Special CircumstancesbySheldon Siegel A NOVEL BY

Sheldon Siegel

Chapter 1

A license to print money “Founded in 1929 and headquartered in SanFrancisco, Simpson and Gates is the largest full-service law firm basedwest of the Mississippi. With over nine hundred attorneys in eighteenoffices on four continents, Simpson and Gates is recognized as aninternational leader in the legal profession.”

—simpson AND gates ATTORNEY RECRUITING BROCHURE.

“For three hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I’d bite the heads offlive chickens.”

robert holmes jr.” CHAIRMAN, simpson AND gates CORPORATE

DEPARTMENT.welcoming

REMARKS TO NEW ATTORNEYS.

For the last twenty years or so, being a partner in a big corporate lawfirm has been like having a license to print money. At my firm,Simpson and Gates, we’ve had a license to print a lot of money.

At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the printingpress is running at full speed forty-eight floors above CaliforniaStreet in downtown San Francisco in what our executive committeemodestly likes to call our world headquarters. Our 320 attorneys arehoused in opulent offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank ofAmerica Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes upalmost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest testimonialto unimaginative architecture in the city skyline.

Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the size of abasketball court. A reception desk that is longer than a city bus sitsat the south end of the forty-eighth floor, and I can see the GoldenGate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosedconference room on the north wall. The gray carpet, overstuffedleather chairs and antique coffee tables create the ambiance of aclassic men’s club, which is entirely appropriate since most of ourattorneys and clients are white, male and Republican.

Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between Christmas andNew Year’s, our reception area is buzzing with a higher level ofactivity than most businesses see in the middle of the day. Thenagain, most

businesses aren’t the largest and most profitable law firmon the West Coast.

Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to shove my waythrough three hundred attorneys, clients, politicians and otherhangers-on who have gathered for one of our insufferable cocktailparties. I hate this stuff. I guess it’s appropriate I have to walkthe gauntlet one last time.

In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed in festivedark gray business suits, starched monogrammed white shirts and redpower ties. A string quartet plays classical music in front of theblinking lights of our tired-looking twenty-foot Christmas tree. Thesuits have gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d’oeuvres and paytribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall Gates III, theson of our late founding partner Prentice Marshall Gates II. PrenticeIII, one of many lawyers in our firm with roman numerals behind hisname, is known as Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firmtomorrow. The circumstances of our respective departures are, shall Isay, somewhat different.

After my five years as an under productive partner in our white-collarcriminal defense department, our executive committee asked me to leave.I was, in short, fired. Although the request was polite, I was toldthat if I didn’t leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven ofour partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that “a Partnerof the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote oftwo-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and heldmeeting of the Partners of the Firm.” In the last three years,fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have graciouslyagreed to resign. On Monday, I’ll open the law offices of Michael J.Daley, criminal defense attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-upbuilding in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco’s South of Marketarea. Welcome to the modern practice of law.

Skipper’s story is a little different. After thirty years as an underproductive partner in our real estate department, he spent threemillion dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win amean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even thoughhe hasn’t set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partnersare thrilled. They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppywork and condescending attitude. Hell, the same could be said aboutmost of my partners. What they can’t live with is hisfour-hundred-thousand-dollar draw. He has been living off his father’sreputation for years. That’s why all the power partners are here.

Theywant to give him a big send-off. More importantly, they want to besure

he doesn’t change his mind.

The temperature is about ninety degrees and it smells more like alocker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor, shake hands with twoof my former colleagues from the San Francisco Public Defender’s Officeand carefully avoid eye contact with Skipper, who is working the room.I overhear him say the DA’s office is his first step toward becomingattorney general and, ultimately, governor.

In your dreams, Skipper.

I’m trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a settlementagreement.

Ordinarily, such a document would be brought to me by one of our manyinhouse messengers. Tonight, I’m on my own because the kids who workin our mailroom aren’t allowed to come to the front desk when the VIPsare around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a tuxedoed waiter andelbow my way to the desk, where four evening-shift receptionistsoperate telephone consoles that have more buttons than a 747. I leanover the polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has anenvelope for me.

“Let me look, Mr. Daley,” she replies. She’s a twenty-two year-oldpart-time art student from Modesto with long black hair, a prim noseand a radiant smile. She has confided to me that she would like tobecome an artist, a stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. Ihave it on good authority that a couple of my partners have alreadytaken her out for a test drive.

A few years ago, our executive committee hired a consultant to spruceup our image. It’s hard to believe, but many people seem to perceiveour firm as stuffy. For a hundred thousand dollars, our consultantexpressed concern that our middle-aged receptionists did not look“perky” enough to convey the appropriate image of a law firm of ourstature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two receptionistswho were members of the male gender.

At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took place, ourexecutive committee concluded that our clients—the white, middle-agedmen who run the banks, insurance companies, defense contractors andconglomerates that we represent—would be more comfortable if ourreceptionists were younger, female, attractive and, above all, perkier.As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists werereassigned to less-visible duties.

We hired Cindi because she fit theprofile recommended by our consultant.

Although she’s incapable oftaking a phone message, she looks like a model for Victoria’s Secret.S&G isn’t known as a hotbed of progressive thinking.

Don’t get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I have nothingagainst attractive young women. I do have a problem when a firm adoptsa policy of reassigning older women and men to less-visible positionsjust because they aren’t attractive enough. For one thing, it’sillegal.

For another thing, it’s wrong. That’s another reason I gotfired. Getting a reputation as the “house liberal” at S&G isn’t greatfor your career.

Cindi’s search turns up empty.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Daley,” she says, batting her eyes. She flashes anuncomfortable smile and looks like she’s afraid I may yell at her.While such wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she doesn’tknow me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White House the last time Iyelled at anybody.

“Let me look again,” she says.

I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in front of her.

“I think that may be it.”

Big smile.

“Oh, good,” she says.

Success. I take the envelope.

“By the way, have you seen my secretary?”

Deer in the headlights.

“What’s her name again?”

“Doris.”

“Ah, yes.” Long pause.

“Dooooris.” Longer pause.

“What does she look like?”

I opt for the path of least resistance.

“It’s okay, Cindi. I’ll find her.”

I start to walk away. She grabs my arm. I turn and look into herperplexed eyes.

“Mr. Daley,” she says, “are you really leaving? I mean, well, you’reone of the nice guys. I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners neverleave.”

Cindi, I’m leaving because I have more in common with the kids who pushthe mail carts than I do with my partners. I was fired because mypiddly book of business isn’t big, enough.

I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy eyes andmake believe I am pouring out my heart.

“I’ve been here for five years. I’m getting too old for a big firm.I’ve

decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want more time forGrace.” My ex-wife has custody of our six-year-old daughter, but weget along pretty well and Grace stays with me every other weekend.

Her eyes get larger.

“Somebody said you might go back to the public defender’s office.”

I frown. I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years before Ijoined S&G.

The State Bar Journal once proclaimed I was the best PD in NorthernCalifornia.

Before I went to law school, I was a priest for three years.

“Actually, I’m going to share office space with another attorney.”Without an ounce of conviction, I add, “It’ll be fun.” I leave out thefact I’m subleasing from my ex-wife.

“Good luck, Mr. Daley.”

“Thanks, Cindi.” It’s a little scary when you talk to people at workin the same tone of voice you use with your first-grade daughter. It’seven scarier to think I’ll probably miss Cindi more than I’ll miss anyof my partners.

Then again, she didn’t fire me.

I know one thing for certain. I’ll sure miss the regular paychecks.

I begin to push my way toward the conference room in search of Doriswhen I’m confronted by the six-foot-six-inch frame of Skipper Gates,who flashes the plastic threemillion-dollar smile that graces fadingcampaign posters that are still nailed to power poles across the city.He is inhaling a glass of wine.

“Michael,” he slurs, “so good to see you.”

I don’t want to deal with this right now.

At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled out of solid rock, with aRoman nose, high forehead and graceful mane of silver hair. Hischarcoal-gray double-breasted Brioni suit, Egyptian-cotton white shirtand striped tie add dignity to his rugged features. He looks like heis ready to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to GeorgeWashington.

As an attorney, he’s careless, lazy and unimaginative. As a humanbeing, he’s greedy, condescending and an unapologetic philanderer. Asa politician, however, he’s the real deal. Even when he’s half tankedand there’s a piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudescharisma, wealth and, above all, style.

It must be some sort of birthright of those born into privilege. Asone of four children of a San Francisco cop, privilege is something Iknow very little

about.

He squeezes my hand and pulls me uncomfortably close.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” he says. His baritone has theaffected quality of a man who spent his youth in boarding schools andhis adulthood in country clubs. As he shouts into my ear, his breathconfirms he could launch his forty-foot sailboat with the chardonnayhe’s consumed tonight.

His speech is touching. It’s also utter bullshit. Instinctively, Ibegin evasive maneuvers. I pound him a little too hard on his back anddislodge the shrimp from his chin.

“Who knows?” I say.

“Maybe we’ll get to work on a case together.”

He tilts his head back and laughs too loudly.

“You bet.” I go for the quick tweak.

“Skipper, you are going to try cases, right?” District attorneys inbig cities are political, ceremonial and administrative lawyers. Theydon’t go to court.

The assistant DAs try cases. If the ADA wins, theDA takes credit. If the ADA loses, the DA deflects blame. The SanFrancisco DA has tried only a handful of cases since the fifties.

He turns up the voltage. Like many politicians, he can speak and grinsimultaneously. He hides behind the protective cocoon of his favoritesound bite.

“Skipper Gates’s administration is going to be different,” he says.

“The DA is supposed to be a lawenforcement officer, not a socialworker.

Skipper Gates is going to try cases. Skipper Gates is goingto put the bad guys away.”

And Mike Daley thinks you sound like a pompous ass. He sees the mayorand staggers away. I wish you smooth sailing, Skipper. The politicalwaters in the city tend to be choppy, even for well-connectedoperators like you. Things may be different when your daddy’s nameisn’t on the door.

A moment later, I find my secretary, Doris Fontaine, who is standingjust outside our power conference room, or “PCR.” Doris is a dignifiedfifty six-year-old with serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hairand the quiet confidence of a consummate professional. If she had beenborn twenty years later, she would have gone to law school and become apartner here.

“Thanks for everything, Doris,” I say.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll never get another one like you, Mikey,” she replies. I hate itwhen she calls me Mikey. She does it all the time. She absentmindedlyfingers the reading glasses that hang from a small gold chain aroundher neck. She reminds me of Sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher atSt. Peter’s. She looks at the chaos in the PCR through the heavyglass door and shakes her head.

The PCR houses an eighty-foot rosewood table with a marble top,matching credenza and fifty chairs, a closed-circuit television systemconnecting our eighteen offices and a museum-quality collection ofCurrier and Ives lithographs. Six presidents, eight governors andcountless local politicians have solicited campaign funds in this veryroom. Thirty expandable aluminum racks holding hundreds of carefullylabeled manila folders containing legal documents cover the table. Theroom is littered with paper, coffee cups, half-eaten sandwiches, legalpads and cellular phones. It looks like mission control before a spaceshuttle launch. The grim faces of the fifty people scattered in smallgroups in the PCR are in contrast to the forced smiles at Skipper’sparty outside. Nobody is admiring the lithographs.

“How is Bob’s deal going?” I ask.

“Not so well,” she replies. Doris. Ever the diplomat. She’s workedfor Bob Holmes, the head of our corporate department, for about twentyyears. In every law firm, there’s one individual with a huge book ofbusiness and an even bigger ego whose sole purpose is to make everyoneelse miserable.

Bob is our resident nine-hundred-pound gorilla. Hiseight-million-dollar book of business lets him do pretty much whateverhe wants. For the most part, he’s content to sit on our executivecommittee, torture his associates and whine. Last year he took home amillion three hundred thousand. Not bad for a short kid from the wrongside of the tracks in Wilkes-Barre.

Although my partners find itdifficult to agree on anything, they’re willing to acknowledge that Bobis a flaming asshole.

Whenever a big deal is coming down at S&G, the PCR is the stage and Bobplays the lead. At the moment, he’s screaming into a cellular phone.He hasn’t slept in three days, and it shows. He’s in his late forties,but with his five-seven frame holding 230 pounds, his puffy red faceand jowls make him look at least sixty. Although some of us rememberwhen his hair was gray, it’s now dyed an unnatural shade oforange-brown that he combs over an expanding bald spot. On his bestdays, he storms through our office with a pained expression suggestinghe’s battling a perpetual case of hemorrhoids.

Tonight the grimace iseven more pronounced.

I share Doris with Bob and a first-year associate named Donna Williams,who spends all of her waking hours in our library preparing memorandaon esoteric legal issues. It may seem odd that a heavy hitter like Bobhas to share a secretary. However, by executive committee flat, everyattorney (including immortals) must share a secretary with two others.This means Bob gets ninety-nine percent of Doris’s time, I get onepercent and Donna gets nothing.

From the firm’s perspective, this allocation is entirely appropriate.Bob runs the firm, I’m on my way out the door and Donna isirrelevant.

“Doris, can you still take the day off tomorrow?” I ask.

She sighs.

“Doesn’t look good. I was hoping I’d get some time with Jenny.”

She’s a single mom. Never been married. Her daughter is a senior atStanford.

“I saw her earlier today,” I say.

“Sounded like she had a cold.”

“You know how it is. Spend your whole life worrying about yourkids.”

Don’t I know.

“Any chance you got my bills out?” Ordinarily, I don’t sweatadministrative details like bills and time sheets. However, if mybills don’t go out on time, the firm will withhold my paycheck. It’sour only absolute rule. No bills—

no paycheck—no exceptions. Youdon’t become the biggest law firm in California if you aren’t carefulabout money. Doris has long been convinced my lackadaisical attitudewould do irreparable harm to S&G’s finely tuned money machine.

“I got them into the last mail run,” she says.

Relief.

“You’re still the best. Are you sure you won’t come work for me?”

“You can’t afford me, Mikey.”

The door to the PCR opens and a blast of stale air hits me. JoelFriedman, a harried-looking corporate associate, steps outside. Hiscollar is unbuttoned and the bags under his eyes extend halfway downhis cheeks.

“Doris,” he says, “are you going to be here for a while?”

“Just for a few more minutes,” she replies.

Joel is sort of a Jewish Ward Cleaver. He’s an excellent attorney witha terrific wife and twin six-year-old boys. He’s thirty-eight, a trimfive-nine.

His father is the rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom in the Richmond District.Joel left the yeshiva after two years and went to my alma mater, UCBerkeley’s Boalt Law School. He graduated second in his class andjoined S&G seven years ago.

His brown hair is graying, the bald spot he tries to hide is gettinglarger and his tortoiseshell glasses give him a rabbinical look which,in the circumstances, is entirely appropriate. In Yiddish, he would bedescribed as a mensch, which means an honorable man. He’s also my bestfriend.

“Is your deal going to close?” I ask. He’s up for partner this year.If his deal closes, he’s a shoo-in. He modestly describes his job asthanklessly walking behind Bob Holmes and sweeping up the debris. Inreality, he does all the work and Bob takes the credit. Frankly, he’sthe last line of defense between Bob and our malpractice carrier.

“It’s all fucked up,” he says. Like many attorneys, he holds themisguided belief that he’s more convincing if he peppers his speechwith four-letter words. Very unbecoming for the rabbi’s son. He nodsin the direction of our client, Vince Russo, an oily-looking man aboutJoel’s age who has jammed his Jabba the Hutt torso into the chair atthe table next to Holmes.

“The closing depends on him,” he says.

“He’s supposed to be selling his father’s business, but he’s havingsecond thoughts. He thinks he can get a higher price if he can line upanother buyer.”

I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Russo. From what I’ve read,he’s run his father’s real-estate investment conglomerate into theground.

“Why doesn’t he pull out?” I ask.

“His creditors will force him into bankruptcy. He’s jerked them aroundsince his father died. They aren’t going to wait around for anotheryear or two.”

I gaze at the frenzy in the PCR.

“Looks like you could use some help.”

“As usual, I’m not getting much.” He glances at Diana Kennedy, aglamorous twenty-nine-year-old associate with deep blue eyes, stylishblond hair and a beautiful figure that reflects a lot of time at thegym.

She’s the only person in the room who looks presentable. Shealways does.

She’s a rising star.

“Things might go a little faster if Diana would focus a little more onwork,”

he says.

Doris looks away. If you believe the firm’s gossip mongers Bob Holmesand

Diana Kennedy have been sleeping together for the last year or so.I don’t know for sure.

“To top everything off,” Joel says, “Bern showed up an hour ago andserved Bob with divorce papers.”

I grin. Beth is Bob’s soon-to-be-fourth ex-wife. It’s twisted, but Isilently rejoice at his latest marital failure. I’m sorry I won’t bearound to witness the fallout. His last divorce was spectacular.

Instinctively, Doris comes to Bob’s defense.

“She could have waited,” she says indignantly. It’s funny. Bob hasbeen treating Doris like dirt for about twenty years. They fight likecats and dogs all day, yet she’s always the first to defend him.

I opt to change the subject.

“Why doesn’t Bob get Russo to take his chances in bankruptcy?”

Joel’s eyes twinkle.

“Because we won’t get paid. Do you know how much Russo owes us?”

I shake my head.

“A million bucks?”

“Try fifteen million.” I’m stunned. His grin widens.

“If you’re going to start your own firm, you should learn a little moreabout this financial stuff. We’re doing this deal for a contingencyfee. We get paid_

only if it closes. It’s in the escrow instructions.We get twelve million at the closing.”

“I thought you said he owes us fifteen.”

“He does.”

“But you said we’re getting only twelve.”

“We are.”

I’m confused.

“Who gets the other three?”

“Guess.”

I shake my head.

“Who gets it?” I demand.

Doris nods knowingly.

“Bob does,” she replies calmly.

“No way,” I say.

“He can’t siphon off a threemillion-dollar personal gratuity.

It’s against firm policy. The fees belong to the firm. Some of thatmoney belongs to me.”

Joel laughs.

“It’s been approved by the executive committee. That’s why Bob willpull every string to get this deal to close.”

As he says the word “close,” we see Russo’s eyes getting as big asmanhole covers and his face turning bright crimson.

“Stand back,” Joel says.

“Mount Russo is about to erupt.”

Russo clumsily squeezes out of his chair on the second try and stormstoward us. He slams his three-hundred-pound frame against the glassdoor. When he’s halfway out, he turns around and faces the roomful ofapprehensive eyes.

“Another forty fucking million?” he shrieks.

“How the fuck am I supposed to afford another forty fucking million?Why the fuck do I pay you fucking lawyers?”

The party outside goes silent. Skipper looks mortified. Russo waddlesoff down the hall.

I look at Joel and Doris.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

Doris shrugs and says she has to go back to work.

Joel winks.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he dead pans “but it seems there’s been amodest reduction in the purchase price. It’s such a pleasure workingwith our highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art corporate clients.” Hearches his eyebrows.

“I think we could use a glass of wine.”

Chapter 2

We May have a little Problem with the Closing.

“People think being administrative partner is a boring, thankless job.I disagree. The administrative partner is the glue that holds the firmtogether as an institution.”

—simpson AND gates administrative partner charles stern. welcoming REMARKS TO

NEW ATTORNEYS.

A few minutes later, I am sitting in a sterile conference room on theforty fifth floor, where my partner, Charles Stern, has called ameeting of our associates. For the last ten years, Charles has heldthe boring, thankless job of serving as our administrative partner, aposition for which he is uniquely suited. A terminally morose taxattorney, his unnaturally pasty complexion,

pronounced widow’s peak andemaciated physique make him look considerably older than fifty-five. Heviews the Internal Revenue Code as akin to the Bible. He always refersto it as the Good Book. Likewise, he calls the 1986 Tax Act theSatanic Verses, because it took away many of his favorite tax-avoidanceschemes. At S&G, we call what he does creative tax planning. Outthere in the real world, most people would say he helps his clientsengage in varying degrees of tax fraud.

In addition to his modest tax practice, he devotes most of his time toserving on virtually every firm committee, thereby bringing order tothe chaos that would ensue without his steady hand. He has alsoappointed himself as the financial conscience of the firm, and reviewseach and every expense report and check request before any of ourhard-earned cash goes out the door. He handles personnel matters andinsists on being present when anyone is fired.

He seems to takeparticular pleasure in this aspect of his job. He’s known as the GrimReaper.

Except for light reading of the Daily Tax Report, the only joy in hislife seems to be the production of an endless stream of memos on everyimaginable administrative subject, and some that are unimaginable.

Mylife would be a hollow, empty shell without at least one missive everyday about procedures, time sheets and expense reimbursements.

He insists that everyone call him Charles. Not Charlie. Not Chuck.Charles.

An unseemly annual hazing ritual takes place when Bob Holmessends an unsuspecting new associate to visit “Charlie.” Last year, Ihad to intervene to prevent Stern from firing an associate on her thirdday.

A couple of years ago, in a meeting with the associates, my mouthshifted into gear while my brain was still idling, and I sarcasticallydubbed him Chuckles.

Naturally, everyone now refers to him by that name.

I have been invited to the meeting because I have served as the liaisonpartner for five years and Chuckles wants to make a presentation to theassociates. As liaison partner, I have had the joyous task ofaddressing the concerns of our associates. It’s thesecond-most-thankless job at the firm, behind administrative partner.The title of liaison partner goes to the most junior partner whodoesn’t have the practice or the balls to say no. If there’s a shoewith dog shit on it, I seem to be wearing it.

Everybody hates the liaison partner. With good reason, I might add.The associates hate me because they think I’m a toady for the partners.They’re

right. The partners hate me because starting salaries are morethan ninety thousand dollars. Nice piece of change for a kid right outof law school. In fairness to yours truly, our salaries are the sameas every other big firm in the city. The managing partners of the bigfirms get together every year to decide how much money the newattorneys will make. In other industries, this would be calledprice-fixing. It’s not fair to blame me because the managing partnershave had a collective brain cramp for the last ten years and decided togrossly overpay baby lawyers. Then again, nobody said life is supposedto be fair.

Our offices are hooked up by conference telephone call, so this meetingis a bad sign. Cood news is communicated by closed-circuit television.The lack of refreshments is even more ominous. We’re incapable ofholding a meeting without an assortment of sodas, bottled water,cheese, crackers and fruit. On extraordinarily festive occasions, weget cookies.

Of the fifty associates, only five are women and just one is black.Although Chuckles doesn’t know it, the black associate has accepted ajob at another firm, and will give notice after he gets his bonustomorrow. The seating is always the same. Chuckles sits at one end ofthe table and everybody else (including me) sits as far away from himas possible. He looks somewhat sad and lonely at the other end of thetable. He clears his throat. Joel slides into the seat to myimmediate right.

“May I have your attention, please?” Chuckles says. He’s wearing hisgray Men’s Wearhouse suit and his blue polka-dot tie has a strangleholdaround his neck.

The room becomes silent. He glances uncomfortably over the top of hisreading glasses. He looks my way and his thin lips contort to form thepained expression that suggests he’s trying to smile. I fear he’llcackle at me. He takes off his reading glasses with uncharacteristicanimation and says, “Before we start, I want to thank Mike Daley forhis hard work on associate issues.”

Relief, followed by acute embarrassment.

“As you know,” he continues, “Mike’s last day is tomorrow. On behalfof everybody in this room, I want to wish Mike the very best.”

My face is red and my neck is burning. I nod politely and smile as theassociates dutifully pat their hands together in quiet applause.

He puts his reading glasses back on. His eyes never leave his legalpad.

“The partners asked me to update you on certain issues considered bythe

executive committee. After discussion with our consultant, we havemade some important decisions. I want to assure you we have reviewedthese issues very carefully and acted fairly and in the best interestsof the firm as an institution.”

I just love it when he refers to the firm as an institution. I can’thelp myself and I grin. I’ve placed a legal pad between Joel and me. Ijot a note that says, “Hold on to your wallet.”

Stern’s eyes are still glued to his notes.

“Effective immediately,” he drones, “associates will be considered forelection to the partnership after eight and a half years at the firm,instead of seven years, as is current policy.” He looks up for afraction of a second to see if an insurrection is brewing.

Joel writes “Bullshit” on the pad and interrupts him.

“Excuse me, Charles,” he says.

“May we assume that those of us who are up for partner this year willbe grandfathered in under the old rules, and that we will be consideredthis year?”

Chuckles closes the small lizardlike slits he uses for eyes. He takesoff his glasses and furrows his brow.

“Joel,” he says slowly, “did Bob talk to “Nope.”

Long pause. He twirls the glasses. The telltale “oh shit”expression.

“Joel,” he implores, “let’s talk about this after the meeting.” It’sfun to watch Chuckles tap-dance.

Joel’s eyes light up. He barks in his best lawyerly “don’t fuck withme”

voice, “I think we should talk about this right now. Am I up forpartner or not?”

Chuckles sighs.

“You’re not. And Bob was supposed to talk to you about it.”

Chuckles usually doesn’t have to face the music from the associates.Joel isn’t backing off.

“Well, he didn’t,” he snaps.

“This stinks. We will talk after the meeting. Before we do, maybe youshould explain why the associates shouldn’t have their resumes out onthe street tomorrow morning.”

We’ve always had great finesse with these touchy-feely human-relationsissues.

On go the glasses. Chuckles finds his place and continues reading.

“In addition, the firm will not be in a position to pay associatebonuses this year.”

There’s an audible gasp. He looks up at dumbfounded faces. Themore-senior associates are expecting bonuses in excess of thirtythousand dollars.

He’s astute enough to realize he’s in trouble. Hemakes the correct move and returns to the script.

“I want to assure you these decisions were made after carefuldeliberation and represent the unanimous view of the executivecommittee as to what is fair and what constitutes the best interests ofthe firm as an institution.”

At times like this, I’ve tried to defuse the tension with a wisecrack.Tonight, I figure it’s time for Chuckles to start getting used toworking without a net.

I write another note to Joel that says, “Now, the explanation.”

“By way of explanation,” Chuckles says, “the partners wanted me to makeit clear that these decisions were not made for economic reasons. Thefinancial health of the firm is excellent.”

Bad move. If we’re doing so great, it means the partners have decidedto keep more money for themselves. I don’t necessarily have a problemwith this because it means my last draw check will be a little bigger.On the other hand, if we aren’t doing great, he’s lying. Either way,the associates are getting screwed.

And they know it.

“With respect to the partnership track,” he says, “we have decided itwould be beneficial to give each associate additional time to workwith as many partners as possible.”

Right. It’s not like we’re just pulling up the ladder.

“With respect to bonuses,” he continues, “we have expended substantialsums to upgrade our computers, a decision made in response to concernsexpressed by our younger attorneys. We believe it is in the firm’slongterm financial interests to pay for our new equipment as soon aspossible. We realize this may not be the most popular decision, but webelieve the computer enhancement is in the best interests of the firmas an institution.”

Especially if the associates pay for it.

The associates turn toward Joel, who has been their spokesman for thelast few years. He takes the cue. He writes a note that says, “Watchthis.” He stands, looks at Chuckles and says, “You realize, Charles,that what you just said is complete and utter bullshit?” Withoutwaiting for a response, he

pushes his chair back and calmly walks outof the room.

Chuckles looks over the top of his reading glasses. Sensing the moodis not good, he asks for questions. He pauses for at least a fullsecond before he gathers his notes and practically sprints from theroom. The meeting lasted less than five minutes.

When I return to my office a few minutes later, the gruff voice ofArthur Patton, our managing partner and chairman of the three-man starchamber we call our executive committee, or X-Com, summons me from myvoice mail. As usual, he never wastes a word.

“Michael, Arthur Patton. Come to the executive conference room ASAP.”It would never occur to him that I may not be available.

I walk downstairs to our “executive” conference room, which is locatedon the north wall of the forty-sixth floor in an office that oncebelonged to Skipper’s father. When he died, a cat fight broke out.Skipper laid claim to the office by birthright. Bob Holmes said he wasentitled to it because he had the biggest book of business. ArthurPatton said he should get it just because he’s Patton. After threeweeks of backbiting, Chuckles Stern implemented what is now known asthe Great Compromise, and the office was converted into a conferenceroom. My suggestion of a “one potato, two potato” marathon wasdismissed.

The room has a marble conference table, ten black leather chairs and aview of the Golden Gate Bridge. Portraits of our founding partnershang on the west wall and portraits of our current X-Com—Patton,Chuckles and Holmes—hang on the east wall. Patton and Chuckles lookunhappy as they sit beneath the smiling pictures of themselves.Mercifully, Holmes is nowhere to be found. The usual assortment ofcheese and fruit is on a silver platter.

On December 30 of each year, X-Com meets to give themselves acollective pat on the back and to determine “the Estimate,” which istheir best guess of firm profits for the year. More importantly, theyallocate each partner’s percentage interest in the profits of the firm,or “points,” for the upcoming year. The Estimate will be announcedwith great ceremony at a partners’

meeting at eight o’clock tomorrowmorning. I’ve always thought we could streamline the process byputting a tote board like the one they have on the Jerry Lewis telethonin our reception area. This suggestion has not been well received overthe years.

At the meeting, each partner will receive a check and a memo indicatingthe

partner’s points. Theoretically, everybody will begin the new yearin a good mood. Unless you’re like me, and your points have beenreduced in each of the last four years.

I’m not sure why I’ve been summoned on the night of all nights. I’mpretty sure they can’t fire me again. I take a seat beneath theportraits of Leiand Simpson and Skipper’s dad. They grimace at me. Ifeel like I’m surrounded.

Patton glares at me and growls, “I wanted todiscuss your departure.”

Uh-oh.

Patton’s huge bald head, Nixon-like jowls and Brezhnev-like eyebrowsoverwhelm the rest of his tiny face. His red suspenders strain to holdhis ample gut. At sixty-two, his gravel baritone is commanding, butits forcefulness has been tempered by forty years of cigars andsingle-malt scotch. At times, he’s capable of playing the role of thegenial grandfather.

Last year, he was Santa at our Christmas party.The next day, he fired his secretary because there was one typo in aneighty-page brief. That’s part of his charm. On any given day, younever know if you’ll get the puppy or the pit bull.

In lawfirm-lingo, he handles complex civil litigation. Of course,I’ve never met a lawyer who admits he handles litigation that’sanything less than

“complex.” In reality, he represents defensecontractors who get sued when their bombers don’t fly. To Art, everycase is a holy war of attrition. He showers the other side with paper.Fortunately, his clients have the resources to wear down theiropponents. He responds to every letter with his own version thatrearranges the facts in his favor. He follows up every phone call witha letter that bears only passing resemblance to the matters that werediscussed. Around the firm, he’s known as the Smiling Assassin.

He’sone mean son of a bitch.

He stares over my right shoulder. He begins with the grandfatherlytone.

“I

know we have had our disagreements, but I would like to think we canwork things out and remain friends.”

As if. I look right through him and remain silent. Let him talk.Don’t react.

His condescending smirk makes its first appearance.

“Here is our proposal. If anyone asks, we will portray your departureas voluntary. We will say you left to pursue a different direction.You will agree not to say anything bad about us. We will return yourcapital contribution tomorrow.” Upon election to the partnership,every partner must make a

capital contribution to the firm. The amountdepends on the number of points you have. Baby partners like mecontribute seventy-five thousand dollars. The power partners likePatron have ponied up about a quarter of a million bucks.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Except for one thing. As a matter of good practice, wewant you to sign a full release of the firm. We ask all departingpartners. Just housekeeping.”

“That’s it?”

He nods.

“That’s it.”

Keep the tone measured.

“Let me see if I have this straight. I won’t piss on you, and youwon’t piss on me. That’s fair. And that’s the way it will workbecause we’re smart enough not to say shitty things about each other.San Francisco is a small town. And you will pay me back my capital.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because our partnership agreement says you have to pay me backwhether or not I agree to say nice things about you and even if I don’tsign your release. I have no intention of suing you, but if I changemy mind, I don’t want you waving a release in my face.”

Gotcha. If I were in his shoes, I’d ask for the release. If he werein mine, he’d say no. I’m glad Joel showed me the section in ourpartnership agreement that says they have to return my capital.

He shifts to the half grin.

“We figured you might say that,” he says.

“We are prepared to make a one-time offer of twenty thousand dollarsfor your cooperation. Take it or leave it.”

Visions of paying off my Visa bill and a year of rent dance in myhead.

“Not enough,” I say.

“Make it a hundred and we may have something to talk about.”

Chuckles shakes his head.

“Too much, Mike. No can do.”

Patton trots out his “mad dog” persona for a preemptive strike, if onlyfor effect. His act loses some of its impact when you’ve seen it asmany times as I have.

“Look,” he says, “if it had been up to me, I would have thrown yoursorry

ass out of here at least two years ago.”

For an instant, I think Leiand Simpson’s picture is going to spring tolife.

“Yeah,” he’d say, “I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here atleast three years ago.”

Patton isn’t finished. His bald dome turns red.

“Use your head for once and take the fucking money,” he bellows. I’mtold he can actually make his head explode.

I place my fingertips together in my best Mother Teresa imitation.

“Arthur,” I say slowly, “if you’re going to lose your temper, you’regoing to have to go to your office and take a time-out.” I’ve beenwaiting five years to say that to him. I stand and walk toward thedoor, where I turn and face them.

“Gentlemen, I’ll see you in the morning. I wouldn’t want to miss thereading of the Estimate.”

When I arrive at the office at seven the next morning, I have voicemail messages from five associates who are furious about the decisionon bonuses.

Three ask me to be a reference. As always, the first person I see isAnna Sharansky, a Soviet refugee who begins every day by brewing enoughPeet’s coffee to fill the sixty coffeepots placed around the firm. S&Gspends over a hundred thousand dollars a year on coffee. We exchangepleasantries. She never complains. I’ll miss her.

At seven-forty-five, I walk to a sparsely furnished conference room onthe forty-sixth floor to get a seat for the reading of the Estimate.The ceremony usually takes place in the PCR. We have moved downstairsbecause Bob Holmes won’t move the closing documents for Russo’s deal.It smells like a French pastry shop. Croissants, muffins, scones andfruit are lined up in neat rows on silver platters. Anna has filledthe coffeepots and set out the bone china bearing the S&G logo. In thecenter of the table sit ninety envelopes, each with a partner’s nameon it. They look like seating assignments at a wedding.

By 7:55, the room is full. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take acroissant with the sterling-silver tongs. The blue sky frames theGolden Gate Bridge.

Several partners wish me well. Let the exercises begin.

Patton always wears his tuxedo to the reading of the Estimate. Heseems to think this lends a festive mood to the occasion. I think helooks like a maitre d’. At precisely eight o’clock, he makes his grandentrance, his face

glowing.

For Patton, this is what it’s all about. For fifteen minutes a year,we look like everything our recruiting brochure says we are: a big,collegial family of highly trained professionals who admire, respectand trust one another. He beams from the head of the table. We clappolitely.

“Thank you for coming at this early hour,” he says.

“I know how hard it is for some of you to get here when you’ve been outpartying all night.” Forced laughter.

“I want to get Bob Holmes down here to report on Vince Russo’s deal.

Wewill start in just a couple of minutes.”

He asks Chuckles to find Bob. Chuckles seems pleased he won’t have aspeaking role today, and he darts out. The sound of clinking chinaresumes.

Several partners take calls on their cellular phones. Ifocus on the envelope in the middle of the table that bears my name.

Ten minutes pass. Chuckles and Joel appear outside the glass door.Chuckles looks more gaunt than usual. Joel looks distraught. Chucklesopens the door and says in a barely audible voice, “Art, can I see yououtside for a minute?”

The room goes silent. Patton motions Chuckles in. Chuckles tries toconvince him to step outside. After a moment’s hesitation, Chucklescomes in and whispers into Patton’s ear. Patton’s eyes get larger.

Ihear him mutter, “Jesus.”

Patton faces nobody in particular, strokes his jowls and says, “It ismy unhappy responsibility to make a sad announcement. Bob Holmes andDiana Kennedy were found dead in Bob’s office a few minutes ago.

Ihave no other information.

The police have been called.”

We sit in stunned silence.

“Obviously,” he continues, “we may have a little problem with theclosing of the Russo deal. Any discussion of the firm’s results forthis year would be premature and out of place. I will provide furtherinformation later today.

Meeting adjourned.”

More silence.

After a moment, I hear Patton whisper to Chuckles, “He couldn’t havefucking killed himself. We’re completely fucked. He had a fiduciaryduty to us to close the deal” Leave it to Arthur Patton to try to expaling a man’s death by citing a legal doctrine. As always, Chucklesis more sanguine. He says to Patton, “I suspect Bob wasn’t thing kingabout

his fiduciary duties last night.” Without another word, we fileout, pausing only briefly to pick up our envelopes.

Chapter 3

“HE KEPT A LOADED GUN AT HIS DESK”

“The managing partner of Simpson and Gates has issued a statement toreassure the firm’s clients that the situation is completely undercontrol.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. 8:40 A.M. wednesday, december 31.

By eight-thirty, all hell has broken loose. Every thirty seconds orso, a man’s voice announces on the emergency intercom that there hasbeen an incident and we shouldn’t use the elevators. Word spreadsquickly and people gather in small groups in the corridors.

My office is on the forty-seventh floor, between Joel’s small officeand Bob’s palatial northwest corner. Joel is talking loudly into thephone as I walk past his doorway. He’s trying to find Vince Russo. Apoliceman is unrolling yellow tape outside Bob’s office.

I walk into my office and sit down. The room is empty of my stuffexcept for a few last boxes and my coffee cup with Grace’s picture onit. I listen to the sirens forty-seven floors below. It sounds asthough every police car and fire engine in the city is heading towardour building. Doris walks in a few minutes later.

“Is it true?” she asks.

“It’s true. Patton said Bob and Diana are dead.

Chuckles and Joel broke up the partners’ meeting. I don’t know anydetails.”

Tears well up in her eyes.

“I can’t believe it,” she cries. I give her a hug.

She starts sobbing into my shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” I say feebly.

“It finally got to him. The divorce, the deal, the money. I knewsomething would happen. And Diana, too. Why Diana?”

“These things happen for a reason.” As I say it, I realize this linefrom my religious training never rang very true. It was one of thereasons I ended up leaving the priesthood. I had a lot of troublesaying the party line toward the end. She wipes her eyes and sitsdown.

We’re silent for a moment and I absentmindedly turn on my computer.It’s funny how you revert to habit. I have two E-mail messages. Thesecond message, which I open first, is from Patton, advising that therewill be an emergency meeting in the reception area at nine o’clock. Theother is from

Bob Holmes. It was sent at 1:20 this morning. I getchills.

“Look at this,” I say.

Doris comes around behind my desk and reads over my shoulder.

Bob’sfinal words are concise.

“To everyone. I am genuinely sorry for the pain I have inflicted.

I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I cannot go on. Iwish you all the best. Bob.”

“Jesus,” I say.

“An E-mail suicide note. This is weird, even for Bob.” I get a sourfeeling in my stomach. His body is still in the office next door.

My phone rings and I pick up.

“Mickey, I’m watching TV.” My mother is at home in the SunsetDistrict.

“They said somebody got shot at your office. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Ma. Don’t worry.”

“Thank God, Mickey. Did you know them?”

“Yeah, Ma, I knew them.”

“Mickey, be careful.”

“I will. I’ll call you back a little later, okay?” I hang up and pawthrough my boxes until I find the five-inch black-and-white TV I keptunder my desk to watch sports. I turn to Channel 4 and play with theantenna until I make out a fuzzy reporter standing in the plaza outsidethe California Street entrance to our building. She’s in front of thehuge black polished-granite sculpture designed by Masayuki Nagare thatthe late Herb Caen, the immortal San Francisco Chronicle columnist,dubbed the Banker’s Heart.

“This is Rita Roberts. We are live in San Francisco, where police arereporting an incident in the offices of Simpson and Gates, the city’slargest law firm.

Details are sketchy, but it appears that two Simpson and Gatesattorneys have been killed by gunshots. Newly elected San FranciscoDistrict Attorney Prentice Gates III was a partner at the firm. Mr.Gates and the mayor were in the firm’s office last night. We don’tknow whether the incident has anything to do with Mr. Gates or themayor. Moments ago, a spokesman told us that the mayor left theSimpson and Gates suite about nine o’clock last night and arrived athis office this morning at his usual time. We haven’t been able toconfirm the whereabouts of Mr. Gates. Rita Roberts for News Center4.”

I’m turning down the sound when a young Asian policeman knocks on

myopen door and politely says, “I’m Officer Chinn. We’re asking everyoneto return to their desk.”

“We understand,” I say. He nods and walks down the hall. Doris looksoffended.

“He’s just following procedure,” I explain.

“He’s supposed to secure the scene and wait for help.” In reality he’salso supposed to separate us so we can’t compare stories. She headsout the door.

My phone keeps ringing. My younger brother, Pete, a former SanFrancisco cop who works as a private investigator, gets through on thefirst try.

“You okay, Mick? I heard it on the box.”

“I’m fine.”

“You talked to Ma?”

“Yeah. Told her I’m okay. Mind giving her a call? She’ll feel betterif she hears from you.”

“No problem, Mick. Gotta go. I’m working. I’ll see you thisweekend.” I pity the poor unfaithful husband he’s tailing. What helacks in finesse he makes up for in tenacity.

“Que pasa, Miguel? You all right?” My ex-wife. Rosita CarmelaFernandez doesn’t speak Spanish, except to me.

“I heard it on the radio.” She grew up in the Hispanic enclave in theMission District. Her dad was a carpenter. Her mom baby sits Gracewhenever Rosie’s in trial. Rosie was the first member of her family togo to college.

She worked her way through San Francisco State andHastings law school.

We used to work together at the PD’s office. Wewere married for about three years. We were a lot better at tryingcases than we were at being married.

“I’m fine, Rosie.”

“Good. I was worried my new tenant wasn’t going to move in.” That waspart of the problem when we were married. Among other things, Rosie isgood at keeping track of money, I’m not. She’s also very organized.Let’s just say I’m more flexible. It used to drive her nuts. We gotalong great right until the time we got married. Then all of my faultscame to light. After a couple of years of ceaseless sniping, wefinally split up. It was right after Grace turned one. Once thedivorce messiness was really over, we started to get along a lotbetter. Go figure.

“I’m moving in just the way we planned,” I say.

“Good man. I’ll call you later. Adios.”

Rosie, you’re the best ex-wife a man could have. Damn shame wecouldn’t stand living together.

Joel pokes his head in while I’m on the phone with my baby sister,Mary, a first-grade teacher in L.A. His hair is disheveled. His eyesare puffy. I motion him to sit down. I say good-bye to Mary.

“Long night, Mike,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

I pick up a rubber band.

“What can I say?”

“I’ve never seen a dead body before. We Jewish folks don’t do opencaskets.” He pauses for a moment to compose himself and says,

“Hepractically blew the side of his head off.” He looks out the window.

“We finished negotiations about nine o’clock and we gave the documentsto the word processors. Diana and I went to Harrington’s for a quickbite. She went home. I got back around eleven-fifteen.

We finished signing papers by twelve-thirty. Everybody was leaving. Iwent down to the lunchroom for a Coke. I read documents for two orthree hours and I took a nap down there. I got up around six and wentback to my office.

It was quiet.

I thought Bob had gone home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o’clockand Chuckles asked me for the keys to Bob’s office. That’s when wefound them.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Did Russo kill the deal?” As I say it, I realize that my choice ofwords could have been more discreet.

“I don’t know. I can’t find him. He was here when we signed thepapers. He said he was going back to the Ritz. He stays there when hedoesn’t want to drive all the way down to his house in Hillsborough. Hewasn’t sure if he’d authorize the wire transfers to close the deal. Hesaid he was going to sleep on it. He said he might have to go to hisbackup plan.”

“What’s that?”

“A flying leap off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“I see.”

“I called his hotel. They said he didn’t sleep in his bed last night.”He sighs.

“I just can’t believe Bob killed himself, even ifVince decided to pullout.

Bob’s seen deals go south before.”

“The police are going to want to talk to you. I’ll drive you home whenyou’re done.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

This is going to be tough on Joel.

At five after nine, Arthur Patton is still wearing his tuxedo when heconvenes an all-hands meeting in the main reception area.

Thankfully,somebody’s had the good judgment to turn off the lights on theChristmas tree. Patton asks for quiet and says, “As many of you areaware, we have had a great tragedy. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy werefound dead in Bob’s office this morning. The police have indicatedthey died of gunshot wounds. Bob’s wounds may have beenself-inflicted.

“This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the SFPD, who is in charge ofthe investigation. I would ask each of you to assist the police. Ouroffice is now closed until Monday, and you are free to go home as soonas the police say you may do so.”

Roosevelt Johnson was my father’s first partner. Every time I see him,I think of my dad. I’ve known Roosevelt since I was a kid. He workedhis way up the ranks and made homicide inspector. Dad stayed on thestreet.

Although Roosevelt is in his early sixties, at about six-fourand maybe 235

pounds, he still looks like he can play linebacker atCal. His dark brown skin, gray mustache, bald head and goldwire-rimmed glasses command the attention of everyone in the room.

His eloquent baritone is captivating.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “I promise we will get you home assoon as we can. We would like to obtain a statement from each of you.For those of you who didn’t see or hear anything, I would ask you towrite a note to that effect and give it to one of our officers. Iwould appreciate it if you would return to your office or workstation.I must ask you not to discuss this matter with one another until wehave talked to you. Please stay away from the area around the officesof Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy so we may gather evidence. I apologize inadvance for the inconvenience and I thank you for your cooperation.”

Doris raises her hand.

“Inspector, can you give us any information about the circumstancessurrounding Bob’s and Diana’s deaths?”

“We are beginning to gather evidence. It appears they were victims ofgunshot wounds.”

“Were the wounds self-inflicted?”

“We don’t know yet. A handgun was found at the scene. We will

provideadditional information as soon as possible.”

At ten o’clock, I’m on the phone when a subdued Chuckles Stem walksinto my office. I hold my thumb and forefinger about a quarter of aninch apart, signaling I’ll only be a minute. He sits down. I reassuremy mother for the third time today and hang up.

“I can’t believe it,” he says. I wonder why he’s come to see me. ThenI realize he has nobody else to talk to.

“I haven’t seen so much blood since I was in the service,” he says.

To Chuckles, the service usually means the IRS. I’m surprised when Irealize he’s talking about the armed service.

“You were in the service, Charles?”

“Vietnam. Marines. I’ve got a bum shoulder to show for it.”

I never would have figured. Although it’s entirely inappropriate, Ifind myself imagining Chuckles and his platoon lobbing copies of theInternal Revenue Code toward the Vietcong.

“I lost a brother over there, Charles,” I say.

“Near the end of the war.”

“I didn’t know that,” he replies.

I pause. My brother Tommy’s death was one of the big reasons why Ibecame a priest. My family was very seriously Catholic. I was betterat it than either of my brothers. Although the church had a lot ofrules, it was a truly spiritual place for me while I was growing up.Then I became a priest and the spirituality disappeared. I decide itmay not be a great time to discuss my participation in the antiwarprotests on the Berkeley campus.

He looks out the window.

“I know we have other things on our minds,” he says, “but I wanted tolet you know we decided to let bygones be bygones and just give youyour capital back. We aren’t going to insist that you sign arelease.”

He pulls a check out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

“Thanks, Charles. That’s very decent of you.” My mind races. Why arethey doing this? I add, for the record, “I think you made the rightdecision.”

“Sometimes you make decisions just because it’s the right thing to do,”he says.

And sometimes you fire your partners because their book of businessisn’t big enough. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. There’s anuncomfortable silence.

“So,” I say, “you knew Bob for a long time. Do you have any idea whatthis

is all about?”

“I don’t know. We weren’t close. I’m not sure he had any closefriends.”

The same could be said about you, Chuckles. I hold back.

He continues.

“Art knew him the best. They used to talk about stocks. They investedin a restaurant together. That fancy place in Palo Alto. Bob calledit his private black hole for money. Bob and I just used to talk aboutfirm business. He was having his biggest year ever. I can’t believehe’d kill himself the night before his big deal was supposed to close.Confidentially, he was going to get a big bonus today.”

I feign mild surprise. Joel was right.

“I didn’t realize that, Charles.”

“That’s why it doesn’t make sense. You know Bob. Or knew him, Iguess.

He’d never turn down a paycheck. Maybe it was the divorce.” Hepauses.

“You heard he used his own gun.”

Huh?

“He had a gun?”

“Yeah.”

“He brought a gun to the office?”

“He kept it at the office, Mike. At his desk. Jesus, I thoughteveryone knew.”

No, not everyone knew.

“Loaded?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“What the hell for?”

“Don’t be naive. You were here when that lunatic killed all thosepeople at 101 California.”

In July of 1993, a crazed former client walked into the offices of aprominent San Francisco law firm and opened fire with an arsenal ofsemiautomatic weapons. He killed eight people and wounded a dozenothers before he killed himself. The firm closed its doors two yearslater.

“I knew some people over there,” I say.

“Good lawyers. Nice people.”

“Ever since, every big firm has put in a security system. We spentalmost a hundred grand on ours. Each receptionist has a panic button.If they see trouble, they punch it. The doors lock and a red lightgoes on in personnel and at the security desk. Thank goodness we’venever had to use it.”

“Brave new world.”

“No kidding. After the incident at 101 Cal, Bob said he wasn’t goingto let the same thing happen to him. He kept a loaded gun at hisdesk. He didn’t make a big deal about it.” He pauses.

“We’d like to try to keep it out of the papers, if we can.”

“Not a bad idea.” What’s next? Metal detectors? I can just see theheadlines.

“Prominent San Francisco Attorney Kills Himself with Loaded Piece HeKept at His Desk.”

“Anyway,” he continues, “we have a problem. We were counting on thefees from the Russo deal to make our year-end numbers. Some of thepartners won’t be happy with the results now.”

There’s the Chuckles I know and love. Two hours after he finds hispartner’s body, he’s already worried about his draw. As Art Pattonlikes to say, we shouldn’t dwell on the negative.

“What a mess,” I say.

“Art’s beside himself. I think he may retire and move to Napafulltime. I’m thinking about getting out. I don’t know if the firmcan survive.”

He isn’t very convincing when he’s being melodramatic.

“I’m sure the firm will survive.”

“I gotta run, Mike.”

“Those police inspectors are really pushy, Mike.” Doris is back in myoffice at ten-fifteen.

“They treated me like a criminal,” she says.

“Take it easy. I did my five minutes with Officer Chinn. He wasokay.”

“Maybe to you. The cop I talked to acted like I was a murdersuspect.”

“I know this is tough. They’re just trying to do their job.”

“They were rude. And they asked a lot of questions about Diana’spersonal life.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether she was sleeping with Bob.”

“Was she?”

She frowns.

“It’s none of your business. And it sure as hell is none of theirs.”

I look her in the eyes.

“Doris, this thing is tough on all of us. Give yourself a littlespace.”

She starts to cry. I get up and put my arm around her.

“It’s such a waste,” she says.

