“From our standpoint, very well.”
“You were confident your client would prevail?” He can’t very well say they were about to lose.
“Yes, Mr. Daley.”
“That suggests Ms. Concepcion’s case was weak, doesn’t it?”
“That would be the flip side.”
“You thought you were going to win, didn’t you?”
“I still do.” If he’s smart, he’ll shut his mouth, but his ego gets ahead of his judgment. “We were extremely confident a judgment in our favor would be the likely result.”
Perfect. “Yet you attempted to settle the case, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but we didn’t think settlement was a likely outcome.”
“But you did proffer one or more settlement proposals, didn’t you?”
“Only in an attempt to terminate the case without incurring additional legal fees. We were confident we would prevail on the merits at trial.”
“And how did Ms. Concepcion react to your proposals?”
“She rejected them.”
“Because they were too low?”
“Because she had unrealistic beliefs about the strength of her case.”
The same might be said of you. “Mr. Peterson,” I say, “your ex-wife was suffering from severe emotional distress and she had a difficult, if not unwinnable case against an excellent lawyer, right?”
He can’t deny it. “Correct.”
“Do you think the strain was so severe that her emotions got the better of her and she decided to take her own life?”
McNulty’s up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”
“Sustained.”
It isn’t the last time I’m going to ask him to speculate. “Mr. Peterson,” I say, “did your ex-wife appear distraught or unhappy to you?”
“Both.”
“As unhappy as she did around the time of your divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Unhappy enough that she may have considered desperate options?”
“Objection. Speculative.”
“Sustained.”
I’d be objecting like mad if I were in McNulty’s shoes. “Mr. Peterson,” I say, “you were at a settlement conference with Ms. Concepcion on Monday, December first, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How was her demeanor?”
“Agitated. She was unwilling to discuss our final settlement offer in a rational way and she had difficulties controlling her emotions. I think she had a panic attack and she spent a long time in the bathroom. She said her stomach was bothering her.”
It could have been the pregnancy, but I’m not going to suggest it. “Did you sense Ms. Concepcion was out of control?”
He measures his words carefully. “She was under a lot of pressure, but she conducted herself in a professional manner. Maria had her faults, but she was a fighter. She was also desperate to have a child and never would have hurt an unborn baby. It is inconceivable to me that she committed suicide.”
It’s the answer I expected. I ask, “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Nine-fifteen last Monday night. I had received authorization from my client to tender a final settlement offer. She rejected it.”
“How was her mood?”
“She was tired.”
I ask if he had any additional communication with the archdiocese that night.
“I reported on the results of my conversation to Father Quinn. He said he was disappointed, but not surprised.”
“Did you speak to anybody else about it?”
“I briefed my partner, John Shanahan. He wasn’t surprised either.”
“What time did you go home?”
“Around midnight.”
“Why so late?”
“I was preparing for trial.”
“Did you drive anywhere in the vicinity of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”
“No, Mr. Daley.”
I didn’t expect him to admit that he went down to Twenty-fifth and Capp and committed murder. “Mr. Peterson,” I say, “what kind of car do you drive?”
“A black Lexus SUV.”
Of course. I give Edwards a knowing look and say, “No further questions.”
Chapter 51
“I Am the Archbishop’s Chief Advisor on all Major Legal Matters”
“We have to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”
— F.X. Quinn. San Francisco Chronicle.
F.X. Quinn places his hand on the Bible and swears he will tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God. If God’s busy, I’m sure Quinn would be willing to provide the same assurances himself. In response to the bailiff’s request that he state his full name and occupation, he says, “Father Francis Xavier Quinn.” He struggles to maneuver his torso into the narrow wooden chair and adds, “I am the archbishop’s chief advisor on all major legal matters.”
And you wouldn’t want to disappoint him.
The courtroom is hushed at four-fifteen and all eyes are glued on the commanding figure of the archdiocese’s chief legal eagle. Quinn is glaring at me with eyes that are filled with contempt, giving new meaning to the concept of a hostile witness.
“Father Quinn,” I say, “did you know an attorney named Maria Concepcion?”
