MD03 - Criminal Intent

by Sheldon Siegel

  “No. We believe she was merely an unwitting participant after the fact. We appreciate the fact that she came forward. We have no evidence to suggest she was otherwise involved.”

  Rosie gives me another quick glance. I’ll bet Eve worked out an immunity agreement in the cabana. Rosie turns to Ward and says, “This changes everything.”

  “I know.”

  “In fact, it undermines your case against my client. What do you plan to do about it?”

  Ward wrinkles her perfect nose and says, “We have no choice but to drop the charges. We’ll be releasing a statement to the press to that effect later today.”

  Yes! Rosie gives me a quick look and then takes the offensive. “You realize jeopardy’s attached. Once you drop the charges, you can’t refile.”

  “We can discuss that if necessary when the time comes. The only way we would consider the possibility is if we obtain new evidence.”

  Rosie can’t contain a half-smile. She stands and says, “It seems our business here is done. If you’ll excuse us, we should call our client with the good news.”

  *****

  Chapter 48

  “A Matter of Trust”

  “In a shocking conclusion to a high-profile case, San Francisco District Attorney Nicole Ward announced that murder charges against actress Angelina Chavez have been dropped. Ward explained that new and compelling evidence conclusively showed that Richard MacArthur was killed by his son. Defense attorneys Rosita Fernandez and Michael Daley hailed the decision as a victory for justice.”

  — KNX Radio. Thursday, June 10. 6:00 p.m.

  “How did Angel react to the news?” I ask Rosie. She’s sitting in the front seat of the Taurus. Pete’s at the wheel and I’m in back. Traffic is heavy on the 110 as we head toward LAX.

  She turns to face me and says, “First she was ecstatic. Then she started to cry. Obviously, she’s relieved.”

  There’s tenuousness in her voice. “What is it, Rosie?” I ask.

  She turns around and looks out the windshield. I see her shrug. “There was something about her tone,” she says. “She regained her composure almost immediately. It was almost as if she expected this.”

  She knows her niece better than I do. I ask, “Is there something else going on?”

  Rosie sighs. “I don’t think so. Maybe I was hearing something that wasn’t there. Maybe she was tired. Maybe I’m tired.”

  Maybe. I reflect for a moment and ask, “What just happened in Petrillo’s office?”

  She isn’t looking at me as she says, “We got a great result for our client.”

  It’s the correct answer. “I understand. But what really happened?”

  I’m still looking at the back of her head when she says, “It isn’t our job to ask.”

  Too glib. “Do you really think Little Richard killed his father?”

  Now she turns around and faces me. “It looks like that’s the way it’s going to go down,” she says. “It was our job to make Nicole Ward prove her case beyond a reasonable doubt. If she thinks the evidence doesn’t support a conviction, we shouldn’t argue with her. We can’t argue with her. It wouldn’t be in the best interests of our client.”

  I can see a crooked smile on Pete’s face. He turns to Rosie and says, “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Be that as it may,” he says, “if you ask me, the fix was in.”

  Rosie shrugs. “I didn’t ask you. And if it was, it worked to our advantage this time. Next time it won’t. Things tend to even out.”

  Pete’s smile gets broader. “Putting aside all of the appropriate lawyerly posturing for a moment,” he says, “aren’t you interested in finding out what really happened? You know—truth and justice—that sort of stuff?”

  It’s a fundamental question that criminal defense lawyers face all the time. Rosie smiles. “You still sound like a cop.”

  “I can’t help it. So?”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  Rosie turns serious. “Yes, I do,” she says. “As long as it doesn’t involve Angel. From a professional standpoint, our work on this case is done.”

  Pete gives his ex-sister-in-law a playful pat on the shoulder. Then he says, “You guys did a nice job and you got a good result. Who knows? Maybe Eve was telling the truth.” He turns around to look at me for an instant. Then he says, “You’ve been awfully quiet in this discussion, Mick. What do you think?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Come on, Mick. Not you, too. Just between us—this conversation never leaves this car. What do you say?”

  I think about it for a moment. Pete’s eyes are back on the road. Rosie’s eyes are on mine. I shrug and say, “What was it Dom Petrillo told us? The movie business is all about creating illusions. You should never let the truth get in the way of a perfectly good story.”

  With that pearl of sage wisdom, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. We peel off the 110 and head west on the 105 to the airport. We don’t say another word the rest of the way.

  # # #

  “How’s Angel?” Pete asks me.

  “She’s going home tomorrow,” I tell him.