Chapter 4

THE LEGEND

“When I started working Homicide, there was no such thing asaffirmative action. I’m not saying it was right. It’s just the way itwas.”

—inspector roosevelt johnson. san francisco chronicle. july 14,1998.

At ten-thirty I’m at my desk watching Skipper being interviewed on TV.He briefly mentions the shootings and moves straight into his campaignspeech.

I’m turning down the sound when Roosevelt Johnson’s familiarbaritone resonates off the walls.

“Hello, Michael,” he says.

“I didn’t realize you worked at this firm.” He takes up the entiredoorway.

“This is a pretty far cry from the PD’s office.”

“It’s been a long time, Roosevelt.”

We shake hands. He’s a legend. He and his partner, Marcus Banks, arethe SFPD’s most senior homicide team. They handle all the highprofilecases.

He closes my door.

“How’s your mama?” he asks.

“She has good days and bad days. On good days she’s ornery. On baddays, she doesn’t say much. She’s in the early stages of AlzheimerIt’s not going to get better, but we’re hoping it won’t get a lot worsetoo soon. She’s still living at home. Pete’s living with her. Henever moved out.”

“Things have been tough.”

Tell me about it.

“Mom and Dad were never really the same after Tommy died.” My olderbrother was one of the last MIAs in Vietnam. They never found hisbody.

He was an allcity quarterback at St. Ignatius and all-conference atCal.

Tommy had another year of eligibility. He could have gottendeferred. He volunteered for the Marines. I tried to talk him out ofit, but Dad told him it was the right thing to do. He never forgave mefor trying to talk Tommy out of going, and he never forgave himselfwhen Tommy died. Then he got sick.

Roosevelt knows the story. My dadworked his ass off for thirty years for his city pension. He died fiveyears ago, about a year after Grace was born. At least he got to seehis first grandchild.

“It’s hard to bury your children, Mike,” he says. He knows. His sonwas nineteen when he was killed in a drive-by shooting near CandlestickPark.

“Did you decide to become a priest after Tommy died?” he asks.

“In part.” Unlike most of my friends, I loved going to church when Iwas a kid.

It gave me time with my mom and dad. It gave structure to my life. Andit had lots of rules. I was always good at rules. It wasn’t until Iwas in college that I started asking the hard questions about therules. I’ll never forget the look of pride on my dad’s face when Itold him I was going to the seminary.

And I’ll never forget the lookof disdain when I told him I was leaving the priesthood to become alawyer. He hated lawyers.

“When Tommy died,” I say, “I went to the church to try to find someanswers.”

“What happened?”

I dodge the question.

“It didn’t have the answers I was looking for.” He looksuncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, Roosevelt. I didn’t do anything terrible. It justdidn’t work out.” I don’t really want to explain that the concept ofcelibacy is a whole lot easier in theory than in practice. And all therules that were so meaningful when I was a kid seemed hopelessly out oftouch by the time I was a priest.

It was the post-Watergate era, andtraditional Catholicism felt prehistoric.

It’s tough to try to getpeople to abide by rules that you question.

“Why did you end up in law school?” he asks.

“Why not? You think the church has an out placement program fordownsized priests? I figured I might be able to make a living helpingpeople who got screwed. Lawyers get to do a lot of things nobody elsecan do. Besides, I didn’t have any better ideas.” This is clearlymore than he’d bargained for. I decide to change the subject.

“How’s your family?”

“Janet has good days and bad days, too. Arthritis. My daughter isworking OB-GYN at San Francisco General. My granddaughter is at UCLALaw School. With my luck, she’ll end up a public defender like youdid.”

“She’ll probably end up at some Wall Street firm making a hundred thoua year.”

He chuckles.

“How are Rosie and the baby?”

“Complicated subject. Rosie and I split up about a year after Gracewas born.

We were on each other for a couple of years. We couldn’t figure out away to work out the little stuff. And if you can’t deal with thelittle stuff, you can’t

deal with the big stuff. Things got betterafter we split up. Grace is in first grade. She lives with Rosie, butI’m a couple of blocks away. She stays with me every other weekend.”

He changes the subject quickly.

“How did you end up in a fancy-dancy place like this?”

“I needed the money. We were getting divorced. The firm was startinga white-collar criminal defense practice. They needed a criminaldefense attorney. I was the best guy at the PD’s office, so they hiredme. They made me a partner. Doubled my salary.”

He glances around my stripped office.

“I take it you’re leaving?”

“It didn’t work out. The big-time white-collar practice didn’t happen.The guy with the big book of business left after a year. I startedbringing in some DUI and robbery cases. The firm didn’t like it. Firmslike S and G don’t like to have real crooks roaming around the office.It scares the corporate clients away.” I pause.

“Today’s my last day. I’m going out on my own. I’m renting some spaceon Mission.”

“Sounds pretty good.”

“I hope so. Rosie’s my landlord.”

He grins.

“You’ve always had a flair.” He turns serious and I sense the socialportion of our conversation is coming to an end.

“I know we didn’t always see eye to eye when you were at the PD’soffice,”

he says.

“I’d like to think it was because we were on opposite sides of a fewcases.”

“Roosevelt,” I say with conviction, “we worked different sides of thesame screwed-up system. There’s always some tension.”

He looks right at me.

“Let me ask you for a favor,” he says.

“I’d like your help in sorting out this case. Off the record, if you’dlike.

Professional courtesy.”

He’s savvy. He’s listening to every word I say. He’s watching everymove I make.

“I’ll do anything I can to help you,” I tell him.

“Great. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our discussion confidentialfor the time being.”

“Of course.”

He skims his notes.

“So far, we know Holmes and Kennedy died of gunshot wounds.

His to the head, hers to the chest. His wound looks self-inflicted.Your colleagues Charles Stern and Joel Friedman found the bodies and aSmith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver on the floor. Friedmansaid he last saw Holmes about twelve-thirty this morning. He haddinner with Kennedy about ten last night. He said she went home fromthe restaurant. We don’t know when she came back. Our people aredusting the office and the gun. If I had to guess, it looks like hekilled her and then killed himself. We’ve seen the E-mail message thatwas sent from his computer. But it’s too soon to tell.

You know me. Ido it by the numbers.”

“I know. Have you been able to impart your way of thinking upon yourpartner?”

He looks troubled.

“Marcus is a good cop,” he says emphatically.

“Sometimes he doesn’t handle things the way I would. He’s kept hisnose clean the last few years.” He pauses.

“What can you tell me about Holmes? Was anything bothering him?

Wasanybody pissed off at him?”

“A lot was bothering him. And everybody in the city was pissed off athim.”

He raises his eyebrows. I tell him what I know about Bob. How mypartners hated his guts. About his acrimonious divorces. About thedivorce papers his wife served on him last night.

“Anybody else mad at him?”

“He was working on a big deal. Everybody was unhappy. There was quitea scene last night. His client, Vince Russo, was screaming at him. Ipresume it isn’t going to close now.” I ponder how much I can andshould tell Roosevelt about Joel’s description of the deal.

“I heard Russo seems to have dropped off the face of the earth,” hesays.

“What’s his story?”

I describe how Russo inherited his father’s business and it went tohell. I explain that Russo’s creditors were forcing him to sell thebusiness.

“I hear he’s a tough guy to like,” I say.

He knows more than he’s letting on.

“Where does Ms. Kennedy fit in?”

“She was Bob’s star associate and a real go-getter. She was on thefast

track.”

“What about their personal relationship? Anything out of the ordinary?Any hanky-panky?”

“Purely professional, as far as I know. But some people think therewas more to it.”

“Were they sleeping together?”

“Don’t khow.” I answer too quickly and he gives me a skeptical look. Iraise my right hand like a Boy Scout.

“Honest, Roosevelt. If there were something I promised to keep quiet,I’d tell you that much. The fact is, I just don’t know.”

“Was she sleeping with anybody else?” He’s boring in now.

“I don’t know. She was single. She didn’t have a steady boyfriend.She always had a date for the Christmas party. I’m not tuned in tofirm gossip.”

“Fair enough. Who is tuned in?”

Before I can catch myself, I blurt out, “Joel.”

He chuckles.

“I figured that out already. There are still a few instincts left inthis old carcass.”

“Did you ask him?” I’m as curious as the next guy.

“Yeah. He said he wasn’t sure. He’s heard the rumors. Who elseshould I talk to?”

“Charles Stern knows about the firm’s finances. Arthur Patton is themanaging partner.”

“I’ve talked to them. They think Holmes wouldn’t have killed himself.Patton said Holmes was up for a big bonus.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“What about his secretary?”

“Doris? She’s a gem. She can give you the skinny on Bob’s divorces.She’s very discreet, though. And very protective of him.” I add, “Bythe way, if you get any dirt on his divorces, I’ll buy you a dinner atany restaurant in town to hear about it.”

“You got a deal. What about Mr. Gates?”

I laugh.

“Our district attorney? He wore out his welcome years ago. Betweenus, they couldn’t wait to get him out the door.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” He wipes his glasses.

“Mike, do you think Holmes was the kind of guy who would killhimself?”

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“A few days ago, I would have said no way. On the other hand, his dealmay have been cratering. His wife served him with divorce papers. Now,I’m not sure.”

“I’ll call you when I have a better handle on things.”

I’m sure he will.

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Say hi to your mama.”

Joel is standing in my doorway at twelve-thirty.

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks.

“Let’s hit it.” I pick up my coffee mug. As we walk out my door I seea female police officer standing by the door to Bob’s office. A teamfrom the coroner’s office is inside.

“Did you ever find Russo?” I ask Joel, as he opens the double doors toour elevator lobby.

“Nope. Never showed up. Never called. We had a ten o’clock deadlinefor the wire transfers. We didn’t make it. The buyer’s attorney saidhe’d call me Monday. As far as he’s concerned, the deal is off. Iguess we’ll deal with bankruptcy if and when Vince surfaces.”

We reach the lobby and head down the escalators toward the garage,which is two levels below ground. We stop on the intermediate level soI can drop off announcements for my new office in our mailroom, whichis in a windowless suite next to the entrance to the health club. In acost-saving move a few years ago, we moved our mailroom, copy centerand accounting department to this subterranean vault everyone calls theCatacomb. I feel sorry for these poor people who never see thedaylight.

I bang on the heavy steel door. In view of today’s events, our usualjokes about Bela Lugosi answering don’t seem funny. Virginia Wallace,the officious, utterly intimidating manager of our accountingdepartment, opens the door. A ghoulish, gray-haired woman ofindeterminate age, she started as a file clerk about thirty years ago.She’s clawed her way up the ladder and runs the entire “backroom”without the slightest hint of finesse. I’ve always been terrified ofher. True to form, she’s waiting to see if any of our clients send usany money before the stroke of midnight and our fiscal year turns intoa pumpkin.

“Hi, Virginia,” I say politely.

“You holding up okay?”

She looks bored. In fact, she always looks bored.

“As well as can be expected.”

“Good. Can you do me a favor and leave these envelopes for the guys inthe mailroom? I was hoping they might be able to get these out to thepost office in the last run today.”

Big sigh.

“Just this once, because it’s your last day.”

“Thanks, Virginia.” I solemnly swear I’ll never impose upon youagain.

I look over her shoulder and see Mark Jenkins, our head deliveryperson, getting out of the freight elevator that connects the Catacombwith our main offices upstairs. I’ve always liked Mark, an articulateyoung black man from Hunter’s Point who’s worked his way out of theprojects and spends his days riding up and down the freight elevatorand putting up with Virginia’s shit.

He’s finishing up at SanFrancisco State this year. I’m hopeful he’ll be able to find somethingbetter suited to his talents when he graduates. Mark agrees to sendout my announcements and I wish him well. Virginia glares.

The steel door slams and Joel and I head to the garage. With a littlecoaxing, my nine-year-old Corolla turns over, I pay eighteen bucks tothe Asian teenager with monster headphones in the booth, and we headwest up the hill on Pine. The street is littered with paper. It’s NewYear’s Eve. In San Francisco, the people who don’t work inhermetically sealed highrises traditionally toss their obsoletecalendar pages out their windows. The city pays a fortune in overtimeto clean up the mess.

Traffic is relatively light as we drive in silence past the Ritz andthe back of the Stanford Court toward Joel’s house in the RichmondDistrict. When we reach Van Ness, he says, “I can’t believe it.Yesterday, I was getting ready to close a huge deal and to celebrate myelection as a partner. Today, two people are dead, the deal is off andmy career is in limbo.”

“You’ll be all right,” I say.

“They need you to service Bob’s clients.”

“I guess. I still can’t figure it out. He waits another day and hegets three million bucks.”

“There’s got to be more to it.”

“The cops sure think so.”

“They’re just doing their jobs.”

“Spoken like the son of a cop. The head guy, Johnson, thinks there’smore to it than suicide.”

“I know Johnson. He’s a good man.”

We drive in silence across Fillmore Street through a neighborhood thatonce was known as the Western Addition, but with gentrification wasrechristened Lower Pacific Heights. We pass the dim sum restaurants onClement Street.

Joel says, “I know Bob was going through anotherdivorce and this deal was all fucked up.

But I don’t see him killing himself. And I don’t see him taking Dianawith him.”

“Johnson asked me if Bob and Diana were sleeping together. You knowanything?”

“Not really. I’ve heard the same stuff everybody’s heard.”

“Just between us,” I say.

“You think they were getting it on?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well, while we’re speculating, let’s suppose they were sleepingtogether.

And she decided to break up with him. And Vince told Bobthe deal’s off.

And Bob was really pissed off about the divorce. Maybeyou’ve got a scenario where he decided to end it.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but I just can’t see it. Bob’s been through itbefore. He’s been divorced three times. He’s seen deals go down inflames.”

“You think somebody killed him?”

He shrugs.

“Russo really wanted out of the deal. For that matter, so did thebuyer.”

“Why?”

“Continental Capital Corporation is the fourth-largest public companyin the world. Their young mergers-and-acquisitions stud, Jack Frazier,convinced them to buy Vince’s business. Frazier’s one of those youngMBAs who figured this deal was the next step up the ladder. Heconvinced the suits at CCC to pay nine hundred million for a companythat’s worth a lot less. By the time Golden Boy Frazier figured out hewas buying a proverbial pig in a poke, it was too late.

The boys at headquarters in Stamford won’t be happy.”

“Why didn’t they pull out?”

“They wanted to, but they couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know what a breakup fee is?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a payment a buyer has to make to a seller if the buyer backs outof a deal for no reason. It’s supposed to keep the buyer serious andcover the seller’s legal fees and costs if the deal craters.”

“Why didn’t CCC pay the fee and walk?”

“Because the fee is fifty million dollars. It’s a lot of money fornothing, even for a big outfit like CCC. If they paid it, Frazierwould be working on one ofCCC’s oil rigs off the coast of Siberia bythe end of the week. There was no breakup fee if Vince killed thedeal. Frazier’s been trying to get Vince to pull the plug for the lasttwo weeks.”

“What about the guy from the mayor’s office, Clan Morris? What was hedoing there?”

“You’ll never believe this. When it looked like Vince’s business wasgoing down in flames, the mayor appointed one of those blue-ribbon taskforces.

He didn’t want three thousand jobs moving to CCC’s westernheadquarters in Dallas. Bad politics. It’s one thing for the Ninersto lose a game to the Cowboys every once in a while. It’s anotherthing for three thousand jobs to go to the land of Ross Perot. So themayor got CCC to agree to keep Russo International’s headquarters hereby providing a hundred million in financing. Pretty slick. If thedeal closes, the mayor can take credit for saving a bunch of jobs.”

“So the city wanted the deal to close, even if nobody else did.”

“Actually,” he says, “they didn’t want the deal to close either.” Heglances at his watch.

“It turns out the city didn’t have the money to make the loan.

Cash-flow problems. The city was going to have to borrow the money atloan-shark rates. The mayor figured it out last night. He decidedhe’d rather lose the jobs. He figures the voters will forget about thejobs, but they’ll never forgive a budget deficit. He sent hispolitical fixer over here to kill the deal, but make it look likesomebody else’s fault. The city was going to use tax dollars tofinance the acquisition by an international conglomerate in a deal thatwas so screwed up, nobody, including our own client, wanted it toclose.”

“Looks like everybody is going to get their wish,” I say.

“Looks that way,” he replies.

As always, the weather in the Richmond District is cooler and cloudierthan downtown. We pass Park Presidio Boulevard and drive past TempleBeth Sholom, where Joel’s father holds court, so to speak. I turnright onto

Sixteenth Avenue and drive halfway up the block of tightlypacked bungalows. I stop in front of Joel’s modest gray house, aroundthe corner from his father’s.

“Happy New Year,” he says as he gets out.

“I’ll talk to you next week.”

I think to myself, I hope you still have a career.

CHAPTER 5

THE LAW OFFICES OF MICHAEL J. DALEY, ESQ.

“Michael J. Daley, formerly of the San Francisco Public Defender’sOffice and formerly a partner at Simpson and Gates, announces theopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” at 553 MissionStreet, San Francisco, California. Mr. Daley will continue tospecialize in criminal defense practice in state and federal court.”

—san francisco legal journal. monday, january 5.

“Now,” I say to Rosie, “all I need are a couple of paying clients, asecretary, a functional telephone and a working computer, and I’m on myway back to the big time.” She chuckles as I unpack boxes atnine-fifteen in the morning on Monday, January 5. Looks like the grandopening of the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” is going to besomewhat less than auspicious.

My new office is in the basement of the small two-story 1920s buildingon Mission Street, down the block from the Transbay bus terminal. I’mrenting space from the law offices of Rosita C. Fernandez. It was afashionable neighborhood seventy years ago. After decades of neglect,the sprawl of downtown San Francisco has given the area new life.Nevertheless, by six in the evening, there seems to be a regulargathering of homeless people in front of the building. I look up atthe side of a Chinese restaurant called Lucky Corner No. 2 through theheavy metal bars that protect my small window. The name is misleading.The restaurant isn’t located on a corner.

We’ll see whether it will belucky for me. At least I know where I can get a fast lunch.

“Give it time,” Rosie says.

“We had to move a lot of files to set this up.”

“This was your file room?”

“Yeah. It looks much nicer now. Rolanda can help you get settled.”

“Thanks.” I look at the metal desk, mismatched chairs and stained filecabinet.

“I didn’t bring much. Just my computer, some books and a few files.”

“Good. Rent is due the first of the month.”

I’m already beginning to feel like we’re married again. It was muchmore fun when we were first dating and we didn’t worry about rent, carpayments and, later, diapers. We had started going out when we workedat the PD’s office.

Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage. I was coming off a longtermrelationship with a law school classmate. We found each other on therebound. I think she liked me because I was funny. I liked herbecause she was direct. And Lord knows, we knew each other’s workschedules.

“You won’t need to remind me.

And my highly generous former partners gave me aseventy-five-thousand-dollar check for my capital and afive-thousand-dollar bonus on my way out the door.”

Rosie gives me the “okay” sign.

“Any decent places to get a bite around here?” I ask her.

“Chinese place next door isn’t bad. Noah’s Bagels on the corner ispretty good.

We don’t get out very much.” After a brief pause, she asks, “Any moreon the incident at S and G?”

Interesting choice of words. I guess “incident” sounds better than“suicides,”

“shootings” or the more generic “tragedy.”

“Not much. I haven’t talked to Roosevelt since Wednesday.”

“I saw your pal Skipper Gates on the tube. He seems to think there’smore to it.”

“He’s trying to keep his name in the papers. He’s called a pressconference at nine-thirty. Want to watch?”

“Sure.”

I find my TV and turn it on. The picture isn’t bad, but the receptionwas better at the top of the Bank of America Building. I can make outthe faces of Skipper and Roosevelt standing in a briefing room.

“This is Rita Roberts of News Center 4 reporting live from SanFrancisco police headquarters. San Francisco District AttorneyPrentice Gates and Homicide Inspector Roosevelt Johnson are about tobegin a press briefing concerning the incident at the Simpson and Gateslaw firm last week, where two attorneys were killed. Mr. Gates willspeak first.”

“Incident” does seem to be the word of choice. Skipper and Rooseveltare standing behind a table on which the obligatory assortment ofevidence is

laid out in clear plastic bags: some bullet casings, acomputer keyboard, a telephone answering machine and some computerprintouts. Skipper steps to the microphone. The lights go on and he’sready. He works without notes.

“I want to thank you for coming this morning,” he begins.

“My first day on the job and already I have a major case. As you know,sometime between the hours of eleven-thirty p.m. on Tuesday, Decemberthirtieth, and eight a.m. on Wednesday, December thirty-first, myfriend and former partner, Bob Holmes, and my former associate, DianaKennedy, were killed by gunshots. We are in the process ofinvestigating this tragedy and we will have further details for you asthey become available. I will now call upon Inspector RooseveltJohnson, who is in charge of the investigation.”

Roosevelt steps to the microphone. He plays his cards close to thevest.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we are continuing our investigation.We are reviewing the evidence. We will have more for you as thesituation develops.”

Skipper returns to the microphone. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling.

“I want to thank you all for coming. We have time for just a fewquestions.”

The first question comes from the silver-haired anchor of Channel 5Eyewitness News.

“Mr. Gates, is it true the gun belonged to Mr. Holmes?”

Skipper glances at Roosevelt.

“Yes,” Skipper says.

“It was registered to Mr.

Holmes.”

“How did the gun get to the S and G office?”

The last thing Skipper wants to do is admit his partner kept a loadedpiece at his desk. He takes the offensive.

“The way any gun gets anywhere. Somebody carried it to the office.”

Not a bad response. I’m convinced.

“One of the lawyers at the firm said Holmes kept a loaded gun at hisdesk. Is it true?”

“You have good sources. I would like to talk to that person.”Laughter.

“The answer, by the way, is I don’t know. But we are looking intoit.”

Roosevelt moves to the front again.

“We are checking everything out.”

Skipper looks annoyed.

“Obviously,” he says, “we wouldn’t want to encourage people to keepconcealed weapons at their desks.”

The serious-looking woman from Channel 7 shouts, “We understand therewas a suicide note.”

Skipper says, “We have no comment.”

“Are you treating this case as a homicide or a suicide?”

Roosevelt steps forward.

“Ms. Kennedy’s death almost certainly appears to be a homicide.

Theinvestigation is ongoing.”

The pretty blonde from Channel 2 who used to work at NBC pushes her wayto the front.

“Mr. Gates, what’s your gut feeling? Was it a suicide?”

Roosevelt tries to intercept Skipper before he gets to the microphone.Skipper pushes him back.

“Young lady,” he says, “Bob Holmes was my partner and my friend. Imust rely on the SFPD and experienced homicide investigators likeInspector Johnson. They will gather the evidence and I will ultimatelydecide whether there is any basis to prosecute anyone. That’s all Ihave for today.”

I turn off the TV.

“Well, what do you think?” Rosie asks.

“Not a bad performance for his first press conference.”

“No, dummy. Not Skipper. The killings. What do you think?”

“They’re not telling the whole story. They’re holding stuff back.”

“Like what?”

“Like Vince Russo. He hasn’t been found. His name wasn’t evenmentioned.

There was nothing about the deal. There was nothing aboutthe divorce.”

Rosie shrugs.

“I’m due in court in twenty minutes. I’ll see you later.”

“Jesus, Mikey, I know you said you were going small-time, but this isridiculous.” At twelve-fifteen the same day, Doris is getting herfirst look at my new office.

“Do you like it?”

“This isn’t an office, it’s a closet.” She gives me a hug.

“What’s that smell?”

“I think it’s moo shu pork.” Rosie warned me. It seems my officestarts to smell like the Chinese place next door by midmorning.

“You’ll get used to it, Mikey.”

“I hope so.”

“How’s Grace?”

“Fine. And Jenny?”

“So-so. Boyfriend trouble. You know how it is.”

“I wish.”

“You will.”

We exchange small talk. She tells me things are starting to calm downat S&G.

She’s been reassigned to another attorney for the time being. Shesays she’s going to take a few weeks off for a trip to the Bahamas.

“I brought you something, Mikey,” she says. She opens a shopping bag,takes out a small plant and gives it to me.

“I thought you might like something to brighten up your office.”

“Thanks. It could use a little help.”

“So I see.” She looks at Grace’s picture.

“I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

She takes a manila envelope out of her purse and hands it to me.

“Open it,” she says.

I find a check made out to me for a hundred dollars. On the memo line,it says “retainer.” There is a letter that says she’s retaining thelaw office of Michael J. Daley to represent her on all legal matters.There is a copy of her will.

“Doris,” I begin.

She interrupts me.

“Mikey,” she says, “how many clients do you have?”

I look down.

“I thought so,” she says.

“Well, now you have one.”

“Look, Doris, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can. This isn’t charity. I need you to review my will.”

“Doris,” I say, “I’m sure there are people at S and G who could helpyou.”

She holds up her hand.

“If I wanted somebody at the firm to represent me, I wouldn’t be here.How long did we work together?”

“About five years.”

“And how many arguments did we have?”

“A few.”

“And how many of those arguments did I win?”

“All of them.”

“And I’m going to win this one, too.” She smiles.

“You don’t have to cash the check.”

“If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll frame it.”

“That’s fine. The law offices of Michael J. Daley are now officiallyopen for business.”

“Can I buy you lunch?”

“Absolutely. The moo shu pork smells pretty good.”

CHAPTER 6

A GREAT HUMANITARIAN

“HOLMES, John Robert, Jr.” died December 31, at age 48.

Belovedhusband of Elizabeth, father of seven. A respected partner at theinternational law firm of Simpson and Gates. Services will be held atGrace Cathedral, San Francisco, on Tuesday, January 6, at 10:00

a.m.Donations in his memory may be made to the Legal Community AgainstViolence.”

—obituary NOTICE, san francisco chronicle. tuesday, january 6.

“Did you read Bob’s obit, Mike? Jesus, you’d have thought he wasfucking Mother Teresa.” Arthur Patton is talking to me on a mistymorning as Rosie and I stand waiting for Joel on the front steps of thecity’s magnificent Grace Cathedral, which sits atop Nob Hill. Hissecond trophy wife, Shari, a one-time model and former S&Greceptionist, smiles politely. She’s certainly come a long way sinceshe was a giggly nineteen-year-old working our phones four years ago.From her appearance, you would never have a hint that she and Art aregoing through a nasty divorce.

I lean over and say just loud enough so Rosie and the two of them canhear me, “Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you’re using the word‘fucking’ in this context.”

Rosie stifles a chuckle. Shari keeps smiling. Art ignores me. Theywalk inside.

“They never knew what hit them,” Rosie says.

Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like PrincessDi’s, except Bruce Springsteen would sing “Born to Run” instead ofEiton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” As it turns out, the funeralBeth Holmes has arranged isn’t far from Bob’s wish.

The front steps of Grace look like the Academy Awards. The TVcameras, minicams and A-team reporters are here. The service itself isgoing to be filmed. Two traffic copters hover overhead. Some peopleare here just to see the celebrities. Everybody is dressed to theteeth. A thousand people are expected.

Rosie is being a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best ofcircumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband’s former lawfirm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriageand divorce, we always went to funerals together. It’s our unspokenpact. We wait for Doris to arrive.

I’ve never really been very good about funerals. It goes back to mydays as a priest. When you’re the low priest on the totem pole, youtend to get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing five of them inone day for people I’d never met. I felt bad for the families. I didmy standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Toughgig, funerals.

The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance and I have naive hopesthis will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper’s black Lincoln arrivesand the feeding frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position asthe reporters shove microphones into his face. His longsufferingwife, Natalie, a well-known society matron, looks embarrassed. Skippermouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner’s funeral andsays the DA’s office is working day and night to solve the case. Tohis credit, Skipper seems to be resisting the urge to turn Bob’sfuneral into a press conference.

My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries toignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I’ve always liked Ellen. Forthe life of me, I can’t figure out how an outgoing interior decoratorwho serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay marriedto Chuckles for thirty-two years.

Maybe she’s a closet tax-code junkie.

Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shakehands with Rosie. Jenny’s pretty face is pale and she looks sad in herdark dress.

She’s taking this harder than I would have thought. Dorisnever warmed up to Rosie.

It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things werepretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at theSimpson firm.

We had a big fight over custody. Big mistake on mypart. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have letRosie have custody from the

beginning.

It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks whenemotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie’s mom and mymom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace’s entirelife if we didn’t stop acting like idiots. I’m glad we listened tothem.

“Pretty rough time, Doris,” I say.

“You got that right.”

I turn to Jenny.

“How are things at Stanford?”

“One more semester to go.”

“Are you still thinking about law school?”

“I’m not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We’ll see. Ihave a lot on my mind.”

I’d like to be twenty-two again just to see what it feels like to havea lot on my mind.

Joel and Naomi Friedman arrive by cab and join us. Joel has been askedto speak and he looks nervous. Naomi is a petite brunette with curlyhair and dark features who teaches nursery school at the JewishCommunity Center.

She’s a ball of fire. Perfect for Joel.

We head in and pay our brief respects to Bob’s widow, Beth, and herthree children, ages two to five, all of whom are sitting in the frontrow. The second row is reserved for Bob’s three ex-wives and theircurrent spouses and significant others and Bob’s four children from hisprevious marriages.

The Simpson and Gates contingent occupies about twenty rows on the leftside of the cathedral as you face the front. We take our seatsopposite them on the right side. I’m not in the mood to visit with myformer colleagues today. The back of the house is packed. The legalcommunity has turned out. So have the politicians and the upper crustof Pacific Heights.

Somber organ music emanates from the front of thecathedral. I never had a chance to work such a big crowd when I was apriest.

At ten-fifteen, the organist plays a loud chord, signaling the serviceis about to begin. A young minister welcomes us and says a fewperfunctory words about Bob’s life and career. He clearly never methim. He introduces Art Patton, who tries to appear respectful, butlooks like David Letterman preparing to deliver a monologue as hesaunters to the front. Rosie is thinking the same thing and shewhispers to me, “He thinks it’s the firm Christmas party.”

“Thank you for coming,” Art says.

“Bob would have been pleased to see such a large turnout. It’s sadthat it takes a great tragedy to bring us together. I hope we willhave a chance to meet on a happier occasion.” His eyes gleam. Hetakes a deep breath. It’s hard to look somber with a smirk plasteredon your face.

“Bob Holmes was a great lawyer and my best friend.”

Murmurs from the S&G section. Art’s taking some license. He and Bobcoexisted, but it’s a stretch to say they were friends, let alone greatfriends. Some people think they hated each other’s guts.

“He was also a great humanitarian.”

Someone in the S&G section laughs out loud.

“It’s appropriate that we gather here to celebrate his life and pay ourrespects to his memory.” He describes Bob’s humble beginnings inWilkes-Barre, his education at Penn and Harvard Law School, hisadmission to the partnership at the age of thirty-two. He says Bob wasa loving father, but doesn’t linger on the subject of his fourmarriages. Bob’s eldest son once told me that the children from hisfirst three marriages stopped speaking to him several years ago.

After a brief description of Bob’s achievements, he introduces Joel,who walks slowly to the lectern, a faraway look in his eyes.

“My name is Joel Friedman. Bob Holmes was my colleague, my mentor andmy friend.

This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Easy, Joel.

“Bob taught me how to be a lawyer. He taught me how to handledifficult situations. And, despite what some people may think, hetaught me how important it is to treat everyone with respect. He was afine man whose legacy is in this room. He leaves his family,colleagues and friends with memories of a man who worked hard, lovedhis family and loved his job. I will miss him.”

Well done. He steps away from the podium to compose himself.

Theminister comforts him.

Skipper’s up next. Rosie whispers, “This should be a beaut.”

Skipper does his best to look serious. He faces the television cameraand says, “I knew Bob for twenty-two years. He was one of the finestlawyers I’ve ever met. More than anyone else, Bob built Simpson andGates into a powerhouse.” He pauses.

“More importantly, I want to say a few words about Bob, the man. Bobwas sometimes difficult to get along with. That’s the price you payfor dealing with genius. He never demanded more from his colleaguesthan he expected from himself. Yes, he was a perfectionist. Yes, hewas driven. Yes, he screamed at times. It was never out of malice. Hesimply wanted to be the best he could be, and he expected the same fromhis colleagues.”

More coughing from the S&G section. Rosie whispers, “This is reallygetting thick.”

“It is tragic Bob won’t have an opportunity to see his children growup. It is sad he won’t have a chance to fulfill his dreams. A greatlife. Cut short.” He stops to wipe away a tear that isn’t there.

“The legacy he leaves us is great.

In his honor, I promise to each of you, and to Bob, that I will notrest until I find out the true circumstances surrounding his death. Itis my solemn pledge.”

Doris nudges me and whispers, “For God’s sake, he’s making a campaignspeech at a funeral.”

Skipper finishes his remarks with a tribute to Bob’s distinguishedrecord as a husband and as a father, which brings audible laughter fromseveral members of the firm. Two of Bob’s college friends say a fewwords about his life’s achievements. A neighbor reads a poem. Theminister reads two psalms and a small choir sings “Amazing Grace.”Finally, the organist plays

“Born to Run.”

At eleven-thirty, we begin to file out.

The TV cameras jockey for the standard shot of the pallbearers bringingthe casket down the steps. Bob would have loved the fact that thepallbearers include Skipper, the two surviving members of X-Com andthree of his partners.

When we reach the bottom of the steps, I gaze around and my eyes meetthose of Roosevelt Johnson, who is standing on the sidewalk, arespectful distance away.

He is looking discreetly through the crowd. It is common practice fora homicide inspector to show up at the funeral of the subject of hisinvestigation, but somehow, I didn’t expect to see him today.

Joel and Naomi find us and we watch the pallbearers load the casketinto the hearse. I say good-bye to Doris and Jenny. Skipper’s Lincolnpulls up behind the hearse and the reporters surround him.

“Mr. Gates,” a reporter calls out, “any new information on thecase?”

Skipper elects to take the high road.

“This is an inappropriate time to discuss the investigation,” hesays.

“I will talk to you at the office.” The hearse pulls away and beginsthe long drive to the town of Colma, just south of the city, where SanFranciscans bury their dead.

You won’t find Bill’s Place in Gourmet magazine. Housed in an oldbuilding at Twenty-fifth and Clement, it was a diner before dinersbecame fashionable and it served “comfort food” four decades beforefood critics coined the term. The long counters, huge chandeliers andFormica tables are a throwback to simpler times. The waitresses havehair in varying shades of blue and orange and call their customers“honey.” It’s the best place in the city to take screaming childrenfor hamburgers and milk shakes. It may never be the subject of anAmerican Express commercial, but it’s been one of my favorite placessince my dad took me here when I was a kid.

Naomi Friedman is eating a trench fry.

“Mike, I’m worried about Joel,” she says. Joel is in the men’s room.Naomi takes off her red-framed glasses. Rosie, Joel, Naomi and I areeating a quick lunch before we head south on the 280 freeway to Colmafor our second funeral of the day. Diana’s funeral is going to be agraveside affair for immediate family and friends. I’ve been asked tosay a few words.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“He was at police headquarters all day Sunday. They asked him a lot ofquestions.”

Rosie and I glance at each other. I take a bite out of mycheeseburger.

“I’m sure they’re just trying to be thorough,” I say.

“This is a highprofile case.”

Joel returns and there’s an uncomfortable silence.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Naomi says.

“Come on,” he says.

“All right,” Naomi says.

“I was just telling them about your glorious afternoon Sunday.”

“I already told you. It’s nothing to worry about.”

She gives him a sharp look.

“It’s a lot to worry about. Why are they so interested in talking toyou for so long?”

I sense annoyance. They’ve been through this already and Joel doesn’twant to replay it in front of Rosie and me. He picks up his hamburger,turns to me and says, “I don’t know how you can eat this stuff. It’llkill you.”

“My grandfather ate this stuff every day of his life for eighty-sevenyears.”

“Imagine how long he would have lived if he had taken better care ofhimself.”

Naomi is annoyed.

“Can you guys stop it for a minute? This is serious. Mike, why do youthink they’re giving Joel the third degree?”

Joel answers her.

“They’re just trying to figure out what happened. That’s it.

Nothing more to it. Jesus, it’s not like I’m a suspect. Two peopleare dead and the cops are just doing their job. They said they’dprobably declare it a suicide in the next couple of days.”

Naomi scowls.

“What about Vince Russo?” she asks.

“No word yet,” Joel says.

“Did the cops tell you anything more about what happened?” I ask.

“Not much. The bullets came from Bob’s gun.”

Naomi loses interest in her trench fries.

“Do we have to talk about this at lunch?”

“Sorry,” I say.

“I’m just trying to figure out why they’re so interested in talking toJoel.” I turn toward him.

“Which cop did you talk to?”

“Your buddy, Roosevelt Johnson, and his partner, Marcus Banks.”

“Johnson’s a good man.”

He shifts in his chair.

“He’s a very suspicious man. And his partner isn’t a nice guy.”

“Marcus got himself into some trouble a few years ago. He’s a littleheavy-handed. He beat a confession out of a white man for the murderof a black prostitute. Turns out the guy really did it, but they hadto turn him loose because they had nothing besides the coercedconfession. A week later, the guy woke up dead.”

“Oops.”

“Don’t underestimate them, Joel. They’re the best on the force.”

Rosie has heard enough.

“Can we change the subject now?”

Naomi looks relieved.

“You know, Mike,” Joel says, “my dad is doing the service for Diana.”

“I didn’t know she was Jewish.”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. She grew up in our neighborhood and went to ourtemple.

Except back then, her name was Debbie Fink, her hair was dark brown,her nose was longer than mine and she weighed about two hundred andfifty pounds.”

“What happened to Debbie Fink?”

“The way I understand the story, between her senior year in college andher first year in law school, she spent a summer at a fat farm, had herhair dyed and got her nose fixed. Lord knows what else she had takenin. Her personal trainer was a guy named Billy Kennedy. They weremarried for about six months.

By the time she finished her first year in law school, they weredivorced. But the remake stuck. Debbie Fink became Diana Kennedy.”

“Sounds like quite a transformation.”

“More like a rebirth. She had lots of secrets.”

“Does anybody else know about this?”

“Everybody at the firm… except you, of course.”

I look at Naomi and she nods. Rosie tosses her head back and laughs.

“I just figured out what we’re going to inscribe on your tombstone,”she says. “

“Michael Daley. Priest. Lawyer. He was always the last to know.”

” Naomi chuckles. We pay the bill and drive southbound through GoldenGate Park to Nineteenth Avenue. It’s about twenty minutes to Colma.

It’s drizzling when we reach the old Jewish cemetery at three o’clock.The crowd numbers only about thirty, and we stand under umbrellas on anartificial-turf mat next to the gravesite. Joel’s father is wearing abeige overcoat and is standing under a black umbrella. Standing nextto him is a woman I assume is Diana’s mother.

We greet him. I’ve known Rabbi Neil Friedman for years. He’s anolder, huskier version of Joel, with an eloquent, stained-glass voicewith the hint of a New York accent.

“Michael, I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. He’s polite, butsomewhat

distant. He introduces us to Diana’s mother, Ruth Fink. Joeltold us Diana’s father died when Diana was in her teens. Mrs. Fink isalso polite, but brief.

Doris and Jenny Fontaine join us. Skipper, Arthur Patton and CharlesStern arrive as the service is beginning. A television cameramanstands about a hundred yards away, by the gate to the cemetery. Noreporters or minicams this afternoon.

As Rabbi Friedman begins the service, I notice Roosevelt Johnsonstanding next to the gate. He nods to me. The rain becomes heavierand Mrs. Fink loses her composure. The rabbi intones the kaddish, theJewish prayer of mourning.

It’s been a helluva week.

CHAPTER 7

I’VE GOT TO GO BE A LAWYER FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS

“We are looking forward to the new year with great optimism.”

—simpson AND gates managing partner arthur patton. san FHANCISCOlegal JOURNAL.

friday, january 9.

“The firm is starting to implode, Mike. Twenty labor lawyers announcedthey’re leaving. They’re talking about staff layoffs and bigcutbacks.” Joel is describing the state of the firm three days later,at six o’clock on Friday evening. We’re having a beer on his backporch as a light mist falls on the small houses built back-to-back inthe Richmond District.

This is his going-away party for me from S&G.Rosie and Grace and my mom are here. So are Doris and Jenny Fontaine,and Wendy Hogan, a part-time tax attorney at S&G, and her six-year-oldson, Danny. Joel’s parents are supposed to stop by on their way totemple for Friday-night services.

“That’s fast,” I reply.

“Sounds like I got out just in time.”

“The firm must be in worse shape financially than anybody let on. Iguess we really needed the cash from Vince Russo’s deal. I’ve heardFirst Bank may foreclose on our equipment loans. They may hit up thepartners.

It may turn out to be a good thing I didn’t make partner.”

“Joint-and-several liability is a nasty thing when you’ve got a bunchof creditors out there.” Although most states now permit law firms tobe organized as “professional corporations” or “limited-liabilitypartnerships,”

many firms, S&G among them, are still set up as generalpartnerships, which means each partner is fully responsible for firmdebts even if the

partner didn’t sign the papers or incur the debt onbehalf of the firm. It’s an anachronism. Professional-service firmsare the only large businesses still organized as partnerships. GeneralMotors wouldn’t be structured in a similar way.

“I heard they found Vince Russo’s car,” I say.

“They found his car, keys and wallet in the parking lot at the VistaPoint at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. They think he mayhave jumped.

Nobody saw him.”

“Any chance he’s still alive?”

He shrugs.

“No body has turned up. He could have planted the car and driven awayin another one. He could have walked to Sausalito and taken a cab.Hell, somebody could have picked him up and driven him to the airport.It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in a warm climate sipping a fruitydrink by the beach.”

“Did he stash any cash?”

“He probably had some money in a foreign bank account.” My mom walksout from the kitchen.

“Hello, Joel,” she says. She’s having a good night.

“Have things settled down at the office?”

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Daley. Things have quieted down. We’re hopingthings will get back to normal in a few weeks.”

Joel’s son Alan marches outside with the bravado of a six-year-old andgives my mom a big hug. Little kids can spot a grandmother a hundredyards away. He is holding a piece of challah in his right hand.

“Uncle Mike,” he says, “Mommy says it’s time for you and Daddy to comeinside for dinner.”

“Are you sure, Alan?”

Still clutching the challah, he points his index finger toward me foremphasis.

“Uncle Mike, Mommy says you and Daddy have to come in right now, oryou’ll have to take a time-out.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Tell Mommy we’ll be right there. Oh, Alan? Can I sit next to you?”

He smiles.

“Sorry, Uncle Mike. I always sit next to Daddy.”

A large oak table overwhelms the small dining room. Alan and his

twinbrother, Stephen, are impressively well-behaved as they sit quietly onopposite sides of the table, at right angles to their father. Joelsits at the head. Grace sits between Rosie and me with our backstoward the windows.

My mom is next to me. Doris and Jenny are acrossfrom me. Naomi sits at the foot of the table.

Wendy Hogan is next to Doris. Her son, Danny, sits next to her. Wendyand her husband split up a couple of years ago. She went through themother of all custody battles. I can relate. She keeps her sad browneyes hidden behind large wire-rimmed glasses. Her frizzy hair andmousy demeanor belie the fact that she’s an absolute terror innegotiations with the IRS. I like her. We divorced, recoveringCatholics have a lot in common. And S&G has treated her like shit forthe past five years. Someday, I’m going to summon the courage to askher out.

She’s a little gun-shy around men these days. She looks serious andsays to me, “I think I may get laid off.”

“No way,” I say.

“There will be nobody left to do the work.”

“Every department is making a ‘hit list.” They won’t keep any of uspart-timers. My billables aren’t good enough.”

She may be right. She works four days a week, but she’s paid onlyabout 60

percent of what a fulltime associate makes. According to thefirm, if a lawyer works four days a week, you still have to pay rentand a secretary five days a week. As a result, it’s unfair for thefirm to pay the attorney a straight prorated salary. Most people thinkit’s just another way to screw the part-timers.

Rosie pipes up.

“Don’t worry, Wendy. The economy is good. You’ll find something.”

“It doesn’t make things easier. Whenever my finances change, Andy’slurking, trying to figure out ways to break up our custody and child-support deal.”

Danny frowns. He’s a good kid. He’s watched his parents fight overcustody his entire life. I don’t say it out loud, but I’m betting he’son his way to years of therapy.

The kids finish first and they wander to the small den in the back ofthe house to do what children do these days—watch videos and playcomputer games. As we’re clearing the table, there’s a knock at thedoor. Joel looks up.

“Mom and Dad are here.”

Alan comes bouncing down the hall.

“Grandma and Grandpa!” he shrieks with six-year-old glee. He runsthrough the dining room and down the interior stairs to open the door.His brother is a step behind him. Naomi smiles. A moment later, Alancomes back up the stairs, a troubled look on his face.

“Daddy, there’s a policeman downstairs. He wants to talk to you.”

What the hell? Joel freezes. Naomi looks alarmed.

“Okay, Alan,” he says.

“Daddy will go down and see what this is all about. Don’t worry.”

Alan goes over to his mother and grabs her hand. Joel walksdownstairs.

A moment later, we hear loud talking at the bottom of the stairs. Rosiegoes to the living room in the front of the house and looks out thewindows. I follow her. She turns to me and says, “This doesn’t lookgood.”

I look out and see two police cars parked in the small driveway. Mystomach tightens. There are four policemen. One is having a heateddiscussion with Joel.

Grace comes up to us.

“Is something wrong. Daddy?” she asks.

“No, sweetie,” I lie, trying to keep my voice calm.

“I don’t think so. It looks like the policemen want to talk to UncleJoel for a few minutes. I’ll go downstairs to find out what’s goingon.” She moves closer to Rosie.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and open the heavy wooden door.

I’mstunned to see a middle-aged policeman, whose face I remember, butwhose name escapes me, putting handcuffs on Joel.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

This is bullshit.

“Excuse me. May I ask what’s going on?” I try to keep my tonenoncoTOTonterttonaV. It’s important to remember the guys with theuniforms have the guns.

“You have the right to an attorney.”

The policeman looks at me.

“Please step back, sir. This matter does not concern you.”

“Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.” What thefuck is this all about?

“Officer, Mr. Friedman’s wife asked me to find out what’s going on.”

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”Naomi is coming out the door as the policeman says, “Mr. Friedman isbeing arrested for the murders of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. Wehave a warrant for his arrest and we’re taking him into custody. Pleasestep aside.”

Un-fucking-believable. Skipper’s pulling a publicity stunt. Naomiscreams.

Joel tries to calm her down.

“It’s okay. We’ll get this straightened out.”

Although Naomi doesn’t realize it, her kids have followed her. Theystart to cry.

“Naomi,” I say calmly, “let me handle this. Why don’t you take thekids back up?”

She nods and takes them upstairs. She returns without them a momentlater.

Joel is trying to reason with the policeman when a black Lincoln drivesup and Skipper steps out. The pieces are starting to fit together.

“It’s under control,” he says to nobody in particular. He turns toJoel.

“Well, young man, I knew you had a temper, but I didn’t think you’dkill two people.”

A white Channel 4 minivan pulls up behind Skipper’s car. Rita Robertsand her cameraman leap out.

Joel is furious.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Skipper? You think I’d kill twopeople because I didn’t make partner?”

“There’s a lot more to it, and you know it. You’ll have your day incourt.”

I try to interject before things deteriorate further. I address thepoliceman. I point to the handcuffs.

“Officer, do you really need those? Mr. Friedman is a respectedattorney.

He’s not a threat.”

The cop shrugs. I see the name D’Augustino on his nameplate.

“Standard procedure, sir.”

I take Skipper aside.

“What kind of stunt are you trying to pull here?”

His expression is condescending.

“Look who’s here. My favorite ex-partner. The one who just gotfired. And with good reason. Always spend your free time withmurderers?”

It’s hard for me to believe what I’m hearing. I clench my teeth.

“For God’s sake, Skipper, if you wanted to arrest him, you could havecalled. He would have surrendered without all the theatrics. He’s

notexactly a flight risk.”

“Bullshit, Mike. You don’t know the half of it.”

“And I suppose you called the TV stations to make sure they were herein time for your collar?”

“I don’t know anything about that. They must have heard it on thepolice band.”

Now it’s my turn.

“Bullshit, Skipper.”

“Fuck you. This doesn’t have anything to do with you, so stay out ofit.”

Through sheer willpower, I don’t retort. Joel is in enough troublewithout my getting into hand-to-hand combat with Skipper on the frontsteps of Joel’s house.

At that moment, Joel’s mother and father arrive. They look startledat the sight. Joel’s mother, Mollie, a heavyset woman, has a knack forsaying the right thing or deciding to stay mum. She usually elects toremain silent. It keeps her out of trouble with the congregants.Joel’s father keeps his face impassive as he asks politely, “Is there aproblem, Officer?”

Skipper steps up.

“Rabbi, I’m sorry I’m the one who has to tell you, but your son isunder arrest for the murder of two people.”

The rabbi looks stunned. He takes a step back.

“There’s been a mistake.”

“I’m afraid there’s no mistake, Rabbi. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman huddle with Naomi, who is standing behind me.I turn around to look at them and say, “I’ll figure out what’s goingon. You guys stay put.”

The uniforms push Joel toward one of the squad cars.

“For God’s sake,” I say, “take off the handcuffs.”

Skipper can’t resist.

“Bob and Diana would have wished he’d been in handcuffs the night hekilled them.”

Asshole.

One of the uniforms says they’re taking him to the Hall of Justice.Before they put him in the car, I say to him, “Joel, I’ll be rightbehind you. Be cooperative and above all, don’t talk to anyone. Thesepeople are not your friends. Nobody down there is your friend. Gotit?”

He nods, but I see him biting back panic.

“You’ve got to take care of this, Mike.”

“I will. Right now, you’ve got to do what I say.”

The uniform shoves me out of the way.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he asks. I resist the urge to shovehim back.

Joel answers.

“He’s my lawyer. I’m not saying a word to you assholes unless he’spresent.”

I summon my best authoritative tone.

“May I have your attention, please?” I turn and look directly intoRita Roberts’s camera. My voice is shaking.

“My name is Michael Daley. I am Mr. Friedman’s attorney. I haveinstructed Mr. Friedman not to talk to any of you outside of mypresence. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman are witnesses.” I turn toSkipper.

“If you talk to my client, I’ll have you brought up before the statebar.”

He turns away. My little speech was just beamed live to households allover the Bay Area. A media star is born.

The two police cars pull away and head down Sixteenth. The Lincolnfollows. I turn to Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman.

“Let’s go in. We have a problem.”

Upstairs, Naomi has sent the children to watch TV under my mother’swatchful eye. Naomi, Rosie, Wendy, Doris, Jenny and I gather in theliving room with Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman.

“What happens now?” Naomi asks.

“I’ll go down to the Hall of Justice and ask for bail. He may have tospend the night. They arrested him late on a Friday because it’s toughto find a judge right before the weekend.”

Rosie looks at me.

“You’d better get down there right away.”

“He didn’t do it, Mike,” Naomi implores.

“I know. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I ask Rosie to call Pete totake my mother home. She agrees.

