Last dance, p.12
Last Dance, page 12
“Was he selling drugs to Chloe Carson?”
“I don’t know.”
“He used to be her boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know that.” Clive took a drink of Coke. “They got into a big argument a few weeks ago. She told him to leave her alone.”
“Did he get physical with her?”
“He grabbed her arm. She told him to keep his hands off of her.”
Pete probed for details, but none were forthcoming. “You want anything else to eat?”
Clive shook his head. “I’m good.”
“We appreciate your time, Clive.” Pete reached inside his pocket, pulled out five twenties, and slid them across the Formica table to Clive. “This is for your time tonight. We may need you to testify next week. We’ll pay you for your time and reimburse you for a cab ride.”
Clive pocketed the bills. “How much for my time?”
I answered him. “A hundred bucks an hour.”
“Two hundred.”
“I might be able to make it one-fifty.”
“I might be able to help you. When do you need me?”
“Probably Wednesday or Thursday of next week.”
Pete handed him a prepaid burner phone. “We’ll call you on this phone to let you know.”
Clive grinned. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you gentlemen.”
26
“IS THERE ANY POSSIBILITY THAT WE CAN RESOLVE THIS?”
The Honorable Elizabeth McDaniel motioned Rolanda and me to the open chairs opposite her polished redwood desk. “Come in.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. Rolanda and I nodded at O’Neal, who was sitting in the other chair. “Nice to see you, Catherine,” I lied.
“Nice to see you, too, Mike.”
Right.
Judge McDaniel was an elegant woman of seventy-five with stellar credentials, a razor-sharp mind, and a thoughtful presence. Her paneled chambers were on the third floor of the Hall overlooking the slow lane of the I-80 Freeway.
I admired the framed photos of her grandchildren on her credenza between her laptop, multiple volumes of California Jury Instructions, and several signed first-edition Donna Leon novels. “Grandkids okay?”
“Everybody’s fine, Mike.” Although she had lived in the Bay Area for almost a half-century, you could still hear a trace of her native Alabama in her voice. “I saw Rosie at Pilates yesterday. She seems to be doing well.” She asked about Grace and Tommy.
“Status quo. Grace is still working at Pixar. Tommy is at Cal.”
“Good to hear. Is Grace going to make you and Rosie grandparents anytime soon?”
“Maybe in another year or two. Rosie’s mother is getting impatient.”
“So is Rosie.”
To those who had never met Betsy, it was hard to imagine that the Hall of Justice’s resident mother hen had been a tenacious prosecutor for a quarter of a century. She brought the same intensity to the bench, albeit in a more nurturing way. Then again, if you made a poorly researched or ill-reasoned argument, she wouldn’t hesitate to skewer you.
She turned to Rolanda. “It’s nice to have you back at the office. Are your children okay?”
“Fine, thank you, Your Honor.”
“Good to hear.” She looked at O’Neal. “How is your mother?”
“A little better.”
“Good. Please give her my best.” The judge glanced at her computer, signaling that the social portion of our meeting was over. “César Ochoa,” she said to nobody in particular. “Preliminary hearing on Wednesday.” She looked my way. “What’s the rush?”
“My client has the right to a prelim within ten days after his arraignment. That’s how he would like to proceed.”
“That’s his legal right. It’s not my job to tell you how to conduct your case.”
But you might offer a few suggestions.
She turned to O’Neal. “I presume that you’ll be ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“How much time will you need?”
“A couple of hours. Just a few witnesses. The evidence is straightforward.”
“How about you, Mr. Daley?”
It did not go unnoticed that I was once again “Mr. Daley.” “Two or three days. The evidence isn’t as straightforward as Ms. O’Neal has suggested.”
“Is there any possibility that we can resolve this before Wednesday?”
O’Neal spoke up. “Not unless Mr. Daley’s client is willing to change his plea to guilty.”
Here we go. “Your Honor, Ms. O’Neal is being unreasonable and jumping to conclusions.”
O’Neal fired back. “We found a bloody knife with your client’s fingerprints.”
“You didn’t find any blood on his hands, clothes, or car.”
“You aren’t seriously going to make that argument, are you, Mr. Daley?”
“Damn right I am, Ms. O’Neal. Either way, this isn’t a first-degree murder case. You and Inspector Wong are rushing to justice.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Judge McDaniel let us argue it out for the next five minutes. Over the years, she had learned that it’s sometimes productive to give lawyers time to vent. I guess she figured that if we do it in chambers, we’re less likely to do it in court.
The judge finally stopped us. “It sounds like we aren’t going to settle this today. I have reviewed your motions.” She looked my way. “First, your request to exclude the knife is denied. There is no evidence that chain of custody was breached.
“Second, while I understand your desire to see the evidence as soon as possible, you have no right to see it prior to the prelim. While I would encourage Ms. O’Neal to provide any remaining police reports, crime scene photos, the autopsy report, and other relevant evidence, she is under no legal obligation to do so. As a result, your motion is denied.”
