Last dance, p.4
Last Dance, page 4
Pete turned to business. “Mike picked up César’s case. Helluva thing.”
“Helluva thing,” Roth repeated.
“I understand that you were the first officer at the scene.”
“I was.” He turned to me. “I know why you’re here: you don’t get to pick your clients.” He pivoted back to Pete. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“César needs help.”
“He’s needed it for a long time.”
“We go back a long way.”
“He got you fired.”
“It was complicated.”
“Not that complicated.”
“I was hoping that I could persuade you to show us the scene.”
Roth scowled. “The DA’s Office doesn’t want me to talk to you.”
“Ten minutes.”
“You can read my report when you get it from the DA.”
“Five minutes.”
Roth responded with a grudging, “Five minutes. Off the record.”
We followed him up the sidewalk and into the alley behind For Gentlemen Only, which was housed in a post-Earthquake-era two-story brick building. He led us into the urine-soaked alley between the rear entrance to the club and a retaining wall at the base of Telegraph Hill. An overflowing Dumpster was next to the wall. I had expected to see yellow police tape, but there was no evidence that this had been a crime scene two days earlier.
Pete’s voice was even. “What time did you get here?”
Roth sounded as if he was quoting his police report. “I got the call from dispatch at seven o’clock on Saturday morning. I was working the overnight shift at Central Station. I got here at seven-oh-nine.”
“Who called 9-1-1?”
“A retired lawyer named Stewart Baird who lives on Telegraph Hill. He was walking his dog.” A half smile. “He has a beautiful golden retriever named Archie.”
“Security cameras?”
Roth pointed at a camera mounted above the back door of For Gentlemen Only. “Just one, but it wasn’t working.” He said that there was also a camera above the front door. “One inside by the bar.”
Pete looked down the alley. “Footage from other businesses or residences?”
“Not as far as I know.”
If Roth was telling us the truth—and I had no reason to disbelieve him—the police didn’t have video of César stabbing Carson. It wasn’t an ironclad alibi, but it would give us a little wiggle room if we moved forward to trial.
“Where did Mr. Baird find the body?” Pete asked.
Roth pointed at the ground next to the Dumpster. “Right here.” He said that Baird attempted to administer CPR, but he was unsuccessful. So were the EMTs who arrived a few minutes after he did. “Mr. Baird didn’t see anybody else in the alley.”
Roth said that he called for backup and assisted the EMTs. “Ms. Carson was officially pronounced at the scene at seven-forty AM. We secured the area in accordance with standard procedure. We canvassed for witnesses, but nobody was around. We contacted the manager of the club, who came over and was cooperative. We interviewed him along with the employees who were working on the night that Ms. Carson was killed. Nobody saw anything suspicious in the alley. I handed the scene over to Inspector Wong at eight-ten AM. An Assistant Medical Examiner arrived about an hour later. She performed the autopsy on Saturday afternoon.”
“Cause of death?”
“You’ll need to ask the ME.”
“Any evidence that the decedent knew her assailant?”
“You’ll need to ask the ME.”
“Any alcohol or drugs in Ms. Carson’s system?”
“You’ll need to ask the ME.”
Pete pointed at the Dumpster. “I understand that you found a bloody knife.”
“I did.” Roth confirmed that he handled it with care, bagged and tagged it in accordance with SFPD procedure, and entered it into evidence. “Inspector Wong had it tested for prints and DNA. I was told that the prints matched your client’s, and the blood matched the decedent’s.”
“That’s quick turnaround on DNA.”
“Inspector Wong pulled strings.”
Contrary to what you see on TV, you can get a DNA test within hours.
Pete eyed him. “Did you find any bloody clothes in the Dumpster?”
“No.”
“You arrested César?”
“Inspector Wong arrested him after consulting with Catherine O’Neal at the DA’s Office.”
“Did you talk to Jerry Henderson, the sound guy at the club?”
“Yes.”
“We were told that he got into an argument with Ms. Carson shortly before she left.”
“He didn’t mention it.”
I’m not surprised. I asked if the manager of the club provided any useful information.
“He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“Got a name?”
“Dave Callaghan.”
6
“HE WAS VERY PROFESSIONAL”
The stocky young man with the wide forehead, black turtleneck, and tattoo of a snake on his neck, spoke in a guttural voice from his spot behind the podium inside the door at For Gentlemen Only. “We open at six.”
Pete stepped in front of me. “We’re looking for Dave Callaghan.”
“You found him.”
“Pete Daley. I was César Ochoa’s partner with SFPD. Nowadays, I’m a PI. This is my brother, Mike, who is with the Public Defender’s Office. He’s representing César. We’re trying to figure out what happened on Saturday morning, and we need to ask you a few questions. We won’t take up much of your time.”
Callaghan froze. “Uh, sure.”
