It’s a more cryptic answer than I expected. We’ll follow up. “Did you talk to Kaela Joy Gullion?”
“We took her statement.”
“Did she mention Judge Fairchild didn’t get home until midnight?”
“Yes. We find her story credible. We’re operating on the assumption that the judge was killed after midnight. It still doesn’t exonerate your client.”
“Kaela Joy saw a gray Crown Vic parked illegally in front of the judge’s house.”
“She told me the same thing. So what?”
“Pete and I just got back from Savage’s lot in the Bayview. A gray Crown Vic was brought in and crushed a couple of hours ago. It could be the same car.”
“You got any proof?”
“Not yet.”
“We’ll look into it. There are a lot of Crown Vics in the Bay Area, Mike.”
# # #
“So,” Rosie says, “did you and Pete have a good time at the whorehouse?”
“Lovely,” I say.
We’re sitting in her living room at two o’clock on Sunday morning. My head screams as I fill her in on our visits with Brian Hannah and Miss Amanda. She’s legitimately appalled when I describe Judge Fairchild’s proclivity for purchasing the services of young Asian girls. Her interest is piqued, however, when I tell her we can place Hannah’s tow truck a short distance from Judge Fairchild’s house.
“Do you have any evidence that he went inside?” she asks.
“Not yet.” I explain that Roosevelt has already confrmed he hasn’t found Hannah’s prints inside the judge’s house.
“He could have worn gloves,” she says. “Did they find any other unidentifable prints?”
“Some.”
“It’s worth pursuing. Anything else?”
“Pete and I went down to the Bayview to see Savage’s facility.”
“Are you insane?”
“We were careful, Rosie.”
“Anything we can use?”
I tell her about the crushed Crown Vic.
“Can you prove it’s the car that was parked in front of Judge Fairchild’s house last night?” she asks.
“Probably not.”
“Leaving aside the profound stupidity of your decision to go down to the Bayview in the middle of the night, it sounds like a very tenuous connection to me.”
She may be right. I glance at the fireplace and change the subject. “How’s Grace?”
“Scared.” Rosie takes a deep breath. “Trying to put up a good front. At least her story hasn’t changed.”
“That much is good. And Tommy?”
“Worried. He has no idea what’s really going on, but he knows Grace is nervous.”
“We need to keep things low key around him.”
“I agree.”
I reach over and touch her hand. “And how are you holding up?”
Her professional cool can’t mask the tension in her voice. “I’ll be all right.”
It’s a more equivocal answer than I expected. “What is it, Rosie?”
“I’m worried about Grace.”
“So am I.”
“I mean it, Mike. She could be implicated. She can’t go to jail.”
“She won’t. We’ll make sure.”
“If this thing goes south, there will be big problems for all of us.”
“I know.”
“Maybe it was a mistake to represent Bobby.”
“Maybe. Is there something else?”
“I’m exhausted, Mike. I’m getting too old for all-nighters.”
“Me, too. Did you hear anything from Julie?”
“She called to ask us when we’re going to get Bobby out of jail.”
“We need to manage her expectations.”
“The lockup is no place for a kid like Bobby. He has a target on his back because he’s young, smart, and affluent.”
“We may not be able to get him out of there anytime soon, Rosie.”
“I know. Julie also reiterated her displeasure that we’re harassing her boyfriend.”
“Sometimes she seems more concerned about her squeeze than her son. You’d think she has more important issues on her plate.”
“She’s under a lot of stress, Mike.”
“So are we.”
The voice of practicality makes its presence felt. “We’re going to need more than Grace,” she says.
“I know.”
“Where do you want to start in the morning?”
“Why don’t you go down to the office to work on witness lists and subpoenas. You should probably start talking to Grace about her testimony.”
She nods. “What about you?”
“I’m going back to the Bayview with Pete. We’re going to try to get an audience with Savage.”
26/ WE RUN A LEGITIMATE BUSINESS
Sunday, June 19, 9:30 a.m.
The Towing Czar of San Francisco exudes nervous energy as he leans back in a cracked leather chair and looks out a small window protected by iron bars and razor wire. At barely five feet tall, the wiry sixty-year-old with the denim work shirt and slick gray hair is hardly an imposing physical specimen. Despite his diminutive stature, George Savage runs his business with an iron hand from behind a metal desk in a cluttered office in the heavily fortifed building on the edge of the impound lot that Pete and I admired from the outside early this morning. The operation is equally intimidating in the daylight. The interior has the ambiance of a run-down truck stop. I guess you don’t hire a decorator when you share space with a car crusher. Framed photos of his children and grandchildren are interspersed between the auto magazines piled high on his file credenza.
“Thanks for seeing us,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome.”
I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t called out his army of lawyers. Then again, he strikes me as someone who can take care of himself. There is also the slim possibility he has nothing to hide.
