Molinari is as concerned as we are. “Did he find anything on Skipper?”
“He found Skipper in bed with a couple of prostitutes. The good news, if you can call it that, is that they were female. He has photos of them.”
Molinari drums his fingers on the table. “The fact that Skipper was sleeping around isn’t necessarily relevant to this case. Or news. We’ll try to get the pictures excluded. He’ll have nothing to talk about.”
Rosie is more realistic. “He’ll kill us if they put him on the stand,” she says.
For the first time, Ed agrees with her. “We’d better find out what he knows,” he says.
“I’m planning to.”
After weeks of dead ends, we’re beginning to have more trails to follow than we can handle. Pete’s briefing us on Donald Martinez. He says Martinez’s influence extends far beyond his produce and construction businesses. “He owns a couple of car dealerships and several apartment buildings and hotels,” he says. “When we ran his name through the SEC’s database, we found that he has some significant investments in a couple of big high-tech firms. He owns controlling interests in a small investment bank and pension adviser. He’s a player—and not just down here in the Mission.”
We’re all sitting in the living room of Tony’s three-room apartment on Alabama, around the corner from his market. Tony is drinking a beer. Rosie is nursing a Diet Coke.
“He’s also an important member of the community,” Pete continues. “It’s not only the Mission Redevelopment Fund—he donates a lot of money to the Mission Youth Center. He paid for the remodeling of the social hall at St. Peter’s.”
“He’s done a lot for the neighborhood over the years,” Tony agrees.
“That’s true,” Pete says, “but there’s a darker side to him. The wholesale produce business has some shady players. It’s controlled by a couple of operators, of which Martinez is the largest. It’s not unusual for substantial amounts of cash to change hands in order to keep the lines of distribution working smoothly.”
That’s one way to put it. I see Tony nod, but he doesn’t say anything.
Pete says, “He’s been indicted a dozen times for everything from bribery to fixing contracts to tax evasion, but none of the charges have stuck. Ron Morales showed me his file. He said the feds were after him, too. They haven’t caught him in the act yet.”
That’s news to me. I remind myself that Martinez is Tony’s wholesaler. His livelihood depends upon his ability to deal with Martinez.
“He has friends in high places,” Pete says. “He has good lawyers. Some people think he can put in the fix at the Hall of Justice.”
That’s easier said than done. The San Francisco legal community is very small and our press is very aggressive. Although the system is far from perfect and there are some cops and judges suspected to be on the take, it would be difficult to fix a case—especially one involving someone as prominent as Martinez—without somebody finding out and making a stink. “How does Martinez fit in with Johnny Garcia?” I ask.
“We haven’t found any direct link. We did, however, find a connection between Martinez and Holton.” He says Holton approached Martinez for money. “Martinez is the president of the Mission Redevelopment Fund. As far as I can tell, it’s a perfectly legitimate nonprofit organization that provides subsidies to neighborhood businesses to encourage them to hire people from the community. Nobody has ever filed a complaint with the attorney general, and it’s in good standing with the secretary of state. Its filings with the IRS and the California franchise tax board are up-to-date. Because it’s a nonprofit, it has to disclose a lot of information to the public, including the names of the businesses that request funding. I asked for the list of proposals submitted to the fund in the last year. The office administrator was happy to provide it.”
This is all very useful information, and it confirms what Hector Ramirez told Tony, but I find it hard to believe that even an unsophisticated guy like Andy Holton would have had the gall to ask a reputable charity for money to start a cyberporn site. I say, “You can’t possibly think the fund would have made a grant to Holton’s porn business, do you?”
“I looked at his proposal. He didn’t ask for money for a porn business. He asked for funding for a business that was supposed to develop proprietary software for cash and inventory management for companies in the food and produce industries. The software might have been useful to Martinez.”
I’m skeptical. So is Rosie. “So,” she says, “you’re saying Andy Holton, a known prostitute, drug dealer and pimp, had somehow managed to develop sophisticated Web-related software that would streamline the operations of Donald Martinez’s business? How do you suppose he managed to do that? Where would he get the expertise and the programming experience?”
“Look,” Pete says, “I’m not saying he actually developed any software. For that matter, I’d be willing to bet you anything that he didn’t. All he did was submit a proposal. It was only a couple of pages long. The fund’s staff reviews them and submits the most promising to Martinez, who makes the final call. Holton’s proposal made the first cut and he got an interview with Martinez. I don’t know what they talked about. Maybe Holton made a pitch for his porn business. The only person who knows the answer is Martinez. In any event, the fund didn’t give Holton the money. They turned him down a few weeks after his interview.”
“Do you have any idea whether the cyberporn site ever got off the ground?”
“I don’t know. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t mentioned in the documents Holton submitted to the fund.”
I call Roosevelt later the same evening. “Why didn’t you tell me Nick Hanson was involved in this case?” I ask him.
“We aren’t sure that he will be involved. We aren’t certain his information will be relevant to your client’s case. He provided photos of Skipper and several prostitutes.”
