MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  # # #

  Jeff Pick isn’t the only guy who works late. I strain to hear Roosevelt Johnson’s voice as the wind is whipping through the broken window in my car while I’m crossing the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight. “You’re up late,” he says.

  “So are you.”

  “You really need to get more rest, Mike. You’ll live longer.”

  I’ll live even longer if I get my window fixed. “I’d sleep a lot more if you’d drop the charges against Father Aguirre.”

  “Only if you find me another murderer. Otherwise, it will screw up our conviction statistics.”

  “Maybe I can help you. I’ve solved the case.”

  “Really? Nobody said anything to me about a plea bargain deal, so I presume this means you think your client is innocent.”

  “Correct.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t break down the door to Nicole Ward’s office to demand that she drop the charges immediately.”

  “I understand your reluctance, but we have some information that blows your case out of the water.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve found a witness who is prepared to testify that she had a telephone conversation with Ms. Concepcion at ten-thirty on the night she died. That’s a half-hour afterour client left her apartment.”

  His tone doesn’t show the tiniest hint of concern. “What else did Jane Doe tell you?”

  I push the phone more tightly against my ear and say, “You knew?”

  “Of course.”

  “Since when?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I’ve been busy investigating a murder.”

  “Alleged murder,” I correct him.

  “I was going to call you in the morning.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I’m a good cop. Doe told us she received a call from Concepcion at ten-thirty last Monday night. We confirmed that a call was placed from a payphone at Lopez’s restaurant to one at the Mitchell Brothers at that time, but we couldn’t identify the parties. We also got some help from Jerry Edwards. It’s always nice to hear from the Dark Lord of the Sith. Evidently, he spoke to Doe, too.”

  “The fact that Ms. Concepcion was making calls from Lopez’s restaurant a half hour after Ramon left her apartment doesn’t trouble you?”

  “First, you can’t prove she was at Lopez’s restaurant.”

  “We have Doe’s testimony.”

  “She’s a hooker.”

  “She’s credible.”

  “Second, you can’t prove Doe ever talked to her.”

  “We have Doe’s testimony about that, too.”

  “She’s still a hooker.”

  “She’s still credible.”

  He exhales heavily and says, “You’d better keep looking, Mike.”

  He usually plays it straight with me. “Is there something else you haven’t told me?”

  “We’re still checking a couple of things.”

  I remind him that he has a legal obligation to share any evidence that might tend to exonerate Ramon.

  “I’m well-aware of that and I can assure you this evidence does not.”

  “Mind if I ask you something off the record?”

  “I can’t promise that I’ll answer, but go ahead.”

  “Are you having me tailed?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “A guy in a green Impala seems to have taken an unusual interest in my whereabouts.”

  The line goes silent for a long moment. “Off the record?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “It isn’t us.”

  # # #

  “Roosevelt knows something,” I say to Rosie.

  “He always knows more than he lets on,” she says. She yawns and adds, “There’s nothing we can do about it tonight.”

  It’s one A.M., and I’m lying down on Rosie’s sofa with my head resting in her lap. We’ve scheduled a meeting with Ward and McNulty to go over evidentiary issues in a mere twelve hours. I’d like to have something significant to show them.

  She senses my frustration and tries to find something positive. “Doe’s testimony proves that Concepcion was still alive a half hour after Ramon left,” she says.

  “We can’t corroborate her story.”

  “We still have three days until the prelim starts.”

  “Got any good news?”

  The corner of her mouth turns up slightly when she says, “Pete talked to Vince. Nobody was following you today.”

  Mr. Impala seems to be laying low or has other things to do. “Where’s Vince?” I ask.

  “Sitting in his car across the street. Pete said we shouldn’t talk to him–he doesn’t want us to blow his cover.”

  I glance out the window and see the outline of an Explorer, then I look up at Tommy, who is sitting on top of me with his eyes wide open. I’ve always believed that babies know more than they let on, and he cocks his head slightly. Rosie thinks that Tommy’s dreamy personality means he’s going to be an artist, but I think he’s going to be a lawyer. I look into his perplexed eyes and we share a big yawn. He stretches himself out to his full length and gives me a half smile. Tommy always looks as if he can’t quite make up his mind if he’s happy. He seems to have inherited my view that if something good happens, the roof is likely to cave in a moment later. I sit up and raise him to my shoulder. “I think it’s time for you to call it a night,” I whisper to him.

