MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  She chews on her lower lip says, “I need your help with something.”

  My antenna goes up because Carolyn never asks for help. “A legal question?”

  “Yes.” She swallows hard and says, “And a personal one, too.”

  Something in her tone troubles me. “What is it, Caro?” She permits only a few people from the old neighborhood to call her by her childhood nickname.

  “The same thing as always.”

  “Ben?”

  “Of course.”

  I hold my palms up and ask, “What is it?”

  “There was a rave out near Candlestick last Sunday.”

  “I heard about it. Sounded like it got a little out of hand.”

  “It did. The cops arrested a bunch of kids . . . and Ben was one of them.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Possession of a controlled substance.”

  “Which one?”

  “Ecstasy.”

  Hell. “First offense?”

  “Let’s just say it’s the first time he’s been arrested.”

  Got it. “Has he been arraigned?”

  “Yes. I put up the bail.” She sighs. “I thought about leaving him in for a night. It might have taught him something.”

  “The holding tank at the Hall is a tough place to learn a lesson. Besides, he’s fundamentally a good kid. He’s going to find himself one of these days.”

  “I hope so.” She frowns. “I worked at the Hall for twenty years. I put a lot of people in jail. I prosecuted a lot of kids.” She struggles to keep her composure. “Do you know how hard it is to go down there and bail out your own kid?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “It was humiliating for both of us. I felt like such a failure. The cops were decent about it, but you could tell they were getting a chuckle about a defense attorney’s son being in jail.”

  “You should have called me. I would have gone with you.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It will all get worked out,” I say.

  “It has to.”

  “Did he do it?”

  “He claims he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was holding a backpack when the cops came in. He didn’t know there were drugs inside.” Her face takes on a pained expression as she says, “I don’t know if I believe him or not.”

  “How can I help?”

  She heaves a long sigh and asks, “Will you represent him? I’m too emotional about it. And I’m too close to him. He’s tuned me out.”

  As if I don’t have enough on my plate already. This isn’t exactly a great time to take on yet another case. “Of course,” I say. “Who’s the prosecutor?”

  “Lisa Yee.”

  This isn’t good news. She’s been prosecuting cases for about five years and she’s the smartest lawyer in the DA’s office. She’s also the most meticulous. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she has no political aspirations of her own. She likes to go to court.

  “I’ve tried a couple of cases against her,” I say. “She’s very bright and seems fairly reasonable.” I look her in the eye and ask, “Do you have any history with her?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. We were colleagues. I respected her. I think she respected me.”

  I ask her when the preliminary hearing will be held. It’s a perfunctory legal proceeding to decide whether there is sufficient evidence to hold Ben over for trial.

  “Thursday.”

  “And the judge?”

  “Leslie Shapiro.”

  She doesn’t know. What do I do? What do I say?

  She pauses and adds, “I worked with Leslie on a few cases when she was a DA. It was a long time ago, but she’s a good judge—firm, but very fair. I like her.”

  So do I. I’m busted. I have no choice. “Caro,” I say, “there’s something I have to tell you about Judge Shapiro. This has to stay in this room.”

  She gives me a perplexed look and says, “What is it?”

  “We’re seeing each other.”

  Her head snaps back. “Socially?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Rosie know?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence. She takes a bite out of her fingernail and says, “For how long?”

  “About six months.”

  She leans back in her chair and opts for understatement. “It’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “I realize that.” She has no standing to make moral judgments, but I refrain from saying so. Her career at the DA’s office ended badly after she had a fling with her former boss. She freely acknowledges it wasn’t the smartest thing she’s ever done, either.

  I hear the sigh that I heard so many times years ago when we were dating. “I can’t let you do it,” she says. “It’s a conflict of interest. I’ll have to find somebody else.”

  “That would be the right thing to do.”

  “Yeah.” She pauses and says, “I don’t want to impose this on Rosie. It may be a conflict for her, too.”

  “She’ll do it if you ask.”

  “I know. She has a lot on her mind.” The frustration in her eyes is palpable.

  “Look,” I say, “Let me talk to Lisa. Maybe I’ll be able to get the charges dropped.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “I’ll refer it to Randy Short. He’s expensive, but he’s very good.”

  “Mike,” she says, “this may be a little more complicated than you think.”

  It usually is. “How’s that?”

