MD07 - Perfect Alibi

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Yes.”

  “And you left that store when it closed at midnight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you went back to retrieve the defendant’s car, right?”

  I need to show Grace that I’ve got her back. “Objection,” I say. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  McNulty doesn’t fluster. “Ms. Daley,” he says, “did you see anybody when you and the defendant walked down Haight?”

  “There were people on the street. Amoeba was pretty crowded.”

  “Can you give us any names?”

  “No.”

  “Can anybody corroborate your whereabouts on Friday night?”

  Grace shows her first hint of being flustered. “I don’t know,” she says.

  “Your story would be more credible if somebody other than your boyfriend could confirm it.”

  “Objection,” I say. “There wasn’t a question there.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. Daley,” McNulty continues, “have you ever been inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “A few.”

  “How many is a few?”

  “Maybe five.”

  “When was the last time you were there?”

  “Last Monday.”

  “So it’s your testimony that you weren’t inside Judge Fairchild’s house last Friday night, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And neither was the defendant, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you say.”

  “Objection,” I say. “Argumentative.”

  “Withdrawn.” McNulty inches toward Grace. “Ms. Daley, have you ever been inside your boyfriend’s bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  My antenna goes up. Until now, McNulty has referred to Bobby as "the defendant." Suddenly, he’s morphed into Grace’s boyfriend. To a casual observer, this might appear to be a minor semantic detail.

  Knowing McNulty, there’s a reason for the subtle switch in terminology.

  McNulty keeps going. “Were you inside his room on Friday night?”

  “No.”

  “You and your boyfriend didn’t sneak over to his father’s house for a little time alone?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Asked and answered. The witness testifed that she wasn’t inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

  “Sustained.”

  Rosie is leaning forward. I can barely hear her when she whispers, “Watch out.”

  “Ms. Daley,” McNulty continues, “are you and your boyfriend close?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very close?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love your boyfriend?”

  Grace looks at me for an instant before she answers. “Yes.”

  As her lawyer, I’ll always take a truthful answer—even if it suggests she has a motive to protect Bobby. As her father, I’m not nearly as ecstatic.

  “Do you love him a lot?” McNulty asks.

  “Objection,” I say. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Do you love him enough that you’d lie to protect him?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Argumentative.”

  “Overruled.”

  Grace is glaring straight into McNulty’s eyes as she lowers her voice a half-octave. "No, Mr. McNulty,” she says. “My parents are lawyers. I know better than to lie in court.”

  For an instant, McNulty seems taken aback by her understated forthrightness. He moves in front of her and purposely blocks my view. “Ms. Daley,” he says, "are you and your boyfriend sexually active?”

  What the hell? Rosie and I leap out of our seats. “Objection!” I shout. “That question is irrelevant and offensive.”

  McNulty responds in an even tone. “Your Honor,” he says, “the question speaks to the fundamental credibility of this witness.”

  The hell it does. “Your Honor,” I say, “this is a grandstand play to try to intimidate our daughter.”

  Judge McDaniel taps her gavel once to silence the murmuring in the gallery. "Counsel will approach,” she says. Rosie and I walk to the front of the courtroom. The judge covers her microphone and addresses McNulty out of Grace’s earshot. "I’m not going to allow you to browbeat a sixteen-year-old girl,” she whispers.

  “This witness is lying to protect her boyfriend.”

  “No, she isn’t,” I snap. “This is just a desperate attempt to intimidate her because her testimony is destroying his case.”

  “No, it isn’t,” McNulty insists.

  The judge arches an eyebrow. “It’s starting to look that way to me, Mr. McNulty.”

  “I can assure you that it isn’t.”

  “I don’t deal in assurances, Mr. McNulty. I deal in evidence.”

  “We’re working on it, Your Honor.”

  “He’s stalling,” I say.

  “No, I’m not. We are trying to confirm some additional information that will have a direct and significant bearing on this case.”

  “What information would that be?” the judge asks.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this time.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t exist,” I say.

  “Yes, it does.”

  The judge glares at him. “I need evidence, Mr. McNulty.”

  “Your Honor,” he says, “we respectfully request a recess to follow up on this new and highly compelling information.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “this is nothing more than a stalling tactic to give them more time to go on another fishing expedition.”

  “Your Honor,” McNulty says, “I can assure you it is not.”

  The judge looks at the clock in the back of her courtroom. “I’ll give you until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” she says. “You’d better have something really good to show me, Mr. McNulty. If not, I’m going to dismiss the charges and hold you in contempt.”

  “It’ll be good, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor—" I say.

  “Step back, counsel.” The judge uncovers her microphone. “We’re adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” she announces.

  52/ YOUR CLIENT IS LYING TO YOU

  Wednesday, June 22, 3:07 p.m.

