MD07 - Perfect Alibi

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Then he called the cops shortly after he got home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why in God’s name would he have called the cops if he was guilty?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  I’ve shortened the time frame and set up Grace’s testimony. Now I need to give the judge some options. “Inspector,” I say, “Judge Fairchild had a high-profile position in the legal community, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He handled several highly publicized cases, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He received several death threats, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was so concerned at one point that he obtained a permit to carry a gun, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  McNulty stands. “If you would instruct Mr. Daley to get to the point, Your Honor.”

  “Please, Mr. Daley.”

  “Inspector,” I say, “did you consider the possibility that somebody who had threatened Judge Fairchild carried out his intention?”

  “We considered many possibilities, Mr. Daley.”

  “Yet you arrested Judge Fairchild’s son within minutes after you arrived at his father’s house, right?”

  “All of the evidence pointed to the defendant.”

  “Did you consider any other suspects?”

  “Yes. All of the evidence pointed toward the defendant.”

  “Does the name George Savage mean anything to you?”

  “Yes. He’s the owner of Bayview Towing.”

  “Judge Fairchild recently presided over a case in which Mr. Savage was convicted of racketeering, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Savage paid a substantial fine, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he threatened Judge Fairchild in open court, didn’t he?”

  “Some of his statements could have been interpreted that way.”

  “Did you take that threat seriously?”

  “Absolutely. We interviewed Mr. Savage several times. We found no evidence of any connection to Judge Fairchild’s death.”

  “Does the name Brian Hannah mean anything to you?”

  “Yes. He worked for Mr. Savage’s towing company.”

  “He’s also dead.”

  “He was killed last night.”

  “Before he died, Mr. Hannah admitted his tow truck was parked down the block from Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Telephone records indicated a call was placed from Mr. Savage’s private cell phone to Mr. Hannah’s cell phone at eleven o’clock on Friday night, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Our investigation concluded Mr. Savage called Mr. Hannah on a legitimate and unrelated business matter.”

  “Like killing a judge?”

  “Like picking up a package the following morning.”

  “You took Mr. Savage’s word for it?”

  “We interrogated Mr. Savage and Mr. Hannah.”

  “You understand they were both convicted felons.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you gave them the benefit of the doubt?”

  “We had no evidence to cast doubt upon their stories, Mr. Daley.”

  “Have you arrested anybody in connection with Mr. Hannah’s murder?”

  “We are still investigating.”

  I feign exasperation as I turn back to the judge. Her skeptical expression suggests my attempt to invoke the legal doctrine of "blaming it on the dead guy" wasn’t terribly well-received. “Your Honor,” I say, “we reserve the right to recall this witness to discuss additional evidence concerning the circumstances surrounding Mr. Hannah’s death.” It’s a bluff.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Daley. Any further questions for this witness?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Redirect, Mr. McNulty?”

  “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

  “I take it you would like to make a motion, Mr. Daley?”

  “The defense respectfully moves to have the charges dropped as a matter of law.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Lack of evidence.”

  “Denied. Please call your first witness, Mr. Daley.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” You always lead with strength. “The defense calls Kaela Joy Gullion.”

  47/ DR. FAIRCHILD WAS SUSPICIOUS THAT HER HUSBAND WAS CHEATING

  Wednesday, June 22, 1:27 p.m.

  All eyes are focused intently on the back of the courtroom as Kaela Joy Gullion—all six-feet-two of her—stands erect, tosses back her flowing chestnut locks, and does her best imitation of a high-end fashion model strutting down the runway. She winks at the reporter from the Chronicle, who nods appreciatively. The sketch artists in the back row are furiously attacking their pads.

  Defense lawyers should never forget we’re in the business of telling stories. We’ll use every tool at our disposal to do it as effectively as we can.

  The bailiff holds up a Bible that Kaela Joy touches seductively with her left hand as she raises her right. She swears to tell the truth and takes her seat in the witness box. I look at her admiringly from the lectern. I give her a moment to adjust the microphone and get her bearings—as if she really needs the extra time. McNulty and Ward feign disinterest from their seats at the prosecution table. They try to give the impression that our presentation will have as much drama as taking your car in for an oil change.

  “Ms. Gullion,” I begin, “how long have you been a private investigator?”

  “Almost twenty years.”

  “I understand Julie Fairchild hired you to watch her husband.”

  “She did.” Kaela Joy pauses to milk the moment—just the way we rehearsed it. "Dr. Fairchild was suspicious that her husband was cheating.”

  “Was he?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I shoot a quick glance over at Bobby, who is staring straight ahead. “Did you inform Dr. Fairchild of your findings?” I ask.