“We had a professional acquaintance. We were on opposite sides of several legal matters involving claims against the archdiocese.”
“Was she a good lawyer?”
“She was a tenacious, if misguided, adversary.”
“Yet she was successful, wasn’t she?”
He invokes a fake apologetic tone. “The attorney-client privilege doesn’t allow me to discuss the details of the matters she handled.”
And if it didn’t, you’d find another reason. “Ms. Concepcion did, in fact, obtain several meaningful victories on behalf of her clients, didn’t she?”
He turns to the judge and says, “This information is privileged and confidential.”
“I can’t expect you to talk about any matter that is pending or the subject of an appeal,” he says, “but the resolution of a particular case is a matter of public record, subject to any relevant protective orders or seals.”
“But Your Honor–”
“You’ll have to answer Mr. Daley’s question, Father Quinn.”
It’s the first time in years that somebody made Quinn do something he didn’t want to do. He sucks it up and says, “We reluctantly agreed to settle several minor matters to avoid the costs of protracted litigation. The claims were wholly without merit and the amounts are confidential.”
I ask, “Then why did you settle them?”
“I just told you–we wanted to avoid the costs of litigation.”
“And adverse publicity?”
“That’s one of the factors we consider, but it isn’t an important one.”
The hell it isn’t. “Who has the final authority to decide if a case should be settled?”
He pauses to consider his options. If he tries to kick it upstairs, I’ll put the archbishop on the stand and ask him the same question. “I have the final say on all litigation matters,” he says.
It’s akin to suggesting that the chairman of the board of a public company would delegate the final decision on a “bet-the-company” lawsuit to his general counsel. It’s indicative of how far he’s willing to go to keep the archbishop out of the line of fire.
“Father Quinn,” I say, “are you saying Archbishop Keane has no input on the resolution of major legal matters that could cost the archdiocese millions of dollars?”
“I consult with him, of course, but he’s delegated the primary responsibility for concluding such matters to me.”
“That makes you the most powerful person in the archdiocese.”
“I am aware of the responsibility that goes along with this job, but I like to think moral and theological issues still take precedence over legal ones.”
They do until the archdio
cese is hit with a huge judgment. “Father Quinn,” I say, “what was the magnitude of the settlements in the matters Ms. Concepcion had brought against the archdiocese?”
“That’s confidential, Mr. Daley.”
The judge doesn’t help me this time and I ask Quinn about the nature of the claims brought by Concepcion on behalf of her clients.
“She alleged unsubstantiated misdeeds by employees of the archdiocese.”
Parsing works in politics, but it isn’t terribly effective in court. “Would that include allegations of financial and sexual improprieties by certain priests and members of the archdiocese staff?”
“Ms. Concepcion was never able to prove any such claims.”
“And now she’ll never have the chance to try.”
He doesn’t respond.
On to the good stuff. “Father Quinn,” I say, “Ms. Concepcion had brought a major case alleging illicit sexual acts by a priest named Father Patrick O’Connell, hadn’t she?”
“There was no proof of any of the alleged acts.”
“His accuser was murdered, wasn’t she?”
“So it appears.”
“As a result, she can’t testify at Father O’Connell’s trial, can she?”
“No, she can’t.”
“And she can’t testify in this matter, either, can she?”
McNulty tries to slow me down. “Objection, Your Honor,” he says. “These matters have already been addressed.”
Judge Tsang says to me, “Please move along, Mr. Daley.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I’ve been standing at the lectern at a respectful distance, but now it’s time to turn up the heat. I approach Quinn and say, “Do you have any information concerning the death of the plaintiff in the O’Connell case–a woman known as Jane Doe?”
“The police tell me the investigation is ongoing.”
“You would acknowledge that her death will have a material bearing on the direction of the O’Connell case, right?”
“Of course. She was the plaintiff.”
“And it is helpful to your client that she is no longer available to testify, right?”
McNulty’s up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”
“Your Honor,” I say, “any information about Ms. Doe may be relevant in determining who is responsible for the death of Ms. Concepcion.”
“Answer the question, Father Quinn.”
