Incriminating Evidence (14 page)

“Sometimes.”

“Do you know Tony?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s my brother.”

There’s a crack in the facade at last. He gives us the tiniest
hint of a grin. “Everybody knows Tony. I deliver vegetables to him.”

“What’s your name?” Rosie asks.

“Hector Ramirez.”

“Hector,” Rosie says, “do you think you might be able to help us get some information about Johnny Garcia and his family?”

The grin broadens into a full-blown smile. “Tell your brother I’ll make a few calls and see what I can find out,” he says. “And tell him he owes me.”

11
“YOU REALLY NEED TO TALK TO HIM”

“With the preliminary hearing for District Attorney Gates less than ten days away, his defense team is scrambling to refute mounting evidence of his guilt.”

—N
EWS
C
ENTER
4 L
EGAL
A
NALYST
M
ORT
G
OLDBERG
. M
ONDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
13.

I’ve arrived in the office early Monday morning to prepare for a meeting with Bill McNulty and Hillary Payne. Ann was standing by the door when I got here. It’s always nice to find an uninvited guest waiting for you first thing in the morning.

“We spent yesterday down in the Mission,” I tell her. “We found somebody in the apartment where Johnny Garcia used to live.”

“That’s it?”

“This case is six days old, Ann. We’ve been going door-to-door in the area around the projects and near St. Peter’s. We’ll find more.”

“I’m not sure you have the resources to do this.”

“We’ll find out what happened, Ann,” I repeat.

“What time is your meeting with McNulty and Payne?”

“In an hour.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Damn. “I think they want to meet with your father’s lawyers.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“But you’re not representing him.”

“That may change. I’m coming to the meeting.”

I have no choice. “I’ll see you there.”

McNulty and Payne look like twins who were separated at birth as they sit on one side of the conference table in the corner of Skipper’s office later the same morning. There are papers and manila envelopes on the table in front of her.

Ed Molinari is at my right. His breathing is heavy. He has placed a legal pad on the table in front of him. He glares alternately at McNasty and at Payne. Ed’s ready for war. I’ve assigned him the role of the bad cop. He’s a natural.

Rosie pours herself a cup of coffee and takes the seat to my left. She’s prepared to cast doubt on every piece of evidence that we’ve been told about so far. We may not be able to stop the freight train, but we may be able to slow it down.

Ann is standing by the window. She hasn’t said a word since she walked in. Skipper has assured me that he has asked her to be discreet. I’m still concerned that she’ll disrupt this meeting.

We discuss the autopsy report and Sandra Wilson’s findings. Then I decide it’s time to see their cards. I ask, “Why did you ask us to come down here, Bill?”

“Your client is in extraordinarily serious trouble,” McNasty says.

Tell me. I try not to react.

“The police found some very disturbing evidence at the house,” he continues. “You really need to talk to him.”

“What’s the new evidence, Bill?”

He signals to Payne. Her eyes never leave the legal pad on the table in front of her as she says, “We found two sets of handcuffs in his study. They match the handcuffs found at the scene.”

I already knew about the handcuffs, but I don’t want to
let on that I’ve been talking to Roosevelt. “Skipper is the DA,” I say. “He’s a law enforcement officer. He carries handcuffs from time to time. You guys must have them, too.”

Payne’s lips form a frown. She picks up a manila envelope and removes three copies of
Hustler
magazine wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag. “We found these in his study, too,” she says. “And just so we’re clear on this, we law enforcement officers don’t keep
Hustler
around the house.”

Molinari jumps in. “You have no evidence to prove those magazines are relevant to this case,” he says. “There’s nothing illegal about having copies of
Hustler
. He may have had them to work on a pornography case. You’ll never get these into evidence.” He glares at her, as if to say “So there.”

Notwithstanding Ed’s heavy-handedness, it’s a legitimate point. His bulldog persona may prove useful.

Payne doesn’t even acknowledge him. She turns back to her notes and says, “We found a key to a storage locker at the Public Storage on Geary. We’re getting a search warrant.”

I knew about this from Roosevelt, too. “Suit yourself,” I reply. Hopefully, they won’t find a bunch of back issues of
Hustler
.

“You may want to check with your client to see what’s in the locker,” McNulty says.

I assure him that I will. I ask if they have any other information.

Payne holds up the index finger on her right hand and says, “One more thing.” She opens another manila envelope and removes three Polaroids that are enclosed in clear plastic bags. “Look at these,” she says as she hands them to me.

I place them on the table between Rosie and myself. They’re pictures of three young women, all of whom are naked and handcuffed to the posts of a bed, eyes and mouth covered with duct tape. “Where did you get these?” I ask.

McNasty says, “The top right drawer of the desk in your client’s study.”

Rosie says, “Those pictures have nothing to do with this case. They could have come from a case file or an investigation.” Or they could have been from Skipper’s personal pornography gallery.

Molinari leans forward and adds, “They could have been planted. This doesn’t prove anything.”

Payne is indignant. “They weren’t planted, Ed,” she says.

I eye the pictures. Without looking up, I say, “Did you find any fingerprints on the pictures?”

“None that we can identify,” Payne says. “The prints were smudged.”

Good. “Do you know anything about these women?”

McNulty points to one of the photos and says, “This is the same woman who was on the news the other night. She’s prepared to testify that Skipper used to pay her to tie her up and have sex.” He pauses. “The same way he tied up and had sex with Johnny Garcia.”

“You can’t be serious about building your entire case around this woman,” I say. “She’s a drug addict. You can tell from her eyes.”

Payne answers for him. “She’s in protective custody. She’s going to be clean by the preliminary hearing. She’s very bright. College degree. Just down on her luck.”