I walk to the back of the house where the kids are gathered with mymother.

I give Grace a hug.

“Daddy has to go out for a while,” I explain.

“You’re going to have to stay with Mommy tonight.”

“Okay,” she says. Then she adds, “Is Uncle Joel in trouble?”

The wisdom of a six-year-old.

“Yeah, sweetie. But it’s a big mistake. Daddy is going downtown tostraighten it out. You look after Mommy and Grandma, okay?”

“I will, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I turn to my mother. For the first time in five years, her eyes aretruly clear.

Before I can say anything, she says, “They arrestedhim.”

“Yeah.”

I see the look that I saw so many times when my dad got a call at homefrom his sergeant. It’s the look of a policeman’s wife. For a moment,she’s thirty years younger and her blue eyes are steel.

“Do what you have to do to help him, Michael.”

“Yes, Mama. Right now, I’ve got to go be a lawyer for a couple ofhours.”

“I know. You take good care of him.”

“I will. Pete’s going to come over and take you home.”

“I’ll be up late, Michael. Would you please call me when you knowwhat’s going on?”

“Of course.” After all these years, Margaret Murphy Daley is still thewife of a cop.

CHAPTER 8J

THE HALL OF JUSTICE

“The Hall of Justice is an incredibly expensive homeless shelter, detoxcenter and drug-treatment center, and an utterly inept way to handlesocial problems.”

—director OF inmate release program. san francisco examiner.

In San Francisco, the D A’s office, criminal courts and city jail arelocated in a Stalinesque seven-story structure at Seventh and Bryantthat is modestly known as the Hall of Justice. Although a newfifty-million-dollar jail wing was added in the early nineties, theHall hasn’t lost any of its original charm.

The new jail was built to ease overcrowding in the system, which hasbeen under a federal court consent decree since the eighties because ofpoor conditions.

The north wall of the new jail practically touches the 101 freeway, andprisoners sleep less than fifty feet from the slow lane.

At seven-thirty, the traffic on Van Ness is heavy as I weave southboundthrough a driving rain. Surprisingly, I find a parking place onSeventh between two squad cars. I grab my briefcase from the trunk

andtry to look lawyerly in my jeans and long-sleeved polo shirt.

I’m soaked as I run up the front steps of the Hall and explain to theguard at the metal detector that I’m here to see my client, Mr.Friedman. He motions me through and I detour around the tortoise-slowDepression-era elevators and head for the stairs.

In October of 1996, a new intake center was opened in the new wing ofthe Hall. County Jail 9, as the intake center is known, is a far cryfrom the chaos that reigned at the raucous old booking center on thesixth floor of the old Hall, which at times seemed more like anovercrowded zoo on a busy night.

The old jail is now used primarilyfor high-security housing and prisoner classification. The intake areawas the last part of the new facility to come online.

The booking hub is antiseptic clean. In contrast to traditional“linear” jails, which have cells lining a central corridor, the holdingcells in the new booking center are arranged in a circle around adeputies’ workstation. The prisoners are housed in well-lighted cellsbehind glass doors. When the doors are shut, the place is relativelyquiet. There are no heavy, clanking iron cell doors or shouts ofinmates. As always, the usual parade of humanity is awaitingprocessing.

Whenever I’m in the Hall, I think of my dad. I always expect to seehim walking down the corridors, his bearing erect, his chest out, acigarette hanging from his lips. He was so proud that he was a cop. Heput the bad guys away.

Although the Hall serves as the city jail, for historic bureaucraticreasons, it’s actually run by the County Sheriff’s Department. Isurvey the sheriff’s deputies working behind the desk and I recognizethe pockmarked face and thick mustache of Sergeant Philip Ramos. I’mthankful I had the foresight to get some business cards printed.

“Good evening, Sergeant Ramos,” I say, handing him my state bar cardand my driver’s license.

The heavyset man looks at my card, then surveys me up and down.

Aboutten years ago, Phil Ramos found himself on the wrong side of a gangfight. A bullet wound in his left thigh moved him behind a desk.

He’snever been happy about it. He’s a good, tough cop.

“Mike Daley,” he says.

“I thought you moved downtown. May I assume your visit this evening isnot entirely social?”

“That would be correct.”

“And may I ask which one of our guests will have the pleasure of yourcompany?”

“Joel Friedman. They just brought him in.”

He types on his computer.

“Excuse me, Mr. Big Time. A murder rap. He’s being processed. Gonnabe a few minutes.” He picks up his phone and asks someone to bringJoel to the holding room adjacent to his desk.

“Do me a favor and keep it short. They haven’t finished booking him.”He looks at his computer screen.

“What’s this about?” he asks.

“You heard about the shootings last week at the Simpson and Gatesfirm?”

“Yeah.”

“I worked there. Friedman still works there. Skipper’s trying to pinthe shootings on him.”

He’s surprised.

“I thought it was a suicide.”

“There’s something else going on. Skipper’s calling the shots. There’sno way this guy did it.”

He gives me the “I’ve heard it a million times” look.

“Sometimes people do stupid things,” he says.

“I just process them. Roosevelt wouldn’t have charged him if he didn’thave a solid case.”

“Do me a favor, Phil. I don’t know if we’ll be able to get a judge toset bail tonight. If he has to stay the night, put him in his owncell, okay? If you put him in with everybody, he’ll get eatenalive.”

He scowls.

“I’ll try. We have a full house. Fridays are always busy. I’ll seewhat I can do.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

Two deputies lead Joel into the holding room behind the intake desk. Iused to meet with my clients in similar rooms when I was a PD. Thelucky ones got five minutes of my time. I didn’t create the system.I’d try to come up with a workable deal and move to the next case. Idid the best I could. Joel keeps his head down. Intake isn’t fun.First you get fingerprinted. Then you have a medical interview. Insome cases, you get strip-searched. Finally, you’re issued an orangejumpsuit and you’re assigned to a cell.

Ramos presses a button and the door opens to let me into the room.

Thedeputies have taken off Joel’s handcuffs. He slumps into a chair. Iask the deputies to wait outside. The larger one tells me we have tenminutes.

Joel’s eyes are tired.

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” he says. His voice is desperate.

“We need to talk fast. First, I’m going to try to find a judge to setbail. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find one at this hour on aFriday night.”

“You can’t let them keep me here.”

“I know the desk sergeant. He’s going to get you your own cell.” Idon’t know this for sure, but I’m hoping Ramos will keep his word.

“Don’t talk to anybody.

Everybody here will lie about you. They’ll say you confessed tosomething.

Even the ones you don’t talk to will lie. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. They’re going to finsish your paperwork and they’ll probablytake you to a holding cell.”

“What am I going to tell Naomi and the kids?”

“I’ll take care of that. We’ll take this one step at a time. Rosie’sthere and so are your mom and dad. We’ll get through this. Right now,you’ve got to stay calm and be smart. You got it?”

“Yeah.” There’s panic in his voice.

The deputy opens the door.

“Time to go,” he says.

“We need to finish his paperwork.”

“Just one more minute,” I say. He steps back outside.

“Joel, one other thing.

I’ll do everything I can to help you if you want me to represent you.But I don’t want you to feel obligated to hire me as your lawyer. Youdon’t have to tell me tonight. But you’re going to have to decidesoon.”

He looks me in the eye.

“I wouldn’t trust anybody else. You’re the man.”

“Good. Now do what these nice deputies say. I’ll take care ofeverything else.”

He looks back at me as they lead him out the door. He mouths the word“Thanks.”

At ten-fifteen, I’m at the pay phone in the lobby of the Hall. Ishould have brought my cellular. I dial Joel and Naomi’s number. Rosieanswers.

“It’s Mike.”

“No bail,” she says.

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“We saw it on the news. Fucking Skipper got in front of the camerasand said he’s charging Joel with first-degree murder.”

“The duty judge wouldn’t set bail.”

“I figured. I didn’t think they’d let him out tonight.” If it’sfirst-degree, they may not set bail at all.

“Here’s Naomi.”

“Hi, Mike.” Her voice cracks.

“Look, Naomi, I just talked to Joel. He’s doing okay.” A small lie.

“I know the desk sergeant. He’s going to put Joel in his own cell.He’ll be all right for the night.”

“What am I supposed to tell the boys?”

I pause. What is she supposed to tell the boys?

“The legal system works slowly, so we have to stay calm.” Easy for meto say. People hate it when their lawyer tells them their only choiceis to be patient.

“I’ll be right over,” I say.

“Have Rosie screen any calls. And don’t talk to the press.”

“Whatever you say.”

The kids are asleep at eleven-thirty when Rosie, Naomi and I sit downin the dining room where we’d been eating Naomi’s chicken a few hoursearlier.

The minicams left after the eleven o’clock news programsended. Rabbi and Mrs.

Friedman just went home. Pete picked up my mom an hour ago.

Naomi turns her puffy red eyes toward me.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

I take her hand.

“I’ll talk to another judge. It would help if you have access to somemoney.”

“We’ll find it. They said on the news they may not grant bail.” Ilook at Rosie. If Skipper goes for special circumstances (that is, thedeath penalty), there will be no bail. Not even for a pillar of thelegal community. Not even for the rabbi’s son.

“Naomi,” Rosie says, “sometimes they don’t set bail. It depends on thecharge.”

Naomi is holding back tears.

“What’s next? You guys are the lawyers.”

“He’ll probably be arraigned on Monday,” I reply. We lawyers oftenforget how Byzantine the legal system sounds to civilians.

“We go to court and formal charges are read. Joel pleads not guilty.It takes about five minutes. Then I’ll go have a big fight with the DA.”

“And if they don’t drop the charges?”

Rosie and I glance at each other, and I say quietly, “We’ll get readyto go to trial, if we have to.”

“I see.” It’s sinking in. Naomi pauses, then asks, “When will thatbe?”

“Technically, we can demand a trial within sixty days, but almosteverybody agrees to a delay so they have more time to prepare.” She’sstarting to lose it.

“One other thing,” I say.

“You and Joel may decide to let somebody else handle the case. If youdo, I’ll understand.” Rosie looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Naomi shrugs.

“I’ll talk it over with Joel. I’m sure he’ll want you. I do.”

“Thanks, Naomi. I’d better get going.”

I carry Grace to Rosie’s car. She’s getting heavy.

“Rosie,” I say, “mind if I stop by for a few minutes on my way home?”

“You were reading my mind.”

“Just business tonight. I seem to have a murder case to preparefor.”

“Absolutely.”

I smile at her.

“How do you think George Costanza would describe us?”

“I believe the term is ‘crisis sex,” with a few doses of’ sympathy sex’and

‘guilt sex’ thrown in.”

“One of these days, you’re going to find a guy you really like andwe’re going to have to shut this down.”

“I know. But, for the time being, this works all right for me.”

“Me too. I’ll see you at home.”

CHAPTER 9

LARKSPUR

“You’re moving to Larkspur? Marin County? You’re kidding, right?

Youcan’t move to Marin. You’re a city boy, Mike. The fresh air will killyou.”—joel friedman.

Rosie and I live about three blocks from each other in Marin County ina little suburb called Larkspur, which is about ten miles north of theGolden Gate Bridge. Larkspur’s eleven thousand residents live insmall, welltended houses on the flatlands between the 101 freeway andthe base of Mount Tamalpais. In Marin, the single folks live inSausalito, the artists and writers live in Mill Valley, the nouveauriche live in Tiburon and the old money live in Ross. The few workingstiffs tend to congregate in Larkspur and its sister city, CorteMadera, although housing prices are getting so high that only the trulyaffluent will be living there soon.

Moving to Marin was one of our many compromises. It’s a move we neverwould have made if Grace hadn’t been born. If it had been up to me,we’d have moved back to Berkeley. If Rosie had had her way, wewouldn’t have left the city.

Kids change things. A lot. The scary thing is I like where we are.Maybe you don’t have to make a political statement with every aspect ofyour life.

It’s a few minutes after midnight now and I’ve just crossed the GoldenGate Bridge. The Corolla strains up the Waldo Grade toward the tunnelabove Sausalito. If it weren’t raining so hard, I’d have a great viewof the city out my right window.

As usual, I’m listening to KCBS, the all-news station. Joel is a hottopic.

“In tonight’s headlines, Joel Mark Friedman was arrested for the murderof two prominent attorneys at the Simpson and Gates law firm.”

Randy Long, my mentor at the PD’s office, used to say you know yourclient is in really big trouble when they use all three of his names onthe news.

“District Attorney Prentice Gates will hold a press conference Saturdaymorning to discuss the case. KCBS will cover it live. KCBS news timeis twelve-ten.” I switch the station to jazz.

I take Paradise Drive west past the upscale Corte Madera mall. I headnorth on Magnolia, Larkspur’s main street. A mile later, I turn rightonto a side street called Alexander Avenue, and pull into the narrowdriveway of Number 8, across from the Twin Cities Little League field.Because of its proximity to the ballpark, it’s known as thehey-batter-batter house. Rosie has been renting the tiny whitebungalow since Grace started school last year. Many homes in Larkspurwere built as temporary housing after the 1906 earthquake. Some havebeen remodeled, but most are still quite small.

Rosie’s was built in1925 for a local schoolteacher, who paid twenty-five hundred dollarsfor it. Today, the seven-hundred-square-foot house would

set you backat least three hundred thousand.

The light’s on. Rosie is watching the rebroadcast of the late news. Iknock quietly on the door and let myself in. It’s a good sign whenyour ex-wife lets you have your own key. It wasn’t always the casewhen we were in the middle of our divorce. Her dark eyes light up. Sheholds a finger to her lips and motions me into the living room. Graceis asleep.

“Joel’s the lead story.”

“So I gather. I was listening to it on the radio.”

“They got your little speech in front of his house on camera.”

“Great.”

“They got another shot of you walking out of the Hall.”

“Nike will be calling tomorrow to offer me a sneaker contract. The“Air Daley’ line.”

She smiles. She’s heard this one before.

“They said you had no comment.”

“That would be correct.”

“You could have said he was innocent.”

“I know. I want to save my best lines for my interview with TedKoppel.”

“Probably smart.”

“I hope so.”

We stare at the TV. News Center 4 loves to send its minicams all overthe Bay Area to do live “team coverage,” even when it makes no sense todo so.

Why TV news directors think we want to see their reporterscatching pneumonia escapes me. I guess if you have the fancy toys, youmight as well use them. Rita Roberts is standing in the pouring rainon the dark, empty street in front of Joel’s house. As she getssoaked, they show videotape of the arrest a few hours earlier. Theyshow my speech to the cops and a brief interview with Skipper.

The second reporter, a tall man with beautiful dark hair and a cleftchin, is getting drenched on the dark, empty street in front of theHall. They show videotape of Joel being escorted into the building.Then they show me hustling up the front steps of the Hall.

Rosie shuts off the TV.

“Joel has a big problem.”

“Tell me about it. What else did they say on the news?”

“The basics. The usual blather about incontrovertible evidence placingJoel at the scene. Inconsistencies in his story. They claim he’s

beenuncooperative and tried to flee.” She pauses.

“Oh, one more thing. One station quoted ‘reliable sources’ saying Joelwas having an affair with Diana.”

“I see. Who was saying all that?”

“They didn’t say, but it has to be Skipper. It’s a DA’s wet dream.First week on the job and he’s got a highprofile murder case.” Rosiehas such a delicate way with words.

“Did they interview Roosevelt?”

“Briefly. He didn’t say much. He just said they have solidevidence.”

I look at the fire in the small fireplace.

“Joel’s got a big problem.”

She grins. The dancing light reflects off her dark eyes.

“My little rainmaker.

First week on the job and you have already landed a highprofile murdercase.

Not bad.”

“It’s a standard marketing technique,” I say.

“You go to dinner at your best friend’s house and hope he gets arrestedfor murder sometime between the salad and the entree. All thosemarketing seminars at S and G finally paid off.”

She turns serious.

“First things first. You’re going to do this by the book. I have astandard form of retainer letter on my laptop here. We’re going toput one together for you right now. Joel has to sign a retainerletter. And you have to talk to him about what this is going tocost.”

I swallow.

“I know.”

She takes my hand.

“I know you hate this stuff. But you’ve got to take care of business.You’re going to have to take this case all the way to the finish line,Mike. I don’t want to hear you ever again suggest to Joel or Naomithat they hire another lawyer. This is your case. Period. And ifyou’re going to be the attorney of record, you have to get a retainerletter.”

“I will.” She’s right, of course. Rosie used to lecture me a lot whenwe were married. More often than not, she had good reason.

“Good. Then I think you should spend tomorrow with your buddy,Joel.”

“I’m going to spend as much time as I can with him. Unless I can pulla

rabbit out of my hat, he isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”

At one-fifteen, I arrive at my second-story one-bedroom apartment in aneight-unit walk-up building just behind the fire station in downtownLarkspur.

I climb up the short flight of steps, find the afternoon paper andfumble for my keys in the dark. The building is vintage fifties, andit’s showing its age.

My apartment consists of a small living room, aneven smaller bedroom, a dining area big enough for a dinette set and akitchen big enough for one.

It’s enough for me, but cramped when Gracestays here. The furniture is basic cheap Scandinavian teak, with a fewbookcases built of bricks and boards. The only indication of moderntechnology is a computer in the corner of my bedroom, a Mitsubishinineteen-inch TV and a small compact-disc player. Forty-five yearsold and I’m still living like a college student.

It’s the price youpay when you have alimony, child support and an ex-wife who wants nicestuff for our daughter. Although Rosie probably doesn’t need the moneyfrom me, she’s absolutely right in demanding it. Given my propensityfor frittering it away, it’s better that I have a legal obligation topay it to her. It doesn’t help that I have a sixty-eight-year-oldmother who isn’t in the greatest of health.

I grab a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge and I look at my reflectionin the small mirror in the kitchen. My thick light brown hair ismatted to the top of my head. There are a few flecks of gray in thesideburns. The crow’s-feet around my eyes remind me that I’m no longerin my thirties. My face is a little more rounded than it used to be. Istill have the lean legs and torso of a cross-country runner. Rosiesays I look like the consumate middle-aged Irishman a combination ofboiled potatoes and beer. I realize that I’m beginning to look moreand more like my dad.

There are two messages on the answering machine. The first onesurprises me.

“Mike, this is Roosevelt Johnson. I’d appreciate it if you would callme as soon as you can.” I jot down his phone number.

The second message is from Rabbi Friedman.

“Michael, please call me on Saturday afternoon after services. Thereare a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” I tilt my head backand close my eyes. I wonder if Rabbi Friedman is calling to ask whyJoel is still in jail.

Let the second-guessing begin.

CHAPTER 10

FIRST, YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING

In our top story this morning, District Attorney Prentice Gates saidattorney Joel Mark Friedman will be charged with first-degree murder inthe shootings of two colleagues.”

—news center 4 daybreak. saturday, january 10.

“Did you find a judge yet, Mike? When the hell am I getting out ofhere?”

At eight-thirty the next morning, Joel’s unshaven face has alook of desperation.

The small, gray interview room is stuffy.

“Not yet. Rosie’s calling in some favors. The duty judge said we’dhave to wait till Monday.”

“Shit.”

“It’s an old trick. They haul you in on Friday night so you have tospend the weekend in the clink. They think it’ll soften you up.”

He looks incredulous.

“Soften me up for what? They think I’m gonna confess to something?”

“I assume you have nothing to confess to.”

“You got that right.”

“Good. First things first. How did you make it through the night?”

“Like any other night at a fine hotel.”

“I’m serious, Joel. Did they give you your own cell?”

“For a couple of hours. Then they ran out of space so they put a guyin with me who was arrested for beating a prostitute. The cops said hewasn’t dangerous.

He scared the hell out of me.”

Swell. Thanks a lot, Sergeant Ramos.

“So, what happens next?” he asks in a dejected tone.

“First, you have to tell me everything. Then you have to tell me whatyou told the police. You can leave out the part where you got arrestedlast night.

I was there for that. Then I’ll find a judge who’swilling to set bail. And I’ll have a little talk with InspectorJohnson. And with Skipper.”

“I don’t trust either of them.”

“You shouldn’t. The only person you should trust is me.”

He gives me a weak smile.

“I know. Do I get to talk to the judge anytime soon?”

Corporate attorneys haven’t the slightest idea how the criminal justicesystem works. It’s probably better that way.

“For one thing, Joel, you don’t talk to the judge. I do. For anotherthing, on Monday, we’ll go to court for an arraignment. They’ll chargeyou. You’ll plead not guilty. Don’t get cute. Just say it clear andfast. The judge will schedule a preliminary hearing. That’s it. It’sas exciting as watching grass grow.”

“Can you get me out of here on Monday?”

“Maybe. If we can’t get a judge over the weekend, we’ll ask the judgeat the arraignment.”

“What are the chances of bail?”

“Depends on the charge. You’re booked on suspicion of murder. If theygo murder one, bail may be tough.” I don’t add that if they ask forthe death penalty, there’s no way.

He’s crushed. It’s a shock when somebody first says aloud you’re beingcharged with murder.

“I need to know all the details from you so I can do my job. I needthe story straight. Don’t embellish it. Don’t sugarcoat it. Justtell me everything that happened.” This is standard defense attorneyjargon. I don’t want to ask him flat out if he did it. If he did, andhe lies to me, I’ve got perjury problems.

I’m not supposed to let him lie. It happens all the time, of course,but I try to avoid it. If he didn’t do it, which I assume, and,coincidentally, I believe, I need his story to put together hisdefense.

He figures out where this is heading.

“I want to get this right out on the table,” he says.

“I didn’t do it. And it is absolutely imperative not only that I befound not guilty, but also that I am fully exonerated. Are we clear onthat?”

I pause to collect my thoughts. This part of a defense lawyer’s speechis always the most difficult.

“Joel, I need you to understand a few things.

First, I believe you. I don’t think you’re capable of killing twopeople. I’ve known you for a long time and I’m a very good judge ofpeople.”

I get the hint of a smile.

“But,” I continue, “my job is to give you the best defense I can. I’llgive you all the support I can, twenty-four hours a day. But I don’tdo absolutions anymore. My job is to try to get you off. I’ll doeverything I can to do just that. If you need more than that, you’llprobably need to go to your rabbi, or

at least to another lawyer.” Iknow it sounds harsh. But, it’s the truth. My job is to be JohnnieCochran. I’ll play all the cards I have within the scope of the StateBar Rules of Professional Conduct to get him off.

He looks away.

“You can still find another lawyer, you know,” I say.

His eyes turn to brown steel.

“No. I want you to be my lawyer.” He glances at the top of thetable.

“One more thing,” he says.

“How much do you think this is going to cost?”

I pause.

“If we go to trial, at least a hundred thousand—probably more. If weneed a lot of experts, double it. If you want fancy jury consultantsand mock trials, figure a quarter of a million.”

“Jesus. I thought corporate lawyers were expensive.”

“You know how it is. Trials have a life of their own. And Grace hasto eat.”

“I know.” He takes a sip of coffee.

“What’s your billing rate?”

I stop cold. The fact is, I haven’t decided. I didn’t think I’d havea client so soon.

“One-eighty an hour,” I mumble. Then I add quickly, “Plus expenses.”

“Weren’t you two-eighty at S and G?”

“Yeah. It’s amazing what you can do if you keep your overhead down.

Iguess you can think of me as the legal profession’s equivalent of theKmart Blue Light Special.”

“One-eighty it is. How big a retainer do you want?”

I swallow. Here goes.

“Let’s say twenty thousand.”

He doesn’t blink. I’m relieved.

“All right,” he says.

“And if you get me off on Monday?”

“Your money will be cheerfully refunded and you can buy me lunch atBill’s.”

“It’s a deal. Naomi will get you a check. We may need to borrow somemoney.”

“I understand. Your credit is good.”

“All right, Counselor, where do we start?”

“From the beginning. Tell me everything that happened, minute byminute,

on the evening of December thirtieth.”

Joel is working on his second cup of coffee.

“Right after the meeting with Chuckles,” he says, “I went back to thePCR

and reviewed the final documents.”

“That was around seven-fifteen?”

“Right. We were waiting for a call from CCC’s board in Stamford.

Theywere meeting to approve the deal. We got the go-ahead aroundeight-thirty.”

“So at eight-thirty, the deal was still on track?”

“Yeah. Except, of course, for Vince. He was waffling. He said hewasn’t sure he’d close. Nobody really knew if he would go forward.”

“Who else was working on the deal?”

“Bob, Diana and the usual army of secretaries and paralegals. Theyoung punk, Jack Frazier, from CCC. His lawyer, Martin Glass. ClanMorris, the political fixer. Ed Ehrlich from the city attorney’soffice.” He pauses to think.

“Yeah, that’s everybody.”

“Who else was around?”

“The word processors and a couple of file clerks. And some of thepeople from Skipper’s party.”

“Like who?”

“Like the mayor. He stopped by for a few minutes and talked to Morrisprivately. I think the mayor reamed him out. He looked like shit whenhe came back.”

“Was Doris around?”

“No. She went home around eight.”

I remember saying good night to Doris.

“That’s right.”

“A few of the partners were there. Patton stopped by. Chuckles wasaround.

I talked to him after the meeting with the associates. Gavehim a little more shit. You have to keep them honest.”

“I know.” I pause.

“Were you really surprised by the decision to extend the partnertrack?”

“Not entirely. I’d heard about it. Still, they didn’t handle itright. Bob should have told me.”

He’s right, of course. On the other hand, it’s hard to tell whetherhis speech to Chuckles at the associates’ meeting was genuine or anact.

“Then what happened?”

“We gave some documents to the word processors around nine-thirty andwe all went out to eat. Diana and I went to Harrington’s. We finishedaround ten-fifteen. She went home. I came back upstairs. She livesjust over in Golden Gateway.” The Golden Gateway apartments are ahighrise complex a couple of blocks north of the Embarcadero Centertowers. It’s a fiveminute walk from downtown.

“Bob took Vince to Tadich’s and Frazier and Morris went to Aqua. Ithink the mayor went with them. He’s a regular there, you know.”Tadich Grill opened in 1849 and serves traditional fish in a long,wood-paneled dining room on California Street. On a good night, youcan get a private booth and a great piece of pet rale sole. Aqua istwo doors down and about a hundred and fifty years removed fromTadich’s. It appears regularly in trendy food magazines.

I’ve eaten there only once. The crab cakes are out of this world.

Joel stands and stretches his legs.

“I got back first. Everybody else got back by eleven and we signed allthe papers by twelve-fifteen. I had a few cleanup things to gothrough, so I went back to my office. We agreed to meet ateight-thirty the next morning for the closing. I worked on the escrowinstructions in my office and gave the mark-up to word processing. Iwent to Bob’s office around twelve-thirty to see what was going on. Hewas arguing with Vince, so I poked my head in and told him we were allready. We barely said three words.”

“So by twelve-thirty, the deal was set to close.”

“Right. Except everything depended on Vince. He had to give the finalgo-ahead on Wednesday morning to authorize the wire transfers.”

“And at twelve-thirty, he still wasn’t prepared to close?”

“He said he had to sleep on it. He wasn’t sure. I went to my office,got my closing checklist and went down to the lunchroom for a soda.”

“You were ready to close?”

“Yeah. In big deals like this, you sign all the documents the daybefore. The closing is usually a nonevent. Everybody drinks coffeeuntil you get confirmation of the wire transfers.”

“What did you do in the lunchroom?”

“I went through the checklist. I pushed three chairs together and wentto sleep. I woke up around six and went back to my office. I knockedon Bob’s door, but it was locked. I figured he’d gone home. I wentback to my office.

I was there until a little after eight, whenChuckles came by and asked me if I had the keys to Bob’s office.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I knew where Doris kept an extra set.”

“So the two of you let yourselves in and you found them.”

“Right.”

A few minutes later, I take a drink of water from a Styrofoam cup.

“What happened when you found them?” I ask.

Joel hesitates.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“You can tell me.”

“I got sick. I … well… threw up.”

“Right there?”

“No. I made it to the bathroom.”

“I see.”

“Chuckles was calling nine-one-one when I got back. Bob was on thefloor.

It looked like he shot himself in the temple. Diana wasagainst the wall next to the door. Her clothes were all full of blood,and there was blood on the wall behind her. She was sitting down onthe floor and… her eyes were still open. It looked like she wascalling out for help.”

This isn’t getting any easier.

“Where was the gun?”

“On the floor next to his chair. It must have fallen out of his hand.It looked like he fell out of his chair.”

I know I’ll be able to confirm this from the police reports and thephotos.

“What did you do?”

“Something stupid, in retrospect. I picked up the gun and took out thebullets.”

My first impulse is to scream, “YOU DID WHAT?” But after years in thisgame, I’ve learned to keep the tone matter-of-fact.

“Why did you pick up the gun?”

He scratches his ear.

“I’ve shot Bob’s gun at the range. He was real proud of it. Madeeverybody do it once or twice. Sort of a rite of passage.”

“But why did you pick it up?”

“I wanted to make sure it didn’t go off. It’s a fussy revolver, Mike.The trigger was very sensitive and once it went off in my hand beforeit was

supposed to. The bullet landed about halfway down the range.”

“I see.” I’m trying not to show it, but this part of Joel’s story issounding a little forced.

“So you unloaded the gun?”

“Yes. I wanted to be sure it didn’t go off.” It’s the second timehe’s mentioned it.

“I put the gun down on the desk. I put the bullets and the shells nextto it.”

Swell.

“I trust you told the police Bob kept a loaded gun at his desk.”

“Yep. They were amazed.”

“It’s pretty surprising.”

“Not if you knew Bob.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it. We came downstairs to your meeting and we told Art.” Alook of recognition appears on his face.

“I bet they found my fingerprints on the gun.”

“Sounds like a good bet.” My mind is racing. There has to be more. Hehas an explanation for his fingerprints on the gun. I decide to probea little more.

“What haven’t you told me?”

“Nothing. That’s it. They know I was there. They probably have myfingerprints on the gun. And they seem to think I was really pissedoff at Bob about the partnerelection stuff.”

“What have the police told you?”

“You told me not to talk to them.”

“Good boy.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I’ll go see Roosevelt and Skipper. If this is all they’ve got, thenwe’re in good shape.”

I get up to leave. He says, “Mike, you’ve got to get me out of here.Promise me you’ll come back later and tell me what you find out.”

I hear the panic in his voice.

“I will,” I assure him.

“If Joel is telling the truth, they’ve got nothing, Rosie.” Ateleven-thirty, I’m back in my satellite office at the pay phones on thefirst floor of the Hall.

“He admits he was there all night. He admits he found Bob and Diana.That much we knew. And he picked up the gun. So now I know how theymay have found his fingerprints on it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“Well,” she says, “Skipper said a whole lot more at his pressconference.”

“Like what?”

“Like they have a witness at Harrington’s who says Joel and Diana werefighting at dinner. And they have a custodian at the building who sayshe heard Joedl and Bob arguing loudly at around one o’clock.”

Shit.

“Did he hear gunshots?”

“They’re not saying.”

“Anything else?”

“They looked at the telephone records. Seems a call was placed fromJoel’s phone line to Diana’s apartment at about ten to one in themorning. They think he lured her back to the office.

Great. I ask her if Skipper said anything else.

“Yeah. He said he’s going to charge Joel with first-degree murder andhe may ask for special circumstances.”

Swell.

“I’ll talk to you later.” I head for my car. I want to get toRoosevelt Johnson as soon as I can to get the full story on theevidence And I want to talk to the coroner and the evidence techniciansright away. I begin to outline our requests for access to the evidencein my head. Either Joel neglected to tell me a few important detailsor his story has some gaping holes in it. Or maybe he’s flat-outlying.

CHAPTER 11

YOUR FRIEND IS IN VERY SERIOUS TROUBLE

“We’re going to charge him with first-degree murder. As long as I’mthe DA, we’re going to be very aggressive prosecuting violentcrimes.”

—skipper gates. press conference. saturday, january 10.

At twelve-thirty on Saturday afternoon, Roosevelt Johnson and I aresitting in a cramped red-vinyl booth in a coffee shop called JT’s atthe corner of Nineteenth and Taraval, a couple of blocks from his housein the Sunset District. He’s eating scrambled eggs and toast. I’mnursing a cup of decidedly un gourmet coffee.

“I tried to reach you yesterday,” he says.

“I didn’t get the message till I got home late last night. Thanks fortrying.”

“I didn’t like the way it was handled. I know he’s your friend. And Ididn’t realize you’d be representing him.”

Neither did I. “Of course, Roosevelt. Thanks.”

“Sometimes things don’t work out so well.” He pauses.

“Especially when somebody else is calling the shots.” He uses histoast to push his eggs onto his fork.

He’s doing me a favor. I’ll have to let him make the first move.

“Your friend is in very serious trouble, Mike.” His gravel voicesounds tired.

“We’re off the record, now, understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good.” He spreads some jelly on his toast. He leans forward sonobody can hear us.

“Holmes and Kennedy were killed by shots fired from Holmes’s gun.

Shedied from two shots to the chest. He died from one shot to the head.Your guy’s fingerprints were on the gun. There were three spent shellsand three unused bullets. His fingerprints were on those too.”

“All that shows is he picked up the gun. He told you so. It doesn’tprove he killed anyone.”

He pushes his glasses up to the top of his nose and wipes his mustachewith his napkin. I take the cue. Shut the fuck up, Mike. He’ll tellme what he can.

This isn’t the time for me to start pleading Joel’scase.

“There’s more,” he says.

I’m trying to remain professional, if not nonchalant. I play with mycoffee cup. I hold my palms up—the universal symbol for “So what haveyou got?”

He clears his throat.

“Seems he and Holmes had a big fight. We aren’t sure what it wasabout.

The night janitor said they were screaming at each other.

Friedman stormed out of Holmes’s office.”

“They could have been talking about business.”

“I know. I understand Holmes was a screamer and Friedman doesn’t liketo take shit from anybody. They may have been engaged in lawyerlydiscourse.

Or it may have been something more.”

“Like what?”

“One of your partners said Friedman was pissed off about not makingpartner.”

“Who told you that?”

“In due time.” He finishes his coffee.

“Was he pissed off about not making partner?”

Reflexively, I shrug. He looks through me. He knows I know. I knowhe’s going to find out.

“Off the record, Roosevelt, you’ll find that he was, in fact, pissedoff about not making partner.”

“You’re not violating any confidences. I already knew that. He toldme so.”

The game’s begun. He’s testing me.

“You think he killed him because he didn’t make partner? Come on,Roosevelt.”

Another cold stare.

“You know a guy named Rick Cinelli?”

“Yeah. The bartender at Harrington’s.” He knows more about what’sgoing on at our firm than most of the partners do.

“Friedman and Kennedy had dinner there,” he says.

“Cinelli says they got into a big fight and she left. She didn’t touchher dinner.”

I’m beginning to see where this is going.

“They were probably talking business. She wasn’t a great legaltechnician.

She probably screwed something up and he laid into her.”

I get the “nice try” look.

“All I know is what Cinelli told me. He said they had a big fight. Hedidn’t know what it was about.”

Great.

Then he adds, “You know, I don’t try the cases. I don’t even decidewhether to prosecute. I just gather the evidence.”

His point is, of course, well taken.

“I understand. Anything else?” Inside, I cringe. I half expect himto say he has another janitor who found Joel standing over Bob’sbody.

“Just one other thing. We’re trying to figure out why she came back tothe office.”

I don’t say it out loud, but I’ve been wondering the same thing.

He continues.

“We checked the S and G phone records and we found a twominute phonecall was placed from Friedman’s private line at twelve-fifty-onea.m.”

“Let me guess. Somebody called Diana’s apartment from Joel’s phone.”

“Right.” He eats another piece of toast.

“We’re looking into it. You might want to ask him about it.”

I lean back. None of this is news to me. I don’t want him to see mesweat. I have to play it carefully. Roosevelt is very good. I don’twant to invite speculation about whether Joel may have tried to lureher to the office. I try to change the subject.

“Do you have the coroner’s report yet?”

He finishes his eggs and takes a bite of toast.

“Not final.”

I don’t want to push too far.

“Thanks for your help. I know you’re sticking your neck out.”

“You’re family. Even if you’re a defense lawyer. Besides, you’ll getall of this stuff anyway.”

He’s right. In a few weeks, Skipper will have to present enoughevidence at a preliminary hearing to show cause for holding Joel overfor trial. He’ll undoubtedly use everything Roosevelt has described sofar. This isn’t looking good for a quick dismissal.

Joel is incredulous.

“Now they’re saying I threatened her at Harrington’s and I lured herback two hours later to murder her?” At two o’clock on Saturdayafternoon, I’m giving Joel a report on my meeting with Roosevelt.

“What’ll they dream up next? That I was sleeping with her?”

I take a drink of water.

“I think they’re full of shit. I just don’t want any more surprises.I’m meeting with Skipper in twenty-five minutes and I don’t want tohear about any more arguments at restaurants, any more fights in theoffice and/or more threats. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

“What do you need to know?”

“I need to know everything that happened that night. Good, bad orotherwise.

For starters, did you and Diana have an argument at Harrington’s?”

“I wouldn’t call it an argument.”

“What would you call it?” I’m not up for cat and mouse now.

“A discussion.”

“A discussion?”

“Yes, a discussion.”

“Joel, I don’t have time for this. Did you have a fight with Diana atHarrington’s?”

“All right. Yes.”

“What was it about?”

“She didn’t finish our escrow instructions and a couple of closingcertificates. We gave her a couple of simple things to do, and shedidn’t do them. She wasn’t a very careful lawyer.”

“That’s what you guys were fighting about?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” I regain my composure and realize I’ve just congratulated himfor making an ass of himself in a public place—for a perfectly validreason.

“All right,” I continue, “let me ask you something else. Was thereever any hanky-panky between you and Diana?”

“Are you asking me if I ever slept with her?”

“In a word, yes.”

“All right. The answer, in a word, is no.”

“Good.” If you’re lying to me, I’ll rip your lungs out.

“Did you call her that night?”

“Yes.”

“It would have helped if you had told me. Why did you call her?”

“Bob told me to call her and get her back to the office. He wanted totalk to her about her closing documents.” He pauses.

“And I think he just wanted to talk to her.”

I stop for a moment.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They talked a lot.”

“Were they sleeping together?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you think so?”

He looks away.

“Maybe… probably.” He stands up.

“All right. Yes. At least I think so.”

“Did you and Bob have a fight that night?”

“I wouldn’t call it a fight.”

“Dammit, Joel. What were you and Bob arguing about?”

“What do you think? The little shit didn’t have the guts to tell methe firm was going to defer all the people who were up for partner thisyear. I told him what I thought.”

“Well, it seems one of the custodians heard you.”

He closes his eyes.

“Great,” he murmurs.

“So what are they saying? I threatened him?”

“That seems to be the jump in logic they’re making.”

“And I threatened Diana at Harrington’s and lured her back, just so Icould kill her?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s a bunch of bullshit. You think I’d kill Bob and ruin mylife because they didn’t make me a partner? You think I’d kill Dianabecause she didn’t finish a set of escrow instructions on time? Thisis fucking preposterous.”

He’s right, of course. But only if he’s telling the truth.

“I’m going to meet with Skipper,” I say.

“I expect you to get this thing dismissed by the end of the day.”

NFC. No fucking chance.

CHAPTER 12

NICE OFFICE, SKIPPER

“We are going to upgrade our facilities and computers. The SanFrancisco District Attorney’s Office will be state-of-the-art.”

—skipper gates. acceptance SPEECH.

The only thing state-of-the-art about the San Francisco DistrictAttorney’s Office is the remodeled suite that now belongs to SkipperGates. The ADAs sit in cramped offices behind metal desks with dentedolive-green file cabinets.

The lucky ones get their own offices. The real lucky ones get windowslooking out at the bail-bond shops across Bryant Street.

On the other hand, as soon as the election results were in, Skipperbegan tearing up half the third floor at the Hall to make some majorcapital improvements. His office has been expanded and he’s built alarge area for press conferences. The space allocated to the ADAs hasshrunk and now only three senior ADAs have their own offices. Theremodeling hasn’t been met with a great deal of enthusiasm among therank and file.

On Saturday afternoon. Skipper’s office is a sea of splendor. He’sdressed in khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. He props his feeton his desk. I decline a Perrier from his new wet bar.

“Nice office, Skipper,” I say.

“I don’t recall the hardwood floors and paneling when your

predecessoroccupied this space.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you like it. We’re trying to upgrade the image ofthe office.” He’s a master at accepting compliments, even whenthey’re given facetiously.

Upgrading is one thing. Ostentatious is another. Hardwood floors, oakpaneling, overstuffed chairs and an antique desk are more than anupgrade. I must admit the large photo of himself shaking hands withthe mayor and the governor that he’s hung behind his desk is veryflattering.

“Skipper, if you don’t mind my asking, don’t you think this might be alittle bit much?”

He laughs.

“It’s okay. The remodeling’s being done on my nickel. It’s veryimportant to me to work where I’m comfortable.”

“Don’t you think the new press room is a little overdone?”

“Nonsense. I’m the district attorney. That makes me the chieflawenforcement officer in the city. If you’re going to act the part,you’ve got to look the part.”

I feel like quoting the old Billy Crystal “Fernando” routine onSaturday Night Live: “You look mahvalous, Skipper, simply mahvalous.”

Sitting quietly in one of the overstuffed chairs and observing thisbanal exchange is a trim, middle-aged man with short gray hair andthick glasses.

Bill McNulty, the ADA in charge of homicide cases, is a native SanFranciscan and a career prosecutor. He thought his number had come uplast year for the DA job. There were only two problems. First, thereisn’t a single ounce of charisma anywhere in Bill’s body. Put him infront of a TV

camera and he makes Richard Nixon look photogenic.Second, Skipper tossed his hat into the ring and out spent Bill byabout ten to one. Skipper annihilated him in the election in a viciousnegative campaign. For twenty-six years, McNulty has been on a missionfrom God to put the bad guys away. He’s good at it. What he lacks incharm, he makes up for by being careful, hard-nosed and meticulous. Hehas a reputation as a fighter and his nickname around the Hall is BillMcNasty.

“Mike,” Skipper says, “I’m sure you’ve met Bill McNulty.”

“We’ve worked on several cases over the years.” I turn to McNulty.

“Nice to see you again.”

He nods and grimaces. A man of few words.

“Are you the ADA assigned to this case?”

He nods again.

“Good.” Bad, actually. McNasty’s good. He’s tough. He’s tenacious.And he’s probably prosecuted about fifty murder cases. He’s won mostof them.

Skipper has made an astute choice for help on his first bigcase.

McNulty looks at me.

“The arraignment is scheduled for ten o’clock on Monday.

We’ll see you there.” He starts to get up.

“Wait a minute, Bill. I thought we might take a few minutes to talkabout this.”

He gives me an impatient expression.

“What’s there to talk about? The next step is the arraignment. Iassume your guy will plead not guilty and we’re on our way.”

Skipper holds up his hand.

“I’ve just put Bill on this case,” he says.

“He’s understandably reluctant to talk to you before he’s been throughthe file.

Isn’t that right, Bill?”

McNasty scowls. I can’t tell if he’s pissed off about being here,being put on this case or having to suck up to Skipper. Probably allof the above.

“Well,” Skipper continues, “maybe I can answer a few questions for you.And by the way, I’m sorry about all the hoopla last night. We didn’tknow you were going to be there. We sure as hell didn’t know his kidsand parents were going to be there.”

Right. Where the hell did you think his kids would be at seven o’clockon a Friday night?

“Skipper,” I say, “maybe you could just tell me what you’ve got inmind.

You can’t be serious about charging Joel based upon the skimpyevidence you’ve got so far.”

His face turns solemn and he folds his arms.

“You bet your ass.”

I look at McNulty, who is completely still. He has a good poker face.I turn back to Skipper.

“Maybe you can enlighten me. What evidence?” I want to find outeverything that I can. And I don’t want to give them anything else.

“You can’t expect me to tip my hand,” Skipper says.

“All in due time.”

McNulty looks pained.

“You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later. Now, tell him whatyou’ve got, or I will.”

This is beginning to sound a little too rehearsed for my taste.

“Well, Skipper?” I say.

“All right,” he says.

“We know he was there at the time of the murders.”

“Alleged murders,” I correct him.

Eye roll.

“Alleged murders. He was the only one there. He knew where the gunwas.

He knew how to use it. He’d used it at the range. So we’ve gotopportunity.”

“Fine, Skipper,” I say.

“We know he was there. He told you so. And we all know about thegun. So what?” I’m tempted to ask Skipper where he was, but I let itgo.

“There’s the physical evidence. His fingerprints were on the gun, thespent shells and the unused bullets. So, we’ve got direct contact withthe murder weapon.”

“Not good enough,” I say.

“It shows he disarmed the gun. He told you that. He did it for thesafety of the others in the firm. You aren’t close to probable cause,let alone a conviction.” Actually, he zoomed past probable cause a fewminutes ago and he’s about a quarter of the way to a conviction, but hedoesn’t have to hear that from me.

Skipper scratches the bottom of his chin and takes a drink of Perrier.I wonder if Perrier has ever found its way into this building before.

“Then, of course, we have the question of motive.”

I sit back in my chair and lock my fingers behind my head. I realizethe chair is nicer than anything I have at home. This should be agem.

“And what motive have you concocted, Skipper?”

“Actually he has motive in both cases. Let’s talk about Diana first.He was really pissed off at her. They got into a big screaming matchat Harrington’s The bartender saw it. She tossed a drink at him andstormed out.”

They were fighting about work. She fucked up some closing documents.It doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“That’s what your guy is telling you. She went home, had a drink andwent to bed. Then around twelve-fifty, after he had a chance to stewabout i t a little, he called her up and lured her back to the office.He waited for her, then he blasted her. Right there in Bob’s office.”You’re dreaming, Skipper.

What makes you think he called her?” I knowwhat’s coming.

We have the phone records. A call was placed from his private line atthe office to her apartment at twelve-fifty-one. The call lasted twominutes. She showed up at the office fifteen minutes later at aboutone-ten. We got the time of her arrival from the building securitycameras.” Th is is getting interesting. At least the timing of thingsis becoming clear. I make a mental note to ask for all of the securitytapes.

“Assuming your records are right,” I say, “I’ll grant you that a callmay have been placed from Joel’s phone. But it doesn’t show he madethe call. Even if he did, he was undoubtedly calling to ask her tocome to the office to help with the closing.” I’m kind of enjoying thecat-and-mouse aspect of this. It’s been a while.

He smiles confidently.

“That’s where you’re wrong. We know exactly what he said to her inthat telephone conversation. And it wasn’t anything close to the wayyou described it.”

“How’s that, Skipper? Are you listening in on Joel’s calls? Or didyou bug his phone?”

“You see, the entire conversation was taped on Diana’s answeringmachine.”

Uh-oh.

The condescending smirk.

“We got this yesterday. She must have been asleep and didn’t pick upher phone until the answering machine started taping. She didn’t erasethe message when she left.”

I’m getting a bad feeling about this.

McNulty stands up.

“While we’re being so open about our evidence, let me play somethingfor you.” He walks over to Skipper’s desk, takes out a small cassetteplayer and presses the start button.

Beep.

“Wednesday. December thirty-first. Twelve-fifty-one a.m.” Beep.

“Pick up, Diana. God dammit.”

“Hello?”

“Diana, it’s Joel. I was talking to Bob. We need you to come downhere right away. We’ve got a bunch of things to go over for theclosing. We really need you to get your ass down here right now.”

“Joel? What time is it?”

“About ten to one.”

“I’m exhausted. Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No. It can’t wait. I’ve got to see you now.”

“I don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“You have to. I need to see you right now. Bob wants to resolve thisstuff right now. ASAP. So get your tight little ass over here rightaway.”

“Fuck you. You’re a piece of shit.”

“Fuck you too, you little tramp. If you’re going to treat me likeshit, I’ll treat you like shit. Now get your ass over here or I’llcome over there and get you myself.”

“All right, asshole. I’ll be right over. But this is the last time.We’re finished.

You understand? You can find another lackey to pusharound.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, you bitch.”

Beep.

Skipper is triumphant.

“Sounds to me like they were talking about a lot more than business.”

I strain to sound incredulous.

“That’s it? That’s what this is all about?

A late-night telephone call where he tells her to come back to work?From that you get murder? You’re dreaming. This isn’t an old episodeof L.A.

Law, you know.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I can see McNulty nod, but I’m notsure.

Skipper becomes more strident.

“No,” he says, “that’s not it. Let me play something else for you.” Hefusses with the cassette player until he becomes frustrated and McNultysteps in and pushes the right button. I recognize the sound of ourvoice-mail prompts.

“Bob, Joel. I just found out about the new policy on partnerelections. I came by your office, but you were with Vince. I want totell you something.

I think this whole thing stinks.

“You could have told me. You should have told me, but, as usual, youdidn’t have the balls. I’ll get you for this, you little prick.

I’m not gonna take this shit lying down. Call me right away.”

I try to look skeptical.

“I suppose you’re going to say this represents a threat?”

“Damn right,” Skipper snaps.

“It speaks for itself.”

I turn to McNulty.

“Bill, you know there’s no way this will ever add up to aconviction.”

McNulty gives Skipper an inquisitive look. Skipper nods.

“What?” I ask.

McNulty turns to me.

“There’s something else. It seems that your boy was having an affairwith Diana Kennedy. We have a witness who is prepared to testify hesaw the two of them in the same room at your last firm retreat. Let’sjust say that she wasn’t fully clothed.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” Skipper says.

“And that’s what ties it all together. Kennedy was sleeping withFriedman.

She pulled the plug on him and told him she was sleepingwith Holmes.

That’s what led to the fight at Harrington’s. He cameback and confronted Holmes. That’s what led to the phone call to herhome.”

“You’re dreaming. Joel wasn’t sleeping with her. You can’t proveit.”

McNulty speaks up.

“Yes we can. We’ve got a witness. There’s only one other livingperson who can rebut his testimony.”

“And that would be Joel.”

“And that would be correct.”

“And who is this honest soul who will step forward and swear my clientis an adulterer?”

McNulty stops.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You mean you won’t tell me.”

“All right. I won’t tell you. Not now, at least. Not until I haveto.”

I turn to Skipper.

“Are you prepared to tell me?”

“No. We’re only obligated to give you evidence that would exculpateyour client. All the evidence we’ve given you so far points directlytoward a conviction.”

The key witness has to be an attorney at S&G. I have no idea who itis, but I will find out.

“Skipper,” I say, “you’ve got some shaky circumstantial stuff here, butnothing close to a case.”

McNulty looks at me.

“There’s one more thing.”

At this point, I’m wondering how many more things. I’m prepared foralmost anything.

“She was pregnant.”

Shit.

“And before you ask, we don’t know who the father is. But we’ll findout.”

This is going to get messy.

“Look,” I say, “there’s a lot of hard evidence this was a suicide, pureand simple. He shot himself with his own gun. He left a suicide note.Before you embarrass yourself on Monday, don’t you think you ought towait for the coroner’s report?”

Skipper looks amused.

