MD07 - Perfect Alibi

by Sheldon Siegel

  “I’ll bet.”

  “We came to a friendly understanding. He agreed to provide information. I promised not to give his name and photo to the press.”

  Roosevelt is growing impatient. “Are you planning to get to the point anytime soon?”

  Pete nods. “In addition to purchasing sexual gratification from the young women who work at the Sunshine, several of the patrons had something else in common. Their houses had been burglarized during the past six months. Coincidentally, the break-ins all took place while they were, uh, having their needs fulfilled at the Sunshine.”

  Roosevelt takes a sip of scalding coffee as he begins processing the information. "You’re saying the people who run the Sunshine were stealing from their customers?”

  “You might say it’s a full-service operation.”

  Roosevelt gives him a puzzled look. “Why are they still patronizing the Sunshine?”

  Pete can’t contain a smirk. “Maybe they liked the service.”

  “It’s late, Pete.”

  “They didn’t know the Sunshine was ripping them off. For that matter, they didn’t know the other customers had been burglarized, too.”

  “SFPD couldn’t put two and two together?”

  “There was no obvious connection. Not surprisingly, nobody admitted they’d been at the Sunshine while their houses were being ripped off.”

  “How did you manage to figure this out?”

  “I used to be a pretty good cop. Frankly, it wasn’t that complicated once I started putting the pieces together. The MO was the same. The burglars were professional. They worked fast. They hit houses when nobody was home. There were no signs of forced entry. They grabbed small, easy-to-find valuables and got the hell out.”

  “How did they know where their customers lived?”

  “It isn’t hard to find anybody nowadays. Ms. Amanda probably checked their drivers’ licenses while they were getting their massages.”

  “How did they get inside the houses without breaking in?”

  Pete gives him a knowing smile. “There’s a locksmith shop downstairs from the Sunshine that’s owned by the people who run the massage parlor. They made duplicate keys while their customers were upstairs.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have sources inside the Sunshine.”

  Roosevelt is now fully engaged. “I take it this means you believe somebody from the Sunshine went over to rip off Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night?”

  “Yes. The MO was exactly the same.”

  “Except nothing was missing.”

  “The burglar didn’t have time to take anything. The judge came home early and surprised him.”

  “He didn’t have to kill him.”

  “He panicked.”

  “You still haven’t given me any proof.”

  It’s my turn to interject. “Off the record, Grace told us she saw a muscular Asian guy with tattoos leaving the judge’s house early Saturday morning. He got into the Crown Vic and drove away.”

  “Is she prepared to admit she was there on Friday night?”

  “Off the record, yes.”

  “Can she positively identify him?”

  “Probably not. But she noticed he smelled of lavender. They use lavender-scented candles at the Sunshine.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I was there Saturday night.”

  Roosevelt takes a sip of his coffee. “I need a name,” he says.

  Pete’s expression transforms into a triumphant grin. “Louis Park,” he says. "He’s their muscle guy. He’s also the nephew of the owners.”

  “You got a photo?”

  Pete hands Roosevelt his camera again. “Check it out.”

  Roosevelt studies the shot of the hulking young man who escorted me upstairs. "When did you take this?” he asks.

  “A couple of hours ago. Park left the building shortly after Judge Weatherby arrived. If my guess is correct, some of the judge’s jewelry was missing by the time he got home.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Roosevelt says, “but you still haven’t given me any definitive proof that Park was at Judge Fairchild’s house on Friday night.”

  Pete reaches under the table and pulls out a white coffee mug enclosed in a zip-lock bag. “His prints are on this,” he says triumphantly.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Roosevelt asks.

  “Like I said, I have sources inside the Sunshine.”

  Thank you, Jasmine.

  Pete’s getting excited. He starts talking faster in clipped cop dialect. “The prints on this mug match the unidentifed partial you found on Judge Fairchild’s front door.”

  “When did you become a fingerprint expert?”

  “Jeff Lowenthal used to play shortstop on my softball team. He owed me a favor.”

  Next to Kathleen Jacobsen, Lowenthal is the SFPD’s best fingerprint guru. He also has excellent range, a strong throwing arm, and power to all fields.

  “Is Jeff prepared to testify that it’s a match?” Roosevelt asks.

  “Absolutely.” Pete grins triumphantly. “If you have any doubts, you’ll find a gray Crown Vic with no license plates parked inside the garage of the Sunshine.”

  Roosevelt nods. “I still need a little more,” he says.

  It’s my turn. “We’ve given you everything you need. You can go over to the Sunshine and arrest Park and shut down their operation.”

  “I need to meet the person who lifted this coffee mug.”

  “We can arrange it,” I say, “but I have some conditions.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “In exchange for her cooperation, you won’t press charges for her activities at the Sunshine.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Second, she won’t be prosecuted for being here illegally.”

  “You know I can’t speak for INS.”

  “You can’t deport her if you expect her to testify.”

  “I’ll make it happen.”

  “Third, she’s going to need a new identity and passage to Korea after she testifes.”

