“What’s this I hear about you accepting some tomfool case?” my employer demanded the instant I entered the room.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve agreed to represent a Mr. Chin Lee Fong, who’s been accused of—”
“But he’s Chinese!” Joseph Shepard looked at me as if I’d taken on the devil himself as a client. “You must be out of your mind to agree to defend a—a John Chinaman!”
“The fact that he’s Chinese,” I said, “does not preclude his right to an appropriate legal defense.”
“Yes, but—” Seemingly unable to come up with another line of attack, he fell back upon that awful noise in the back of his nasal region.
Refusing to be drawn any further into this argument—which seemed to be going nowhere in any event—I silently reached into my briefcase and pulled out the portion of Li’s money that rightfully belonged to the firm. Shepard’s fit ended as quickly as it had begun, and his small eyes bulged as I handed him the stack of bills.
“That is the initial retainer,” I explained, careful not to mention Li’s name. “I think you’ll find subsequent payments from my client will be more than generous.”
“But he’s a cook. How can he possibly afford … ?”
“Evidently, he has a secondary source of income.” Which was true enough, I thought, if Li were viewed in that light. “Trust me, Mr. Shepard, the firm will not suffer financially by my representation of Mr. Chin.”
I could see by his aggrieved expression that he was only partially appeased by the money. While the firm was always eager to bring in lucrative new accounts, the newspapers had already gotten wind of the Chin Lee Fong case and were blazing it across their front pages. Which left Shepard in a bind. If he fired me for accepting such an undesirable client, he would not only deprive the firm of a beneficial account, but my dismissal would merit banner headlines. Once again, I’d placed him in an indefensible position.
“Very well, Miss Woolson,” he said in clipped tones, “you seemed to have left me with no choice. But, as you are completely lacking in criminal law experience, I will assign someone with more practical knowledge as lead attorney. At his discretion, he may see fit to request your assistance. Under no circumstances, however, are you to appear in a court of law as an associate of this firm.”
Seeming to feel he had at least partially redeemed an impossible situation, he waved a dismissive hand and went back to the paperwork crowding his desk. Knowing Li would never agree to this arrangement, I stood my ground.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shepard, but what you suggest is out of the question.”
He looked up at me with a frown, as if only half comprehending my words. “What are you babbling on about?”
“My client will not accept another attorney. We discussed my inexperience, and he was adamant he would accept no one but me as his legal representative.”
“That’s ridiculous! What man in his right mind would chose a woman to represent him in a murder case? Believe me, your client will be more than grateful when he discovers that Clark, or even Jefferson, will be representing him.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Clark and Jefferson had been with the firm barely a year longer than I had. Neither man had acted as lead attorney in a civil case, much less one for capital murder. In fact, I wasn’t sure they’d even been part of a defense team. Joseph Shepard cared not one whit whether Chin escaped the hangman’s noose, only that a woman attorney not embarrass his firm in public.
“That will not do, Mr. Shepard.” I steeled myself to be fired on the spot. It was bound to come sooner or later, I thought. At least this would be a cause worthy of dismissal, not some trifling typewriting or filing error.
Shepard’s fleshy face turned an ugly red. “You go too far, Miss Woolson. How dare you attempt to tell me who I may or may not assign to a case?”
“It is not I who tells you, sir, but my client. He refuses to accept anyone else. If you replace me as lead attorney, I will be forced to defend Mr. Chin on my own.”
His watery eyes blazed into mine. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Actually, Mr. Shepard, I would. I am morally bound to carry out my client’s wishes in this matter. It is, after all, his life that is at stake.”
I don’t know what kind of a response I expected, but it seemed I’d driven Joseph Shepard beyond his limits.
“Get out of my office,” he yelled. “Now!”
For once our wishes coincided, and I made my way out of the room as speedily as decorum, and my pride, would allow. Once I’d closed the door behind me, I stood in the hall trying to steady my thudding heart. It seemed I was still an associate at Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall, or at least I thought I was. One could never be certain with the senior partner. He was as mercurial, and often as dense, as the fog that billowed in from San Francisco Bay.
