MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Correct.”

  “I trust she was very much alive at the time?”

  “Of course.”

  Just checking. “What did Ms. Concepcion do when she got home?”

  “I don’t know. I just explained that I couldn’t see inside.”

  “You couldn’t see inside,” I repeat. “She turned on the lights, didn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  “When did she turn them off?”

  Nick darts a glance toward McNulty, then he turns back to me and says, “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Were they still off when Father Aguirre returned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Ms. Concepcion turn them on again when Father Aguirre entered her yard?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Good answer. “Were the lights on in her apartment at any time between the moment you saw Father Aguirre enter her yard and the time that he left?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “So, if she let Father Aguirre inside, they were conducting their business in the dark?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Didn’t that strike you as a bit odd?”

  “It didn’t occur to me until you just raised it.”

  “According to Dr. Beckert, Father Aguirre entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment, knocked her unconscious, stripped off her clothing, started her bath, slashed her wrists, placed her in the bathtub and spread facial cream over her body in a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide.”

  McNulty is up. “Is there a question there somewhere?”

  Not really. “How long was it from the time Father Aguirre entered Ms. Concepcion’s gate until the time he left?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “How many minutes is a few?”

  “More than two, but less than ten.”

  “Less than five?”

  “Maybe.”

  Close enough. “But it could have been even shorter, right? Maybe one or two minutes?”

  “Maybe”

  “So,” I say, “based upon your sixty-eight years of experience, do you think it is plausible that Father Aguirre was able to do everything Dr. Beckert said in two or three minutes?”

  McNulty is up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

  “Overruled.”

  Nick shrugs and gives me an honest answer. “I don’t know.”

  I add, “Not to mention the fact that he did all of it in the dark?”

  “Anything is possible, Mr. Daley.”

  Just the answer I wanted. “And is it also possible somebody other than Father Aguirre could have entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment while you weren’t there and killed her, right?”

  “Anything is possible,” he repeats.

  In the world of criminal defense attorneys, possibilities frequently lead to acquittals. “No further questions,” I say.

  Chapter 46

  “A Classic Case of Motive, Means and Opportunity”

  “You continue to ask yourself if you have enough credible evidence to prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. If you settle for anything less, you’re wasting everybody’s time.”

  — Marcus Banks. San Francisco Chronicle.

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “Inspector Marcus Banks.” He always includes his title when he introduces himself. He turns to the court reporter and adds, “B-A-N-K-S.”

  As if she didn’t know.

  Eleven-thirty. Nick the Dick’s testimony was entertaining and may have piqued the interest of some of the reporters in the gallery, but it’s time to get back to business. McNulty is bringing his presentation to a close by calling a battle-tested warrior to have the last word. Banks is ideally-suited for the role–he looks and sounds like James Earl Jones.

  McNulty remains at the podium as Banks recites his stellar credentials: forty-two years with the SFPD, with thirty-four in homicide; an array of commendations, decorations and medals. I let Marcus brag for a moment before I stipulate to his expertise. I want to get him off the stand as soon as possible.

  “Inspector Banks,” McNulty says, “you and your partner are the lead homicide investigators in the death of Ms. Concepcion.” He’s making statements instead of asking questions, but I’m not inclined to interrupt just yet.

  “Correct.”

  “Could you please describe your investigative procedures?”

  McNulty got caught up in the moment with Nick Hanson and got a little sloppy, but he’s reverting back to form. He’s going to walk Banks through each and every piece of evidence in his customary methodical manner. It isn’t scintillating theater, but it’s effective. McNulty leads him through thirty minutes of textbook direct exam. I object inconsequentially as Banks starts with the securing of the scene, continues with a description of every shred of evidence found in Concepcion’s apartment and concludes with a concise analysis of how the pieces fit together. It’s also a blatant attempt to run out the clock on this morning’s court session, thereby giving Judge Tsang a long lunch hour to digest a turkey sandwich and the prosecution’s case without significant interference from me. McNulty finishes by asking Banks to summarize his reasons for concluding that Ramon murdered Concepcion.

