Incriminating Evidence (48 page)

“No further questions.”

Payne does not cross-examine him.

I recall Donald Martinez, who says that it is common in the produce business for large amounts of cash to change hands. He says that all donations to St. Peter’s were reported in the appropriate manner and that deliveries to Kevin Anderson’s office were for legitimate business purposes relating to a project they were developing together. I think I see a couple of jurors shaking their heads. Payne doesn’t cross-examine him.

Finally, I put Anderson back on the stand to explain the cash deliveries to his office. He insists that they were all made for legitimate business purposes. He acknowledges that although it is uncommon for him to deal in large amounts of cash, it is not unheard of. I look at the jury, but I can’t tell what impact, if any, all this testimony has had. Payne doesn’t cross-examine him, either.

“Any further witnesses?” Judge Kelly asks me after Anderson steps down.

I glance at Skipper and say, “No, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

She pounds her gavel.

Hillary begins her closing argument at ten o’clock. We lawyers like to think that if our closings are eloquent enough, we might be able to persuade the jury to do what we want. I’ve never bought it. Most jurors that I’ve talked to have said they’ve made up their minds well before the lawyers begin their closings. A juror in a murder trial a few years ago summarized things succinctly. “I didn’t believe a word you guys said,” he told me.

After weeks of playing the role of the aggressive prosecutor, Hillary tries for a folksy approach. After she finishes, I opt for a conversational tone. I feel myself walking around
the courtroom. I see the jurors’ faces when I try to punch holes in each piece of evidence. I suggest to them that the relationship among Martinez, Stanford and Anderson, and their respective connections to the Boys of the Bay Area Web site and Andy Holton, leaves them with ample cause to find reasonable doubt. A lot goes through your mind when you’re in the middle of a closing. You watch for signals in the jurors’ eyes. You monitor the time. You pace yourself. Suddenly, the clock on the wall says it’s almost noon. I glance at Rosie, who closes her eyes. I give the jury one last look. “I want you to look at the facts when you go back to the jury room,” I say. “I want you to deliberate. We have very serious issues in this case. And Prentice Gates’s very life will be decided in that jury room.”

I thank them for their attention. If the jury bought any of my closing, they aren’t showing it. I can’t tell. I’m exhausted.

Judge Kelly charges the jury right before lunch. She promised them a short trial. She is remaining true to her word. There’s nothing we can do now except wait.

Reporters surround me as I leave the Hall. Microphones are jammed toward my face. I offer the usual platitudes about the strength of our case. A reporter from Channel 5 asks me whether we plan to appeal. I tell her it’s customary to wait until the verdict comes down before we start thinking about appeals. The silver-haired sage from Channel 7 asks me how Skipper is holding up.

“Just fine,” I reply. He’s in better shape than I am.

“What are you thinking about?” Rosie asks me as we drive back to the office.

“Nothing.”

“Come on.”

“My closing.”

She tells me I did fine.

“Thanks. I’m not so sure.”

“The jury was with you.”

I hope so. We head east on Bryant and turn left at Third. I replay the trial in my head. I think of everything I would have done differently. I berate myself for agreeing to let Skipper rush into an early trial before we had the results of the DNA tests.

I feel Rosie’s hand on my cheek. “Don’t beat yourself up on this one,” she says.

“I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m drawn.”

“Maybe you should get redrawn.”

“Maybe.” I swallow hard.

“What is it?” Rosie asks.

“I was just thinking about Ramon.”

“What about him?”

“How tough his job is.”

“You should know.”

“I do. We just made it a lot tougher—if he still has a job.”

Rosie sighs. “You can’t blame yourself for that. Dirty money is—dirty. Donating it to the church is wrong, even if it goes for a good cause.”

“A lot of people are going to get hurt.”

“A few prostitutes and some kids on heroin may catch a break.”

“The prostitutes will still be there tomorrow. The kids on heroin will find their fix from somebody else.”

“You’re trying to take a drug dealer off the street, Mike. That’s a victory, even if he was a big benefactor of St. Peter’s. Why can’t you accept the fact that there’s no such thing as a perfect world?”