“We got a preview. The cause of Bob’s death will be a gunshot wound.But there is evidence that somebody hit him on the head before theshots were fired.”

“In other words,” I say, “you’re saying somebody tried to make it looklike a suicide?”

“Right.”

“What about the suicide note, the Email?”

“Joel’s fingerprints are on Bob’s keyboard.”

What? How the hell did Joel’s fingerprints get on Bob’s keyboard?

“So? He could have used Bob’s keyboard anytime. It still doesn’t showhe typed the Email.”

Skipper takes a drink of his Perrier.

“Look, Mike, it’s against my better judgment,” he says, “and Bill isgoing to kill me for saying it, but I’m prepared to discuss a pleabargain.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’m prepared to discuss a plea bargain. I’ll go downto second-degree and recommend a lenient sentence if he admits toit.”

Second-degree means at least fifteen years in jail.

“Bullshit. You’ve got no case.”

“You’re wrong. We do have a case. I’m going to try it myself.”

“You’re crazy.”

Skipper’s eyes gleam.

“Tell him we’re going to charge him with first degree murder.

We’reconsidering special circumstances. If he’s willing to save thetaxpayers the cost of a trial, we’ll agree to a plea of second-degreewith a

recommendation of fifteen years. We’ll take the death penaltyoff the table.

Our offer is open until the arraignment on Monday. You have an ethicalobligation to convey it to your client.”

“I won’t recommend it. Not in a million years.”

“I know you’re a little rusty. Bill is my right hand on this case. Hehasn’t had a chance to study the file in detail, but he’s damn surewe’ve got a strong case. A very strong case. Right, Bill?”

McNulty nods. I can’t tell if he’s sincere or just trying to appeasehis boss.

I turn to McNulty.

“You’re thinking about going for the death penalty in a circumstantialcase in San Francisco? Have you lost your mind?” He doesn’t answer. Ileave.

CHAPTER 13

I HAVE TO CONSIDER WHAT’S BEST FOR MY SON

“Joel Mark Friedman will be arraigned on Monday for the alleged doublemurder of two colleagues. District Attorney Prentice Gates says he mayseek the death penalty. In an unusual twist. Gates says he will trythe case himself.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. saturday, january 10.

At three-thirty the same day, I’m at the pay phone in the lobby of theHall.

“Hello, Rabbi Friedman,” I say.

He gets right down to business.

“How are things going with Joel’s case?” he asks.

“As well as can be expected.” I describe my meetings with Joel andSkipper, judiciously leaving out any references to Joel’s allegedinfidelities or Skipper’s plea bargain proposal.

“It looks like they’re going to charge Joel with murder on Monday.”

Silence.

“We’re doing everything we can. It’s going to take some time.”

He clears his throat.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I was talking to a coupleof my congregants after services last night. A number of lawyers aremembers of the temple.”

“I know.” Probably half your board of directors.

“This is difficult, so forgive me for being blunt. A couple of membersof my congregation whose judgment I respect suggested you may not bethe right person to handle this case for my son.”

It feels like a piece of sharp glass going straight through mystomach.

Thankfully, he can’t see my grimace.

“Excuse me, but why did they say that?”

He’s choosing his words carefully.

“One of my congregants said you haven’t spent a lot of time in courtthe last few years. He said you may be a little rusty after yourtenure at the Simpson firm.”

He’s right, of course.

“I defended over a hundred murder trials when I was at the PD’s office.I’ve been defending white-collar criminals at the Simpson firm for thelast five years. I’m completely current on the law.” I’m trying notto sound too defensive.

He gathers his thoughts.

“Another attorney suggested that you may have been something of arenegade at the public defender’s office.”

It’s true. My bosses thought I took too many cases to trial. That’sbad for business in the PD’s office. The supervisors are paid fordisposing of cases quickly, not necessarily winning them.

“I took a lot of cases to trial when I was at the PD’s office. That’swhat PDs get paid for. I won some cases others would have lost. I wonsome cases others would have pled out.” And, in fairness, I probablylost a few that could have been pled out.

“That’s what you want from a defense lawyer. You want somebody whowill go to bat for your client.”

Silence.

“I have to consider what’s best for my son. I’ll talk to him aboutit.”

“I understand your concerns. This is a very important decision. It’sup to Joel. If he wants to hire another lawyer, I’ll be disappointed,but I’ll understand.” And Rosie will kill me.

He pauses.

“Maybe there’s an alternative. How would you feel about having anotherlawyer assist you?”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask slowly.

“I thought that maybe one of the lawyers from my congregation couldhelp you. I know you don’t have a lot of lawyers in your new firm.”

This is delicate.

“I’m always happy to have help. I figured Rosie would sit secondchair. We were a great team at the PD’s office.”

“I see.”

“We criminal defense lawyers get a little protective about ourterritory. I’d be happy to consider having someone else involved, butonly with the understanding that I’d make the final decisions.”

Silence.

“I understand.” He clears his throat.

“Michael, let me discuss it with Joel.”

Joel is less than enthusiastic about the possibility of a plea bargainwhen I explain Skipper’s proposal to him at five o’clock the sameday.

“Plead guilty to second-degree murder? You’ve got to be fuckingkidding me. No way. No fucking way. Tell Skipper to go fuckhimself.”

“I didn’t say you should take it. I just said that they offered it,and I have an obligation to tell you about it. I’m not recommending itto you.”

He regains his composure.

“Fine. I’m instructing you to reject the plea bargain.”

“Good.”

“What did you find out from Skipper?”

This isn’t going to be easy. I tell him about the phone calls, thebartender at Harrington’s and the phone messages to Diana and Bob.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he says.

“It shows we were working on a deal. Nothing else.”

“I agree with you.” I watch him carefully.

“There’s something else. Diana was pregnant.”

He looks down.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“Come again?”

“I know she was pregnant.”

“How did you know?”

“How do you think I knew? She told me.”

“When?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Of course not. She asked me not to tell anyone.” He looks me in theeye.

“When people tell me something in confidence, I don’t repeat it. Doyou know how many people have told me they’re looking for a new job? Ilisten to them. And I keep my mouth shut. I didn’t ask to be thefather confessor for the entire firm. It just seems to have worked outthat way.”

I look right at him.

“Joel,” I say quietly, “you know I’ve got to ask.”

“The answer is no, I’m not the father. Unless, of course, there wassome sort of immaculate conception. You Catholics are big on thatstuff. We don’t buy into it.”

I look at the ceiling. This isn’t going to get any easier.

“There’s more,” I say.

“What else? Yesterday, I was just a garden-variety killer. Today I’malso an adulterer. Tomorrow, I’ll be a sex offender and a childmolester, too.”

“They have a witness who saw you and Diana together in your room atSilverado at the firm retreat last year. He says she didn’t have anyclothes on.”

“Patton,” he murmurs.

“He saw Diana in my room.” He goes on, “There was a party in Patton’sroom. Art was drunk. He tried to put the moves on Diana. She blewhim off. She went back to her room. He followed her. Depending onwho’s telling the story, either he asked her nicely to sleep with him,or he attacked her. At about two in the morning, there was banging onmy door.

Diana came rushing in.

She said Patton tried to rape her. Two minutes later, he showed up. Hesaid he heard some noise. He saw Diana.”

“He set you up.”

“Yeah. If Diana pursued it, Art could say she was in my room with me.He was protecting himself. And he was protecting the firm from asexual-harassment suit.”

Great.

“Can anybody else corroborate any of this?”

“Probably not.”

“Diana never pursued it?”

“There was an investigation. As far as I know, she didn’t push it. Shedidn’t want to torpedo her career.”

“You think Patton is the father?”

“I don’t know. It could’ve been Patton. It could’ve been Bob. Hell,it could’ve been anybody.”

This is serious. The only person who can contradict Patton’s accountof the events of that night is Joel. And he isn’t going up on thestand unless we’re desperate.

“Does Naomi know about this?”

“No,” he says quietly.

“And she doesn’t need to know.”

“It’s going to come up,” I tell him.

“I’d rather she heard it from you.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

I hope so.

“What else did you find out from Skipper?” he asks.

“They think Bob was sleeping with Diana.”

“I’ve heard that one many times.”

“And they seem to think you were, too.”

“Great. Only two people know the truth—Diana and me. Diana is dead.That leaves me. And I presume you don’t want me to testify.”

“That’s right.”

“So I’m fucked.”

Reality is at hand.

“It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to get the charges dropped onMonday.”

“What’s the prognosis on bail?”

“Not great. If Skipper charges you with first-degree, bail will betough, but not unheard of. If he goes for special circumstances,bail’s out.”

He turns white. My bedside manner lacked finesse.

“The death penalty,” he whispers.

“We have to be prepared for it. Skipper was talking about it. He maynot decide until after the arraignment.”

“Dammit.”

I pause to let him get his bearings.

“One other thing. I talked to your father.

Seems he’s gotten a few suggestions that I may need a little help onthis case.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I thought I’d handle it with Rosie. We were a good team at thePD’s office.” I explain that murder trials in California are dividedinto two phases.

The first involves a determination of guilt orinnocence. If there’s a guilty verdict, the trial moves to thesocalled penalty phase, where the jury decides whether to impose thedeath penalty. It’s customary for the penalty phase to be handled by adifferent attorney, so the jury gets to see a new face. In addition,when all else fails, the penaltyphase attorney argues that the

trialattorney was incompetent. If the trial attorney handles the penaltyphase, the trial attorney may be put in the uncomfortable position ofhaving to argue that he screwed up. The penaltyphase attorney isknown as Keenan counsel. I tell him I’ll handle the trial phase andRosie will be Keenan counsel.

He stops to ponder for a moment, then he says, “I want to think aboutit. I know you and Rosie are good. I want to be sure you have enoughfirepower.

My dad’s pretty well-connected.”

“I know.”

“I’ll let you know in the next day or so.”

“He wants to hire another lawyer as co-counsel?” Rosie is slicingpizza in her small kitchen later the same evening. Grace is watchingTV in the living room.

“Yeah. I’m beginning to see why Joel needed some space from hisdad.”

“He’s worried, Mike.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to need some help on this. Probably lots of help.”

“I know that, too.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I figured I’d take the lead and use Pete as the primaryinvestigator.”

“Keep it in the family. I like that.”

“He’s good, Rosie.”

“I know. What about Keenan counsel?”

“I took the liberty of recommending you. I hope it was okay. Joeldeserves the best.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She smiles.

“One question. Do I have to marry you again?”

“Nope. No more mixing business and pleasure.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Great. I’ll check with Joel.” I pause.

“And his father, I suppose.”

“So I gather.”

“One other thing, I get to make all the final decisions in the trialphase.”

“Of course.”

Joel’s lucky. He’s just hired the best defense team from the SanFrancisco PD’s office in the last twenty years. Of course, he’s alsohired two people who reenacted the War of the Roses only five shortyears ago. We’re a

mixed bag.

And the arraignment is in just two days.

CHAPTER 14

NOTHING EVER HAPPENS AT AN ARRAIGNMENT

“Plea bargaining isn’t just a part of the criminaljustice system—itIS the system.”

—criminal defense attorney AND adjunct professor OF law morton R.goldberg.

continuing LEGAL EDUCATION SEMINAR. march 30,1982.

Two days later. Monday, January 12. The television coverage for everyarraignment begins essentially the same way. First, there’s footage ofan unshaven, handcuffed, jumpsuit-clad defendant being led into courtlooking guilty as hell. Next they show a clip of a grim-lookingprosecutor (almost always a middle-aged white male) marching into courtwith his minions, uttering platitudes about the strength of his caseand his faith in the criminaljustice system. Finally, the sceneshifts to the front steps of the courthouse, where a smarmy-lookingdefense attorney boldly proclaims his client’s innocence and castigatesthe DA for bringing trumped-up charges against a pillar of thecommunity.

At nine-thirty in the morning, the smarmy-looking defense attorneystanding in the drizzle on the front steps of the Hall of Justice isme.

I don’t particularly care for this sideshow. I’d just as soon avoidbecoming a media star. On the other hand, in our TV culture, you tryto make points whenever you can with what we attorneys like to call thepotential-juror pool.

An army of reporters and cameramen fight for space. It’s a great dayfor the hair-spray industry. With Naomi standing to my left and Rosieto my right, I look directly into the cameras and say, “Ladies andgentlemen, we are shocked and dismayed Mr. Gates has chosen to proceedwith these unsubstantiated charges. We are certain Mr. Friedman willbe fully exonerated.”

We push our way through the throng of shouting reporters.

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client has been offered a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client is going to plead guilty?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client tried to commit suicide lastnight?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client was having an affair with DianaKennedy?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

I run interference for Naomi and Rosie elbows Rita Roberts and herChannel 4 microphone.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Naomi asks.

“Probably for a while,” I reply.

We head toward the elevators. I turn to Naomi.

“Rosie will take you to the courtroom. I’m going to see Joel.”

“Can I talk to you about something for a minute, Mike?” Joel and I aresitting in the holding area just behind the courtroom a few minutesbefore the arraignment is supposed to start.

I don’t want any surprises today.

“Of course, Joel.” It’s not like either of us is going anywhere withtwo sheriff’s deputies standing just outside the door.

“I was talking to my dad,” he says. My ears begin to buzz.

“He thinks it might be a good idea if we get you some help.”

I knew this was coming.

“As I told you on Saturday, I was figuring I’d take the lead and Rosiewould sit second chair. Pete will be our lead investigator.” I addhalfheartedly, “Of course, we’ll do it however you’d like.”

He rubs his chin.

“You know Mort Goldberg? He’s the president of the temple.”

Oy. Mort Goldberg. Mort the Sport. Smart. Shrewd. Well-connectedin the Jewish community. In his day, he was one of the more successfulcriminal defense lawyers in town. He taught criminal procedure andevidence at Hastings for years. Unfortunately, his day ended abouttwenty years ago.

These days, he spends most of his time cutting dealson drunk-drivine cases.

“I’ve met him. He’s been at it for years. Solid reputation.” There’sno point pissing on him.

“Dad and I thought Mort might be able to help. Do the research. Maybetake a few witnesses.”

Look over my shoulder. Second-guess every decision I make. Soundsgreat.

“Let me be honest. He’s what we defense lawyers call a pleader. He’snot a trial guy. He’s a pleabargain guy.”

“Is he good at strategy?”

“Yes, but he’s not a strong trial lawyer.”

“That’s why we have you, right?” He leans back in his chair.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought. I want him involved. I thought hecould help at the arraignment. He’s waiting outside.”

Jesus.

“He’s here?”

“Yeah. And he’s available today.”

“Joel, nothing ever happens at an arraignment. You plead not guiltyand you sit down.”

“I know, but I need to get bail. You have to get me out of here.”

“The arraignment starts in five minutes. We can’t start talkingstrategy now.”

“I understand. Let me bring him in. I’ll tell him he’s just going tobe an observer today.”

“Fine.” It’s a done deal; what else can I say?

He motions to the deputies and they bring in Mort and Joel’s father.Mort is a stocky sixty-three-year-old with a large, bald head and thickaviator-style glasses. A natural back-slapper, he shakes hands withJoel and greets me like we’ve been pals for years. Give him credit.He’s an operator.

“Joel,” he says, “don’t worry about a thing. Mike and I will have youout of here by noon.”

Rabbi Friedman beams. Temple board meetings must be a riot.

Mort turns to me.

“Glad we’ll finally have a chance to work together. I always admiredyour work at the PD’s office. If I knew you were going to leave, I’dhave asked you to work for me.”

Smooth. Always start with flattery.

“We’re due in court in about thirty seconds,” I reply.

In California, criminal arraignments used to be handled in municipalcourt.

In a court reorganization a few years ago, the muni courts wereconsolidated with the superior courts. As a result, arraignments arenow conducted in superior court. Judge Samuel Levin is a dourbureaucrat who’s in his late fifties. He’s worked his way from trafficcourt down the hall to superior court in his twenty-some years on thebench. He spent the early part of his career defending insurancecompanies, which gave him tremendous skill in the art of expedience.He’s not really a judge. He’s more like a legalsystem processor. Nowsemiretired, he doesn’t sit through long trials anymore. He’s found ahome hearing motions and setting bail. He keeps the wheels of justiceturning. We won’t see him again after today. It’s probably just aswell.

The courtroom is packed. Reporters fill the jury box. The roar isdeafening.

Lawyers and police mill around. We aren’t the only arraignment on thecalendar this morning, but we’re the biggest media event. We rise

asLevin enters. The case is called. Skipper and I state ourappearances.

Levin wastes no time.

“Mr. Daley, does your client understand the charges?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“May we dispense with a formal reading?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He turns to Joel.

“On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?”

I nod to Joel, who stands and says in a clear voice, “Not guilty, YourHonor.”

Levin looks at me.

“By statute, I am required to set a preliminary hearing within sixtydays.”

The preliminary hearing is also held in superior court. At theprelim, the prosecution must show that there is “probable cause” tobelieve Joel committed a crime. Joel can accelerate the process bydemanding that the prelim be held within ten days. Most defendantschoose to “waive time,”

which means they give up their right to requirethe prelim within ten days.

Ordinarily, the defense loses little by waiving time, because it givesthem additional time to prepare or, in many cases, cut a deal withthe DA.

“Mr. Friedman,” I say, “chooses not to waive time.”

Levin looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. His face turnssomewhat more dour than usual.

“May I ask why you believe it would be in your client’s best interestto proceed so quickly?”

“My client’s life has been severely and needlessly interrupted by theseoutrageous charges. We are prepared to proceed with his defense assoon as possible so that we may clear his name.”

He grimaces. He’s about to punt this matter to another judge,anyway.

Then, after the prelim, we’ll move to the slightly more grandsurroundings in one of the trial courts upstairs. Levin looks at hiscalendar. He consults with his clerk. They have a somewhat heateddiscussion for a few moments.

“The preliminary hearing will be one week from tomorrow in JudgeKenneth Brown’s courtroom.” Brown is a former prosecutor. Not a greatdraw for our side. Levin turns to Skipper.

“Mr. Gates, I trust you’re prepared to move forward next week?”

“Let me check my calendar. Your Honor,” he replies.

“Mr. Gates,” he snaps, “you are supposed to check your calendar beforeyou enter my courtroom. I will assume you’ll be there.” He turns tome.

“Mr. Daley, are you prepared to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“See you next week.” He raises his gavel and starts to stand.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we would like to discuss bail.”

He shuffles his papers.

“Do I understand, Mr. Daley, that no bail has been set in thiscase?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor. We request that bail be set for Mr.Friedman.

He is a respected member of the community and he is hardly aflight risk.”

Skipper is up like a shot.

“Your Honor, the people oppose bail. The defendant is charged withfirst-degree murder. We may ask for special circumstances. He isdangerous and bail should not be granted.”

Levin’s jowls wiggle as he looks first at Skipper and then at me.

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Friedman is an attorney with one of the mostrespected law firms in the city. He has lived here his entire life andhas significant community and family ties. He is clearly entitled tobail.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “we are considering special circumstances.It would be highly unusual for bail to be set in a capital case. Highlyunusual.”

Levin looks at his bench book. He hasn’t had a capital case in frontof him in some time.

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I say, “the state has not addedspecial circumstances. As a result, at this point, this is not acapital case. The judge has discretion to set bail in this case.”

Levin continues to flip through the penal code. Without looking up, hesays,

“Mr. Daley, let me give you some advice. I realize you haven’tbeen in my courtroom in a while. When I hear the words “With all duerespect, Your Honor,” I interpret them to mean, “You doddering oldfool, Your Honor.”

Now, let’s try to come up with some authority onthis subject, okay?”

Touchy, aren’t we? Before I can respond, for some inexplicable reason,Skipper starts talking. He’s prepared a speech and he’s going to makeit.

“Your Honor,” he says, “the defendant is, in fact, a flight risk. Theweekend before he was arrested, he and his wife left town.”

“One moment, Your Honor,” I say. I turn to Joel. He whispers that heand Naomi did, in fact, drive up to Mendocino the weekend before he

wasarrested. He says they needed time to talk.

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Friedman and his wife took a drive up thecoast for a day. That hardly constitutes flight. He wasn’t a suspectat the time.”

Levin isn’t listening. He looks at Skipper.

“Mr. Gates, isn’t there some statutory authority?”

Skipper shrugs and turns to McNulty, who stands and says, “Your Honor,Section twelve-seventy-five point five of the penal code says

‘adefendant charged with a capital offense punishable by death cannot beadmitted to bail when the proof of his guilt is evident or thepresumption of guilt is great.”

” McNulty recites the code section from memory. Impressive.

Levin looks pleased and he nods.

“That’s it. I knew there was something on this.”

“But, Your Honor,” I say, “this is not a capital offense.” At leastnot yet.

“The proof of guilt is not evident and the presumption of guilt is notgreat in this case.” I can recite penal code sections, too.

He looks skeptical.

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “we can argue all day about whether the proof isevident and the presumption is great. I’m not going to take thecourt’s time for that.”

I see what’s coming.

“Your Honor,” I begin.

He cuts me off.

“Mr. Daley, the law is clear. The proof is evident enough for me.”

And you have an early tee-off time. He’s about to pound his gavel whenI hear a distinctive nasal voice from behind me.

“Your Honor, may it please the court.”

What the hell? Mort is walking through the gate into the well of thecourtroom.

Levin smiles.

“Why, Mor—Mr. Goldberg,” says Levin, “we haven’t seen you in thiscourt in some time.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. It’s nice to see you.” This is a trulytouching reunion. I’m waiting for Mort to ask Levin about hisgrandchildren.

“Your Honor,” I interrupt, “may I have a moment with Mr. Goldberg?”

Levin casts a stern glance at me.

“You’ve got one minute, Mr. Daley.”

I pull Mort aside. I whisper, “What the hell are you doing? He wasjust about to rule.”

“He was about to rule against you. I think I can help.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I know this guy. We go to the same temple. Besides, you got anybetter ideas?”

I pause. He’s probably right.

“You think you can pull a rabbit out?”

“Watch me.” He turns back to the judge.

“Your Honor, I have just been retained as special counsel to Mr.Friedman. I must confess I haven’t read the entire Ele yet.”

And I’m reasonably sure you never will.

“Rather than ask you for a continuance,” he says, “I have a suggestionas to how the bail issue might be resolved.”

Levin looks at me. I look at Joel. Joel looks at his father.

“Any objections?”

Levin asks.

“Uh, no, Your Honor. I will defer to my colleague, Mr. Goldberg.” Godhelp us.

Levin looks interested.

“Go on, Mor—I mean, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Your Honor,” Mort begins, “I understand your concern about bail.

Thecharges are serious.”

Skipper is speechless. McNulty stares straight ahead.

“Nevertheless, Your Honor,” Mort continues, “I have a creative solutionthat will ease your concern. I know Your Honor is acquainted with Mr.Friedman’s father, Rabbi Neil Friedman, of Temple Beth Sholom.”

“Yes,” says Levin.

“I would propose, subject to your approval, of course, that bail be setfor Mr.

Friedman, subject to his agreement to remain at all times in the houseof Rabbi Friedman, except when he has to be in court. And we would, ofcourse, expect Your Honor to require a fairly substantial bail.”

Levin scowls. He looks at Rabbi Friedman in the gallery. He addresseshim directly.

“Rabbi, is this acceptable to you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Skipper leaps up.

“This is highly unusual. The people respect Rabbi Friedman, but it’shighly unusual for a defendant to be placed in the custody of his ownfather. Highly unusual.”

You’re right, Skipper. It’s highly unusual.

Levin ponders. He turns to me.

“Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Mr.

Daley?”

No. I’d rather let Joel stay with his cellmate the pimp. I glance atJoel.

“It’s acceptable to us, Your Honor.”

“Well, it’s highly unusual. On the other hand, this court greatlyrespects Rabbi Friedman. Bail is set at a million dollars. Thedefendant will be released to the custody of Rabbi Friedman. He is toremain at Rabbi Friedman’s house except to appear in court. He mayhave visits from his attorneys and immediate family only. That’s it.We’re adjourned.”

Levin pounds his gavel. Joel turns to me.

“Am I out?”

“Yeah. We need to post bail. And you have to stay at your dad’shouse.”

“It’s better than the place I’ve stayed the last few nights.”

Mort taps me on the shoulder.

“So, what did you think of that one?”

“Pretty smooth.”

“It helps when the judge is on the board of directors at the temple.”Mort walks toward Rabbi Friedman. I hear him say he’s willing to havethe temple building pledged as collateral for Joel’s bond.

I glance at Rosie. She’s pleased. As we walk out, she whispers, “Doyou think we can find a trial judge who’s on the temple board ofdirectors, too?”

CHAPTER 15

THE DREAM TEAM

“Hiring Mort Goldberg was brilliant. They should put him in charge.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. tuesday, january 13.

“It’s nice to see the TV stations have been able to rehire their legalanalysts from the O.J. trial to give us some helpful suggestions.” I’meating a bagel and talking to Joel as we sit in the heavy wooden chairsin his father’s dining room at nine o’clock the next morning. Mortnibbles on a sweet roll. Rosie sips a Diet Coke. I don’t know how shecan drink soda this early. Pete stands next to Mort. He hatesmeetings.

I look around the table. It’s a tough crowd. Mort is a first-rateprima donna.

Rosie runs her own cases. Pete works solo. Rabbi Friedman is used tohaving everybody listen to him. Joel makes all the important calls onhis deals. Not exactly a roomful of team players.

Showtime.

“Let’s get started,” I say.

“I’d like to welcome the Dream Team. We have only a week until thepreliminary hearing and we have a lot of work to do.”

Rosie grins.

“Which one are you, Mike? Cochran or Shapiro? Does that make SkipperMarcia dark? He’d look good in a dress.”

“Enough of that,” Rabbi Friedman snaps. We turn toward him. He lowershis voice.

“I’d like to thank Mort for his contribution at the arraignmentyesterday.”

Silence. Mort smiles uncomfortably and waves his unlit cigar.

“It was nothing,” he says.

All eyes turn toward me. I hand out copies of the first policereports.

“I want you to study these. We should have the coroner’s report latertoday.”

I summarize the evidence. The fingerprints on the gun and thecomputer keyboard.

The taped phone messages. The fight at Harrington’s. The argument inBob’s office. The allegations of an affair. Diana’s pregnancy.

Rabbi Friedman cringes.

“Our mission is simple,” I say.

“If we’re going to get the charges dropped at the prelim, we have toget a lot of information in a hurry. They have a week to show theyhave enough evidence to hold Joel over for trial. We have a week toshow they don’t.

“I want to find out as much as we can about Bob and Diana. We need tofind their friends and relatives. We need to talk to the people at Sand G. We have to get a copy of Bob’s will and look at his investments.He probably had life insurance.”

I turn to Mort.

“I’d like your help with legal issues, motions and strategy. We shouldtry to get our hands on every piece of evidence before the prelim.”

Mort is pleased.

“I guess that makes me Alan Dershowitz.”

Rabbi Friedman rolls his eyes.

“For better or for worse.”

Pete looks at me. It’s like looking in a mirror. He’s a littleshorter, stockier than I am, and he has a neatly trimmed mustache. Hishair is darker.

Otherwise, we could be twins.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asks.

“I want you to look at the physical evidence and the forensics. I wantyou to look for holes in the police report and the coroner’s report.”It’s nice to have an ex-cop on the team.

“And I want you to figure out what happened to Vince Russo.” Ipause.

“And, I have something special planned for you. I need you to figureout who was sleeping with whom—and when.”

The corners of Pete’s mouth turn up slightly.

“Sounds like it’s right up my alley.”

“I want you to look into Bob’s personal life. I want you to see whatBob’s widow is up to. And there are some other people I’d like you towatch.

They’re pretty high up in San Francisco society, so you’ll haveto be discreet. I want you to tail Arthur Patton.”

“I like it. What do you want me to look for?”

“The usual. He’s in the middle of an ugly divorce. See if he’sshtupping anybody. Evidently, he’s had some problems keeping hispants on. And he may have sexually harassed Diana Kennedy.”

Mort interrupts.

“Pete,” he says, “if you need some help, I have the name of a couple ofPis that I’ve used over the years. They’re very good.”

Pete looks at me.

“Mort,” I say, “Pete has his own people. He’ll be all right.”

“Look,” Mort says, “I wasn’t suggesting that Pete isn’t up to it. Iwas just trying to help.”

Before I can answer, Pete stares him down and says, “If I need help,I’ll let you know.”

Mort shrugs at Rabbi Friedman.

Joel asks, “What can I do?”

“I want you to make a list of everything you saw and everyone who wasthere.”

“I’m on it. I’ll have it for you right away.”

“One other thing. I want you to get on your laptop and start lookingat the corporate filings in every state you think Vince Russo hadbusiness. Maybe

we can find him, if he’s still alive. Or maybe we canfigure out what happened to him.”

“Do we need to worry about the attorney-client privilege for Russo?”

It’s a legitimate legal point. He’s not supposed to divulge the deepdark secrets of his client. The correct legal answer, therefore, isyes. The practical answer, of course, is no. I’ll take anything thatmay help us.

“I

don’t want you to do anything illegal. On the other hand, try to geteverything you can. Russo isn’t doing you any favors.”

“The prelim is before Judge Brown,” Mort says.

“He’s a law school classmate of mine. Kenny and I play cards togetherat the Concordia Club. It seems to me that it may make sense for me totake a leading role.”

Silence. I look around the room. Rabbi Friedman is nodding.

“Mort,” I say slowly, “I appreciated your efforts at the arraignmentyesterday.

But I’m the person most familiar with the evidence. I’ll take the leadin the prelim.”

Rabbi Friedman frowns. Mort looks at his unlit cigar.

“It was just a suggestion.”

I glance at Rosie. Then I turn to Mort.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, Mort. I’ll make the final calls onstrategy.

Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” he says quietly.

I dart a glance at Rabbi Friedman. I look at Mort.

“Listen,” I say, “it may make sense for you to argue some of the prehearing motions. Think you’re up to it?”

“Sure, Mike. You’re the boss.”

“Let’s get to work,” I say.

I’m driving Mort toward downtown on Bush Street in the pouring rainlater the same morning.

“Do you think we can get this knocked out at the prelim?” he asks.

“It’s going to be tough.”

He looks at the raindrops hitting my windshield.

“So the girl was pregnant.”

So much for political correctness.

“Yeah.”

“You know who the father is?” For all his idiosyncracies, at least hedoesn’t pull punches.

“Not yet.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends. What are you thinking?”

“If Joel is the father, we’re fucked. We’ll know in a few weeks. Hetold the cops he never slept with her. If it turns out he’s thefather, he lied to us and he lied to the cops. The jury will nailhim.”

He may be a pleader, but he has good instincts. He cuts right to it.

“Just between us,” he continues, “what do you think the chances arethat he did it? You know—jealous rage. You’ve seen it a thousandtimes.”

“NFL, Mort. Not fucking likely. He’s just not the type.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Very well.”

“Well, hypothetically, let’s suppose he’s not quite the Boy Scout youthink he is. You suppose it might be a good idea to see what our newDA has up his sleeve?”

His true colors are coming out.

“You can’t seriously be thinking about a plea,” I say.

“It’s way too early. We’ve had the case for just a few days.”

“I know how these guys think. New DA. First big case. Doesn’t wantto fuck up.

Doesn’t know what he’s doing. That’s why McNasty’s there to hold hishand. If he can get a guilty plea, he’s golden. It’s instantpolitical capital.

He can say he caught the bad guy and saved the citya ton of money in trial costs. In a few weeks, nobody will rememberthe plea. They’ll just remember the case was solved.”

You lazy sack of shit.

“I respect your instincts, Mort, but you’re way off the mark. I knowthis guy.

He didn’t do it. We’re going to get this thing knocked out.Or we’re going to beat them at trial.”

He gives me a knowing grin.

“I figured you’d say that. I’m not saying he did it. I’m just sayingwe should look at all our options. I’ve been doing this for a longtime. There are good times and bad times to talk to the DA. For whatit’s worth, I think now is a good time.”

I can’t tell if he’s exercising cautious judgment or if he’s a tiredold man

who’s lost his nerve.

“It’s too soon to talk about a plea, Mort,” I say again.

“Whatever you say,” he replies.

“Would it change your thinking if I told you things haven’t always beenso great between Joel and Naomi?”

Huh?

“What are you talking about?”

“You know I’m tight with Joel’s dad. Joel and Naomi have had someproblems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“She had postpartum depression after the kids were born. She’s stillgoing through it.”

“Their kids are six years old. Nobody has postpartum for six years.”

The rain pounds my windshield.

“Well, she did. They spent about thirty thousand bucks last year onshrinks.

That’s one of the reasons Joel wanted to make partner—heneeds the money.”

I pause to let this sink in.

“Rabbi Friedman told you this?”

“Yeah. In fact, a few years ago, he asked me to recommend a doctor forher.”

I watch my windshield wipers swish back and forth as I stop at thecorner of Bush and Montgomery to let him out.

“What are you saying?”

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Joel may have had someextramarital relations.”

Bullshit. No way.

“What makes you think so?”

“It’s like President Clinton. Sometimes, a guy’s just got to have it.And I’ll bet you anything for the last six years she hasn’t been givingit to him very often.”

The gospel according to the great philosopher, Mort Goldberg.

“What would you suggest?” I snap. I’m trying to remain calm.

“I think we ought to feel out the DA.” He opens the door.

“We aren’t going to consider a plea until we investigate.”

He reaches for his umbrella.

“You’re the boss. But, if we don’t get somebody else to confess byTuesday,

they’ve got enough to bump this case over for trial.”

There’s a visitor sitting in my office when I get back at eleveno’clock.

“Hi, Mike.” Naomi looks embarrassed.

“I know I should have made an appointment.”

She’s wearing jeans and a plain white cotton blouse, no makeup. Hereyes look sad.

“You can come see me anytime.” I offer her a drink. She asks for aglass of water.

She smiles uncomfortably.

“I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Sure.” I don’t know why she’s here. I figure I’ll start slowly.

“How are the kids?”

“They’re okay, all things considered. It was difficult at schoolyesterday, but they’re more resilient than we think. In some respects,they’re more resilient than the grownups.”

“That’s for sure.” I look at her closely. Her voice is tentative.

“How are you holding up?”

She closes her eyes and slowly opens them.

“Fair,” she says.

“Understandable.” I collect my thoughts.

“Naomi, why did you come to see me?”

She looks at her fingernails.

“I wanted to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“There is. I need you to take care of the kids. And yourself. And Ineed you to support Joel. The next few months may not be easy.”

“I figured that much already. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“You are. You’re tougher than you think.”

“I hope so.”

I look directly into the eyes of this decent young woman whose life hasbeen turned upside down through no fault of her own.

“Why did you really come here, Naomi?”

Her lips form a tight, thin line across her face.

“There are a few things I think you should know.” She pauses.

“Joel doesn’t know I’m here. Do you have to tell him I came to seeyou?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” Actually, if she tells me somethingthat will impact the case, I probably have a legal duty to tell Joel.We’ll see.

“What is it?”

She folds her hands.

“This isn’t easy to talk about.”

“Take your time.”

She takes a drink of water.

“We’ve had some problems the last few years. Things haven’t alwaysbeen so good between us. And when you’re the rabbi’s son, you don’ttalk about your problems. You figure everybody at the temple will findout.”

“I can relate. My dad was a cop. When other kids got in trouble, itwasn’t a big deal. When I got sent home from school, word alwaysseemed to get out that Officer Daley’s son got in trouble.”

The corners of her mouth turn up almost imperceptibly.

“I’ve had some problems since the kids were born,” she says.

“It’s tough with little kids. And real tough with twins.”

“I’ve been taking medication for depression, Mike. It started rightafter the boys were born. And it won’t go away.”

“A lot of people go through the same thing.”

“I know. But I think it bothers Joel.” She looks down.

“I feel like I’ve pushed him away.”

“The important thing is that you’re getting better.”

She sighs.

“There’s been a lot of talk about Joel and Diana. Joel and I don’thave any secrets.” She’s starting to cry. I hand her a tissue.

“Joel told me about the incident with Art Patton at Silverado. I don’tcare what they say. I believe my husband when he tells me he wasn’thaving an affair with Diana. I came here to tell you that no matterhow it looks, and no matter what they say in the papers, my husbandwasn’t having an affair. I’m sure of it.”

I give her a hug.

“I believe you.” I’m relieved he told her. I wasn’t sure he wouldhave.

She buries her head in my shoulder and sobs. A moment later, she liftsher tear-stained face and looks at me. She blurts out emphatically,“My husband isn’t a killer, Mike.”

“I know.”

Later the same afternoon, Rolanda brings in a large manila envelope.

Itcontains police reports and photos and the coroner’s report.

I always start with the pictures. They put things into perspective.When you put aside the news reports and the lawyerly posturing, thepictures tell the

essential story. Two people are dead. The picturesare about what I’d expect.

Bob’s partially destroyed head. Diana sitting near the door, eyesopen, chest covered with blood. A .38-caliber revolver on Bob’sdesk.

The coroner’s report is succinct. The time of death was somewherebetween one and four a.m. Coroners always give themselves at least athree-hour range.

Diana was killed by gunshots to her lung and heart. Bob died of asingle bullet wound to the head. The wound had the outward appearanceof being self-inflicted. Traces of gunpowder were found on his righthand. Powder marks and burns were found on his head at the entrancewound. There was an apparent concussive injury to his head just abovethe exit wound.

Based on what I’ve seen so far, Mort’s probably right. Unless we get aconfession from somebody else by Tuesday, this case is going totrial.

I flip through the police reports. It’s all there. The fingerprints.The arguments. The tapes. The alleged threats. I’m about to pick upthe phone when the last police report catches my eye. It’s signed byInspector Marcus Banks.

It describes an interview with Joel at the Hall of Justice on January8. It contains no new information, except for the last paragraph, whichdescribes some questions Banks asked Joel. It then says, in capitalletters, “SUSPECT

CONFESSED TO THE MURDERS OF HOLMES AND KENNEDY.”

CHAPTER 16

HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?

“It’s an open-and-shut case. We will reveal evidence at thepreliminary hearing on Tuesday that will undoubtedly cause Mr. Friedmanto change his plea to guilty.”

—skipper gates. CNN’s burden of proof. wednesday, january 14.

“Of course I didn’t confess. For the love of God, Mike, how stupid doyou think I am?” I’m at Rabbi Friedman’s house at nine the nextmorning, getting Joel’s version of the Marcus Banks interview. Idecide to give him the benefit of the doubt and treat his question as arhetorical one.

“Tell me about your interview with Banks.”

He’s exasperated.

“I already told you. I spent about four hours with Banks and Johnsonat the Hall. I told them everything. They were interested in Diana’ssex life. I told them I didn’t know who she was sleeping with. Theyseemed to think she was sleeping with me. I straightened them out.”

“So, where did Banks get the idea you confessed?”

“He made it up.”

“Are you sure?”

“We went over the same stuff about ten times. I told them everything.They said I wasn’t a suspect. If I thought I was a suspect, I wouldhave called you.

It was about eight at night. I thought we werefinished. Johnson left the room for a few minutes. While he was gone,Banks asked me if I did it. I said no. He asked me again. I said noagain. He asked me if I was absolutely sure. Finally, I asked himwhat he wanted me to say. He said he wanted me to say I did it. And Iremember exactly what I said. I said, and I quote, the word ‘right.”

” “You agreed with him?”

“Of course not. I was being sarcastic. And he knows it.”

Joel’s his own worst enemy.

“He seems to have taken the word ‘right’ a step farther than you mighthave intended.”

“Then he’s full of shit.”

“It’s still a problem.”

He frowns.

“There’s no way they can use it at trial, is there?”

“We’ll get it thrown out before the trial. Did they read you yourMiranda rights?”

“No. Nobody read me my rights until I was arrested.”

“Good. We’ll say you weren’t properly Mirandized. We should be ableto get it thrown out.”

“That’s not the point. He’s lying. I didn’t fucking confess.”

“I understand. But it’s his word against yours. He’s going to testifythat you confessed.”

The crow’s-feet around his eyes become more pronounced.

“I’m completely fucked.”

He’s right. At least for the moment.

“We’ll try to get it knocked out.”

At eleven o’clock the same morning, I’m in my office on the phone. Itry my best source first.

“Roosevelt,” I say, “I got the police reports. Your partner seems tothink my client confessed.”

Silence at the other end. He clears his throat.

“I just got a copy of his report. I didn’t know.”

I pause for effect.

“How is it possible you didn’t know? You were there.”

“I wasn’t there when he confessed,” he says.

“Allegedly confessed, Roosevelt. We’re going to get it knocked out.For one thing, he didn’t confess and Marcus knows it. For anotherthing, he wasn’t Mirandized. If you guys were going to question him,you should have read him his rights. Judge Brown will never let itin.”

Silence.

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I never would have figured this from you. I don’t like beingsandbagged.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he repeats.

“Skipper, it’s Mike Daley.” I could leap through the phone.

“What’s up?”

“I just got the police reports.”

“So?”

“It seems Marcus Banks claims my client confessed.”

“Really? Imagine that.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“What do you want me to say? That Marcus lied?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“Bullshit. We’re going to the judge. We’re going to get this allegedconfession kicked out right away. He’ll never let you use it.”

“I’ll see you at the prelim.”

“Mort, I’m faxing the police report I told you about. I need you toprepare a motion to get this thing tossed out. I don’t want it to seethe light of day. I want it out before the prelim Tuesday.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I can hear a chuckle in his voice. He livesfor moments like this.

“I talked to the judge’s clerk. I told him we want to see the judge.

He’s available right before the prelim.”

Mort may be useful after all.

The phone rings in my office later in the afternoon.

“Mr. Daley,” a familiar voice sings, “Rita Roberts, News Center 4.” Iswear the name on her birth certificate is “Rita Roberts, News Center4.”

“I’m a great admirer, Rita.”

“Thank you. As you know, I’m covering the Friedman murder case.”

I hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, Rita. I know.”

“We’ve received a tip from a reliable source that Mr. Friedmanconfessed.

Can you confirm this information?”

“Will you tell me who gave you the tip?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Sure you can. And if you want anything from me, you’ll have to tellme who tipped you.”

She stops.

“I can’t do that, Mr. Daley.”

I stop to think. If I say there was no confession, I’ll sounddefensive. If I say no comment, it probably sounds worse. As Mortwould say, either way I’m fucked.

“For the record, Mr. Friedman did not confess. And if you run a storythat suggests that he did, you will be embarrassed and I will bringlegal action against your station.”

“Come on, Mr. Daley. You don’t really plan to sue us, do you?”

She’s right, of course.

“I know you’ll do the right thing so it doesn’t come to that.”

Late that night, I run my fingers through Rosie’s dark hair as shenuzzles my chest. Sex was always the best part of our marriage. We’vecome a long way since our first date when she said she wouldn’t sleepwith me until they took off my training wheels. Rosie taught meeverything I know about sex. She was a good teacher. Before westarted going out, I had dated only younger women. I had one longtermrelationship with a woman in my lawschool class. She dumped me assoon as she got a job offer from a Wall Street firm.

By the time Istarted seeing Rosie, I had a lot of catching up to do.

Nowadays, wehave a workable arrangement. We have recreational sex every few weeks.It’s not ideal, but it’s easier and safer than the personals.

Grace isstaying at Rosie’s mom’s house tonight.

She purrs and I kiss the back of her neck. She opens her piercing,dark eyes and looks at me.

“So,” she says, “do you think he really confessed?”

“It’s just like when we were married. Can’t we forget about businessfor just a few minutes and focus on high-quality sex? We’re consentingadults, after all.”

She laughs.

“Sorry, Mike. It’s just the way I’m drawn.”

I kiss her on the forehead.

“That’s why I’ll always love you. Even if you drive me nuts.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Yes, Counselor. I don’t think he confessed. Marcus lied orrearranged the facts.”

“Good answer. Here’s your reward.” She kisses me softly on the mouth.As always, she has me eating out of her hand.

“Let me ask you another question.

After your little talk with Naomi yesterday, how solid do you thinktheir marriage is?”

Interesting question.

“Very solid. At least I think so.” I pause and smile.

“Maybe our marriage wasn’t as screwed up as we thought.” At least wenever cheated on each other.

She kisses me again.

“Now for the tough one. Do you think he was sleeping with Diana?”

In this little game, the prizes tend to get better as the questions getharder.

I decide it’s in my best interests to answer.

“I don’t think so. He would have told her.” She gives me a cynicallook and softly bites my leftear.

“Then again,” I say, “I don’t know for sure.”

CHAPTER 17

THE CORONER AND THE CRIMINALIST

“You have to be curious to be a coroner. Your patients can’t talk toyou.”

—san francisco chief medical examiner roderick beckert. san franciscochronicle. thursday, january 15.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Beckert. I know you’re busy.” Ateleven o’clock the next morning, I’m meeting with Dr. RoderickBeckert, chief medical examiner of the city and county of SanFrancisco, in his small office on the first floor of the Hall. A stoutsixty-two-year-old with a huge bald head and black-framed glasses, heis the clean of bigcity coroners. And he knows it. And he’ll tellyou so. I wouldn’t dream of addressing him other than as Dr. Beckert.Then again, he’d never call me Mike. He has been chief medicalexaminer for almost thirty years. His textbook on autopsy proceduresfor victims of violent crimes is a seminal work. He is very good

atwhat he does.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies politely. His neat officesmells antiseptic. His bookshelves hold meticulously arranged texts onanatomy and pathology. There are carefully framed pictures of hiswife, two grown children and three grandchildren. A model of askeleton smiles at me from the corner.

I’ve always wondered what coroners talk about at the dinner table.

His glasses are perched on his furrowed brow. His thick lips frownthrough a brown-gray beard. He wears a paisley tie under his white labcoat. A tweed sports jacket hangs on a wooden coatrack in thecorner.

“How may I help you, Mr. Daley?” he asks. His voice is the perfectcombination of authority and empathy, with a singsong lilt and hint ofa New York accent that’s particularly effective at trial. I’ll bet theanatomy class he teaches at U C S F is terrific.

“Dr. Beckert,” I say, “you know I’m representing Joel Friedman.”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.”

“I was hoping we might go through your autopsy reports on Robert Holmesand Diana Kennedy. Maybe you can help us figure out what happened.”

He juts out his lower lip in a mock pout.

“Mr. Daley, I already know exactly what happened. It’s in my report.”He adds, with little enthusiasm, “I’d be happy to discuss it with you.”We eye each other. There is no malice in his tone. He knows I’m hereto try to find holes in his report. I have a better chance at winningthe lottery.

“Where would you like to start?” he asks.

“Maybe you can explain how you figured out the time of death.”

He flips through his report. It’s an act. He’s capable of recitingverbatim the contents of his reports from twenty years ago.

“In both cases,” he says, “I put the time of death between one and fourin the morning.”

“I’ve wondered how you figured that out,” I say, trying to soundinnocent.

Actually, I already know. He knows I know. I still want to hear itfrom him.

It’s a free preview of his testimony.

“We look at a number of factors,” he says.

“First, we look at body temperature, which drops by about one and ahalf degrees per hour after death. Second, we look at lividity. Whenyou die, your blood pressure goes down to zero and your body begins todiscolor. We

can calculate the time of death based upon the amount ofdiscoloration. We look at food in the victim’s stomach. We see howfar the digestive process has gone. We know Mr. Holmes and Ms.Kennedy each ate dinner around ten o’clock. There was undigested foodin their stomachs. Mr.

Holmes had crab cakes for dinner. Ms. Kennedy ate a little bit of acheeseburger. Of course, we do a number of other tests.”

I try to sound like an earnest high-school student.

“And from this evidence, you concluded the time of death was betweenone and four in the morning?”

“Yes. We always give ourselves a three-hour window.”

“Did you find any alcohol in their systems?”

“Yes. Mr. Holmes had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. Ms.Kennedy had consumed a small amount of liquor late in the evening.”

I’ll bet he knows the type of salad dressing each of them had withdinner.

“Perhaps we could look at the pictures.”

“Very well.”

We start with Diana. He shows me pictures of her naked body lying onthe stainless-steel autopsy table. I’ve seen hundreds of similarphotos. Still, I’m glad I didn’t eat a big breakfast.

“Ms. Kennedy,” he explains, “died within seconds. The first bulletpierced her right pulmonary artery and the lung parenchyma, causing ahemopneumothorax. In layman’s terms, it went through her right lung,causing a collection of blood and air in the space between the lung andthe chest wall. The second bullet penetrated the left ventricle of herheart.” He nods melodramatically.

He opens a manila envelope and pulls three enlarged pictures of what Ipresume is Bob’s head. He clips them to his bulletin board. He takesout a gold Cross pen and uses it as a pointer.

“Entry was in the right parietal, just above the temple. Exit in theleft parietal, above his left ear. Slight upward trajectory.”

This may help our suicide argument. Bob was righthanded. Hisanalysis is consistent with a righthanded shooter.

“How far was the barrel of the gun from his head when he was shot?” Iask.

“The starburst splitting of the skin indicates it was a contact wound,”he replies.

“I found powder marks and burns on his head. In other words, thebarrel was placed against the head.” His delivery is calm andclinical. He could be

reciting baseball scores. He gestures towardthe picture on the right.

“This is the left side of his head, or, if you’ll forgive me, what wasleft of it.

The exit wound was quite dramatic.”

I’ll say. Although I can make out the left ear, the rest of his headabove the ear line is virtually unrecognizable.

“Did you find evidence of gunpowder on his hands?” When a gun isfired, traces of gunpowder and other chemicals can be found on theshooter’s hand. I already know the answer.

“As a matter of fact, we did. We found gunpowder on his right hand andforearm.”

This adds to our suicide argument. He looks at the pictures. I stopto think. I decide to probe a little more.

“Doctor,” I say, “your report indicates there may have been evidenceof a concussive wound on his head. How can you tell?”

“There was a concussive wound, Mr. Daley,” he says emphatically.

Hemoves his glasses down from the top of his head so he can see up close.He points to the area about an inch and a half above Bob’s left ear.

“Do you see this area right here?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.” I’m not playing games. I haven’t the slightest ideawhat he’s pointing at.

He zeros in on a spot just above the top edge of the exit wound. Itreminds me of the first sonogram pictures of Grace when Rosie waspregnant. They looked like a test pattern to me. The OH could makeout a head, a backbone and various organs. Rosie and I stood there andsaid we could see everything.

“I’m sorry.

I’m not sure what you’re pointing at.”

“Look a little closer,” he says.

“It’s a little hard to make out in the pictures.”

No kidding.

“Right here,” he says, as he gestures again toward a spot near the edgeof the exit wound.

“It’s as clear as night and day to a trained coroner.”

I still can’t see it. Then again, I’m not a trained coroner.

“It may have been larger,” he continues, “but part of it may have beenobliterated by the exit wound. What’s left is about a quarter of aninch in diameter. There’s a small hematoma.”

People think lawyers talk in code. Hematoma is doctor speak for aswelling containing blood. It’s hard to make out on the flat pictures.I think I see something, but I’m not sure.

“How can you tell it was not just part of the exit wound?” I ask.

He points to a spot on the edge of the exit wound.

