by The Hearing
“But it makes no sense. There’s no evidence of—”
Torrey’s expression became even more stern as he interrupted. He tapped a file folder on the desk in front of him. “Don’t play games with me, Ms. Roake. There is a real case here—”
“Her mother fell. She broke her hip. Then she tried to get up too soon and fell again. It happens.”
“Yes, it does. And after the second fall, she contracted pneumonia and died.”
Gina could not entirely keep the panic out of her voice. “You’re not implying Abby killed her, are you? Or caused her death somehow? Even Jim’s not saying that, and he’d stoop to anything to get some of the money.”
Torrey shook his head. “I’m not accusing your client of anything. What I am saying is that we’ve got significant resources that we can and will bring to bear in this type of investigation. Prosecuting instances of abuse of the elderly is one of Sharron Pratt’s highest priorities. We can and will subpoena your client’s mother’s medical records. Jim Oberlin contends that he believes his mother was oversedated.” He sat back, lawyer to lawyer. “Look, Ms. Roake, you know how it works. Investigators will talk to Abby’s friends. If she’s ever complained about all the work her mother required—”
“Well of course she did! She’s not a saint. I’m sure there were days . . .” Gina Roake shook her head.
“Even so.” Torrey spread his hands wide as if to tell her that’s what he meant—it could look very bad for Abby Oberlin. He let a silence gather and then sighed heavily, a brief wash of compassion coming to his face. “Ms. Roake. Gina. Did I not ask you to come and see me as a courtesy?”
She nodded.
“Why do you think that is?” He patted the folder again. “When, based on the accusations your client’s brother has brought against her, I would have been justified sending out some officers to place her under arrest?”
“Under arrest?”
“That’s right. Her name in the paper with the whole story, everything Jim has accused her of.”
“No, you can’t do that. It’s not . . .” Visibly, she brought herself under control. When she spoke after half a minute, her voice was calm, reasonable. “Jim just wants money, Mr. Torrey. He has no career. He’ll never hold a job. That’s just who he is. He’s desperate. Abby didn’t do anything he says.”
Torrey crossed his hands on the Desk, reapplied the stern visage. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She wrung her hands. “I’m sorry. What was it again?”
“Why do you think I asked you down here today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” The tone softened again. “I’ve prosecuted more cases like this than I’d care to tell you about, and I’ve developed a good sense, a very good sense if I may say so, of how these things play out. In this case, there was verifiable physical trauma to Abby’s mother. A finder of fact will conclude that there are grounds for a hearing, and after that in all likelihood a full-fledged trial. You know this. Your client probably will be arrested”—he held up a hand, stopping her protest—“although bail will be reasonable. She’ll spend, if she’s lucky, about half a million dollars in attorney’s fees, experts, investigation, which is good news for you, except that she won’t be able to take any of it out of the estate while it’s being contested. The process will take a minimum of two or three years out of your client’s life and after all that, even if we don’t prove she did anything she’s charged with, some civil jury might give her brother all the money on the theory that definitely he did no harm and your client might have.”
Gina had all but collapsed back into the soft leather of the couch. “So what do you suggest?” she asked helplessly, talking all but to herself.
He leaned forward, suddenly friend and perhaps savior. “The truth is that I believe you. Jim doesn’t care what happened to his mother, beyond that she is dead.”
“That’s what I’ve been—”
“But that’s not saying he won’t let all of this . . . unpleasantness . . . proceed. From where I sit, it’s a no-lose situation for him, and it’s no-win for your client.”
She came forward on the sofa. “She’s not going to give him any of the money, Mr. Torrey. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s an evil man, and this is wrong.”
The chief assistant nodded in agreement. “Nevertheless, if this prosecution moves forward, the next time I see you, we won’t be talking like this.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Tell your client that although it’s a repugnant solution, if you throw a bone to her brother, I believe you could settle his civil claim. And if he’s satisfied, I don’t think we’d see any need to file a criminal case. If I were her, from a purely self-protective, even selfish motive, I’d think about that.”
“But it’s so wrong . . .”
Torrey couldn’t argue the point and didn’t try. “Be that as it may, that’s my advice while I’m still free to give it. After today, we’re on opposite sides.”
Gina Roake stood and thanked Torrey. He told her he appreciated her coming by, and hoped that she would come to the right decision, and she told him she’d discuss it with her client, but they would both consider his advice very seriously. Then she left. He could still hear her footsteps in the hallway outside as he picked up the telephone.
7
Sharron Pratt chose the moment with some care.
She had been invited to give a talk at the Commonwealth Club on her tenure to date as district attorney, the office’s most notable successes and failures, the evolution of her philosophy on criminal justice, and her plans for the future. Quite a few members of the media were on hand, as well as many of the city’s business and political elite. It was an ideal setting—quite a bit more high-toned than an impromptu Hall of Justice press conference, a slam dunk of a photo op, a chance to explain her absolutely unexpected position shift in word units longer than sound bites.
