Incriminating Evidence (38 page)

He’s triumphant. “Indeed we did, Ms. Payne. For that kind of money, I couldn’t disappoint Mr. Morris and his campaign staff.”

“Objection,” I hear myself say. “Move to strike Mr. Hanson’s editorial comments.”

“Sustained.” Judge Kelly instructs Nick to limit his answers to the questions asked by Payne. The chances that he will do so are one in a million.

Payne asks Nick what he found.

“We found the defendant had an ongoing relationship with a prostitute named Roberta Hall. We saw them together on several occasions. I took pictures of a few of their meetings. Mr. Morris was very pleased with our work.”

Skipper stares straight ahead. Natalie doesn’t move.

Payne introduces photos taken by Nick and his sons showing meetings between Skipper and Hall. I object on the grounds that Skipper’s relationship with Hall is irrelevant to the case at hand. Judge Kelly overrules my objections. She seems intent on punishing Skipper. They project the photos
onto a large screen in the front of the courtroom. Skipper wasn’t very discreet.

“Mr. Hanson,” Payne asks, “were you at the Fairmont Hotel on the night of September sixth and the early morning of September seventh of this year?”

“Indeed I was.”

“Would you mind telling us where you were?”

“I was in Room 1503 in the tower. It’s the room across the hall from where the defendant was staying.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was keeping the defendant’s room under surveillance.”

“And how were you doing that?”

“We removed the peephole and we mounted a miniature video camera in the opening. We aimed the camera toward the door to the defendant’s room. Then we sat and waited.”

The jury is entranced.

“What time did you arrive at the Fairmont that night, Mr. Hanson?”

“A few minutes before eleven.”

“Was anybody with you?”

“My son, Rick.”

“And did you go straight to Room 1503?”

“Yes. We had to be careful, though. We didn’t want anybody to see us setting up our equipment. So we came in through a back door and we went up to the tower by the service elevator. We had studied the layout of the hotel. We were dressed as maintenance people.”

“How long were you in the room across the hall from Mr. Gates?”

“Until a few minutes after one o’clock.”

Payne pauses to gather her notes. “Mr. Hanson, did you observe the victim, Johnny Garcia, enter Room 1504 that night?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Indeed I did.”

“At what time?”

“One o’clock in the morning.”

“And did he enter the room voluntarily?”

“Yes. He was walking.”

“Was anybody else with Mr. Garcia?”

“No.”

“So nobody pushed him, carried him or otherwise assisted him when he entered the defendant’s room?”

“That’s correct.”

“And Mr. Garcia was conscious at the time?”

“Objection,” I say. “Asked and answered. Mr. Hanson has testified that Mr. Garcia was walking. Presumably, he was conscious when he was doing so.”

“Sustained.”

Payne doesn’t slow down. “Did the defendant open the door to let Mr. Garcia in?”

“Yes.”

“And did the defendant close the door after he let Mr. Garcia in?”

“Yes.”

Payne gives a glance to the jury. Skipper is chewing on his lip. “Mr. Hanson, did you happen to get this encounter on videotape?”

“Indeed we did.”

“And how did you get your videotaping equipment upstairs without it being noticed?”

“Our equipment is very small. It fit in a toolbox.”

Payne asks Judge Kelly if she can introduce Nick’s videotape into evidence. I renew my objections. She overrules me. McNasty pulls a TV and VCR in front of the jury. He pops a cartridge into the VCR. They play the video three times. It’s only about fifteen seconds long. First they play it at regular speed, then in slow motion, then at regular speed again. The jury is spellbound. It’s always good to give them
something to watch. Nick sounds like a TV announcer as he points out the highlights. He shows a man walking up to the door. The door opens. The man goes in.

“Mr. Hanson,” Payne says, “is it clear to you that the victim, Johnny Garcia, entered Mr. Gates’s room in the early morning of September seventh?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

It’s late in the afternoon. Judge Kelly asks me how long my cross-exam will last. I don’t want her to adjourn until morning. I don’t want to give the jury the chance to spend the night thinking about Nick’s testimony. “Just a few questions,” I say.