“The exit wound stops here,” he says.

“The concussive wound is a separate injury.”

“I see. And how was this wound generated?”

“He must have been struck by a hard object.”

I look at the pictures again.

“Can you figure out the size or the shape of the object, Doctor?”

“No. It was heavy enough to do some damage. There were no traces ofpaint or wood or metal in the skull. It’s not like he was hit by acar.”

“Is it possible it may have been an old wound? Maybe he bumped hishead a few weeks ago.”

“No. It was fresh. It’s tough to see it in the picture, but if youhad the body in front of you, you’d see the bump was just beginning toform. Of course, the swelling would have stopped as soon as his heartstopped beating. And if he had been hit after he was shot, there wouldhave been no hematoma because there would have been no blood pumped tothe wound.”

Too bad.

“Doctor, can you tell if he was unconscious when he was shot?”

“Probably.”

This isn’t helping. On the other hand, a big part of their case mayturn on his ability to convince the jury that somebody hit Bob on thehead. The gunpowder on Bob’s hand is evidence he was holding the gunwhen it was fired.

“One last question. Are you sure somebody bopped him on the head?”

He strokes his beard.

“In my best medical judgment, the answer is Sandra Wilson is the bestfield-evidence technician, or “FET,” in the SFPD. She gathers evidenceat crime scenes. Now in her late thirties, this articulate black womanmay be the ideal prosecution witness—the voice of authority combinedwith a tone of reason.

There will be no Dennis Fung in this case.

I’ve left Dr. Beckert and climbed the stairs to Sandra’s small officeon the second floor, which she shares with another criminalist. Heroffice reflects her meticulous approach. Her pens and paper clips arelined up neatly in

front of a small picture of her husband. There’s apicture of a toddler on the top other computer. No pictures on thewalls, although her diploma from UCLA is on display. Her short blackhair and dark brown skin frame intense eyes. Her sensible clothingisn’t accessorized. Her husband is a cop. They aren’t rolling inextra cash.

She smiles.

“If my boss finds out I’m fraternizing with the enemy,” she says, “I’llcatch hell.”

“I’ll never tell.” I like her. She’s a straight shooter.

“All right,” she says, “I’ve got work to do. What do you need toknow?”

“The usual. Got any nice evidence that will exonerate my client?”

Shelaughs.

“Of course. We’ve been sandbagging you.” She takes out a thick manilafolder containing crime-scene photos.

“As you can see,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone, “Holmes was on thefloor beneath his desk, Kennedy by the door. They were bothpronounced dead at the scene at eight-twenty-two. Gun was on the desk.Your client said he found it on the floor and unloaded it.” Shestudies her notes.

“Friedman’s fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and theunused bullets. Also on the computer keyboard, the door handle, thedesk.”

“We know he was at the scene.”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

“You got anything to help me prove he didn’t fire the gun?”

She hands me a photocopy of a diagram showing exactly where Joel’sfingerprints were found on the gun—something she doesn’t really haveto do.

“See for yourself,” she says.

I study the diagram.

“Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the gun?”

“Several. Just the handle, however.”

“What about the trigger?”

“Just an unidentifiable smudged print.”

I put the diagram in my pocket. I want Pete’s input.

“Did you test Joel’s hands or clothing for gunpowder residue?”

She pauses.

“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t a suspect at the scene. By the time he was asuspect, he’d showered and his clothes had been laundered. It wouldhave

been too late to get anything.”

“Meaning that if you’d done it a couple of days later, it wouldn’t haveshown anything.”

She acknowledges that this is true.

“You know, Sandra,” I say, “I’ll probably have to use that at theprelim.”

“I know. I know. You’re just doing your job.”

“What can you tell me about the gun?” I ask.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver. Forensicsmatched the bullets. The blood-splatter analysis indicates that Holmeswas sitting in his chair when he was shot.”

“What about the keyboard? Skipper thinks Joel typed the suicideEmail.”

“I hope you aren’t going to try to come up with some hokey chain-of-custody argument.” Defense attorneys frequently argue the copsmishandled or even planted evidence.

“I know better than to try to nail you on chain of custody. I’mcurious, though. Did you find Joel’s fingerprints on all thealphabetic keys?”

She glances at her notes and frowns.

“Yes,” she replies.

I make a mental note to see if Bob’s E-mail used all twenty-sixletters in the alphabet. That seems unlikely.

“What about the numeric keys and the function keys?”

“We found your client’s fingerprints on all of the numeric keys andthree of the function keys.”

That’s odd. Lawyers use the keyboard to send E-mails and to do someword processing. They rarely touch the numeric or function keys.

“Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the keyboard?” I ask.

She frowns again.

“No.”

That’s really odd.

“I see. Let’s talk about the tapes for a minute.”

“The voice mail from Friedman to Holmes was recorded at twelve-thirty.We tested the system. We’re sure about the time. We’ll call an expertif we have to.”

It’s probably not worth fighting over the time of the call.

“What about the call to Diana?”

“Phone company records indicate the call was initiated at twelve-fifty-one a.m.

It lasted one minute and thirty-four seconds. We found the tape inDiana’s answering machine.”

“You’re sure of the timing?”

“Yes. We tested the timing mechanism on the answering machine. It wasworking.

And don’t even think about arguing the tapes were tampered with, Mike.The fact is, they weren’t.”

“You guys aren’t doing me any favors.”

She looks serious.

“This is a highprofile case. Word came from above—no screwups.That’s why I’m involved. That’s why Rod Beckert did the autopsy.

That’s why Roosevelt is in charge of the investigation. They put thefirst team on this one. If Skipper loses this case, it won’t bebecause we screwed up. If you’re looking for Mark Fuhrman, he doesn’twork here.”

Swell.

“Sandra, do you have anything else that might be useful?”

“I’ll send you copies of the security tapes.”

“Any other fingerprints?”

“We found prints from everybody you’d expect—from his partners to hissecretary. We found Vince Russo’s fingerprints on his desk. We evenfound one of your fingerprints on his desk, Mike.” She grins.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

I glance at the picture of her son.

“Rod Beckert seems to think that somebody smacked Bob on the side ofthe head with a heavy object. Did you find any blood or hair onanything in his office that could have been used to knock him out?Maybe a book or a stapler or something?”

“No.”

That helps our suicide argument. I thank her for her time. She’sgoing to kill us at the trial.

CHAPTER 18

NOBODY’S TALKING

“Simpson and Gates has no comment concerning Mr. Friedman’s case.

Wehave faith in the system and we are confident justice will beserved.”

—arthur patton. san francisco legal journal. friday, january 16 “Mr.Patton will see you now, Mr. Daley.” At nine o’clock the nextmorning, I’m back in familiar territory—the reception area at Simpsonand Gates.

Art Patton’s secretary ushers me to his museum like corner office onforty-six.

Like most high-powered civil litigators, there are no files in hisoffice. He has slaves to handle the grunt work. TheLouisthe-something furniture contrasts with the heavy oriental rugs.Several modern sculptures adorn his credenza. The walls are coveredwith photos of Patton with local politicians.

He stands to greet me.Chuckles is sitting in one of Patton’s overstuffed chairs. He doesn’tget up.

Patton’s all smiles.

“It’s good to see you,” he lies. He doesn’t sit down. If he has hisway, this is going to be a short visit.

“I didn’t realize you were going to convene an executive committeemeeting on my behalf.”

Not surprisingly, Patton is going to act as spokesman.

“When you called, we thought it would be better to do this together.We’re extremely busy.” His eyes dart toward Chuckles.

“Look,” he says, *T know you want to talk about Joel’s case. It’s avery serious subject. A great tragedy.” He nods solemnly.

“We have given our statements to the police. We’ve put Joel onadministrative leave and we’re going to let the justice system take itscourse.

It’s all we can do.”

Smooth. And carefully rehearsed, no doubt. I decide to attackquickly.

“The police reports said you were in the office that night. I waswondering what time you left.”

“If you’re suggesting somebody in this room was involved, you’remistaken.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to piece together whathappened.”

He knows I’m lying. On the other hand, he’ll appear evasive if hedoesn’t answer.

“I left at one-thirty. Charles left a little later. We were workingon the Estimate. Neither of us saw or heard anything.”

It’s certainly convenient they can alibi each other.

“Thanks. I’m sure your story will be borne out by the securityvideos.” They glance at each other. Let them sweat a little.

“I understand from the investigating officers that somebody from thefirm said Joel was having an affair with Diana.”

“I don’t know anything about that. If I did, I’d tell the cops—notyou.”

“I was hoping you’d confirm you made those statements to the police.”

“We’ve given our statements to the police.” He starts walking towardthe door in an effort to escort me out.

I don’t move.

“I know you told the cops you thought Joel and Diana were having anaffair.”

“We have given our statements to the police,” he repeats in an eventone.

I decide to try a different angle.

“Is it true the firm defaulted on its equipment loans to First Bank?” Iwant them to think I know more than I really do.

Patton takes the offensive.

“The financial health of the firm is excellent. If I were in yourshoes, I would be preparing a defense for my client, not harassingus.”

“I can subpoena the firm’s financial records if you won’t answer myquestions.”

“This meeting is over, Mike.”

Things aren’t improving later the same morning. First Bank’s generalcounsel, Jeff Tucker, is a tight-assed little man in his mid-thirtieswho started his career at S and G. He went to work at First Bank twoyears ago when he didn’t make partner. Bob Holmes stabbed him squarelyin the middle of the back at the partner election. He’s still bitter.He works in a ten-by-ten office with a small window on the third floorof a boxy seventies office building on the south side of Market Street.In the mid-

eighties, First Bank was a high flier By the earlynineties, the real-estate market tanked and so did First Bank. Itschairman was indicted for cooking the books and a Japanese conglomeratetook over. To cut costs, the bank moved its headquarters from palatialspace on the fortieth floor of the Four Embarcadero Center tower tooffices formerly occupied by a now-defunct insurance company.

It’s a quarter to twelve and Jeff wants to go to lunch. He squints atme through uncomfortable-looking contact lenses.

“I don’t know anything that would help you,” he says.

Not a bad strategy. When in doubt, try to deflect.

“I understand S and G is having some financial troubles.”

He scratches his balding head.

“You know I can’t talk about the bank’s customers.”

“I’m a former S and G partner. If the firm goes belly-up, I may becalled upon to cough up money to help cover its debts. As a result, ina very real respect I’m your customer. If you’d prefer, I’d be happyto come back with a subpoena.

I’d rather not.” A little overbearing, perhaps. But the tough-guy actusually works with people like Jeff.

He performs some sort of mental calculus.

“What do you really need to know?”

“I need to know if the firm is in financial trouble.”

“The answer is yes.”

“Has the firm defaulted on its equipment loans?”

His lips get tighter.

“Yes.”

“How big were the loans?”

“About twenty million.”

“Have you foreclosed?”

“Not yet. My superiors said it would be bad PR to foreclose on thefirm right after the tragedy.”

“I see.”

“So we gave them an extension.”

Very unbanklike behavior.

“Really? How long?”

“Sixty days. Either they raise the twenty million by the end ofFebruary, or we’ll foreclose. It’ll probably throw the firm intobankruptcy.”

Great.

He stands.

“I’ve already told you more than I should have. I’m late for lunch.”

At noon, I’m eating a quarter pounder at the McDonald’s on Pine Streetand talking to Rosie on my cellular.

“Were you able to reach Beth Holmes?” I ask.

“Yeah. She isn’t saying much. She claims she doesn’t know anythingabout Bob’s finances or investments. She doesn’t know anything abouthis will or his life insurance.”

“Great.”

“Guess who’s the executor of the estate?”

Easy question.

“Charles Stern?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Everybody at the firm uses Charles. Dead people feel very comfortablearound him.”

She laughs.

“How did your meetings go with your former partners?”

“Lousy. Nobody’s talking. Total stonewall.”

“No big surprise. I gotta run.”

At one o’clock, I’m admiring the view of the Golden Gate Bridge fromthe thirty-eighth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. Jack Frazier,Continental Capital Corporation’s mergers-and-acquisitions stud,occupies a corner office that’s far too large for athirty-two-year-old. He’s a tall blond with a vacant expression wholooks out of place behind his large mahogany desk.

It’s hard tobelieve this guy persuaded his corporate masters in Connecticut to paynine hundred million dollars for Vince Russo’s company. From what Igather from Joel, he’s one of those young MBAs who got out of school atjust the right time. At the next downturn in the economy, he’ll bedriving a cab.

Before I can sit down, Frazier announces, “Continental CapitalCorporation has no comment with respect to the matters surrounding thedeaths of Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy.”

His ever-present attorney, a sour-looking fiftyish drone named MartinGlass, interrupts him.

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “we have given our statements to the police. Wehave nothing further to add at this time.” He takes off his thick,frameless glasses

and puts them on Frazier’s desk. As far as he’sconcerned, that’s the end of the story. It’s amazing how everybodyclams up when a defense attorney shows up.

Time to play bull in the china shop.

“I don’t need a lot of your time,” I say.

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened that night. What time didyou guys leave?”

Glass responds.

“It’s in the police report. I left a few minutes before ten. Jackleft around one-forty-five. We went home.” They’ve compared notes.

“Where do you guys live?” Again, Glass does the talking.

“I live in Seacliff.

Jack is on Russian Hill.”

“I see.” I know I can confirm the departure times from the securitytapes. So far, so good. Now, let’s see if I can get anything good.

“How was the deal going?”

They look at each other.

“Fine,” says Glass.

Good answer. Says nothing.

“Was it going to close?”

“Yes,” says Glass, nodding.

“All the papers were signed.”

“What happened the next morning?”

“I got a call from your client. He told me what happened.”

I pause.

“I understand there was a big breakup fee in this deal.”

Before Glass can respond, Frazier says, “Yes there was.” I make amental note that Frazier can be jumpy. If he’s really as smart aseveryone at CCC

seems to think he is, he’d shut his mouth.

“How much?”

“That’s confidential,” Glass says.

“May I assume it was big enough that you didn’t want to pay it?”Frazier smiles and says, “You never want to pay a breakup fee, Mr.

Daley.”

Glass interjects, “I don’t see what this has to do with your client.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what was going on.” And to see if yourclient had motive.

“Mr. Daley,” says Glass, “we’ve told you everything we know. I feelbadly. I like Joel Friedman. I hope he didn’t do it. Of course, ifhe did, I’m sure he’ll get what he deserves.”

At two o’clock, I walk into Assistant City Attorney Ed Ehrlich’swindowless office on the fourth floor of a mid-rise fifties officebuilding near the Moscone Convention Center. The city can’t becriticized for spending taxpayer funds to lease opulent offices. Theowl-eyed Ehrlich looks at home behind his metal desk. There’s noartwork on the walls.

“I’m due at the redevelopment agency,” he says as I walk in.

“Can we talk later?”

“Sure. Can I ask you a few quick questions before you go?”

“Make it fast.”

“How late were you at the S and G offices that night?”

“I went home around ten.”

“Was the deal going to close?”

“As far as I knew. It was approved by CCC’s board. Everythingdepended on Vince Russo.”

“Was the city happy with the deal?”

He looks at his blank walls.

“For the most part. Some people were worried about funding for ourloan. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“When did Clan Morris leave?”

I see distaste in his eyes before he masks it. Seems Ed and themayor’s political fixer may not be the best of friends.

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he stay?”

“To do what he always does—work the room. He wanted to suck up to theCCC people for a while. Guys like that are always playing theangles.”

“See anything suspicious that night?”

“No. It was the usual legal bullshit.” He looks away.

“I gotta go.”

At two-thirty, I’m walking up Montgomery Street, talking to Pete on mycellular.

“Did you find anything?” I ask.

“As a matter of fact, I did. I did a little checking on Vince Russo.It’s correct that he never went back to the Ritz that night. The copwho found his car at the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t see anyone. The carwas registered to a

limited-liability company called CamelotInvestments, LLC, which is owned by two trusts in the Bahamas. One iscalled the International Charitable Trust. The other is the CharitableTrust for Humanity. I’m checking it out.”

“Keep looking, Pete.”

My day hasn’t gotten any better as I sit in Clan Morris’s office atthree o’clock. Not surprisingly, the political consultant’s office isa monument to his favorite person—himself. Two walls are lined withpictures of Clan grinning with local dignitaries whose politicalfortunes he’s orchestrated.

Another wall is adorned with framed political posters for hiscandidates. A paunchy redhead, Morris is known as the Chameleon inSan Francisco political circles because he’ll represent candidates ofevery political denomination, as long as they’re able to come up withthe four hundred thousand dollars he charges to run a campaign. Heisn’t a nice human being, but his candidates win.

Lately, he has been running a Senate campaign for Edward Cross, aRepublican, and a congressional campaign for Leslie Sherman, aDemocrat.

At three-thirty, I’m still sitting in his office, watching him operate.He’s been on the phone since I arrived. In the last fifteen minutes,he’s raised about a hundred thousand dollars for Cross and anotherfifty grand for Sherman.

He cups his hand over the phone and mouths the word “Sorry.” He holdshis thumb and index finger about a quarter of an inch apart, indicatingthat he’ll only be a minute.

Finally, at three-forty, he hangs up.

“Raising money is the shits,” he says.

“I understand.” Don’t feel any obligation to apologize to me.

“I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to run. I’m due at the mayor’soffice in ten minutes.”

“Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”

He’s putting on his coat.

“I’ll have to call you. I’m flying to L.A. first thing in themorning.”

“Can’t we talk for just a minute?”

“Can’t keep the mayor waiting. I’ll call you.” He’s out the door.

At four-thirty, I walk into Harrington’s, an old, dark, wood-paneledpub on Front Street that’s now surrounded by highrise officebuildings. I want to get there before the evening rush.

Rick Cinelli is an olive-skinned, dark-haired man with a raspy voiceand a

reserved manner. He’s been tending bar at Harrington’s fortwenty years. He could run for mayor. I take a seat at the bar and hepours me an Anchor Steam.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mike,” he says.

“Been busy, Rick.” I sip my beer.

“You know I left S and G.”

“I heard.” He walks down to the end of the bar to attend to acustomer, then he comes back.

“Helluva thing about Bob and Diana,” he says.

“I hear you’re representing Joel.”

“Yeah.” I pause.

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I understand Joel and Diana were herethat night. The cops talked to you.”

He nods.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Ask away. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“They say you told the police Joel and Diana had a fight that night.”

“They did. One minute they were ordering dinner. The next minute theywere arguing. Next thing I knew, she stormed out. It lasted a minuteand a half.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Now, the important part.

“Do you happen to know what they were arguing about?”

“Nope.” He shrugs.

“It was busy. They were sitting in the corner. As long as they payfor their drinks, I leave them alone. That’s why I’ve been here for solong.”

It’s what I expect him to say.

“Could you tell if they were fighting about work?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Did you hear anything in particular?”

He looks across the room.

“I heard him say he was going to get her for something. I rememberthat distinctly. He said it a couple times.

“I’ll get you for this.”

” Swell. I pay him for the beer and I thank him. He promises to callme if he hears anything.

“Mr. Kim, may I speak to you for a moment?” I approach Homer Kim, ayoung Korean custodian, at the employees’ entrance to the Bank ofAmerica Building at five o’clock. The evening shift is about to start.I introduce myself and hand him a business card. He lookssuspicious.

“I wonder if I can ask you a few questions.”

He looks apprehensive.

“Late for work,” he says in broken English.

“It’ll take just a minute.”

He looks perplexed.

“Okay.”

I explain I’m representing Joel. He recoils.

“I understand you spoke to the police.”

He’s suspicious. He should be.

“Did you tell the police Mr. Friedman and Mr. Holmes had a fight thatnight?”

His eyes wander.

“Yes,” he says tentatively.

“Mr. Friedman was very angry at Mr. Holmes.” He starts to moveaway.

“Do you know why?”

His eyes dart away.

“No.”

“What did Mr. Friedman say to Mr. Holmes?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t know. I walked by the office. Mr. Friedman was yelling atMr.

Holmes.”

“Mr. Kim, do you know what they were arguing about?”

“Don’t know. Late for work.”

“Did you hear any shots?”

“No. Late for work.” He pushes his way around me. A good prosecutorwill get him to say exactly what he wants.

At six o’clock, I’m in my office with Rosie when Pete calls. I put himon the speaker phone.

“You guys get something?” he asks.

“Nothing useful,” I reply.

Rosie says, “Me neither.”

I ask Pete if he’s found anything.

“I had someone watching your friend Arthur Patton last night.” I canhear

the grin in his voice.

“You were right about his divorce. He and his wife separated a couplemonths ago and he’s living in an apartment on Russian Hill.

Aroundeight last night, he went over to pay a condolence call to the WidowHolmes.”

He pauses. I look at Rosie.

“It was a long condolence call. He didn’t leave until seven thismorning.”

If I ever get married again, I swear I’ll never cheat as long as Pete’sstill breathing.

At seven o’clock in the evening on the following Monday, Rosie, Mortand I meet with Joel and his father in Rabbi Friedman’s dining room.The preliminary hearing is set for ten o’clock tomorrow, with motionsat nine.

Rabbi Friedman is not happy.

“So,” he says, “are you saying you won’t be able to get the chargesdropped tomorrow?”

“It looks that way, Rabbi. They’ve probably got enough to take thecase to trial.”

Mort nods.

“Rabbi,” he says calmly, “it doesn’t mean they have a strong case.

It just means they have enough to get to trial.”

Rabbi Friedman doesn’t look mollified.

Joel is edgy.

“So what do you plan to do tomorrow?” he asks.

“Roll over?”

“No,” I reply.

“We’ll challenge their witnesses. We won’t make it easy for them. Butwe won’t tip too much of our hand. We don’t want to give them anythingthey can use at the trial.”

“You’re going to get that socalled confession knocked out, right?”

“Yes. That’s the first thing on the agenda. We’re going to talk tothe judge in chambers before the hearing starts. If he lets theconfession in, we’ll go straight to the appellate court for a writ. Idon’t want it to see the light of day.”

Rabbi Friedman shakes his head. Joel turns to his father.

“They’re doing everything they can, Dad. The legal system doesn’t workso well sometimes. And it never works very fast.”

Thanks, Joel. It’s nice when your client defends you. Things usuallywork

better when it’s the other way around.

Rosie breaks the silence.

“Do you think we should ask for a change in venue?

There’s been a lot of press coverage. It may be tough to get anunbiased jury.”

We’ve talked about this a couple of times. The defense often asks fora change in venue to a galaxy far, far away, where the potential jurorshaven’t seen all the press coverage.

Mort chimes in first.

“I still think we should stay here,” he says.

“San Francisco is a liberal town. I’d rather try a murder case herethan almost anywhere else in California.”

Rosie nods and I add, “I agree. You wouldn’t want to try this case inBakersfield or Orange County. I’d take my chances with a San Franciscojury.”

Joel says, “Then, I guess we’ll stay here?”

“Yes.”

Rosie says, “There’s something else we should talk about. Assumingthis moves forward, we need to think about trial dates. We’ll need toprepare witnesses, get experts, talk to jury consultants. It couldtake some time.” She turns to Joel.

“I’m sure you’ll want to waive the rule that says they have to startthe trial within sixty days.”

Mort agrees.

“I’ve never had a case where the defendant didn’t waive time.”

Joel sets his chin.

“I’m not going to waive time,” “Can we talk about this, Joel?” Iask.

“We can talk about it all you want,” he replies.

“Bottom line, I’m not waiving time. My life has been turned upsidedown for something I didn’t do. My reputation has been destroyed. Mywife and kids are going through hell. As much as I like staying hereat my parents’

house, I want to go home.

This case isn’t complicated. I didn’t do it. I’m not going to giveSkipper a year to practice for this trial. I want a trial date as soonas possible. Tell the judge tomorrow I’m not waiving time.”

“Joel,” I say.

He stops me.

“No. I’m the client. What I say goes. I’m not waiving time.”

CHAPTER 19

THE PRELIMINARY HEARING

News Center 4 has learned from reliable sources that Joel Mark Friedmanhas confessed to the murders of two colleagues. Judge Kenneth Brownwill preside at the preliminary hearing at ten o’clock today.”

—rita roberts. news center 4 daybreak. tuesday, january 20.

“Your Honor,” Mort begins, “we have three very serious issues.” Atnine o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, January 20, Rosie, Mort and Isit in Judge Kenneth Brown’s cramped chambers. Skipper and McNulty arewith us. Brown’s desk is littered with files and law books. There’s apicture of him shaking hands with the governor on his credenza.

Judge Brown is late fifties, with a lanky frame, a salt-and-pepperbeard and narrow eyes. He’s a former prosecutor and political ally ofthe mayor. He’s bucking for an appointment to federal court. At themoment, he’s stuck listening to motions and conducting preliminaryhearings. Unlike Judge Levin, Brown actually reads the Californiastatutes from time to time and is viewed as an up-and-comer. Thescouting report suggests he’s never met a prosecutor he didn’t like.

“What’s the problem, Mr. Goldberg?” he asks. He’s all business.

This morning’s motions will be Mort’s show. If he can’t convince hispoker buddy Judge Brown to exclude the confession, we’re in bigtrouble. It’s the closest we will come to having home-field advantage.Mort’s actually very good on evidentiary issues.

“First,” he says, “Inspector Marcus Banks has alleged Mr.

Friedmanconfessed. He didn’t. Second, Mr. Fried man wasn’t Mirandized whenhe was questioned. Even if we assume he did, in fact, confess—

whichhe didn’t—the confession is inadmissible. Third, somebody from Mr.Gates’s office leaked the alleged confession to the press. Thepotential juror pool has already been tainted. We have no choice butto move for dismissal.”

He’ll never dismiss the case. Not a chance.

“Your Honor,” Skipper begins.

The judge cuts him off.

“Mr. Gates, I’ll tell you when it’s your turn to talk.”

Skipper nods submissively.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge turns back to Mort.

“Let’s take this one step at a time. I’ve read your motion. I’m notin a position to determine what was said. For purposes of thishearing, I have to let Inspector Banks testify about what heheard—unless I’m pretty sure he’s committing perjury.”

Skipper grins.

“But, Your Honor…” Mort says.

Brown raises his hand. Mort stops mid-sentence.

“On the other hand,” he continues, “your other charges are considerablymore serious.”

Skipper stops grinning. The judge points his pencil at him.

“Mr. Gates, was the defendant properly Mirandized before the interviewtook place?”

Skipper looks at McNulty.

“No, Your Honor,” he says.

“He wasn’t Mirandized because he wasn’t a suspect at the time.”

McNultynods in agreement.

Brown frowns.

“How long was Mr. Friedman questioned?”

Skipper clears his throat.

“A couple of hours, Your Honor,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gates, I didn’t hear you.”

“A couple of hours, Your Honor.” He says it louder this time.

I interrupt.

“Actually, the interview took four hours. This issue came up at thevery end.”

“I see.” Brown turns back to Skipper.

“Did the defendant volunteer the information or did Inspector Banks askhim if he committed double murder?”

There’s a pause. Skipper looks at McNulty.

“I believe he responded to a question.”

“Mr. Gates,” says Brown, “perhaps we should invite Inspector Banks inso he can tell us exactly what happened.”

“That’s a good idea,” Skipper replies.

Judge Brown asks his bailiff to summon Banks, who strolls inconfidently a moment later. He’s well dressed, in a double-breastedgray suit. His French cuffs are adorned with large gold cuff links. Idon’t know how he can afford

his wardrobe on his salary. He takes theone empty chair.

“Inspector Banks,” Brown says, “we understand you interviewed Mr.Friedman.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And toward the end of the interview, you claim he confessed tocommitting the murders of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, Your Honor. That’s right.”

“Was the interview taped?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Was this alleged confession taped?”

He pauses briefly.

“Well, no, Your Honor.”

Brown opens his eyes wide.

“Why not?”

“My partner, Inspector Johnson, and I had concluded the formal part ofthe interview. We had turned off the tape recorder.”

“And after you turned off the tape recorder, Mr. Friedmanconfessed?”

“Yes.”

Brown taps his pencil on the desk.

“What a coincidence. Where was Inspector Johnson when Mr.

Friedmanallegedly confessed?”

“He was outside the room.”

“And why was that?”

“He went to get Mr. Friedman a drink of water.”

“So Inspector Johnson didn’t hear this alleged confession.”

“No he didn’t.”

“And nobody else heard it?”

“No.”

“Your Honor,” I say.

He stops me.

“It will be your turn in a minute, Mr. Daley. Inspector Banks,” hecontinues,

“how long have you been with the department?”

“Thirty years.”

“And how many murder suspects have you interviewed in thirty years?”

He thinks.

“Hundreds. Maybe thousands, Your Honor.”

The judge points a menacing finger toward him.

“And you’ve heard of the Miranda rules?”

He swallows.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Inspector Banks, here’s my problem. We understand you didn’t give Mr.Friedman his Miranda warnings when you questioned him. Is thatcorrect?”

He glances at Skipper.

“Yes, Your Honor. That’s correct.”

I’m impressed with his truthfulness. He could have lied and said heread Joel his rights. It would have been his word against Joel’s.

“And may I ask why not?”

Without hesitation, he says, “He wasn’t a suspect at the time ofquestioning.”

“I see.” He gestures at Banks with his glasses.

“Inspector, did Mr. Friedman volunteer this information, or did herespond to a question?”

“I believe I asked him a question.”

“And what was your question?”

Banks looks directly at the judge.

“I asked him if he did it.”

“You asked him if he did it?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“But he wasn’t a suspect.”

“No he wasn’t, Your Honor.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He responded affirmatively.”

“Affirmatively?”

“Yes.”

“In other words,” Judge Brown says, “he said yes.”

“That’s correct.”

Mort interrupts.

“Your Honor,” he says, “in point of fact, Mr. Friedman did not sayyes. He said the word ‘right’ in a sarcastic tone. He was beingfacetious.”

Brown turns to Banks.

“Is that your recollection of the conversation, Inspector?”

“No, Your Honor. I distinctly asked Mr. Friedman if he did it, and

heresponded affirmatively.”

Nice dance, Marcus. But not good enough.

“Your Honor,” I interrupt, “Mr. Banks did not answer your question.” Iturn to Banks.

“Isn’t it true, Inspector Banks, that in response to your question, Mr.Friedman responded by sarcastically saying the word ‘right’?”

“That’s not the way I remember it.”

McNulty leaps in.

“Your Honor,” he says, “even if Inspector Banks asked the defendant ifhe committed the acts in question, he didn’t need to be Mirandizedbecause he wasn’t a suspect.”

Brown is unhappy.

“Mr. McNulty,” he says, “it seems to me it’s a pretty long stretch tosuggest Mr. Friedman wasn’t a suspect if Mr. Banks was asking if hecommitted these crimes.” He turns to Banks.

“If he wasn’t a suspect, Inspector, why did you ask him if he didit?”

I’m trying to find an opportunity to continue my argument that Joeldidn’t really confess at all. I glance at Rosie. She gives me the“shut up” look.

Mort keeps his eyes on the judge.

Banks shrugs.

“I’m not sure, Your Honor. I guess I just wanted to know.”

Judge Brown looks at Skipper.

“Mr. Gates, may I assume you have enough evidence to present todaywithout this ‘alleged’ confession?”

Skipper hesitates. The correct answer, of course, is yes.

“Yes, Your Honor,” he finally says.

“But it really would help me to get this confession in.”

“Then Inspector Banks should have followed the Miranda rules,” heshoots back.

He looks at Banks.

“The defendant’s motion is granted. The alleged confession is out. Idon’t want to hear a word about it today at the prelim.” He turns toSkipper.

“Mr. Gates,” he says, “you had better be prepared to move forwardwithout it.”

“We are, Your Honor,” Skipper replies. He glares at Banks.

Round 1 goes to the good guys.

Mort’s expression doesn’t change. He’s still a warhorse.

“Your Honor,” he says, “we have another problem. This bogus confessionwas leaked to the press. I’ve already received inquiries from severaltelevision reporters. In fact, I saw it on the news this morning.

Thepotential-juror pool has been irreparably tainted. I have no choicebut to ask that the charges be dropped.”

It never hurts to ask. He’ll never go for it.

Brown’s grin is almost imperceptible.

“If that was a motion to have the charges dropped, Mr. Goldberg, it’sdenied.

Nice try, though.” Skipper looks pleased.

He continues, “I am ordering Mr. Gates to issue a statement sayingthere was no confession. I will approve its contents. I expect it onmy desk by two o’clock.”

Skipper is no longer pleased.

“I resent the implication that this information was leaked from myoffice,”

he says.

Brown looks right through him.

“Mr. Gates,” he says, “I expect the statement on my desk by twoo’clock. If it isn’t, I’ll hold you in contempt. Do youunderstand?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good.”

“Your Honor,” Mort says, “I think Mr. Gates should be sanctioned forthis irresponsible leak.” The bull is sprinting at full speed throughthe china shop. I glance at Rosie. The corners of her mouth turn upslightly.

“Your Honor,” Skipper implores, “we didn’t leak anything to thepress.”

Mort turns to him.

“Oh, and I suppose you think we did?”

Judge Brown taps his pencil.

“Children, please. In the spirit of cooperation, I’m not going tosanction anybody right now.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I would ask you to issue an order that wouldprohibit any such leaks in the future.”

He glares at Skipper.

“I’ll do better than that, Mr. Daley. As of this moment, I am issuinga total gag order. I don’t want any of you talking to the press.

Do you understand?”

We nod in unison.

“Good,” he says.

“Because if anybody violates the order, I’ll put them in jail forcontempt. I mean it. Fines don’t mean anything to you. I’ll put youin jail. For a long time. Understood?”

We nod again. It’s like kindergarten. When the bell rings, we get togo to recess.

“I’ll see you in court,” Brown says.

“Nice work, Mort,” I say. Joel, Rosie, Mort and I are sitting in asmall consultation room just behind Judge Brown’s courtroom.

“It’s a good result,” Mort says.

“We didn’t get everything, but we got the confession out.”

“What does it mean for the prelim?” Joel asks.

“The good news,” I say, “is they’ll have to show more of their case.”

“Can you get the charges dropped?”

Rosie, Mort and I glance at one another.

“It doesn’t look good,” I say.

“They don’t have to show very much. They’ve got you at the scene.They’ve got your fingerprints on the gun and the keyboard. They’ve gotthe phone messages.

That’s probably enough to get this to trial.”

“But we can explain all that stuff.” He’s pleading his case to us.

“I know. But we don’t want to telegraph our defense too soon.”

“So you’re saying we’re going to trial.”

“Looks like it.”

He looks up at the ceiling, and says nothing.

“All rise.” Judge Brown enters his small, packed courtroom and takeshis place on the bench between the Stars and Stripes and the Californiastate flag.

Reporters fill the jury box. There’s barely room for a few courthousegroupies.

Joel sits at the defense table between Rosie and me. Mort is at theend of the table. Rabbi Friedman and Naomi sit silently in the firstrow. Joel’s mother is home watching the children.

The case is called and Skipper and I state our appearances for therecord.

Judge Brown reads the charges and says the defendant has entered a pleaof not guilty. He reminds us this is a preliminary hearing for thepurpose of determining whether there is sufficient evidence to hold thedefendant over for trial. Skipper gives a brief opening statementsummarizing the evidence.

I give an even shorter statement that says,in effect, there are too many gaping holes in the state’s case to holdJoel over for trial. Then Judge Brown instructs Skipper to call hisfirst witness.

“Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Skipper says.

“Dr. Roderick Beckert. Chief Medical Examiner for the City and Countyof San Francisco.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“Thirty years.”

Skipper starts to run Beckert through his credentials. Undergrad atHarvard.

Medical degree from Stanford. I interrupt and stipulate to hisexpertise.

Skipper is disappointed. He was just getting to the part where Beckertdelivered the tablets at Mount Sinai.

Skipper hands Beckert a copy of his autopsy report. Beckert glances atit briefly. His testimony doesn’t take long. He confirms Bob andDiana died from gunshot wounds. Skipper sits down. He’s played justenough cards for a prelim.

McNulty has coached him well.

“Dr. Beckert,” I say, “your report says the wounds to Mr. Holmes mayhave been self-inflicted.”

“Yes it does.”

I need to be careful with the next question.

“Dr. Beckert, it is possible that the wounds were, in fact,self-inflicted, right?”

“Yes, but…”

I interrupt him.

“Thanks, Doctor. You’ve answered my question. I have no furtherquestions.”

He looks at the judge. His eyes plead for a chance to explain. Browntells him to step down.

Sandra Wilson is next. Skipper quickly walks her through her resume.

Undergraduate and masters degrees from UCLA. A nine-year veteran ofthe SFPD.

I’ll look like an ass if I interrupt her.

She calmly describes the physical evidence. As the sportscasters liketo say, we can’t stop her—we can only hope to contain her. Skippertakes her through chain-of-custody issues. She leaves no doubt the gunand the other evidence were handled and catalogued in accordance withpolice

procedures. She describes the fingerprints on the gun and thekeyboard. She says they’re a perfect match for Joel’s. She introducesthe tape from Diana’s answering machine and a recording of Joel’s voicemail to Bob. Joel leans over and whispers whether there’s anything wecan do. I shrug. Skipper sits down. He probably doesn’t need to callany other witnesses.

“Ms. Wilson,” I say, “did you test the defendant’s hands or clothingfor gunpowder residue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t a suspect at the scene. By the time he became a suspectseveral days later, his hands and clothing would have been cleaned andthe tests wouldn’t have shown anything.”

“So you can’t prove he fired the gun?”

“His fingerprints were on the gun, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But you can’t show that he fired it.”

“That’s correct.”

“Just one more question. Did you find Joel Friedman’s fingerprints onthe trigger?”

I’m sure she expected the question. She pauses briefly and says,“There were smudged fingerprints on the trigger, Mr. Daley. We wereunable to positively identify them.”

“So, you can’t affirmatively demonstrate that Mr. Friedman pulled thetrigger?”

“We could not identify the fingerprints on the trigger, Mr. Daley,”she repeats.

I argue with the judge for a few moments that she’s beingunresponsive. He finally gets her to admit that the physical evidencedoes not conclusively show that Joel pulled the trigger.

“No further questions,” I say. It’s helpful to have an ex-cop likePete on our side. He notices things.

Roosevelt takes the stand. He confirms Joel admitted he was in the S&Goffices the night of the incident. He describes the scene in Bob’soffice.

He provides copies of the phone records showing the call fromJoel’s office to Diana. His testimony is all factual. And all true. Isee McNulty’s influence. He figures he doesn’t need to show very muchto get this case to trial. I can’t punch a hole in anything Rooseveltsays. I’ll save it for the trial.

I decide not to crossexaminehim.

Skipper trots out a straightforward Rick Cinelli to talk about thefight at Harrington’s and an edgy Homer Kim to talk about the argumentin Bob’s office.

On cross, I get each of them to admit that they didn’t know what thearguments were about. I get Cinelli to admit Joel and Diana may havebeen talking about business. I get nothing out of Kim.

I figure Skipper is about to wrap up when he calls Art Patton.

Thecourtroom is silent as the Enormous One walks forcefully to the frontof the courtroom.

“Mr. Patton,” Skipper says, “were you at the Simpson and Gates firmretreat last October?”

“Yes.” His tone is measured.

“And during that retreat, did you have an opportunity to see thedefendant and Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes. I saw them many times.”

“I would like to ask you about one particular time. Did you see thedefendant and Ms. Kennedy at approximately three a.m. on Saturday,October twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And can you tell us the circumstances of that meeting?”

I’m up.

“Objection, Your Honor. I fail to see the relevance.”

“I’ll allow it,” says Judge Brown.

Pattern tries to look sincere.

“I heard noises from Mr. Friedman’s condo. I was concerned, so Iknocked on his door. Mr. Friedman answered. I asked him ifeverything was all right, and he said yes. Then I saw Ms. Kennedy inMr.

Friedman’s bed. She didn’t appear to have any clothes on.”

There are shuffling sounds in the back of the courtroom. I steal aglance at Naomi, who is looking down.

“And what did this lead you to conclude, Mr. Patton?”

“Objection,” I say.

“Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase,” says Skipper.

“Did you observe Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy having a physicalrelationship in his room that night?”

“Objection, relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Patton tries to look embarrassed. He turns to the judge.

“I’m uncomfortable discussing the personal lives of members of thefirm.”

Bullshit.

Brown says, “I’m going to have to ask you to answer the question, Mr.Patton.”

Patton exhales melodramatically.

“It appeared that they had been in his bed together.”

“No further questions.”

Nice move, Skipper. It’ll be tough to unring that bell. I glance atNaomi as I stand up. She’s still looking down. The rabbi isfrowning.

“Mr. Patton,” I say, “did Mr. Friedman let you into his room?”

He looks at me though his small, round glasses.

“No. I stayed outside.”

“I see. And did he open the door all the way?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“How far did he open the door?”

He stops to think.

“Maybe halfway.”

“Really. Halfway’s about a foot, maybe a foot and a half, right, Mr.Patton?”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll bet you couldn’t see much of Mr. Friedman’s room through thattwelve inches.”

“I could see most of it.”

“And how long was the door open?”

“About a minute.”

“And what was Mr. Friedman wearing?”

“I don’t recall. I think he was wearing a sweatshirt andsweatpants.”

“Was the light on?”

He scowls.

“No.”

“Did you see Mr. Friedman touch Ms. Kennedy?”

“No.”

“And was Ms. Kennedy under the covers?”

“Yes. The covers were pulled up over her body.”

“I see. Yet you just testified that Ms. Kennedy appeared to benaked.”

“Yes. From where I stood, she appeared to be naked.”

“But you just said she was under the covers.”

“I could still see her.”

“But she may have been wearing clothes or pajamas or a sweat suit,right?”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“And you were looking through a twelve-inch gap in the door into a darkroom?”

“Yes.”

Now, the kill.

“Mr. Patton, did you actually see Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy inbed together that night?”

“No.”

“Did you see them have any physical contact that night?”

Skipper’s up.

“Asked and answered, Your Honor.”

“Overruled.”

“No,” Patton says, “I cannot confirm that they had any physical contactthat night.”

So far, so good. Now, we’ll see if Skipper is awake over there.

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true there was a social gathering at your roomthat same night?”

“I don’t recall.”

Skipper, wake up. You should start objecting now.

“Mr. Patton, I was there that night. I can provide a copy of theinvitation for the party that night.” It’s nice of Skipper to let metestify. He should be up on his feet screaming. I glance over andMcNulty’s whispering frantically into his ear.

“Yes, Mr. Daley,” Patton says.

“There was a party in my room that night.”

“Good. And was Ms. Kennedy there?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Patton, that Ms. Kennedy left the partybecause she was upset?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Let me refresh your memory. Isn’t it true she left the party becauseshe was upset when you demanded that she sleep with you?”

The courtroom roars. Brown pounds his gavel. Rabbi Friedman whispersto

Naomi.

“Objection, Your Honor. There’s no foundation for this.”

Look who woke up.

“Overruled.”

Patton is grinning.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton, that you followed Ms. Kennedy to her roomafter she rejected your advances?”

Skipper’s up.

“Objection, Your Honor. The witness has indicated that he doesn’t knowanything about this alleged incident if, in fact, it took place.”

“Overruled.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton, that you attacked Ms. Kennedy in herroom, and she went to Mr. Friedman’s room for protection? And isn’tit true you went down to Mr. Friedman’s room so you could telleveryone you saw Ms.

Kennedy and Mr.

Friedman in bed together if Ms. Kennedy ever accused you of sexualharassment?”

Skipper starts to get red in the face as he screams his objection.Before the judge can rule, Patton stands up and shouts, “That’s alie!”

Judge Brown slams his gavel on the little wooden base. I look atNaomi, who gives me an approving nod. Patton regains his composure andsits down.

Judge Brown looks at me.

“The objection is sustained,” he says in a measured tone.

“No further questions, Your Honor.” If Joel is going on trial, Simpsonand Gates is going on trial with him.

After brief closing arguments, Skipper makes his motion to bind Joelover for trial. I move for dismissal. Skipper’s motion is granted andmine is denied.

“Mr. Daley,” Judge Brown says, “I assume you’ll want to move for achange of venue.”

“No, Your Honor, we’re perfectly happy to stay here in SanFrancisco.”

He’s surprised.

“May I assume your client will waive time?”

I don’t hesitate.

“No, Your Honor, my client will not waive time. We want a trial dateas

soon as possible. We want to go in sixty days—sooner, if wecan.”

I don’t know who looks more dumbfounded—Skipper or the judge.

Skipperstands up and says, “Your Honor, we have a very tight schedule at theDA’s office. It is highly unusual for a suspect not to waive time in atrial of this complexity. Highly unusual.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “this is a simple case. My client has a statutoryright to a trial in sixty days. We’ll take the first trial date you’vegot. If Mr. Gates insists on proceeding with this unsubstantiatedcase, we want to clear Mr.

Friedman’s name right away. Mr. Gates just started at the DA’soffice. He couldn’t have filled his schedule yet.” I get a smatteringof chuckles from the gallery.

Judge Brown gives me a skeptical look.

“Mr. Daley, are you sure about this?”

No, I think my client is out of his mind.

“Yes, Your Honor. We won’t waive time.”

“Very well.” He looks at his calendar and confers with his clerk.

“I’m setting trial for March sixteenth in superior court before JudgeShirley Chen.”

I frown. Brown looks at me.

“Is there a problem with that, Mr. Daley?”

“No problem at all.” Judge Chen is a newly appointed superior courtjudge.

She’s another former prosecutor who will be presiding over her firstmurder trial. Another lousy draw for us.

“Good. Pretrial motions on March ninth.” He pounds his gavel andsays,

“We’re done.”

CHAPTER 20

MOVIE NIGHT

“We have no intention of discussing a plea bargain.”

—skipper gates. news center 4 daybreak. wednesday, january 21.

Lights! Camera! Movie night! We have gathered in Rabbi Friedman’sliving room at six o’clock the next evening to view the securityvideotapes from the night of the “incident,” as we have taken tocalling it. True to her word, Sandra Wilson has provided six hours ofgrainy footage. Hopefully, we’ll be able to use the fast-forwardbutton liberally. All things considered, I’d rather be over at Joel’shouse watching The Lion King video with his kids.

Joel fiddles with the VCR. His father sits in a tall, uncomfortable-looking chair in front of the TV, drinking a Sprite. Rosie and I siton the sofa, our

notepads poised. Mort is in a side chair near the TV.He won’t be taking notes.

He reminds us he’s terribly nearsighted. Joel’s mother is watching thekids again, so Naomi has joined us. She sits on the floor in front ofthe TV, her legs crossed. I haven’t talked to her since the hearingyesterday. She seems to be holding up reasonably well. It must betough on the kids. In a modest concession to whimsy at this otherwisestoic gathering, she’s made popcorn.

Pete stands behind the sofa, clutching a clipboard with a printoutlisting all the people who ran their security cards through thecomputer scanner to check in or out of the Bank of America Building onthe night of December 30. He has a separate list of those who signedin or out by hand. He studies his lists. We’re trying to confirm whattime everybody came and went.

And we’re looking for inconsistencies between the tapes and the lists,if there are any.

During the evening hours at the Bank of America Building, pedestriantraffic is funneled toward one exit door in the lobby and toward theescalator to the garage. There are two video cameras in the lobby, oneon each side of the guard desk. There’s a camera by each of the sixelevator banks. There is a service elevator that stops at every floor,but you need a key to use it. There are stairs, of course, but theaccess doors to the office floors are kept locked.

There are cameras by the entrance and exit to the garage. It would bepretty tough to leave the building undetected. So they say.

Pete’s interviews with the security guards revealed there are nocameras in the elevators or stairs. Too expensive. Except for a fewacts of vandalism, there isn’t much crime in elevators. Nobody usesthe stairs.

Joel hits the play button. The quality of the black-and-white video issimilar to the videos of convenience-store robberies you see on showslike America’s Most Wanted. The time is stamped in the lower-leftcorner in block white numbers. The cameras don’t move. It feels likewe’re eavesdropping.

Pete is the master of ceremonies. He’s been through this exercise manytimes.

“The tape starts at eight o’clock,” he says.

“At eight-eleven, you’ll see Doris Fontaine leaving the building.”

Lo and behold, we see Doris insert her security card into the scannerat the guard desk at exactly 8:11 and fourteen seconds.

Pete gives us an “I told you so” look.

“At eight-thirty-seven, Mike leaves.”

I see myself leaving the building at 8:37 and eighteen seconds. Itstrikes me that everyone in a security video looks like a criminal.

Mort chirps, “I presume this means we can rule out Mike as asuspect?”

Rabbi Friedman glares at him, and his smile disappears.

There are no surprises in the first two hours. Most of the peopleattending Skipper’s reception leave by 8:30. The evening wordprocessors show up at 9:00.

Skipper and the mayor and their respective entourages leave at 9:15.Everything is just as I’d expect—so far.

At 9:30, the people working on Russo’s deal begin to leave for dinner.I take notes. I want to confirm Joel’s time line. Jack Frazier andDan Morris leave at 9:32, followed almost immediately by Bob Holmesand Vince Russo. At 9:48, Joel and Diana leave. Frazier’s lawyer,Martin Glass, and Ed Ehrlich, from the city attorney’s office, leave at10:00.

Pete reminds us Frazier and Morris went to Aqua, Holmes and Russo wentto Tadich’s, and Joel and Diana went to Harrington’s. Glass andEhrlich went home.

Pete says he’s talked to eyewitnesses and confirmed everybody wentwhere they said they did.

Joel loads the second tape. Not much between 10:00 and 11:15, exceptfor Joel’s return at 10:25. At 11:15, the rest of the dinner crowdbegins to return.

Holmes and Russo check in at 11:16. It’s hard to tell, but I thinkVince is staggering. At 11:18, Frazier and Morris sign in. Nobodylooks refreshed after dinner. The videotapes are consistent with thelist provided by the security guards.

It’s after nine o’clock when Joel starts the third tape, which shouldcontain everything from midnight to two a.m.—the key times, as far asI’m concerned.

Our first surprise is at 12:20. Pete looks at his list in disbelief.

“He isn’t on the list,” he mutters, as we stare at the shadowy figureof Skipper Gates passing the guard desk and walking toward theelevators.

I ask Joel to rewind the tape. The NFL isn’t the only place whereslow-motion instant replays help.

“Look,” I say, “he walked past the guard desk, but he doesn’t run hiscard through the scanner. He isn’t on the list because the guard lethim in.”

“He isn’t supposed to do that,” Pete says.

“Happens all the time,” I reply.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been waved through after hours.You get to know the guards. They let you in.”

Pete shakes his head. He’s still a cop at heart. This stuff reallybothers him.

You should see my mother’s house. It’s a fortress.

“What the hell was Skipper doing there?” Rosie asks.

“Beats me,” I say.

“We’ll find out.” I turn to Pete.

“Do you have a checkout time?”

He scans his list.

“Nope. As far as the guards were concerned, he was never there.”

“Either he left without running his card through the scanner, or hedidn’t leave that night.”

