56/ IT JUST HAPPENED
Wednesday, June 22, 9:40 p.m.
Rosie’s living room is deathly silent. Grace is sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed. Her arms are clenched tightly around her stomach as she stares intently at the coffee table. We asked Sylvia to wait in Tommy’s room. For the next few minutes, we need to be absolutely sure that everything we say is covered by the attorney-client privilege.
“We have a serious problem,” I say to Grace. My priest voice is soft but firm.
There is genuine concern in her eyes. “What is it?”
Here goes. “Roosevelt found evidence placing you and Bobby at Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”
Her eyes dart across the room. “Have you talked to Bobby?”
“Yes. He told us everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Grace tugs at the sleeves of her pink sweatshirt. “Are you going to yell at me?”
“Eventually.” This exercise is going to be difficult enough without high-level histrionics. “At the moment, I’m more interested in hearing your version of what happened. This time, I need the truth.”
“You said you already talked to Bobby.”
“We did. Now we want to hear it from you.”
Grace takes a deep breath. “Bobby didn’t kill his father.”
“I really hope that’s true, Grace. On the other hand, you understand why we’re reluctant to take your word for it.”
Tears appear in the corners of her eyes. “What did they find?”
“For starters,” I say, “your fingerprints were on a drinking glass in Bobby’s room.”
“I was there on Monday night,” she says.
I hold up a hand. “Stop it right now. You aren’t fooling anybody. You’ll only make it worse if you lie.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Cut the shucking and jiving, Grace. Bobby told us you went over to his father’s house on Friday night. He admitted you had sex. He admitted you were still there when Bobby’s father came home.”
There is resignation in her eyes. “What else did they find?”
“A condom under Bobby’s bed. They did a DNA test. They matched both of you.”
The tears start streaming down her cheeks.
“We trusted you,” I say. “You violated that trust. You’ve been sneaking around. You’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend. I’m most disappointed that you lied to us.”
Grace’s delicate features contort into a vision of pure anguish. “I couldn’t tell you,” she whispers.
“You can come to us with anything, Grace. Now you and Bobby are going to have to deal with the consequences.”
Her glassy eyes fill with panic as she starts to sob uncontrollably. “You have to do something, Daddy. You have to fix this.” She takes a couple of deep breaths. "You just have to.”
“We don’t know where to begin until you tell us what really happened.”
“Why do you have to be so mean?”
“Things are going to get a lot meaner if you’re arrested. At the moment, I’m not just your father. I’m your lawyer.”
“Bobby didn’t kill his father,” she repeats.
“Then you have to help us prove it.”
“How?”
“You can start by telling the truth.” There is no reason to hold back. “Putting aside the fact that you and your boyfriend were sleeping together, there are serious legal ramifications for both of you. There’s a good chance you’re going to be arrested in the morning. At a minimum, you’re already guilty of perjury and Bobby is already guilty of statutory rape. They may charge you as an accomplice or an accessory to murder. You’ve already destroyed your credibility. Any way you cut it, everything is going to get a lot more difficult.”
The unthinkable gravity of the situation is finally sinking in. My baby daughter is a suspect in a murder case.
Grace takes a moment to compose herself. She never looks up as everything comes pouring out in a hushed monotone. “Bobby and I went to his father’s house after the movie,” she says. “We were just going to watch TV and listen to music.”
Sure you were.
“And make out?” Rosie asks.
Grace waits a beat. “Probably.”
“And have sex?”
A longer pause. “Maybe. I wasn’t sure when we got there. Then it just happened.”
“It didn’t just happen,” Rosie snaps.
“Yes, it did,” Grace insists.
“No, it didn’t. Sex doesn’t just happen. Bobby admitted it wasn’t your first time.”
Grace’s lips form a tiny ball. Her web of lies has imploded. She’s backed into a corner. “It’s happened a couple of times,” she says.
“No, Grace,” Rosie says. “You and Bobby made it happen.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You and Bobby made a conscious choice.”
“Maybe we did. What’s the big deal? Everybody does it.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“That doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Are you proud of yourself?”
“You expect me to apologize for having sex with a boy that I love?”
“You have no idea what love is.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re only sixteen.”
“I’m entitled to have feelings.”
“Maybe, but you aren’t entitled to have sex.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too young.”
“Give me a break, Mother.”
“You’re too immature to understand the consequences.”
“No, I’m not. Your generation invented casual sex. Don’t blame us.”
“Don’t throw it back at me, Grace.”
“Then don’t put it all on me.”
Rosie is seething. “This isn’t just about party sex with your boyfriend. You could get sick. You could get AIDS. You could die.”
“Bobby and I went together to get tested for AIDS and STDs.”
“That was terribly responsible of you. You could also get pregnant.”
