PERFECT ALIBI
A Mike Daley Mystery
By
SHELDON SIEGEL
M P Publishing Limited
12 Strathallan Crescent
Douglas
Isle of Man
British Isles
Other books in the Mike Daley Mystery series by Sheldon Siegel:
Special Circumstances
Incriminating Evidence
Criminal Intent
Final Verdict
The Confession
Judgment Day
MacAdam/Cage
155 Sansome Street, Suite 550
San Francisco, CA 94104
www.MacAdamCage.com
Copyright © 2010 by Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Siegel, Sheldon (Sheldon M.)
Perfect alibi / by Sheldon Siegel.
60 chapters
ISBN 978-1-59692-336-2
For Linda
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a village to write a novel. For me, it takes a very large village. I get a lot of help writing these stories and I want to take this opportunity to thank the kind people who have been so generous with their time and expertise.
Thanks to my beautiful wife, Linda, who has remained unfailingly supportive and patient through the process of seven novels. It isn’t always easy living with somebody who spends as much time as I do sitting in front of a computer. Thanks also to our twin sons, Alan and Stephen. You are excellent editors and I will miss your daily input as you head off to college.
Thanks to my publisher, David Poindexter, at MacAdam/Cage, for your encouragement and wisdom. Thanks to MacAdam/Cage’s editor-in-chief, Pat Walsh, for your insights, friendship, and perseverance. Thanks to my editor, Guy Intoci, for your patience, perceptiveness, and good humor. Thanks to Dorothy Carico Smith for your exceptional art and design work.
Thanks to my extraordinary agent, Margret McBride, and to Donna DeGutis, Faye Atchison, and Anne Bomke at the Margret McBride Literary Agency. You are still the best! Thanks also to the incomparable Nevins McBride.
Thanks to criminal defense attorney David Nickerson for your insights into the criminal justice system. Keep fighting the good fight.
Thanks to the Every Other Thursday Night Writers’ Group: Bonnie DeClark, Meg Stiefvater, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka, Janet Wallace, and Priscilla Royal. Thanks to Elaine and Bill Petrocelli for your endless support.
Thanks my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton (and your spouses and significant others) for your support and encouragement for so many years. I’m sorry that I can’t mention all of you by name in this space, but I wanted to give particular thanks to those of you with whom I’ve worked the longest: Randy and Mary Short, Cheryl Holmes, Joan Story and Robert Kidd, Bob Thompson, Phil and Wendy Atkins-Pattinson, Sue Lenzi, Maria Sariano, Betsy McDaniel, Bill and Barbara Manierre, Donna Andrews, Geri Freeman and David Nickerson, Julie and Jim Ebert, Ron and Rita Ryland, Bob Stumpf, and Aline Pearl. Special thanks to Jane Gorsi for your superb editing and proof-reading.
Thanks always to our ever-expanding family: Charlotte, Ben, Michelle, Margaret, and Andy Siegel; Ilene Garber; Joe, Jan, and Julia Garber; Terry Garber; Roger and Sharon Fineberg; Jan Harris Sandler and Matz Sandler, Scott, Michelle, Stephanie, Kim, and Sophie Harris; Cathy, Richard, and Matthew Falco; and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden, and Ari Stewart.
Finally, thanks again to all of my readers for your continuing kindness and enthusiasm. It means a lot to me and I really appreciate it.
Contents
chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3
chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6
chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9
chapter 10 chapter 11 chapter 12
chapter 13 chapter 14 chapter 15
chapter 16 chapter 17 chapter 18
chapter 19 chapter 20 chapter 21
chapter 22 chapter 23 chapter 24
chapter 25 chapter 26 chapter 27
chapter 28 chapter 29 chapter 30
chapter 31 chapter 32 chapter 33
chapter 34 chapter 35 chapter 36
chapter 37 chapter 38 chapter 39
chapter 40 chapter 41 chapter 42
chapter 43 chapter 44 chapter 45
chapter 46 chapter 47 chapter 48
chapter 49 chapter 50 chapter 51
chapter 52 chapter 53 chapter 54
chapter 55 chapter 56 chapter 57
chapter 58 chapter 59 chapter 60
1/ YOU AREN’T A CIVIL LAWYER
Friday, June 17, 2:34 p.m.
The Honorable T.J. Putnam Chandler exhales with melodramatic disdain. The Presiding Judge of the San Francisco Superior Court–Civil Division can feign exasperation as convincingly as any jurist in Northern California. “Mr. Daley,” he bellows, “why are you wasting this court’s time on a beautiful Friday afternoon?”
As if I had anything to do with the scheduling of this hearing. I summon an appropriately deferential tone. “Your Honor,” I say, “we are here to contest the defendant’s motion for summary judgment.”
The three-hundred pound Brahman responds with another pronounced sigh. The fifth-generation San Franciscan firmly believes his appointment to the bench was an entitlement bestowed upon him by birthright. To those of us who have the privilege of appearing before him, it’s common knowledge that Putty Chandler is well into the back nine of a thoroughly undistinguished judicial career. The dour bureaucrat has to go through the motions for six more months before he can start collecting his pension and retreat to a cushy corner Office in a private mediation firm where he can work a couple of days a week for triple his current salary—as if he really needs the money. His more immediate concern is that he may be late for his regular three-thirty tee time at the Lake Course at the Olympic Club.