“The judge will never let you introduce the pictures into evidence. They’re irrelevant.”
“Perhaps. We found pictures of one of the prostitutes in Skipper’s study and in his storage locker. It shows a pattern of predatory sexual behavior. It may be relevant.”
He’s holding something back. “Are you planning to call him as a witness?”
“Not at this time.”
Not exactly what I asked. “But it’s possible?”
“Perhaps. We’re going to spend a little more time with him. We want to find out what else he knows. Then we’ll decide if he can shed any light on your client’s case.”
He hangs up. It is unusual for Roosevelt to give me circumspect answers. He’s sending me a signal: I’d better talk to Nick Hanson right away.
27
THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY
“D-Day for DA is less than a week away.”
—SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5.
Hillary Payne is sullen as she sits behind the gunmetal-gray desk in her cramped office Tuesday morning. The defense team has been summoned for a private audience. The vibes aren’t good. Payne tells us McNasty wanted to be here, but had a prior commitment. She passes along his regards with an ironic smile. “You know,” she says, “we don’t have to share this information with you.”
I have no idea what she’s about to share, but I have no choice. “What did you find, Hillary?” I ask.
She gestures toward Ed and asks him to turn off the lights. “You guys are going to have to come around back here to see this,” she says. We crowd behind her desk. Ed’s wiry body is jammed into my side. Rosie is looking over his shoulder. She’s half a head taller than he is. I squeeze against Hillary’s chair. The place feels like a meat locker with the refrigeration turned off.
Hillary’s computer is on. She logs on to the Internet and pulls up Netscape. She moves her mouse to hit the word Home at the top of the screen. Slowly, her Yahoo! home page begins to materialize. “Someday,” she mutters, “we’ll get real computers.”
Ed is bewildered. “What’s this all abo
ut?” he asks.
If I’m guessing right, this is his first ride on the information superhighway. I don’t want to ask him in front of Hillary whether he’s ever heard of the Internet. A more pertinent question would be to inquire about whether he’s ever figured out how to turn on the computer that sits like a trophy on the corner of his own desk.
Rosie interjects, “It will take her just a few seconds to pull up her browser.” She says it in a way that suggests Ed may have some idea of what she’s talking about.
Ed nods. I’ll explain later.
Hillary maneuvers her mouse with her right hand. I smell her perfume. She has to reboot her computer. Ed is becoming impatient. Finally, Yahoo! appears. She doesn’t turn around when she says, “Our tech guys went through your client’s computer. They were able to pull up his Internet browser. They found some interesting stuff.” Hillary holds up a sheet with a list of Internet addresses. She says they were able to find the sites that Skipper bookmarked. I explain to Ed that this means Skipper had tagged the sites so that he could access them without having to type in the long Internet addresses.
Hillary types in the first address. “We found a bunch of pornographic sites,” she says. “Most involved nudity. Some involved bondage.” The computer starts working. At the bottom of the screen, there is an indication of how many seconds must still elapse before the images will be clear. It takes about forty-five seconds for the first Web site to come up. A message indicates it is available only to those who are over the age of eighteen. She clicks in the appropriate place to confirm that she qualifies.
The results aren’t pretty. “This one is called ‘Boys from Brazil,’” Hillary says. She gestures toward the screen. “It’s mostly gay sex.” There are photos of naked young men. Some are bound with handcuffs. As my mother used to say, they don’t leave anything to the imagination.
Hillary takes us through a quick tour of “Boys from Brazil.” Then she opens another site, called “Girls of the West Coast.” Once again, she goes through the screening process and pulls up a directory of the types of pictures she wants to show us. She chooses the category Bondage, and the subcategory Naked Sex.
The menu shows an array of about a dozen photos of nude women who are bound with rope, handcuffs and tape. Hillary clicks on one photo in particular. The enlarged picture begins to materialize on the screen. It’s a woman who has been handcuffed spread-eagle to a four-poster, her eyes and mouth covered with duct tape.
Ed, Rosie and I stand in silence. Hillary turns toward us and says, “This is where we think Skipper got his inspiration.” She points to the screen and asks, “Do you recognize this woman?”
“No,” we reply in unison.
“Look closer,” Hillary says. “It’s Roberta, the dark-haired prostitute who appeared on the Jade Warner show.”
We remain silent.
Hillary loads up another sex gallery. This one is called “Boys of the Bay Area.” “We think it’s produced locally,” she says. She pulls up a page with tiny pictures of each of the male models who appear in the site. She clicks on the fourth picture in the third row from the top. “Recognize this man?” she asks.
It’s Johnny Garcia.
She clicks on his picture. It invites us to view a montage of photos of Johnny Garcia. She clicks on a photo of Garcia handcuffed to a four-poster. His eyes and mouth are covered with duct tape.
“Do you know who put this Web site together?” I ask.
“We’re going to find out.”
She takes us for an endless tour of the site and a dozen other Web sites bookmarked on Skipper’s computer. After almost two hours of this torture, she finally turns her computer off. She is triumphant.