Nobody else comes or goes before one o’clock. We’re getting into primetime now, and the rabbi’s living room is silent. All eyes concentrateon the black-and-white images on the nineteen-inch Zenith. Nobody iseating Naomi’s popcorn.

At 1:10, we see the slender figure of Diana Kennedy hurrying towardthe guard desk on her way into the building. She’s dressed only in alight sweat suit. At 1:10 and fifteen seconds, she waves to the guard,who lets her in without running her card through the scanner. Thebuilding managers will have a fit if they see this tape.

One-fifteen. Skipper saunters past the guard desk. We replay the tapetwice.

My heart races. Silently, I hope he’ll be splattered withblood. He isn’t, of course. And even if he was, it would be tough tosee on the black-and-white video. He waves to the guard, but doesn’trun his security card through the scanner. It confirms Skipper was inthe building after Diana returned. I make a note to figure out howlong it takes the elevators to get down from the forty-seventh floor tothe lobby. Skipper may have been there when Diana died.

I’m not ready to accuse him of anything—yet. On the other hand, Iwant to keep my options open. If nothing else, he has some explainingto do.

At one-thirty. Art Patron lugs his stomach, chins and eyebrows pastthe guard desk and runs his security card through the scanner. Thoughthere’s no sound on the videotape, it’s clear Patton harrumphs at theguard. Even in the middle of the night. Art can find a way to bepissed off at somebody he

barely knows.

Five minutes later, Clan Morris and Jack Frazier walk out together.They seem to be having a friendly conversation. They’re an oddcouple—the political fixer and the investment banker. I make a mentalnote to check it out.

Vince Russo waddles out on the heels of Morris and Frazier. He scowlsat the guard and walks tentatively toward the escalator to thegarage.

Finally, Charles Stern brings up the rear at five minutes after twoo’clock, looking, as always, as though he has the weight of the worldon his narrow shoulders. He looks even worse in black and white thanhe does in living color, although there’s very little difference.

We quickly fast-forward through the next two hours of videotape. Otherthan the departures of the S&G night-shift word processors, nobodycomes or goes. It’s eleven-fifteen when Joel turns off the VCR andPete turns up the lights. Naomi brings cold sodas from the kitchen.Mort excuses himself to use the bathroom for the seventh time. He’sgone out to the back porch twice for cigar breaks.

“Is that it?” Rabbi Friedman asks Joel.

Joel’s rewinding the last tape.

“That’s it,” he replies.

“Before you head home,” I say, “let’s take a few minutes on thesetapes.”

Mort was already halfway out the door. Rosie hasn’t moved from thesofa.

“Michael,” Rabbi Friedman says, “is there anything from these tapesthat may help us?”

I look at my notes.

“There’s a lot that may help us.” More importantly, there’s nothingterrible in there that could hurt us.

“First, we can place everybody at the scene and we know what timeeverybody left. Everybody was in the S and G offices after Dianareturned from her apartment. Even Skipper was there.”

“How does that help us?” Rabbi Friedman asks.

“It doesn’t prove any of them did anything. And it doesn’t exonerateJoel.”

“Rabbi,” Mort interjects, “it’s always good to be in a position toargue that there were other people around. It gives us options. Ithelps to give the jury an opportunity to blame it on somebody else.Especially if somebody else isn’t particularly likable.”

Joel isn’t happy with his explanation.

“I thought our defense is going to be suicide,” he says.

“It is,” I say.

“But Rod Beckert is going to testify that Bob was knocked unconsciousbefore he was shot. We’ll put on our own expert to rebut histestimony. But we also want to keep our options open—and that meanswe want to identify as many potential suspects as we can. Tonight, weidentified a bunch of people who were in the building at the righttime—

Vince Russo, Jack Frazier, Clan Morris, Arthur Patton and CharlesStern, by my count.”

“Don’t forget Skipper,” Rosie points out.

“He was still there when Diana came back.”

“I’m supposed to meet with him first thing tomorrow. I’ll ask him whathe was doing there at one in the morning. The distinguished districtattorney of the city and county of San Francisco will be the first nameon our witness list.”

Under the California rules of criminal procedure, you’re required toprovide a list of potential witnesses. You can get in trouble if youtry to call someone who isn’t on the list. You can’t get in too muchtrouble, however, if you put someone on the list and you don’t call himor her at trial. Prosecutors and defense attorneys play all sorts ofgames with their lists. If I thought I could get away with it, I wouldinclude every name in the San Francisco phone book on ours.

Mort grins.

“I like it,” he says.

Rosie is more realistic.

“They’ll never let him testify.”

“I know,” Mort replies.

“But it’ll give them something to think about.”

We start to gather our belongings when Joel looks in the Macy’s bag inwhich I brought the tapes.

“There’s one more tape,” he says.

Shit. I’m tired.

Rabbi Friedman wipes his glasses.

“It’s awfully late,” he says.

“Can’t this wait?”

I look at Joel.

“It’s your call. I can come back in the morning.”

“You’re supposed to meet with Skipper in the morning. We’d better lookat this tape tonight and see if there’s anything else on it.”

We return to our seats as Joel pops the tape into the VCR. Pete’spuzzled.

“The inventory says we’ve seen all the security tapes,” he says.

We leave the lights on. It’s getting close to midnight.

The tape starts. It isn’t another security tape. First we see a blackscreen.

Then we hear a badly dubbed sound track of familiar music. I realizeit’s the theme from LA Law. After about ten seconds, some homemadecredits appear.

SIMPSON & GATES FIRM RETREATS.F. LAW. The music continues as thescene shifts to the lobby of the S&G offices. The picture is grainy.Somebody did a real hatchet job with a hand-held camera. S&G

lawyersare videotaped as they walk into the reception area. Bob Holmes mugs.Diana Kennedy smiles. Art Patton scowls. Charles Stern says somethingthat I can’t make out.

After a few minutes, the scene shifts to the Silverado Country Club inthe Napa Valley. The same S&G lawyers who were shown in their businesssuits now appear in golf shirts and khaki pants. Some are shownheading toward the golf course.

Others are playing tennis. One big, happy family.

“What’s the point of all this?” asks Rabbi Friedman.

“This tape was taken at the firm retreat last fall,” Joel says.

“Why is it here?”

“I can’t believe Sandra included this with the evidence tapes bymistake,” I say.

Pete looks intently at his lists. He finds a note from Sandraindicating the package includes one miscellaneous evidence tape inaddition to the security videos.

After a few more minutes of well-dressed yuppies butchering the tenniscourts, the scene shifts to a swimming pool in the outer row of condosin the Silverado complex. I recognize Arthur Patton sitting in alounge chair.

“The white whale,” Rosie says.

“Never mind,” I reply.

The theme from L.A. Law continues to play as the tape cuts to a dinnerparty in the main dining room. It looks like a convention for blueblazers. There’s a quick shot of a crowded dance floor. I catch abrief

glimpse of Diana dancing with Art Patton.

The video cuts to the bar in the main house that overlooks the golfcourse.

The camera pans across the crowded room. I see myself sittingnext to Wendy Hogan at a small table in the corner. Bob Holmes andSkipper are sitting at a table near the door. They’re surrounded bysome of the best wineries in the world and they’re drinking martinis.Art Patton is sitting next to Diana at the bar. He’s drinking aManhattan. Two empty glasses sit in front of him.

The cameraman circles to his left and focuses on Diana, who winks atthe camera. She staggers toward the door. Patton follows her. Shegives him a condescending look and says something to him. Theycontinue toward the door. As she passes the table where Joel issitting, she arches her eyebrows at the camera, leaps into Joel’s lap,cups his face in her hands and forcefully kisses him on the mouth. Sheturns and waves to the camera and struts out of the room.

Patton follows her. The camera pans back to Joel, who smilessheepishly. He says something that’s drowned out by the L.A. Law themesong. The tape ends abruptly.

Rabbi Friedman’s living room is stone-cold silent. I glance at Joel.His eyes are closed. His face is red. Rabbi Friedman sits quietly,his hands folded in his lap. Rosie stares at the TV screen. Petelooks at his clipboard. Mort looks at his watch. Naomi doesn’t takeher eyes off Joel.

“Well,” I say, “maybe this would be a good time for us to break fortonight.”

Joel says in a barely audible whisper, “That’s probably a good idea.”

I stop at Rosie’s on my way home. I sip a Diet Dr. Pepper. She eatsa carrot.

“How do you think the scene in the bar will play?” she asks.

“Pretty bad.”

“The security videos looked pretty good. At least there were a lot ofpeople there when everything happened.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem very convinced.”

“The thing at the bar is inflammatory. What are you supposed to thinkif you’re on the jury? We had a decent defense that Joel’s a nice,oldfashioned family guy who’s being wrongly accused. Now, they’ll trotout this cheesy videotape showing a pretty young woman throwing herselfat him. It won’t be hard to decide he’s been sleeping around. Juriesdon’t like liars. And they really don’t like people who cheat on theirwives.”

She takes a bite of a tuna sandwich.

“Don’t you think you may be overreacting a little bit? It doesn’tprove he was sleeping around.”

I crunch a potato chip.

“Maybe. I just don’t like it.”

“Maybe we can get it knocked out. You know, that tape was edited alot.”

“We’ll try. We’ll see what the judge says.”

“You think he was sleeping with Diana?”

“I don’t think so. But two weeks ago, I would have said no. Now, I’mnot so sure.” I look into her dark brown eyes. Rosie and I nevercheated on each other. Our breakup was the result of fundamentalincompatibility, which we took out on each other.

“What do you think, Rosita? You’ve always had good instincts.”

“I wouldn’t bet Grace’s college fund, if we had one.” She decides tosay something positive.

“We got some good stuff from the security tapes. Do you think Skipperwas involved?”

“Hard to say. I can’t imagine what motive he had. But he’s slippery.I just can’t tell.”

She kisses me on the cheek and puts her plate in the sink.

“I guess you’ll just have to ask him in the morning.”

CHAPTER 21

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING THERE, SKIPPER?

“In local news, District Attorney Prentice Gates says he’s uncoverednew and compelling evidence in the upcoming doublemurder trial ofaccused killer Joel Mark Friedman.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. thursday, january 22.

It’s ten-fifteen the next morning, a Thursday. After making me cool myheels in his newly redecorated reception area for fifteen minutes,Skipper grants me an audience. He’s brought his faithful companion.Bill McNulty.

To even the odds, I’ve brought Mort, who will play the“bad cop.” To his credit, he left his cigars in the car.

“What the hell were you doing there, Skipper?” My methods lack acertain degree of finesse.

Skipper fondles his seven-hundred-dollar Mont Blanc pen. He looksgreat today.

He has a press conference at eleven. Turn on the lights.

McNasty has left his jacket in his office. He’s wearing a light blueshirt with a blue polka-dot tie. Two Bic pens sit in his shirt pocket.It’s easy to see how Skipper creamed him in the election.

Skipper smiles broadly. His blue eyes sparkle. He tilts his head backand laughs loudly.

“I take it you’ve seen the videotapes we asked Sandra to send over?”

“I trust you wouldn’t mind telling us what you were doing in the officethat night?”

“It’s not a big deal. I had to get some papers for a meeting the nextmorning.”

“That’s it?” Mort growls melodramatically.

“That’s it,” he replies.

Mort snaps, “That’s the best you can do? That’s a piss-poor story,Skipper.”

Skipper ignores him.

I take a deep breath.

“I don’t suppose you considered the possibility that you should havereported your presence at the firm at one in the morning to thepolice?”

“I did.”

“How come it didn’t find its way into any of the police reports?”

“Beats me. Ask them. Picking up my briefcase certainly isn’t an eventthat should make the eleven o’clock news.”

He’s full of shit.

“You charged a man with double murder. You decide who getsprosecuted.”

“What do you want?” McNulty asks.

“He gave his statement to the police. He didn’t see anything. He wentto his office on forty-six, picked up his briefcase and left.”

Mort leaps in.

“Bill,” he says in a condescending tone, “the security tapes show thathe was there for almost an entire hour. What the hell was he doing?And do you plan to testify on Skipper’s behalf at the trial?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” McNulty replies.

“He was preparing for his meeting the next morning.”

Mort glares. In the right setting, he can still be effective. Hepoints a stubby finger at Skipper.

“You’d better be ready to testify because you’re number one on ourwitness list. You were there and you’re going to have to tell yourstory. In open court. In front of the jury. For the whole world tohear.”

He practically spits out the last words.

Skipper and McNulty glance at each other.

“Mort,” Skipper says deliberately, “go ahead and put me on your witnesslist. Judge Chen will never let me testify. If she does, I’ll sayexactly what I just told you. I picked up my briefcase. I didn’t seeanything. Period.

End of story.”

“I’m glad you’ve rehearsed your lines,” I say, “because you’re going tohave to explain to Judge Chen why you shouldn’t be called.” I turn toMcNulty.

“I’m surprised at you. Bill,” I say in my best kindergarten-teachertone.

“I really thought you knew better.”

McNulty rubs his eyes. He really does know better. He’s just playingalong with his boss.

Skipper is amiable.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to resolve this today.”

I glance at Mort. Smoke is coming out of his ears. For ten or fifteenminutes a week, he can still trot out some pretty impressive theatricswhen he’s in the mood.

“So,” Skipper says, “did you like the video from the retreat?” Hegrins.

“Pretty cute scene there when Diana gave Joel that big kiss.”

“It was nothing,” I reply.

“She was drunk and she was showing off.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Where did you get that video, anyway?”

“One of your former partners came forward. He shot it.”

I stop to think.

“Who?” I ask.

“Hutch was taping that night.”

Shit. My former partner Brent “Hutch” Hutchinson is a remarkablepackage of blond hair, gleaming white teeth and a spectacular line ofbullshit. His emotional development came to a screeching halt at afrat party during his sophomore year at USE. After nine years as ArtPatton’s personal lapdog, he finally sucked his way into thepartnership last year. He’s not much of a lawyer, but he’d make aterrific TV game-show host. We’re hopeful advances in medical sciencewill someday permit his doctors to surgically remove his lips fromtheir permanent position affixed to Art’s bottom.

Among his otherattributes, Hutch thinks he’s Cecil B. DeMille. He’s always stickinghis goddamned video camera in everybody’s face.

“They should have confiscated his camera,” I say.

Skipper is pleased.

“I thought the over dubbing of the theme from L.A. Law was a nicetouch.”

Mort growls, “Judge Chen will never let that tape in, Skipper. It’sbeen edited a million times. It doesn’t prove anything. It’s a pieceof shit.”

McNulty’s jaw tightens as he looks at Mort.

“We’ll get it in,” he says.

Mort blusters, “The hell you will.”

McNulty turns to me.

“By the way,” he says, “we got more video footage last night. Wehaven’t had time to get it copied. If we can get Skipper’s VCR towork, we’ll show it to you.”

Skipper pushes a button behind his desk and the opposite wall opens,revealing a twenty-seven-inch Mitsubishi TV. I bet Skipper is the onlyDA in California with his own movable wall.

“Impressive,” I say.

“What’s playing today? Twelve Angry Men?”

“More film from the firm retreat,” Skipper replies.

“This one’s even better.”

Swell. More highlights from Brent Hutchinson’s coveted videolibrary.

Skipper dims the lights. I bet there aren’t many DAs with a dimmerswitch, either.

The annoying music from L.A. Law starts. The tape opens with a shot ofa swimming pool near the tennis courts at Silverado. Nobody’sswimming.

The chairs are empty.

The camera pans to the hot tub next to the pool. There are two peoplein the hot tub—a man and a woman. The theme from L.A. Law continuesto play.

The video is shot from a distance. The camera zooms in onthe hot tub.

From the rear, I recognize Diana’s stylish haircut. She’swearing a string bikini. As the camera focuses in on her, I see thetop other bikini is unfastened.

“I didn’t realize Hutch was a Peeping Tom,” I say to nobody inparticular.

Skipper holds up his hand. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.McNulty turns my way. I think he’s trying to smile at me—an unnaturalact for him.

The cameraman moves to his left, staying focused on Diana. As hecircles, the camera catches the side of her face. Then he pans backand I realize she’s not only in the hot tub with a man—she’s embracinghim. The

photographer moves farther to his left. He focuses on Diana.Then he focuses on the man she’s kissing.

It’s Joel.

McNulty stops the tape. Skipper turns up the lights. He’striumphant.

“You still convinced there was no hanky-panky between Diana and Joel?”he asks.

I don’t answer.

“There’s one other thing, Mike,” he says.

“We’ve decided to ask for special circumstances. We’re going to makethis a death-penalty case.”

Mort’s in an expansive mood as we drive toward downtown. He’s alsohappy to get his cigars back.

“In every case,” he says, “there comes a time when you know whetherit’s a winner or a loser. Today, I think we came to an importantpoint.”

I’m really not in the mood for this right now.

“And what point is that, Mort?”

“The point where I’m pretty sure we’re completely and totallyfucked.”

There you have it.

“He has a videotape of you and Diana kissing in the hot tub atSilverado.”

I’m talking to Joel at Rabbi Friedman’s house the sameafternoon. It’s time to explain the facts of life. Thankfully, hisfather is officiating at a funeral and his mother is at the grocerystore. I add, as calmly as I can, that they’ve decided to ask for thedeath penalty.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“Did I mention the fact that she’d unfastened her bikini top?”

“No,” he says quietly, “you didn’t.”

“It’s put-up time, Joel,” I say.

“We can’t have any more surprises. They’re going to blow a holethrough our defense if you don’t start telling me the truth.”

He’s not giving.

“It was nothing. She got playful in the hot tub. We got a littlecarried away.”

It rings hollow.

“If you want to get something off your chest, now’s the time.

It won’t get easier. They’re going to use the tape at trial. Tell methe truth.

I need to know what was going on.”

He looks right at me.

“What do you want me to say?” he shouts.

“We got carried away. That’s it. I admit it. Okay? Diana and I werekissing in the hot tub. Are you happy now?”

“Does Naomi know about this?”

“No.”

I pause.

“You’d better tell her. It’s going to come out. And it’s better ifshe hears it from you.”

“I know.”

Something’s going on.

“What is it, Joel?” I ask.

“Naomi said she wants to take the kids down to her mother’s in L.A.until the trial is over.”

This is not good news.

“We need her. It can’t look like she’s abandoning you.” I know how itfeels to have a marriage shatter. When Rosie and I split up, the painin the bottom of my stomach was unbearable for months. I couldn’t eat.I couldn’t sleep. I blamed myself. She blamed herself. We were botha mess. And we didn’t help each other through it. And I wasn’t ontrial for murder when it happened to me.

“Can you talk to her?”

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

“Good. Now tell me what was really going on between you and Diana.”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Honest to God. Nothing.”

He’s on the verge of tears. He’s begging me to believe him. My guttells me he’s telling the truth. My brain tells me he may be onehelluva liar.

CHAPTER 22

I NEED YOUR HELP, DORIS

“We’re delighted with the way the case has progressed so far. We’revery confident.”

—skipper gates. news center 4. monday, february 16.

“Jesus, Mikey, you haven’t spent a lot of time fixing this place up,have you?”

Doris smiles. Three weeks later, on Monday, February 16, at ten in themorning, Doris is getting another look at my office. Nothing much haschanged since the last time, except for the boxes of files and evidencefor Joel’s case.

“I always water your plant.”

“Good thing.” She gives me a hug. She’s tan and more relaxed thanI’ve seen her in a long time. She scrunches her face.

“The daily special next door must be kung pao chicken.”

She’s probably right.

“How was your trip?” I ask.

“Great. I love the Bahamas. I’ve met a lot of people down there overthe years.

Bob had business with a couple of the bankers. They showed me a goodtime.”

“How’s Jenny?”

“Okay.” She shrugs.

“Last semester. A lot of stress.” We exchange small talk.

She shows me photos from her trip. After a few minutes, she turnsserious.

“Mikey, why did you ask me to come down here today?”

I look right at her.

“We’re getting ready for Joel’s trial. Things aren’t going so well.” Itake a deep breath.

“I need your help, Doris.”

“I figured. It’s going to cost you, though.”

“How much?”

“At least one, and maybe two, cups of coffee. Maybe even lunch.”

“I’ll talk to our executive committee. I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you want to understand Bob,” Doris says as she takes a drink ofcoffee,

“you have to go back to his early years at the firm. Thingswere different.

The firm was smaller.” She winks.

“The legal profession was a lot less complicated.” She gets a farawaylook in her eyes. Ah, the good old days.

“Anyway,” she continues, “they hired Bob right out of Harvard to workwith Leiand Simpson, as in Simpson and Gates. I was Leiand’ssecretary.”

“What was he like?”

“A gentleman, although some people thought he was a greedy old son of ayou-know-what.”

I never met Leiand. According to my sources, he was an elegant manfrom one of the wealthiest families in the city. Depending on who’stelling the story, he may also have been racist, sexist andanti-Semitic.

She continues.

“Leiand tried to take Bob under his wing, but he wasn’t real receptive.He thought he knew everything. He told me on his first day he wasgoing to be running the place within five years. Leiand had himpegged. He said we’d have to take him down a rung or two.”

“Was Bob married?”

“Yes. His first, to his high-school sweetheart, Sue, who was pregnantwith his first son, Robert III. The marriage lasted only a year ortwo. By the time the baby was born, they were already separated. Sheleft him and went back to Wilkes-Barre. There was a rumor that sheended up in an institution.”

If working with Bob was hard, I can only imagine what it must have beenlike living with him.

“Did the divorce have any effect on him?” I ask.

“Not really. He used to say he was going to sleep with every unmarriedwoman in the Bay Area. There was no such thing as AIDS back then.”

It seems he was developing a pattern of behavior he continued for therest of his life.

“Things weren’t going so well for him at the firm,” she continues.

“To be honest, he was lazy. His career limped along for a few years.At one point, they were going to ask him to leave. Then he marriedElizabeth Sutro, whose father was the presiding judge of the SanFrancisco Superior Court.

He started getting introductions into someof the city’s tonier circles. Leiand decided it might be a good ideato keep him around.”

“I guess you don’t want to piss off the presiding judge.”

“Something like that, Mike.”

I find it difficult to picture Bob Holmes in black tie at socialfunctions in Pacific Heights.

She looks at my plant.

“Then Bob got involved with Leiand’s biggest client, Vincent Russo Sr.He was a doctor from Hillsborough who made a lot of money and investedit in real estate. Eventually, he gave up his medical practicealtogether to manage his investments fulltime. According to Leiand,Vince senior predicted every trend in the real-estate business fortwenty years. He practically invented the real-estate syndicationbusiness. He made a fortune.”

“Which his son pissed away,” I reply. She knows more about Russo’sbusiness than I thought.

“Something like that,” she replies.

“So how did Bob get involved with Vince senior?”

She chuckles.

“Right place at the right time. Vince senior had two inhouse lawyers.Ron Dawson was a decent attorney, but not the brightest star in thegalaxy. Joan Russell was really smart and an absolute workhorse. Whenshe got pregnant, she took six months off. Dawson was overwhelmed, soVince senior asked Leiand if he could borrow an attorney until she gotback.”

“So Leiand lent him Bob?”

“That’s right. Leiand was happy to get Bob out of his hair. Insteadof staying for six months, he stayed for three years. He spent histime sucking up to Russo and Dawson. They loved him.”

She explains that shortly after Bob returned to the firm, Leiand had aheart attack and died. Bob was the only attorney at the firm who hadextensive contact with Russo and Dawson.

“Sounds like he had pretty good leverage,” I say.

She fingers the small gold chain that holds her glasses.

“I’ll never forget Leiand’s funeral. Bob pulled me aside and said hehad the firm by the ‘short hairs.”

” She makes little quotation marks in the air with her hands.

“He told me he’d take care of me if I stuck with him. I thought it wasdisgusting.” She scowls.

“Anyway, he went out and got a couple of offers from other firms. Hetold Art if they didn’t make him a partner, he’d take Russo’s businesswith him to Pettit and Martin. So they rolled over. Made him apartner two years early. Gave him a big office and his ownsecretary—me.

And pretty much everything else he asked for.”

“The monster was born.”

“Something like that.”

It’s noon and we have adjourned to the Chinese restaurant. I munch aspring roll. Doris chews a pot sticker

“What happened with Bob and the former Elizabeth Sutro?” I ask.

“Their marriage lasted almost five years. He seemed happy. She waspretty and she had lots of money. They had three kids and bought a bighouse on Broadway.

Servants and everything. The firm was paying him a fortune. They puthim on X-Com.”

“So he really was running the firm by the time he was thirty-five.”

“Yes. But in the early years, he was much more businesslike. Heinstituted financial controls. We opened the overseas offices. Thenhe started to get on everybody’s nerves. The old-timers resented himbecause he kept insisting they bring in more business. The youngerpartners resented him, too, because they thought he manipulated thecompensation system. Every year, he demanded more money. Every year,they gave in to him. He targeted partners he didn’t like.

Cut their points. Some got fired.”

I’m vaguely familiar with that scenario.

She sips her tea.

“Things got nasty during his second divorce,” she says.

“He actually swore off sex for a short period. It was supposed to be ayear, but it only lasted about a week.” She arches her eyebrows.

“Then he found another girlfriend.”

Wife number three was Elizabeth Jorgensen, the weekend anchor onChannel 4.

Around the firm, she was known as Elizabeth II. A year later, shedumped Bob and ran off with the weekend weatherman.

It’s almost one. The waiter brings us fortune cookies. We’re up towife number four, Elizabeth Ryan, or Elizabeth III, a tenaciouslitigator with the Anderson firm. She’s always been polite to me, butI wouldn’t mess with her.

“You know Beth used to be married to Art Patton,” Doris says.

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Art was not happy when she married Bob.”

I’ll bet.

“Is that when Art began his search for the perfect trophy wife?”

She doesn’t dignify the question with an answer.

“Bob and Beth were married five years ago,” she says.

“They had three kids. Of course, he was sleeping around the entiretime.”

Bob was a busy guy. Give him points for being consistent. Sort oflike a dog in perpetual heat, without the charm.

“About two years ago,” she says, “Beth told him she’d had enough. Shesaid she’d divorce him and take every penny.” She asks the waiter forwater.

“He was good for about six months.”

A new record.

“Then he met Diana. He was infatuated with her.”

After almost three hours, we’ve finally made it to the good stuff.

“Mike,” she says quietly, “am I going to have to testify at thetrial?”

Damn right you’re going to have to testify—if your testimony helpsus.

“I hope not. If it helps Joel, we may have no other choice. I’ll tryto keep you out of it if I can, but it may be tough.”

She gives me a knowing look.

“I figured you’d say that,” she says.

“I know you and Bob were close. But I’m running out of time and I’mrunning out of leads. I need you to tell me what you know. I promiseto do my best to keep your part in this as small as I can.”

“Okay, Mikey.” She takes a deep breath.

“Bob and Diana had a torrid affair. He sent her flowers. They met athotels during the day. They used to sneak off on business trips.”

I keep my eyes on her.

“How long was this going on?”

“From the time she started until the beginning of this past December.They were at it for a little over a year. That’s when Beth found out.Actually, it’s a miracle she didn’t figure it out sooner. Everyone atthe firm knew about it.”

Everyone but me, of course.

“I think she put a private eye on his tail. He caught Bob and Diana inbed.

Beth told him she was going to file for divorce. I was there the nightshe confronted him. He begged her for one last chance. He broke itoff with Diana.”

“And?”

“Obviously, the reconciliation was unsuccessful.”

Duh, Mike. She did, in fact, serve him with divorce papers. I ask thewaiter for the check.

“Doris,” I say, “did you know Diana was pregnant?”

Her eyes dart away.

“Yes, I knew.”

“Do you have any idea who the father might be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Doris,” I say slowly, “do you think it could have been Joel?”

“Come on, Mike. You know Joel. Not a chance.”

At two o’clock, we’re back in my office. Doris doesn’t seem to begetting tired.

“What was young Vince Russo like?” I ask.

Her expression turns to genuine disgust.

“A pig. A sexist. A self-centered jerk.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Doris. Tell me how you really feel.”

She doesn’t smile.

“He was a wild animal. He treated everyone like dirt. He cheated onhis wives. He cheated his business partners. He’s lucky he didn’t endup in jail.”

“Was he friends with Bob?”

“In a manner of speaking. Bob pretended to be friends with any clientwho paid him a lot of money. Bob hated his guts, but Vince didn’t knowit.”

“Did they socialize?”

“Well,” she says, “they went on business trips together to the FarEast. If chasing thirteen-year-old virgin barmaids in Thailand fallswithin your definition of socializing, the answer to your question isyes.”

“Do you think he may still be alive?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

I decide it may be time to change the subject.

“Do you know anything about Bob’s will?”

She nods uneasily.

“I typed it. I’d rather not talk about it. It’s private.”

“I understand. But it’s going to become a matter of public record. Itwill save me a lot of time if you can tell me a little bit about it.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Do you know who the beneficiaries are?”

She pauses. After more than twenty years of guarding Bob’s secrets,she’s uncomfortable revealing the terms of his most personaldocument.

“A third to Beth, a third to the kids and a third to charity.”

Sounds pretty straightforward.

“Do you know if Bob was going to change his will?”

She studies me.

“Maybe. He asked me to print out a copy of his will the day before hedied.

If he did make any changes, he didn’t ask me to do it.”

“Did he have a lot of money?”

“I would think so, but I don’t know for sure. He kept his financesprivate.”

No big surprise.

“Do you know which charities were named in the will?”

“Actually, it’s a charity down in the Bahamas called the InternationalCharitable Trust. He donated a lot of money to it over the

years.”

That name keeps popping up.

“Do you know what the International Charitable Trust does?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know how we can get in touch with them?”

“There’s a banker in the Bahamas named Trevor Smith who handleseverything.

I’ll get you his phone number.”

I decide it’s time to play a hunch. Finding out the story behind theInternational Charitable Trust is going to the top of Pete’s prioritylist.

CHAPTER 23

THE GRIEVING WIDOW

“My husband would have been touched by the great outpouring of lovewhen he died.”

—elizabeth holmes. interview ON news center 4. tuesday, february17.

“I’m terribly sorry about what happened, Beth. I know there isn’t muchI can say to change things.” The next morning, I’m sitting in theVersailles-like living room of the Presidio Terrace mansion BethHolmes shared with Bob.

Although three and a half million bucks doesn’t buy as much as it usedto in San Francisco, Presidio Terrace is about as tony as it gets. Theturn-of-the-century homes are occupied by a U.S. senator and herinvestment-banker husband, several Fortune 500 CEOs and a smattering ofSan Francisco aristocracy.

“Thanks,” she says unenthusiastically, as she lights a cigarette.

“You don’t have to lay it on too thick. Everybody knows I served himwith divorce papers that night.”

It’s nice to see she’s not overwrought with grief.

She’s early forties, with unnaturally bleached-blond hair, leatheryskin from the tanning machine, a slightly altered nose, several minorenhancements to her hips and, if I’m guessing right, breasts. If allof her bodily adjustments slip at the same time, she’ll probably looklike a rubber band being shot across the room. On the other hand,she’s a helluva commercial litigator. She reminds me of herex-husband, Arthur Patton, without the charm or the chins.

“I know this may be difficult,” I say, “but I was hoping you might beable to help us sort out what happened that night.”

She smiles knowingly.

“I find Skipper’s version of the story a lot more convincing thanyours.”

At least we’re starting on an even keel.

“I understand you were at Bob’s office that night.”

“Yes, I was. I wanted to be there when the divorce papers were served.After all the shit he put me through, I wanted to see the look on hisface.”

“Couldn’t you have waited until after the closing?”

She gives me a look of genuine disdain.

“You don’t get it. I wanted to deliver the divorce papers in themiddle of his fucking closing, while all his buddies were around.Especially that pimp, Vince Russo, and the little tramp, Diana.

Sweet little Princess Diana.” She mutters something under her breaththat sounds like the word “cunt.”

I take a sip of the iced tea from the crystal glass provided by hermaid.

“I

realize it’s none of my business, but you know I’ve got to ask.

Whathappened between you and Bob?”

She takes a long drag on her cigarette.

“The same thing that happened with you and Rosie.”

I think she may have intended that as a cheap shot.

“Was he seeing another woman?”

“For God’s sake, Mike, of course. Everybody knew about it. He wasshtupping Diana for at least a year. When I found out about it at thebeginning of December, I threw him out. He promised he’d make it up tome. Then he hopped right back in the sack again.”

“With Diana?”

“Yeah. And with anybody else without a penis. If you think we’ve hada horny president, you should have seen Bob.”

“Why didn’t you file divorce papers at the beginning of December?”

“I gave him one last chance. He behaved for a week. Then my PI caughthim with another woman. I threw his ass out for good.” She stubs outher cigarette forcefully in the crystal ashtray.

“Do you know if he was still seeing Diana at the end of December?”

She lights another cigarette.

“Don’t know for sure. He was like a fucking rabbit.”

“Do you know if he was seeing any other women?”

“I don’t know that, either. My P I definitely saw him with littleDiana in the beginning of December. And my P I saw him with somebodyelse after that.

We couldn’t ID her. It may have been Diana. Maybe ahooker, if my guess is right.

He saw them at the Fairmont.”

“Would you mind if I talked to your PI?”

“No problem.” She turns to a servant who is standing by the door andspeaks to her in Spanish. The servant leaves the room for a moment,then reappears and hands me a business card. It says Nick Hanson,Private Investigator. I recognize the name. I put the card in mypocket.

Maybe it’s time to change the subject.

“We got a copy of Bob’s will.” A small lie. Actually, all I knowabout the will is what Doris told me.

“It seems you may inherit quite a bit of money from him.”

“That’s true. It doesn’t make up for all the crap, but it’s not a badconsolation prize.” Interesting choice of words. She plays nervouslywith her hair.

“Charles Stern is handling everything. He may be as dull as a parkingmeter, but he’s good. A third of the estate goes to me, a third goesto the kids and the rest goes to some charity in the Bahamas. It’sgoing to take a while to sort it out.”

“Do you happen to know the name of the charity?”

“It’s called the International Charitable Trust.”

Hello again.

“Do you know anything about it?”

“Nope. Charles might be able to tell you something. Bob gave them alot of money.”

“Did it occur to you that if you split up, he might write you out ofhis will?”

“Yes.”

“And you realize, of course, that his untimely death means your claimto one-third of the estate remains in place.”

She stares daggers at me.

“Of course.” She pushes the phony blond bangs from her eyes.

“I don’t like the implication. I don’t need the money. We can liveperfectly well on my draw.”

It’s true, I’m sure. She must pull down at least four hundred fiftythou a year.

Nice piece of change for a woman who’s been describedfrom time to time as trailer-park trash from Texas. She may lack acertain amount of finesse, but she’s made it on her own in the bigboys’ world. I decide to try

something else.

“Was there any life insurance?”

“It’s none of your business. But the answer is yes. There’s amillion-dollar policy for each of his kids and a five-million-dollarpolicy for me.”

At least I know where the money’s going. Of course, I’d assume thebeneficiary on the five-million-dollar policy would have been changedafter the divorce. And she may get nothing if Bob committed suicide.Lifeinsurance policies contain a clause that says the beneficiarywon’t be paid if the named insured commits suicide within a couple ofyears after the policy is issued.

“Do you know much about Russo?”

“He’s an asshole. And a crook.”

“I think we can all agree on that. We’re still trying to find out whathappened to him. Some people think he and Bob may have had someinvestments together.”

She gives me a condescending look.

“Whatever Bob did with Russo was between the two of them. Bob nevertalked about it with me. And frankly, I didn’t want to know. As faras I’m concerned, they were just two horny bastards chasing underagegirls in Southeast Asia.”

“They really used to do that?”

She nods.

Not much left for discussion there.

“Do you still see some people from the firm?”

“Charles Stern has been helpful. Art’s been very supportive. It’snice when your ex still cares.”

In many ways.

“Do you think Bob was so distraught about the divorce that he decidedto kill himself?” I decide I’d better see where she’s coming from incase Skipper puts her on the stand.

She tugs at her cigarette and cackles loudly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mike. He was a few hours from athree-million-dollar bonus. That’s all he ever cared about. He’dchanged wives more times than most people change socks.” She throwsher head back and laughs again.

“No, he wasn’t distraught about the divorce.

Hell, he was probably looking forward to it.”

I’m sorry I asked.

“So the answer to your question,” she continues, “is no. He wasn’t theleast bit upset about the divorce or the deal with Russo or anythingelse. The only thing he was upset about was that his little floozy,Diana, wasn’t sleeping with him anymore. He wouldn’t have killedhimself for it. Not a chance. Not with a threemillion-dollar checkwaiting for him.”

She blows a smoke ring toward me.

“You don’t have to take my word for it. You can talk to his shrink.She’s that nutcase up in Marin County with her own radio show. Dr.Kathy Chandler.

Give her a call. If you can’t get her office, try heron the radio.”

“Mrs. Fink,” I say, “I know this is difficult, and I appreciate yourtaking the time to see me.” Diana’s mother, Ruth Fink, lives byherself in a dark bungalow at Twenty-second and Clement, about a milefrom Joel’s house.

She’s a heavyset woman in her late fifties withgray hair and lifeless eyes.

The kitchen cabinets are at least sixtyyears old and look as though they haven’t seen a paintbrush in the lastforty. There are two pictures of Diana in the living room. Unlesssomeone told you it was the same person, you’d never know. The womanin the first picture weighs at least 250 pounds and has brown hair anda long, crooked nose. The woman in the second picture is the trim,blond, sexy Diana that I knew. Joel was right. It was a rebirth.

“It’s been very difficult,” she says.

“My husband died when Debbie was in her teens.”

I’d forgotten that Diana was Debbie until her first year of lawschool.

“We managed to get by,” she continues, “on my salary at the JCC and afew odd jobs that I picked up. We were lucky. We had enough lifeinsurance to take care of most of the basics.”

“Did Mr. Fink die young?”

Her eyes turn sad.

“He had a heart attack when he was in his late thirties.”

“Were you and Debbie close?”

“Yes, until she went to law school at UCLA. She got in with adifferent crowd.

She changed.” She glances across the room at Diana’s picture.

“She became less attentive to her studies. She stopped coming home atthe holidays. She became fixated on herself. And making money.” Shetakes a sip of water.

“Then she got married to that boy Billy. He was her instructor at thehealth club. I knew from the start it wouldn’t work out. She barelyknew him.” She

shakes her head.

“In some respects, I blame myself. I tried to stop her. I’m sure itonly pushed her toward him. The marriage lasted less than a year.”

For a brief moment I think about Grace and wonder how I’ll react whenshe brings home her first boyfriend. The kid better have an impressiveresume.

“Mr. Daley,” she says defensively, “I just wanted what was best for mydaughter. I wanted her to go to good schools and to get a goodeducation.

Is that so terrible?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Fink,” I say.

“That’s what we all want for our kids.”

“Toward the end, I hardly knew her. She started dating married men.”

“Mrs. Fink,” I say gently, “it doesn’t always work out just the wayyou hope.

Did she ever mention Joel Friedman?”

She closes her eyes at the mention of Joel’s name.

“Yes, Mr. Daley. She was very fond of Joel. He was a very popularboy in the neighborhood. I’ve known Joel and his father for years. Ialways thought Joel was a good boy. Now, I’m not so sure.”

I figure it’s best not to push this line of questioning too far.

“Did Debbie have many friends?”

“Not really. She kept in contact with some of her friends from lawschool.

The only people she ever mentioned from the office were BobHolmes and Joel.”

I’m beginning to thank her for her time when she interrupts me.

“You know, Mr.

Daley,” she says, “there’s one other thing you should be aware of. Shehad resigned from the Simpson firm. She’d accepted a job with a firmin San Diego.”

“Why was she leaving?” I ask.

“She wanted a fresh start. She was pregnant, you know.”

“I know.” I look out the small window for a moment.

“Why San Diego?”

“My sister lives there. I was planning to move down there myself. Ithought it might be a good time for a fresh start for all of us. Thishouse has a lot of memories.”

“I see.” Joel didn’t mention that Diana was moving.

“Mrs. Fink,” I say, “I know this question is going to soundindiscreet.”

She stops me.

“I know what you’re going to ask, Mr. Daley. The answer, I’m afraid,is I don’t know who the father is.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Fink. You’ve been extraordinarilyhelpful.”

CHAPTER 24

I’D NEVER ASK YOU TO VIOLATE ANY CONFIDENCES, CHARLES

“The only things in life that are certain are death, taxes and the needfor tax lawyers.”

—charles stern. continuing LEGAL EDUCATION SEMINAR.

The next morning I’m at the S AND G office on a fishing expedition.Charles Stern has promised to give me copies of the firm’s keyman lifeinsurance policies. He’s trying to appear cooperative. I couldsubpoena the firm’s records. He knows it. It’s a shot in the dark.

Iknow S AND G carried a life insurance policy on Bob. I’m trying toconfirm how big the policy is. More importantly, it’s a pretext for meto see if I can find out anything else about his will and finances.

I’m surprised he’s agreed to see me. And I’m really surprised he’sagreed to see me alone. Seems like every time I show up at S AND G,I’m greeted by the entire executive committee. I accept his offer ofcoffee. He buzzes his secretary and a cappuccino magically appears.There’s something to be said for bigfirm amenities.

His functional office on the forty-sixth floor has S AND G’sstandard-issue executive furniture: large, industrial-strength rosewooddesk, matching credenza, two guest chairs and a bookcase. Most of thepower partners have fancy custom-built furniture that they pay forthemselves. Not Charles. He’s too cheap for anything other than basicinventory. There’s a small gray sofa next to the door, which hepilfered when one of my partners was fired a few years ago. The onlypicture on the wall is a New Yorker cartoon of an accountant hoveringover a tax return. An antique adding machine sits on a small tablebeneath the cartoon. He once told me his father is the oldest livingperson still licensed to practice accounting in the state of New York.The bookcase holds about a dozen black loose-leaf volumes. The goldlettering on the spine proclaims they’re called the CCH

StandardFederal Tax Reporter.

His desk is immaculate. Not a scrap of paper. Not a speck of dust.I’ve always admired people who have a clean office. I don’t know howanybody can possibly work that way. A state-of-the-art laptop sits ona small table next to his desk.

It isn’t turned on. It’s a trophy. It shows he got the firm to buyhim the computer. He isn’t expected to use it.

He drinks coffee from a mug that bears the S&G logo. He’s wearing hisgray suit jacket. He straightens his tie and looks at meuncomfortably.

“What can I do for you?” he asks. I wonder if he’s forgotten hisoffer.

“I was hoping you had a chance to put together the copies of the firm’sinsurance policies.”

He’s relieved.

“Yes,” he replies. He buzzes his secretary and asks her to bring in afile marked “Insurance Policies.” Charlotte Rogers is a middle-agedblack woman who’s been with Charles for about fifteen years. She’s thelucky soul who gets to type all of his memos on billing procedures.She’s reasonably pleasant about it. She appears with a large filefolder almost as soon as he hangs up.

“Our malpractice policy is in there,” he says.

“I haven’t the slightest idea why you’d want to look at it. I put in asummary of our medical policy. If you want the policy itself, I’ll getyou a copy.”

I couldn’t care less about the malpractice and medical policies.

“Were you able to track down any life insurance policies?”

He nods.

“There’s a key-man life insurance policy on every partner. I’veenclosed a summary of the policy terms. If you’d like the details, youcan talk to our insurance agent.”

“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.” I’ll see what I can get out ofthe insurance agent later.

“How much life insurance do you carry on the partners?”

This is, of course, something I should already know. I’m sure it wasin a memo Charles sent out to the partners sometime in the last decadeor so.

“It depends,” he replies.

“On what?”

“On how valuable the partner’s practice is to the firm.”

“I see.” This means they probably had a milliondollar policy on Boband a fivethousand-dollar policy on me.

“How big a policy did you carry on me?”

I get the hint of a grin. The crow’s-feet around his eyes crinkle.

“The minimum. Twenty-five thousand.”

More than I thought.

“And the policy on Bob?”

“I think it was about two and a half million dollars.”

Not bad. Bob was worth only a hundred times more than I was. I’m sureBob would have said he was worth more.

“Do you have any other policies on the partners?”

“No. We’re just starting the process of changing carriers. BrentHutchinson is in charge of insurance issues,” Perfect. S&G’s bestbullshitter gets to spend his free time schmoozing with insurancesalesmen. I wonder if some sort of harmonic convergence occurs whenthat much bullshit is jammed into one room.

“Maybe I should talk to Hutch,” I say.

“I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much,” he replies.

“He was just getting started.”

If past history is any indication, Hutch hasn’t started at all. I haveno doubt he won’t be able to tell me much about anything.

“I was hoping you might be able to help us figure out Bob’s will.”

He looks at his watch.

“I’ll do what I can.” He hits the do-not-disturb button on his phone.He probably wishes he’d had a similar button installed on his brain.

“I can’t say much,” he says.

“Attorney-client privilege, you know. And I’ve got a meeting.”

So many meetings. So little time. I glance at the picture of theaccountant.

The resemblance is striking.

“I understand. I’d never ask you to violate any confidences, Charles.”The game begins. A small grin. For a moment, I think I can see a hintof color in his cheeks.

“I understand you’re the executor of Bob’s will.”

He studies his antique adding machine.

“I am,” he replies.

“It’ll become a matter of public record as soon as it’s submitted tothe probate court. We’ve notified the beneficiaries.”

I’m watching him closely. He’s being a little too forthcoming. Thisprobably means there’s nothing much of any consequence in the will.

“I appreciate your honesty, Charles. It’s a lot easier to do thisinformally. I was afraid Art was going to make me get a subpoena justto talk to you.”

“He was just being careful. I’d rather tell you what I can. There’sno point in turning this into something contentious.”

Now I’m sure there’s nothing important in the will.

“I appreciate that, Charles.”

“Besides,” he says, “I like to help out my partners whenever I can.” Ihadn’t noticed this generous side of his personality when he and theother partners voted to fire me.

“I understand his estate’s divided into three parts. A third goes toBeth, a third goes to the kids and a third goes to some charity inBermuda.” I’m trying to set him up. I know the InternationalCharitable Trust is set up in the Bahamas. I want to see if he’llcorrect me. And if he’ll talk about it.

“Actually,” he says, “the charity is in the Bahamas.” I pretend tomake a note on my legal pad.

“The Bahamas,” I say slowly.

“What’s the name of the charity?”

“What difference does it make?” he says, a little too defensively.

“Probably none,” I lie.

“I’m just trying to complete my file.” He scowls.

“It’s called the International Charitable Trust,” he says. I continuewriting.

“Does it benefit underprivileged kids or something?” I askinnocently.

“Something like that. I’m not really sure.” He’s a lousy liar.

“Is it managed in the Bahamas?”

“Oh yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who manages it, would you? I’m sure wecould look it up, but it’ll save me some time if you know. I’ll betthere’s a registry of charitable trusts.”

He looks uncomfortable.

“I really don’t know very much about it.” I take it back. He’s notjust a lousy liar. He’s a really shitty liar.

“Actually,” I say, trying to sound offhand, “it’s probably notimportant. I’m sure the money goes to widows and orphans.” I shufflemy papers and look at a blank sheet on my legal pad.

“My investigator got a little information. Says here the trustee isFirst Bank Bahamas. A guy named Trevor Smith. I’ll give him acall.”

His face returns to its customary pasty color.

“I know Smith,” he says.

“I’ve worked with him on some matters. I’d be happy to give him acall. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I don’t want to impose on you. I know you’re busy. I’ll call him.”His eyes

always give him away.

“It’s no problem—really,” he says.

“Let me save you the trouble. He’s a banker in the Bahamas who workswith a number of our foreign clients. I’m sure he won’t tell youanything more than what I’m about to tell you now.”

How magnanimous. Obviously, Mr. Smith has never been subject to mypersuasive powers.

“Bob checked it out,” he says.

“I’m sure everything is completely legal and aboveboard.”

I’m convinced. I decide to let him squirm.

“Does First Bank get a fee for acting as the trustee?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Probably none. I’m just curious.”

“I think they get a fee.”

He’s digging himself in deeper.

“A large fee?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably based on the amount of assets in thetrust.”

“I see.” I watch his eyes.

“And do you know how much that fee might have been last year?”

His eyes dart toward the adding machine again.

“I really wouldn’t be able to venture a guess.”

He’s a really really shitty liar.

“Are you involved in the administration of the trust?”

He squirms.

“Technically, I hold the title of trust protector. It means I’m theadministrative agent. It’s just a formality. All the management is inthe Bahamas. Bob asked me to act as trust protector in case theyneeded a signature in a hurry.”

“Does S and G get a fee for the time you spend assisting with theadministration of the trust?”

He tugs at his tie and sips his coffee. It must be cold by now.

“No, it doesn’t.”

I’ve been watching too many Columbo reruns late at night.

“If you’re the administrative agent, how come S and G doesn’t get afee?”

S&G doesn’t do a lot of pro bono work.

“Actually,” he says, as he shifts in his chair, “I’m paid a modest feefor my efforts.”

“You mean the firm gets a fee, right?”

“No. I get the fee.”

“I don’t understand. If you’re doing this trust administration onbehalf of the firm, why doesn’t the firm get the fee?”

He takes a gold pen from his drawer and begins to play with it.

“I do trust administration on my own time, and not on behalf of thefirm. It’s a liability issue.”

“A liability issue?”

“Yes. This is a law firm. The services I provide to the trust fallinto the category of fiduciary activities, which our malpractice policydoesn’t cover.

We notified our malpractice carrier when I was firstasked to serve as trust protector. They wouldn’t let me do it unless Iagreed to do so in my individual capacity, and not in my capacity as anattorney in the firm.”

Sounds like our malpractice carrier wants to insure just the right sideof his brain, but not the left.

“So you did this at the insistence of our malpractice carrier?”

“I had no other choice.” Then he adds, “I had to sign an agreementstating that I would indemnify the firm for any losses it incurs inconnection with the activities of the trust.” He gives me a “so there”look.

“You must collect a fairly substantial fee for this work—especially ifyou have to carry your own insurance and bear the risk of indemnifyingthe firm for any losses.”

“In reality, my fee is very modest. I did it as a favor to Bob.”

And out of the goodness of your heart.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Charles, about how much was your fee lastyear?”

He tenses.

“That’s none of your business, Mike.”

It’s the answer I expect.

“I understand. What happens to the trust now? Where does the money gonow that Bob’s dead?”

“I believe it’s distributed among various charities in the Bahamas.”

Of course.

“Charles, do you happen to know what those charities are?”

“I don’t recall, Mike.” He smiles nervously.

Very persuasive, Chuckles. You’re the administrator of a trust inwhich you don’t even know who the beneficiaries are. The fog isgetting really thick in here.

“Think you could find out for me?”

“Probably. It may take some time.”

I’ll hear from him the Tuesday after hell freezes over.

“Maybe Trevor Smith can get me a list.”

“I’ll call him for you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I love to watch him squirm.

“Charles,” I say, “you know Beth served Bob with divorce papers

rightbefore everything happened. Was he going to change his will?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies. There’s a tentative note to hisvoice.

“Did you do the estate planning work for Vince Russo?”