  “I’m getting bad vibes from the DA’s office. Lisa said they want to use Ben’s case to set an example. Her boss is running for re-election. She wants to show she’s tough on drugs.”

  “Politics shouldn’t have any impact on this case,” I say.

  “Politics has an impact on every case.”

  It’s true. “I’ll talk to Lisa,” I say. “I think I can fix this before it gets out of hand.” I tell her I want to meet with Ben right away.

  She says she’ll arrange a meeting. “You can bill us at the standard hourly rate,” she says.

  “You get family rates. It’s on the house.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Yes you can. I won’t accept money from you, Caro.”

  “I want Ben to understand it costs something to make these problems go away.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it by the book. I’ll have him sign a client engagement letter and I’ll ask him for a two hundred and fifty dollar retainer. I’ll tell him we’re going to bill him at our standard hourly rates. But I won’t take his money—or yours.”

  “What will it take to make you change your mind?”

  “You can’t.”

  I catch the hint of a smile. “Did I ever tell you you’re a good man, Michael Daley?”

  “You used to mention it from time to time. Right before you started focusing more on my shortcomings.”

  I catch a glow of appreciation in her eyes. There is a side to her that makes me sad. I wish she could experience the joy with Ben that I feel when I’m with Grace. “I know it’s ancient history,” she says, “but sometimes I think I would have been better off if I had said yes to you all those years ago.”

  So she wonders about it, too. I give my head a mental shake. My plate’s a little crowded to revisit my history with Carolyn. I can’t think of anything better, so I cop out with a cliché. “We were very young,” I say. “It probably wouldn’t have worked out.”

  She won’t let it go. “Unlike my husbands, youwere always there for me,” she says. She swallows hard and adds, “It’s taken me a long time to realize how important that is.”

  She’s exceeded my capacity for rehashing another failed relationship. “You’ll get through this, Carolyn,” I say.

  “I don’t want to lose my son.”

  “You won’t. I promise.”

  There are tears in her eyes. She hugs me. Then she turns and heads for the door.

  I stop her just befor
e she walks out of the room. “Caro?” I say.

  She turns around and her eyes get bigger. “Yes?”

  “We’re going to need a lot of help with Angel’s case.”

  “I know.” She pauses and says, “Is Rosie okay? She looks tired.”

  “She’s waiting for more test results.”

  “She’s going to be all right,” she says.

  “I hope so. I’m not sure she’s going to have the stamina to take this case to trial.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It’s my turn to swallow. I flash back almost a quarter of a century and I can’t remember what we spent so much time fighting about. “Thanks, Caro.”

  # # #

  “There’s something else we need to discuss,” Rosie tells me as she takes a seat on the corner of my desk.

  “What is it, Rosita?”

  “Angel can’t afford to pay us.”

  Come again? “She lives in a big house in Sea Cliff. She was married to Dick MacArthur. She drives a Mercedes SUV.”

  “Prenup. She had nothing going into the marriage. Dick bought her cars and jewelry and other toys. He gave her an allowance, but he controlled the money. It’s all in a trust. She can’t get to it.”

  “What about the money for the new movie?”

  “She used most of her advance to buy the condo for Theresa.”

  I’m not inclined to suggest that we ask Theresa to take out a mortgage on her condo to pay for Angel’s legal fees. “What about the studio? Won’t they fund her defense?”

  “They’ve advanced everything they owe her. They’ve even given her some extra money. She spent every penny on Theresa’s condo. They may try to distance themselves from her.”

  It wouldn’t surprise me. Millennium may not want to be associated with an accused murderer. “Who administers the trust money?”

  “Her husband.”

  He’s dead. “Anybody else?”

  “Marty Kent.”

  Swell. He’s a missing person. “Does anybody else have authority to access the cash?”

  “At the moment, no.”

  “So, we’re going to have to do this for free?”

  “At least until Angel collects on the life insurance policy.”

  If she ever does. The insurance company won’t pay as long as Angel’s case is pending. Rosie and I have done our share of pro bono work for the poor and needy, but this case could extend our resources. We have no line of credit. We have to pay the rent. We have to pay Rolanda. Grace has to eat. “Is there any way she might get her hands on some cash?” I ask.

  “She said she’d try. She can’t afford to pay another defense attorney. A PD won’t have time to put together a case.”

  That’s true. “Have you talked to Carolyn?”