  Immediately after court is adjourned, Rosie and Sylvia hustle Grace downstairs while I make a beeline for McNulty. I corner him in a stairwell outside the prying eyes of the media. My heart is pounding when I say, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “My job.”

  “You’re stalling. You have nothing.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Then you have a legal obligation to tell us what it is.”

  “I have a legal obligation to disclose evidence that might exonerate your client. I can assure you this does not.” He reaches for the door and adds, “Your client is lying to you. So is your daughter.”

  # # #

  Grace is tugging nervously at her collar when I arrive in the dungeon of the Hall a few minutes later. “Why do we have to wait until tomorrow?” she asks.

  “The prosecutors claim they have some additional evidence.”

  She eyes me warily. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” I take her hand. “We can’t afford any surprises, Grace. If there’s something you need to tell us, this is your last chance.”

  “There isn’t.”

  A furious Sylvia is struggling to contain her emotions in front of her granddaughter. “This is ridiculous,” she says. “They’re trying to intimidate her. Their case is falling apart.”

  Rosie tries to mask her anxiety, but I can hear the tension in her voice. “Mama,” she says, “Mike and I need to go to the office to prepare for tomorrow. I’d like you to take Grace home. We’ll meet you there as soon as we can.”

  # # #

  “Have you heard anything from Pete?” Rosie asks. We’re sitting in my office at five minutes to seven on Wednesd
ay night.

  “I just talked to him. Nothing new,” I say.

  “Damn it. Where is he?”

  “Parked across the street from the Sunshine.”

  “What for?”

  “He didn’t have any better ideas. At the moment, neither do I.”

  Rosie exhales heavily. “Were you able to reach Roosevelt?”

  “I’ve left three messages,” I say.

  “Is he avoiding us?”

  “Maybe.”

  Rosie temples her fingers in front of her face. The strain of the past week is taking its toll. “Do you think they’ve found something?” she asks.

  I answer her honestly. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to buy time to keep fishing.”

  “They’re going to look foolish if they don’t bring something to the party tomorrow morning.”

  “People have short memories. Nobody will be talking about this by the end of the week.”

  She strokes her chin. “Do you think my mother was right about us representing Bobby?”

  My first instinct is to deflect. “Let’s not go there tonight, Rosie. We shouldn’t second-guess ourselves in the middle of a case.”

  “That rule doesn’t apply when your daughter is involved.”

  I can’t avoid this discussion. I try not to sound too defensive when I say, “I don’t know what else we could have done.”

  “We could have brought in another lawyer.”

  True. “Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Rosie. We can’t change it now.”

  We look at each other with the silent understanding that we made a mistake by taking this case. We’re interrupted when our receptionist, process server, and occasional bodyguard, Terrence "the Terminator" Love, taps on my open door. The seven-foot-tall former prizefighter and recovering alcoholic was once one of my most reliable clients at the PD’s Office. He retired from boxing after losing four bouts to pursue an equally undistinguished career in theft. The gentle giant took great pride that he stole only necessities and never hurt anybody. When he was about to be sent away for good after his third serious felony, Judge McDaniel gave us two options: watch him go to jail for life or hire him as our receptionist. We opted for the latter, and he hasn’t missed a day of work ever since. He now lives in a modest studio apartment not far from Savage’s impound lot in the Bayview.

  “Your case was the lead story on the news,” he says. “They said Grace did a nice job.”

  “She did,” I say.

  For a guy with little formal education who spent his formative years trying to earn a living by beating the daylights out of people, Terrence has a firm grasp of current events. He quickly adds, “They said McNulty is promising something spectacular in the morning.”

  “Did they mention what it was?”

  “No, but it might explain why you have a visitor.”

  “McNulty?”

  “Roosevelt.”

  53/ FAMILY

  Wednesday, June 22, 7:00 p.m.

  Roosevelt’s baritone is subdued. "You did a nice job on cross today,” he tells me.

  “Thanks.” I study his poker face for any hint of the reason for his visit, but I can’t read him. “Sorry for beating you up.”

  “Part of the process. I’m too old to take it personally.”

  He’s jammed his large torso into one of the uncomfortable swivel chairs opposite my desk. In what passes for business casual attire for him, the Windsor knot in his tie is slightly loosened. Rosie is sitting on my windowsill. Outside my office, First Street is quiet. The bell at the Ferry Building tolls seven times.

  “You got any scotch?” he asks.

  I pull out a fifth of Johnnie Walker Red and three shot glasses from my bottom drawer. “Pop used to say a lawyer’s office isn’t complete without a bottle.”

  “He said the same thing about a homicide cop’s desk. Is that the bottle he bought you when you graduated from law school?”

  “Yes.” Twenty years later, it’s still more than half full. “I’m more of a Guinness guy.”

  “So was your dad.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “He was proud of you, Mike. So am I.”

  “Thanks, Roosevelt.”