  “I did. She hired a lawyer and filed for a divorce.”

  I move in closer. “Ms. Gullion,” I continue, “did Judge Fairchild have a mistress?” I could have chosen a softer term such as girlfriend or significant other. This exercise is intended to portray Jack Fairchild as a serial adulterer.

  “Judge Fairchild was seeing a young woman named Christina Evans. She’s a staff attorney at the court.”

  “Was he seeing anybody else?”

  “Yes, he was.” Her eyes dart apologetically toward Bobby. “Judge Fairchild had a ’thing’ for certain young women.”

  “What sort of a ’thing?’"

  “He liked to have sex with underage Asian girls.”

  I let the answer hang. I take another look at Bobby, who hasn’t moved. Sean, on the other hand, has a disgusted expression. He’s holding his palms up and glaring at his mother in the front row of the gallery. I turn back to Kaela Joy and ask, “How young?”

  “Girls under the age of eighteen—preferably with small bodies and developing breasts.”

  Bobby remains stoic, but Sean is whispering heatedly to his mother. The judge’s icy glare silences the murmurs in the gallery.

  “Ms. Gullion,” I continue, “did Judge Fairchild find a place to procure the services of such girls?”

  “The Sunshine Massage Spa in the Tenderloin.”

  “He went there for massages?”

  “No, Mr. Daley. He went there for sex.”

  Her delivery is impeccable. It also causes Bobby to elicit a pronounced sigh. Julie is unable to calm a visibly distraught Sean. She leads him out of the courtroom.

  “How long had this been going on?” I ask Kaela Joy.

  “At least a couple of months.”

  I’ve succeeded in engaging the prurient curiosity of the gallery. The newspaper scribes have more than enough to portray Judge Fairchild as a member of the Pervert Hall of Fame in tomorrow morning
’s headlines. Hopefully, this will generate some sympathy for Bobby, but I need to tread cautiously. It could also engender the sort of revulsion suggesting Bobby had a motive to kill his father.

  I ask Kaela Joy if she was keeping the judge under surveillance on Friday night.

  “Yes.” She confirms that he went to dinner at the Bohemian Club. “He was supposed to go over to Ms. Evans’s apartment after dinner. He went to the Sunshine instead.”

  “What time did he get there?”

  “Eleven o’clock. He left at eleven forty-five.

  “What was the purpose of his visit?”

  McNulty finally decides to try to stop our flow. “Objection,” he says. “Speculation. Unless Ms. Gullion went inside, she has no way of knowing.”

  “Overruled.”

  Kaela Joy keeps her voice modulated. “Judge Fairchild went to the Sunshine Massage Spa to engage in sex with underage prostitutes.”

  I can’t resist a swipe. “Not especially dignifed behavior for a judge, eh?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”

  “Withdrawn. Ms. Gullion,” I continue, “where did Judge Fairchild go after he left the Sunshine?”

  “Straight home.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “At a discreet distance.”

  Of course. “What time did he arrive at his house?”

  “Midnight. I watched him pull into his garage. He opened the door with his remote and parked inside. He closed the door behind him.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Just a moment. I had what I needed.”

  Yes, you did. “Did you see Bobby Fairchild enter or exit his father’s house while you were there?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Ms. Gullion,” I say, “did you notice anything unusual inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “No.”

  “What about outside?”

  “There was a gray Crown Victoria without license plates parked illegally in front of the fire hydrant on Grattan.”

  “Had you ever seen it before?”

  “No.”

  “Was anybody inside the car?”

  “No.”

  “And because there was no license plate, there was no way you could have identifed the owner of that vehicle, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And it may have been stolen.”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “And it may have belonged to the person who killed Judge Fairchild, right?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. Gullion,” I say, “did you drive down Grattan on your way home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see a truck from Bayview Towing?”

  “Yes. It was double-parked down near Cole.”

  “Was anybody inside?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where the driver was?”

  “No.”

  I’ve placed her at the scene around the time of the killing. She’s raised questions about the Crown Vic and the tow truck. She’s testifed she didn’t see Bobby—although her vantage point was imperfect. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Cross-exam, Mr. McNulty?”

  “Just a few questions, Your Honor.” McNulty strides to the witness box. “Ms. Gullion,” he says, “did you know there’s a back door to Judge Fairchild’s house that opens into the yard?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is also a gate leading from the yard directly onto the sidewalk on Grattan Street, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  I try to break up his flow. “I don’t understand the point,” I say. “We’ve already established Ms. Gullion’s location and the geography surrounding Judge Fairchild’s house.”