Judge Chandler leans forward in the custom leather chair he had to buy on his own dime. The state budget covered the construction costs of the workman-like civil courthouse across McAllister Street from City Hall, but there wasn’t much left over for furniture. His bushy right eyebrow shoots up toward his mane of uncombed gray hair. The Einstein look is better suited to physicists. His voice fills with its customary scorn. “You’re a criminal lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. Daley?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I prefer the term defense attorney.
“That means you spend your time representing criminals, doesn’t it?”
It will serve no useful purpose to remind him that everybody who watches Law and Order knows we’re supposed to pay lip service to the concept that you’re innocent until proven guilty. The Putty Chandlers of the world draw no substantial distinction between people who are accused of crimes and those who are actually convicted—or, for that matter, the attorneys who represent them. “We take on pro bono civil matters from time to time,” I tell him. “This case was referred to us by the Haight-Ashbury Legal Aid Clinic.”
He’s unimpressed. “As I recall, the last time you were in my courtroom, you were trying to make the world safe for panhandlers.”
“Something like that, Your Honor.” A couple of years ago, I filed a civil suit for false arrest on behalf of a homeless man on the theory that the cops had violated his constitutional right of free speech. It wasn’t precisely what the Founding Fathers had in mind when they drafted the Bill of Rights, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Not surprisingly, Judge Chandler ruled against me. That case is still working its way up the appellate ladder.
He points his gavel in my direction. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “I trust you understand we try to conduct ourselves with greater professional decorum over here in the civil courts?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor.” I don’t care how many of your inbred an
cestors are living off their trust funds in Pacific Heights—you’re still a pompous jackass.
I shoot a glance at my law partner and ex-wife, Rosita Fernandez, who is providing moral support from the front row of the otherwise empty gallery. I met Rosie at the Public Defender’s Office two decades ago. I was fresh out of Boalt Law School after a brief and unsuccessful attempt at being a priest. She was fresh off an acquittal in a capital murder case after a brief and unsuccessful attempt at being married. After a string of victories, the State Bar Journal boldly proclaimed we were the best PDs in Northern California. Then we made the tactical error of trying to transform a successful working relationship into a more intimate one. We quickly discovered we were more adept at trying cases. The wheels fell off our marriage two years after it started. After a five-year cooling-off period, we formed the tenuous law partnership we’ve operated slightly north of the subsistence level for the past decade.
“Mr. Daley,” the judge says, “I understand the plaintiff is claiming she was injured by a product manufactured by the defendant.”
“That’s correct, Your Honor.” That’s why it’s called a product liability case.
I steal a look at the plaintiff’s table, where my client is staring intently at her jet-black fingernails. Andrea Zeller is a sullen young woman whose closely cropped pink hair, twin nose rings, and gothic tattoos project an acceptable professional image for her day job as a sales clerk at Amoeba Music, a cavernous store in a converted bowling alley in the Haight. When she isn’t peddling CDs, she plays bass guitar for a heavy metal band known as Death March. She prefers to be called by her stage name, Requiem. I’ve tried, without success, to explain to her on several occasions that patrician judges like Putty Chandler tend to have little empathy for people who exercise their right of free expression through body piercings and tattoos.
“Your Honor,” I continue, “we have fulfilled our obligation to provide prima facie evidence that Ms. Zeller’s injuries were caused by a defective product. The defendant’s motion for summary judgment therefore should be denied.”
This gets the attention of my worthy opponent. The aptly named Gary Winer is a cloying, owl-eyed man with large, horn-rimmed glasses, a horrific comb-over, and a grating nasal voice. He’s spent the past thirty years trying to make the world safer for insurance companies. He has also perfected a legal strategy that may be summarized in three words: delay, delay, delay. He nods reassuringly to his client, a greasy, middle-aged man whose ill-fitting black suit matches the bad toupee that he probably bought on eBay.
Winer stands and addresses Judge Chandler. “Your Honor, the plaintiff wouldn’t have been injured if she had followed the easy-to-understand instructions included with my client’s product.”
“She did,” I say. Well, more or less. “The on-off switch didn’t work properly.”
“Your Honor,” Winer drones on, “my client has rigorous quality control standards. Nobody has ever complained about the switch.”
“There’s always a first time,” I say.
Winer won’t let it go. “This is what happens when criminal lawyers bring civil cases. They don’t understand our procedures.”
Now that’s a cheap shot. “Your Honor,” I say, “the Civil Code isn’t that much more complicated than the Penal Code.”
“Nevertheless,” Winer continues, “if Mr. Daley insists on proceeding with these unsubstantiated charges, we will need additional time to conduct a full structural analysis of this product.”