This isn’t going well, but it isn’t unexpected. It’s the correct interpretation of the law.
“Third,” the judge continued, “I encourage you to exchange witness lists before the prelim to ensure an orderly process, but you are under no legal obligation to do so.”
Also a correct statement of the law.
“Fourth,” she said, “I am going to continue Judge Tsang’s gag order on all parties and counsel. I don’t want any of you talking to the press or trying this case in social media. If you talk, tweet, or post, it will cost you.
“Finally, I want to make it clear that I will not allow the prelim or later proceedings, if any, to be televised.”
“But, Your Honor—,” O’Neal said.
“I’ve ruled, Ms. O’Neal. You know as well as I do that people change their behavior when the cameras are on. And it isn’t for the better.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge McDaniel leaned back in her leather chair. “I know that you are all good lawyers and you’re reasonable. I would encourage you to go back to your respective offices, take a deep breath, and give some serious thought to this case. Then I would suggest that you go out for a cup of coffee and see if you can work something out. Otherwise, we’ll see you on Wednesday.”
27
“HE’S A FUNDAMENTALLY DECENT MAN”
Dazzle was sitting at her cubicle when I walked toward my office at one-ten PM. “How did it go with Judge McDaniel?” she asked.
“About what I expected. No big wins or losses. She was a little perplexed that we want to move forward to the prelim so quickly.”
“I might have asked the same question.”
“César insisted.” I smiled. “Have you ever thought about going to law school? You would be a terrific lawyer.”
“Not a chance.” She grinned. “I spent eight years as a paralegal at a big law firm.”
“I thought it was Terrence’s turn to work today.”
“He caught a cold from his granddaughter. You know how it goes. The baby will be fine in a day or two. Terrence will be sick for a couple of weeks.”
Probably true. I pointed at Rosie’s office. “Anything I need to know from the boss?”
“No.”
“You heard from Pete?”
“Nothing.” Her expression turned serious as she pointed at the closed door to Rolanda’s office. “César’s ex-wife just showed up without an appointment. She’s in with Rolanda.”
Selena Ochoa stood up, forced a smile, and greeted me with a firm handshake and a tense voice. “It’s been a long time, Mike. I’m sorry that I didn’t make an appointment.”
“No worries. Thanks for coming in.” I looked at Rolanda, who was sitting at her desk. “How much have I missed?”
“We were just getting started.”
I sat down in the chair next to Selena’s. “How have you been?” I asked her.
She clutched her water bottle. “Not bad.”
“Are your son and grandson both okay?”
“Fine.”
I gave her a moment to get her bearings. The native of the Mission and alum of Sacred Heart Cathedral High School was fifty-five. She met César when he was a rookie cop, and she was working in SFPD Dispatch. They were married for a dozen years. Things blew up after César and Pete were fired. César and Selena have remained on strained speaking terms. César has minimal contact with his son and grandson.
“You still working?” I asked her.
“Yes. I’m going to retire in a couple of years when my City pension is fully vested. You?”
“I promised Rosie that I would stick around until she finishes her next term.”
Like most City employees, I knew exactly when it would be most advantageous to take my generous pension and retirement benefits.
Selena arched an eyebrow. “You sound confident that she’ll win re-election.”
“I am. Why did you come to see us?”
“I wanted to thank you and Rolanda for representing César. You could have assigned his case to one of the younger attorneys. I appreciate the fact that you didn’t.”
“You’re welcome.” Don’t react. Let her talk.
“I wanted to thank Pete, too,” she said. “It’s especially nice of him since. . .”
“What happened,” I said.
“Yes.”
“They were partners, Selena.”
“They got fired, Mike. You know the history.”
“Personal loyalty trumps unfortunate circumstances. I will pass it along. Pete’s moral compass has always been pointed in the right direction. The same is true for César.”
She measured her words. “César was a good cop. He’s always had a temper, but I still believe that he’s a fundamentally decent man. I sometimes wonder if I could have done something to make things easier for him.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was a long time ago.” I tried again. “Why did you really come to see us?”
“I was wondering if there is anything that I can do to help.”
“It would be great if you could come to the prelim and provide a little moral support. It would mean a lot to César, even if you stay for just a short time.”
“I don’t know, Mike.”
“You don’t have to decide right now. Is there any chance that you might also be able to persuade your son to come to the prelim? Maybe for just a few minutes?”
She scowled. “Doubtful.”
“Understood. Will you ask him?”
“I will.” She swallowed hard. “César has a lot of issues, but he isn’t a murderer.”
Pete was sitting on my windowsill an hour later. “It was nice of Selena to stop by.”
“She was very appreciative of your efforts on behalf of César,” I said. “Anything new?”
“I’ve interviewed all the employees and most of the customers who were at For Gentlemen Only on Friday night. I talked to people who live and work nearby. I haven’t found any evidence absolving César.”
“The prelim doesn’t start until Wednesday. We’ve been working on this case for less than a week. You’ll find something.”
He looked at Rolanda. “What do you think?”
It no longer bothers me that Pete trusts Rolanda’s and Rosie’s instincts more than mine.
