MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Fine with me.” I ask if she’s heard anything from Tony.

  “Everything seems to be quiet at the market.”

  “And Armando Rios?”

  “Rolanda called in. He’s left town.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Vegas. I presume he was going to see Carl Ellis. Rolanda is on his tail.”

  Interesting. “Has Pete called?”

  “Yes. He said Petrillo flew to L.A., and Little Richard and Eve went up to the winery. He wants us to meet him there first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m in. Do you feel like taking a ride with me?”

  “Sure. The drive will do me good.” She hesitates for a moment and asks, “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m going over to Baker Beach to check in with Pete’s people. Then I have to be out in the Richmond later to take care of another pressing matter.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I’m having a little heart-to-heart talk with Leslie.”

  *****

  Chapter 38

  “It Doesn’t Have to be That Complicated”

  “A judge must avoid conflicts of interest and remain true to her principles.”

  — Judge Leslie Shapiro. California State Bar Journal.

  Kabuto Sushi is an unpretentious little place on Geary at Fifteenth. Although it has zero ambiance, the offerings prepared by its sushi maestro are among the best in town. The regulars are chatting with the chef. Leslie and I are sitting at a table near the back of the sparsely-furnished room at ten o’clock. She’s nibbling on one of the exotic creations. I’m not hungry.

  “We really shouldn’t be talking to each other,” Leslie says. “It’s ex parte communication. You could lose your license.”

  I got tired of people talking to me in Latin when I was a priest. Although I know she’s right, I have no patience for a lecture on ethics right now. I realize I’m not helping matters as I say, “And you could lose your gavel.”

  She swallows her sushi and washes it down with a sip of tea. She puts her cup on the table and looks into my eyes. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  She’s wearing a non-judicial outfit: faded jeans, beat-up Nikes and a fuzzy blue Cal sweatshirt. “We’ve gotten ourselves into a classic no-win situation,” she tells me.

  I nod. Let her talk.

  Her lips curl up into a tight ball. Then she says, “I told the presiding judge I can’t handle Angelina’s prelim.”

  I’m relieved. “I’m sorry, Leslie.”

  “So am I.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “I’m planning to celebrate my great moral victory.”

  “Did he ask you why?”

  “I told him it was personal. When he probed, I said it involved a situation that may generate a potential conflict. That was all he needed to hear. He reassigned it to Judge McDaniel. She’s familiar with the case and her calendar is open.”

  Not a great deal. We get to do an encore performance in the courtroom of a pro-prosecution judge. “You would have been a better draw for us.”

  “You’re right.” She hesitates and adds, “She’ll give you a fair shake.”

  That she will. “I guess that leaves us.”

  She takes a quick sip of tea and says, “Yes it does.”

  I never know if I’m supposed to lead or follow. My gut tells me to talk. My mind tells me to listen. My gut wins. “Leslie,” I say, “I still have the same feelings for you.”

  The telltale sigh. She makes eye contact with me for an instant, then looks away. She’s looking down when she says, “You’re a dear, sweet, bright, kind man, Michael Daley.”

  They always start with a flowery compliment just before they hit you with the sledge hammer. I steel myself for the big “But.”

  She looks up and says, “But this relationship is too complicated for me.”

  I’ve heard this before. “It doesn’t have to be that complicated,” I tell her.

  “Yes it does.” She swallows hard and I think I can see a tear in her eye. “Michael,” she says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to continue seeing each other.”

  Don’t react. Let her keep talking.

  Her tone becomes more judicial when she says, “It isn’t going to work. It creates all sorts of potential conflicts—at work and at home.” She hesitates and adds, “I don’t think it has a long-term future.”

  I hate when people use the term “it” in referring to a relationship. It’s better not to quibble about semantics with her. I can feel a burning in the back of my throat and a knot in my stomach. In my head I can hear the plaintive voice of Bonnie Raitt singing, “I can’t make you love me if you don’t.” I put my chin in my hand and look her in the eye. I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.

  She’s uncomfortable. She nibbles at her sushi and then throws it down on her plate. She looks at me with tear-stained eyes and says, “Say something, dammit. Yell at me if you want to. Get angry. Get sad. Cry. But don’t just sit there and look at me.”

  I reach across the table and put my finger to her lips. “You don’t have to say anything else,” I tell her. “We’ve been to this movie. Deep down, we knew how it was probably going to end.” I wipe the tears from her cheeks. “It’s going to be okay. It was a long shot from the start.” I remind her of the line she told me when we first started seeing each other. “Judges aren’t supposed to cry.”

