The 7th Canon (7 page)

“It’s OK, Lou,” he whispered. “I’m here. It’s going to be OK.”

A woman in blue scrubs with a stethoscope wrapped around her neck stepped around the partition. “You can’t be in here.”

“I want to talk to his doctor.”

“I’m his doctor. You need to wait outside.”

“I’m his nephew. His wife hasn’t been told anything, and she’s very worried.”

The doctor folded her arms. She looked exhausted. “Come with me.” She walked Donley back outside the glass doors into the hall. “Do you want your aunt to be a part of this conversation?”

Something in the doctor’s tone convinced Donley he did not. “No.”

“Your uncle has had a stroke.”

“I thought he had a heart attack?”

“His stroke was most likely associated with the heart attack, which was likely because he’s overweight, probably works too much, has high blood pressure, and doesn’t watch what he eats. At present, he has partial paralysis on his left side.”

“He’s paralyzed?”

“We don’t know to what extent his nervous system has been affected. Until we do, we have no way of providing a prognosis. He may recover full movement; he may not. He’s resting, but the shock to his system has been severe. On the positive side, he’s strong and relatively young. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be the most critical. His wife indicated he has no history of heart trouble?”

“He’s never had any problems. He swims twice a week.” Donley ran a hand through his hair. Lou had always seemed indestructible. “How bad is it?”

“It’s bad,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your uncle is intubated; he’s not breathing on his own.”

Gil Ramsey sat at his desk feeling as though he were being pulled in ten different directions. The press clamored for details on the arrest of the priest of Polk Street and on his apparent victim. His staff was prosecuting a highly publicized capital-murder case in the shooting of a police officer, and a speech he was to deliver that evening at a San Francisco firefighters’ annual toy drive sat unfinished on his desk. The toy drive would be a significant photo opportunity. Everyone loved firefighters. Everyone loved underprivileged kids. Together, they were gold to a candidate on the campaign trail.

The last thing Ramsey needed was for his door to open without a knock or a phone call from his secretary advising him he had a visitor. Only one person could get away with such a breach of protocol.

Augustus Ramsey stepped into the office resplendent in his three-piece, navy-blue Brioni suit, hand-tailored white shirt with black onyx cuff links, and Italian silk tie.

“Hello, Dad,” Gil Ramsey said.

“Good morning.”

Ramsey stood. “What are you doing here?” He tried to sound more pleased than annoyed.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.”

Not likely. His father had never “dropped in” anywhere in his life. Every one of his days was carefully orchestrated. Though retired, the former governor continued to wake each morning at five thirty, slip into his silver-blue Jaguar, and drive from his Pacific Heights home to the Bohemian Club on Taylor Street, where club members followed Augustus Ramsey like pilot fish. He swam laps, pulled on a rowing machine, and usually finished with a twenty-minute steam. After working out, his father ate breakfast with a CEO of a Fortune 400 company, a managing partner of a law firm, or some government official.

His father removed his raincoat and placed it and his umbrella on the stand-alone valet, a further indication this was not a quick drop-by.

“Unfortunately, I have a lot going on this morning,” the younger Ramsey said. “Can I call you later tonight?”

His father sat. “I read the paper. I know all about the priest. An unfortunate situation.”

Gil Ramsey thought that could be the understatement of the year. “Yes, it is.”

“So, how are you handling the press?” Augustus Ramsey crossed his legs. His shoes reflected the overhead lights. His political career had been as carefully groomed as his appearance. Having failed to achieve the ultimate prize, he had become determined that his son would not suffer the same fate. The attorney general’s office was the next step in his son’s ascent.

“For the moment I’m having my press secretary handle all inquiries. Once I know more clearly what I’m dealing with, I’ll hold a press conference, likely late this afternoon.”

“You’re being cautious.”

“I thought it prudent.”

“In light of the screw-up by your police, so do I.”

Ramsey didn’t bother to ask how his father knew about Dixon Connor’s unauthorized search. His father kept walnut boxes in his study filled with thousands of alphabetized three-by-five-inch cards containing the vitals of every significant person he’d ever met. Augustus Ramsey didn’t go to lunch or dinner with friends or family or share tickets to sporting events with them. That was a wasted opportunity. He invited contacts and potential contacts and learned everything he could, because he might need to call on them for a financial commitment or a political favor somewhere down the road.

“That’s one reason, certainly,” the younger Ramsey said.

“And would the other reason be the same reason that you’re still standing—because you’re trying to pull your foot out of your ass?”

That didn’t take long,
Gil Ramsey thought. But then, the “I told you so” comments never did.

“If you had listened to me in the first place, you wouldn’t be backpedaling now. I told you not to jump on the bandwagon and support that man or his shelter. I told you it was a disaster waiting to happen and an unnecessary political liability for anyone who supported it.”

Ramsey bit his tongue, in no mood to be lectured. “Times have changed, Dad. In this city, at this time, if you don’t support the special-interest groups you don’t get the support of the gay and lesbian community. If you don’t get the support of the gay and lesbian community, you don’t stand a chance in hell of getting elected.”

“Is that who you’re pandering to now?”

“It’s not pandering. It’s reality.”

“Reality?” His father paused as if considering the word. “The last time I checked, the gay population represented less than eight percent of the vote, and—”

Gil Ramsey turned his back and started for his desk. “I’ve heard this speech before,” he told his father.

Augustus Ramsey shot from his chair faster than a seventy-two-year-old man should have been able to move. He grabbed his son’s shoulder and spun him, then wrapped his meaty fist around the Windsor knot of Gil’s tie.

