Incriminating Evidence (44 page)

He’s flustered. “It’s standard procedure in our line of work to hire a private investigator to keep your opponent under surveillance.”

“And you would have had an even better story to tell if somebody found Mr. Gates in a room with an unconscious prostitute, right? And you didn’t want to take a chance that the videotape might be inconclusive, right?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Come on, Mr. Parnelli. You’re under oath. Maybe it was your idea. Maybe Mr. Morris told you to do it. You found a way to spike the two glasses of champagne during the meeting in his room, didn’t you?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

It’s the right call. I’m testifying again. I say with disdain, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Dan Morris is next. He smiles at the jury as he adjusts the microphone. He states his name for the record. “I’m a political consultant,” he says. He confirms that he and Parnelli left around one-thirty A.M.

I move right in front of him. “Mr. Morris,” I say, “you met with Nick Hanson at around one o’clock that morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” He describes the handoff of the tape. He confirms that he and Parnelli viewed it. So far, his story jibes with Parnelli’s testimony.

“There was a problem with the videotape, wasn’t there, Mr. Morris?”

“Objection,” Payne says. “This issue has been addressed.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Morris’s analysis of this evidence is critical.”

“Overruled.”

I repeat the question.

“There was no problem with the videotape.”

Wrong answer. You just contradicted your flunky. If you had said there was a problem with the tape, I would have asked you to describe it and you could have spun it any way you wanted. Now you’re going to have to do a more intricate tap dance. “Would it surprise you, Mr. Morris, to find out that your colleague, Mr. Parnelli, has testified that there was, in fact, a problem with the tape?”

He’s adamant. “There was no problem with the tape.”

“Well, that’s not what your colleague said.”

“My colleague must have been mistaken.”

Perfect. He’s just undercut Parnelli’s credibility. At the same time, he’s undercutting his own. “Mr. Morris,” I say, “Mr. Parnelli was quite certain that there was a problem.” I tell him Parnelli said that they could not identify the person entering the room or the person who opened the door.

Payne objects to my shameless recasting of Parnelli’s testimony. Judge Kelly overrules her.

“You had a serious problem, didn’t you, Mr. Morris?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You had a tape that was supposed to show the defendant inviting a prostitute into his room. However, the tape didn’t show the defendant or the prostitute.”

“That’s not true.”

“And you couldn’t have Nick Hanson testify that he was in the room across the hall, because he wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, right?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

“We hired Mr. Hanson to observe Mr. Gates.”

“I understand. But if the world found out that you hired a PI to sit in the room across the hall and spy on him, there would have been serious fallout, right, Mr. Morris? Spying on your opponent is bad politics, isn’t it? It looks bad to the voters, doesn’t it? Maybe you could have just planted a hidden camera in the defendant’s room.”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“In fact, Mr. Morris, you had nothing to show for that night, did you? You had an inconclusive videotape and the testimony of a private investigator who wasn’t even supposed to be there. Isn’t that about it, Mr. Morris?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.” Judge Kelly points her gavel at me. “Wrap it up, Mr. Daley.”

Okay. Let’s plant one final seed. “Mr. Morris, you had access to Mr. Gates’s room during the entire summit conference, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw the waiter prepare a bottle of champagne and two flutes in Mr. Gates’s room, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Morris, you were among the very last people to leave Room 1504, weren’t you?”

“That’s true.”

“In fact, you and Mr. Parnelli were the last people to leave other than Mr. Stanford, right? And you then moved next door to Room 1502, correct?”

“I believe that’s right.”

“Mr. Morris, it’s possible that Mr. Gates and Mr. Stanford were not watching you at every instant that evening, right? Especially after everyone had left. Perhaps one or both of them went to the bathroom at one time or another.”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Morris, you had reason to believe that Mr. Gates might be meeting a prostitute that night, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Then why did you hire a private investigator to sit in the room across the hall and spy on him? You must have known something was going on.”

Gotcha. He stops. “It is true that we had been told that Mr. Gates might be engaging in some extracurricular activities that night.”

“Mr. Morris, it certainly would have helped your candidate’s campaign if an unconscious prostitute was found in Mr. Gates’s room, right? In fact, you wanted to embarrass Mr. Gates so that your client would have a clear path to election as attorney general, didn’t you?”

“That’s preposterous.”

“And you had plenty of opportunity to slip some GHB into the champagne glasses that night, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely not.”

I pause and glance at the jury. No discernible reaction.

“Anything further for this witness?” asks Judge Kelly.

It’s as far as I can go short of accusing him of murder. That would strain credibility with the jury. “No, Your Honor.”

After a brief consultation with McNasty, Hillary decides not to cross-examine Morris.

Carolyn stops me in the hallway as we leave the courtroom for the lunch break. She hands me a thin manila envelope and says, “Remember El Camino Holdings—the owner of the domain name? This is a certified copy of the articles of incorporation.”

“I trust that you obtained this information legally?”

“Absolutely. I got it from the secretary of state. It’s a matter of public record. I didn’t even need to pull any strings.”

“That’s great. Who signed the articles of incorporation?”

She smiles. “Turner.”

“Really? Did you get any other information?”

“Not yet. There’s nothing else in the public records. It looks like he filed the papers with the secretary of state and has done nothing since then. The corporation is required to file a list of officers and directors but hasn’t done so yet.”

“It’s a start.”

“I want to testify,” Skipper says at the lunch break. “The jury expects me to testify.”

Molinari, Ann and I exchange glances. “We’ve been through this,” I say. “It’s a bad idea. I know you want to tell your story, but it’s too damn risky.”