  “She’s agreed.”

  I knew she would.

  “Besides,” Rosie continues, “Angel’s family.”

  I don’t hesitate. “I’m in.”

  “Thanks. There’s something else.” She takes off her reading glasses and brushes back her short, graying hair. I can tell what she’s about to say is hard for her. “I’m not sure I have the energy to take the lead if this goes to trial.”

  This has been a recurring theme since Rosie became ill. I have no good answer. Her fire is still there, but the glow isn’t as strong. She’s been fighting her entire life for respect. Now, she’s fighting for her life. I think back to when we first met: how we promised we’d always be there. I think of the day Grace was born. I skip past the unhappy times, the acrimonious divorce and the custody hearings. I reach across and take her hand. “Carolyn and I will take the load, Rosie,” I tell her. “Rolanda will help.”

  Her eyes flash an unspoken thanks. We talk for a few minutes. As she’s heading for the door she asks, “How are things with Leslie?”

  My relationship with Judge Shapiro has been a bone of substantial contention. All things being equal, I wouldn’t be dating a judge. We all get lonely. Among other issues, Rosie is troubled by the fact that Leslie has been unwilling to make our relationship a matter of public record. Rosie says it’s unhealthy. I know she’s right. You draw your lines where you choose. It didn’t help that I found a new girlfriend around the same time Rosie got sick.

  “Things are fine,” I tell her. It’s just a bit of a lie. Leslie and I enjoy each other’s company and we have a great deal in common. And God knows, the sex is good. On the other hand, the secretive nature of our relationship troubles me. I’m not sure there is a long-term future. Leslie doesn’t like to talk about commitments.

  “Is she getting used to the idea of telling a few more people about your situation?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why is she so reluctant?” Rosie asks.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No it isn’t.” She shakes her head and asks, “What do you see in her?”

  “She’s funny, smart and independent.”

  Rosie’s expression doesn’t change. “So?”

  I give her a coy look and say, “She reminds me of you.”

  This gets a smile. “Why can’t you act like every other guy your age and go out with some beautiful, nubile young law student with large breasts and a tight ass? Why do you always insist on getting infatuated with intelligent older women?”

  I smile and say, “I have more depth than you think.”

  # # #

  “You must have something better to do than to stare out the window and feel sorry for yourself.” My brother Pete is standing in my doorway. He’s a shorter, stockier version of me, with darker hair and a mustache. He’s wearing a chocolate bomber jacket and faded jeans, and he hasn’t shaved. He doesn’t sleep much. It’s in the job description if you’re a PI.

  “Have you been working?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “The usual. Unfaithful husband.” He looks around my tiny office and gives me a wry grin. My furnishings might be described as “modern thrift store.” Law books cover my tired wooden desk. Manila files have taken up residence on my two dark brown, vinyl-upholstered chairs. A large poster with the signs of the zodiac adorns my wall. It was a housewarming present from Madame Lena. I have all the accouterments of a first class criminal defense attorney.

  I ask, “Did you get anything good?”

  His tone is flat as he says, “I always get something.”

  I glance out the cracked window toward the alley that separates our building from the high rise just behind us. I look at the grim young man who sits in a cubicle and stares at a computer screen all day. The view was far better when I was working for Simpson and Gates on the top of the Bank of America Building. It was only three years ago. It seems longer.

  I study my reflection in the window. My hair is now more gray than light brown. The crow’s feet are now permanent fixtures in the corners of my eyes. I’m looking every minute of my forty-nine years. “Do you have time to work on another case?” I ask. “It could be a high-profile matter and it’s for an existing client of yours.”

  He’s five years younger than I am. He lived at home with my mom for many years. He was married briefly. Then he moved back home when he got divorced. Pete kept the house when my mom died two years ago. It must be odd for him to be living in the house where we grew up. His face rearranges itself into a half grin. “Angel?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  The half grin turns into a full smile. “Pretty young actress. Big film producer. Hollywood. Lights. Camera. Action.”

  “I take it that means you’re available?”

  “Absolutely. What have you found out?”

  He knows at least as much as I do. “She was picked up at the bridge. They arrested her.”

  He gives me a look that suggests he’s thinking the word, “Duh.” “Uh, thanks,” he says. “I knew that. What was she doing at the bridge?”

  “She doesn’t remember.”