Incriminating Evidence (15 page)

“Do you plan to call the police?” she asks.

“Absolutely. That’s my next call. Do you think I’d go
there by myself and let Hillary Payne claim I tampered with the evidence? Where are you?”

“Tony’s market.”

“Can you meet me at the hotel in twenty minutes?”

“You bet.”

The area around the BART station on the corner of Sixteenth and Mission is a mixture of run-down two-and three-story buildings housing burrito shops, produce stands, fast-food restaurants and seedy hotels. According to a recent article in the
Chronicle’s
magazine section, there are fifty-six residential hotels within walking distance of the BART station. Most of them are on Mission and the surrounding numbered streets and alleys.

Sixteenth and Mission is the center of San Francisco’s heroin trade. It isn’t something neighborhood residents are proud of. They understand the problem and they don’t try to hide it. They acknowledge it can’t be fixed easily. The J. C. Decaux public toilet next to the BART station has become a center of commerce and is known as the Green Monster. People hop off the BART trains, buy their stuff and get back on. It gives new meaning to the term “one-stop shopping.” The Mission police station is just around the corner on Valencia. It doesn’t seem to deter the dealers. The area gained notoriety a few years ago when the son of a local rock star died of an overdose in one of the residential hotels on Valencia.

The sun hits my face as I come up the escalator from the underground BART station and look around the familiar red brick plaza, which is dotted with sad-looking palm trees and fenced-in shrubs. A Wells Fargo bank branch greets me as I reach ground level. At least ten people are lined up at the automated teller machine. Two young men ask me for money as I step off the escalator and turn toward Sixteenth. I glance behind me toward Mission, a busy street with a colorful array of
small stores, restaurants and produce markets. Tired banners hanging from the streetlights proclaim that we are standing in the “Heart of the Mission.” Cars and orange Muni buses sit bumper to bumper on Mission in front of the BART station. The street is too narrow to have any hope of keeping up with the volume of traffic. It’s a lively corner, but the assortment of homeless people, prostitutes and drug dealers would be intimidating to those who are unfamiliar with the territory. Things have changed a lot since I was a kid.

A large man wearing a dirt-covered windbreaker stands next to the Green Monster. He’s chatting with a middle-aged prostitute who is dressed in a short green skirt, a halter top and high heels. She’s been around the block a few times. Up Sixteenth, I see a bar called the Skylark, which used to be a transgender and gay Latino bar called La India Bonita. Now it’s a hangout for the young professionals who are moving into the neighborhood. Farther up Sixteenth, just past Valencia, is another popular yuppie hangout called Ti Couz. They line up on Friday night to eat crepes. It’s common knowledge among those of us who spend time down here that people in the hotels across the street are shooting up. The Mission has something for everybody.

The police have moved quickly. Four squad cars are already parked on Sixteenth, directly across the street from the BART station. A hand-lettered sign above a black metal door denotes the entrance to the Jerry Hotel, which occupies the top two floors of a decaying three-story building. El Pollo Supremo, one of those fast-food chicken places, is on the ground floor. Pete and Rosie are standing just outside the hotel entrance, talking to one of the five police officers who are cordoning off the area. I dodge the cars on Sixteenth and head toward them.

“They won’t let us in,” Rosie says. “Roosevelt and Elaine are upstairs. They’re searching the room. The evidence techs are on the way. They won’t be finished for a while.”

From all outward appearances, it’s hard to imagine that the Jerry was ever a decent hotel. I glance inside the open metal door at the steep staircase beyond. There is no lobby. The ceiling light over the entrance area reveals a urine-stained linoleum floor and flocked red wallpaper that must date back to the Eisenhower administration. I can make out two uniformed officers guarding the stairs.

Pete nods toward an African American man with a tattoo of a St. Bernard on his arm. “This is Ellis,” he says. “He lives upstairs.”

Ellis eyes me with suspicion. “Johnny was a nice kid,” he says. “It shouldn’t have happened to him. He was starting to get his life together.” His voice is an octave too high for a guy who weighs over three hundred pounds.

“How long did he live here?” I ask.

“A few months.” He says that Johnny worked at the Pancho Villa, the taqueria across the street. I know the place myself. It’s a hole in the wall with a long counter, industrial-strength Formica tables and chairs and zero ambiance, but I’m one of the aficionados who think it serves the best burritos in town.

“Did you see Johnny the night he died?”

“I saw him leave.”

“Do you know where he was going?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Was he by himself?”

“Yes.”

Ellis isn’t the forthcoming type. I ask him whether Garcia was walking or driving.

“Somebody picked him up in a car.”

“Do you know what kind of car it was?”

He holds up his hands and says, “No. I didn’t really see it. I was coming in as he was leaving. I said hello to him as he walked by. We didn’t stop to talk.”

“Would you be able to identify the driver or the car?”

“Nope.”

I’m not going to get any more about that, so I ask him to tell us about Andy Holton.

“Andy worked at the Pancho Villa, too,” he says.

Pete glances up the street toward the restaurant and asks, “What happened to him?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him in weeks,” he replies. He tells us that Holton is early twenties, brown hair and eyes, slim build. “I barely knew him,” he adds.

“Any idea where we might find him?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You might ask over at the Pancho Villa.”

“Is there any chance he may have been driving the car that night?”

“I don’t know. I told you I didn’t see the driver.”

“Did Johnny have any other friends?”

“He used to spend some time with a social worker—the guy from the mayor’s office.” He adds, “I saw him on TV at the funeral.”

Pete ponders. “Did you ever see the district attorney around here?” he asks.

This produces a chuckle. “Not in this part of town.” He tells us the Mission doesn’t attract a lot of attention from the DA’s office or City Hall. “The guys over at Mission Station do the best they can, but they’ve got their hands full just trying to deal with all the crack and the heroin.”

