Incriminating Evidence (50 page)

“Unmanageable” indeed. I like to believe that I’m not naive, but even so, the callousness stuns me. It’s as if Garcia were an
object
, not a manipulative, screwed-up, destroyed kid, and setting up sessions, procuring him for Skipper, was a straightforward business deal. Once Skipper stopped seeking out streetwalkers when he wanted sex and shifted to young male prostitutes, he just asked his old friend Turner to take care of it. To hear Turner describe it, you’d think buying Johnny’s services was no different from doing your holiday shopping at Macy’s. Business is business. What could be simpler? I can tell from Skipper’s face that he’s hearing it that way, too. And he must be seeing himself in the transaction as well; he looks shaken.

And does it make any sense? Even allowing that Kevin had reason to want Garcia out of the way, how could he have brought it off? “Let’s say he had a motive,” I say to Turner. “How’d he have gotten into the room? And how come he didn’t show up on the security videos?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he had a key. Maybe I left the door unlocked—when I left, I left fast. Whichever, he’s a shrewd guy—there’s nothing here he couldn’t have managed. And
I’m sure he knew how to beat the cameras—Garcia didn’t show up on the tapes, either.”

That’s plausible enough, and sure, Anderson had to find out what was going on with Johnny after those phone calls, but I’m still having a hard time moving from that to murder. “Okay,” I say, “I can see why he needed to check out Garcia. But he didn’t have to kill him. There are plenty of other ways Garcia could have been silenced—look at Martinez and his goons. Why would a man like Anderson take that kind of risk in a public place like a hotel? It’s foolhardy.”

Turner has an answer for this, too. “Oh, I suspect he didn’t plan to,” he says matter-of-factly. “I imagine it was simply a crime of opportunity. After all, consider what he found when he got there. Skipper was out cold. So was Garcia, his nemesis, the guy who was threatening to expose him for running a male prostitution ring—and not only him but his bankroll, Martinez. They’re prominent citizens. They’ve got reputations to uphold. It would ruin them both. And there are the other businesses, too, the heroin trade and all the money that was bringing in. I can see very easily why he’d take advantage of the moment. It all adds up.”

If you’re Turner, I guess it does. Christ—talk about cold-blooded.

I ask him whether there’s a way to prove any of this, and he shakes his head. “Not that I can think of,” he says in that same detached voice. “He’s too smart to have left any traces. And there weren’t any—we know that.”

So we do. And there were no traces to Holton’s death, either. Turner professes no knowledge about this or about the guy who slugged me at the Royan. But he points out that Holton, too, was a danger to Martinez and Anderson. “After all, he was the only other person who knew about the entire operation,” he says. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Anderson took care of him as well—got him some extra-strong heroin and set it up for somebody else to find his body.”

That somebody else was me. And it makes perfect sense. In fact, everything Turner’s said makes sense. He’s put it all together so clinically. He’s worked it all out—the dispassionate observer, unmarked by compunction, responsible for nothing.

And of course he’ll deny this conversation ever took place. “Where do you fit into this?” I ask him.

“I was just the lawyer, Mike,” he says.

Just the lawyer. He procured male prostitutes for Skipper, he set up the entity for the Web site, he helped Anderson and Martinez cover their tracks—and all it makes him is
a functionary
.

“I take it Martinez did fund the Boys of the Bay Area operation,” I say to him.

This time he allows himself a sardonic grin. “Absolutely,” he replies. “But no one will be able to prove it. I know how he operated. He always used cash. That’s untraceable. There won’t be any records.” He shakes his head as he says this, and adds, “There’s no way to know for sure what happened at the Fairmont that night, but I do know they’ll never catch Donald Martinez. Not a chance.”

Skipper is appalled. “You’re telling me the son of a bitch is going to get off again? That’s hideous!”

I feel the bile rising at the back of my throat and I want to protest, too, but I know Turner’s probably right.

“But you knew about what they were doing all along,” Skipper insists. “There must be
something
you can do.”