  She gives me a weak smile. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  “I hope we can be friends.”

  It’s a kind thought and the right thing to say. There is virtually no chance it will happen. “I’d like that,” I tell her.

  We make strained small talk for a few minutes. I insist on picking up the check. In what appears to be a modest offer of conciliation, she takes my hand and says, “Now that we’re officially just friends, would you mind if I gave you a friendly suggestion?”

  “Sure. Something about Angelina’s case?”

  “We’re not allowed to talk about that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Something about you.”

  Uh-oh. I’m prepared for a lengthy recitation of my shortcomings. “Did I do something?”

  “No.”

  “Something in bed?”

  She chuckles. “Not that, either. It’s about you and Rosie.”

  “What about us?”

  She bites her lip and says, “I know this may not be the right time.”

  Probably not.

  “But I think the two of you should consider getting back together.”

  I haven’t slept in three days. My ex-wife, law partner and best friend has cancer. My girlfriend broke up with me less than ten minutes ago. Now she feels compelled to offer me counseling on my love life. “I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but our situation is also very complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

  I hate it when people do my lines back to me. “We weren’t good at living together.”

  “You could be.”

  “You aren’t the first person who’s suggested it. We gave it a shot. It didn’t work out.” And I endured five years of therapy to get through the depression and guilt after the divorce. “I don’t want to talk about it.” More precisely, I don’t want to talk about it with you.

  “Hear me out.”

  I have no choice. “I’m listening.”

  “She’s your soul mate, Michael. I’ve been trying to find mine for forty-six years. Everybody sees it—except you and Rosie.”

  Why does everybody feel the need to give me advice on my love life? I go with an old standby. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Yes, it is.” She swallows and says, “Don’t wait too long. You’re going to wake up one of these days and realize it was staring you right in the face.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Look,” she says, �
�I don’t mean to butt in—”

  “You already have.”

  “If you would just look at the big picture—”

  “I’m a little picture person.”

  She’s exasperated. “Dammit, Michael, if you would just put aside your pride—”

  “Tell that to her.”

  She hesitates for an instant and whispers, “I did.”

  What? “When?”

  “About a month ago. We had a talk.”

  Now it’s my turn for exasperation. “About what?”

  “About you.”

  Oh hell. “Why?”

  “I wanted to be sure I wasn’t moving in on her territory.”

  I never realized my life was such an open book. Next they’ll create one of those reality-based TV shows about me. The woman who can stand me the longest will win a million bucks. “And what did you decide?”

  “She said you’d agreed to move on. She didn’t want to stand in your way.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She gives me an uncomfortable nod and says, “Take my advice for what it’s worth.”

  “I appreciate your judicial wisdom.”

  “I’m a pretty good judge of people.”

  If that truly were the case, you wouldn’t be breaking up with me. I try to bring the conversation to a close when I tell her, “I’m going to miss you, Leslie.”

  “I’ll miss you, too. Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

  I think for a moment. Then I say, “There may be something you can do for me. Would you be offended if I asked you for a favor?”

  “You name it.”

  Here goes. “There’s a preliminary hearing for Carolyn’s son in your courtroom on Thursday morning.”

  She eyes me cautiously. She knows I’m about to cross the line. “I’m familiar with it.”

  “I want you to make the charges go away.”

  She gives me an icy look and says, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re trying to get me to fix a case?”

  “It’s a bogus charge. Nicole Ward is looking for TV time.” I give her a half grin and say, “And ‘fix’ is such a harsh word. Let’s just say I’m trying to encourage you to resolve it in the interests of justice. Besides, you have plenty of other cases to keep you busy. If Angel’s case moves forward, the Hall is going to be swarming with media people for months. It’s going to be a three-ring circus. Do you know how bad the traffic is around there?”

  “I’m familiar with the problem.”

  “I’m trying to help you get to work every morning. More importantly, I’m helping you do a public service. You can prevent gridlock.”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”

  “Neither can I.”

  She gives me a judicial look and says, “Is he really a good kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this one of Nicole’s publicity stunts?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Her face rearranges itself into a smile. “What’s in it for me?”