  “I’ll figure out a way to do it. Anything else?”

  “Finally,” I say, “you’ll provide round-the-clock protection for her. I can persuade her to cooperate only if you can assure her safety.”

  “You’re asking for a lot.”

  “We’re giving you a lot. You’re going to get credit for solving the murder of a judge and shutting down one of the most egregious exploiters of underage sex slaves in the Bay Area. You’ll be a big hero. I can’t think of a better way to conclude your long and distinguished career with the SFPD.”

  Roosevelt eyes me intently as he does a mental calculation of the countless ramifications. “If you’re wrong,” he says, “your client is going on trial for murder and your daughter is going on trial for perjury—or more.”

  “We aren’t wrong, Roosevelt.”

  “I need to talk to the witness first. I can’t derail a murder case without evaluating her credibility.”

  “As her lawyer, I can’t let you do that until I have assurances you’ll be able to fulfill all of my conditions.”

  “You have my word.”

  “I need more.”

  “You have my word,” he repeats.

  I have no cards left to play. “Everything is off the record until you can provide protection and confirm you’ll comply with the rest of my conditions,” I say.

  “That’s fair,” he says.

  “Then we have a deal.”

  “Fine. What’s her name?”

  “Jasmine Lee.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs in Big John’s office. I’ll bring her up to meet you.”

  # # #

  It takes Roosevelt a few minutes to get Jasmine talking. Once she starts, she doesn’t stop. It’s surreal to watch the waiflike Asian girl pouring out her heart in stilted English to the imposing African American man in the back room of an empty saloon in the City of St. Francis
in the middle of the night. She’s relieved to find somebody who’s willing to listen. In response to Roosevelt’s gentle questioning, she confesses that she’s an undocumented alien. She confirms that she’s engaged in illicit sexual activities. She admits to pilfering Park’s coffee mug. Most importantly, she confirms the Sunshine’s scheme to burglarize the homes of their customers while they were having their needs fulfilled.

  It’s after three a.m. when Roosevelt finally closes his notebook and places it on the table in front of him. “It’s going to take a little time to verify her story,” he says to me.

  “We have until ten o’clock this morning.”

  He flips open his cell, punches in a series of numbers, and starts issuing orders. “I need three units to the Sunshine Massage Spa on the corner of Eddy and Leavenworth immediately. No lights or sirens. Do not enter until I arrive.” He snaps his phone shut. He turns to me and says, “There’s a black and white parked in front for protection. I want you to sit tight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  58/ IT WAS MY RESPONSIBILITY

  Thursday, June 23, 5:30 a.m.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” I say to Rosie.

  “Sure,” she says.

  We’ve been drinking coffee in the back room of Dunleavy’s for the past two hours, anxiously waiting to hear from Roosevelt. It feels like a hospital waiting room. We haven’t said much, except for our frequent phone calls to update Grace and Sylvia. Pete and Big John are passing the time watching ESPN on the TV in the front of the bar. Jasmine dozed off on the sofa in my uncle’s cluttered office downstairs.

  “How come you never told me you got pregnant when you were in high school?” I ask.

  Rosie tenses. “A little mystery is healthy for a relationship. I never asked you about your old girlfriends. I didn’t think you needed to know about my old boyfriends.”

  “Have you kept any other secrets from me?”

  “A few. Have you kept any from me?”

  “A few. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  Rosie takes a sip of coffee. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

  “Worse than our divorce?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Worse than this week?”

  “About the same.”

  We look at each other intently. “There’s more to the story than you told Grace, isn’t there?”

  “You know me too well, Mike.”

  “You know me even better.”

  She sets her mug down. She seems to want to get something off her chest. “If I tell you the whole story, do you promise we’ll never talk about it again?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you going to judge me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly. “The circumstances surrounding the termination of my pregnancy were more complicated than the way I described them to Grace.”

  Uh oh. “Did you get an abortion?” I whisper.

  “No,” she says. “I really had a miscarriage—the day before I was supposed to get an abortion.”

  Dear God. “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

  “So am I.” Her eyes are now filled with tears. “It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you would share with a priest.”

  “Ex-priest,” I correct her. “It wasn’t your fault, Rosie.”

  “Yes, it was, Mike. It was no different than Grace and Bobby. I chose to sleep with my boyfriend. It was my responsibility. I knew the consequences.”

  “You were a kid. You made a mistake. I’m not going to let you beat yourself up about it now.”

  “You can’t stop me. At the very minimum, I would assume you might have a problem with the fact that a nice Catholic girl was ready to have an abortion.”

  “Things happen. You were only fifteen.”

  “That doesn’t matter. God took away my baby before I could do it myself.”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  “That’s the way my priest explained it to me. He told me I was going to hell for killing my baby.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your priest was an asshole.”

  “You aren’t going to get any argument from me about that.”

  As long as I’ve known her, Rosie has always referred to herself as a "lapsed Catholic" without elaboration. Now I finally understand why. “Is that when you stopped going to church?”