“My job was to try to keep everybody out of trouble,” Turner says bluntly. “That was it. I wasn’t involved in the operation of the business. I don’t condone their activities.”

Skipper gives him an incredulous look. “You’re telling me you’re clean?”

Turner says tersely, “Yes.”

“That may literally be true,” I retort, “but it’s horrendously
self-serving. You have just managed to deflect the entire blame to Kevin Anderson and Donald Martinez.”

“It’s the truth, Mike.”

“But you represent both of them.”

He nods.

“And you made the arrangements for Skipper to meet Andy Holton.”

“That’s true, too. I had no choice. We had an election to win.”

Skipper looks at his old friend and says bitterly, “I’m not a puppet, you know, there for you to pull the strings as you choose.”

Turner shrugs and says, “You were becoming reckless. You were going to get caught in a compromising position.” He turns to me and adds as if Skipper weren’t there, “Among other reasons, I took on the position of his campaign manager so that we could control the flow of information.”

I say, “And in your capacity as his campaign manager, you decided to make arrangements to help him fulfill his needs?”

“Yes. I made certain everything was done in confidence.”

“And when Garcia threatened that confidentiality, you played no part in arranging for his death?”

“No.”

No, no,
no
. He’s responsible for nothing—including the plight of his decades-long friend who sat in a jail cell charged with the murder of the prostitute Turner had secured for him.

Ann reaches for Skipper’s hand. She’s as angry as he is. “You’ve destroyed my father and you talk of being clean,” she charges. “You manipulate lives and assert your innocence. My mother is dead and all you talk of is how you controlled the flow of information. How
dare
you? How can you even speak to us now?”

“I felt it was the right thing to do,” Turner says blandly. “Your mother was a kind and generous woman. She left a legacy of good works. She didn’t kill that boy, and I thought you ought to know that.”

I can’t restrain myself any longer. “You sanctimonious ass!” I shout. “You talk of kindness as if you are fit to sit in judgment of Natalie or anyone else. You insult her memory and you insult us all—you, who could have prevented this living hell if you had chosen to speak up, to tell the truth.”

He sits there in silence, his face impassive.

I hope you burn for all eternity, Turner.

49
A FITTING TESTIMONIAL

“Mistrial declared in Gates murder case.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. S
UNDAY
, O
CTOBER
31.

Natalie’s funeral is held at Grace Cathedral the following Tuesday, election day. The dignified structure looks like Nôtre-Dame in Paris, except that the San Francisco version is in better shape. The stained-glass rose window above the main entrance always gives me chills when I walk in.

It is the saddest of occasions. The Pacific Heights crowd has turned out to say good-bye; there must be a thousand people.

Rosie and I go up to the front and express our condolences to Skipper, who is wearing dark glasses. He thanks us for coming and for defending him. His voice is barely audible. We offer our sympathy to Ann, who is next to him, her hands in her lap. She acknowledges our words with a faint smile, but her eyes are far away.

The minister delivers an eloquent eulogy to the silent gathering. He speaks of Natalie’s generosity and kindness. Her dignity. Her innate elegance. “She was an example for us,” he says. “She represented all that we should aspire to
become.” Skipper begins to sob. Tears are streaming down Rosie’s cheeks.

Ann walks to the podium. She thanks everyone for coming and for their tribute to her mother. “I want to announce to you today that my father and I are establishing a charitable fund called the Natalie Gates Memorial Fund, which will be used for the purpose of assisting inner-city youth,” she tells us. “We are each donating one million dollars to build the Natalie Gates Memorial Wing at the Mission Youth Center. When it is completed in two years, it will have the capacity to house at least forty young men who would otherwise be living on the streets of the city.” She looks around the vast cathedral. “It won’t solve all of the city’s problems,” she says, “but it’s a start.”

It is a fitting testimonial.

Ernie Clemente comes up to the podium to escort her back to her seat. As he embraces her, we hear her break into sobs.

At the end of the service, I turn and hug Rosie. We don’t say anything. We don’t need to.

