Hector holds up his hands and says, “It’s all right, Mike. I can assure you I didn’t have any involvement in the activities in Room 204 of the Curtis.”
McNulty nods. “That’s fine,” he says, “but it still leaves us with a hole. I can’t make a deal unless you can show the money was obtained illegally.”
Stalemate. The assembled group is completely silent. McNulty stands with his arms folded. Morales’s disappointment shows in his body language. Payne picks up her briefcase. She and McNulty begin to head toward the door. My mind races. I need to buy time. I turn to Hector and ask, “Where did you deliver the money?”
Payne and McNulty turn around.
Hector thinks for a moment, then says, “The places you’d expect: the bank, supermarkets, restaurants, suppliers.”
Still no smoking gun. “Anyplace else? Anywhere out of the ordinary?” I ask. I’m hoping he’s delivered bribe money to half the Board of Supervisors. It isn’t likely—Martinez is far too careful to be caught red-handed.
“Not really,” he says. “I made my deliveries mostly to people in the produce business.”
Shit.
He stops. Then he says, “And I made a few deliveries to the office of Mr. Kevin Anderson.”
There it is! The connection between the Web site and Martinez and Anderson. “How many deliveries?” I ask.
“Two or three.”
“Did the deliveries involve substantial sums?”
“I think so. The envelopes were fat.”
I look at Payne and ask, “Is that enough?”
She shrugs and says, “It still isn’t enough to charge anybody with anything. Martinez and Anderson will both claim the money was delivered for perfectly legitimate purposes.”
Damn. I ask Hector if he took cash anyplace else.
He ponders for a moment and says, “I did make some deliveries to Father Aguirre at St. Peter’s every once in a while.”
Seems innocuous enough—even commendable, I suppose. “How often?”
“Every couple of weeks.”
“Was it a lot of money?”
“Well, the envelopes were pretty thick.”
I scan the faces of McNulty, Payne, Johnson and McBride. McNulty asks, “Did you get a receipt from Father Aguirre?”
“No.”
Payne remains unimpressed. “It isn’t illegal to make charitable contributions to your church.”
Roosevelt tries to help us. “No,” he says, “but it would be very interesting to see if the cash had been reported by Martinez as taxable income. Tax evasion is illegal even if the funds are donated to a church. And it’s also illegal for the church to accept donations without reporting them—a case can be made for fraud on the part of the donor and the church. The attorney general’s office is in charge of monitoring the activities of charitable and religious organizations. I have a couple of friends in the AG’s office who might be willing to open an investigation.”
“It’s a huge stretch,” Payne says. “Think about what you’re suggesting. You want to try to get Martinez for tax evasion and fraud for donating money to St. Peter’s. That’s insane. You may even be suggesting that Father Aguirre did something wrong. St. Peter’s is the most prominent social institution in this community. Father Aguirre may be the most influential clergyman in the Bay Area. Donald Martinez is a highly regarded businessman. Think of the fallout when you try to nail Martinez for donating money to the church. Think of the backlash when you go after Father Aguirre. You’ll look like a fool. We’ll all look like fools!”
Roosevelt folds his arms. He brings to bear the authority of all forty-two years of his experience on the SFPD when he says without raising his voice, “This is the best chance we’ve had in twenty years to get Donald Martinez and you won’t even open an investigation. You have a chance to show some courage and make your mark as a prosecutor, and you’re going to play politics and worry about your image in the newspapers. This is a sad day for law enforcement in this city.”
Payne responds, “There isn’t enough evidence, Roosevelt. You know that. There’s nothing we can do.”
Silence. Then I say to her, “You’re saying you won’t go after Martinez even though everybody here knows he’s running a drug and prostitution ring across the street from Mission Station.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“And you won’t investigate the fact that we now have documented proof that he’s using drug and prostitution money to make fraudulent contributions to St. Peter’s.”
Payne takes in my diatribe without showing emotion. “You can’t prove that, either,” she says. “I’d like to nail him as much as you would, but I can’t open an investigation or file charges unless I have evidence. Right now, I don’t.”
I can feel my hands start to shake. I raise my voice. “Christ, Hillary!” I shout. “Don’t you give a damn about justice?”
Payne glares at me and says in a measured tone, “As a matter of fact, I do. And I believe in the rule of law, which says that I have to have sufficient evidence to open an investigation or file charges.” She nods to McNulty and says, “This meeting is over. We’ll see you in court in the morning.” She and McNulty start for the door.
I’m desperate. “Hillary,” I shout to her back, “what would it take to get you to open an investigation? What corroboration do you need?”
She looks at McNulty and then turns slowly and faces me. She thinks for a moment and says, “I’ll agree to your deal for Mr. Ramirez and I will open an investigation of Mr. Martinez if, and only if, you get me corroboration that St. Peter’s accepted cash donations from Martinez that the church did not report.”
My mind races. “Wait here, please,” I say. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Where are you going?” Payne asks.
“To church.”
“What is it, Mike?” Ramon Aguirre asks. “You said it was urgent.”