“Ms. Doe’s unavailability is a factor that we will have to consider if her survivors elect to pursue her claims.”
It’s a perfect answer that says absolutely nothing. “When was the last time you saw Ms. Concepcion?”
He confirms that he was present at the settlement conference at Shanahan’s office. “I can’t discuss the details without violating the attorney-client privilege.”
I give the judge a hopeful look, but his glare suggests this topic is not open for discussion. “You put a settlement offer on the table, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask how much?”
“No.”
“What was Ms. Concepcion’s response?”
“She rejected it.” He pauses a beat and adds, “Emphatically.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t enough money.”
“Did she have a figure of her own in mind?”
“It was far beyond anything we would have considered.”
“Millions?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Tens of millions?”
McNulty interjects. “Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered.”
“He hasn’t answered,” I say.
“And he isn’t going to,” the judge snaps. “The information is confidential and the objection is sustained.”
I didn’t think he’d give me that one. “How was Ms. Concepcion’s demeanor?”
“Agitated.”
“Was she acting rationally?”
McNulty is up. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation as to state of mind.”
“Sustained.”
I try another adjective. “Was her behavior erratic?”
“She was always strident, but she seemed unusually distracted.”
“Was that the last time you spoke to her?”
“No. I called her at a quarter to ten last Monday night.”
This jibes with the phone records. “What did you discuss?”
“I wanted to see if we could bridge the gap in our settlement discussions.”
“Does that mean you made another offer?”
“A generous one.”
I ask him why he upped the ante.
“Litigation is expensive, Mr. Daley.”
“Especially when you lose.”
He clenches his jaws and says, “We weren’t going to lose. We receive excellent advice from our regular outside counsel at the firm of Shanahan, Gallagher and O’Rourke.”
I could ask him to speculate about whether she was suicidal, but that line of questioning hasn’t been a winner. “How did Ms. Concepcion react to your offer?”
“Badly. I explained to her that it was our last and best offer, and she rejected it.”
“How long did she consider it?”
“About two seconds. I didn’t speak to her again.”
“You didn’t go over to her apartment to make one final plea to her better judgment?”
“No, Mr. Daley.”
I ask him if he informed the archbishop of break-off in settlement negotiations.
“Yes. He expressed his disappointment and said he would pray for an equitable result.”
# # #
My brother finally makes his grand entrance at four-thirty. He’s been going all night and lends just the right touch of dignity to the defense table when he saunters in wearing faded jeans and his bomber jacket.
“You’re late,” I whisper.
He pulls up the heavy chair next to mine. “I’ve been busy, Mick.”
Just another day in the life of a PI. I turn to the judge and say, “If we might have just a moment to confer with our investigator, Your Honor.”
“Make it quick, Mr. Daley.”
We adjourn to he consultation room where I ask Pete if he found anything.
“Maybe.”
“We don’t have time to play twenty questions,” I say. “Spill it.”
“One,” he whispers, “the guy from the fertility clinic is willing to testify that Ramon donated sperm on two occasions.”
The issue of whether Ramon is the father is no longer in question. It’s helpful that we can show it wasn’t a one-night stand, but it won’t get the charges dropped.
“Two,” he continues, “Vince said there was nobody on your tail this morning.”
I’m glad to hear it, but I’m not prepared to let my guard down just yet.
“Three,” he says, “the cops found an abandoned green Impala in an alley behind Moscone Center. It was stolen a week ago in South City and stripped completely clean.”
This may explain why nobody has been following us. I hope Jeff Pick isn’t involved. “Is it the Impala?”
“I don’t know for sure, but the odds are pretty good.”
The odds are also pretty good that the driver is long gone. “Were they able to lift any prints?”
“No way. It was cleaned by a pro.”
“Can they connect the car to Doe’s killing?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the fire at our office?”
“I talked to one of my moles down at the fire department. There wasn’t anything in the car that tied it to the fire, but he told me that there’s a good chance it was arson.”
“To get to us?”
“More than likely. To be on the safe side, I’ve asked Vince to stay on your tail.”
This isn’t making me feel any better. “What else is on your list?”
MD05 - The Confession Page 31