“The jury wants to hear me,” he says.

“The jury doesn’t need to hear you,” I reply. I leave out the obvious argument that he’s already been caught spinning a web of lies. Payne will tear him apart if we give her the chance. “Let’s see how things go with Turner. Then we’ll decide.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

There’s a knock on the door. The deputy lets Rosie in. “Ann,” she says, “your mother isn’t feeling well. I’m going to take her home. Will you come with us? I think she’d like that.” As always, Rosie is playing her part in this ballet to perfection. They leave together.

Skipper looks at me and says, “We haven’t finished our discussion of my testimony.”

“They’ll tie you in knots,” I say.

“No, they won’t.”

Molinari points a finger right into Skipper’s face and says, “Yes, they will. Let me tell you something as your
lawyer and as your friend. They absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent
will
tie you in knots. And if you get up on that stand, you’re not just an idiot—you’re a stupid fucking asshole.”

I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

44
“GOOD AFTERNOON, MR. STANFORD”

“Defense attorneys for District Attorney Gates are expected to call their final witnesses this afternoon.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
D
AILY
L
EGAL
J
OURNAL
. T
UESDAY
, O
CTOBER
26.

Molinari and I walk past Turner Stanford in the corridor just outside the courtroom. If he’s nervous about his testimony this afternoon, he isn’t showing it.

We take our seats at the defense table. Skipper is brought in. The seats in the gallery where Natalie and Ann were sitting are now occupied by reporters. The society columnist from the
Chronicle
is sitting in the next to last row. Somebody must have told her that the residents of Pacific Heights may be airing some dirty laundry this afternoon. Judge Kelly bangs her gavel once and calls for order. The bailiff brings in the jury.

“Are you ready to call your next witness?” Judge Kelly asks.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I reply. “The defense calls Turner Hamilton Stanford the Fourth.”

Turner glides to the front of the courtroom. He glances at the jury as he’s sworn in. I’m not sure, but I think I see him wink at the investment banker.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stanford,” I say. When I ask him to
describe his occupation, he says he’s an attorney, political consultant, private investor and restaurateur. Four careers running at full throttle. Two of the jurors in the back row nod at each other as if to say “Not bad.”

I stand at the lectern and start with an easy one. “Mr. Stanford, you were a partner of Mr. Gates’s at the Simpson and Gates firm, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been neighbors for many years?”

Payne is already jumpy. “Objection,” she says. “Relevance.”

I try to keep my tone subdued. “I’m trying to show that Mr. Stanford and Mr. Gates are friends and former colleagues, Your Honor. I promise to show the relevance in a moment.”

“Overruled. Let’s keep moving, Mr. Daley.”

I look contrite. “Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Turner and get him to acknowledge that he and Skipper are friends and neighbors as well as former law partners. “And you are his campaign manager, aren’t you, Mr. Stanford?”

“Yes.”

I approach him. “You were at the Fairmont on the night of September sixth, weren’t you?”

He confirms that he was at the campaign rally and the summit conference. He says he left around twelve-thirty A.M.

So far, so good. I move in closer. “Mr. Stanford,” I say, “did you go straight home?”

“Yes.”

“And did you remain at home the rest of the night?”

He looks at Skipper, then at Payne. “No,” he says. “I returned to the hotel for a few minutes at approximately three twenty-five in the morning. Mr. Gates called me at home and said that he had a problem. He said there was an unconscious prostitute in his bed and he needed my help.”

So far, this squares with Skipper’s account. “Until you
received that phone call, were you aware that Mr. Gates had made arrangements to procure the services of a prostitute that night?”

“No. Mr. Gates’s personal life is none of my business.”

Bullshit. “You knew nothing about it?”

“That’s correct.”

He’s lying, but I have no way to prove it. “So you returned to help Mr. Gates?”

“Yes.”

“What happened when you arrived at the hotel?”

“I went to his room. I couldn’t see any signs of activity, and there was no answer at his door. I couldn’t get in, so I left.”

I try to act unimpressed. “So you decided to let Mr. Gates fend for himself?”

He doesn’t show the slightest hint of emotion when he says, “What else could I do, Mr. Daley? I couldn’t very well go down to the front desk and ask them to let me into his room because he might be in there with a prostitute.”

A smattering of laughter in the gallery. Judge Kelly pounds her gavel.

He’s holding his own. I need to try to knock him off balance. “Mr. Stanford,” I say, “you have an ongoing social relationship with Mrs. Gates, don’t you?”

Murmuring in the back. Judge Kelly silences the gallery with a frown.

“We’re friends.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you and Mrs. Gates are more than just friends?”

He holds his hands in front of him with the palms up and says with just the tiniest edge of irritation, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I move right in front of him. “I thought you might say that. I’m going to give you one more chance. Isn’t it a fact that you and Mrs. Gates are more than just friends?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“The witness hasn’t answered truthfully, Your Honor,” I say.

Before Judge Kelly can rule on the objection, Turner blurts out, “If you’re suggesting that we are involved romantically, you are badly mistaken.”

If you think you can get away with lying on this one,
you
are badly mistaken.

Judge Kelly overrules the objection. Turner issues another adamant denial. I turn to the judge and say, “We would like to interrupt Mr. Stanford’s testimony for a few moments while we recall another witness.”

Judge Kelly’s impatience is starting to show. “Very well,” she says.

“The defense calls Nicholas Hanson.”

Payne and McNasty look at each other in disbelief. Payne’s objection is overruled. Nick the Dick was supposed to be
their
witness. I overhear an exasperated McNasty whisper to Payne, “Whose side is he on?”