  It’s eight-thirty the same night. Rosie went to her mother’s house to pick up Grace. We’re sitting on the restored arsenal at Battery Chamberlin next to the parking lot at the edge of Baker Beach. After two days of planes and cars, we wanted some fresh air. Pete is drinking a beer and I’m nursing a Diet Dr Pepper. The days are long this time of year and we’re being treated to a spectacular golden sunset over the ocean and the Farrallon Islands.

  “That’s great,” Pete says. “Maybe Jerry Edwards will interview her on Mornings on Two.”

  “You’re getting more cynical as you get older.”

  “It happens.” He takes a long draw from his Bud and says, “Well, Mick, Angel got off and they were able to lay it all on Little Richard. All’s well that ends well, right?”

  There’s more than a hint of skepticism in his tone. “You got a problem with that, Pete?”

  “No. Do you?”

  I don’t answer him right away. The sun is reflecting off the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cool sea breeze smells of salt water. After a couple of days running around in the heat of Vegas and L.A., it’s nice to be home. I turn to him and say, “What’s bugging you, Pete?”

  He crushes his beer can and says, “Nothing.”

  “Come on.”

  He turns to me and says, “They cut a deal, Mick. You know it. Eve’s story was bullshit. Did you see the look in her eyes when you asked her about the bloody clothing? She was making it up as she went along. She says she’s an actress and she didn’t even rehearse her lines.”

  “Why would she have lied?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you? By rolling over on Little Richard, everybody gets exactly what they wanted. Petrillo gets to release his movie on time. He can send his little starlet all over the country on promotional tours and take advantage of the free publicity. He can go into the redevelopment agency tomorrow and put on his song and dance in support of the China Basin project. Even if they say no, he can try again with his pal, Carl Ellis—and without the MacArthurs. It’s a win for Petrillo and Ellis.”

  “It’s a loss for Nicole Ward.”

  “Not necessarily. If Eve is prepared to testify that she picked up Little Richard at the bridge, it creates reasonable doubt in Angel’s case. She had to drop the charges. She’ll spin it by saying she solved the murder. When the election rolls around in six months, that’s the only thing anybody will remember.”

  “You’re forgetting something,” I say. “There was nothing in it for Eve. What possible incentive did she have to implicate Little Richard?”

  “Money. I’ll bet you a trip to the Tuscany that Petrillo gave her some dough to tell her story. She’ll get a lot of free publicity. Who knows? Maybe he agreed to let her star in a movie.”

&n
bsp; Cynic. I grab my soda can and start walking toward the car. “Pete,” I say, “we got the result we were hoping for. Angel is going home tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you interested in finding out what really happened?”

  Yes, I am, but I’ve learned over the years that the truth is very elusive. “Sure, Pete. But not tonight.”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “I’m an admirable guy.”

  “I’ll help you out. Do you really think somebody else did it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who?”

  “Kent. Ellis. Petrillo. Nobody really considered Eve.” He reflects and adds, “I still haven’t ruled out Angel.”

  “We’ve beaten that into the ground. Besides, your guys have spent the last week scouring the area for the bloody nightgown. They didn’t find it.”

  “Maybe she got rid of it someplace else. Maybe she had help.”

  “You’re seeing things.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m going to do a little more poking around—just for my own amusement.”

  I toss my empty soda can into the trash and say, “Let me ask you something. Put yourself in Angel’s shoes. If you needed help, who would you have called?”

  He gives me a shrug and unlocks the car. Then he turns to me and says, “I guess it all comes down to a matter of trust.”

  *****

  Chapter 49

  Family Matters

  “The San Francisco Redevelopment Agency has rejected a revised proposal submitted by Millennium Studios and Ellis Construction to build a studio complex in China Basin. Agency head Robert Thompson said there were serious questions about the advisability of placing a high-density development so close to AT&T Park and the UC medical center. Dominic Petrillo expressed disappointment about the decision and indicated that his company may initiate litigation against the city.”

  — Jerry Edwards. Mornings on Two. Friday, June 11. 7:00 a.m.

  The late news is a mix of spin control and bravado. Nicole Ward takes full credit for solving the MacArthur murder. Jack O’Brien is less convincing when he says he considers the case closed. I turn off the lights at eleven-thirty, but my first chance for a good night’s sleep in a week is a troubled one. I toss and turn as I replay the highlights of Angel’s case. What if Pete’s right? What if the fix was in? Then I spend a couple of hours worrying about Rosie’s illness. I think about our relationship. Maybe Pete’s right about that, too.

  I head over to Rosie’s at six and find her already up. She tells me she didn’t sleep last night, either. We look at Angel’s photo on page one of the Chronicle. The headline reads, “Charges Dropped Against Movie Star.”

  “How’s Grace holding up?” I ask. She’s still asleep.

  “All things considered, pretty well,” Rosie says. “She had a better day at school yesterday.”