“Judge Fairchild’s death is a great tragedy,” he says with feigned sincerity. "I feel bad for his family.”
Sure you do. “How’s business?”
“There’s never a recession for towing cars in San Francisco.”
True enough. As far as I can tell, his recent legal troubles have had no adverse impact on the operations of Bayview Towing. The lot is full, and the crusher is running at full steam. “What’s the going rate to liberate your car nowadays?” I ask.
He responds with a smirk. “Depends on how much your vehicle cost and how badly you want it back.”
Never underestimate the arrogance of a man who can tow your car with impunity. "Isn’t that how you got into trouble in the first place?”
He holds up his hand. “Nah,” he says. “It was an accounting issue. The City said we owed them money. We fired our bookkeeper and straightened everything out. The whole thing was blown out of proportion.”
“That’s not the way it played in the press.”
“They’ve been out to get us for years. We run a legitimate business. We’re regulated by the City. They watch us like hawks.”
“You made some rather pointed comments about Judge Fairchild during the trial.”
“I was upset. I got a wife and four kids. We had to pay an outrageous fine. It was a shakedown.”
“People might interpret some of your comments as threats,” I say.
“Do you really think I would have been stupid enough to pop a sitting judge?”
“Nope.” I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that you might have set it up.
“I have a business to run,” he says, “Why’d you come down here?”
I tap my finger on the metal desk. It’s a signal to Pete to take over.
“We talked to Brian Hannah last night,” he says.
“He’s one of my best employees.”
“So we understand. His truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house at midnight on Friday. The judge was killed around the same time.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
/>
“Nope. We just want to know what Hannah was doing.”
“He works in the neighborhood.”
“It’s still quite a coincidence. We have a witness who said Hannah wasn’t inside his truck at midnight. Hannah didn’t give us a very satisfying answer when we asked him about it. We were hoping you could fill in some of the details.”
“He was probably looking for illegally parked cars. That’s his job.”
“He said you called him at eleven o’clock on Friday night.”
“I talk to him a lot. So what?”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“I asked him to pick up a package from one of our customers.”
“Which one?”
“Cole Valley Auto Body.”
His story is matching up with Hannah’s so far. “You called him at eleven o’clock at night to remind him about a pick-up?”
“He works nights.”
“What was in the package?”
“Money.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. Our customers pay us to keep their loading zones clear. It’s no secret this is a cash business. That’s why I entrust certain delicate tasks to certain employees. Brian is one of them.”
“I trust the people at Cole Valley Auto Body will confrm your story?”
“You can talk to the owner. Anything else?”
Either he’s a world-class liar or he’s telling the truth. “The police told us that there was a gray Crown Vic parked illegally in front of Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. Do you know whose it was?”
“Nope.”
“Did you guys happen to pick up a Crown Vic in Cole Valley on Friday night?”
“Do you have any idea how many cars we tow on a given night?”
“We’re just asking about one.”
“Hang on.” He picks up the phone and punches in a four-digit extension. He asks if they picked up a Crown Vic on Friday night. He says uh-huh a couple of times, and then he hangs up. “We picked up a gray Crown Vic in the Excelsior on Friday night,” he says, “but we have no record of a Crown Vic in Cole Valley. The car from the Excelsior wasn’t drivable and the police had reported it as abandoned.” He writes down the name of the owner and the license number on a slip of paper and hands it to me. “Anything else?”
“Can we see it?” I ask.
“Nope. We crushed it.”
# # #
Robert Kidd intercepts me as I walk out the door of the Glamour Slammer at eleven thirty on Sunday morning. The Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco smiles broadly. “Got a minute?” he asks.
“This isn’t a great time, Robert.”
“It’s never a great time, Mike.” We continue to talk as he follows me into the lobby of the old Hall. “Are you going to be able to get Bobby Fairchild out of here anytime soon?”
“Let’s just say the odds aren’t looking so good. The prelim starts Wednesday. We’re still piecing together what happened. We’re shorthanded and we have very little time.”
“I understand your daughter was with him on Friday night.”
“She was.”
“Does that mean she’s his alibi?”
“So far.”
“I would think that might complicate matters for you.”
“It does. My client’s mother expects us to get the charges dropped at the prelim.”
“That’s unrealistic,” he understates.
“We know that, but she doesn’t. She’ll probably fire us if we can’t get Bobby out of jail by the end of the prelim.”
“That might put you in a bind strategically. On the other hand, it might be good news for me. I figured you’d be tied up with this case for months. Now you might be finished this week.”
After the past few days, it’s nice to feel loved.
“Anything I can do to make your life easier?” he asks.
“You can start by finding the guy who killed Judge Fairchild.”
“That might be difficult. What else can I do to get your answer within the week?”
“Rosie and I want you to buy us new office furniture if we accept.”
“You can pick out anything you want at Ikea.”
“Deal.”
“What are you doing here on a Sunday?” he asks.