  I give her a melodramatic sigh. “In light of our conversation a few minutes ago, I’m afraid I can no longer offer you sexual favors. I guess you’ll have to settle for the knowledge that you’ll be doing the right thing and giving a good kid another chance.” I decide this may not be the right time to point out that she will also be violating a series of ethical rules for which she could be sanctioned and I could be disbarred.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Her grin disappears. “No promises,” she says.

  “Understood.”

  # # #

  “How are you holding up?” I ask Rosie.

  It’s just after midnight and I’m at home. It’s the first time in four days that I may get to spend a few hours of quality time in my own bed. As we talk on the phone, I’m tired, but strangely content with the resolution of things with Leslie. Maybe I’m getting older and wiser. Maybe we weren’t that far along in the relationship. Maybe I’m numb.

  “Another glorious day,” she says.

  The sound of her voice concerns me. She isn’t just tired. Something’s wrong. “What is it, Rosita?”

  A sigh. “The principal called. There was a problem at school.”

  Uh-oh. In spite of our unconventional family situation, Grace is a very good student and she never gets into trouble. “What happened?” I ask.

  “One of her Neanderthal classmates started giving her grief about Angel. Some of the other kids joined in.”

  Ten year-olds can be nasty. I ask how Grace reacted.

  “She held her ground and defended her cousin. Then she told her teacher about it.”

  It’s exactly what Rosie would have done.

  Rosie hesitates and adds, “When she got back to her classroom, she started to cry. Her teacher was able to calm her down. That’s when the principal called me. She said Grace was holding up okay, but we need to keep a close eye on her.”

  A less enlightened school wouldn’t have called. “What did Grace have to say about it?”

  “She put up a good front. She said it wasn’t a big deal. I pushed a little, but not too hard.” Her voice cracks when she adds, “She has a lot on her plate, Mike.”

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Thanks.” We talk for a few more minutes. Then she asks, “How did it go with Leslie?”

  “Not particularly well.”

  “Did she recuse herself from Angel’s case?”

  “Yes.” I hesitate for a moment and add, “And from our relationship.”

  The phone is silent. Then she says, “I’m sorry, Mike.”

  “Me, too. It’s a new cast, but the movie always ends the same way.”

  “Do you want to come over for a few minutes?”

  The old temptations are there, but my brain overrules my urges. “No, thanks. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

  “Whatever you want, Mike.”

  “Give Grace a kiss for me.”

  *****

  Chapter 39

  Little Richard—The Sequel

  “We are going to proceed with the release of The Return of the Master as scheduled. It’s what my father would have wanted.”

  — Richard MacArthur, Jr. Daily Variety. Wednesday, June 9.

  “Are you sure he’s in there?” I ask Pete.

  “Yeah.”

  Pete, Rosie and I are standing just outside the imposing stone gate to the MacArthur Cellars compound at eight o’clock the next morning. An inviting breeze is blowing through the eight hundred acres of carefully-tended vines, and the sweet aroma of grapes and jasmine envelops us. I understand why Big Dick became a gentleman farmer.

  Zinfandel Lane was a dirt path when the first vines were planted on this site just south of St. Helena in the 1880s. If you believe the marketing propaganda on the MacArthur Cellars label, the climate and soil here are superb for producing Cabernet and, of course, Zinfandel grapes. The original owners laid out the rows of vines and built a modest house and a small stone winery. In the forties, one of the pioneer families of the modern Napa wine industry acquired the property and restored the historical buildings. It inspired Francis Coppola to undertake a similar project at the Inglenook winery on the Niebaum estate just south of here at Oakville.

  Dick MacArthur had grand plans when he bought much of the Zinfandel Lane property twenty years ago. To the chagrin of his neighbors, he tore down the stone winery and replaced it with an enormous wine-making facility and tasting room. The modern structure looks like a Home Depot. The old house is gone, too. He put up a ten-thousand-square-foot faux chateau, complete with a screening room, an Olympic-sized pool, a fully-equipped gym and six guest cottages. It looks like a Club Med.

  Pete tells us he spent an uneventful night in his car just down the road near the entrance to Highway 29 at the west end of Zinfandel Lane. His occasional tree-climbing companion, Kaela Joy Gullion, kept watch at the intersection of Zi
nfandel and the Silverado Trail on the east side of the valley. They’ve compared notes over an elegant breakfast of donuts and coffee. He tells us Little Richard and Eve arrived at the winery last night. They dined at TraVigne and skinny dipped in the pool until two. Richard seems to have bounced back from his father’s funeral. Eve was last seen driving toward St. Helena this morning. Kaela Joy followed her.