Returning to my office, I was surprised to find Robert waiting for me. “What was that all about? I could hear you two shouting at each other from the hallway I suppose it had to do with the Chin case.
I’d made the mistake of telling Robert about my visit with Li, as well as my commitment to defend Chin.
“I’m in no mood to hear more of your gloomy ranting about my career,” I said, sinking into the chair behind my desk. “I’ve agreed to be Chin’s lawyer and that’s that.”
He stared at me, astonished. “Are you telling me that Shepard went along with it?”
“I didn’t leave him with much choice.” I ran a hand over my forehead, surprised to find it damp with perspiration. “All this wasted energy, and I haven’t even begun to develop a defense strategy.”
“How can you come up with a viable defense when we both know your client is guilty?”
“Not that again, Robert,” I moaned. “Please.”
His face contorted into a mask of incredulity. “You are beyond belief—or comprehension. Sarah, the prosecution is going to crucify you. You say you want to see women attorneys in the courtroom. Think of what a defeat like this will do for your precious cause.
“The evidence against Chin is overwhelming,” he went on when I didn’t respond. “The public is already clamoring for his head on a platter.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “A woman attorney and a Chinaman. Now there’s a partnership for you!”
I opened my mouth to retort, then closed it again. Li Ying once told me it was necessary to accept reality. Well, the reality was that the evidence against my client seemed all but insurmountable. And most of San Francisco, for all its pretense of valuing diversity, regarded its Chinese population as subhuman—slightly above animals, but not by much. What Robert said was true. I was risking everything I’d worked so long and hard for to defend an unpleasant, not to mention ungrateful, man, who seemed to be as eager as the police to stick his head in a noose.
“Robert, I honestly don’t think Chin is guilty of killing Arlen or Dora Clemens, although I’ll grant you, his innocence is going to be next to impossible to prove. But don’t you see? I have to at least try. That’s the promise I made when I became an attorney.”
“Oh, please, spare me those damn ethics of yours!”
“It’s more than ethics. Someone has murdered four people—yes, I’m including Caroline Godfrey and Josiah Halsey, whether you agree or not—and I’m convinced that person is not Chin Lee Fong. No one’s working very hard to find Halsey’s killer, and Caroline’s death was ruled a heart attack. Yet I’m certain they were poisoned by the same individual who killed Arlen and Clemens. If I stand by and do nothing while Chin is convicted of two crimes he didn’t commit, the real murderer—the person who has callously taken four lives—will go free. I would never forgive myself if I protected the future of women attorneys by allowing an innocent man to hang.”
“All right, Sarah, I know you mean well. Drat it all, you always mean well. But altruism is not a feasible defense in a court of law. You need cold, hard evidence to prove your client’s innocence.”
“I know,” I said, rubbing the ridge between my
eyes. “I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, something I saw or heard that’s important to the case. I can sense it, but I just can’t put my finger on it.”
“Maybe because it’s not there, Sarah. Have you ever thought of that?” He looked as weary and frustrated as I felt. “You’re going to let this damn case destroy your professional future. It’s just too painful to watch.”
I was struck by a sudden idea. “Then don’t just watch, Robert: help me structure Chin’s defense. You told me once that you wanted to be a trial attorney. Well, here’s your chance. Join me as second chair. Or, if you’d prefer, help from behind the scenes. There’s going to be more than enough work for two people.”
Robert stared at me as if I’d just suggested he declare his candidacy for president.
“At least think about it,” I went on. “If nothing else, it will be a wonderful learning experience.”
The look on his face was so comical that for the first time that day I gave in to the impulse to laugh.
Chin Lee Fong’s arraignment contained few surprises. He was officially charged with the murder of Lucius Arlen, was denied bail and had his trial set for the second week of May. Although Chin still stood accused of killing Dora Clemens, the state chose to pursue Arlen’s death first, undoubtedly because they felt it was the easier of the two cases to prove.