She’s right, of course. It doesn’t make me feel any better. We drive the rest of the way to the office in silence.

—————

That night, we’re in Rosie’s office, watching the local news on Bay TV In what might best be described as the legal profession’s equivalent of harmonic convergence, Mort the Sport Goldberg is interviewing Nick the Dick Hanson. The discourse is conducted at a highly professional level. “In especially riveting testimony,” Mort says, “prominent local businessman Donald Martinez was accused of funding a prostitution and pornography business in the Mission District. It was also suggested that some of the proceeds of the business were funneled to the historic St. Peter’s Catholic Church. The attorney general’s office says it will open an investigation. In a hastily convened press conference outside of the courtroom, Mr. Martinez denied all the accusations and referred the matter to his attorney. A spokesman for the archdiocese said the matter was being investigated and had no further comment at this time.”

Rosie turns off the TV and says, “This case has certainly touched some raw nerves.”

I agree. I ask her if she’s spoken to Ann.

“Yes. Natalie’s doctor has put her on stronger medication,” she tells me. “I’m worried about her. Ann’s going to stay with her tonight.” She looks at me and asks, “Are
you
going to be all right?”

“I hope so.”

She puts her hand on my cheek. “Would you like to stay with me tonight? Grace is staying at my mom’s.”

My stomach churns. “I’d like that.” I need it.

Rosie’s phone rings. She picks up and looks surprised. “That’s awfully quick,” she says. “What time?” She hangs up. “The jury’s back,” she says. “They’d decided to deliberate into the evening. They’re going to read the verdict at nine o’clock tomorrow.”

Wow. They’ve been out for only six hours. They certainly
didn’t waste any time, but I remind myself that short deliberations don’t necessarily cut either way. It is almost impossible to predict which way a jury will go. “Do me a favor,” I say. “Tomorrow’s going to be very rough for Natalie. Would you go out to the house and come with her and Ann to court? I have a feeling she’ll need you.”

“Sure.”

I spend a sleepless, stomach-churning night staring at the whirling ceiling fan in Rosie’s bedroom. My demons always come out at night. I barely slept during our divorce and custody hearings. Every time I close my eyes, I see all the faces: Skipper’s once charismatic glow reduced to a hollow pallor; Natalie’s once brilliant eyes, now virtually lifeless; Turner’s self-righteous smirk; Martinez’s confident facade; Anderson’s complacent grin; Ann’s icy stare. I see the pain on Ernie Clemente’s face and the resignation on Ramon Aguirre’s. I see fear and desperation in the eyes of Johnny Garcia and Andy Holton.

At four A.M., I look at Rosie. Even with all the trauma in our lives, she manages to sleep at night. I don’t know how she does it. I’ve always loved the way she smiles when she sleeps. She looks so content. Somehow, she senses that I’m looking at her and her eyes flutter open. She looks at me and says, “Go to sleep, Mike. Things will look better in the morning. They always do.” She rubs my back for a moment and then rolls over and goes back to sleep.

“I love you, Rosita Fernandez,” I whisper to her back.

46
“WE HAVE A SITUATION, YOUR HONOR”

“Prominent local businessman Donald Martinez denies accusations of funding a porn business and tax evasion.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. T
HURSDAY
, O
CTOBER
28.

Skipper, Molinari and I sit at the defense table. I look around for Rosie, but there’s no sign of her yet. She went to pick up Natalie and Ann. Payne and McNulty are talking quietly at the prosecution table.

Judge Kelly takes her place on the bench and studies her notes.

Skipper leans over and whispers, “What do you think?”

Beats the hell out of me. “Innocent,” I say.

Judge Kelly turns to me and asks, “Any last-minute issues?”

“No, Your Honor.”

As I’m saying this, I hear voices behind me and I turn around. A uniformed police officer is coming down the center aisle. “Excuse me, Your Honor,” he says.

Judge Kelly asks, “What is it, Officer Nevins?”