  I line up the glasses and pour a shot for each of us. Roosevelt downs his drink in a single gulp. Then he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. I’m familiar with this gesture. He’s taking a moment to sort out his thoughts.

  “I have two grandchildren in high school,” he finally says. “Stay close to your kids. They’ll be gone before you know it.”

  He knows. He rarely talks about the son he lost in a drive-by shooting in the Bayview thirty years ago. “That’s good advice,” I say.

  “I know.”

  Rosie sets down her empty glass. “What brings you here tonight, Roosevelt?” she asks.

  The deep lines in his leathery face become more pronounced as his expression contorts into a frown. “Family,” he says.

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Ours.” He puts his glasses back on and pours himself another shot. “This conversation isn’t taking place.”

  “Understood.”

  We wait.

  “I didn’t like the way McNulty went after Grace in court,” he finally says. "It violated my sense of fair play.”

  “Mine too,” Rosie replies uneasily.

  “I’m trying to level the playing field. You’d do the same for my kids.”

  “Yes, we would.”

  He clears his throat. “McNulty wasn’t bluffing. They found Grace’s prints on a drinking glass in Bobby’s bedroom. It was a perfect match.”

  “We never agreed to provide a sample of her prints,” I say.

  “They were already in the system. They took her prints when she did an internship at the Marin County Public Defender’s Office last summer.”

  Rosie never loses her composure, but there is heightened concern in her voice. "Fingerprints have an indefinite shelf life. Grace was in Bobby’s room last Monday. She could have gotten her prints on that glass when she was there. For that matter, she could have picked up that glass a month ago. You’ll never be able to tell for sure.”

  “The glass was half full of water. There were no signs of evaporation.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything, Roosevelt.”

  “There’s more—a lot more.”

  His ominous tone sends a shiver up my back.

  Roosevelt’s voice turns melancholy. “We found a spent condom under Bobby’s bed,” he says. “We ran DNA tests. We didn’t get the results until earlier this evening. That’s why McNulty was stalling in court.”

  Oh, hell.

  “We found two matches,” he says. “Male and female.”

  My stomach is now churning uncontrollably.

  “You can figure out the rest,” he says. “The male was Bobby. The female was Grace.”

  The room is starting to spin.

  Rosie’s lips form a tight line across her face as she strains to keep her emotions in check. “We never agreed to provide a DNA sample for Grace,” she says.

  “We already had a sample from her fingerprint on the glass.”

  The nightmare is now complete.

  Rosie lays it on the line. “Are you suggesting she was involved with Judge Fairchild’s death?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  “I’m not going to jump to any conclusions. We’re still investigating.”

  “Are you planning to arrest her?”

  “At the moment, she’s just a person of interest. For obvious reasons, her status could change precipitously in the next few hours.” Roosevelt takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I know this sounds harsh, but you need to look up the word ’gullible’ in the dictionary. Your client and your daughter have been lying to you from the start. I know your intentions have been honorable, but you’ve been hearing what you’ve wanted to hear. That isn’t especially helpful in your role as a lawyer or a parent. Now Grace and Bobb
y are going to have to deal with the consequences.”

  The only sound in the room is the buzzing from the light above my desk.

  “At this point,” he says, “there isn’t much that I can do to help you.”

  “Then why did you come?” I ask.

  “To warn you that it’s all going to come down tomorrow morning. I didn’t want you to get blind-sided in open court. I don’t know for sure what happened inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. I do know for sure that Grace and Bobby were there—having sex. As a cop, I think he’s already guilty of statutory rape and she’s already guilty of perjury. Depending upon what else we find, we may charge her as an accomplice or an accessory-after-the-fact. As a parent, I think it’s a bad idea for a sixteen-year-old girl to be sleeping with her boyfriend and lying about it to the cops and her parents. As a friend, I would encourage her come clean as soon as possible. I would also suggest you give serious consideration to cutting a deal before this gets out of hand.”

  I’m going to be violently ill. “Do you have anything that might help us?” I ask.

  He reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a folded piece of paper. “This is a copy of the unidentifed partial print we found on the inside handle of Judge Fairchild’s front door. It’s the only one we haven’t been able to match through the system.”

  I stare at the photocopy. “So,” I say, “all we have to do is match this print and we’ve found the killer?”

  “Not necessarily. For all I know, it could belong to a plumber or an electrician. I can tell you it isn’t Brian Hannah, George Savage, or Dr. Derek Newsom. I’m sorry, Mike.”

  “So am I.”

  He glances at his watch. “I don’t know if you can fix this tonight,” he says. “You need to place somebody other than Bobby and Grace inside Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night. By my reckoning, you have about fifteen hours to try.”

  54/ YOU LIED TO US

  Wednesday, June 22, 8:15 p.m.

  “You lied to us,” I say to Bobby, making no attempt to modulate my voice.