“You know that’s easier said than done. I still think it’s better to have Bobby hire somebody else.”
“We’ll pull out if things start to go off the rails.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I’m not. “Okay,” I say. “I’m in.” For now.
The door to the nearby stairwell swings open and Roosevelt Johnson’s commanding presence appears. “I thought I might find you here,” he says. “Our District Attorney would like to have a word with you.”
8/ IT’S AN OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE
Saturday, June 18, 5:28 a.m.
Our mediagenic District Attorney flashes the slightly worn but still radiant Julia Roberts smile that’s served her admirably for more years than she would care to admit. Nicole Ward is a capable prosecutor. She’s a truly gifted politician. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” she purrs.
“Inspector Johnson said you wanted to see us.”
“I did.” She tosses her long auburn locks over her right shoulder and places her hands together as she sits behind her inlaid rosewood desk in her sterile office in the southwest corner of the third floor of the Hall. Her Calvin Klein ensemble is always perfectly accessorized. Rosie says Ward can leap into designer pumps faster than Superman can put on his cape. “I’ve heard rumors you’re going back to the PD’s Office.”
There are no secrets in the Hall. “That one’s been making the rounds for years,” I say.
“Any chance it’s true this time?”
“We’re here to talk about Bobby Fairchild.”
“That doesn’t sound like a denial.” Her voice oozes pure cane sugar. “It would be a good move for you and a great addition to the PD’s Office.”
“That’s very flattering.” It would be even more so if I thought she meant it. "From what I’ve read in the papers, it looks like you’re going to win another term.”
“That’s the hope,” she coos. The fake smile broadens. “I trust I can count on your vote.”
“Sorry. We’re registered in Marin.”
“Tell your friends who live on this side of the Golden Gate that I would appreciate their support.”
I think I’m going to puke.
“So,” Ward continues, “given your potential career change, will you have time to deal with the Fairchild case?”
“Absolutely. Given the demands of your campaign, will you?”
“Of course. I’ve already assigned Bill McNulty to take the lead. I believe you’ve worked with him several times.”
“We have.” This news comes as no surprise. McNulty is the combative and highly effective head of the felony division who has earned the moniker "McNasty" from the defense bar. What he lacks in charisma he makes up for in tenacity and thoroughness. He’d bang his head against a brick wall a thousand times if Ward asked him to do it.
Ward glances at her watch. “I can’t chat for long,” she says. “I’ve promised to do a media briefing.”
You wouldn’t want to keep your public waiting. “Mind giving us a few hints on what you plan to tell them?”
The fake smile transforms into an expression of feigned empathy. “This is a great tragedy,” she says. “I knew Jack Fairchild. I tried several cases before him. He was a thoughtful and conscientious judge. His son has committed a very serious crime. Regrettably, we’ll have to file first- degree murder charges.”
I can tell you’re heartbroken. “You can’t be serious,” I say. “He’s a kid.”
“I’m afraid I am. We have more than enough evidence to move forward to trial.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
“You’ll get everything in due course.”
This tap dance is one of the least-satisfying elements of my job. “You have a legal obligation to provide us with evidence that might exonerate our client,” I say.
“In due course,” she repeats. She arches an eyebrow. “There is one piece of information I wanted to pass along right away. We’ve found a witness who heard your client and his father arguing quite heatedly yesterday morning.”
“Does the witness have a name?”
“For purposes of this discussion, no. As a matter of professional courtesy, however, I feel obligated to inform you they were fighting about your daughter. Evidently, Judge Fairchild thought your client and your daughter were spending too much time together.”
So do I. “Are you suggesting Grace is involved in Judge Fairchild’s death?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing out she may be involved in this case. You may wish to consider whether it would be advisable to bring in another attorney who doesn’t have a personal relationship with any of the participants.”
She’s trying to squeeze us. “Thanks for bringing it to our attention,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Our witness also told us your client threatened his father.”
“What did he say?”
She makes little quotation signs with her fingers. “That he was going to make him pay.”
“Teenagers argue with their parents all the time. Judge Fairchild had a lot of enemies. He got death threats during the Savage trial. He was so concerned that he got a permit to carry a gun.”
“He wasn’t the only judge in town who carried a weapon.”
“The others are still walking around.”
“Judge Fairchild would be, too, if your client hadn’t killed him. The gun was still in its holster when the police arrived.”
“The killer obviously took him by surprise.”
“Or he knew the killer—his own son.”
“It could have been a robbery,” I say. “The house was vandalized.”
“There was no evidence of forced entry.”
“The killer could have stolen the key or jimmied the lock.”
“Look at the evidence, Mike. Your client was holding the murder weapon when the police arrived. His hands were covered with blood. He was uncooperative.”
“He tried to help his father. He was upset.”
