Grace sighs. It’s tough being ten and tired. “Okay.” She heads outside. Tony follows her. Rosie mouths her thanks to him.
Rosie turns back to Theresa and says, “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Why can’t we talk about it now?”
“Grace has school and is very tired,” Rosie says. “So am I.”
This doesn’t stop Theresa. “Why won’t you let me come to my daughter’s arraignment?”
Rosie’s exhaustion is reflected in her tone. “We’ve been over this.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a ten year-old.”
Rosie’s patience runs out. “Then don’t act like one,” she tells her sister.
“Dammit,” Theresa says, “I want to talk now.”
Sylvia takes Theresa’s hand and says, “Rosita is right. Let’s talk about it in the morning.”
Theresa’s eyes flare and her voice goes up a half-octave. “‘Rosita is right.’ I’ve been hearing that my entire life.” She takes a deep breath and says, “Rosita is not always right.”
“Now is not the time for this,” Sylvia says.
Theresa points a finger at her mother and says, “Your daughter isn’t in jail.”
Sylvia points a finger right back at her and snaps, “My granddaughter is.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“This isn’t about fault.”
“Around here, everythingis about fault.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
Rosie holds up her hands. Her eyes are red as she says in a voice that is barely a whisper, “All that matters right now is what’s best for Angel. She’s the one in jail. The two of you have the rest of your lives to work out your other issues. The arraignment is tomorrow. The preliminary hearing will be in a week. If we don’t get her out by then, she’ll be spending the next six months in jail waiting for her trial to start. I’m not sure she’ll make it.” She stands and starts to head toward the door.
As she reaches for the handle, Theresa calls out to her in a broken voice, “What about the arraignment? Can I sit in the back? I promise I won’t say anything.”
Rosie heaves a long sigh. She walks over to her sister and takes her hand. Then she lays it on the line. “Honey,” she says, “I’m not going to pretend I know how you’re feeling. If I were in your shoes, I would want to be there. On the other hand, I’m not sure how Angel will react if she sees you. There’s a good chance she’ll become very upset–too upset for her own good. I’m going to need her to act respectful. We’re going to ask the judge to grant her bail. The chances that she’ll agree aren’t very good. If Angel loses her composure, whatever those chances will become non-existent. This judge is very strict. She likes order in her courtroom. I need Angel’s full attention tomorrow. Do you understand? This is about Angel–not you.”
“Yes.”
“I know this sounds harsh,” Rosie continues, “but this is the reality. We have to deal with now. Our feelings have to stay out of it.”
Theresa nods. “If you think it’s better for Angel, I’ll stay home.”
“I do, Theresa.”
# # #
“I talked to Dennis Alvarez this afternoon,” Tony tells me. We’re still standing on Sylvia’s front porch. He stopped me as we were leaving. Rosie and Grace are waiting in the car.
“What did he have to say?”
“Good news and bad news.”
I wait.
“The good news is he’s talked to a couple of other business owners in the neighborhood. It seems they received similar propositions from Armando Rios.”
At least there are others who are in the same boat. “Did they take the money?”
“I think so.”
I ask him if Alvarez gave him any names.
“No.”
It’s understandable. He doesn’t want Tony to get together with the others and try to negotiate a group deal. “Can you find out who they are?”
“I’ll try.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“One of them is prepared to cut an immunity deal.”
“Any chance Alvarez is bluffing?”
“No.”
“When is the deal coming down?”
“Tomorrow. No later than two o’clock.”
“He told you he’d keep your offer open until Tuesday.”
“My deadline just got shorter. He gave me until tomorrow at two to make up my mind.”
It’s the same time as Angel’s arraignment. “What are you going to do?”
“Sleep on it.”
“Tony,” I say, “I still have to talk to a couple of witnesses in Angel’s case in the morning. And Angel’s arraignment is at two.”
“I understand. I’ll call Rolanda.”
# # #
“Where are you, Mick?” Pete asks. I’m talking to him on my cell phone. It’s a few minutes after eleven. I’ve taken Rosie and Grace back to Rosie’s car, which is parked by our office. They’re on their way home. Grace may sleep through social studies tomorrow morning. I postpone this line of parental concern because I know it’s not going to change anything now.
“I’m in my car,” I say. I don’t mention I’m heading to Leslie’s for a little heart-to-heart.
“I think you’ve got another problem,” he tells me. “The Suburban ended up at Fifth and Mission.”
It’s the headquarters of the Chronicle. “Did you see anybody get out of the car?”