At four-forty on Monday afternoon, the houselights were illuminated as the staff of For Gentlemen Only prepared for the evening. The brick exterior of the building was a hundred years old, but the remodeled interior was Twenty-first Century. With its black walls, leather chairs, chrome-trimmed tables, brass wall sconces, and purple neon lighting, it resembled a lounge at a Las Vegas hotel. Bottles of high-end liquor lined shelves extending from the back of the bar to the ceiling. Three dozen tables surrounded an unadorned stage with a dance pole. A man with magenta hair was testing the sound and lighting systems. A sign at the podium asked patrons to respect the dancers and invited them to see the maître d’ to arrange for bachelor parties.
Callaghan led us to a table in the back. “I gave my statement to the police,” he said.
“This won’t take long,” Pete assured him. “How long have you worked here?”
“About five years.”
“You from around here?”
“Redding.” He said that he and a couple of college buddies moved to the City after they graduated from Chico State. He worked retail and drove for Uber. “One of my roommates was tending bar here. He recommended me to the manager. I worked my way up.”
Admirable industriousness. “Are you also the owner?” I asked.
“I wish. We’re owned by a private equity firm that also operates clubs in L.A. and Phoenix. They’re planning to expand to other cities.”
An upscale strip club is still a strip club.
Pete leaned forward. “You were here on Friday night?”
“Yes.” Callaghan glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell you what I told the police: Chloe’s death is a tragedy. I don’t know what happened in the alley on Saturday morning.”
“You knew Ms. Carson?”
“I hired her. She was a nice kid and an excellent dancer. She went by the stage name ‘Athena.’ She worked hard. The customers liked her.” Callaghan confirmed that Carson had worked at the club for about six months. She was twenty-two, grew up in Fremont, and attended San Jose State for a couple of years. “She lived in Daly City by herself.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Ex-boyfriends?”
“Probably. I try not to ask personal questions.”
“You know a guy named Jerry Henderson?”
“He’s our backup sound guy. He comes in when I need him once or twice a month.”
“What does he do the rest of the time?”
“He works for a moving company and plays in a band.”
“Good guy?”
“Yes.”
“He was working on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“We understand that he and Chloe got into an argument after the show.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Do you remember what time Henderson left?”
“Shortly after we closed.” Callaghan promised to get us Henderson’s address. “He lives in North Beach.”
“Did Chloe have any family in the area?”
“Her mother lives in Fremont. She never mentioned anybody else.”
And you didn’t ask too many questions.
Pete asked if Carson had any friends at the club.
“She got along with everybody.”
Not exactly the answer to the question.
Pete tried again. “Did she get along with the other dancers?”
“Most of the time.” Henderson cleared his throat. “A couple of the girls thought Chloe was a little too friendly with some of their regulars. It’s a competitive business. They worked it out.”
“Did she ever give you any trouble?”
“All of our dancers give me a little trouble from time to time. She came in late a few times. We also have a policy against freelancing. On a couple of occasions I had to remind her not to solicit customers for private arrangements outside the club.”
But you were more than happy if she solicited lap dances inside the club where you got the majority of the proceeds.
“Did she get along with César?”
“Everybody got along with César.”
“You hired him?”
“I did.”
Pete interjected, “He was fired by SFPD.”
“He was upfront about it. I believe in second chances.”
“Was he good at his job?”
“Yes. He was very professional. He was respectful to our guests. We don’t need our security people to break up fights very often. Most of our customers are upscale. Our biggest issue is when people drink too much. Sometimes they do stupid stuff, or they get a little handsy with the girls. If somebody gets out of line, we ask them to leave. Most of the time they do.”
“Did César ever give you any trouble?”
“He got a little rough with some drunk kids a few times.”
“Did he ever hit anybody?”
“He shoved people once or twice.”
“How was his mood on Friday night?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did César have any interactions with Chloe on Friday night?”
“They got into an argument shortly before closing time. I don’t know what it was about.”
“Do you know what time César left?”
“One AM.” He said that Chloe left a few minutes later.
“Did she seem upset?”
“Not as far as I could tell.”
“Was anybody still here?”
“Our bartender, the janitor, and a couple of girls.” He confirmed that he had provided security footage to the police. “The camera outside the rear door wasn’t working.”
“What time did you leave?”
“One-thirty.” He said that he exited via the front door and walked to his apartment a few blocks away. “I didn’t go into the alley, and I didn’t see or hear anything outside.” He gave Inspector Wong a list of employees along with a printout of the names and credit card receipts of the customers who were present on Friday night.
Pete nodded. “We’ll get the info from her. Thanks, Dave.”
“You’re welcome.” His tone turned thoughtful. “I hope you find whoever did this—assuming that it isn’t César.”
Pete eyed him. “You think César is the kind of guy who would have killed somebody?”
“A few days ago, I wouldn’t have thought so. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Did you hear from the DA’s Office?” I asked.
Rolanda looked up from her laptop. “Catherine O’Neal is going to handle César’s arraignment tomorrow. The case is generating buzz because César is an ex-cop. I wouldn’t be surprised if our distinguished DA shows up in a display of solidarity.”
“And to get some media time,” I said.
“That, too.”
Rolanda, Pete, and I were sitting around the table in the conference room at the PD’s Office at six-forty on Monday night. Luna was sleeping in the corner.