It all boiled down to means and opportunity. The autopsies showed both the accountant and the kitchen maid had been poisoned with Actaea alba, or baneberry, which, I discovered from my research, resembled blueberries. Since a small bag of the deadly berries, as well as their equally lethal roots, was discovered at the rear of one of Chin’s cupboards, the question of “means” was quickly resolved.
That Chin also had opportunity to administer the poison was, for all practical purposes, a nonfactor. As cook for the hospital, he had unlimited access to the kitchen and to its supplies. What could be easier, the police reasoned, than for him to slip ground baneberry root or berry into an unsuspecting victim’s coffee? The prosecutor must have been delighted to find himself with such an easy case. Chin not only had the means and opportunity, he continued to declare his hatred of Arlen loud enough for the entire city to hear!
I set myself a daunting schedule. Since I lacked any of the hard evidence Robert mentioned, the only way I could see to clear Chin was to find the real killer. In order to do that, I’d need to account for Dora Clemens’s whereabouts the morning of her death. Normally at work by seven o’clock, she hadn’t arrived at the hospital that day until eleven. Had she really been ill, as she claimed? Or had she gone somewhere else first? To see the murderer, perhaps? To ask for blackmail money?
Then there were the Godfrey brothers, either of whom might have individually, or jointly, murdered Caroline and—on far shakier grounds—the other three victims. I’d asked Samuel to look into their finances, but so far I’d heard nothing back from him.
Lastly, I wanted to go over Arlen’s account books in an effort to discover why he’d been so eager to speak to Margaret the day we’d toured the hospital. I remained convinced that whatever had him so upset that day was pivotal in identifying his murderer.
Chin’s case, however overwhelming, was not my only concern. I had not forgotten my promise to Lily Mankin. Despite my best efforts, I’d been unable to locate the owner of the sweatshop where Jack Mankin died. The trail always led back to the missing Bert Corrigan and Killy Doyle, one of whom must know the identity of the mysterious landlord.
In the end, it was a chance comment Samuel made about McKenzie Properties, the listed owners of the sweatshop, that gave me the idea. To confirm my suspicions, I required the services of Eddie Cooper.
As agreed, I wrote my initials on a piece of paper, drew a circle around them, and sent it in care of Laine Carriages. To my delight, Eddie reined up in front of my home less than an hour later, eager as ever to be “hot on the trail.”
I decided to start my investigation with Lucius Arlen’s account books, but before I went to the hospital, I had Eddie stop at the so-called offices of McKenzie Properties on Sansone Street. The secondhand shop was much as I remembered from my first visit: run-down, grimy, and in dire need of paint. The sign above the store was so faded it was hard to make out the words: JAKE’S USED GOODS.
I told Eddie my suspicion that this was where Corrigan and Doyle were hiding. The lad’s eyes grew large as I outlined his role in my plan. Eddie would take me to the hospital, then drive back here and keep an eye on the shop in case either man turned up.
“You can count on me, miss,” he said with so much enthusiasm you’d have thought I’d asked him to guard the gold at the local assayer’s office.
“I have no idea how long I’ll be at the hospital. So, I’ll take a cab and meet you here when I’m finished.”
Fifteen minutes later, he dropped me off at the refurbished warehouse, then drove off with a jaunty tip of his cap and a conspiratorial wink toward Sansone Street.
Entering the hospital, I found Margaret in the kitchen familiarizing Lily Mankin—who had graciously agreed to take over as cook during Chin’s incarceration—with Chin’s methods of running his domain. As I came into the room, the two women had their heads bent over the new Sterling Range.
“This stove is a wonder,” Lily exclaimed upon seeing me.
“Mrs. Mankin is going to cook her first dinner for us tonight,” Margaret said, smiling at the widow. “I’m sure it will be a big success.”
Lily’s return smile was tinged with trepidation. “I’ve never tried cookin’ for so many people before, Mrs. Barlow. But I’ll do my best.”
Assuring Lily she would return to the kitchen in time to offer assistance, Mrs. Barlow led me to her office. Several account books lay in a neat pile on her desk.