  “She’s very resilient.”

  “Sometimes I think she has more staying power than we do.” She hesitates and adds, “She’s looking forward to summer vacation. She told me she needed a break.”

  So do we.

  The TV is tuned to Channel 2. Jerry Edwards looks triumphant. “Angelina Chavez is expected to go home from the hospital today,” he says. Next he says the redevelopment agency rejected the China Basin project. “This is a great victory for the residents of the city and a stunning defeat for Millennium Studios and Carl Ellis.” His smirk broadens when he says that he will be monitoring the situation with great interest. He adds that The Return of the Master will be released today. We are then treated to an interview of Nicole Ward. She expresses her gratitude to the hardworking law enforcement officers who brought the matter to a speedy conclusion. Jack O’Brien is nowhere to be found.

  I flip open the Chronicleand turn to the Datebook section. The headline reads, “Mediocre effort in MacArthur’s Swan Song.”

  Rosie asks, “What’s the little man doing?”

  Unlike the star system employed by most newspapers, the Chronicle rates movies by showing the reaction of a miniature cartoon character known to everyone as the little man, whose opinions range from jumping out of his seat, cheering wildly and throwing his hat (worth seeing) to sleeping in his seat (don’t bother). He’s expressed his views in this manner for over a half century. I tell Rosie, “Not a ringing endorsement. He’s sitting quietly.”

  “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

  The reviewer can’t be accused of pulling punches. “Diehard Richard MacArthur fans may be impressed with his final work,” he writes, “but the rest of us will be disappointed. Film buffs who remember MacArthur’s early promise will be saddened by his finale, which is a decidedly mixed bag. The writing is solid and, at times, inspired. The directing, as always, is stylish. The acting, however, ranges from adequate to wooden. Of particular note is the strained performance of MacArthur’s widow, Angelina Chavez, who was hopelessly miscast. We can only hope future roles will permit Ms. Chavez to display her limited range in a more productive manner.”

  “Ouch,” Rosie says.

  “Let’s go see it for ourselves,” I say.

  “It’s a date.”

  My cell phone rings. It’s Pete. “I tried to reach you at home, Mick.”

  “I’m at Rosie’s.”

  “Kind of early, isn’t it?”

  “I had trouble sleeping.” I glance at Rosie and ask, “What is it?”

  “When are you going to pick up Angel?”

  “Later this morning.”

  “Any chance I could talk to you for a few minutes on your way in?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  # # #

  “It’s good to be home,” Angel says. It’s two o’clock Friday afternoon. The color has returned to her face as she is sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen. There is still a small bandage on her wrist. Her mother is sitting next to her. They’re holding hands.

  Sylvia marches in with a tray of broiled chicken. She looks at her granddaughter and says, “I made your favorite.”

  Angel nods her thanks. Theresa is beaming.

  Sylvia says, “You’ll stay here for a few days, honey.” It isn’t a question—it’s an order.

  Angel agrees.

  “You aren’t going to move back into that house, are you?” Theresa asks.

  “No,” Angel says. “Bad memories.”

  Good choice.

  We gather around the small dining room table and dig into Sylvia’s feast. It’s the first time in days I’ve felt hungry. Rosie turns to Angel and asks, “How is your wrist, honey?”

  “It feels okay. The doctor said it should be all better in a couple of weeks. I guess I didn’t do a very good job of trying to kill myself.”

  The room goes silent. Theresa looks at her daughter and puts a finger to her lips. Jokes about suicide are not funny.

  Angel turns to Rosie and whispers, “Thanks for helping me out, Aunt Rosie. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

  Rosie nods.

  Angel turns to Theresa and says, “You, too, Mama. I would have been a basket case without you.”

  Theresa’s eyes are filled with tears. “It’s okay, honey.”

  Sylvia takes a seat at the head of the table. Then Rosie pulls her chair a little closer to Angel and leans forward. She looks first at Theresa and then at Angel. “Honey,” she says, “now that this is all over, there are a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Sure, Aunt Rosie. What is it?”

  Rosie looks at me and then reaches into her briefcase. She pulls out a printout.

  Angel smiles and asks, “Is that your bill?”

  Rosie remains serious. “No, honey.”

  “What is it?”

  “Telephone records.”

  Angel gives her a perplexed look.

  Rosie looks down and swallows hard. I catch another quick glance before she turns back to Angel and says, “Pete�
��s very resourceful.”

  Angel nods.

  “He had a few men helping us search the area on Baker Beach and the Presidio just to be sure that they didn’t find anything that might have impacted your case.”

  Angel’s eyes narrow. “Like what?”

  Like a bloody nightgown. I remain silent.