Last dance, p.3
Last Dance, page 3
“Good girl,” I said. I turned back to Rolanda. “Have you heard from Nady?”
“She and Max are hiking somewhere in Peru.”
Nady’s husband, Max, was an overworked partner at Story, Short, and Thompson, a megafirm in Embarcadero Center. When I persuaded Nady to come to work for us, Luna was part of the package. I convinced my bureaucratic masters at City Hall to make the PD’s Office a dog-friendly space after I agreed to indemnify the City if Luna ever bit somebody. When Nady and Max are out of town, the rest of us take turns looking after Luna. She could have stayed with one of Nady’s neighbors, but we didn’t want to disrupt our favorite canine’s routine.
Rolanda’s eyes twinkled. “I heard that you got Javier off with a speeding ticket, a suspended license, an apology, and traffic school. Not bad.”
“Thanks.” I lowered my voice. “Rosie asked me to handle César Ochoa’s arraignment tomorrow. She said that you did his intake interview.”
“I did. The police say that he stabbed a dancer named Chloe Carson in the alley behind For Gentlemen Only in North Beach. César says that he didn’t.”
“Any idea why San Francisco’s finest have the misconception that he did?”
“They found a bloody steak knife in the Dumpster next to Ms. Carson’s body. They expedited forensics. The blood matched the decedent’s. Our client’s fingerprints were on the handle.”
Uh-oh. “Not helpful facts for our defense. Any other prints?”
“One that didn’t match César. Another one was smudged.”
“Maybe the real killer—assuming that it isn’t our new client—wore gloves.”
“As far as I know, they didn’t find any gloves in the Dumpster.”
“Maybe the real killer tossed the knife into the Dumpster and kept the gloves.”
“Maybe.”
“Did César offer any explanation as to how his prints found their way onto the knife?”
“He had a burger at the club shortly before closing time. He cut it with a steak knife.”
“He thinks that somebody picked up the same knife and stabbed Chloe Carson?”
“That’s all I have so far, Mike.”
“Did they find any blood on our client’s hands, clothes, or car?”
“No, but they didn’t arrest him until early this morning. He could have gotten rid of his clothes and washed his hands.”
“Motive?”
“Witnesses saw César and the decedent arguing on Friday night. César said Ms. Carson and the guy running the sound system got into an argument after the show. Evidently, it wasn’t the first time he had screwed up. César claimed that he told Ms. Carson to let it go. She didn’t appreciate his advice. Either way, the police found his explanation to be less than credible.”
“Got a name for the sound guy?”
“Jerry Henderson.”
Pete will find him. “What time did César leave the club?”
“Right after last dance at one AM. Ms. Carson left a few minutes later. Her body was discovered at seven AM by a man walking his dog.”
“Police reports?” I asked.
“Not yet. We don’t have a preliminary autopsy report or toxicology yet.”
“Evidence of a struggle?”
“I don’t know, Mike.”
“Who is the homicide inspector?”
“Melinda Wong.”
Game on. Wong was a native of the Sunset and a graduate of Lowell High School and UC Davis. Her father was a captain at Taraval Station. The twenty-year SFPD veteran didn’t arrest people without substantial evidence.
“She’s good,” I said.
“She’s a pain.”
That, too. “Have they assigned an ADA?”
“You aren’t going to like that, either. It’s Catherine O’Neal.”
This is going to be hand-to-hand combat. Catherine “No Deal” O’Neal was one of a half-dozen young prosecutors recently hired by our new DA, Vanessa Turner, a law-and-order zealot who was appointed by her friend and political ally, Mayor Nicole Ward, after our last DA, a former colleague of mine at the PD’s Office, was recalled for allegedly being soft on drug dealers. He took the brunt of the blame for San Francisco’s well-documented problems ranging from homelessness to drug dealing to shoplifting. A year after the recall, the homeless are still on the streets, the drug dealers are still in the Tenderloin, and the shoplifters are still breaking into stores. The mayor and the DA talk a good game, but the only thing that’s changed is that they’re getting the heat now.
I opted for diplomacy. “She’s good, too.”
“She’s an even bigger pain than Melinda,” Rolanda said. “I understand that Pete is going to help with the investigation.”
“He is.” I explained that Pete was César’s partner at Mission Station. “He says that César isn’t a killer.”
“We’ll see. Are you heading back to court this afternoon?”
“No, I’m going to meet our new client.”
4
“I DIDN’T DO IT”
César Ochoa paced like a caged tiger in the cramped attorney-client consultation room that smelled of Lysol. “I didn’t do it.”
“We’ll get to what happened in a minute,” I said.
He spoke in a gravelly cop staccato. “We’ll get to it right now. Nothing happened.” He adjusted the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit that looked two sizes too large for his wiry frame. “I didn’t do it,” he repeated.
“Good to know. First, I need to explain a few things to you.”
“Fine.”