  He responds with another yawn. I take him into Rosie’s bedroom and gently place him down in his crib, where he gives me another Mona Lisa smile. He’s going to be a terrific poker player.

  I’m sitting in the dark on the chair next to the crib and listening to Tommy’s rhythmic breathing when I hear Rosie’s voice by the door. “Is he asleep?” she whispers.

  “Barely.”

  She motions me into the living room and we take our places back on the sofa. She runs her fingers through my hair and says, “I think you’re getting grayer.”

  Thanks. “It’s just the light.”

  “You’re a lousy liar.”

  “I could start dying it.”

  “What color?”

  “How about pink?”

  “Maybe not. It wouldn’t play well in court. Besides, I think you look distinguished.”

  “I’d rather look studly.”

  “Better stick with distinguished.” I give her a playful pat on the cheek and her tone turns serious. “How are you holding up?” she asks.

  “Not bad,” I say, “all things considered.” This case arrived on our doorstep a little more than forty-eight hours ago and my head is throbbing. “I wasn’t getting any sleep before the case started. This gives me something to do late at night that’s more productive than surfing the Net.”

  “Do you ever stop making wisecracks?”

  “It’s the only thing that keeps me going in my sleep-deprived state.” I touch her cheek and lower my voice. “Do you have the juice to take this to the finish line?”

  “It’s Ramon.”

  “It could get ugly.”

  “I know.” She leaves it there. It’s unwise to get introspective in the middle of a murder investigation and she turns back to business. “I got Doe to sign an affidavit about her phone call. I’m worried she might make a run for it.”

  “She’ll stay put,” I say. “We’re her best hope.”

  “Terrence is watching her,” she says. “He knows his way around and he isn’t going to let her out of his sight.”

  Not to mention the fact that he’ll get to watch the shows at the Mitchell Brothers for the next couple of nights. “Is anybody else keeping her under surveillance?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  I ask her if she’s ever heard of Jeff Pick.

  “He’s a pitching coach who makes ends meet by selling stolen auto parts,” she says. “I was thinking of signing up Grace for one of his camps this summer.”
>
  “It’s nice to know that someone who engages in illegal activities can still serve as a role model for our daughter.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “So,” she says, “in addition to cutting deals to represent hookers, we’re now trading stolen auto parts for information?”

  “It’s basic economics. Supply and demand. It doesn’t mean I like it.”

  The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles. She leans forward and kisses me. “Don’t be such a prude, Mike. We’re going to get through this and Ramon will be found innocent.”

  “I know.” I wish I had her confidence.

  “And then Tommy is going to sleep through the night.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  She lowers her voice and says, “We have to get the charges dismissed at the prelim. If this goes forward, Ramon’s reputation will be annihilated, even if we win at trial.”

  “That’s a tall order,” I say.

  “We’re good lawyers and we have some evidence to work with. Besides, we have to make some time to deal with our other cases.”

  Huh? “What other cases?”

  “We’ve promised half the hookers in San Francisco that we’re going to represent them after this case is finished.”

  “It’s a living.” I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “If all else fails, we can go into the auto parts business with Jeff Pick.”

  Her smile transforms into a pronounced frown as she hears the sound of the phone, and she leaps up and grabs it just before the second ring. Criminal defense lawyers have to deal with calls in the wee hours, but this is definitely beyond the bounds. Her eyes turn to cold steel and she nods intently as she listens. Finally, she hangs up and starts to put on her jacket.

  “We have to get downtown right away,” she says. She glances at Grace’s room and says, “I’ll let my mother know.”

  What the hell? “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

  “I know, but there was a fire at the El Faro and our office is going up in smoke.”

  Chapter 36

  “You’re Making a Huge Mistake”

  “The most important element in developing a case is devoting enough resources to get the facts right.”

  — Nicole Ward. San Francisco Chronicle.

  There are few things more disheartening than the sight of plumes of smoke billowing out the windows of a burning building. First Street is deserted except for the emergency vehicles whose flashing lights are creating a strobe-light effect, and a couple of news vans that stopped to shoot some easy footage for the morning shows. I feel utterly helpless standing on the sidewalk next to Rosie as the firefighters assault our office with jets of water. We’re accompanied by Carlos Cerventes, the customarily gregarious man who has owned the El Faro for twenty years and is stoically watching the destruction of his restaurant.