I approach Hanson and stand right in front of him. “Mr. Hanson,” I begin, “what did you do after you allegedly observed someone enter Room 1504?”

“We packed up our gear and headed out. We were on our way down the hall, when we saw Mr. Morris and his associate, Mr. Parnelli, in the doorway to Room 1502. We stopped and left the videotape with them.” He smiles. “Needless to say, they were ecstatic.”

“So, Mr. Morris and Mr. Parnelli were still in Room 1502 when you left?”

“That’s correct.”

“Do you know when they left?”

“No.”

It isn’t exactly a smoking pistol, but at least he’s placed Morris and Parnelli in the room next door after everybody else left. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “let’s take another look at your videotape.”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.”

I cue the video machine. I run the tape in slow motion. The courtroom is silent as we observe the man Nick says
was Johnny Garcia approach Skipper’s door. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “would you agree that you can see only the back of this man’s head?”

“I’d have to look at the tape again.”

I rerun it. The grainy tape shows only the back of the man’s head.

“It was Garcia,” Nick says.

“But you would agree that you see only the back of his head, right?”

“It was Garcia,” he repeats.

“And you would agree that it was dark and this was taken through a small peephole.”

He repeats it was Garcia.

Let’s try something else. I run the video one more time in slow motion. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “you can’t see who opened the door, can you?”

“It was the defendant.”

I rerun the tape one more time. “You can see the door open, Mr. Hanson. But you can’t see who opened it. You can’t see a face behind the door.”

He’s adamant. “It was Mr. Gates,” he says.

“Did you hear Mr. Gates say anything?”

“No.”

“Did you record any sound from this incident?”

“No.”

I give the jury an incredulous look. “This videotape shows nothing more than the back of a man’s head. It shows a door opening. It doesn’t show Johnny Garcia. And it doesn’t show Prentice Gates opening the door.”

“Objection. Mr. Daley is making a speech.”

Indeed I am.

“No further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”

Judge Kelly adjourns for the day.

—————

Outside the courtroom, Nick the Dick is surrounded by reporters. “Tough cross-exam today,” he tells nobody in particular. “I still think we made our points.”

I tell Molinari and Rosie that I’ll catch up with them at the office. I wait for the media horde to break up. I catch Hanson. “Nick, can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

We stroll to the side of the long corridor, not far from the elevators.

“Nice work on cross today,” he says.

“Thanks. I didn’t mean to beat you up.”

“You were just doing your job.”

So were you.

“It was Garcia,” he says. “And I’m sure it was Skipper who let him in.”

“Nick,” I say, “I want to ask you something. And I don’t know how to do this without being direct, so here goes—”

“I didn’t dummy up the tape, Mike,” he says. “I’m eighty-five years old. I don’t need to do that kind of stuff. It would be beneath my dignity.”

I think he’s telling the truth. “I thought so.”

“So why did you want to talk to me?”

“Are you busy the next week or so?”

“I’m always busy. Why?”

“Can I hire you to watch somebody for a few days?”

“A thousand dollars a day.”

“Deal.”

He asks me who I want him to watch.

“Turner Stanford.”

“It’s a deal,” he says.

38
“SEEN ANYBODY YOU RECOGNIZE?”

“Prosecutors Promise New Evidence Tomorrow.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
E
XAMINER
. W
EDNESDAY
, O
CTOBER
20.

That night, Rosie, Tony and I are sitting by the front window at the Pancho Villa, across the street from the Jerry Hotel. Tony has been coming here every night after he closes his shop. He has a regular spot by the window. He brings a book and tries to look like he’s reading. In reality, he’s looking out the window in a last-ditch effort to try to find my attacker. We’re going to have to do something very nice for him after all of this is over.

I’ve checked in with Pete. He’s still sitting in his Plymouth across the street from the Curtis Hotel. Nobody has come or gone from Room 204 in the last two days. He’s getting impatient. I’m getting frustrated. I’ve told him that if nothing happens in the next day or so, we’ll ask Ron Morales to pull the warrant he promised and find out what’s up there.