“I’ll let you try that story on the jury.”
“Did you consider the possibility this might be related to the Savage case?”
“We have no evidence pointing in that direction at this time.”
Rosie finally decides to make her presence felt. “You didn’t call us down here to argue about the evidence,” she says. “Why did you really want to see us?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
I figured this was coming.
Ward’s kitten voice reappears. “I’m prepared to go down to second-degree murder. Given your client’s youth and lack of a criminal record, I’ll recommend a light sentence.”
“How light?”
“You know I can’t go for less than fifteen years.”
It’s the minimum for second-degree murder. “Not a chance,” I say. “I’ll never be able to sell it to him.”
“You mean you won’t try to sell it. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
In my experience, when a prosecutor says a case is open-and-shut, it isn’t. "No deal,” I tell her.
“It’s in everybody’s best interests—including your client’s and your daughter’s—to resolve this matter quickly. It will serve no useful purpose to put your client and his family through the ordeal of a long trial. Not to mention the fact that it will save the taxpayers a lot of money.”
“And it’s good politics,” I say.
“This has nothing to do with the election. Maybe your client got angry and panicked. Maybe it happened so fast he didn’t realize what he was doing. He’s still a young man. If he pleads, he’ll be out when he’s in his early thirties. It’s a good deal, Mike.”
“We may have something to talk about if you’re willing to go down to manslaughter,” I say. It’s a bluff.
“Not for killing a judge. That’s bad politics.”
“The victim’s job title has nothing to do with the appropriateness of the charge. What you jus
t laid out was classic manslaughter. Give us something to work with.”
“I can’t go below second-degree. You have a legal obligation to take it back to your client. This offer will stay open only until the arraignment. After that, all bets are off.”
9/ NO DEAL
Saturday, June 18, 5:42 a.m.
“No deal,” Bobby whispers. “I’m not going to plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit.”
The consultation room’s drab green walls haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the Carter Administration. “We might be able to persuade the DA to reduce the charges to manslaughter,” I say, looking for a reaction.
“I don’t care if they drop it to jaywalking. I didn’t do it.”
It’s the type of response I was hoping for. “Did they give you your own cell?” I ask.
“Not yet.”
Damn it. A clean-cut kid like Bobby will be an easy target among the career felons, drug dealers, and pimps in the lockup at the Glamour Slammer. “I’ll talk to them as soon as we’re done.”
“You have to get me out of here, Mike.”
“I will.”
He takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. “Is Sean all right?”
“He’s okay,” I lie. I have no idea. “He’s at your mother’s house.”
“How’s Grace?”
“She’s okay, too. She’s with Sean.”
He swallows. “Tell her I say hi.”
I’m impressed by his concern for his brother and his girlfriend. “I will.”
“What happens next?”
“They’ve scheduled an arraignment at ten o’clock.” I explain the perfunctory proceeding that starts the legal process. “I want you to look the judge right in the eye and plead not guilty in a clear and respectful voice.”
“Can you get the charges dropped?”
“We’ll try, but it’s unlikely.”
“What about bail?”
“It depends.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “If the DA charges you with first-degree murder, bail will be more difficult.”
His voice starts to rise. “Then what?”
“They have to schedule a preliminary hearing within ten days.”
“Can you ask for bail again?”
“Yes.” The chances won’t be much better at the prelim.
He starts drumming the tabletop with his fingers. “Can you get the charges dropped at the prelim?” he asks, his tone turning more agitated.
“Maybe, but it will be a battle. The DA just has to show there’s a reasonable basis to suggest you committed a crime. We’ll try to show there isn’t. The judge will give the prosecutors the benefit of the doubt.”
“Do you think we’re going to trial?”
“It’s too soon to tell. We have to be prepared for the possibility.”
“How soon would that happen?”
“We can ask for a trial within sixty days. It’s usually better to waive that requirement to have more time to prepare.” And to stall.
“So if we don’t get bail, I could be here for months?”
Welcome to the criminal justice system. “Hopefully not.”
“I can’t be in here for months, Mike. I’ll never make it to trial. If you don’t get me out of here, they’re going to kill me.”
# # #
The sun is coming up, but Rosie and I are glum as we hustle down the front steps of the Hall at twenty after six. We just sat through Ward’s beautifully orchestrated media briefing. Shamelessly pandering to the cameras, she offered easily digestible sound bites about the uncontroverted evidence proving beyond any shadow of a doubt that Bobby killed his father. Give her credit—she knows how to work the media. Her face will be the lead on every news outlet in the Bay Area for the next couple of days. After the show, Rosie and I tried not to sound too smarmy as we mouthed the usual defense-lawyer platitudes about the unsubstantiated charges and the rush to judgment taking place before our very eyes.