The uniform approaches the bench and says, “Your Honor, I apologize for the interruption. Mr. Daley has an emergency phone call.”

My heart pounds. I glance at Skipper, who gives me a
puzzled look. Did something happen to Grace? To Rosie? “From whom?” I ask.

“Ms. Fernandez.”

I turn to the judge and say, “Your Honor, if I could ask your indulgence for just a moment.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I motion Skipper to stay put. My heart is pounding as the officer escorts me outside the courtroom. He opens a cell phone and punches a button. “Ms. Fernandez, it’s Officer Nevins. Mr. Daley is with me.” He hands me the phone.

“Rosie?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on? They’re about to read the verdict.”

“Go back inside and ask the judge for a recess.” Her voice is shaking.

“Why? What happened?”

“It’s Natalie. She committed suicide last night.”

Dear God.

“It looks as though she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.”

My mind races. “Where are you?”

“At the house. Ann and I found her. The police are here.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Mike?”

“Yes?”

“There’s something else you need to know.” I hear her gulp. “There’s a suicide note. Natalie wrote that she put the GHB in the champagne flutes. Mike, Skipper didn’t drug Johnny Garcia—Natalie did.”

Jesus Christ. I hand the phone back to Officer Nevins and take a deep breath. Then he escorts me back into the courtroom. As soon as I walk inside, Skipper stands and looks right at me. I hurry down the aisle and put my arm on his shoulder. I whisper, “I have some very sad news. Natalie decided
to take her own life last night.” He slumps into my arms as I whisper, “I’m so very sorry, Skipper.”

The courtroom is spinning. I hear the buzz of the gallery, the banging of Judge Kelly’s gavel. Skipper is sobbing into my shoulder. Above the roar, I hear the judge’s voice saying, “Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

Skipper falls back into his chair. I see Turner coming toward us down the aisle. I realize Ed Molinari is standing next to me. I look at Judge Kelly and say, “May it please the court, we would respectfully request a brief recess. We have a situation, Your Honor.”

47
“MY VERY DEAR PRENTICE”

“The wife of San Francisco district attorney Prentice Marshall Gates the Third was found dead in her Pacific Heights mansion this morning, the victim of an apparent suicide. Her husband’s murder trial has been delayed while police investigate.”

—KGO
RADIO
. T
HURSDAY
, O
CTOBER
28. T
EN A.M
.

A caravan of police cars leaves the Hall of Justice and heads for Skipper’s house. Judge Kelly, Hillary Payne and Bill McNulty are riding together in an unmarked car. I’m jammed between Skipper and Turner in the backseat of a squad car. Ed Molinari is behind us in his Jaguar. The judge agreed to delay any further proceedings. For the moment, the trial is in limbo.

I hear the barking of the police radio. Two uniforms sit in the front seat. Skipper is staring straight ahead. He hasn’t said a word since we got in the car. Turner’s eyes are closed. He swallows every few seconds.

I fold my hands in my lap. I listen to the police band. I watch the cars stream by on Van Ness and then Broadway. It’s hot outside and the car is stuffy. I can smell Turner’s cologne. Time creeps.

There are a half dozen black-and-whites parked in front of the house. Skipper gets out first. Ann is waiting at the door and she hugs her father. I see Rosie standing behind her.

Elaine McBride and Roosevelt Johnson meet us in the
foyer and express their condolences to Skipper. The judge, Payne and McNulty join us. McBride tells us that Rod Beckert and a team from the coroner’s office are in the bedroom.

Skipper asks Ann what happened. She says Rosie arrived at eight. Natalie hadn’t gotten up yet, so they went to wake her. The door to her room was locked, and they knocked but got no answer. They kicked in the door and found her.

“Sleeping pills?” Turner asks.

Ann nods. “There was an empty bottle next to the bed.”

We stand in silence. Then Skipper takes Ann by the hand and they go into the atrium. I whisper to the assembled group, “We should give them a moment.” We can hear their sobs as we stand there. I look at Roosevelt and ask, “Was it a suicide?”