I take a bite out of a steak burrito. “How’s your head?” I ask Tony.

“Fine. How’s yours?”

“Okay.” I ask him whether the police have any leads on the man who robbed him.

“Nope. They won’t find him.”

Probably not. “You don’t have to come here every night, you know.”

“I know.”

Rosie asks, “Seen anybody you recognize?”

“I recognize everybody.” He acknowledges, however, that he hasn’t seen anybody who resembles the man who hit me or the man who robbed him. He asks how the trial is going.

“Not great.” I ask him how he’s getting along.

He takes a drink of soda. “I’m okay,” he says. “It’s a little lonely. I don’t get to see enough of Rolanda. She’s busy with school and the job.” A halfhearted shrug. “It could be worse.”

I ask him if he ever called his friend’s sister.

“No. Not my type. Are you still interested?”

“Maybe next time,” I say. Then I add, “You just need to give it some time. You need to make some new memories for yourself.”

He finishes his burrito and nods to the young man working behind the counter. “One more soda,” he says.

An attractive young woman enters the restaurant by herself and smiles at Tony. His eyes light up. He smiles back. “Hi, Louisa,” he says.

He introduces us to her and she goes up to the counter and places an order. “She’s Hector’s sister,” Tony explains. He adds in a whisper, “And she’s single. We’re going to a movie next week.”

Rosie grins. “That’s great, Tony.”

He grins back. “I haven’t been on a date in twenty-five years. I’m a little out of practice.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” I say.

“Things have changed since I was young. Will she be offended if I don’t ask her to sleep with me on the first date?”

I wink at Rosie. She gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up. “I think you’ll be safe if you take things a little more slowly,” I say. “Besides, if you ask her, Hector will beat the living daylights out of you. You can play it by ear. And don’t stay here all night.”

To my surprise, the lights are on when Rosie and I return to the office. We find Carolyn sitting behind Rosie’s desk, studying an official-looking document. She’s startled when we walk in. She takes off her glasses. “We have a real problem,” she says.

“What now?” I ask.

“The DNA reports came back,” she says.

“So? We already knew that Johnny Garcia had sex shortly before he died.”

“That’s true,” she says. “Now it’s been confirmed. The semen on the bed matches.”

“And?”

“Page three,” she says.

She hands me the report and I flip to page three. It says that they found Skipper’s semen on the bed, too.

I call Ann to let her know and ask her to tell Natalie. She says she’s coming right over. We’re huddling in Rosie’s office when she arrives. “This isn’t happening,” she says. She reports that her mother took the news of the DNA results badly.

“Is somebody with your mother tonight?” I ask.

“Yes. I asked Turner to come.” She pauses. “But she may not make it to court tomorrow. I’m worried.”

“What are our options?” Molinari asks.

“None that are good,” I say. “We can’t argue that Skipper’s semen was planted. That’s absurd. We can’t challenge the validity of the DNA tests; everyone knows they are reliable.”

“Maybe he can deny it,” Ann suggests.

There’s a great idea. Let’s just say the problem doesn’t exist and hope it goes away. “You know that won’t work,” I snap. “We’ll lose what little credibility we have left if we do so.”

She doesn’t respond.

I hold my hand up and say, “We have no choice. We have to admit that Skipper engaged in sex in that bed that night.”

Molinari asks, “And how would that help us?”

Rosie interjects, “That’s irrelevant. Mike’s right. If we come up with some absurd argument or look like we’re trying to hide it, the jury will turn on us. We’ll have to find other ways to get to reasonable doubt.”

I look at Ann, who says, “Father will never admit that he had sex with another man.”

“Maybe he’s going to have to,” I reply.

It’s almost two in the morning as we drive across the Golden Gate Bridge toward Marin County. “Do you think Skipper really had sex with Garcia?” I ask Rosie. The fog is heavy. The radio is turned to jazz.

“Do you have any other remotely plausible explanation?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I. Is there anything we could have done to have avoided this disaster?”