A familiar face is waiting for us when we arrive at Rosie’s car. “I thought you held your own at Nicole’s briefing,” Roosevelt says.
“Defense lawyers always end up on the short end of the battle of the sound bites,” I say.
“The cops generally don’t fare any better.”
The wisdom of experience. “I take it this isn’t entirely a social call?”
“I need to talk to your daughter.”
“In due course.”
“Due course is now.”
Rosie gives him the Glare. “We’ll bring Grace down at the right time,” she says.
“The right time is right now. Don’t put us in a position where we have to take legal action to bring her in.”
“Don’t put us in a position where we have to take legal action to stop the harassment of our daughter.”
Roosevelt glances around to make sure nobody is watching us. “I got a call from a patrol car in Cole Valley,” he says. “Julie Fairchild returned home a little while ago.”
“You had somebody follow her?”
“Honestly, no.”
“This is more than a coincidence, Roosevelt.”
“She lives a few blocks from her husband. We have people in the vicinity. If my guess is correct, Grace is there with Sean.”
There is nothing to be gained by lying. “She is.”
“As a matter of professional courtesy, I have instructed our officers not to knock on the door until after I talked to you. As a matter of personal courtesy, I’m prepared to wait until you’ve spoken to Grace and Sean—as long as you promise to let them talk to me as soon as you’re finished.”
He’s holding the cards. “Fair enough,” I say.
10/ ONE MORE TIME
Saturday, June 18, 6:27 a.m.
“Where are you?” Pete asks.
On our way to Julie’s house,” I tell him. The reception on my cell phone fades as Rosie and I drive up Market Street. “Have you been able to get inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“Not yet. The cops are still working the scene. I talked to a couple of the neighbors. As far as I can tell, the judge kept to himself.”
“Did anybody see him come home last night?”
“Nope. Nobody saw a murder, either.”
Great. “According to our distinguished District Attorney, somebody heard Bobby fighting with his father yesterday morning.”
“Nobody mentioned it to me.”
“It also seems Jack and Julie weren’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet.” He listens intently as I fill him in. “We need to verify that Julie was up at the hospital after eleven o’clock last night. We also need to confirm the whereabouts of her boyfriend.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He shifts gears. “I know a guy who tends bar at the Bohemian Club. He said Judge Fairchild had dinner at the Club and left around ten forty-five.”
“By himself?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know where the judge went?”
“No.”
# # #
“We’re so sorry about your father,” Rosie says to Sean.
Bobby’s younger brother looks at her through glassy, lifeless eyes. “Thanks,” he whispers.
He’s a more slender version of Bobby, with softer features, unkempt sideburns, and shoulder-length hair that’s a half-shade lighter than his torn black T-shirt and tattered black jeans. He’s sitting at the glass table in his mother’s high-tech kitchen, which looks out of place in her refurbished Victorian on the corner of Seventeenth and Shrader, four blocks from Judge Fairchild’s house. Grace is upstairs watching TV with Julie’s sister. Roosevelt is waiting impatiently in an unmarked car on the street.
Rosie starts slowly. “We’re here to help,” she says. “I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“Did you see your father last night?”
“Nope.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Nope.”
This process will be excrucia
tingly slow if he insists on responding with one-word answers. “When was the last time you spoke to him?” Rosie asks.
“Yesterday morning. I told him I was going to stay at Kerry’s house last night.”
“That was okay with him?”
“He didn’t care. It isn’t as if he spent a lot of time with us.”
“What time did you go to Kerry’s house?”
“Around eight.”
“Did you come from home?”
“Yep.”
“Was anybody else at home when you left?”
“Nope.” His arms are crossed. Still no eye contact.
“Had you been home all evening?”
“Yep.”
Julie has been sitting across from him throughout this discussion, her intense eyes locked onto her son’s. He hasn’t acknowledged her presence.
“Do you remember if you turned the alarm on when you left?” I ask.
He scowls. “Probably not. Is that a problem?”
“It’s okay, Sean. Did you go straight to Kerry’s house?”
“Yep.”
“Were his parents home?”
“He lives with his mother. She didn’t get home until one.”
This gets Julie’s attention. “You were by yourselves until one o’clock?”
“It’s fine, Mother.”
In my experience, when a teenager describes something as "fine,” it usually isn’t.
Julie’s tone turns acerbic. “It isn’t the first time Kerry’s mother has been asleep at the switch.”
Sean gives her a look as if to say, The same could be said about you. “She’s a nurse, Mother. She was at work. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Yes, it was.”
Rosie tries to keep the discussion on point. “What did you do at Kerry’s?” she asks.
“We played video games and listened to music.”
“Did anybody else come over?”
“Nope.”
“Did you go out?”
“Nope.”
“Not even for dinner?”
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