It’s midnight. He was asleep when I called him, but he’s gotten here fast. We’re sitting in the front row at St. Peter’s. The church is still. A single votive candle flickers near the altar.
“I need your help.”
He says after a pause, “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Donald Martinez.”
“It does.”
“I can’t.”
“Ramon, we need somebody to corroborate the fact that Martinez was moving money through a corporation called El Camino Holdings. The corporation was funneling money from a prostitution and pornography Web site.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“They were selling heroin, Ramon. They were destroying lives.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Listen, Ramon, one of Martinez’s former employees has told us that Martinez made substantial cash donations to St. Peter’s. He told us he delivered thousands of dollars in cash from the Curtis Hotel to the church. It is our presumption that the church never reported these donations. If that’s correct, the attorney general may be willing to open an investigation if we can get corroboration of this. I know it’s difficult, but please, Ramon. They’re selling young men. One is already dead. They’re distributing millions of dollars’ worth of heroin. Somebody almost killed Rosie’s brother. You can make this stop. You can end it.”
“I can’t, Mike.”
“Ramon, you have to.”
“You don’t understand. It’s complicated.”
“You won’t be implicated. We’ll get you full immunity.”
“I’ll lose my job. It’s the only job I’ve ever wanted. The church will never back me up.”
“The church will think you’re a hero if you blow the whistle on the drugs and prostitution.”
He looks at the altar and says, “Maybe. Maybe not. But this isn’t about me. The extra money we get from Martinez goes straight to the neediest members of our parish. Innocent people will be hurt. They use the money to buy food. This is about people who can’t fend for themselves.”
“They s
houldn’t be using blood money from prostitutes and drug dealers to do so.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t live on the street. You aren’t trying to make ends meet on a monthly welfare check. You aren’t trying to feed Grace on a minimum-wage job. You don’t wake up every day without hope. I have no idea where the money comes from. I don’t want to know. It’s delivered to my office at the rectory, no questions asked.”
I walk to the altar and make the sign of the cross. Then I turn back to him and say, “This isn’t easy for me, either. I’m on your side. I know the hardships you face. I know you have a tough job. But I’m going to call you as a witness tomorrow. I want you to do what we were taught in our first week at the seminary—I want you to put your faith in God and do what your heart tells you is right.”
I’m back at Mission Station at one-thirty. Pete has taken Hector home. Rosie, Molinari and I are sitting with Payne and McNulty to pound out Hector’s immunity agreement on Rosie’s laptop. I’ve promised that Ramon Aguirre will testify tomorrow that the church did not report substantial cash contributions from Donald Martinez. I hope he’ll come through.
“There’s something else we should discuss tonight,” I say.
“What?” Payne asks.
“Seeing as how we’re going to prove that Martinez and Anderson were involved in the porn business, it seems to me that you should drop the charges against Skipper.”
“Mike,” Payne says, “Hector’s testimony is going to show that they may be involved in drugs and prostitution. We won’t fight you when you introduce his testimony. But that’s all. You haven’t demonstrated that they had anything to do with the murder of Johnny Garcia.”
“Stanford and Anderson were both there that night,” I insist. “They both had opportunity. They both had motive.”
“You can save yourself the embarrassment of losing this case,” Rosie says. “You’ll make up for it by prosecuting Donald Martinez.”
McNasty shakes his head. “Not so fast,” he says. “We’ve got a murder case in trial. You guys have shown that Martinez and Anderson were in the porn business and that Stanford set up the corporation that owned the pornographic Web site. So what? The porn business may be unsavory, but it isn’t illegal. You still haven’t shown that they were involved in the murder of Johnny Garcia. And you haven’t cleared Gates. You’re the ones who have to make the pieces fit. For the reasons we’ve discussed, I’m willing to let Hector Ramirez testify and give him immunity, but I will not drop the charges against Skipper. The case against him remains.”
“See you in court in the morning,” Payne says.
—————
Wednesday is a blur. First off, I inform Judge Kelly that we plan to call Hector and Ramon as witnesses and that the prosecution knows this. Hector takes the stand at nine o’clock and tells the jury that he delivered cash from Room 204 of the Curtis Hotel to Anderson. He says that he also delivered cash to Father Ramon Aguirre at St. Peter’s. He is not only remarkably collected, he’s almost serene. I am less surprised by this than I would have been if Rosie hadn’t told me on our way to court that he has a very personal reason for wanting to nail Martinez. It turns out Johnny Garcia was his godson. He had promised Johnny’s mother that he would help take care of him, he confided to Rosie, and he hadn’t done a very good job. I lead him shamelessly. Hillary does not object. Nor does she cross-examine him.
I call Ramon Aguirre to the stand and ask him whether a representative of Donald Martinez ever delivered cash to him at the church.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“And were those donations substantial?”
“Yes. Thousands of dollars.”
“Were those donations documented in the church’s standard manner?”
He tugs at his collar and says, “No. The donations were not recorded on the books of the church.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Martinez asked us to keep them confidential.”
I ask him how the funds were used.
“They were redistributed to needy members of the community.”
“And do you know the source of the cash?”