“Jerry Edwards and a guy with a fancy camera.”
He doesn’t need to tell me the obvious. Our rendezvous with Dominic Petrillo is going to be front-page news tomorrow morning.
*****
Chapter 20
“I Want You to Turn Off Your Cell Phone for a Few Minutes”
“My father is a Supreme Court justice. There was an expectation that I would follow in his footsteps.”
— Judge Leslie Shapiro. San Francisco Chronicle. Sunday, June 6.
“You’re late again, Michael,” Leslie says. Her arms are folded. In her courtroom and personal life, Judge Shapiro places a high value on punctuality.
I’m standing in the doorway to her flat. It’s just after midnight. I’ve had about three hours of sleep in the last two days, and things aren’t likely to get better any time soon. I do my best to sound contrite. “I’m sorry, Leslie. It’s been a long day.”
She’s wearing a light blouse and jeans. Her contacts have given way to a pair of Calvin Klein wire rims. She invites me in. We walk through her narrow living room, which is sparsely furnished with a brown leather sofa and a matching chair positioned to take advantage of the view. It’s a clear night and I can see the beacon on Alcatraz. The wall opposite the fireplace has two built-in bookcases that are overstuffed with law books and classics. The photo of her parents on the mantle reminds me that Leslie is an only child. There are no pictures of nieces or nephews. The room is immaculate. She’s lived by herself for a long time.
We walk into the small kitchen where we’re greeted by the aroma of tomato sauce, oregano and Parmesan. The marble counter tops are spotless. I come from a family of many generations of abysmal housekeepers. If we ever move in together, Leslie may find my living habits to be a significant annoyance. Her tone softens when she says, “I made you a nice dinner. Vegetable lasagna.” It’s a kind gesture. She doesn’t like to cook. “I’ll heat it up for you.”
“Thanks, Les. I know you went to a lot of trouble.”
“Forget it. I’ll have the leftovers for lunch for a few days. The food at the Hall has never been the same since the old cafeteria went out of business. The ambiance isn’t there.”
A number of years ago, a McDonald’s took away much of the clientele of the cafeteria in the basement of the Hall. Although it felt like the lunchroom at St. Ignatius, the cafeteria was the Hall’s demilitarized zone, where cops, prosecutors, defense attorneys and even a few judges could mingle. My dad used to take me there for lunch when I was a kid. Wh
en I was a PD, I cut a few deals with the DAs while we were waiting for our grilled cheese sandwiches.
We exchange small talk as she heats up the lasagna and pours us each a glass of Merlot. Then we sit in the two chairs at her butcher block kitchen table. The CD player is on and I can hear the crystal voice of Judy Collins singing Both Sides Now. I had a crush on her when I was in college. Seems like a long time ago. The last line of the second verse seems eerily appropriate as she sings, “I really don’t know love at all.”
A tired smile crosses Leslie’s face. She plants her tongue firmly in her cheek and asks, “So, how was your day, Ozzie?”
I play along. “Just fine, Harriet. And yours?”
“Just wonderful, dear.” Her tone remains upbeat. “Is your client a murderer, honey?”
“Oh no, sweetie.” I can’t keep a straight face any longer. I start to laugh as I say, “She didn’t hit her husband with his Oscar. That would have been wrong.”
She starts to laugh. She picks up her glass and clinks mine. “Here’s to you, Ozzie.”
“And to you, Harriet. And to us.” I take a sip of wine and say, “Leslie, I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Never mind. I knew you kept irregular hours when we started this little adventure.” She winks and adds, “You’ll make it up to me.”
“Soon, I hope.”
“We’ll see about that.” She swirls her wine and says, “How did things go today?”
“Not well.” I give her an abbreviated version of the blow-by-blow, starting with the discovery of Martin Kent’s body at five this morning and ending with the events at the Ambassador’s Club tonight. I leave out any mention of Tony’s problems or the blow up with Theresa at Sylvia’s house. Some things should stay within the family.
She takes it in without comment. After I finish, she observes, “You’ve had a full day.”
“It isn’t going to get any better.” I glance at my watch. I tell her about my plan to rendezvous with Daniel Crown seven hours from now. “I may get to meet a movie star.”
Her smile broadens. “Would you give him a message? Tell him he can have me—anytime, anyplace, anywhere. I would sleep with him in the witness box of my courtroom in broad daylight.”
“I’ll pass that along. Does the same go for me?”