“We want to talk to her,” I say.

“Right away,” Rosie adds.

“We’ll make the arrangements,” Payne says.

“Mike,” McNasty says, “I want you to go back to your client and tell him about this conversation.” He hands me a duplicate set of the photos. “I want you to show him these pictures and I want you to take him a message. I’m willing to offer him a deal. We’ll take the death penalty off the table right now if he’ll plead guilty to second degree.”

Molinari says, “You’re out of your mind.”

McNulty taps his index finger on the table. “Look at the pictures, Ed. Think about how they’ll play in front of a jury. Think about this woman’s testimony.”

“We’ll tear her apart on cross,” I say.

“Maybe,” Payne says. “But if you do, the jury may become even more sympathetic.”

“It’s a good deal,” McNulty tells me, “and I’ll take a lot of heat if I settle for second degree.”

“He’ll never go for it,” I reply.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you have a duty to take our proposal to him.”

Skipper’s response to McNulty’s proposal is succinct. “Second degree?” he says. “No way!”

We’re all in the small consultation room in the jail wing. We’ve just sat through five minutes of invective from our client. We let him vent. It’s better to let him get it out of his system.

I ask about the handcuffs in his study.

“I’m a law enforcement officer,” he says. “I keep a few extra sets at the house and a couple of sets at the office. So does McNulty. So does Payne.”

Ed joins in. “What about the copies of
Hustler?”
he asks.

“I’m the district attorney. I have a unit that investigates pornography. I had a couple of copies of
Hustler
to study their advertisements.”

So Molinari had pointed out. It’s plausible if not persuasive. “What about the storage locker?” I ask.

“Just some old records from my law practice.”

“So we shouldn’t object if they want to search it?”

“Tell them to be my guest.”

“What about the pictures of the women?” I ask. “How did they find their way into your desk?”

We wait. Skipper holds up his hands. “I have no idea,” he says at last.

I try to give him an out. “You didn’t need them for a case, did you?”

“No.”

“Who else has access to your study?”

“Just Natalie and the servants.”

Molinari looks him right in the eye. “Skipper,” he says, “if there’s something you need to get off your chest, now would be a good time to do it.”

“I’ve never seen those women in my life.”

“He’s lying.” Ed Molinari is sharing his views on Skipper’s credibility on our way back downtown. “I’ve listened to his bullshit for thirty years. If you’re going to be a successful defense attorney, you have to develop some instincts for whether your client is telling the truth.”

Thanks for bringing that to my attention.

He continues to lecture. “The bullshit has gotten thicker in recent years,” he says. “He’s convinced those
Hustler
magazines were in his desk because he was working on a case. I’m sure he believes he’s never seen the pictures they found in his desk. When Skipper becomes adamant or indignant, nine times out of ten he’s lying. It’s very natural for him. In fact, he believes what he’s saying at the time. It’s part of his persona.”

“Why didn’t you call him on it?”

“You have to catch him red-handed,” he replies. “That’s the only time he’ll level with you.”

“I talked to Joseph Wong, the room service waiter at the Fairmont,” Pete says. We’re sitting in the dining room in my mother’s house at Twenty-third and Kirkham the same
evening. The fog shrouds the Sunset district. I can barely see the wall of the house next door through the small window.

My sixty-nine-year-old mother walks in with a platter of roast chicken. Margaret Murphy Daley is about four foot ten, with short gray hair and hazel eyes. Her full-time attendant, a young British woman in her early twenties, follows right behind her. “Eat your chicken, Tommy,” my mom tells me. About half the time she confuses me with my older brother, who died in Vietnam. I glance at Tommy’s picture on the mantel in the living room. He’s been frozen in time at the age of twenty-one. He was a star quarterback at Cal before he volunteered for the Marines.

“It looks real good, Mama,” I say as I take a piece of chicken and pass the platter to Pete. She and her attendant adjourn to the kitchen. I turn to him. “What did you find out from the waiter?”

“Very discreet. Didn’t want to talk. Been working at the Fairmont his entire life. Started as a kid. Straight out of Chinatown. Lives in the Richmond now.” Pete still talks like a cop. “Skipper had ordered breakfast the night before. Wong knocked at seven. When there was no answer, he opened the door and began to wheel in the cart. He found Skipper sleeping in the chair. Garcia was in the bed. He woke up Skipper, who called downstairs right away. Skipper tried to revive Garcia, but he couldn’t. Then the security guards, the cops and the paramedics arrived.”

“Did he see anybody else or hear anything?”

“Nope.”

This whole business is fishy. Pete says what I’ve been thinking all along: “None of this adds up. If you had just killed a guy, you wouldn’t go to sleep in the same room. You’d get the hell out.”

12
THE HEART OF THE MISSION

“We are attempting to balance the economic needs of the Mission District while still retaining its character. We are proud of our community.”

—F
ATHER
R
AMON
A
GUIRRE
.
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. T
UESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
14.

Ernie Clemente calls me at the office the next morning. “I found out where Johnny Garcia lived,” he says.

“Where?”

“The Jerry Hotel.”

I don’t recognize the name. “Where is it?”

“Sixteenth and Mission. Across the street from the BART station. It’s a dive.”

So is every residential hotel in the immediate vicinity. “What about Andy Holton?”

“He lived there, too.”

“Do you know where we can find him?”

“Not yet. I’m still checking.”

“I take it you aren’t prepared to reveal your sources.”

“That would be correct.”

I hit the End button on my cellular and punch in Rosie’s cell number. When she answers, I tell her about my call from Ernie.