Grace isn’t backing down. “I’m well aware of that, Mother. I’m also old enough to know you and Dad didn’t exactly plan on having Tommy.”
Rosie is taken aback for an instant. “Tommy has nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe not, but you guys aren’t exactly poster children for abstinence, either.”
“Your father and I understood the risks and the responsibilities.”
“So do I. Bobby used a condom. I have a diaphragm.”
“Where the hell did you get a diaphragm?”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mother.”
“Have you slept with any other boys?”
Grace is unapologetic. “Just one.”
She’s sixteen. She’s had more partners than I had by the time I was thirty.
“Who?” Rosie asks.
Grace reveals the name of one of her classmates—a senior honors student who going to Princeton in the fall.
“When did this happen?”
“After a party at school. It wasn’t a big deal, Mother.”
“It is to me. Did he use a condom?”
“Of course, Mother. I used my diaphragm.”
Rosie can’t contain her exasperation. “You’re still too young,” she insists.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Things have changed since you were in high school.”
“They haven’t changed that much.”
“How old were you when you first had sex?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe it is now.”
The room goes painfully silent as Rosie contemplates how much she wants to reveal. “On the night of my quinceañera,” she finally whispers.
Grace looks at her mother in disbelief. A quinceañera is the traditiona
l coming-of-age event for Latina girls—part birthday party and part debutante ball. “You were only fifteen?” Grace whispers.
“Yes.”
It takes our daughter a moment to process this new information. “Really?” she finally stammers.
“Really,” Rosie says.
“Who was it?” Grace asks.
“A senior at St. Ignatius,” Rosie says. “He was so handsome. He was on the football team. I was absolutely certain he was the love of my life.”
I judiciously decide not to mention that he may have been one of my classmates.
“What’s the big deal?” Grace asks. “You couldn’t have been the only girl in your class who slept with her boyfriend. Nothing bad happened.”
“I got pregnant,” Rosie says.
This time, there is no glib response from our daughter.
Rosie’s voice is tinged with bitterness. “When I told the love of my life that he was going to be a dad, he decided he never wanted to see me again.”
Grace sits in stunned silence.
“So you see,” Rosie continues, “I’m familiar with this scenario.”
Grace wipes the tears from her eyes. “I’m not pregnant,” she says. “Bobby and I have been very careful.”
“And very lucky. You’re still way too young to be having sex. Believe me, I know.”
Grace looks at Rosie. “Did you keep the baby?” she asks.
“I had a miscarriage.” Rosie sighs heavily. “I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone—especially you.”
The tears are now rolling freely down Grace’s cheeks. “Did Grandma and Grandpa know about it?”
“Of course.” Rosie gestures toward Tommy’s bedroom, where Sylvia is camped out. “They said I was too young for sex. They were right.”
My daughter and my ex-wife look at each other for a long, anguished moment. It’s Grace who finally speaks. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” she whispers.
“So am I.”
Grace swallows hard. “Not just for you and your baby, Mama. For everything.”
Rosie’s eyes fill with tears, too. “Me, too, honey.”
Grace tugs at her long black hair. “Are you going to yell at me?”
“Not now, honey.” Rosie says.
Grace turns to me. “What about you?”
This topic wasn’t covered in the parental playbook I was issued sixteen years ago. Nor was it ever covered adequately at the seminary, where I learned all sorts of useless advice to dispense to strangers, but very little about dealing with my own problems. At times like this, I have little faith in my own instincts, so I revert to lawyer mode. “At the moment,” I say, “we have other more pressing issues.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened on Friday night and Saturday morning.”
“So you’re not mad?”
“I’m furious. We’ll have a much longer discussion about this later. Mom just came clean to you, Grace. It’s time for you to come clean to us.”
The game is over. “Where do you want to start?” she asks.
“What time did you get to Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“Eleven fifteen.”
We let her talk without interrupting. To my relief, her story lines up precisely with Bobby’s. They went to Judge Fairchild’s house after the movie ended. They were having sex downstairs in Bobby’s room when they heard the garage door open. They put on their clothes and sprinted out the back door. When they got to the car, they discovered Bobby had left his keys inside the house. Grace waited for Bobby in the yard while he went back inside to retrieve them. Bobby did, in fact, run to the car by himself while Grace was trying to find her cell phone in the bushes. Then he came back to help her. They left for Rosie’s house by twelve fifteen. They drove straight there.
When she’s finished, I start probing gently. “Grace,” I say, “is it possible somebody else was inside the house when Bobby’s father got home?”
“I guess. We were downstairs in the back.” She says she didn’t see anybody.
“Did you hear anything?”
“No, but it’s hard to hear from Bobby’s room.”
Especially if the intruder was trying to remain quiet. “How long were you out in the yard while Bobby was looking for his keys?” I ask.
“A couple of minutes.”