I’m not about to let her see my concern. “Anything else you want to show us?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“This doesn’t prove anything, you know,” Ed says. “It just showed somebody was able to load up a bunch of pornographic pictures on his computer.”
“He had a password,” she snaps. “He knew these sites were there.”
I decide it may not be a good idea to let Molinari act as our spokesman on technology issues. “He may have been monitoring them for work,” I say. “Maybe he was keeping them under surveillance.”
I get the not-in-this-lifetime look. “We’re going to introduce this material into evidence,” she says. “We’re going to show that he was watching pornographic sites on a regular basis. You’d better be prepared to come up with an explanation.”
I assure her that we will.
I go see Skipper right away. He claims he was keeping the Web sites under surveillance. He insists the DA’s office was merely trying to stem the flow of pornography in San Francisco. He insists the head of the sex crimes unit can corroborate his story. He says he did not know that the prostitute who appeared on the Jade Warner show also showed up in one of the Web sites.
His denials are getting tedious. I’m becoming frustrated when I ask him, “Were you aware that Johnny Garcia appeared in one of the Web sites? And that he was bound with handcuffs and his eyes and mouth were taped shut?”
He’s indignant. “Of course not. Do you think I would recognize any of the people in those sites?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
“No. It’s a coincidence. Nothing more.”
There are a hell of a lot of coincidences in this case.
“Hi, Mike,” Ramon Aguirre says. I am sitting next to him in the front row of St. Peter’s. The church is quiet. “Are you still engaging in the same acts with your ex-wife that we discussed the last time I saw you?” he asks.
“I didn’t come here to confess.”
“Follow-up is part of my job. Are you and Rosie still at it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He motions toward the altar. “You know the drill.”
I walk to the front of the church and say my Hail Marys. Then I return and ask Ramon, “Do you know anything about a man named Donald Martinez?”
“Sure. I know a lot about him. He’s been coming to St. Peter’s his entire life. We couldn’t have rebuilt our church after the fire without his help. Let me show you something.” He leads me out the doors and across the courtyard to the social hall in the adjacent building. The large white structure has a fresh coat of paint. He shows me a plaque next to the entrance that says “Donald Martinez Community Center.” We walk inside to see the newly refurbished auditorium. A group of high school students are rehearsing a production in Spanish. “We have a new kitchen, lights, sound system and a complete retrofit,” he says. “All compliments of a million-dollar donation from Donald Martinez.”
Impressive. “I’m reluctant to ask,” I say, “but we think Mr. Martinez may have been involved in some questionable activities.”
“That’s nothing new, Mike—it’s been in the papers. He’s been indicted a couple of times. The feds were after him for a few years because he supposedly put in the fix on some construction contracts at the airport. I think they accused him of racketeering. They were never able to prove anything. For what my two cents are worth, I think the charges were bogus. He’s here every Sunday with his grandchildren.”
I don’t respond.
“Look,” he says, “I’d like to help you. I’ve heard the rumors. I hold my breath every time I hear his name on the news. If he gets into trouble, so do we—he’s one of our largest donors. I have a vested interest in keeping his soul clean.”
“Fair enough.” I ask if he has any evidence of any hanky-panky in his dealings with the church.
He gives me the response I expect. “He donates money to us through a reputable charitable foundation. If there’s any funny business going on, I’m not aware of it.”
“Thanks, Ramon. Sorry to ask some uncomfortable questions.”
“You’re just doing your job.”
I’m back in my office and staring at my own computer. I’m looking at the Boys of the Bay Area Web site. I’m thinking about the meeting with Hilla
ry Payne earlier today. All roads lead to Skipper. Two prostitutes: one male and one female. Both crossed paths with Skipper. Both were in his book-marked Web sites. I have a gut feeling that Donald Martinez is involved in some manner—I just don’t know how. The only people who could have connected all the dots were Andy Holton and Johnny Garcia. I decide to take a flier and call the only other person we know of who had a significant relationship with Johnny Garcia: Kevin Anderson. I wonder how much he really knew about Johnny’s activities. Or Skipper’s, for that matter.
I’m surprised when he picks up his cell phone on the second ring. “I’ve been following Skipper’s case in the papers,” he says after I greet him.
“Looks like we’re heading to trial,” I say.
“If there’s anything I can do to help you—”
“Maybe there is,” I say. It’s time to call his bluff—or at least go on a fishing expedition. “Have you ever heard of a Web site called Boys of the Bay Area?”
There’s an almost imperceptible pause before he says, “No.”
“Were you aware that Johnny Garcia’s photograph appeared on that Web site?”
“No.”
I ask him whether Andy Holton was involved in a pornographic Web site. He says again he doesn’t know.
Stalemate. “Do you know anybody else who was working for Andy Holton?” I ask.
I know the answer before he says it. “No,” he replies.
I decide to move to another line of questioning. “Have you ever met a man named Donald Martinez?”
A second’s pause, then, “I’ve met him.”
I ask what he knows about him.
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