“I’ve been meaning to go over these ledgers,” she told me. “I just haven’t been able to find the time.”
I picked up the first account book and thumbed through it. “Tell me, Mrs. Barlow, who authorizes hospital expenses?”
“I do, for one, and my husband, of course. In fact, there are several men on the hospital’s finance committee who are approved to authorize an expenditure. I’m afraid that sounds like rather a loose arrangement, but it was to facilitate the renovation and furnishing of the hospital. By giving more than one person authority to approve cash disbursements, there was always someone available to make these decisions. Actually, it’s worked quite well.”
“Was Mr. Arlen empowered to pay bills on his own?”
“Oh, no. All invoices and requests are sent to my office first, or to someone on the finance committee. Once they’re properly authorized, they are sent—or perhaps I should say they were sent—to Mr. Arlen, who paid the bills and entered them into the account books.”
She consulted her lapel watch and stood. “I’m sorry to leave you, Miss Woolson, but I’m late for an important meeting. I wish you luck with these books.”
I spent the next hour going over the neatly written entries, carefully tallying each sum in my notepad. It wasn’t until the third ledger that I began to sense something was wrong. Then I realized it wasn’t anything I’d seen on the pages, but rather something I ought to have seen in the ledgers but didn’t.
I thought back to the Godfrey dinner the night Caroline died. According to Arlen, the party brought in one hundred twenty thousand dollars, twenty percent over the target goal. Yet a number of these contributions weren’t listed in the ledgers. Moreover, of the pledges that were written in, some weren’t as I remembered.
For instance, I knew my parents donated five thousand dollars, but they were listed as having given only three thousand. Judge Barlow’s entry was off by five thousand dollars, as were the Heblers’ and the Roths’. Even my own modest contribution was recorded as less than I’d actually paid. I tried to remember other sums I’d heard called out and came up with yet more discrepancies. In fact, when I totaled the figures entered in the book for that night, they came to ninety
thousand dollars, not the hundred twenty thousand Arlen claimed had been brought in. What had happened to the missing thirty thousand dollars?
With renewed determination, I went over the ledgers yet again, paying attention to the smallest details. Sure enough, I discovered more questionable entries, most of them having to do with the kitchen. There were orders for flour, sugar, salt and shortening, for instance, in amounts so large I didn’t see how they could possibly be consumed. The cook had also ordered enough pots and pans to accommodate a good-sized restaurant, along with a large set of dishes and every size utensil imaginable.
Closing the books, I gathered up my notes and headed for the kitchen, pleased to find that it was now deserted. Quickly, I went through every cupboard, every inch of the pantry, every pot and pan, noting each item in my notepad. As I did, I realized they came nowhere near the numbers that supposedly had been ordered. How could Chin have hoped to get away with such an obvious deception?
Finally, I attempted to satisfy myself about something Dora had said as she lay dying. Supposedly, Arlen and the maid had been poisoned with baneberries, most likely administered in coffee to mask the taste. This coincided with at least part of Dora’s statement. Yet she’d also mentioned “cookies.” Had the killer also served Arlen poisoned cookies?
Once again I searched the pantry, but the coffee beans I found revealed nothing. Next, I reexamined the cupboards until I came upon a tin marked “cookies,” which I’d passed over as unimportant my first time through. Prying off the lid, I was surprised to find not cookies inside, but wads of money, nearly fifty dollars. I reread my notes from Dora’s death. Is this why she’d mentioned cookies? Was she trying to tell us that this tin was where Chin kept the money he stole from his kitchen allowance?
There was no time now to speculate, as I still had to question the nursing and housekeeping staff. Unfortunately, this line of inquiry went nowhere. Several nurses had seen Arlen enter the kitchen shortly before eight P.M., but not a single person could say whether Chin had been with him. In fact, no one had set eyes on the cook after dinner. Had Dora been the only one to see Chin that evening? My heart sank. If that were the case, I’d lost my only witness.
The Russian Hill Murders Page 16