I’m desperately grasping for anything that might help. “Did anybody walk by while you were waiting?”
“I think I heard somebody, but I couldn’t see him. I ducked down behind the gate.”
That might explain why Lenny didn’t see her. “Was Bobby wearing the same shirt when he came back outside?”
“Of course. There wasn’t any blood on it.”
“Did you see anybody else while Bobby was inside?”
She thinks about it for a moment. “I saw a man get into the Crown Vic.”
It’s an opening. “Where did he come from?”
“Around the corner from in front of the house.”
“Why in God’s name didn’t you tell us about him?”
“I didn’t want you to know that we were there.”
“We might have avoided a week of hell if you had. Is it possible he was inside the judge’s house?”
“It’s possible. I don’t know for sure.”
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so. I was behind the fence.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. It happened too fast.”
“Think hard, Grace.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t remember.”
Rosie takes our daughter’s hand and opens her bag of tricks. “Close your eyes, honey,” she says. “I need you to relax.”
Grace does as she’s told.
“Visualize Grattan Street early Saturday morning. It’s dark and foggy. You’re standing behind the fence. You’re nervous and excited. You see the man coming around the corner from in front of Bobby’s house. Can you picture him in your mind?”
“Kind of.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s running toward the car. He’s looking over his shoulder.”
Rosie squeezes her hand a little tighter. “I need you to think carefully. What does he look like?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me, Grace.”
“I don’t know. I’m scared.”
“Stay with me, honey. Is he tall?”
“No.”
“Is he skinny?”
“No, he’s muscular.”
“White? Black? Asian?”
“Asian—I think.”
“Dark hair or light hair?”
Grace’s eyes are still shut tightly. “Dark. He’s wearing a baseball cap.”
“What else is he wearing?”
“A black shirt. Big boots.”
“Any noticeable marks?”
“Tattoos on his arms.”
“Do you see any blood on his arms or clothes?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember anything else? Any detail might be important.”
Grace’s eyes are closed tightly. “He smelled,” she finally says.
“Bad? Like a homeless guy?”
“No. Like perfume.”
“What kind?”
“Sort of like lavender.”
My antenna shoots up. “Are you absolutely sure about that smell?”
“Yes.”
Rosie gives me a perplexed look. “What is it, Mike?”
I pull out the paper with the unidentifed fingerprint Roosevelt gave us and study it intently. “We need to call Pete.”
“Why?”
The pieces are starting to fit together. “I think I know who killed Judge Fairchild. I need Pete to help me prove it. Grace may be the perfect alibi after all.”
57/ YOU HAVE MY WORD
Thursday, June 23, 12:52 a.m.
The lights are turned down and the back room of Dunleavy’s is silent as Big John p
ours Roosevelt a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
“Thanks,” Roosevelt says to him.
My uncle tries to break the tension with a little forced levity. “We aren’t Starbucks,” he says, “but we make up for it with exceptional service.”
Roosevelt responds with a weary smile. He, Rosie, Pete, and I are sitting at one of the small round tables. The dark setting matches our somber mood. The room still smells of the cigarette smoke baked into the paneled walls decades before San Francisco banned smoking in restaurants and bars.
“Can you give us a moment?” I say to Big John.
“Of course, lad.” He leaves the coffee pot on the table and heads into the front of the bar to add up the day’s earnings.
“So,” Roosevelt says to me, “when do I get to talk to Grace?”
“Soon,” I say.
“Is she prepared to come clean?”
“Yes.”
“What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”
“We’re being extra careful,” I tell him. “When it’s your kid, you gotta get it right.”
“Understood.”
I nod to Pete, who hands Roosevelt his fancy digital camera. “I spent the evening parked across the street from the Sunshine Massage Spa,” he says. “I’ve been taking pictures of the patrons. You might recognize a few of them.”
Roosevelt takes off his glasses and squints at the tiny images. “Who?” he asks.
Pete provides a running commentary as he pushes the button to advance the photos. "An Assistant City Attorney. A member of the Board of Supervisors. A judge. A fire captain.” He can’t contain a smile when he gets to the last one. “That’s my old lieutenant at Mission Station. He was recently promoted to Assistant Chief.”
He may not be serving in that capacity for long. “Pretty high-brow clientele,” I observe.
“Even ranking members of the SFPD have needs, Mick.”
Roosevelt isn’t amused as he sets the camera down. “It’s very late and I’m very tired,” he says. “This better not be some half-baked attempt to shake down the SFPD.”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” I say.
“Are you suggesting some connection to the Fairchild case?”
It’s Pete who responds. “Precisely,” he says.
Roosevelt gives my kid brother a long look. “I’m listening.”
Pete goes to his cop voice. “I talked to several of the Sunshine’s patrons. As you might expect, they were reluctant to chat with me. My old boss was particularly unpleasant.”
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