He nods.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Would you mind telling me the names of the beneficiaries of hisestate?”

He frowns.

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, Mike. I realize some people thinkVince may have committed suicide. However, until a court declares himlegally dead, his estate does not become a matter of public record. Asa result, I’m not at liberty to discuss his situation with you.”

“I see. You haven’t heard from Vince, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, if you hear from him, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

“I promise.”

I glance out the window.

“Let me ask you one other thing, Charles. How’s the firm doing?”

“Just fine.”

He’d never make it as a trial lawyer.

“I’m sure the tragedy has taken its toll.”

He tries to look solemn.

“It has. We’ve had some difficult times. But nothinginsurmountable.”

I look at the adding machine.

“I saw in the paper you decided to let some people go.”

“Yes we did. It wasn’t easy.”

“Layoffs never are, Charles.”

“They weren’t layoffs. We do reviews this time of year.”

I’m convinced.

“I’ll let you know if I need anything else, Charles. By the way, couldyou ask your secretary to give me the phone number for Trevor Smith?”

“He’s full of it, Mike,” Rosie says. Later the same evening, Rosie,Grace and I are eating at Spanky’s, a burger joint in Fairfax, not farfrom my apartment.

It’s been Grace’s favorite restaurant since she won a free sundae in acoloring contest a couple of years ago.

Rosie’s reaction to my report on my discussion with Charles Stern issuccinct.

“I’ll bet he knows everything there is to know about the

InternationalCharitable Trust,” she says.

“He’s yanking your you-know-what.” Rosie’s vocabulary switches from Rto PC when Grace is around.

Grace’s eyes open wide as she takes a long drink other milkshake. Shewipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “What’s your ‘you-knowwhat,” Daddy?”

I smile.

“Ask your mother.”

Rosie looks at her seriously.

“I’ll explain it later, honey.”

I turn back to Rosie.

“I called Trevor Smith when I got back to the office. He has abeautiful British accent.” I grab a trench fry.

“And he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“And?”

“He’s going to be off the island, as they say, for at least the nextfour weeks.

Meetings in Kuwait.”

“Does he have an assistant who can help us?”

“She’s going to Kuwait, too.”

“What a surprise,” says Rosie.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have Pete check it out. He’s been looking a little tiredlately.

I think he may need a vacation.”

She grins.

“Any place in particular you have in mind?”

“I understand the Bahamas are very nice this time of year.”

“When might he be going?”

“I think he might be able to clear his calendar about four weeks fromnow.”

Rosie’s pleased.

CHAPTER 25

TERMINATED IN THE ORDINARY COURSE OF THE REVIEW

PROCESS…

“We regret the media has characterized our personnel moves as‘layoffs.”

While it is contrary to firm policy to discuss individualsituations, the attorneys who were asked to leave were terminated inthe ordinary course of the review process for performance reasons.”—arthur patton. san francisco legal journal.

thursday, february 19.

Wendy Hogan calls the next morning.

“I suppose you’ve heard by now?” she says.

“Heard what?” I ask.

“Come on, Mike.”

I haven’t a clue.

“What is it?”

“There were layoffs at S and G.” She pauses.

“I got fired.”

“Shit.”

“They told the papers we were canned for performance reasons. It’s allchickenshit. We were laid off because there wasn’t enough work and thefirm is in financial trouble.”

“Everybody knows what’s going on at S and G. Nobody will believe theirbullshit.”

Silence.

“How am I supposed to find another job when they said we were fired?

We’re the lepers of the San Francisco legal community.” She pauses.

“Andy called last night. He said he’s going to go to court tochallenge our custody deal.”

“He’s an asshole. Your attorney should be able to take care of it.”

“My attorney’s on vacation. He won’t be back for two weeks.”

I don’t say anything.

“Mike,” she says, “can you help me with this?”

Except for what I learned when Rosie and I split up, I know nothingabout divorce law.

“I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you come down to my office aroundnoon and we’ll talk.”

What the hell. It’s not like I have to prepare for a murder trial.Besides, I like her.

Wendy and I are eating Chinese takeout in my office at noon. She looksaround.

“Pretty tight space,” she says.

“You get used to it.” I nibble on a pork bun.

“Sounds like I need to find you a good divorce lawyer,” I say.

“I need a job.”

She’s right. It helps to be employed when you’re in a custody fight.Believe

me, I know. When Rosie and I split up, I got the bright ideathat I was better suited to have custody of Grace. Bad idea. It ledto the nastiest fight in my life. Ultimately, at the suggestion ofRosie’s mom and mine, I came to my senses and gave in. Then thingsstarted to get better.

Wendy’s ex-husband may be a horse’s ass. At the moment, however, he’san employed horse’s ass.

“You’re good at what you do. You’ll find something.”

“It’s not that easy. I don’t have my own clients. Firms aren’t hiringtax lawyers.” She takes a deep breath.

“Could you use some help? Maybe I could work on Joel’s case.”

I lean back in my chair. I’m buying time. How do I say this?

“We do criminal law around here. You know—we represent crooks.”

She twirls her hair with her finger.

“And most of my clients are in the real estate business. They’recrooks, too.

Except for the fact that what they do is technicallylegal.”

Touche.

“I’d like to help you. But what I really could use is anotherexperienced criminal defense attorney. Preferably one without MortGoldberg’s ego. It isn’t that you aren’t good at what you do. It’sjust that what you do isn’t what we do. You wouldn’t hire me to doan

IPO.”

“I can do research. I can interview witnesses.”

I frown. This isn’t a good idea. I can’t afford another attorney.

“I’m in a tight spot,” she says.

“Maybe there’s something else I can bring to the table. I’ve done taxplanning for Bob and Vince. Maybe I can help you with theinvestigation.”

This is intriguing. But it also presents a potential problem.

“How much tax planning?”

“A lot.”

I pause.

“Slow down. For one thing, the judge won’t let you testify if you workfor me. It confuses the jury.”

“I know. I used to work for a superior court judge.”

“I remember. There’s another thing. The stuff you know is probablyprotected by the attorney-client privilege.”

“Most of what I know is already a matter of public record. Besides,Bob is

already dead. In all likelihood, so is Vince.” She takes offher glasses.

“The privilege died with them. Who’s going to complain? Theirghosts?”

Technically, that may not be entirely correct. Just because you diedoesn’t mean your lawyers can tell the world all your deep, darksecrets.

“What about the beneficiaries under their wills?”

“What about them? The beneficiaries under Bob’s will have already beennotified. Nobody’s going to complain. They’ll notify thebeneficiaries under Vince’s will as soon as he’s declared legally dead,if that happens.

Like I said, who’s going to complain?”

Without getting into the finer points of the potential claims of theirrespective heirs, I have to admit she may have a point.

“I won’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out yourself from publicrecords,” she says.

“And you don’t have to hire me directly. I could start my own firm andyou could retain me as special counsel. My name wouldn’t appear on thepleadings. I won’t appear in court unless I’m called as a witness.What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing I can think of, I suppose.”

She smiles.

“You see, we’re making progress. As Bob Holmes used to say, goodlawyers provide practical solutions to real-world problems.”

Right. I’ve been in practice for a month and a half and I have a real-world problem—another mouth to feed, even if her name doesn’t appearon my letterhead.

“I can’t afford to pay you much.”

“I understand. At least I can tell a judge with a straight face I’mbuilding my practice.”

“All right. The law offices of Wendy Hogan are hereby retained asspecial counsel. Don’t even think about asking for a retainer. Youcan help Pete with the investigation.”

“Anything you say.” She’s pleased.

“Thanks, Mike.”

I finish my moo shu pork.

“Let me ask you something. Do you know anything about an entity inthe Bahamas called the International Charitable Trust?”

She grins.

“What would you like to know? I did the legal work to set it up.”

Bingo.

Wendy opens a fortune cookie.

“The International Charitable Trust,” she begins, “is something of amisnomer. For one thing, it isn’t really international. It was formedin the Bahamas by one guy—Bob Holmes. For another thing, it isn’t theleast bit charitable. Unless, of course, your favorite charity happensto be Bob Holmes. It’s a tax dodge. I set up a similar trust in theBahamas for Vince Russo called the Charitable Trust for Humanity. Itisn’t charitable, either.”

I read my own fortune cookie. It says, “You are about to embark on agreat romance.” Even the fortune cookies know I’m hard up.

“You aren’t violating anybody’s attorney-client privilege here, areyou?”

“What if I was?”

“Nothing. Just asking.”

Her eyes sparkle.

“Everything I’m about to tell you is a matter of public record. Ofcourse, the public records in the Bahamas are a little trickier totrack down.”

I grin back.

“So what were these two trusts all about?”

“They were set up so Bob and Vince would each have a place to park somemoney outside of the U.S. in a hard-to-find, safe, tax-free place.”She’s getting excited.

“Bob and Vince hated two things more than anything else in theirlives: taxes and alimony. And when you made as much money as they did, andwhen you got divorced as many times as they did, you paid a lot oftaxes and alimony.”

I can picture Bob and Vince swapping stories about who paid more totheir respective ex-wives. Wendy explains that they wanted to find aplace to stash as much money as they could in a tax-free jurisdictionwhere it would be hard for their ex-wives to find. The Bahamas hadeverything they needed.

Perfect weather. Established financialsystem. Excellent bank-secrecy laws.

So Bob and Vince each formed atrust. First Bank Bahamas was the trustee.

Trevor Smith handled allthe arrangements. It’s a standard tax scam. She says Smith is verysmooth.

I take a gulp of water.

“Actually, I spoke with him yesterday,” I say.

“You’re right. He’s very polished.”

“And very slippery. Trying to get a straight answer from him is liketrying to

hold a gallon of water in your bare hands. They did alltheir investing through the trusts.”

I’m pleased. She may be telling me a little more than what I wouldhave been able to find out from the public records in the Bahamas.

“Who dreamed this up?”

“Who do you think?”

“You?”

“I had a little help from Chuckles.”

It fits.

“So it’s Chuckles who set up this elaborate charade.”

She says in a businesslike tone, “It’s all perfectly legal, Mike.”

“So it is.” In this case, the word “legal” is spelled SLEAZY.

She confirms that Chuckles holds the title of trust protector, andFirst Bank is the trustee.

“First Bank won’t do anything without instructions from Chuckles,”

shesays.

“He gets a fee for his trouble. He got permission from X-Com to managethe offshore trusts on his own time. The firm decided it didn’t wantto have the fiduciary liability for managing somebody else’s money.”

“How big is his fee?”

“I bet he gets at least half a million bucks a year just from Bob’strust.”

Jesus.

“What does he have to do to earn his fee?”

“Not much.”

“What does it take to get money out of one of the trusts?”

“A signature from Chuckles, or, in the case of Bob’s trust, a signaturefrom Bob. Or, in the case of Vince’s trust, a signature from Vince.”

“So Vince could take money out on his own?”

“Sure. All he needs is a fax machine. He’s moved money in and out ofthe trust all the time.”

“So if Russo is alive, he could get money out just by faxinginstructions to First Bank?”

“That’s right. Except, of course, for the fact that Russo appears tobe terminally dead.”

“So it would seem.” Unless he’s still alive.

“Who gets the income from the trusts while Bob and Vince are alive?”

“It’s distributed among a group of people who are called

incomebeneficiaries.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Nope. It’s a secret. The names of the income beneficiaries arelisted in separate, confidential documents. Chuckles never let me seethem.”

“What happens to the trusts when Vince and Bob die?”

“The assets are sold and the proceeds are distributed to a differentgroup of people called the remainder men She pauses.

“Before you ask, I don’t know the names of the remainder men either. Itwas the best-kept secret in the Western Hemisphere.”

That figures.

“What happens to the fees paid to Chuckles when they die?”

“They stop.” She thinks for a moment.

“He can’t prevent the trusts from liquidating. But he can probablyslow down the process for years. If he does, he can collect his feesfor a few more years.”

Chuckles wouldn’t have had any incentive to kill Bob if his deathtriggered the liquidation of his trust.

“Do you know if Bob was planning any changes in his trust?”

“I think so. A few weeks before he died, he asked me to prepare a listof the steps to amend his trust. He didn’t tell me what he had inmind, but I suspect he was considering the possibility of changing theincome beneficiaries and the remainder men

“That would make sense if Beth was an income beneficiary or aremainderman.”

“Could be. He was also talking about changing the deal with Chuckles.He always complained that Chuckles made too much money in adminfees.”

Interesting.

“What about his will? Was Bob making any changes there?”

“I know he talked to Chuckles about it.”

This is showing some promise.

“Did he ever get around to amending his will or his trust?”

“Not that I know of. My guess is he died before anything couldhappen.”

So close. Still, if we can figure out who gets the money from Bob’strust, we may be able to figure out who had motive to kill Bob. Unless,of course, he killed himself.

Later the same afternoon, Joel, Mort, Rosie, Pete and I meet in RabbiFriedman’s dining room. I’ve brought Wendy.

“I’d like to introduce you to the final member of our team,” I say.

“Wendy Hogan is taking a permanent leave of absence from S and G.”

Wendy smiles uncomfortably.

“That’s Mike’s way of saying I’ve been downsized, and I need somethingto help me pay the bills.”

“Welcome to the Dream Team, young lady,” Mort says.

“I’m Mort Goldberg.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s all true,” he replies.

I explain that she isn’t going to be of record on the case and she’snot going to be employed by our firm.

“For now,” I say, “she’ll be a consultant. Just like you, Mort.”

He gives me a sideways look.

“Wendy is familiar with Bob’s will and his investments,” I say.

“I’ve asked her to work with Pete to help figure out how Bob’s moneygets divided up.”

Wendy smiles at Pete.

“Hi,” she says to him.

“I think I may be able to enlighten you about the InternationalCharitable Trust.”

Pete says, “Sounds good to me,” but he’s uncomfortable. He likes towork alone.

“Wendy,” I say, “I have another special task for you. You’re a taxlawyer.

You’re good at money. I want you to figure out everything about thefirm’s finances and Bob’s finances. I have a hunch we’ll find someanswers.

Moreover, you’ll get to see why you’d never want to be apartner at a firm like S and G.”

“I’ll get right on it,” she says.

“Mort, maybe you can help me subpoena some of the firm’s financialrecords?”

Mort beams.

“I’d love to, honey.”

I’m going to have to remind him not to call her “honey.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing with Wendy?” Rosie asks as westand on her back porch the same evening.

“Yeah. She’s real smart.” I pause.

“I’d like to help her out. She’s a good lawyer.”

“She’s a tax lawyer, Mike.” She says it in the condescending tone thattrial lawyers reserve for transactional attorneys.

“I know. But she’s tenacious. I think she’ll help.”

She smiles.

“You like her, don’t you?”

I smile back.

“Is it that obvious?” I’ve had a crush on Wendy for five years.

“Yes.” She adds, “And she’s pretty.”

“That, too.” I drink my beer.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

She shrugs.

“Don’t let it color your judgment. Keep it professional. You’rerunning a law practice, not a counseling center.”

She’s right, of course.

“I wouldn’t have brought her in if I didn’t think she could help us.”

Her eyes glow in the moonlight.

“I’m going to remember you said that. And she’d better keep her handsoff my sex slave.”

CHAPTER 26

HUTCH

“Syc-o-phant noun One who attempts to win favor or advance himself byflattering persons of influence; a servile self-seeker; a toady.”

—world dictionary OF THE english language.

The next morning, I’m back at the S and G offices. Anyone who believessubstance will ultimately triumph over style hasn’t met BrentHutchinson. His entire career is an ongoing charade of teeth, blondhair and good looks. So far, he’s been wildly successful. His officeoverlooking Alcatraz Island and the Marin Headlands is furnished withan antique roll-top desk and two antique chairs. A small oriental ruggraces the middle of his floor. He has his own collection of Currierand Ives lithographs. A picture of his cheerleader wife, Barbi, smilesat him from his spotless desk. Life is good in Hutchworld.

“So, big guy,” he says, “how’s the new firm working out?” To Hutch,everyone is a “big guy.”

“So far, so good. I seem to have stumbled onto a big murder case.”

“I know. Cool.”

Someday, a team of graduate students will do a dissertation on Hutchcalled

“The Mind of the Sycophant.” It will take up many volumes.

“Hutch, I came to ask you for your help.”

“Anything. I always try to help out my friends.”

I wasn’t aware that we were friends.

“I understand from Charles Stern that you’ve been appointed the czar ofthe firm’s insurance policies.”

He throws his head back like Burt Lancaster.

“Insurance czar. I like that.” He laughs too loudly.

“It’s true. I’m the chairman of our risk-management committee. I getto deal with all our insurance issues.” He winks.

“It’s real exciting, Mike.”

I wink back.

“I’ll bet.” The potential exposure for malpractice claims at a firmlike S&G

is hundreds of millions of dollars. Why they’ve put a moronlike Hutch at the head of the professional liability team is beyond mycomprehension.

“I’m trying to sort out all of the life insurance policies on Bob. Idon’t expect to find anything very interesting, but I thought I shouldtalk to you.

Does the firm carry any key-man insurance on thepartners?” It’s the first rule of crossexamination—never ask aquestion unless you know the answer.

“As a matter of fact, we do. You know, there was a memo on this sentout to the partners toward the end of last year.”

“I must have missed it.” Or tossed it.

“Well,” he says, “we carry life insurance on all the partners. On guyslike us, we don’t carry much. I think the minimum’s about twenty-fivethousand. We carry a lot more on the heavy hitters like Bob and Art.”He gives me the Cheshire cat grin.

“How much?” I ask.

“In a couple of cases, over a million bucks.”

“Do you know how much you’re carrying on Bob?”

The grin disappears.

“You know, Mike, now that you don’t work here anymore, I’m really notsupposed to talk about this stuff with you.”

“But I’m still on the line for the firm’s debts that were incurredwhile I was a partner. If you’re going to collect a big piece ofchange on the key man insurance, I have the right to know about it.”I’m amiable when I add, “If you’d prefer, I can come back with asubpoena.” You pretentious little jerk.

His phony smile returns.

“Let’s not get excited. We’re carrying two and a half million dollarson Bob.”

Good. It confirms what Chuckles told me.

“Thanks, Hutch.” That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?

“Charles said you’re looking into changing the firm’s carrier.”

“That’s true. We got some of the first policies in place right beforethe end of the year.”

Really? I got the impression from Charles that Hutch was juststarting the process.

“Did the firm take out any additional life insurance on thepartners?”

“Yes. We were trying to bump up the policy levels for some of the morejunior people. I know I got bumped up from twenty-five thousand to ahalf a million.”

That’s because you’re worth so much.

“Was the policy on Bob bumped up?”

“I don’t recall. I can find out.”

“Actually, Hutch, if you’d give me the name of the insurance agent, Ican give him a call.”

“It’s no problem, Mike. I can find out.” Affability reigns.

“I don’t want to take any more of your valuable time, Hutch. Really,it’s no big deal.”

He concedes.

“His name is Perry Guilford. I’ll have my secretary get you thenumber.”

“Hutch,” I say a few minutes later, “Skipper was kind enough to show mesome of your cinematographic work from the firm retreat last year.”

He’s pleased with himself.

“I thought it turned out pretty well.”

Right.

“You know, there was some pretty inflammatory stuff in there.”

There’s a pause.

“You know how it gets at the retreat.”

“Yes, I do.” It doesn’t mean you have to stick your goddamned camerain everybody’s face.

“Hutch, the judge asked me whether there’s an unedited version of thetape.

You know—without all the music from L.A. Law. Any chance yousaved the original?”

He’s unhappy. He probably thinks I’m trying to compromise his

artisticintegrity.

“I don’t have the original. We used it to make the over dubbedversion. Our methods are pretty rudimentary.”

I’ll say. The special-effects wizards at Industrial Light and Magicwon’t be real worried.

“Did you give Skipper everything you had?”

His eyes get large.

“Yeah.”

“What else was on the tape?”

“Nothing much. I really don’t remember.” He isn’t looking at me.

Bullshit.

“Who else saw the tapes?”

“Chuckles and Art.”

What a surprise.

“Did they tell you to destroy part of the tape?”

“No,” he says.

He’s lying.

“What else was on the tape, Hutch?”

“I don’t remember” “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Now,tell me what was on the tapes.”

No way. He purses his full lips.

“I don’t remember, big guy” Sure.

CHAPTER 27

“If you’d like to speak to Dr. Kathy Chandler, call 1-800-GET-HELP.”

—KTLK TALK RADIO. friday, february 20.

Dr. Kathy Chandler fancies herself the Bay Area’s very own Dr.

FrasierCrane.

Of course, Dr. Frasier Crane has an imaginary degree from Harvard.

Dr.Kathy Chandler, on the other hand, has an honorary doctorate in familycounseling from Southwestern Texas City College and an honorary degreefrom the Great Pacific School of Broadcasting. More importantly, Dr.Frasier Crane only talks to imaginary patients. Dr. Kathy Chandler,unfortunately, talks to real people.

Every weeknight from seven until ten, she dispenses bubblegumpsychology on the live one, KTLK Talk Radio.

I must confess that her show is mildly entertaining. I listen to itsometimes on my way home from work. I think I’ll appreciate it more ifand when I get

the lobotomy I keep promising myself.

Like many radio talk-show hosts, she’s always known as Dr.

KathyChandler.

She’s never simply Dr. Chandler—or, God forbid. Dr. Kathy. And shealways refers to herself on the air in the third person, kind of likeballplayers and politicians do.

“Dr. Kathy Chandler says to break up with your boyfriend,” or “Dr.Kathy Chandler says your husband’s no good,” or “Dr. Kathy Chandlersays your sex life could be a lot better.” Makes you want to puke.

At three-thirty the same afternoon, I make the pilgrimage across theGolden Gate Bridge to the picture-postcard town of Mill Valley, whereDr. Kathy Chandler maintains her office in a turn-of-the-centurybuilding across the town square from the old train depot, which haslong since been turned into a trendy bookstore and cafe. When I calledto make an appointment, Dr.

Kathy Chandler’s receptionist told me shewasn’t taking new patients. When I explained I was a lawyerrepresenting Joel Friedman, I was put on hold for only a moment beforethe sickly-sweet voice of Dr. Kathy Chandler found its way onto thephone and promised me an appointment. Ah, the smell of freepublicity.

Dr. Kathy Chandler’s second-floor office is decorated in earth tones,with gray-beige furniture, light-wood end tables and two large ferns.Her receptionist looks as if she’s been through at least a dozentwelve-step programs. There are self-help magazines on the end tablesand a large poster of Dr. Kathy Chandler on the wall, along with theKTLK radio logo. As I stare at it, I realize it’s the same poster thatappears on the side of Muni buses in the city. Dr. Kathy Chandler’soffice is considerably different from the office of the shrink Rosieand I went to see in our abortive attempts at marriage counseling.Chuck was a terrific guy, but I sort of lost faith in him when I foundout he was a fifty-five-year-old bachelor. Somehow, I figured nomatter what he’d read in all the textbooks, he couldn’t quite relate.He tried very hard to get us to see what he kept calling the bigpicture. He never realized he was dealing with little-picturepeople.

The receptionist gives me a warm smile, and I take a seat between asuntanned woman with bleached hair who is hiding behind a pair of darksunglasses, and a man I recognize as a local television personality.Dr.

Kathy Chandler’s clientele is pretty well-heeled.

At exactly four o’clock, the door opens and I’m granted entry into theinner

sanctum. The receptionist shows me into a tastefully furnishedroom with more muted tones and ferns. Quiet music surrounds me. Oneof those tacky miniature artificial waterfalls cascades behind Dr.Kathy Chandler’s desk. In all fairness, the whole thing is verysoothing.

I feel like Dorothy waiting for the grand entrance of the Wizard. Thedoor opens. I expect to hear trumpets. I’m not prepared for what Isee. The posters on the buses and in the reception area don’t begin todo her justice.

Dr. Kathy Chandler is about six feet tall and CindyCrawford beautiful. I’m beginning to see why Bob Holmes paid her afortune to spend forty-five minutes a week with her.

“I’m Dr. Kathy Chandler,” she purrs. Her tone is soothing. Shepushes her long blond hair out of her striking blue eyes.

“I’m Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman.”

“I know.” The voice is pure caviar. She sounds better in person thanshe does on the radio.

“Dr. Chandler,” I say, “I understand Bob Holmes was a patient ofyours.”

“Yes he was, Mr. Daley.” She licks her lips.

“It’s a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes it is.” Composure.

“Dr. Chandler, how long had you been treating Mr.

Holmes?”

“Not for very long. Probably about three months.”

“I see. And how was his treatment going?”

She pouts.

“Mr. Daley,” she says, “you’re a lawyer. You know I’m not permittedto talk about my patients. It’s privileged.” She blinks her big blueeyes and gives me a look that says she’d love to help me, but the bigbad lawyers won’t let her.

“I understand your concern,” I reply, “but the privilege ends when apatient dies.” This isn’t exactly true, but she isn’t exactly alawyer.

“And it would be very helpful for us to understand the nature andextent of your treatment of Mr. Holmes.”

The kitten like facade disappears. The claws come out.

“Mr. Daley,” she says in a businesslike tone, her voice dropping atleast half an octave, “it has always been my policy not to discuss thetreatment of my patients with other people.”

This is an interesting argument from a woman who gives free advice onthe

radio every night.

“Dr. Chandler,” I say, “I’d rather just ask you a few questions. Ifyou insist, I’d be more than happy to come back with a subpoena.” Andthen you’ll really have a lot to talk about from seven to tentonight.

The kitten reappears and the voice goes back up.

“Very well. Ask your questions. If I don’t want to answer, I’ll tellyou so.

And if I need to get my lawyer involved, I will. Believe me,I will.”

I believe you, Dr. Kathy Chandler.

“Dr. Chandler, what were you treating Mr.

Holmes for?”

“A lot of things. But mostly, he had relationship issues. He’d beendivorced several times.”

No shit.

“And he was about to get divorced again.”

“So I understand,” she says.

“I was working with Mr. Holmes on creating a foundation for solidrelationships—and to try to temper his enthusiasm for extramaritalactivities.”

“I see. And were you aware that he was having an affair with DianaKennedy?”

“Oh, yes. That’s really where his treatment started. He and Ms.Kennedy had been seeing each other for about a year. When Mrs. Holmesfound out at the beginning of December, she asked Mr. Holmes to leave.About the same time, Ms.

Kennedy broke up with Mr. Holmes. He was quite upset.”

“Did he try to reconcile with his wife?”

“Yes. The reconciliation was unsuccessful. He began seeing someone inlate December. I assumed he had rekindled his relationship with Ms.Kennedy, but it may have been somebody new. He was terribly conflictedabout it. He missed his last couple of appointments.”

I decide to probe a little deeper.

“Was Mr. Holmes depressed the last time you saw him?”

“In the clinical sense, no. He was quite distraught, but he wasn’tclinically depressed.”

“Was he upset about the breakup with his wife?”

“Yes. But not terribly upset.

He seemed to have expected it.”

“I see. And was he upset about the breakup with Ms. Kennedy?” Shesmiles.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Daley. He was terribly upset about it.”

“And are you aware of any attempts to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Daley. But it’s possible.”

“Do you think it’s possible Mr.

Holmes attempted to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy and she rejectedhim?”

She pauses.

“If you were my lawyer, you’d instruct me not to answer a hypotheticalquestion.”

“That’s true. On the other hand, we have reason to believe that hedid, in fact, attempt to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy. And we know, fora fact, that she was not agreeable to such a reconciliation because shehad decided to leave the firm.”

She looks surprised.

“I didn’t realize that,” she says. Put-up or shut-up time.

“What this is leading to is the question of whether you think BobHolmes was so distraught about his pending divorce and his breakup withDiana Kennedy that he may have committed suicide. In your professionaljudgment, did you see any signs that he was suicidal?”

She laughs.

“Mr. Daley, I’d been seeing Mr. Holmes for only about three months.

He was an unhappy man with some serious relationship issues. We werejust beginning to work on those issues. But, in answer to yourquestion, it is inconceivable to me that he was suicidal. He didn’tdisplay any of the tendencies or signs. And if I’m called upon incourt to testify, I’ll say just that.”

It’s more or less what I expect, I’ll see you on the radio, Dr. KathyChandler.

You’re of no help to our defense.

CHAPTER 28

DID YOUR COME TO GLOAT?

“We are confident we will be able to work out a deal with our creditorsthat will allow us to continue our practice without interruption as weproceed through the bankruptcy process. We will continue to providethe highest-quality legal services to our clients during thisdifficult period.”

—arthur patton. san fsancisco chronicle. monday, march 2.

“Jeff Tucker, please,” I tell the person at First Bank who answers mycall on the morning of Monday, March 2. I’m studying the article in theChronicle

detailing the bankruptcy filing of my former law firm. Ifigure it might be a good time to get reacquainted with the bank’sgeneral counsel. As Jeff promised me a few weeks ago, the bank hasforeclosed on S&G’s equipment loans right on schedule.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Michael Daley.”

My first reaction to the article could be summed up by the words

“Nyahhnyahh nyahh—you went bankrupt, and I got my capital back!” I realizethis may not be the most mature reaction to the impending meltdown ofmy professional home for the better part of the last five years.

Thenagain…

“Jeff Tucker speaking.”

“It’s Mike Daley.”

“Hi, Mike.” He pauses.

“You saw the note in the paper about the S and G bankruptcy filing?”

“Indeed I did. Couldn’t miss it.”

“I don’t take any pleasure in any of this, Mike,” he lies.

“Me neither.” Hell hell hell. I’d give everything I own to see thelook on Art Patton’s face right now.

“Jeff, do you happen to know if the loans were recourse ornonrecourse?” If the loans were “recourse,” the bank can try tocollect from the partners and perhaps the former partners of the firm.If the loans were “nonrecourse,” the bank can seek repayment only fromthe assets of the firm, but not from the assets of the individualpartners and former partners. I learned this from Joel. It’s all Iknow about commercial law:

recourse—bad; nonrecourse—good.

“They’re all recourse loans. Fully guaranteed by each of thepartners.”

Shit.

“And,” he adds gratuitously, “since you were a partner at the time theloans were taken down, and at the time of the default, you’re still onthe hook.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Wait a minute,” I say.

“I left on December thirty-first. How do you figure I was still apartner at the time of default?”

“That’s when the loans were due. You were still a partner. Ipsofacto, you’re still on the hook.”

I hate lawyers who talk Latin.

“But you extended the due date. I wasn’t a partner when the extendeddue date came up.”

“It wasn’t an extension. We simply decided not to foreclose until thesixty-day grace period ended yesterday. Our foreclosure guys lookedinto it. All the S and C partners who were at the firm on Decemberthirty-first are still on the hook. That includes you.”

And you’re an asshole. I’m sorry we didn’t fire you sooner, you littleshit.

“Look,” he says in a condescending tone, “the fact is, the bank doesn’twant to spend a lot of time and money suing the partners individually.If you’re like most of your partners, all your money is going foralimony and fancy cars.”

He’s right about that—except in my case, there’s no fancy car.

“I’m sure we’ll end up cutting some sort of a deal with the firm,” hesays.

“We’ll probably take the firm’s receivables and sell off some assets.We’ll sue the partners individually as a last resort.”

Somehow, I don’t get a warm and fuzzy feeling from this conversation.Maybe I’ll ask Wendy about one of those sleazy tax shelters in theBahamas to hide some of my assets.

At eleven o’clock the same morning, the reception area of Simpson andGates looks considerably different. Only one receptionist is workingthe phone console. The double doors are closed. There are no freshflowers. The Currier and Ives lithographs are gone. If I’m guessingcorrectly, the artwork at the First Bank headquarters has improveddramatically since yesterday.

Art Patron’s secretary escorts me to his office. The long hallwayslook barren without the high-priced artwork. The plants are gone, too.His door is closed when we arrive. She knocks and opens the door. I’msomewhat surprised he’s agreed to see me. Then again, it gives him agolden opportunity to yell at me if he wants to. I suspect he’d ratherdo it in the privacy of his own office, rather than in open court. Artis standing behind his antique desk, bellowing into his telephone.Something about the repossession of the computers and phones. Hemotions toward a dark brown leather chair. I admire the view of theGolden Gate Bridge as he castigates some poor collection attorney.

He slams the phone down. He looks like a bulldog shaking himself afterhe’s had a bath.

“So,” he snaps, “what the hell do you want? Did you come to gloat?”

As a matter of fact, I did.

“Art,” I lie, “I take no pleasure in this. I think it’s unfortunate.”I look solemn. I decide to lay it on thick.

“Some good people are going to lose their jobs.”

It seems to disarm him slightly, at least for a moment. His chinsjiggle.

“The bankruptcy filing was just a precaution,” he growls.

“We’ll still be here when the dust settles.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself.

“I hope you’re right.

I’m on the line for the equipment loans along with the rest of you. Ihave a vested interest in resolving this, too.”

He doesn’t seem mollified.

“So,” he grumbles, “besides making your little speech about firmfinances, why the hell did you come here to see me?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Joel’s case.”

“We’ve been through this. We’ve told the police everything we know. Ifwe find out anything new, I’ll call you.” He picks up his telephone.

“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about informally. Ifyou’re going to be a shit, I’ll get a subpoena.”

He hangs up the phone.

“What things?”

“It’s a little ticklish.”

He looks right at me.

“You aren’t going to start up again about that nonsense about asexual-harassment claim, are you? It’s all bullshit. I have a goodmind to file a lawsuit for slander against you for the stuff youbrought up at the prelim.”

The best defense is a good offense.

“This isn’t easy for me, either,” I say, “but, if you won’t cooperate,I’ll have no choice.” I let my words trail off and look away fromhim.

“What is it?” he asks.

“First, two people are prepared to testify you were pro positioningDiana at the retreat, and she rejected your advances.” I watch himclosely. He doesn’t flinch.

“One person said you touched Diana in the bar and she stormed out.

Another person said you asked her to go to bed with you at your party.When she refused, you followed her back to her room and… well …

we aren’t sure what happened.”

He turns red. The pit bull comes out.

“That’s a crock of bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are cominghere and making these wild accusations? What the fuck is wrong withyou, anyway?”

I try to keep the tone measured.

“I take it that means you deny those accusations?”

“Damn right, I do.”

“And you’re prepared to testify to that effect in court, ifnecessary?”

“Of course.”

I nod.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve eliminated any misunderstanding on thatsubject.”

I fold my hands.

“Is it true that you and Beth Holmes have a social relationship?”

“I should throw you out of my office right now.” He starts to pick upthe phone again.

“Art,” I say, “let me show you something.” I take out a picture of himentering Beth’s house.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he blusters.

“I understand. But here’s a picture of you leaving Beth’s house thenext morning. My investigator is prepared to testify that you spentthe night.”

The beady little eyes flare.

“You little shit. You had me followed? Are you trying to blackmailme?” He grits his teeth.

“Beth and I have had a social relationship for some time. It’s one ofthe reasons for my divorce. My wife knows all about it.”

“I see. Did you know Bob was going to write Beth out of his will justbefore he died?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. So what? She doesn’t need the money. If youwant to get up in court and tell the jury that Beth and I were sleepingtogether, so be it. It proves we were having an affair. She’s myex-wife. We still have feelings for each other. It doesn’t haveanything to do with your client’s case.”

Unfortunately, he may be right about that.

“Let me ask you about something else. Didn’t you and Bob invest in arestaurant together?”

“Yes, we did. Le Bon Vivant in Palo Alto.”

“How was the restaurant doing?”

“Great. Except in the restaurant business, you can be doing great, butit

doesn’t mean you’re making any money.”

“I see.” I’m surprised he admitted it.

“We were thinking about closing the place down. I’ve lost all themoney I intend to lose on that damn thing.”

“I don’t suppose you had a key-man policy on Bob for the restaurant?”It’s a shot in the dark.

“No, we didn’t.”

“Thanks for your time, Art.”

When I return to the office that night, I find Wendy is sitting at atable in the hallway, studying copies of life insurance policies.

“You can sit in my office, you know,” I say.

“I like it better out here. Your office smells like chow mein.”

I’m sure it does.

“Find anything we can use?” I ask.

“Nothing yet. Bob’s life insurance policies named Beth and the kids asbeneficiaries.”

“We knew that. Keep looking.”

“I will.” She takes off her glasses. She’s very pretty when she wantsto be.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I guess so.”

“Andy?”

“Yeah. We have a custody hearing a week from Tuesday. Will you comewith me?”

I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Sure.”

She pulls back.

“Thanks, Mike.”

A moment later, I sit down in my office and dial a familiar number.

“Pete,” I say, “do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“You got Warriors tickets?” he asks hopefully.

“The Lakers are in town.”

“Nah. I’ve got something better. I need your help. How would youfeel about doing a little pro bono work?”

Silence.

“For whom?” he asks cautiously.

“Wendy.”

Long pause.

“Sure,” he says reluctantly.

“Thanks.”

CHAPTER 29

WE’RE MISSING SOMETHING. I’M SURE OF IT

“Pretrial motions are set for Monday, March 9. Except for MortGoldberg, it seems the entire defense team is sound asleep.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. tuesday, march 3.

We’re having an all-hands meeting of the Dream Team in Rosie’s officeat nine the next morning. We have a pretrial hearing on Monday andit’s time to add things up. We sit around the small conference table.Rosie drinks a Diet Coke and looks at our preliminary witness list.Wendy nurses a cup of coffee and studies her notes. Pete is goingthrough an inventory of the evidence. Mort plays with an unlitcigar.

“Mort,” I begin, “did you finish our motions to keep the Silveradovideotapes out?”

“Yeah. We filed our papers on Thursday.” He drums his fingers on thetabletop.

“It’s going to be a close call. The tapes have been heavily edited. Wehave a decent argument the potential inflammatory effect outweighs theprobative value. I wouldn’t bet a box of cigars we’ll win.”

Rosie agrees.

“Even if she doesn’t let them use the tapes, they can always call BrentHutchinson to testify that he saw Diana and Joel kissing in the hottub.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that,” Mort replies.

I turn to Wendy.

“Did you find out anything more about Bob’s finances?”

“Not much,” she says.

“He and Art Patton owned a restaurant in Palo Alto called Le BonVivant.

It’s been open for about four years. There are no financialrecords available to the public.”

“According to Art,” I say, “it’s losing money.”

“You may be right,” she says.

“We haven’t found any suspicious liens.”

“Keep looking.” I turn to Rosie.

“Any surprises on their witness list?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says.

“They’re loading up their list just the way we are.

They’ve put you and Wendy down as witnesses just to tweak us.”

“We’ll be able to get around that,” I say.

“We included Skipper and McNulty on ours, right?”

“Of course. Turnabout is fair play. Judge Chen will never let themtestify.”

“I know. But it’ll give us an opportunity to show the judge thatSkipper was there that night.”

Mort is pleased.

“That discussion should be a lot of fun,” he says.

“Who else is on their list?” I ask.

“The people you’d expect. Roosevelt. Marcus Banks. Rod Beckert.Sandra Wilson.

Art Patton and Charles Stern.” Rosie flips through her notes.

“Brent Hutchinson. Beth Holmes.”

“Not surprising,” I say.

“A little testimony from the grieving widow to soften up the jury.”

Rosie nods.

“Clan Morris, Jack Frazier, Rick Cinelli and Homer Kim.”

“Any surprises?”

“Your good friend Dr. Kathy Chandler is on their list, too.”

Wendy asks, “Why are they calling her?”

“She was Bob’s therapist,” I reply.

“She’ll probably testify that Bob wasn’t suicidal.”

“Is she a real doctor?” she asks.

“Depends on your definition of the word ‘real,”

” I reply sarcastically.

“She has an honorary doctorate from a mail-order college in Texas.”

I turn back to Rosie.

“Did you include all the S and G partners on our witness list?”

“Yeah. Just like you asked.”

“Good. And did you send out subpoenas to each of them?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, smiling.

“We served them yesterday.”

“Let me guess. They were not particularly well received by some of myformer partners?”

Her eyes gleam.

“You could say that, Mike. I let Wendy have the pleasure of servingArt

Patton, Charles Stern and Brent Hutchinson.”

Wendy is triumphant.

“Makes you want to become a litigator,” she says.

“Great,” I say.

“I bet Skipper is getting a few friendly phone calls from his formerpartners.” Lawyers hate to get subpoenas. And we really hate totestify.

“Mike,” Wendy says, “I took the liberty of asking Rita Roberts and theNews Center 4 team to come with me to the S and G office when I servedthe subpoenas.” She bats her eyes innocently.

“I hope that was okay.”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“The public has a right to know. By the way,” I ask, “did you find outanything more about the International Charitable Trust?”

“Trevor Smith is still in Kuwait.” She grins at me.

“I talked to his secretary.

I’ve done a lot of work with them over the years, so I’ve gotten toknow her very well. Her name is Felicity Smoot.”

“You’re kidding,” Mort says.

“No, I’m not. I told her I was following up on the trust so we couldclose the file.”

“What did she say?” I ask.

“Not much. Chuckles asked them to prepare a final inventory of trustassets, so they can begin liquidation. For now, the trust assets arefrozen.”

“I see. Have you been able to pin down how much his fee is?”

“Not yet. His deal isn’t stated in the trust instrument. He has aseparate administration contract that I haven’t seen. I asked Felicityto send me a copy. We’ll see if she does.”

Not bad.

“Did you have any luck figuring out who the income beneficiaries andthe remainder men of the trust are?”

“Nope. Felicity didn’t know. I didn’t want to push her too hard. Ithought it might make her nervous.”

“That was smart,” I say.

“You never want to make a banker nervous.” I tap my pencil on my legalpad.

“I’m surprised she talked to you. I’ll bet Chuckles told her not totalk to

anybody who doesn’t work for S and G.”

She gives me a conspiratorial grin.

“Maybe I didn’t exactly tell her I’d left the firm.”

Wendy may have the makings of a fine criminal defense attorney.

“When do you think you’ll hear back from her?”

“Probably not until Smith gets back.”

Swell. We’ll be halfway through the trial by then.

“See if you can find out when he’s coming back. I want you and Pete tobe there.”

“An all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas? Cool.”

“Think of it as a working vacation.” I turn to Pete.

“What have you found, Mr.

Gumshoe?” Pete doesn’t like being called Mr. Gumshoe. He doesn’tjoke around when it comes to business. Actually, he doesn’t jokearound about much of anything.

“I ran an asset search on the company custodian, Homer Kim. Seems hisbank account recently became twenty thousand dollars fatter. Nicechunk of change for a man who makes only twenty-six thousand dollars ayear.”

That’s a surprise.

“You think somebody paid him off to testify?” Mort asks.

“I can’t tell for sure,” Pete says.

“On the other hand, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who getstwenty-thousand-dollar checks in the mail from Publisher’s ClearingHouse. When we ran the search on his bank accounts, we saw one bigdeposit come in. It went out the next day. We don’t know where themoney came from or where it went. He’s had some gambling problems.”

“Stay with him, Pete,” I say.

“There’s something else,” he says.

“You remember Beth Holmes said her private eye caught Bob with anotherwoman at the Fairmont in December?”

We remember. The infamous mystery woman.

“Well,” he continues, “I talked to her private eye. You know she hiredNick Hanson?”

I do. Mort and Rosie don’t. They burst into laughter.

“Nick the Dick!” Mort shouts.

“She hired Nick the Dick?”

Wendy’s bewildered.

“I give up,” she says.

“Who the hell is “Nick the Dick’?”

Mort, Rosie and I glance at one another. Mort grins at Wendy.

“Honey,” he says, “Nick Hanson is a legend. Maybe you’re too young.

Hewas the lead investigator for a defense lawyer named Nunzio DellaVentura, Nunzio wasn’t the best lawyer in town, but he was one of themost flamboyant. He had a storefront office on Columbus Avenue inNorth Beach for fifty years. The prosecutors hated him. Nunzio wasquite a character. So’s Nick.”

“You have to see him to believe him,” Pete says.

“That’s right,” says Mort.

“He may be all of five feet tall. Always dresses impeccably. Quitethe man about town. Always has a fresh flower in his lapel.

You’d look at him and you’d be inclined to underestimate him. Andyou’d be making the biggest mistake of your life. He’s the mosttenacious private eye I’ve ever met. He’s in his eighties. Still apistol. Still lives in North Beach. Still working every day.”

“He’s written several mystery novels based on cases he’s worked on,” Iadd.

“One was made into a movie. I think Danny DeVi to played him.”

“I’ll look for him next time I’m at the bookstore,” Wendy says.

“So, what did Nick the Dick find out about Bob?” she asks.

“Just what you would have thought. Nick saw Bob with a woman in a roomat the Fairmont in late December. He couldn’t ID her. He was in thebuilding across the street. The drapes were partially closed and thelights were dim. By the time Nick got to the hotel, she was gone. Hetook some pictures. He promised to let me see them.”

“Will he testify?” I ask.

“Of course. This is a highprofile case.”

Rosie looks puzzled.

“How does that help us?”

“If it wasn’t Diana, it undercuts Skipper’s argument that Joel acted ina jealous rage,” I reply.

“On the other hand,” she points out, “if it wasn’t Diana, it mayundercut our suicide argument. If Bob already had another girlfriend,he couldn’t have been too distraught about his breakup with Diana. Inthat case, it doesn’t seem logical that he would have killed himself.”As always, Rosie sees the situation with great clarity.

“Unless,” I say, “the mystery woman was just a rebound for Bob and sheblew him off, too. Who knows? Maybe she was a hooker.”

Rosie is skeptical.

“Seems like a stretch to me,” she says.

It begs the obvious question.

“Pete, can you talk to the staff at the Fairmont to see if you can getan ID on the woman?”

“I’m already working on it,” he says.

“Good.” I look at my notes.

“We’re missing something. I’m sure of it.” I turn to Pete.

“Any leads on Vince Russo?”

He winks.

“Maybe. You remember his car was found at the Vista Point at the northend of the Golden Gate Bridge? His overcoat washed up at Fort Bakeryesterday.

He wasn’t wearing it.”

“Do you think he might still be alive?”

“It’s possible,” he says.

“I talked to the cab companies in Marin County. Marin Taxi had apickup at the Vista Point at about three a.m. on December thirty-first.The dispatcher and the driver both confirmed the fare was taken to theinternational terminal at San Francisco International. The driver saidthe passenger was a heavyset male in his thirties or forties, who paidcash.”

“Did you show the driver a picture of Russo?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t sure.”

“You think it was Vince?”

“You bet your ass I do.”

Pete usually has very good instincts about these issues. Rosie hitsthe nail on the head when she says, “Sounds like we may have to bring akey witness back from the dead.”

CHAPTER 30

YOU CAN’T CROSSEXAMINE A VIDEOTAPE

“Judge Shirley Chen will hold a pretrial conference at ten o’clocktoday to discuss scheduling and evidentiary issues. The trial willstart in one week.”

—news center 4 daybreak. monday, march 9.

March 9 is a day for the lawyers to argue about evidentiary issues,legal motions and scheduling. We’ll also get our first taste of JudgeShirley Chen.

The tenor of the trial will be set by the decisions she makes today.Rosie,

Mort and I park in the pay lot next to the Hall and lug ourheavy trial briefcases through the daily El Nirio downpour. Skipper’sLincoln is parked illegally in front of the main entrance to the Hall.The minicams are out in force. Rita Roberts stands under a largeumbrella with the News Center 4

logo.

The wind is howling at thirty-five miles per hour, but her hair doesn’tmove.

I shrug when she asks for a comment. We push our way into thebuilding, shake our umbrellas and walk through the metal detectors. Itwould be bad form to be late.

Judge Shirley Chen is in her mid-forties, although she looks younger.She began her career at S&G twenty years ago. It seems as if everyjudge in California started at S&G. She moved to the San FranciscoDistrict Attorney’s Office three years later. I tried two casesagainst her when I was a PD. I won one and I lost one. She was anambitious prosecutor. She’ll bring the same tenacity to the bench.

Her chambers are sterile. Her lawschool diploma hangs on the wall,but her books and files are still in boxes. I’m reminded she’s singleas I notice there are no pictures of a spouse or children. There’s aplaque on her wall from the San Francisco Women’s Bar Association.There’s a gavel from her alma mater, the Hastings College of Law in SanFrancisco, which indicates that she was named distinguished alumnathree years ago. There’s a small picture of her with the Californiaattorney general.

Skipper and McNulty arrive a few minutes after we do. Everybody isdecked out in their Sunday best. Skipper’s navy blue pinstripe looksas if it was delivered earlier this morning from Wilkes Bashford.McNulty is wearing charcoal gray. We can’t compete on clothing.Besides, the rain has taken the starch out of our best goingto-courtclothes. Skipper plays with his Mont Blanc pen. McNulty sitsquietly.

“Let’s get started,” Judge Chen says.

“You’re not the only people on my schedule today.”

We nod in unison. No chitchat.

“First,” she says, “let’s talk about scheduling.” She looks at me.

“May I assume, Mr. Daley, that your client hasn’t reconsidered hisposition concerning the timing of his trial?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor. My client doesn’t intend to waive time.We’re ready.” Or as ready as we’re going to be.

She isn’t happy.

“Very well,” she says.

“We’re scheduled to start one week from today, on March sixteenth.”

Shelooks at Skipper.

“Mr. Gates, how many trial days would you estimate for theprosecution’s case?”

He turns to McNulty.

“One moment. Your Honor,” he says. He and McNulty whisper to eachother. Skipper turns back to the judge.

“I don’t think it will take us very long, Your Honor. If Mr. Daley isreasonable, we won’t need a lot of time qualifying our witnesses asexperts.”

She holds up her hand and asks impatiently, “How many trial days, Mr.Gates?”

“No more than ten, Your Honor,” he says.

“And perhaps substantially fewer,” he adds quickly.

“We think jury selection may take longer than our case.”

“You may be right about that, Mr. Gates.” She turns to me.

“What do you estimate for the defense, Mr. Daley?”

This is tricky. With a little luck, we won’t have to present a lengthydefense.

On the other hand, we may be here for weeks if they trot out a slew ofexperts.

“No more than a week, Your Honor,” I say. Then I add, gratuitously,“Maybe less.”

She seems pleased.

“Very well, then. We’ll begin jury selection one week from today.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we did present several motions on evidentiaryissues.”

“I was just getting to that, Mr. Daley.” She glances at Mort’spapers. She says she’ll give us some leeway in the jury-selectionprocess, called voir dire. She asks us for draft questionnaires to begiven to the potential jurors.

McNulty and Rosie have agreed on mostof the major points. She reiterates Judge Brown’s gag order withrespect to the media.

“Your Honor,” I say, “there are some matters regarding theprosecution’s witness list.”

She cuts me off and wags her right index finger at me.

“Let’s keep this very simple,” she says slowly.

“Nobody in this room is going to be a witness at this trial. Period.”

Skipper and I glance at each other. Skipper smiles.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we have a very significant issue here.”

She looks at me skeptically.

“Come on, Mr. Daley. You know I’m not going to let any of you testifyat the trial. Let’s not waste our time.”

Skipper’s grin gets wider.

“Your Honor,” I say, “have you seen the security videos?”