“Did O’Neal provide anything?” I asked.
Rolanda nodded. “Not yet. She promised to send over a list of employees and customers who were at the club on Friday night. We’ll check everybody out. We should also request expedited discovery.”
“We will.”
Under California law, the DA must disclose any evidence that might tend to exonerate César before trial. Notwithstanding what you see on TV, there are few genuine surprises in court. On the other hand, the DA is not required to provide any information prior to the arraignment or the preliminary hearing.
“Has O’Neal decided on a charge?” I asked.
“First-degree murder,” Rolanda said. “No enhancements so far.”
“She thinks she can prove premeditation?”
“So it seems.”
I summarized our conversation with Callaghan, then I turned to Pete. “I need you to talk to everybody who was at For Gentlemen Only on Friday. And I want you to find Jerry Henderson.”
“Already working on it, Mick.”
Dazzle knocked on the open door. “You need anything else from me?”
“Not at the moment, Dazz. Are you working at the club tonight?”
“I have to pay the bills.”
“You know anybody who works at For Gentlemen Only?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“We talked to Dave Callaghan. Ever met him?”
“No, but I’ve heard that he’s a dick.” She gave me a knowing smile. “If you want to find out what’s going on at a club like For Gentlemen Only, you don’t talk to the manager. You talk to the dancers.”
7
“HOW DO YOU WISH TO PLEAD?”
The veteran bailiff spoke in a world-weary voice. “All rise.”
At ten o’clock sharp the following morning, a Tuesday, César stood between Rolanda and me at the defense table. We watched Judge Ignatius Tsang stride to the bench and sit down in his tall leather chair. The windowless courtroom over which he had presided for a quarter of a century smelled of cleaning solvent and mold.
He turned on his computer, moved his reading glasses to the top of his head, and held up a hand. “Please be seated.”
We did as we were told.
From the perfect Windsor knot in his striped necktie to the Cross pen in his breast pocket to his coiffed silver hair, Ignatius Tsang embodied precision. The native of Taiwan had been brought to San Francisco by his mother and father when he was a baby. His parents worked multiple jobs in Chinatown so that he could focus on school. He graduated at the top of his class at Lowell High, raced through UC Berkeley in three years, and placed first in his class at Berkeley Law. He clerked for Justice Byron White before joining the San Francisco DA’s office, where he distinguished himself for two decades while writing law review articles and teaching criminal procedure. He brought the same intellectual rigor to the bench.
He scanned the full gallery, then his eyes moved from the prosecution table to the defense table. Finally, he turned to his bailiff. “Please call our first case.”
“The People versus César Ochoa. Arraignment. The defendant is present.”
César tensed. Dressed in his ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, he looked as if he wanted to leap over the table and argue his case himself.
I looked at the prosecution table where Catherine “No Deal” O’Neal was seated, arms at her sides, unblinking eyes locked onto the judge. Her black pantsuit matched her hair, which she wore in a layered bob. Her small mouth was rolled into a tight ball. Except for a perfunctory nod when she entered the courtroom, she hadn’t acknowledged my presence.
I turned and whispered to César. “Remember what I told you. When the judge asks for your plea, say ‘Not guilty’ in a firm and respectful tone.”
He nodded.
César had no rooting section in the gallery. I had spoken briefly with his ex-wife and son, but they declined to attend the arraignment. Our DA, Vanessa Turner, sat behind O’Neal along with Chloe Carson’s mother. Dressed in black and wearing sunglasses, Virginia Carson stared straight ahead. Reporters from local media filled the row behind them. Cable news outlets were absent for now. Pete was in the back row pretending to read the Chronicle.
Judge Tsang tapped his microphone. “Counsel will state their names for the record.”
“Catherine O’Neal for the People, Your Honor.”
“Michael Daley and Rolanda Fernandez for the defense.”
The judge addressed César. “Your attorneys have explained why we are here?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good.” Judge Tsang spoke quickly. “This is an arraignment. We will have a recitation of the charges, and the defendant will enter a plea.”
He might have added, “If all goes well, we’ll be finished in five minutes.”
He looked at O’Neal. “Charge?”
She stood up. “First-degree murder under California Penal Code Section 187.”
It carries a minimum sentence of twenty-five years.
As required by law, the judge quickly read the murder complaint aloud.
After he was finished, I spoke up in an even voice. “The facts do not support a murder charge, Your Honor. It is too early to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to support any charge.”
“Ms. O’Neal disagrees with you, Mr. Daley, and it’s her call.”
True.
O’Neal was still standing. “We are also considering a special circumstance.”
It’s the California euphemism for a death penalty case. Penal Code Section 190.2 lists twelve “special circumstances” including a killing for financial gain, killing a police officer or a witness, lying in wait, torture or poison, multiple murders, and murder by a gang member. As a practical matter, even if convicted, it was unlikely that César would ever be executed. California’s last execution was in 2006, and the state subsequently imposed a moratorium. There are almost eight hundred inmates on Death Row at San Quentin. The vast majority, if not all of them, will die from causes other than execution.