He’s stalling. “Your Honor,” I say, “we don’t need to take up this court’s valuable time with expensive experts to prove Ms. Zeller was injured when the defendant’s product malfunctioned. We’ve submitted an affidavit from a reputable engineer attesting to the design flaws in the switch. We’ve provided a sworn statement from her doctor and copies of her medical bills. Unless Mr. Winer’s client is prepared to reimburse Ms. Zeller for her medical bills and lost wages, this case should move forward to trial.” So there.
Putty Chandler’s chin is resting in his right palm. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “what can you tell me about the product in question?”
“It might be more appropriate to have that discussion in chambers.”
“Denied.”
Have it your way. “If I might ask the bailiff to bring it over to you.”
Judge Chandler’s bailiff is a world-weary African American woman with the unenviable job of trying to keep her boss from making an ass of himself—no small assignment. “Your Honor,” she says, “counsel’s point might be well taken.”
He doesn’t take the hint. “Is it offensive?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Pornographic?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then please deliver it to the bench.”
Her eyes dart toward the ceiling, then she dutifully hands him a shoebox marked with an evidence tag. The judge removes a device that’s the size of a screwdriver. He takes off his glasses and examines it. “Mr. Daley,” he says, “is this some sort of power tool?”
You might say that. “It’s a marital aid,” I tell him.
“What does it do?”
The same thing as Viagra. “It stimulates erotic feelings.”
He quickly sets it down on the bench. “How was your client injured?”
How do I say this?”The on-off switch jammed as Ms. Zeller was, uh, gratifying herself. She sustained bruises in certain sensitive areas.”
“I see.”
He’s getting the idea. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask for additional details. A reasonable argument could be made that Requiem didn’t use the product in precisely the manner contemplated by the easy-to-understand instructions.
“Your Honor,” Winer says, “Mr. Daley has not provided any evidence our product is defective.”
“I’d be happy to show you,” I say.
“Your Honor—” Winer implores.
The judge stops him with an upraised hand. “Approach the bench, gentlemen.”
We do as we’re told.
The judge puts a huge paw over his microphone. “We’re off the record,” he whispers. "It seems to me the most expedient way to decide this matter is to have a demonstration of the allegedly defective equipment.”
“Fine with me,” I say.
“That would be highly irregular,” Winer says.
“I want a demonstration, Mr. Winer,” the judge says.
It’s my cue. “It works just like a flashlight,” I explain. I slide the switch to the "On" position and it springs to life.
Judge Chandler’s interest is piqued. “How do you turn it off?” he asks.
“That’s the problem.” I keep my tone clinical. “It’s supposed to shut down when you slide the button back to the ’Off’ position. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.”
“Your Honor—” Winer says.
I cut him off. “I don’t expect you to take my word for it, Mr. Winer.” I hand him the pulsating equipment. “Move the button to the ‘Off’ position.”
Gary Winer has many talents, but manual dexterity isn’t one of them. He corrals the bucking bronco and holds on for dear life. He makes a heroic, but ultimately futile, attempt to manipulate the switch. “I can’t get it to stop,” he says.
“Neither could Ms. Zeller,” I reply.
Winer loses the handle and inadvertently flips the merchandise in my direction. I snag it just before it hits the floor.
The judge can’t contain a smile. “Nice catch, Mr. Daley,” he deadpans.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I make a big display of pretending to jimmy the switch. "I think we’re going to have to remove the batteries.”
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Daley.” Putty Chandler turns to his favorite page in the judicial playbook: trying to broker a quick settlement. “Did Ms. Zeller sustain any permanent injuries?”
I answer him honestly. “No, Your Honor.”
“How much were her medical bills?”
“About ten thousand dolla
rs. Her lost wages were another five grand. I’ve told her she’s unlikely to collect punitive damages.”
“So you’re willing to dispose of this case for fifteen thousand dollars?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Are you prepared to keep the settlement terms confidential?”
“Absolutely.” Requiem isn’t interested in making a statement—she just wants the cash.
Judge Chandler’s pleased expression suggests he may make it to the Olympic Club after all. He turns his attention back to Winer. “You can make this go away for fifteen grand,” he says.
“If we admit liability, we will be inundated with frivolous lawsuits.”
“Mr. Daley has already agreed to keep the terms confidential.”
“But Your Honor—”
“Let me put it this way, Mr. Winer. If you don’t settle this matter in the next ten seconds, I’m going to rule there is sufficient evidence to move forward and that Ms. Zeller may assert claims for punitive damages. A full-blown trial will run your client at least six figures in legal fees—not to mention the possibility a jury may come back with a verdict for a lot more than fifteen grand. You know how unpredictable juries can be, don’t you, Mr. Winer?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You’re going to make this go away, aren’t you, Mr. Winer?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I’m not inclined to quibble about whether Judge Chandler is trying to serve the interests of justice or the interests of getting in eighteen holes before the sun goes down. Either way, Requiem comes out ahead.
“Step back, gentlemen,” the judge says to us. He turns to his court reporter. “I have good news. Mr. Winer and Mr. Daley have agreed to a confidential settlement of this case. Have a nice weekend, everybody.”
MD07 - Perfect Alibi Page 1