At one-fifteen on Monday afternoon, César and I were meeting in an airless room on the ground floor of County Jail #2, the plexiglass-covered seven-story building that was shoehorned between the Hall of Justice and the I-80 Freeway in the nineties. At the time, it was a huge upgrade over the overcrowded and outdated jail on the sixth and seventh floors of the Hall, and the cops dubbed it the “Glamour Slammer.” Three decades of deferred maintenance later, the plumbing was spotty, the walls were chipped, the lights flickered, and the linoleum floors had faded to an unnatural shade of yellow. Given the state of the City’s finances, it is unlikely that the no-longer-glamorous Glamour Slammer will get even a modest upgrade before I retire.
“You okay?” I asked.
He took a seat in the white plastic chair. “Been better.”
At five-eight and a hundred and seventy pounds, “Little César” was a tightly wound man of sixty with narrow eyes, a pockmarked face with the wisp of a gray goatee, and a shaved head glistening with sweat. His marriage had ended badly a few years after he and Pete were dismissed from SFPD. His ex-wife, Selena, got custody of their son, Jesus, who became a firefighter. According to Pete, César and Jesus were estranged for years, but resumed occasional communications after Jesus and his wife had their first child.
“Have you eaten anything?” I asked.
“A little. How soon can you get me out of here?”
That’s always the first question. “You know the process. Your arraignment is tomorrow morning. You’ll plead not guilty. The DA still has a policy of not asking for cash bail, but she’ll request no-bail detention. It’s up to the judge to grant pretrial release.”
“I’ll wear a monitor, surrender my passport, and have regular check-ins.”
“We’ll ask for pretrial release.” But we probably won’t get it.
I needed to manage his expectations. Our previous DA adopted a guideline against cash bail because he believed that it discriminated against those of limited means, and it (arguably) complied with a California Supreme Court ruling. Our new DA has retained the policy for now. As a result, judges must consider a variety of factors to determine whether a defendant should be released pending trial. This holistic approach is more of an art than a science, and judges legitimately err on the side of caution.
I added, “The judge isn’t likely to release you if the charge is murder.”
The bravado disappeared. “You have to get me out of here.”
“I’ll do everything that I can.”
“How soon can we go to trial?”
“We can ask for a preliminary hearing in ten days. By law, you have the right to a trial within sixty days after that.”
“That’s what I want to do.”
No, you don’t. “That’s a bad idea, César. We’ll need time to investigate, interview witnesses, and prepare.”
“I’m not going to rot in here for two years.”
“We’ll talk about it after the arraignment.”
“We’ll talk about it now. I used to be a cop. I already have a target on my back.”
“I’ll ask them to house you in ‘Ad Seg.’”
Administrative segregation, or “Ad Seg,” meant that César would have his own cell. It didn’t guarantee his safety, but it enhanced his odds of avoiding trouble.
“Are you going to handle my case?” he asked.
“Yes. Pete has agreed to help with the investigation—free of charge.”
“That’s very generous of him.”
“Yes, it is.” First things first. “I trust that Rolanda explained that we have only one hard-and-fast rule: you need to tell us the absolute unvarnished truth, and you can’t leave out anything important.”
“She did. I’m good with that.”
“Everything you told her was true?”
“Of course.”
“Anything you’d like to add or reconsider?”
“No.”
Good. “Is there anybody that I should call?”
“No.”
“What about Selena?”
“No.” His lips turned down. “I left her a message. If she wants to get in touch, she will.”
“You want me to call Jesus?”
“He knows that I’m here, too.”
“How long were you working at For Gentlemen Only?”
“Almost two years. I didn’t kill Chloe.”
“The DA thinks you did.”
“She’s wrong.”
“What happened on Friday night?”
“Nothing happened.”
For defense lawyers, it’s sometimes a positive sign when your client issues a forceful denial. Guilty people tend to massage their stories. Innocent people get mad. From a legal standpoint, however, it was a mixed bag. The California Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit attorneys from letting clients lie on the stand. If I find out that he did, in fact, kill Chloe Carson, I can’t let him testify to the contrary. We defense lawyers come up with all sorts of creative justifications to get around this rule, but I prefer to avoid the issue if I can.
I kept my voice even. “You knew Chloe Carson?”
“Of course.”
“How well?”
“Not well. She had been working at the club for just a few months.”
“Did she ever give you any trouble?”
“No.”
“When was the last time that you saw her?”
“Shortly after last dance on Saturday morning. I left at closing time at one AM.” He said that he left via the back door leading to the alley.
“Was she still there when you left?”
“As far as I know.”
“Did you see her outside?”
“I didn’t see anybody.”
I asked if there was a security camera in the alley.
“Yes, but it was broken.”
I eyed him. “Is there any chance that the DA has video of you in the alley?”
“If she does, it isn’t from the club’s security camera. And even if I’m on video, it won’t show me stabbing Chloe because I didn’t. The alley dead-ends into a retaining wall at the foot of Telegraph Hill. I suppose it’s possible that there is security footage from one of the apartment buildings up the hill, but it seems unlikely.”
I’ll check the police reports. “Where did you go after you left?”
“Home.” He said that he walked to his car, which was parked a few blocks away near the Embarcadero. “I drove straight to my apartment.” He confirmed that he lived by himself.