  The warhorse clears his throat and says, “The defendant was present at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment on two occasions that night. She left her apartment for about twenty minutes, but she came back a short time later and there is uncontroverted evidence she was present when he returned. We originally thought the defendant may have killed her during his first visit, but the eyewitness accounts thereafter led us to conclude he killed her on his return.”

  He’s tailored his story to account for Nick the Dick’s testimony.

  Banks is still talking. “The defendant and Ms. Concepcion had a volatile history and exchanged heated words earlier that evening. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon, the victim’s body and in the room in which the victim was found. He has offered no explanation for his actions, and our chief medical examiner has ruled out a possible suicide.” Banks turns and addresses Judge Tsang directly. “Your Honor,” he says, “this is a classic case of motive, means and opportunity. There is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over for trial.”

  That’s that.

  The judge glances at his watch and then he turns to me and asks, “Do you plan to conduct a lengthy cross-exam?”

  “Just a few questions, Your Honor.” It’s the sort of blatant lie you use when you’re trying to recruit somebody to serve on the PTA or coach Little League. You suck them in by telling them the time commitment will be minimal.

  The judge gives me a legitimately skeptical look and says, “Proceed.”

  The gloves are off and it’s time for hand-to-hand combat. The reporters in the gallery will be heading outside to do live updates as soon as we’re done, and I want to give them something to talk about. I walk up to Banks and get in his face. “Inspector,” I say, “when we first met, you believed that Ms. Concepcion was killed prior to ten o’clock last Monday night, didn’t you?”

  “It was one of the scenarios we had considered.”

  “But your analysis changed when you discovered she was very much alive after ten o’clock, didn’t it?”

  “We obtained new evidence from a reliable source and we adjusted our analysis to account for it. The fact remains that your client was seen entering her building at eleven forty-five P.M. last Monday night, and Ms. Concepcion wasn’t seen alive after that.”

  I correct him. “Mr. Hanson testified that he saw Father Aguirre enter the gate leading to Ms. Concepcion’s backyard. He didn’t actually see anyone enter her apartment.”

  “You can put two and two together.”

  So can everybody in this courtroom. “For the record,” I say, “did Mr. Hanson or anyone else see Father Aguirre re-enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

  “No.”

  Good enough. I suggest that Ramon couldn’t have knocked Concep
cion unconscious, undressed her, slit her wrists, covered her body with skin cream and drawn her bath in the short time he was seen in the vicinity by Nick the Dick.

  “It doesn’t take long to commit murder,” he says.

  “And you think he could have done all of this in a matter of a couple of minutes?”

  “Desperate people do desperate things.”

  So do desperate lawyers. I steal a glance at Rosie, who touches her index finger to her nose–the signal to move on. “Inspector,” I say, “did you ever consider any other suspects?”

  “The evidence didn’t lead in any other direction.”

  Time for some smoke. “Ms. Concepcion phoned a restaurant called Eduardo’s Latin Palace earlier that evening, didn’t she? And you found a partially-eaten burrito from that establishment in her kitchen, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are aware that Ms. Concepcion and the proprietor of that restaurant had terminated an extra-marital affair a few months earlier, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fact that she called his restaurant on the night she died didn’t cause you to consider him as a suspect?”

  “We questioned him and we concluded that she did not have any direct contact with him that night.”

  “You took his word for it?”

  “We were able to corroborate his story by talking to his staff.”

  “You didn’t consider the possibility that his employees lied on his behalf?”

  “We never take anybody’s statement at face value.”

  I ask, “Did you also question Mr. Lopez’s estranged wife?”

  “Yes. We ruled her out, too.”

  And I can’t place either of them in her apartment that night. “Ms. Concepcion also spoke to her ex-husband by phone that night, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did, but we have no evidence he was anywhere near her apartment that night.”

  Nether do we. “But you would acknowledge that their relationship was contentious?”

  “So is my relationship with my ex-wife.”

  A smattering of laughter in the back of the courtroom.

  I keep pushing. “Ms. Concepcion also had contact with the general counsel of the San Francisco archdiocese that night, didn’t she?”

  “They spoke by phone.”

  “And their relationship was also contentious, wasn’t it?”

  “They were on opposite sides of litigation.”

  “Did you ever consider anybody associated with the archdiocese as a suspect?”