After the service, we stand on the cathedral steps and watch the mourners file past us into the heavy fog. Elaine McBride is with Roosevelt Johnson and Ron Morales. They pause to say hello. McBride tells us the prospective attorney general has indicated that she intends to conduct a full investigation of the activities of the Mission Redevelopment Fund and the Donald Martinez Charitable Foundation.

It is ironic that Skipper’s opponent will handle the investigation of Donald Martinez. Word of the investigation received a great deal of attention in the papers. It’s all supposition at this point—the skeletons are probably buried by now. We’ll see.

“And Kevin Anderson?” I ask.

“We have him under investigation for running a prostitution ring,” McBride says. “The evidence is pretty skimpy at this point. We’re trying to persuade Stanford and Martinez to testify against him.”

Seems unlikely. Unless they’re both given full immunity, it would be impossible for them to testify without implicating themselves.

They head down the steps, and Rosie whispers to me, “They’re all going to get away with everything, aren’t they?”

“Maybe not,” I say without the slightest conviction.

Judge Kelly comes out a few minutes later and greets us. She declared a mistrial on Saturday. “You did a nice job,” she says. “You had terrible cards and you played them well.” She pauses and looks me in the eye. “Do you want to know?”

“Know what?”

“How the jury decided?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I know. But I asked the foreman. I was curious.”

“No. It isn’t important,” I say.

The judge nods and says again, “You did a good job, Mike.”

It’s drizzling as we head north on the Golden Gate Bridge. Rosie leans over and pecks me on the cheek as we reach the Paradise Drive exit.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“For coming to funerals with me.”

“You’re one in a million, Rosita Carmela Fernandez,” I tell her.

“So are you, Michael Joseph Daley,” she says, but I hear her voice crack and realize she’s crying.

I reach over and hold her hand tightly. “Rosie, what is it?” I ask. “Is it Natalie?”

“It’s everything,” she tells me. “This has all been so sad. So unnecessary. I’m tired, Mike and I feel so—so
hopeless
.”

I’m shaken. Rosie’s my bulwark. She’s always been the tough one in the family; she keeps me on course. I’ve seen her in every kind of mood: feisty, hardheaded, tender, angry, sardonic, but never before have I seen her ready to give up.

“You can’t lose heart, Rosie,” I plead.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a fighter. Because you have a brave heart. Because you try to do what’s right.” I reflect for a moment and add, “And if you lose heart, I will, too. I’ll be a basket case again, the way I was when we got divorced. Except it will be worse this time.”

This brings a grin. “Not that again,” she says. “That I can’t take. It was bad enough the first time.” I feel her straighten up as she adds in a stronger voice, “Okay, I’ll work on it. But you’ve got to work on it, too. Like it or not, we seem to be a duet—neither of us is any good dancing alone. So it’s all right to drive me crazy, but you can’t give up. Besides, you make a lousy basket case.”

She’s right on both scores, and I tell her it’s a deal. I’ll try.

Then she reminds me of the night I nearly crashed. “Remember when you said we needed to take a break?” she asks. “You were right—this has been no way to live, not for us and not for our kid. How about starting now? Can we take it easy for a little while?”

It’s a great idea. We could go somewhere warm. Do something fun. “What do you think about Hawaii?” I ask.

She likes that. “Yes!” she says. “Let’s do it right away. We can pull Grace out of school for a week. She’s never seen Hawaii. For that matter, we haven’t, either.”

I smile and say, “She confessed to me the other day that third grade isn’t really that hard.”

“Do we have any money left?”

“Probably not,” I reply. “We spent most of the Asshole Premium already.”

She chuckles. “Of all the lawyers in the world out there, I have to be partners with an Irish Seinfeld.”

“You wouldn’t want it any other way,” I tell her as we pull into the driveway of her house. Grace and Sylvia are standing on the porch, waiting for us. I wave to them and say to Rosie, “We can call the travel agent in the morning. Grace looks hungry. What do you say the four of us go out for some burgers and shakes?”

Rosie’s eyes light up. She tells Grace, who beams.