Because it had been playing so well in the business community and the newspapers for over two years, she began with a recap of her office’s continuing, high-moral-tone campaign against Gironde Industries, the French company whose winning low-ball bid for the $25 million airport baggage carousels had rocked the Board of Supervisors and infuriated many of the largest and most well-connected construction firms who did business in the city.
A foreign company like Gironde wasn’t about to be able to fulfill their contract without working with armies of local subcontractors—sheet metal workers, tile layers, painters, electricians, brick masons and so on. These companies, named by Gironde in their proposal, had in turn all guaranteed that they were in compliance with the city’s minority subcontracting quota.
Gabe Torrey understood business far better than Pratt did, and he had alerted her to the likelihood of fraud in the negotiations. Gironde simply couldn’t do the job for the amount that they had bid otherwise. Torrey’s opinion was that Gironde hired subcontractors for the proposal period, then laid them off immediately thereafter; that none of the subs had anywhere near the mandated number of women or minorities; he’d bet that many had women or minorities as titular owners who were paid minimum wage. Gironde would put people on the payroll, then give them a handful of cash to stay home and lie about working on the project.
Pratt had taken it from there.
And the district attorney’s office had gone to work with a vengeance, convening a grand jury, subpoenaing witnesses, obtaining search warrants on the offending subcontractors, seizing their records without warning, bringing the frauds to light time and again.
It developed into a major story—reporters soon discovered that Gironde had human rights violations reported on jobs they had worked on in Senegal, in the Caribbean, in the Philippines. The owner of the company, Pierre Coteau, owned another company that sold animal furs. How, Pratt demanded, could a benevolent and liberal San Francisco award a contract to such a despicable company?
At the request of the Board of Supervisors, Gironde was now preparing a revised second
bid with a new list of subcontractors. But the feeling on the board and in the city at large was so strong against them, and in favor of Pratt on this issue, that no one believed they would keep the job. “And,” Pratt concluded, “this is the kind of law I will continue to practice in my second term. These are the kinds of people I will prosecute—those who would unfairly take jobs from the honest citizens and hardworking businesspeople of this city.”
The applause washed over her. She loved Gironde. It was the perfect San Francisco prosecution. Not only was the issue one of high moral tone, it had opened the coffers of local contractors who before Gironde would not have given her the time of day.
And now, having reminded everyone of that, she moved on to the usual pablum that her staff had spun from the statistical flotsam garnered from any number of often-conflicting sources, taking whatever numbers made her look best.
They’d had setbacks early on, she admitted, but the numbers on violent crime were down in “the last several months”—actually only in January, but this number had been down enough that Sharron could bring in November and December, when crime had actually been up, and the average would still be less than it had been in the late summer and early autumn.
They were sending more criminals to jail. This was true because the D.A.’s prosecutors were accepting pleas in exchange for shorter jail terms rather than taking criminals to trial. This speeded up the process and let felons out of jail sooner, but Pratt could say they were sending more bad folks to the slammer.
She followed up by stating that she was accomplishing all of her good works in spite of the continuing lack of cooperation from the police department. During her last election campaign, she’d fashioned some minor, unproven and isolated allegations of police brutality into a major plank of her platform. She was going to seek out and prosecute bad cops. She was going to create a task force. She was going to bust the “good old boy” network of redneck cops, never mind that the San Francisco police department was fully integrated as to gender and race at all levels of command, and also had fewer police brutality incidents or complaints than any other city of comparable size in the United States.
The district attorney’s office, Pratt concluded, was functioning “with an efficiency that is the envy of every other bureaucracy in the city and county of San Francisco.”
She looked out over the crowd, deciding that she had them, that the time was ripe. Lifting some pages from the podium, she dropped them onto the table next to her. “All that said,” she continued, “it must be admitted now that, with hindsight, I can see that some of the outreach programs, initiated by my office in the early days of this administration, and with the best of intentions, may not have achieved the success that I hoped for.”
A palpable sense of expectation swept the room. Suddenly people were sitting up straighter, paying attention. She paused significantly, lifted her chin, steeled her gaze. “In preparation for coming to talk to all of you today, late last week I had written the usual political speech to tell you how well we’re doing. And in fact, as I’ve indicated, there are areas of success to which we can point with pride. Now, though, I’m going to leave my prepared remarks. Please bear with me as I speak from my heart.
“Last weekend, the city suffered a terrible loss. I’m speaking, of course, of Elaine Wager, not only the daughter of our late beloved senator but in her own right one of the great lights in the city’s firmament.” Pratt paused for a sip of water, gathered herself and went on. “One of the most difficult lessons I’ve had to learn on the prosecution side of the bar is that there is real evil cast among us. My training and background has led me to try and understand the causes of antisocial behavior and to seek solutions through incarceration, yes, but also through counseling and education. I remain proud of the programs we’ve adopted that seek to temper justice with mercy, that have tried to inject compassion and understanding into the judicial process.