  “Yes. It seemed rather pointless. My priest said my ticket to hell was already punched.”

  “He was wrong.”

  “That’s little comfort to me now.”

  Maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought—even after twenty years. “Did your parents know about it?” I ask.

  “Of course. Who do you think made the arrangements for the abortion?”

  My mind flashes to Sylvia. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Surprised?”

  “Yes. They were devout Catholics.”

  “They were also practical Catholics, Mike. I wasn’t breaking new ground. Do you think I was the only girl in my class who got pregnant?”

  “Nope.” A couple of my classmates at St. Ignatius became fathers before they graduated from high school. “Your mother still goes to church every Sunday.”

  “She’s more optimistic about the concept of redemption than I am.”

  “I think you finished your penance this week,” I say.

  “Things might have been a little easier if I’d had a priest like you.”

  I take a deep breath and ask, “Who else knows about this?”

  “My brother and sister. My asshole boyfriend who dumped me. My asshole priest who told me I was going to hell.” She pauses. “And now Grace and you.”

  My God. “You’ve been carrying this around for all these years?”

  “Yep. And this is the last time I plan to talk about it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

  “Me, too.” Her expression indicates this topic of discussion is closed—for good.

  Big John walks in a moment later. The veteran barkeep reads our somber expressions and invokes an apologetic tone. “Sorry for interrupting,” he says. “Roosevelt just pulled up.”

  59/ I WANT TO SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY GRANDCHILDREN

  Thursday, June 23, 5:45 a.m.

  The sun is peeking through the early morning fog as Roosevelt takes a seat in one of the worn chairs the back room on Dunleavy’s. His stoic expression gives no indication as to whether the news is good or bad. He clears his throat and gets down to business. “This conversation isn’t taking place,” he says.

  Rosie, Pete, and I nod in unison. We lean forward and listen.

  “The previously unidentifed fingerprint found on the door to Judge Fairchild’s house matches that of Louis Park, the facilities manager of the Sunshine Massage Spa. Mr. Park’s fingerprints were also found on the steering wheel of a stolen gray Crown Victoria parked in the Sunshine’s garage. Inside the trunk we discovered jewelry and other valuables belonging to several of the customers of the Sunshine, including Judge Sherman Weatherby. We believe Mr. Park was burglarizing the homes of the Sunshine’s customers while they were enjoying the services at the spa. We have shut down the entire operation. We have taken Mr. Park and the owners into custody. Mr. Park will be charged with murder. The owners will face various other charges.”

  So far, so good. “Did Park confess to killing Judge Fairchild?” I ask.

  “I can’t comment on the details of an ongoing investigation. Off the record, he told us more than he would have if he’d been represented by competent counsel such as yourself. We are confident he will be receptive to a plea bargain for second-degree murder in exchange for his cooperation in providing information about the operation of the Sunshine. The federal authorities are also interested.”

  “What about the owners?” I ask.

  “That will be harder,” he says. “This isn’t the first time they’ve been on our radar and they’ve
already lawyered up. If Park cuts a deal, I’m hopeful his testimony will link them directly to the killing of Judge Fairchild. They will also be prosecuted for burglary, pimping, kidnapping, money laundering, and tax evasion. The DA intends to devote significant resources to this case. We may not get them for everything, but we’ll shut them down and they’ll do time.”

  Coincidentally, it will give a huge boost to Ward’s re-election campaign. “Where does that leave Bobby?” I ask.

  “Bill McNulty will be calling you shortly to tell you officially that all charges have been dropped. Your client should be home later this morning. For what it’s worth, please extend my apologies to him for jumping to an incorrect conclusion.”

  “We will.”

  “Please also inform him that if he files a civil suit against the SFPD and the City for false arrest, I will personally place him under arrest for statutory rape in connection with his escapades with your daughter.”

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  “In addition, I want you to tell him in no uncertain terms that if he ever engages in sex with your daughter again, I will rip out his internal organs with my bare hands.”

  I smile. “You’ll have to take a number.”

  “Which brings me to Grace,” he says. “I have it on good authority that in exchange for her full cooperation, no perjury charges will be filed against her.”

  The knot in my stomach starts to ease for the first time in a week.

  “Thanks, Roosevelt.”

  He isn’t quite finished. “I trust you will exert appropriate parental influence to remind her that some of her recent decisions did not evidence exemplary judgment. In particular, you may wish to point out that she was a few hours away from being charged as an accomplice to murder.”

  “I will.”

  “Finally,” he says, “there’s something I need from you.”

  “Name it.”

  “There are about two dozen soon-to-be-former employees of the Sunshine Massage Spa who have been brought into this country illegally—including Jasmine Lee. We’re letting them stay at the Sunshine under our supervision until we can sort everything out. Many of them speak little or no English. Most have been held against their will and forced to work under abysmal conditions. It’s likely many of them may be subject to criminal charges, and in some cases, deportation. Personally, I see little to be gained by arresting them, but the final call isn’t mine.”