She gives me a wry grin and says, “If you want to sleep with Daniel Crown in my courtroom, you’ll have to work out your own arrangements with him.”
I chuckle. “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So what?”
She isn’t making this easy. “If Crown isn’t available, do I get the same deal?”
She turns serious. “Not just yet.”
Uh-oh. I try for a hopeful tone. “Maybe someday?”
“Maybe.”
Here it comes. “But?”
“It’s complicated.”
My cell phone rings and I cringe. I should have turned the damn thing off. Leslie’s face rearranges itself into an icy stare. “I’d better answer it,” I say. “It’s probably Rosie.”
“As usual.”
I flip open the phone, but I don’t recognize the incoming number on the display. “Michael Daley speaking.”
“Jerry Edwards, San Francisco Chronicle.” He sounds like Walter Matthau.
Christ. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Jerry. This really isn’t a good time.”
This doesn’t stop him. “We’ve been spending a lot of time on the China Basin project.”
“I’ve read your articles.”
“And the death of Richard MacArthur.”
“It’s a big story.”
“One of our sources told us you met with Dominic Petrillo at the airport tonight.”
Like a good reporter, he isn’t going to ask questions. He’s making statements and hoping I’ll confirm his conclusions. I try to buy some time by responding with a question.
“Who’s your source?” I ask.
“That’s confidential.”
“I understand your reluctance to reveal your sources. On the other hand, I’m not comfortable confirming or denying statements that may be nothing more than rumors.”
“Does that mean you’re denying the meeting ever took place?”
Nice try. “I’m neither confirming nor denying anything.”
“Mr. Daley,” he says, “we have this information from a very reliable source.”
I decide to try again. “And who would that be?”
“Me.”
“Does that mean you were in the Suburban that followed Petrillo down to the airport?”
He gives me a phony laugh. “You got me, Mr. Daley.”
He wants information. So do I. I ask him, “Why were you watching Petrillo?”
“We weren’t. We were watching Richard MacArthur. When Petrillo left his house, we decided to see where he was going.”
“So you followed him to the airport?”
“So did you.”
Touché. “I presume you have photos?”
“Indeed. We have a nice shot of the two of you standing outside the United terminal. We’re planning to put it on page one of tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Hell.
“Look on the bright side,” he says. “In a few hours, you’re going to be famous.”
I was hoping to reserve my fifteen minutes for another time.
“So,” he says, “do you have any comment about your meeting with Mr. Petrillo?”
The last thing I want to do is start answering open-ended questions. He’ll give me just enough rope to hang myself. “And if I say no comment?”
“We’ll publish the facts as we know them.” He clears his throat and adds, “Of course, that would give us a little more wiggle room to speculate.”
I give Leslie a helpless look and I try to choose my words carefully. “I’ll confirm I met with Petrillo in connection with our investigation in the Angelina Chavez case. He may be a witness. For obvious confidentiality reasons, I can’t reveal what he said.”
This doesn’t stop him. “Did he reveal any details on MacArthur’s murder? We know he was there Friday night.”
“You know I can’t comment on that.”
“Is he still planning to release The Return of the Master next week?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“Did you talk about the China Basin project?”
I repeat my mantra. I tell him I have no comment.
He pretends he’s frustrated. In reality, he knows he won’t get much from me. “He issued a statement earlier today saying Millennium Studios wasn’t going to get involved in Angelina Chavez’s defense. Does his meeting with you represent a change of policy?”
“No comment, Jerry.”
“Are you and Petrillo trying to work out a deal?”
“No.”
“He was at Richard MacArthur’s house tonight. What were they talking about?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“Are you trying to cut a deal with Richard MacArthur?”
“Obviously, we’d like his cooperation.”
He sighs. “You aren’t making my job any easier, Mr. Daley.”
It isn’t myjob to make your job easier. I can be sanctimonious, too. “We want to find out what really happened just as much as you do, Jerry. My client is innocent and we’d like to find out who really killed her husband.”
There is silence on the other end. Then he asks, “Have you spoken with Carl Ellis?”
“Not yet.”
He feigns exasperation. “You have to give me something, Mr. Daley.”
“My client is innocent.”
“Come on, Mr. Daley.”
“I’ve told you everything I can for now, Jerry.”
“Have it your way. We’ll go with what we’ve got.” He hangs up without saying goodbye. I’m going to get nailed in the morning paper.
I finish my wine and set my glass on the table. Leslie says,
“The Chronicle?”
“Yeah.”
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