“Do not turn your back on me,” he said. “I will not be disrespected in an office that I prepared for you. And if you don’t fuck up this campaign, you’ll be sitting in Sacramento because of me. Do you understand?”

Gil Ramsey clenched his jaw. “Perfectly.”

His father released his grip and stepped back. “Good. Let’s discuss how you intend to handle this.”

Ramsey tried not to sound exasperated. “Handle what?”

Augustus Ramsey sat. “The priest.”

“He’ll be arraigned day after tomorrow.”

“What about the problems with the evidence?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Working on it?”

Gil Ramsey sat, resigned. “One of the lead detectives froze the building. The crime unit has obtained a warrant and will be returning to perform a further search and additional forensic work. I’m confident we can get the photographs and the murder weapon in under the Nix decision, along with whatever else forensics is able to gather.”

“And while a trial takes place, you give the press a daily opportunity to dig up every photograph out there of you shaking hands with a kid-killer.”

“I can’t go back and change history, Dad.”

“No, you can’t,” Augustus Ramsey agreed. “But you can mold the future.”

Crap, another of his mantras.

“Have you thought through what happens if you’re wrong, if you don’t get the evidence in? What if the police don’t find anything else?”

“They will.”

“You can guarantee that?” His father paused. “You just talked about the liberal special-interest groups running this city. Those same people are also likely to be your jurors. If you can’t get the evidence in, you’ll look like a jackass when you appear on television trying to explain why a guilty man just walked out of your justice system.”

Ramsey massaged his forehead. It would be a massive headache. “What is it you would have me do, Dad?”

Augustus Ramsey sat back with a contented smile. He folded his hands in his lap. “Get rid of the problem,” he said. “As quickly and quietly as possible.”

Chapter 7

December 23, 1987

Back in his office, Donley had the telephone resting on his shoulder, suffering to elevator music. A secretary had placed him on hold. He’d slept little, maintaining a vigil at the hospital through the night, then driving home to change clothes and get to work.

Donley had tasked Ruth-Bell with calling the courts to request continuances of hearings and pending motions. It was a sizeable chore. Lou appeared in court for one reason or another almost every day, sometimes two and three times. At least with Lou having suffered his heart attack in court, just about everyone at the San Francisco courthouse already knew about it. Donley had spent his morning calling opposing counsel to seek extensions to respond to discovery requests and continuances of depositions, mediations, and an arbitration. With the holiday, and a planned respite in Florida, Lou had no trials pending until after the first of the year. Thank God for small favors.

The elevator music ended. The secretary returned and advised Donley the lawyer apparently couldn’t be bothered to get on the phone. Donley suspected it was intended to avoid agreeing to continue the deposition of Lou’s client. Donley’s temper flared.

“No, I do not have time to wait for him to call me back,” he said. “During the five minutes I’ve been on hold, I could have finished the conversation with him three times.” Then, not wanting to take out his anger on the secretary, he said, “Tell him if I have to bring a motion to continue, I intend to put in my declaration his unwillingness to get on the phone, and I don’t think Judge McGrath will be happy about it. He and Lou worked together in the district attorney’s office. That’s right. So tell your boss that maybe he would like to rethink his position. If he does, have him call
my
secretary.”

He ended the call and picked up the next file. No time to suffer fools, idiots, or assholes, as Lou liked to say.

The file had a sticky note indicating Ruth-Bell had already confirmed an extension. He set it aside and stood. He’d meant to use the bathroom six calls earlier and could no longer put it off.

Ruth-Bell met him at the threshold looking and sounding harried, a wadded tissue in her hand. Her mascara had clumped her eyelashes, and the tissue had reddened the area beneath her nose. Wisps of hair shot off at odd angles from the massive bun on the back of her head. “The archbishop is on the phone. He asked about Lou. I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

Donley’s bladder wouldn’t make it through an extended telephone conversation, be it the archbishop or the Pope. “Tell him I’ll call him right back.”

“He said it was urgent.”

“So is not wetting my pants.”

Donley shot out the door and down the hall, thankful to find the single-stall bathroom vacant. In the grout of the tile above the urinal, someone had neatly printed:

Why are you looking up here? The joke is in your hand.

“Don’t die on me, Lou,” Donley said. “Don’t you do it.”

It had been Lou who convinced the San Francisco district attorney to drop the investigation into Donley’s father’s death. And it had been Lou who arranged for Donley’s mother, Aunt Sarah’s sister, to get a job as a clerk at the municipal court. Lou had also helped them move into an apartment in North Beach. Over the past three years, in between discussing legal theories and case strategy, Lou had provided Donley lessons on life. Donley had been reluctant to have children, uncertain what type of father he would make given the role model his father had been, but Lou had taught him that being a good father had nothing to do with the odd-shaped organ between his legs and more to do with the muscle between his ears.

Donley scrubbed his hands at the sink, splashed water on his face, and blotted it with a coarse paper towel before taking a deep breath and plunging back into his office.

“Ruth-Bell, get the arch—”

“His secretary is holding on line two.”

Donley picked up the phone and hit the second line. After a moment, Archbishop Donatello Parnisi greeted him with a baritone voice a bass drum would envy. Donley tried not to sound rushed but still cut corners as he explained Lou’s condition. “It will be some time before he’s out of the hospital. He’s also going to likely need rehab. But you know Lou; he’ll probably move the intensive care unit over here.” He hoped that would end the conversation. It didn’t. As the archbishop explained the second purpose for his call, a dozen thoughts rushed through Donley’s head.

“What time were you and Lou supposed to meet?” Donley asked, checking his watch. “No. Don’t do that. I’ll come. Don’t do anything until after we’ve spoken. I appreciate it, Archbishop. Thank you.”