a lot of very lonely people out there, Rosie.”
“Yes, there are.” She swallows and asks, “What do you think about Johnny Garcia?”
“Makes you want to cry.”
8
FAST EDDIE
“We’re lawyers. We sell bullshit. Trial work is ninety percent theater.”
—EDWARD MOLINARI, CONTINUING LEGAL EDUCATION SEMINAR.
Fast Eddie Molinari is all smiles when I arrive at his office in a flat on the second floor of a renovated two-story building overlooking Washington Square later that afternoon. The place looks like an Italian villa and smells of North Beach Pizza, which is just down the street. Instead of traditional artwork, the walls are adorned with enlarged newspaper clippings about Fast Eddie’s legal conquests. Right above his antique rolltop desk is a blown-up headline that reads “Molinari Wins Stay of Execution—Client Avoids Death Penalty.” Fast Eddie has a nose for publicity.
I can’t think of a better way to end my week. I get to spend some quality time with the man whose grandstanding and sloppiness resulted in the execution of one of my clients. “Nice to see you again, Mike,” he lies.
I take a seat and admire the view of St. Peter and Paul across the park. The hardwood floors are a nice touch. A state-of-the-art laptop sits like a trophy on the corner of his cluttered desk next to a fashionable humidor. Not surprisingly, there are no pict
ures of a spouse or children. Fast Eddie plays pretty loose with women. He’s been married five times. His divorces always make the gossip column in the Chronicle.
Molinari got the moniker Fast Eddie because he once pulled a gun on a former client who came to his office with a baseball bat and threatened to kill him. He’s a short, wiry man who can’t sit still. His most distinctive features are the wild eyebrows that sit above his beady eyes. In his spare time, he’s an amateur boxer. The combative element of his personality seems to extend to all aspects of his life. He may not be likable, but if you’re looking for a lawyer with unlimited capacity for war, he’s your guy. Today, the avuncular Ed greets me. This means he wants something. If he doesn’t get what he wants, the pit bull will appear.
I shake his thin hand. He smiles and says, “Looks like we’re going to have a chance to work together again.”
Yeah. Just like old times.
He opens his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Look, Mike,” he says, “I know we’ve had some hard feelings in the past.”
Tell me about it. It wasn’t only the day he announced on Channel 4 that our client had been executed because I wasn’t adequately prepared for trial. There was also the time he told the judge in open court that the San Francisco public defender’s office was a cesspool of corruption. That didn’t do much for morale around the PD’s office. “Are you still seeing Jill?” I ask. Ed was going out with the ex-wife of one of my former partners from Simpson and Gates a few years ago.
“It didn’t work out,” he says.
No big surprise. He talks about business for a few minutes. He tells me he’s just handled a matter for a man who was exposed to asbestos forty years ago. As always, Fast Eddie is the hero of his own story. “The defendant settled for five million bucks,” he boasts. “My client’s estate is going to get a nice piece of change.”
So are you. Fast Eddie will collect one third of the money as his fee. Too bad his client died seven years ago and won’t have a chance to enjoy his newfound wealth.
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