“Were Johnny and Andy lovers?” Rosie asks.

Ellis exhales. “I don’t know,” he says.

I ask if there is anybody else who knew Holton or Garcia.

“I didn’t know them very well. In this neighborhood, it’s better not to ask too many questions.”

A police officer interrupts us and says he wants to talk to Ellis. He tells Pete, Rosie and me that he has to clear the area
in front of the hotel. Pete used to work out of Mission Station. He still knows most of the beat cops. He nods to the officer and asks, “Did you guys find anything, Jim?”

The officer’s nameplate says “Meeker.” He shrugs and says, “I’m just trying to seal the area.”

Pete nods. “Mind if we talk to some of the other residents of the hotel?”

“You can talk to anybody you want, but you can’t go inside until I say so.”

I hand Ellis a business card. “Call us if you recognize anybody else who knew Garcia or Holton,” I say.

Later the same afternoon, we’re eating burritos with Pete at the Pancho Villa. The lunch crowd has left and the place is quiet. It didn’t take long to interview the residents of the Jerry Hotel once the police let us inside. All we learned was that Johnny Garcia and Andy Holton kept to themselves. Many of the residents have drug problems of their own. All of them were reluctant to take any role in a police investigation.

Pete takes a bite of his
carne asada
. “I’ll make the rounds of the businesses in the vicinity,” he says.

Rosie glances around the restaurant and motions to the young man behind the counter. He’s slim, with two earrings in his left ear. She asks him in Spanish if he can take a break for a moment. He comes around the counter and stands next to our table. She asks him if he’s seen Holton.

We see him freeze for a moment. “I don’t want any trouble,” he says in English.

“Neither do we,” she replies.

“Are you guys cops?” he asks.

“No,” I reply. “I’m a lawyer.”

“Even worse.”

Over the years, I’ve learned it’s better to let people take
their shots at members of my esteemed profession. “We’re looking for Andy,” I tell him.

“Why?”

I don’t want to say much to him. “We think he may have some information.”

“I haven’t seen him since Johnny died,” he says.

Pete asks whether Johnny appeared upset in the weeks before he died.

“Yeah. He and Andy weren’t getting along very well. They were fighting.”

“About what?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Does Andy still work here?”

“He quit about three weeks ago.”

I ask why.

“He didn’t say. He just left. I haven’t seen him since then.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

He takes a moment before he answers, “He’s an operator.”

“Is he involved in drugs?”

“He’s involved in a lot of stuff.”

“Do you have any idea where we might find him?” I ask.

“Ask around the BART station,” he says. A customer enters the restaurant. “I have to get back to work,” he says, sounding relieved.

I thank him for his time. “If Holton had anything to do with this, he’s probably left town,” I say to Rosie and Pete.

“Maybe he’s hiding,” Pete says. “Maybe he’s scared.”

Rosie crumples the tinfoil from her wrapper into a tight ball, tosses it across the restaurant into the trash can and says, “Maybe he’s dead.”

13
THE CHAMELEON

“Unlike many political consultants, I believe that there is still a place for ethics and values in politics. I am very proud of my work.”

—P
OLITICAL
C
ONSULTANT
D
ANIEL
R. M
ORRIS
.
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
D
AILY
L
EGAL
J
OURNAL
. W
EDNESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
15.

Early the next morning, we’re in Hillary Payne’s office, where the prostitute known as Candy is telling her story to Rosie and me. Her eyes are dull. “He paid me for sex,” she says. “He liked to handcuff me to the bed and put duct tape on my face.” Her dirty-blond hair cascades into her eyes. She’s wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her skin has a pallor you often see in drug users.

Payne is sitting in the corner. She’s giving us some leeway. The fact that she’s letting us talk to Candy indicates she believes her story.

“How long were you involved with Mr. Gates?” Rosie asks Candy.

“About a year.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Five hundred dollars a night.” Her eyes never leave Rosie’s.

“Why did you stop seeing him?”

Candy dabs at her eyes. “He got rougher and rougher. I was afraid he was going to kill me.”

A few minutes later, Payne intercedes and says, “I think you get the gist of Candy’s story. That’s it for now.”

The Mission Youth Center is housed in a fortress-like building that used to be a high school around the corner from St. Peter’s. Fifty boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen call the center home. Ernie Clemente’s staff provides counseling and services for over three hundred other kids. The facility has grown substantially over the years. Every penny that Ernie raises goes into the programs. A couple of years ago, he was able to purchase two of the adjoining apartment buildings, which he has converted into dormitory space.

Ernie’s small office is just inside the main entrance. His beat-up wooden desk is covered with piles of papers, books and magazines. He has an open-door policy. In fact, he has no door at all. He told me that he never wanted a needy kid to see a closed door.

In the ten minutes we’ve been sitting here, Rosie and I have watched dozens of teenagers walk past toward the dining room and the dorm. Although the place seems chaotic, Ernie runs a tight ship. He knows every kid by name. A tall boy with a wisp of a mustache pokes his head inside the office and says, “Everything’s ready for the basketball tournament.”

Ernie smiles. “Thanks, Rick.” He asks whether Rick was able to get enough food to feed the teams.

“You bet.” Rick heads down the hall.

Ernie’s pleased. He says, “He just turned eighteen. He was a heroin addict two years ago. He’s going to finish up at Mission High this year. He wants to go to college.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and adds, “You get a small victory every once in a while. That’s why I do this.”

“That’s why you do the job of three people,” Rosie says. Ernie’s overloaded schedule became a significant issue when
he and Rosie were seeing each other last year. He works twenty-four hours a day and he takes no vacations. It’s difficult to sustain a relationship in such circumstances.

“Somebody has to do it,” Ernie says. “If I didn’t, somebody else would.”