She responded with a reassuring smile. “You’ll find something, Pete. You always do.”
He took the compliment in stride. “We may need to try to foist the blame onto somebody other than César. Who do you like?”
“We follow the evidence where it takes us.”
“Sometimes, you need to give the evidence a little shove.”
The corner of Rolanda’s mouth turned up. “Who do you like?”
“Ideally, you look for somebody who is unsympathetic. Our options include Dave Callaghan, Jerry Henderson, John Foreman, Tyler Benson, F.X. Quinn, Jason Strong, and maybe even Tim Volpe. On the Pete Daley ‘Asshole Scale,’ Volpe is a two, Quinn is a five, Strong is a seven, Callaghan and Benson are both eights, and Foreman is a ten.”
“You left out Henderson.”
“He’s an eleven.” His eyes shifted my way. “Let’s go pay him another visit, Mick. Maybe we can rattle his cage.”
28
“I CAN’T TALK”
Pete knocked on the metal gate covering the door to the basement apartment three steps beneath a dry cleaner’s on Green Street, around the corner from Café Trieste. “Jerry?”
No answer.
He waited a few seconds and tried again.
Still no answer.
The aroma of tomato sauce and mozzarella from Golden Boy Pizza floated up Green Street at three-thirty on Friday afternoon. The sun was out, and pedestrian traffic was light.
“Maybe he isn’t home,” I said.
Pete pointed at his operative sitting in his car across the street. “Tony said that Henderson hasn’t left his apartment since this morning.” He pounded on the door again.
It opened halfway. An exhausted-looking Henderson wore a Giants hoodie. His eyes were red. His complexion was pale.
His raspy voice was barely a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk,” Pete said.
“I can’t talk.”
“Just a few minutes.”
“I literally can’t talk. I lost my voice.”
“Can we come in?”
“Not unless you want to catch Covid. I tested positive yesterday.”
Oh hell.
Pete waited a beat. “Do you need anything?”
“I’ll be fine. They gave me Paxlovid.”
“Mike needs you to testify at César’s preliminary hearing that starts on Wednesday.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to be healthy enough by then.”
I stepped forward. “We need your help, Jerry.” And I may want to throw you under the bus. “If you’re still testing positive, I can try to persuade the judge to let you testify remotely.”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll send you a subpoena if I have to. I’d rather not.”
“Send me whatever you want. Now get the hell out of here.” He closed the door.
Pete looked my way and deadpanned, “I thought that went pretty well.”
“Me, too. You think he’s really sick?”
“He didn’t look like he was faking to me.” Pete pointed at his operative. “Tony will keep an eye on him and let us know if anything changes.”
“I’ll have Rolanda draft a subpoena.”
“Let me know when it’s ready. You may need to ask for a continuance if he’s still sick next week.”
“For now, we’ll proceed on the assumption that he’ll be available. Where to now?”
“Let’s go over to For Gentlemen Only and talk to Dave Callaghan again.”
Callaghan feigned irritation when Pete and I walked into For Gentlemen Only at four o’clock that same afternoon. “I don’t have time,” he snapped.
“We can wait,” I said.
“We open in a few minutes. A couple of my people are sick with Covid. I’m trying to arrange for coverage.”
Pete’s voice was even. “No worries, Dave.” He pointed at a table in the otherwise empty bar. “Mike and I are going to have a drink. Come see us when you have a minute.”
Pete and I took our seats at a table against the wall. Pete looked at his phone. I watched the pre-opening choreography. Servers set tables. Bartenders prepared lemons and limes. Through the door to the kitchen, I saw cooks chopping lettuce, peeling potatoes, and cutting vegetables. A technician adjusted the lights and tested the sound. Two dancers headed toward the dressing room, gym bags over their shoulders. It reminded me of my days working as a bartender at Dunleavy’s, although Big John’s bar operated on a smaller scale, and there were no dancers.
I glanced at Pete, who was staring at his phone. “What now?”
“We order drinks. Then we wait for Callaghan to apologize for snapping at us.”
He turned back to his phone, and I looked at the TV, which was tuned to ESPN. A server came over. Pete ordered coffee. I asked for a club soda. A few customers trickled inside.
Ten minutes later, the houselights went down, music started playing, the bartenders manned their stations, and the servers started working the room.
Callaghan joined us and spoke in a subdued voice. “Sorry for snapping at you.”
“We caught you at a busy time,” I said.
Pete took a sip of coffee. “You get everything covered?”
“For now.”
“We heard that Jerry Henderson got Covid.”
“He did. Hopefully, he’ll be okay.”
Pete looked around the empty room. “How’s business?”
“Not great. They say that all publicity is good. That isn’t necessarily the case when one of your dancers is killed behind your club. I take it that you’re here to talk about César?”
I answered him. “Yes.”
“I don’t know anything more than I told you last time.”
“We heard that Jerry and Chloe were seeing each other, but she broke up with him.”
“Who told you that?”
“A couple of people. Did you know about it?”