  Our building is within a mile of the Sansome Street fire station and the blaze was reported almost immediately by a Muni bus driver who was pulling into the Transbay terminal. I suspect the fire and the water have destroyed our files and furniture, but things could have been worse. Nobody was hurt and it appears that structural damage will be minimal. The fire started in the kitchen of the El Faro and destroyed most of the cooking equipment, then spread to the seating area, where the tables and chair were consumed. It’s going to be awhile before we’ll be able to get a burrito downstairs.

  Carlos turns to us and says, “Are you insured?”

  “Yeah. Are you?”

  “Yeah. We’ll put it back together. I’m too old to start over somewhere else.”

  I ask him if he was here when the fire started.

  He shakes his head. “We were closed. They think it was an electrical short that ignited some grease on the grill.”

  “What do you think?”

  “There may have been an electrical problem, but I can assure you that there was no grease. I closed down tonight and I cleaned everything myself.”

  We stand in silence for a long moment as we watch the smoke begin to dissipate. I look at my neighbor and say, “Does that mean you think somebody started this fire on purpose?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice fills with frustration when he says the police have promised to look into it. “I’ve been here for a long time and I can’t imagine why anybody would want to do this to us. We’ve been good neighbors.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” I say.

  “Maybe,” he replies without conviction. He gives us each a perfunctory handshake and heads across the street to try to salvage what he can of his business.

  Rosie flips open her cell phone and dials her home number. She gives her mother an update and explains that we’re going to be working out of the house for awhile. She snaps the phone shut and we exchange a somber glance. “I’ll call the insurance company first thing,” she says.

  “We’ll be back up and running in no time,” I say.

  “Right.” She exhales heavily and says, “Do you think somebody was trying to send a message to the El Faro?”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  Her next question is predictable. “Do you think somebody was trying to send a message to us?”

  I take a deep breath of the acrid air. I don’t want to unduly alarm her, but she isn’t naive. “There are people who aren’t ecstatic about the fact that we’re representing Ramon,” I say, “but they don’t strike me as the type who would burn down our building to prove a point. Frankly, there are simpler ways to threaten somebody.”

  “Like following you around and smashing windows?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe they figured we weren’t getting the message.”

  “We’re getting it now.”

  It’s almost five A.M. when a tired fire captain whose gear is drenched approaches us and says, “The fire is under control, but we need to watch a few hot spots.” She tells us that it probably started by accident in the kitchen of the El Faro and that it is unlikely that we’ll be able to salvage much. She’s about to head back to his crew when he says, “Do either of you happen to drive a green Impala?”

  Rosie and I exchange a quick glance. “No,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he says, “but the bus driver who called nine-one-one said he saw an Impala pulling out of the alley behind your building right before he saw the flames.”

  # # #

  I try not to dwell on the fire as I’m pulling my second consecutive all-nighter. At six-thirty A.M., I’m crossing the Richmond Bridge on my way to the Channel 2 studios in Oakland for my interview with Jerry Edwards. My cell phone rings and F.X. Quinn invokes a priestly tone and feigns interest in my well-being. “I saw the fire on the news this morning,” he says. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Francis. Nobody was hurt.”

  “Thank God.” There is a hesitation before he lowers his voice. “Listen, Michael,” he says, “we will understand completely if you need a few days to regroup.”

  “We’re fine.”

  “We can always ask for a continuance.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “And if you and Rosie need to reconsider your generous offer to handle Ramon’s case, we’ll understand that, too.”

  No doubt. “We’ll manage.”

  He keeps pushing. “We can always bring in some people from John’s firm to help you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, either.”

  “Are you sure, Michael?”

  “I’m sure, Francis.” I’m tempted to ask him if he knows anybody who drives a green Impala, but I’m sure he’ll deny it.

  The phony concern leaves his voice when he says, “Are you going to be able to salvage anything from your office?”

  “Not much, but we have what we need for Ramon’s case.” Fortunately, our laptops and the police files for Ramon’s case were at Rosie’s house.

  “John said that you can use a conference room at his firm for a few weeks.” />
  How magnanimous. He’ll probably charge us rent. The last thing we need is to be camped out at Shanahan’s office, where he’ll have a chance to monitor every move we make. When you earn your stripes as a public defender, you have to get used to working out of cramped space. “That’s very generous of him,” I say, “but we’ll manage.”