  Judge McDaniel addresses McNulty. “Get to the point, Mr. McNulty.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He turns back to Kaela Joy. “Ms. Gullion,” he says, “is it possible the defendant could have entered and exited his father’s house through the back door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it also possible he could have done so without your having seen him?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Speculation.”

  “Overruled.”

  “It’s possible,” Kaela Joy says.

  “No further questions.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Ms. Gullion,” I say, “just so we’re clear, did you see Bobby Fairchild or anyone else anywhere near his father’s house early Saturday morning?”

  “No.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

  I’m about to respond when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “One moment please, Your Honor.” I turn around and look straight into the eyes of an irate Julie Fairchild, who has returned to the courtroom without Sean. “What the hell was that all about?” she snaps.

  “Lower your voice,” I say. “The judge will hear you.”

  “Why did you have to make Jack look like a pervert?”

  Because he was. “I told you this was coming, Julie. We needed to show where Jack was on Friday night—and when he got home.”

  “You didn’t have to do it in front of my children.”

  “You promised me that you were going to tell them.”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “Then don’t blame me.”

  “Who’s up next?” she asks.

  “Lenny Stone.”

  “Terrific. My son’s life is on the line and your star witness is a homeless guy.”

  48/ MY NAME IS LEONARD STONE

  Wednesday, June 22, 1:36 p.m.

  Lenny is gulping water and tugging at the sleeves of the ill-ftting blazer Pete bought for him yesterday. We got him a room at a fleabag motel near the Hall last night where Pete kept an eye on him. With a fresh shave and shower, he could almost pass for a college professor.

  “My name is Leonard Stone,” he says tentatively. “Everybody calls me Lenny.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “The Haight.”

  “Where in the Haight?”

  He shifts in his chair. “It changes from day to day.”

  Don’t get cute. “Where do you spend most of your time?”

  “In the daytime I’m in Golden Gate Park and on Haight Street. I spend the nights in the Muni tunnel between Cole and Clayton.”

  “How long have you been living on the street?”

  “About ten years.”

  “How do you get money to eat?”

  “I hit people up for change. I collect bottles and cans and take them to the recycling center.”

  “Have you ever thought about staying in a shelter?”

  “I tried it a couple of times. Too many rules. No dogs.”

  Fidel is relaxing at our office and guarding the shopping cart with his master’s worldly belongings. It took all of my persuasive skills to convince Lenny his possessions would be safe with us. “Lenny,” I say, “did you take your dog for a walk on Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave the Muni tunnel?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “That’s pretty late.”

  “Nobody bothers us at night.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He says he took Clayton to Parnassus. “We turned onto Belvedere and walked up to Alma.”

  “Do you know where Judge Jack Fairchild lived?”

  “At the corner of Belvedere and Grattan.”

  “How did you know?”

  “There were police cars in front of his house during the Savage trial. That made it a no-fly zone for a few months.”

  “Did you walk by Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I
would say around twelve-oh-five a.m.”

  “Did you see anybody inside the judge’s house?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about outside?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you recall seeing a gray Crown Victoria parked in front of the fire hydrant next to the judge’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you happen to notice it?”

  “It had tinted windows and no plates. I thought it might have been an unmarked cop car.”

  “Was anybody inside?”

  “I didn’t stop to check.”

  “Where did you go from there?”

  “We went over to the playground behind the grammar school. I let my dog run around for a few minutes. I can’t do it during the day when the children are around. We stayed there for about ten minutes. Then we walked back home.”

  “What route did you take?”

  “We took Grattan to Belvedere. Then we headed over to Parnassus.”

  “So you walked by the Grattan Street side of Judge Fairchild’s house on your way back?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  He looks up at the clock in the back of the courtroom. “Around a quarter after twelve.”

  “Did you see anybody outside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about inside?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you notice anything else in particular as you were passing the judge’s house?”

  “The Crown Vic was gone.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  McNulty buttons his jacket and moves in front of Lenny. “Mr. Stone,” he says with exaggerated politeness, “you’ve been living on the street for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Objection,” I say. I need to show Lenny that I’m watching out for him. “Asked and answered. We have already established that Mr. Stone has been living on the street for ten years.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Stone,” McNulty continues, “you worked as an auto mechanic for a while, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. It was after I got out of the army.”

  “Why was your employment terminated?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Relevance.”

  “Your Honor,” McNulty says, “Mr. Stone’s employment history—or lack thereof—goes directly to his credibility.”

  No, it doesn’t. “Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Stone’s employment history has nothing to do with his credibility or this case.”