“But the events of the past few days have brought home some hard truths and today I am here to deliver a message that may have become blurred in my administration’s zeal for fairness, tolerance and empathy for desperate people who are driven to desperate acts. And that message is this: People who break the law in San Francisco are going to be punished.”
Pratt let the substantial round of applause wash over her, took another sip of water, then waited for silence. When it came, she spoke in a voice thick with conviction—it was time to go into campaign mode. “There are those who say that I am soft on crime, that I am too compassionate to fulfill the duties of district attorney. To those people, let me announce what may be correctly interpreted as a sea change in the policy of this administration.
“The police have arrested a man—a homeless man, a drug addict—who has confessed to the murder of Elaine Wager, a murder in the course of which he took her purse, jewelry and other possessions. California law defines murder in the commission of a robbery as a special circumstances crime and prescribes only two possible penalties—life in prison without the possibility of parole, and death.”
Pratt was aware of the drama of the moment. The silence in the room was perfect—even the waiters were still, hanging on her conclusion.
“I want there to be no mistake. It is the intention of the district attorney to seek the death penalty in this case. This is the word I’m putting out to the criminal element in this city, the line that today I draw in the sand—street violence, all violent crime, stops here. The law will be enforced. For as long as I remain district attorney, here is the policy of my office: If you are unfortunate or dispossessed, mercy will still have its place”—her hands gripped either side of the podium as she looked out over the multitude—“but if you break the law, justice will trump mercy every”—she brought down her fist—“single”—again, the fist—“time.”
After a short stunned silence, a man at one of the front tables began to applaud and it was as though a dam had broken. The ensuing ovation brought the entire dining room to its feet.
8
Sick of conjuring with imponderables, Hardy called a fifteen-minute recess for himself. He stood up, stretched and walked to the window. Late afternoon, a listless gray day downtown. He and Frannie had their traditional Wednesday Date Night scheduled to begin in a couple of hours, and Hardy was tempted to call it a day and go wait for his wife at the Shamrock, discuss some philosophical conundrums with his brother-in-law Moses, who would be working behind the bar. He could have an early cocktail on the theory that it was always five o’clock somewhere.
He wasn’t getting anything done here, that was for sure.
His reaction to Monday’s problems with Glitsky and the jail had settled uneasily enough, but after his visit with Cole Burgess yesterday, the whole business lay curdling in his stomach. Something was very wrong, but he really didn’t want to get involved any further. He was too close to it, one way or the other. Also, he didn’t want to risk a serious rupture in his friendship with Abe over a lowlife such as Cole Burgess—to say nothing of the logistical problems he’d doubtlessly have with his friends Jeff and Dorothy, and her difficult mother.
When the dust cleared, he was all but certain that Cole would cut some kind of deal and get low double digits in the state prison. Every homicide was a manslaughter to Pratt’s trial-shy prosecutors. Even the public defender called the city’s system a “plea bargain mill.” Best case, Cole might even get out of San Quentin with his habit broken. In any event, it wasn’t Hardy’s problem.
What was his problem right now, though, was Dash Logan. The damned guy was proving harder to contact than the Pope, and Hardy’s client Rich McNeil was understandably losing some patience.
In the mid-eighties, McNeil had just turned fifty and decided to invest his 401K money in San Francisco real estate. He could have done better with Microsoft, but back then the stock market made him nervous. In any event, he wasn’t complaining. The sixteen-unit apartment building on Russian Hill had cost a hefty million five when he purchased it for
a quarter million down; its most recent appraisal pegged its value at six million plus. Rich was now sixty-four years old, primed to sell the thing and retire.
So here he was, this nice guy and good citizen who’d worked and saved the way good Americans were supposed to, and instead of some carefree years of leisure, he was suddenly looking at some very serious trouble.
A year and a half ago, he’d finally succeeded in evicting Manny Galt, who’d been a tenant in the building for nearly ten years. The tenant from hell, as it turned out.
The first sign of trouble was when he painted his entire unit, including the windows, black. When McNeil had demurred, politely requesting Galt at least to leave the outer windows clear, Galt had not so politely declined. It was his fuckin’ place, he said, McNeil could go piss up a rope.
To say that San Francisco’s rent control laws favor tenants over landlords is to say that Custer favored Southern belles over the Ogalala Sioux. So when Hardy’s client explored the possibility of evicting Mr. Galt over the paint job, he found that this would be legally impossible. Galt had his five rooms, he paid his four hundred dollars every month, and as far as the law was concerned, that apartment was his, and at that price, until he gave it up on his own.
Which he wasn’t inclined to do.
Over the years, Galt’s one unit became a constant source of dissatisfaction to the other tenants as well, and a regular feature of McNeil’s life became dealing with complaints about loud noises, awful odors, unsavory people.