I stop in front of the elevators and push the Up button. “McNulty wants to see us,” I say.
27/ ARE YOU CALLING OUR DAUGHTER A LIAR
Sunday, June 19, 12:30 p.m.
“Thank you for coming in to see me,” McNulty says with exaggerated politeness. He’s a small man with a large round head and a wisp of hair that he tries to strategically comb over his dome. "I know you’re busy.”
“We are,” I reply. A half hour ago, Rosie and I received a cryptic phone message summoning us to McNulty’s workman-like office. The sparse furnishings include a standard-issue oak desk, two wooden chairs, and a couple of metal cabinets. Manila folders are stacked neatly on the floor. There are no personal photos. A clear reflection of the humorless career prosecutor. “Why did you want to see us, Bill?”
“Professional courtesy.”
Don’t react. Let him talk.
“This could get very unpleasant in the next few days,” he says. “I know you think I’m just a mouthpiece for Nicole, but in reality, I take no pleasure in prosecuting a young man for killing his father.”
I believe him. Despite being a terminal curmudgeon, McNasty is a competent lifer who takes his responsibilities seriously. Two decades ago, he coveted Ward’s job. Unfortunately, he lacks style and charisma— essential elements of running for office in my hometown. Nowadays, he seems content to put the bad guys away and train the next generation of hard line prosecutors.
“Nicole and I thought there might be a way to minimize the damage to everybody,” he continues. “I’ve persuaded her to let me convey a final offer.”
Ward will attempt to portray any deal as a victory for justice. “We’re listening,” I say.
He speaks as if he’s reading from a script. “Based upon the evidence I’ve seen so far, I believe your client may have acted without premeditation. Nicole is therefore willing to go down to voluntary manslaughter.” He quickly adds, “It’s a fair deal, Mike.”
It’s a lot more reasonable than a capital murder charge. “It would be fair if he had killed his father,” I say.
“He did.”
“No, he didn’t.”
He feels no obligation to engage in a lengthy discourse on the merits of his case. “You aren’t going to get a better offer, Mike,” he says. “Take it or leave it.”
“We’re very appreciative, Bill, but it isn’t going to fly.”
“You mean you won’t make it fly.”
“Nothing has changed since we last talked.”
“Yes, it has.” He clears his throat. “A witness has placed your client at the scene.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Rosie’s concerned expression. I ask, “Did this witness see Bobby inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“Just outside,” McNulty says. “Running west on Grattan.”
“Which means he would have been running away from his father’s house—if it was Bobby.”
“Correct.”
“Either way, he wasn’t inside the house.”
“I realize that.”
“So he wasn’t at the scene.”
“Close enough.”
“Not for me. What time did your witness allegedly see Bobby?”
“Twelve ten a.m.”
“Was he by himself?”
“Yes.”
My mind races into overdrive analyzing the potential scenarios. Bobby and Grace both said they left Amoeba at midnight and got back to Bobby’s car around twelve fifteen. The car was parked on Grattan, which runs next to the judge’s house. They’ve steadfastly insisted they were together the entire time. If they’re telling the truth, there is no way Bobby could have been running away from
his father’s house by himself.
“Your witness is mistaken,” I say.
“Your client is lying.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Yes, he is.”
We snipe at each other for a couple of minutes with no satisfactory resolution. "Either way,” I finally say, “we want to talk to your witness. We’ll need his name and address.”
“We will provide that information in due course.”
“You have a legal obligation to give us his name if you plan to put him on your witness list.”
McNulty takes a deep breath. “It’s Keith Treadwell,” he says.
“You can’t be serious. You can’t base your case on the testimony of one of your own guys.”
“He isn’t one of our guys.”
“He’s an ADA.”
“He’s retired.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.”
Treadwell is a respected former prosecutor who spent his career putting drug dealers away. He worked his way up to the head of the felony division and mentored some of the best attorneys in the office— including McNulty. Now in his seventies, he stays busy teaching criminal procedure at Hastings Law School and doing continuing education seminars for judges.
“There’s a conflict of interest,” I say. “We’ll get his testimony excluded.”
“Judge McDaniel has no grounds. You can try to impeach his credibility on cross.”
“You’re going to look bad, Bill. We have a witness who’s prepared to testify that Bobby never went inside his father’s house.”
“With all due respect, your daughter’s testimony is inherently unreliable.”
Rosie can no longer contain herself. “Are you calling our daughter a liar?”
McNasty keeps his tone maddeningly even. “She’s the defendant’s girlfriend and defense counsel’s daughter.”
“She’s telling the truth.”
“She’s trying to protect her boyfriend.”
Rosie glares at him for a long moment. “You’re going to embarrass yourself and your office if you base your case on the testimony of one of your own guys.”
“He isn’t one of our guys anymore. And he’s very reliable.”
MD07 - Perfect Alibi Page 12