“Did the cops find any blood in your car?”
“There wasn’t any to find.”
“I take it that they searched your apartment when they arrested you?”
“Of course. They didn’t find any bloody clothes, either.”
“Did they find anything else that might be of concern?”
“My Glock was in my nightstand. I told them about it as soon as they showed up. They confiscated it.”
Not surprising.
He added, “I purchased it legally, and I have a license. When this is over, I expect to get it back.”
“You will. What time did you get to work on Friday night?”
“Four PM.” He said that he helped with setup and worked the front door. “It wasn’t very busy. We cater to an upscale crowd: frat boys, tech bros, neighborhood regulars, and out-of-town businessmen looking for a good time.”
“Did anybody give you any trouble?”
“No.”
“Did anybody give Chloe any trouble?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Was she well-liked at the club?”
“As far as I know.”
“Anybody mad at her?”
“A couple of the more experienced dancers were upset when Chloe solicited their regulars. They worked it out.”
“The DA told Rolanda that a witness said that you and Chloe got into an argument on the night she died.”
“I would call it a conversation. She got mad at the tech guy because the sound went out a couple of times during her routine. I told her to let it go. She didn’t take crap from anybody, and she didn’t appreciate my advice.”
“That would be Jerry Henderson?”
“Yes.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not well. He worked once or twice a month.”
“Any idea where we can find him?”
“He lives in North Beach and plays in a band.”
“A guy who was walking his dog found Chloe’s body in the alley behind the club. The police found a bloody steak knife in the Dumpster. The blood matched Chloe’s. Your prints were on the knife.”
He hesitated. “I’ll tell you the same thing that I told Rolanda. I had a burger shortly before I went home. I cut it with a steak knife which I left on the plate.”
“You think somebody picked it up and took it outside?”
“That’s the only possible explanation.”
Unless you used it to stab Chloe Carson. “Inspector Melinda Wong believes you used it to stab Chloe.”
“I didn’t.”
“She has a good reputation.”
“She’s a good cop, but it doesn’t mean that she’s right this time.”
5
“RIGHT HERE”
I handed Pete a paper cup of scalding Peet’s coffee. “The homicide inspector on César’s case is Melinda Wong.”
He took a sip of coffee. “She’s good.”
“Good cops make mistakes.”
“It would make our case easier if we can find some hard evidence that she did.”
“That’s where you come in.”
At four o’clock on Monday afternoon, Pete and I were standing on the sidewalk on the northwest corner of Broadway and Montgomery, the approximate dividing line between the upscale boutiques and offices housed in the Earthquake-era buildings of Jackson Square and the densely packed two- and three-story apartment buildings in North Beach and Telegraph Hill. The wind was picking up, and the afternoon fog was creeping toward us over Russian Hill. The air was filled with the aroma of salt and pepper calamari from Little Szechuan down the street, wood-fired pizzas from Tommaso’s around the corner, and cheeseburgers from Sam’s just past Columbus Avenue. A steady stream of cars crawled from the Embarcadero toward the Broadway Tunnel on their way to Van Ness Avenue. I turned to the east and had a postcard-quality view of the Bay Bridge above the shimmering water of San Francisco Bay. It was a vast improvement over the days when the view was obstructed by the unsightly Embarcadero Freeway, a double-deck monstrosity that was built in the fifties and torn down after it was damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake.
I looked at the strip clubs, restaurants, smoke shops, and bars lining San Francisco’s no-longer-so-notorious red-light district. The Hungry I nightclub where Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl once played was now an upscale bar. The beat hangout, Enrico’s, remained closed after multiple ownership changes. The neon sign above the Condor Club at Broadway and Columbus still displayed a picture of the late Carol Doda, the first topless dancer on the West Coast. The female impersonators at Finocchio’s departed after the club went out of business in 1999. The space that once housed Vanessi’s, my parents’ favorite special occasion restaurant which launched a thousand exhibition kitchens and fed tender osso buco and foamy zabaglione to generations of San Franciscans, was empty.
“Is he coming?” I asked Pete.
“He’s on his way, Mick.”
A police unit drove up Montgomery, crossed Broadway, and parked in front of a fire hydrant. A muscular officer emerged from the car, put on his hat over his closely-cropped hair, placed his nightstick into its holder, and marched across the street to meet us.
Officer Jeff Roth smiled beneath a bushy mustache, extended a meaty hand, and spoke to Pete. “Family okay?”
“Fine.” Pete grasped his hand. “Yours?”
“All good. My daughter is in law school.”
“Mine is in college.” Pete pointed at me. “You remember Mike?”
“Of course. Good to see you.”
“Same here, Jeff.”
I waited patiently as Pete and Roth exchanged police gossip. Roth was about Pete’s age. The native of the Excelsior started his career at Mission Station. The SFPD nomad rotated through Taraval, Northern, and Park Stations. For the last decade or so, he had worked out of Central Station, a six-story cement bunker on Vallejo between Stockton and Powell, about six blocks from where we were standing. Roth was a conscientious cop who played by the rules, knew how to work the system, and kept his nose clean.