  “We consider every possibility, but it’s our job to look at the evidence to see what we can prove in court.”

  “Does that mean you’ve ruled out somebody connected to the archdiocese?”

  “It means the evidence points toward your client.”

  I press him, but he doesn’t budge, and I sense Judge Tsang is getting hungry. I return to the lectern and lower my voice. “Inspector,” I say, “did you interview a woman known as Jane Doe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you please explain to everybody in this courtroom who she was?”

  McNulty interrupts us. “Objection,” he says. “Relevance.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “Ms. Doe was going to be a key witness in this case. She was one of the last people who spoke to Ms. Concepcion before her death.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Judge Tsang says.

  “Ms. Doe was Ms. Concepcion’s client,” Banks says. “She had brought a civil case against the archdiocese.”

  Not good enough. “For what?”

  “Sexual harassment.”

  McNulty tries again. “Your Honor,” he says, “I still fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”

  It’s my turn to testify. “Ms. Doe spoke to Ms. Concepcion at approximately ten-thirty last Monday night, which means she may have been the last person to have talked to her before she died.”

  The judge goes my way. “The objection is overruled.”

  I turn back to Banks. “Inspector,” I say, “can you please tell everybody in this courtroom why Ms. Doe is not available to testify today?”

  “She was shot to death outside her place of employment last night.”

  “So now both the attorney and the plaintiff in that case are dead.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  I glance at Edwards and say, “It has been reported that Ms. Doe had a strong case against the archdiocese.”

  “That’s for a court to decide.”

  “Does it strike you that it may be more than coincidental that Ms. Doe and her attorney are now both dead?”

  McNulty is up. “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Is it disturbing to you that the plaintiff in a high-profile civil case and a key witness in a murder trial was gunned down just as both cases were about to start?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you have any idea who may have killed her?”

  “The investigation is ongoing and we are looking into all of the possibilities.”

  “Have you ruled out the possibility that Ms. Doe’s death may be related in some manner to the death of Ms. Concepcion?”

  “We haven’t ruled out anything, Mr. Daley.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that somebody associated with the archdiocese may have decided to silence both of these women?”

  McNulty leaps up and says, “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance. Speculative. Argumentative.”

  All of the above. The judge gave me more leeway than I had anticipated and I need to tone down the rhetoric. “Withdrawn,” I say. “No further questions.”

  Judge Tsang turns to McNulty and says, “Do you have any other witnesses?”

  “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

  The judge looks to me and says, “I take it you’d like to make a motion?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” I make the standard request that the charges be dropped as a matter of law on the theory that the prosecution hasn’t met its threshold of proof.

  “Denied. I’ll expect you to be ready to call your first witness at two o’clock sharp.”

  Chapter 47

  “How Long Can You Blow Smoke?”

  “The older I get, the less interested I am in money and fame. I’m far more interested in finding the truth.”

  — Dr. Robert Goldstein. San Francisco Chronicle.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rosie asks.

  We’re standing outside the courtroom during the lunch break. Ramon is in the consultation room down the corridor, where a uniform is standing guard.

  “Trying to give the judge some other options,” I say.

  “Are you planning to accuse everybody who ever talked to Concepcion of murder?”

  More or less. It’s a variation on the time-tested defense strategy known as S-O-D-D-I—some other dude did it. “I’m trying to make something happen.”

  “That isn’t the game plan.”

  “The game changed when they conceded that Concepcion was still alive after Ramon left at ten o’clock. It makes Doe’s statement irrelevant and we have to give the judge some alternatives.”

  “Then we should wait until trial.”

  “Ramon can’t wait that long. His career is over if we can’t show somebody else did it.”

  “His life may be over if we keep telegraphing our defense.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  She takes a deep breath and says, “At the moment, no.”

  I promise to lighten up on the hyperbole a bit, then my cell phone rings and I flip it open. “How far did the prosecution get?” Pete asks.

  “They wrapped up. No bombshells.”

  “I take it that means you weren’t able to persuade the judge to drop the charges?”

  “Not yet. When will you be here?”

  “As soon as I can. I went to see Fuentes again. He said he may have something for us. How long can you blow smoke?”

&
nbsp; “How long do you need?”

  “At least until tonight.”