He looks straight at me and says, “I have recently been told the cash came from the Curtis Hotel. I have also been told that there may have been illegal prostitution and drug-related activities going on there.”
“No further questions.”
Payne does not cross-examine him.
I recall Donald Martinez, who says that it is common in the produce business for large amounts of cash to change hands. He says that all donations to St. Peter’s were reported in the appropriate manner and that deliveries to Kevin Anderson’s office were for legitimate business purposes relating to a project they were developing together. I think I see a couple of jurors shaking their heads. Payne doesn’t cross-examine him.
Finally, I put Anderson back on the stand to explain the cash deliveries to his office. He insists that they were all made for legitimate business purposes. He acknowledges that although it is uncommon for him to deal in large amounts of cash, it is not unheard of. I look at the jury, but I can’t tell what impact, if any, all this testimony has had. Payne doesn’t cross-examine him, either.
“Any further witnesses?” Judge Kelly asks me after Anderson steps down.
I glance at Skipper and say, “No, Your Honor. The defense rests.”
She pounds her gavel.
Hillary begins her closing argument at ten o’clock. We lawyers like to think that if our closings are eloquent enough, we might be able to persuade the jury to do what we want. I’ve never bought it. Most jurors that I’ve talked to have said they’ve made up their minds well before the lawyers begin their closings. A juror in a murder trial a few years ago summarized things succinctly. “I didn’t believe a word you guys said,” he told me.
After weeks of playing the role of the aggressive prosecutor, Hillary tries for a folksy approach. After she finishes, I opt for a conversational tone. I feel myself walking around the courtroom. I see the jurors’ faces when I try to punch holes in each piece of evidence. I suggest to them that the relationship among Martinez, Stanford and Anderson, and their respective connections to the Boys of the Bay Area Web site and Andy Holton, leaves them with ample cause to find reasonable doubt. A lot goes through your mind when you’re in the middle of a closing. You watch for signals in the jurors’ eyes. You monitor the time. You pace yourself. Suddenly, the clock on the wall says it’s almost noon. I glance at Rosie, who closes her eyes. I give the jury one last look. “I want you to look at the facts when you go back to the jury room,” I say. “I want you to deliberate. We have very serious issues in this case. And Prentice Gates’s very life will be decided in that jury room.”
I thank them for their attention. If the jury bought any of my closing, they aren’t showing it. I can’t tell. I’m exhausted.
Judge Kelly charges the jury right before lunch. She promised them a short trial. She is remaining true to her word. There’s nothing we can do now except wait.
Reporters surround me as I leave the Hall. Microphones are jammed toward my face. I offer the usual platitudes about the strength of our case. A reporter from Channel 5 asks me whether we plan to appeal. I tell her it’s customary to wait until the verdict comes down before we start thinking about appeals. The silver-haired sage from Channel 7 asks me how Skipper is holding up.
“Just fine,” I reply. He’s in better shape than I am.
“What are you thinking about?” Rosie asks me as we drive back to the office.
“Nothing.”
“Come on.”
“My closing.”
She tells me I did fine.
“Thanks. I’m not so sure.”
“The jury was with you.”
I hope so. We head east on Bryant and turn left at Third. I replay the trial in my head. I think of everything I would have done differently. I berate myself for agreeing to let Skipper rush into an early trial before we had the results of
the DNA tests.
I feel Rosie’s hand on my cheek. “Don’t beat yourself up on this one,” she says.
“I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m drawn.”
“Maybe you should get redrawn.”
“Maybe.” I swallow hard.
“What is it?” Rosie asks.
“I was just thinking about Ramon.”
“What about him?”
“How tough his job is.”
“You should know.”
“I do. We just made it a lot tougher—if he still has a job.”
Rosie sighs. “You can’t blame yourself for that. Dirty money is—dirty. Donating it to the church is wrong, even if it goes for a good cause.”
“A lot of people are going to get hurt.”
“A few prostitutes and some kids on heroin may catch a break.”
“The prostitutes will still be there tomorrow. The kids on heroin will find their fix from somebody else.”
“You’re trying to take a drug dealer off the street, Mike. That’s a victory, even if he was a big benefactor of St. Peter’s. Why can’t you accept the fact that there’s no such thing as a perfect world?”
She’s right, of course. It doesn’t make me feel any better. We drive the rest of the way to the office in silence.
—————
That night, we’re in Rosie’s office, watching the local news on Bay TV In what might best be described as the legal profession’s equivalent of harmonic convergence, Mort the Sport Goldberg is interviewing Nick the Dick Hanson. The discourse is conducted at a highly professional level. “In especially riveting testimony,” Mort says, “prominent local businessman Donald Martinez was accused of funding a prostitution and pornography business in the Mission District. It was also suggested that some of the proceeds of the business were funneled to the historic St. Peter’s Catholic Church. The attorney general’s office says it will open an investigation. In a hastily convened press conference outside of the courtroom, Mr. Martinez denied all the accusations and referred the matter to his attorney. A spokesman for the archdiocese said the matter was being investigated and had no further comment at this time.”
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