“Your Honor,” Skipper interjects.

She stops him.

“I’ll tell you when it’s your turn to talk, Mr. Gates.”

“But, Your Honor…”

She cuts him off again.

“Mr. Gates, the rules here are simple. I get to tell you when it’syour turn to talk. I get to interrupt you. You don’t get to interruptme. Are we clear on that?”

I like it. An early show of control.

Skipper nods submissively.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good.” She turns back to me.

“I haven’t seen the security videos, Mr. Daley.”

“Your Honor,” I implore, “Mr. Gates was there that night. He was inthe building. We can put the tapes on right now, if you’d like.”

She shakes her head.

“I know he was there. The police reports said there was a receptionfor him at the office.”

“No,” I say.

“He came back later that night. Much later. He was in the building atone o’clock when Diana came back. He was there when Bob and Dianadied.”

Skipper shakes his head contemptuously.

“Mr. Daley was there too, Your Honor. I’ll withdraw his name fromour list in the interests of justice.”

“For God’s sake, Skipper,” I say, “I left at eight-thirty that night.You know it. I didn’t come back at one in the morning at exactly thetime you claim Bob and Diana died.”

He turns to Judge Chen.

“Your Honor,” he says, “I resent Mr. Daley’s implication.”

“Your Honor,” I reply, “he’s brought charges against my client for themurder of two people. I can prove he entered the building around

thesame time Diana Kennedy did. He has to be a witness, Your Honor.

Ineed him. Frankly, I don’t understand why he wasn’t considered asuspect at the time.”

A little over the top, but so be it. At least she’s interested now.

“Mr. Daley,” she begins.

I decide to break the cardinal rule and interrupt her.

“Judge Chen,” I implore, “he came back at twelve-thirty in the morning.He was there at the time he claims Bob and Diana were killed. It’sright there in the security tapes.” I’m pushing myself up on the armsof my chair.

She looks troubled. She turns to Skipper.

“Is this true, Mr. Gates?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he replies.

“I was in the office for a few minutes around one o’clock to pick up mybriefcase. I didn’t see or hear anything. My office wasn’t even onthe same floor as Bob’s.”

“He was there for almost an hour,” I say.

“It was a lot longer than just a few minutes.”

She stares silently at her diploma.

“This isn’t good,” she says slowly, her jaws clenched.

“This is a mess. The district attorney could be a witness.” She looksat Skipper.

“And you actually plan to try this case yourself, right?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

“If this doesn’t beat everything,” she mutters. She looks at me.

“Do you really think you’re going to need his testimony?”

I don’t hesitate.

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

She turns back to Skipper.

“And I don’t suppose you’d agree to let Mr. McNulty handle thiscase?”

“No, Your Honor,” he says quietly.

“It’s too close to the trial.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to testify about what you sawthat night?”

“For obvious reasons, Your Honor, you know I would prefer not to.

You know it confuses the jury if a lawyer is both an advocate and awitness.”

“And what, if anything, did you see that night, Mr. Gates?”

He looks right at her.

“Your Honor, I went to my office on the forty-sixth floor, picked upmy briefcase and left. That’s it.” He pauses.

“And if you want me to testify to that effect, I guess I’m prepared todo so.

Everybody is going to look very silly if we proceed in thatmanner, however.”

He’s right about that.

She gets a faraway look.

“I’m going to take this under advisement,” she says.

“I’ll give you my decision by the end of the week.” She looks atSkipper.

“Mr.

Gates,” she says, “I’d suggest that you think very carefully about yourtestimony, in case I rule in favor of Mr. Daley.” Then she turns tome.

“Mr.

Daley, I’d suggest you think long and hard about whether you want tocall the district attorney of the city and county of San Francisco as awitness.”

We nod in unison.

“Finally,” she says, “we need to address the motion to quash thepresentation of two videotape recordings of certain activities at theSimpson and Gates firm retreat in October of last year.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I say.

“We believe those videotapes are highly inflammatory and should not beshown to the jury.”

Skipper begins to interrupt me and she holds up her hand.

“Not yet, Mr. Gates,” she says.

“It’ll be your turn in a minute.” She turns back to me.

“Actually, Your Honor,” I say, “I’d like to let my colleague, ProfessorGoldberg, make our presentation on this matter.” We’ve rehearsed this.I want Mort to play the part of the gray-haired sage on legal andevidentiary issues.

Although I’d never say it out loud, the truth is that I trust him tospeak for only a few minutes a day. I pause for effect, and add, “Youknow Mr.

Goldberg was an adjunct professor of criminal procedure andevidence at Hastings.”

She gives me a knowing look.

“I’m familiar with his credentials. I was a student of his. It’s myturn to see if he’s prepared for class.” She turns to Mort.

“What do you have to say, Professor?”

He smiles at her.

“Your Honor,” he says, “may it please the court.” His diction is alittle slurred. The words “Your Honor” come out as a single word,which sounds like “yawner.”

“We have a potentially serious evidentiary matter concerning twovideotapes from the Simpson and Gates firm retreat last fall.”

She stops him.

“Mr. Goldberg,” she says, “I’ve read your motion and looked at thetapes.

You don’t need to describe the tapes to me and you don’t needto summarize your motion. Let’s cut straight to the chase. If youdon’t have anything new to tell me, I’ll rule based on your papers.”

“Very well. Your Honor.” He acts as if he was expecting this. Givehim credit.

He doesn’t fluster.

“The prosecution would like to introduce into evidence a highly editedvideotape of activities at the Simpson and Gates retreat last fall.

Inaddition, all of the original sound in the tapes was edited out andreplaced by the theme music from a popular television show. In alllikelihood, the events in the tapes will be taken out of context. Andit’s all but certain that the events in the tapes will have aninflammatory and highly prejudicial effect on the jury.”

Nice work, Mort. Concise. Direct. And you didn’t use the words“kissing,”

“hot tub,”

“sex” or “affair.”

She gives him a skeptical look.

“Mr. Goldberg,” she says, “isn’t it true that the tapes really do, infact, speak for themselves?”

Like all good lawyers, Mort pretends he’s agreeing with her, while he’sactually disagreeing. It’s patronizing, but it works.

“In general, Your Honor,” he says, “that’s true. What better evidencecould there be than a videotape? On the other hand, when the videotapehas been tampered with, as this one has, or there is a substantiallikelihood that it could be taken out of context, it could be unfairlydamaging evidence.”

She isn’t convinced.

“Mr. Coldberg, these videotapes show a man and a woman kissing.Coincidentally, the man is the defendant and the woman is the victim.

Doesn’t that speak for itself? They were kissing. Nothing more.Nothing less. A jury can figure out what was happening.”

Mort takes off his glasses to gesture.

“Let’s face it. The people who serve on juries are only human. Theysee news stories about politicians having affairs and doing indiscreetthings.

They think it’s the truth if they see it on TV. If they’relike most of us, they’ll jump to the conclusion that something wasgoing on. It isn’t a great news flash that Mr. Gates is going toclaim our client was having an affair with Ms. Kennedy. He has noevidence except for these tapes. And if he shows these heavily editedtapes out of context, it will have an enormously prejudicial effect onthe jury.”

She looks at Skipper.

“What do you have to say about this, Mr. Gates?”

“Your Honor,” he says, “Mr. Goldberg is blowing this issue entirelyout of proportion. We believe the videotapes do, in fact, speak forthemselves.

The jury will be free to draw whatever inferences it chooses. That’swhat juries are supposed to do—figure out what happened. The tapesare the best evidence of what happened. It isn’t our fault thedefendant and Ms. Kennedy were caught on tape kissing. It would beirresponsible to ignore it. We acknowledge that a part of our casewill be to demonstrate that Mr.

Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were havingan affair. We believe the breakup of the affair led Mr. Friedman tomurder two people. The tape speaks for itself. It is what it is.”

It is what it is. It’s actually a very effective legal argument.

She turns back to Mort.

“Your Honor,” he argues, “the problem, quite simply, is that you can’tcrossexamine a videotape. If Mr. Gates thinks he can demonstratethat Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were having an affair, let himbring forth witnesses at trial. Let us have an opportunity tocrossexamine them.”

She seems to be absorbing this thoughtfully. I watch Mort carefully.He’s staying true to his word and keeping the discourse on aprofessional, if not scholarly, level. He can still play law professorwhen he wants to.

Skipper and Mort volley back and forth for another ten minutes.Finally, Judge Chen says she’s heard enough.

“Gentlemen,” she says, “I’ve come to my decision.

I find Mr. Goldberg’s argument slightly more persuasive.” She turnsto Skipper.

“Mr. Gates,” she says, “if you want to introduce evidence of thesetawdry events at the trial, you’ll have to do so through witnesses whocan be crossexamined by the defense.” She’s ruling in our favor, butsending a message. He can’t use the tapes, but he can call witnesseswho will testify about their contents.

“For example,” she continues, “I see no reason why Mr.

Gates couldn’t call as a witness the individual who was operating thecamera.”

There’s nothing we can do to prevent Skipper from calling BrentHutchinson to testify that he saw Joel and Diana kissing—even if itwas through the lens of his video camera. Of course, there’s nothingto prevent us from going after him on cross.

Skipper attempts to plead his case one more time.

“But, Your Honor,” he begins.

She holds up her hand.

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Gates.” She starts to stand.

“Your Honor,” I say, “there’s one other thing. Mr. Gates hasrequested that this trial be televised. For obvious reasons, we’reagainst it. We saw what happened at the Simpson trial.”

Skipper is mortified. He’s expecting free TV time.

“Your Honor,” he says, “I realize there was some fallout from theSimpson trial. However, the public has a right to observe the criminalprocess at work. We should televise this trial to win back the faithof the American people in the justice system.”

And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea. I wantto throw up.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I’m only thinking of the interests of my clientand the interests of justice. I don’t want my client tried in themedia. Mr. Gates’s leaks have already contributed to a potentiallyirreversible tainting of the juror pool.”

If you don’t have a better argument, always try invoking the interestsof justice.

She looks troubled.

“I knew this was going to come up,” she says.

“I have mixed feelings. In my judgment, it is possible to televise atrial without turning it into a circus. Nevertheless, I’m inclined toagree with Mr.

Daley.”

“But Your Honor,” Skipper says.

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Gates. I’ll see you next week to begin juryselection. We’re done.”

This round goes to the good guys, but not by much.

Skipper and McNulty stop us outside the courtroom.

“Nice work on your motions, Mort,” Skipper says.

Mort waves him away.

“It’s all part of the process,” he replies. Skipper stares at Mort.

“You know,” he says, “we’ll get all the stuff from the tapes intoevidence at the trial. There’s no doubt. We were planning to callBrent Hutchinson anyway.”

“At least we’ll be able to crossexamine him,” I say.

“Hutch can be a little jumpy. He hasn’t spent a lot of time in courtthe last few years.” He laughs.

“All the more reason for us to spend a little extra time inpreparation.”

Mort turns to McNulty.

“You guys have any more evidence you’d like to share with us? I’m sureyou aren’t planning any surprises at trial.”

“Nothing yet,” McNulty says.

“You’ve seen everything we’ve seen.”

“Did the results of the paternity test come in?” I ask.

“Not yet,” Skipper replies.

“You aren’t nervous, are you, Mike?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I’m sure your guy was telling you the truth when he said hewasn’t the father.”

“Me too.”

“It’s a good result,” Mort says to me as we’re pulling out of theparking lot.

“At least we got the goddamned videotapes out.”

“Nice work,” I say.

“Let’s go back to the office and call Joel with the good news.” Ipause.

“What do you think that was all about in the hallway? You think theyknow something?”

He takes out a cigar.

“Probably,” he says.

CHAPTER 31

WHAT ELSE CAN YOU TELL ME, ROOSEVELT?

“We have been asked to prepare papers to have Mr. Russo declaredlegally dead.”

—charles stern. san francisco legal journal. tuesday, march 10.

Tuesday, March 10. We get to take a break from our trial preparationto attend to an equally depressing matter: Wendy’s custody hearing. Herex-husband, Andy, has filed papers to revise their custody agreement.Wendy and I wait outside divorce court at ten o’clock in the morning.We’re joined by her divorce attorney, Jerry Mills, a quiet, rationalman in his mid-fifties with a gray mustache. Wendy is nervous. Idon’t blame her. I haven’t been in this corridor in five years. Itbrings back some unpleasant memories. It was in this very corridorthat I gave up on my lame brained idea that I was better suited to havecustody of Grace. I’ll never forget the look of relief on Rosie’sface. It was the only time during our divorce that she allowed herselfto cry.

A moment later, we are joined by Wendy’s ex, Andy Schneider, ahigh-strung advertising executive in his late thirties withslicked-back hair, who is dressed in a flashy double-breasted suit anda loud designer tie. He is accompanied by his attorney, a fiftyishasshole named Craig Sherman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to arattlesnake.

In my experience, divorce attorneys come in two species. Most of themare rational people like Jerry, who act more as counselors thanadversaries.

Some have a knack for defusing tense situations. Thereally good ones steer their clients toward counseling and sometimessalvage marriages.

Then there are people like Sherman, who relish the role of barracuda.He represents only men. He actually has a picture of a shark on hisbusiness cards. If you’re going to war with your ex-wife, he’s yourguy.

Sherman says, “You guys don’t think the judge is actually going tobelieve this crap that Wendy has her own law firm, do you? We’re goingto call in child-custody services to review this case.”

Nice guy.

Mills looks at him.

“We have an agreement, Craig. It’s been approved by the court. Itisn’t going to change.”

Sherman cracks his knuckles.

“Sure, Jerry,” he says.

“I’ve had this judge modify custody orders for a lot less than this.”

And you wonder why people hate lawyers. In reality, he’s probablybluffing.

In California, custody orders can be modified only if thereis a significant change in circumstance. A change in one spouse’seconomic situation generally isn’t enough.

Wendy glares at Andy.

“You’re an asshole,” she says quietly.

“You aren’t fit to take care of a hamster, let alone a six-year-old.”

He tugs at his tie.

“At least I’ve got a job.”

I get between them and glance at my watch.

“It’s time for court,” I say calmly.

Andy winks. Wendy moves closer to Mills.

We turn toward the heavy double doors to the courtroom when Pete walksup, soaking wet.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says.

“I got hung up.”

Sherman looks at him.

“I didn’t realize we were going to have a family reunion.”

“Craig,” Pete says, “can I see you and Andy in private for a moment?”

Sherman throws up his hands.

“What the hell is this all about?”

“Thirty seconds,” Pete says.

“That’s all I need.”

“Humor him,” Andy says confidently.

Pete, Andy and Sherman walk down the hall about thirty feet. Petetakes out a manila envelope from under his jacket and hands it to Andy.They huddle.

They argue. Sherman gesticulates wildly. Pete remainsstone-faced. A moment later, the arrogance leaves Andy’s face.

Wendy turns to me.

“What’s this all about?” she asks.

“Beats me.”

Five minutes later, Pete, Andy and Sherman return. Sherman looks atWendy, then he turns to Mills.

“Jerry,” he says, “we’ve decided not to pursue any changes in thecustody deal. We’re going to drop our motion.”

He looks at me and wags a menacing finger.

“You and your brother are both assholes.” He and Andy walk down thehall toward the elevators.

I turn to Pete, who arches his eyebrows. Wendy walks over and giveshim a hug.

He hugs her back uncomfortably.

“I don’t know what you gave them, Pete,” she says, “but it worked.”

Pete gives us a wicked grin and pulls out a stack of snapshots.

“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner,” he says.

“I took these last night and it took a little longer to get themdeveloped than I thought.”

He starts flipping through the pictures, the way little kids flipthrough baseball cards.

“Here’s Andy’s executive assistant, Karen.” It’s a picture of anattractive woman going into a large house in Pacific Heights.

“Here’s Andy going into the house. Here’s Andy taking off his clothes.Here’s Karen taking off her clothes.” He says, “The next few picturesare a little tough to see.”

He shuffles through them quickly.

“Here they are rolling around on the floor.”

Wendy is smiling.

“We get the idea, Pete,” she says.

Pete glances at me.

“You know,” he says, “it seems Karen is married to Andy’s boss.”

“I was not aware of that,” I say.

“I’d say we’re holding Andy’s career right here in the palm of myhand,”

Pete says.

Jerry Mills is admiring. He asks Pete for a business card.

“You guys play in a different league,” he says.

Thursday, March 12. Four days before the start of jury selection.We’ve spent the last week interviewing witnesses, rehearsing my openingand working on juryselection strategy. The clock is ticking—and wedon’t have anything that will give us an acquittal.

The process of preparing for trial is far more of an art than ascience. You spend a lot of time honing your presentation. While thelaw professors and commentators like to talk about the pursuit ofjustice, when you cut to the chase, it’s all theater. In our MTVworld, you can’t just inform the jury; you have to entertain them and,if possible, dazzle them with special effects.

Unlike real theater, a trial attorney has to perform all the importantroles: producer, director, lead actor, costume designer, special effectssupervisor,

production accountant and, perhaps most importantly, foodprovider. We have created an impromptu “war room” in the narrowhallway just outside my office. Exhibit binders, easels, enlargedpictures, diagrams and charts are everywhere. It will take a minormiracle just to put everything in order for presentation at the trial.My biggest worry is that our stuff will get soaked as we lug it fromthe parking lot to the courtroom.

Rosie, Mort and I spend the day with our jury consultant, BarbaraChilds, who is considered an up-and-comer in a growing field. I’veworked with her on a couple of cases. She’s a little full of herself,but you have to be in her line of work. I take her suggestions with agrain of salt. We don’t have the time or the resources to do a fullmock trial.

At three in the afternoon, I walk past Wendy, who is poring over someS&G

financial records at a table just outside Rosie’s office.

“Find anything we can use?” I ask.

“Nothing yet.” She looks at me.

“Where are you going? I would think you might have a few things to dotoday.”

“I thought I’d take the afternoon off,” I reply.

“You know—conserve my strength for trial.”

“Really, Mike. Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to take one more run at Roosevelt. Maybe he’s foundsomething that’ll help.”

I meet Roosevelt in the back of a cop bar not far from the Hall. Thecops and detectives respect each other’s private space here. The placeis run by a heavyset man named Phil Agnos. It’s sort of a crossbetween a saloon and a halfway house for Greek immigrants. Phil is theonly person permitted to handle the money. Every three weeks or so,there’s a new, large young man with a toothpick in his mouth standingat the grill. Since the only English words he ever knows are“cheeseburger” and “double,” your culinary options are somewhatlimited. I opt for a single cheeseburger today.

Roosevelt is sitting in the back room, nursing a cup of coffee andreading the paper. A picture of Joe DiMaggio hangs on the wall behindhim. He stands to greet me when I walk in.

“I was just reading about you in the paper,” he says.

“What are they saying now?”

“The usual. You’re spending all your time on a hopeless disinformationcampaign in a feeble attempt to find some technicality to get

yourclient off. Typical stuff for a defense attorney.”

“I knew they’d get my number sooner or later.” I take a bite of mycheeseburger.

“Have you guys found anything else?”

He sips his coffee and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Nothing I haven’t told you already. Skipper has poor Bill McNultyliving with two jury consultants. One of them told me Skipper haspracticed his opening in front of two different mock juries.”

“How are the test audiences playing?”

“Pretty well. For all his faults, the man has charisma.”

Indeed. Believe me, I know.

“What else can you tell me, Roosevelt? Anything else I can use?”

“Not a thing, Mike. You’re doing everything you’re supposed to bedoing.

Once you got the confession knocked out, it turned into acircumstantial case. It isn’t an easy one.”

For either side.

He wipes his glasses and gazes at the Yankee Clipper.

“Why don’t you ask for more time? Your client isn’t rotting in jail atthe Hall. Why the hell are you rushing to trial?”

“He won’t listen to reason on that particular subject.”

“So I gather.”

“Any new leads on Vince Russo?”

“Nope. His story went cold at the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Pete thinks a cab driver may have picked him up and driven him to theairport,” I tell him.

“That’s more than we’ve found.”

Great. Just great.

Mort calls me at the office at five o’clock the same afternoon.

“I got a fax from the judge,” he says.

“And?”

“She ruled we can’t call Skipper as a witness at the trial.”

“No big surprise there, Mort.”

“Nope. I was surprised she didn’t rule against us on the spot.”

Four days until trial. On Monday, we start playing for keeps.

CHAPTER 32

OPENING CEREMONIES

“We are extremely confident.”

—michael daley. news center 4. monday, march 16 “I’m scared to death,Rosie,” I say.

“I haven’t been this nervous in a long time.” We’re driving towardRabbi Friedman’s house in a light rain on the morning of Monday, March16. El Ninyo’s giving us a small respite today, but the gray skiesfurther dampen my mood.

“First-day jitters,” she replies.

“You’re like a baseball pitcher. After you make it through the firstinning, you’ll be fine.” We pull into Rabbi Friedman’s driveway. Shegives me a peck on the cheek.

“Go get ‘em,” she says.

“Once the trial starts, there’s no looking back.”

The rabbi meets us at the door. He looks grim. Per my instructions,Joel and his dad are dressed in dark business suits, with white shirtsand subdued ties.

Joel’s mom and Naomi are wearing conservative clothes, no jewelry and aminimal amount of makeup.

I gather everyone in the dining room.

“I know we’ve gone over this,” I say, “but I want to remind you onemore time that trials are theater. It sounds paranoid, but you have toassume everything you say and do will be scrutinized by the jury. Iwant you to act normal, but be careful. An inappropriate gesture couldhave greater impact than you’d think.”

They listen attentively.

“Michael,” says Rabbi Friedman, “are we allowed to show any emotion?”

Tough call. Generally, histrionics don’t play well in the courtroom.They tend to distract the jury and irritate the judge.

“It won’t hurt to shake your head every once in a while. I don’t wantyou to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves. I want to keep thejury focused.

And I don’t want the judge to think we’re trying todisrupt her courtroom.

She’s very businesslike.”

Rosie looks at her watch.

“Time to go,” she says.

Joel and Naomi hold hands in the back of Rosie’s car as we drive to theHall. I can only imagine what’s going through their minds. As Rosiemakes a left onto Bryant, I turn around and face them. He’s stoic,almost serene. She’s tugging her hair.

“It’s going to be all right,” I say.

Joel is silent. Naomi says quietly, “I know.”

We pull into the pay lot next to McDonald’s. Joel’s parents take thespot next to us a moment later. They huddle under a large blackumbrella while Rosie and I pull our trial cases out of the trunk.

Even though it’s now raining steadily, reporters from all the localstations are waiting for us on the front steps of the Hall. The nerdyguy from CNN is here. The arrogant woman from Court TV who’s beencalling me an idiot for the last six weeks has left the comfort of herstudio to insult me in person. A dozen police officers form a humanbarricade for us. The cameras and reporters follow us. It starts torain harder. We’re pelted with questions and rain as we push our wayto the doors.

“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re discussing a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is your client going to take the stand?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re going, to have a surprise witness?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

As we reach the door, I turn back and face the nearest camera. Channel7

will get the best footage tonight. Two dozen microphones are held upto my face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “we are extremely confident Mr.

Friedmanwill be fully exonerated of these outrageous charges.” I turn and walkinto the building. Reporters continue shouting questions to my back.

Mort is waiting for us inside. We make our way through the metaldetectors and up the elevators. Police mill around. Security istight. As I turn to open the heavy wooden doors to Judge Chen’scourtroom, I see Skipper’s smiling countenance as he strides forcefullytoward us, reporters nipping at his heels.

If he’s nervous, he isn’t showing it. It’s sound-bite time. I can’thear what he’s saying, but I’m sure he’s extolling the strength of hiscase and his faith in the criminal justice system. I catch his eye.It’s opening day. Let’s play the National Anthem and start the game.

The small, windowless courtroom is packed. The roar is deafening. Thehot, heavy air smells of mildew. Umbrellas and raincoats are strewnabout.

McNulty and two law clerks lug in four trial bags. Skipper andMcNulty take their places at the prosecution table near the jury box.Joel sits between Rosie and me at the defense table and Mort sits atthe end. Mort has his game face on. He sits quietly, looking forwardintently. His eyes are moving constantly. He’s looking for any nuanceor advantage.

The gallery is full. Naomi and her in-laws are in the first row,directly behind us. Diana’s mother sits right behind Skipper. Thecourtroom artists have their sketch pads poised. Reporters andonlookers crowd into the remaining seats.

Judge Chen’s bailiff is an older black woman named Harriet Hill.

Atprecisely ten o’clock, she instructs us to stand. The judge hurries toher tall leather chair on the bench and nods to Skipper, and then tome. Her hair is pulled back tightly. She calls for order. Thecourtroom becomes silent.

“Any lastminute issues?” she asks.

“No, Your Honor,” Skipper and I say almost in unison.

“Good.” She’s trying to set a businesslike tone.

“Let’s get started.”

To the great chagrin of the media, we will spend the first few days,and perhaps weeks, of the trial picking a jury. Like most triallawyers, I believe cases are won or lost during jury selection.Unfortunately, picking a jury is the most important and leastscientific part of the entire enterprise. Jury consultants get paidhundreds of thousands of dollars to identify personality traits andbiases gleaned from juror questionnaires that may not have beenanswered honestly. Some jury consultants claim they can help you picka sympathetic jury just by watching the body language of the potentialjurors. At the end of the day, you go with hunches and gut instinctsas much as demographics.

Picking a jury is more difficult than it used to be. In June of 1991,California voters passed Proposition 115, which gave judges, ratherthan the prosecutors and defense attorneys, the authority to questionprospective jurors during the voir dire. Before Prop. 115, juryselection in a capital case could take months. With the judges askingthe questions, the process tends to go much more quickly. Lawyers canstill give the judge a list of questions we want asked—which the judgeis free to ignore. Although Judge Chen has promised to give us someleeway, she reminds us that she’ll be asking the questions.

Skipper has hired one of the jury consultants from the Simpson trial,who’s appeared on CNN from time to time. My jury consultant, BarbaraChilds, has been on Ted Koppel’s show. I suspect the battle of theconsultants will end up about even.

The best thing about jury selection is that it tends to bore the mediato tears.

The judge asks the same questions of a large group of peoplefor days on

end. Occasionally, the lawyers get to stand up and make aspeech to try to have a juror excused. After a few preliminaries,Judge Chen tells Harriet Hill to bring in the first panel of potentialjurors.

Thursday, March 19. Three days later, we’re still at it. Thefirst-day media blitz has died down. Although the local TV stationsare still sending reporters to monitor the proceedings, we’ve beenrelegated to the third page of the Chronicle and the fourth story inthe local news broadcasts. We get a little more play on CNN everynight. Everybody will be back once we’ve picked the jury.

We must select twelve jurors and six alternates. So far, we’ve managedto select nine jurors. I’m having a tougher time than Skipper. He’slooking for people who hate lawyers. That includes about 99 percent ofthe population.

Skipper wants people who have had a bad experience with the legalsystem, who might take out their hostility on Joel. I’m trying toavoid anybody who’s ever been arrested, divorced or sued. That doesn’tleave much. I like his odds better.

According to my consultant, I should try to fill the jury with women,because they’re more open-minded. On the other hand, they tend to turnquickly in cases where a woman is a victim, especially if the accusedis a man. So much for statistics.

By three o’clock on Thursday, we’ve picked our twelve jurors and sixalternates. Judge Chen has kept the process moving. We’ve finishedsooner than I would have predicted.

The jury is a mixed bag. Eight women and four men. Two of the womenare Asian, one black. One man is Asian, another Hispanic. Seven aremarried and three have been divorced. Two are lawyers. The blackwoman is a supervisor for the phone company. I have a hunch she’ll beone of the leaders. I tried to get her excused because she wasdivorced. Judge Chen ruled against me. There are two homemakers, aretired Muni bus driver, a data-entry clerk, a hotel clerk and anaccountant. How they’ll react is anybody’s guess.

After the last juror is seated, Judge Chen looks at her watch and turnsto Skipper.

“I trust you’ll be ready to begin your opening statement tomorrow?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

Back at the office the same evening, Barbara Childs congratulates mefor picking a terrific jury. Her words ring hollow. What else wouldshe say?

After she leaves, I get a more realistic view from Rosie andMort.

“Could be worse,” Mort says.

Rosie agrees with him.

“We’ve done the best we could,” she says.

“It’s a crap shoot

She’s right. All the studies and all the empirical research gostraight out the window when you’re in a courtroom picking a jury. It’sa feeling you never get used to. Your client’s life is in the hands oftwelve strangers. You never know if you’ve picked twelve MotherTeresas or twelve Jack the Rippers.

“Which ones did you like the best?” I ask.

Mort clutches his cigar.

“You should get a pretty good shake from the two lawyers. I think theaccountant will be okay.” He shrugs.

“Tough to tell with the rest of them.”

Rosie adds, “I think the Asian women and the Hispanic man will beconscientious.”

“Anybody you didn’t like?”

They look at each other.

“I wasn’t happy with the phone company supervisor,” Rosie replies.

“She looks like she has a chip on her shoulder.” Mort puts his cigarin his mouth.

“I wasn’t crazy about her, either,” he At eleven-thirty that night, I’mat home watching the legal analysts on CNN dissect our jury. Asalways, the panel of eight “experts” sits in two rows of bleacher seatson one side of the studio, fielding questions from the strident womanwith the bad hair and the wormy guy with the bad glasses. Theirprogram looks like a pregame show for a football game. You know you’vemade the big time when your trial has its own graphics and theme song.The voice of James Earl Jones intones that we’re watching coverage of“Special Circumstances: The Law Firm Murder Trial.”

After voting 6-2 in favor of Skipper’s juryselection acumen, thepeople in the bleachers turn to the TV monitor in the middle of thestudio and begin a heated discussion with a jury consultant from theMenendez case, who seems to have a television studio in her home. Thecamera pans back. It looks very odd to see the two hosts and the eightpanelists talking to the woman’s head.

“Mr. Gates clearly got the better of the juryselection process,” saysthe

disembodied head.

“Asians are good prosecution jurors. They like order. On the otherhand, the Hispanic man has probably had trouble with the law. I’m surehe’ll be sympathetic to the defense.”

It’s frightening to observe how these people think. She should knowbetter.

It was revealed in the voir dire that the Hispanic man is asenior vice president at Chevron and lives in the most expensive cornerof the ritzy Seacliff neighborhood. He’s a big contributor to theRepublican party.

“The black woman,” she continues, “will almost certainly favor thedefense.

I’m sure she’s had friends or relatives hassled by the cops.She’s probably going to give the defendant a pretty fair shake.”

I’m not so sure. The woman’s husband is a cop. If the disembodiedhead had been paying attention during the voir dire, she would haveknown this.

The female host interrupts her.

“Don’t you think the jurors will be predisposed against Mr.

Friedmanbecause he’s a lawyer?”

The consultant smiles.

“Absolutely. That’s the big wild card. Most people think lawyers getaway with murder every day.” Raucous laughter. They take another votebefore they go to commercial. This time it’s unanimous. The jury isclearly going to be on Skipper’s side.

I flip to CNBC. Marcia dark is lecturing on the strength of Skipper’scase. I turn off the TV and run through my opening statement one moretime.

Friday morning arrives with a driving rainstorm. The minicams arelined up on Bryant and umbrellas blanket the front steps of the Hall.We push our way through the crowd and march up to the courtroom.Reporters surround Skipper outside the door. We have barely enoughtime to take off our raincoats when Harriet Hill instructs us to rise.Judge Chen walks briskly to her chair. She asks Harriet Hill to bringin the jury. She greets them warmly and says they’ll have theprivilege of hearing opening statements today.

Without another word,she turns to Skipper.

“You may begin your opening statement, Mr. Gates.”

He stands and buttons the jacket of his navy suit. He walks slowly butforcefully to the lectern, and places a stack of note cards just belowthe small light. He doesn’t look at them. The courtroom is silent.It’s like the moment at the symphony when the conductor raises hisbaton. He nods to the judge and turns to the jury. He scans theirfaces.

“May it please the court,” he begins, “my name is Prentice Gates. I amthe district attorney for the city and county of San Francisco. We arehere today to address a serious matter. A matter of life and death.”

The jurors shift uncomfortably. The phone company supervisor’s eyesmeet Skipper’s. Judge Chen watches intently. I focus on the jury.Joel swallows.

Skipper leaves the lectern and walks slowly toward the jury. They sizeeach other up. He takes his gold pen from his breast pocket and pointstoward enlarged color photos of Bob and Diana, which sit on an easelplaced in front of the jury box.

“We are here today because of these two people. Robert Holmes andDiana Kennedy. I knew both of them. They were colleagues of mine.They were my friends.”

I could stand up now and object because he’s supposed to stick to thefacts in his opening. On the other hand, it’s considered bad form tointerrupt. I stay quiet.

“We are here today because of that man sitting over there.” He pointsat Joel.

“We will show you evidence that the defendant knowingly and willfully,with malice aforethought, killed Diana Kennedy and Robert Holmes.”

McNulty has coached him well. Skipper is always going to refer to Joelas

“the defendant.” It’s easier for the jury to convict a nameless“defendant.” I remind myself to refer to Joel by name.

Skipper spends twenty minutes expressing his outrage and disappointmentthat a member of the legal profession and his former colleague wouldhave taken the lives of two respected attorneys. Joel stares straightahead. Skipper holds up his right index finger melodramatically andsays, “I want you to remember these two pictures. Bob Holmes and DianaKennedy can’t speak for themselves. We can’t undo the pain suffered bytheir families. But we can bring their killer to justice. We have tospeak for them.”

I stand slowly.

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I say.

“Would you please remind Mr.

Gates that opening statements should stick to the evidence? There willbe time at the end for closing arguments.”

She looks at Skipper.

“Mr. Gates,” she says, “please keep to the facts.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he replies. He turns back to the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he continues, “we’re going to show youincontrovertible evidence that places the defendant at the scene of thecrime.” He goes on to describe the physical evidence for about fortyminutes. The jurors sit quietly. He’s finding his rhythm.

“In addition,” he says, “we will present evidence that the defendantwas having an affair with Diana Kennedy.” Murmuring in the back of thecourtroom. I glance at Naomi. Our eyes meet.

“When the relationship soured and the defendant found out that Ms.Kennedy was romantically involved with Mr.

Holmes, he became enraged.

“The defendant was also angry at Mr. Holmes because the defendant waspassed up for election to the partnership at the Simpson and Gates lawfirm.” He clears his throat.

“Imagine. He killed another human being because he didn’t makepartner.”

Rabbi Friedman looks down. Joel remains stoic.

“Finally,” Skipper says, “I realize there are many people who aren’tparticularly enamored of members of the legal profession.” A couple ofjurors nod.

“But,” he continues, “I want to make something clear to you. The legalprofession is not on trial here. The defendant is. It’s my job toshow you enough evidence to give you the tools that you need toconvict. I will give you those tools.

“You’ll be hearing today from Mr. Daley, who is the defendant’sattorney.

It’s his job to try to confuse you. It’s his job to try toput doubts in your mind.

I’m saying this not as an indictment or criticism of Mr. Daley. It’sjust the way our system works.”

That’s not entirely true. He is, in fact, saying it as an indictmentand a criticism of me.

“I ask you to use your common sense.” He points to the pictures of Boband Diana.

“Above all, I want you to keep these pictures in mind. I need yourhelp to find justice for Bob and Diana.”

He makes eye contact with each of them. He walks past the easel andlooks at the pictures of Bob and Diana. He unbuttons his jacket andsits down.

Judge Chen turns to me.

“Mr. Daley, will you be making an opening statement today?” We havethe option of deferring our opening statement until after theprosecution has completed its case. If I wait, I can tailor my openingto address issues raised in Skipper’s case. On the other hand, it maybe several weeks before the jury hears me say anything of substance.We’ve agreed that if Skipper opens strong, I’ll make our opening today.I glance at Rosie and Mort.

They both nod.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we’ll be giving our opening statement today.”

I stand up and button my jacket. I walk toward them and look each onein the eye, one at a time. I move almost to the edge of the jury box.I like to start close to them. In a quiet, conversational tone, Ibegin by saying, “My name is Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman,who has been unjustly accused of a terrible crime he didn’t commit.”

Skipper could leap up right now and demand that I stick to theevidence.

Fortunately, McNulty’s told him to stay in his chair. I’m going totake advantage of it while I can.

“Joel Friedman is an honest, hardworking man with a wonderful wife andtwo young children. His life has been turned upside down because hehappened to be at the office doing his job on the night two peopledied.

Imagine what it must be like when the police come to your houseand arrest you in front of your wife, your parents and your childrenfor two murders you didn’t commit. What do you tell your wife? Whatdo you tell your parents?” I pause.

“What do you tell your kids?

“That’s why we’re here. Mr. Gates is absolutely right that this is avery serious matter. It isn’t the slightest exaggeration to say it isa matter of life and death. I need your help. I need you to sort outwhat happened. I need you to sift through the evidence so we canfigure out the truth—together.

In our system, Mr. Gates is required to prove his case beyond areasonable doubt. That’s a tough standard.” I pause.

“After you hear the evidence you’re going to come to a simpleconclusion.

He can’t do it.”

I get the hint of agreement from the accountant.

“You’ll hear Joel was in the office that night. You’ll find out hephoned Diana Kennedy and asked her to return to the office. You’llhear he left an angry voicemail message for Bob Holmes. All of thesethings are true.” I

describe the fingerprints on the gun. I arguethat they got there when Joel unloaded the gun. I claim they can’tprove he pulled the trigger.

“Mr. Gates is going to introduce circumstantial evidence to show thatJoel Friedman and Diana Kennedy were having an affair. He’s going toclaim that she broke up with him and initiated a romantic relationshipwith Mr.

Holmes. There was, in fact, no such affair between JoelFriedman and Diana Kennedy. It didn’t happen.”

I spend thirty minutes trying to cast doubt on every piece of evidence,liberally using the words “shaky,”

“contrived” and “convoluted.” I think the jury is with me. I glanceat Rosie, who blinks twice. It’s my signal to wrap up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “I realize Mr. Gates has suggested toyou that my job is to obfuscate and confuse you. Let’s be realistic.We all saw the Simpson trial. We all know that there are lawyers whowill do just about anything to get their client off.” I move closer tothem.

“I want you to understand something. I’m not that kind of lawyer. Iwill not lie to you. I will not attempt to confuse you. And I willnot, under any circumstances, try to mislead you.”

Actually, I’d try to obfuscate and confuse them in a New York minute ifI thought it would help get Joel off.

“I need you to keep an open mind and review the evidence. I knowthere’s a lot of animosity directed toward lawyers. I would ask younot to take out your feelings toward the legal profession against JoelFriedman. You don’t have to look very far to find cases where justiceisn’t served. In this trial, I would ask you to help me try to makethe system work the way it’s supposed to. When we’re done, I know youwill agree that Joel Friedman is not guilty of these terriblecrimes.”

I sit down. The judge says we’ll break for the weekend.

At nine o’clock the same evening, Rosie and I are watching CNN. Thepanel of experts in the bleachers has proclaimed Skipper the hands-downwinner of opening statements.

“Daley should have waited until after the prosecution’s case to givehis opening,” says the woman with the bad hair.

“Nah,” says the head of the disembodied woman on the TV screen.

“Gates has too much charisma. At least Daley got to the jury beforethe horse was out of the barn.”

The prosecutor from Texas who always wears a Stetson hat in a hot

TVstudio sides with Skipper.

“They should have tried for a plea bargain,” he drawls.

We flip to CNBC.

“If I were in Daley’s shoes,” says Marcia Clark, “I’d be begging theprosecution for a deal.”

Thanks, Marcia. Rosie shuts the TV off.

“Was it that bad?” I ask her.

“You held your own. The prosecution gets to play its good cardsfirst.” I hope she’s right. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

CHAPTER 33

LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS

“The most important thing prosecutors learned from the Simpson trial isto keep your case short and sweet.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. monday, march 23.

The sun makes a cameo appearance for a few minutes on Monday morning.By the time we reach the Hall, it’s raining again. We push our waypast the ever-present TV cameras.

We take our seats at the defense table. Joel asks, “Who do you thinkthey’ll call first?”

The conventional wisdom is that prosecutors build their case one pieceat a time. They have to prove the defendant was there. They have toprove he had opportunity. They have to show he had contact with themurder weapon.

And they have to show motive. Piece by piece. Blockby block. If all the blocks don’t fit, the defendant walks. It’s thatsimple.

“They’ll probably start with the first officer on the scene and worktheir way through the physical evidence,” I reply.

“It lays the foundation for their entire case.”

Harriet Hill calls for order and instructs us to rise. Judge Chentakes her seat on the bench and pounds her gavel. She looks atSkipper.

“Are you ready to call your first witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Harriet Hill brings in the jury.

Skipper straightens his tie.

“The people call Officer Paul Chinn.”

It’s not a bad place to start. He was the first officer at thescene.

The young police officer’s uniform is freshly pressed. He walks to thefront

of the courtroom and is sworn in. His demeanor is stoic. Copsare trained to stay calm. Some are better at it than others. My dadused to hate going to court.

“Officer Chinn,” Skipper begins, “were you the first officer to arriveat the Simpson and Gates offices on the morning of Decemberthirty-first?”

“Yes, sir,” he says a little too quickly.

“I arrived at eight-twelve a.m. I responded to a nine-one-onedispatch.” His delivery is a little wooden but the tone isstraightforward. Juries pay close attention to the early witnesses.

Then they start to get bored. Chinn says he was met by Chuckles in thelobby.

In response to Chinn’s preliminary questions, Chuckles said nobody wasin danger. Then he escorted Chinn to Bob’s office, where Joel waswaiting outside.

Skipper nods to McNulty, who places an enlarged diagram of Bob’s officeon the easel in front of the jury. Skipper has Chinn identify it as adiagram of the crime scene. Skipper turns to Judge Chen and requeststhat the diagram be introduced as an exhibit.

She looks at me.

“No objection, Your Honor,” I say. I’m glad they’ve decided to use adiagram instead of the crime-scene photos. I’m sure these will comelater.

“Officer Chinn,” he continues, “would you mind showing us where thebodies were found?”

Chinn leaves the stand and walks to the diagram. He uses a Bic pen topoint to the places on the floor where the bodies were found. Skipperwalks him through a brief tour of the scene. Then Skipper picks up arevolver wrapped in clear plastic from the evidence cart.

“Officer,” he says, “do you recognize this?”

“Yes. It’s the weapon I found on the desk of Mr. Holmes.”

At least he didn’t call it the murder weapon.

Next Skipper has him identify the three spent shell casings and thethree unused bullets that were sitting on the desk when he arrived.

“Where did you find the casings and the bullets?”

“On the desk.”

“Did that seem odd to you?”

“Yes. I would have thought the bullets would have been in the gun.”

“Do you know how the bullets got on the desk?”

I’m up.

“Objection. Calls for speculation. Officer Chinn has no personalknowledge of how the bullets made their way to the desk.” It’s good toget your first objection out of the way.

“Sustained.”

Skipper says, “I’ll rephrase. Did the defendant explain to you how thecasings and the bullets found their way to the desk?”

Chinn responds, “The defendant said he unloaded the gun after he foundthe bodies. He directed me to the casings and the bullets.” His toneis measured.

Skipper scowls. Not the answer he wanted.

“Did you see the defendant unload the gun?”

“No.”

Skipper glances at the jury.

“Was the defendant acting suspiciously?”

“Objection. The question goes to the defendant’s state of mind.” Well,not exactly, but I’m going to try to break up Skipper’s rhythm while Ican.

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “I’m not asking Officer Chinn to read thedefendant’s mind. I’m simply asking for his observations of thedefendant’s behavior immediately following the incident.”

“Overruled.”

Chinn looks at Joel.

“The defendant was agitated and extremely upset.”

Skipper is pleased.

“And did you have any basis to conclude that the defendant may have hadany involvement in the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy otherthan as a witness?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

I’m going to take my shots while I can. Skipper is going to get thehang of this sooner or later.

Skipper strokes his chin.

“Officer, after you found the bodies, the murder weapon, the bulletsand shells, what did you do?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for the characterization of the gunas the

‘murder’ weapon.”

“Sustained.” She turns to the jury and says, “The jury will disregardthe characterization of the revolver as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

Sure they will. Skipper rephrases the question, leaving out the word“murder.”

Officer Chinn says he followed standard procedure; he secured the sceneand called for reinforcements. He describes the arrival of the policeand the paramedics, followed by the technicians from the coroner’soffice, the police photographers and the homicide inspectors.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Not a bad direct exam for a guy who’s never done it before. And not abad performance by a young cop who’s batting leadoff in his first bigcase.

“Officer Chinn,” I say calmly, as I stand, “you’ve told us you foundthe revolver, the spent shells and the unused bullets on the desk ofMr. Holmes.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you’ve testified Mr. Friedman told you he unloaded the gun.”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why he unloaded the gun?”

“He said he did it to protect the safety of the other members of thefirm.”

“I see. That’s an admirable goal, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point.

“Officer, did you have any reason to disbelieve Mr.

Friedman when he told you he had disarmed the revolver?”

Chinn looks helplessly at Skipper.

“No,” he replies.

“Did you see any evidence on his hands or clothing that suggested hefired the gun?”

“It would have been very difficult to see any such evidence with thenaked eye, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But did you see any such evidence?”

“No, sir.” It’s generally a good sign when the witness starts callingyou “sir.”

“And did you collect any samples of tissue or clothing from Mr.Friedman to obtain evidence that he did, in fact, fire the gun?”

He scratches his cheek.

“No, sir.”

“So you have no personal knowledge as to whether he fired the gun?”

Skipper stands.

“Asked and answered, Your Honor.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Daley.” I was wondering how long she’dlet me go.

“Officer, you testified that you secured the scene.”

“That’s right.”

“So nobody could have left the Simpson and Gates suite once youarrived, correct?”

“That’s true.”

“You secured the elevators?”

“Yes.”

“And the stairs?”

“Yes.”

I give him an inquisitive look.

“You were the only officer at the scene when you arrived, right?”

His eyes dart toward Skipper.

“Yes.”

“And you were able to secure six elevators and two internal stairwaysall by yourself?”

He looks perplexed.

“Other officers arrived right away. We secured the scene as soon aspossible.”

“What about the freight elevator?”

“We secured it.”

“When?”

He purses his lips.

“When the other officers arrived.”

“So, Officer, it is possible that any number of people could have fledthe scene on the elevators or the stairs or the freight elevator beforeadditional officers arrived, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Officer Chinn looks troubled.

“I suppose that’s possible.”

So far, so good.

“Officer, you testified Mr. Friedman was agitated and upset when youarrived.”

“That’s correct.”

“How long have you been on the force?”

He looks away. He seems to be adding it up in his head.

“Three and a half years.”

“How many times have you been the first officer at the scene of analleged homicide?”

“This was the second time.”

“How many dead bodies have you seen in three and a half years?”

“Objection,” Skipper says.

“I fail to see any relevance.”

Judge Chen looks impatient.

“Overruled.”

“I’ve seen three dead bodies,” Chinn replies.

I get right in front of him.

“Officer Chinn, in your experience, when you arrive at the scene ofthe homicide, isn’t it usually the case that the people are upset?”

“Yes.”

“And isn’t it true that the people who are most upset are often thepeople who found the body?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t it be fair to say that Mr. Friedman’s reaction was notunusual in the circumstances?”

Skipper should object. I’m shamelessly asking him to speculate.

“That’s fair,” Chinn says.

Gotcha.

“One last thing. When you arrived, you were met by Mr. Stern, whotold you nobody was in danger.”

“That’s correct.”

“Officer,” I say, “you arrived within minutes after Mr. Sterndiscovered the bodies. How did he know there wasn’t a killer on theloose in the Simpson and Gates office?”

Chinn looks at Skipper and then at McNulty.

“I guess he assumed nobody was in danger because he found the murderweapon on the desk of Mr. Holmes.”

“Move to strike the word ‘murder’ from Officer Chinn’s testimony.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the characterization of the weaponas the

‘murder’ weapon.”

“Officer Chinn,” I continue, “isn’t it possible that Mr. Stern knewthat nobody was in danger because he knew Mr. Holmes had committedsuicide?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Isn’t it possible Mr. Stern knew that nobody was in danger because heknew who the real killer was? And the real killer may have even beenhim?”

Murmurs in the back of the courtroom.

“Objection. Speculative.”

Judge Chen pounds her gavel.

“The objection is sustained.” She points her gavel toward thegallery.

“If there are any other disruptions, I will clear this courtroom.”

“I have no further questions of this witness, Your Honor,” I say.

“You took him apart,” Joel says as we take a short break after Chirm’stestimony. We’re in the consultation room behind Judge Chen’scourtroom.

“He’s a kid, Joel. He’s just a table-setter.”

“Still,” he says, “you made him contradict his story. That’s good.”

I get a more realistic view from Mort.

“Nice cross,” he says.

“The jury seems to like you.”

“We have a long way to go,” Rosie observes.

After the brief recess, Skipper calls Sandra Wilson. She spends thenext hour describing how she meticulously gathered every shred ofevidence in Bob’s office and Diana’s apartment. Skipper is doing it bythe book. He’s confirming to the jury that there are nochain-of-custody issues. He’s introducing all the evidence he’ll needlater in the trial. She describes how she handled and catalogued therevolver, the spent shells and the unused bullets. She confirms therevolver was registered to Bob. She identifies the keyboard. Iinterrupt periodically. Realistically, I’m not going to win anybattles with Sandra on the stand. Pete and I looked at every piece ofevidence. There’s no point in making an ass of myself while she’stestifying. It will only piss off the phone company supervisor.

I ask a few perfunctory questions on cross. I want to get her off thestand as fast as I can.

After lunch, Skipper raises the stakes. Marcus Banks looks ready forbattle

as he strides confidently to the front of the courtroom. Afterhe’s sworn in, Skipper picks up a neatly labeled cassette tape from theevidence cart.

“Inspector,” he says, “do you recognize this?”

Banks nods solemnly.

“Yes. It’s a recording of a message left on Diana Kennedy’s answeringmachine at approximately twelve-fifty-one a.m. on Decemberthirty-first.”

“And could you describe the contents of the message?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Overruled.” I’m not surprised. I know she’s going to let themintroduce the tapes into evidence. We’ve fought this battle andlost.

“The message was from the defendant. He asked Ms. Kennedy to returnto the office.”

Nice response. Straightforward. Noninflammatory. I can seeMcNulty’s influence. They’re going to build their case carefully.They don’t need theatrics—yet.

“Inspector, did the defendant sound agitated or upset in themessage?”

“Objection. Asks for Mr. Friedman’s state of mind.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper introduces the tape into evidence. He asks the judge forpermission to play it to the jury. Judge Chen gives me an inquisitiveglance.

“Your Honor,” I say, “the defense renews its objection to having thistape entered into evidence.” She won’t go for it. I’m stating it forthe record so we can challenge her decision on appeal. She knows it.

“We’ve been over this before, Mr. Daley. Your motion is denied.”

“The defense therefore requests that Your Honor instruct the jury toconsider the fact that this tape is being played in the absence ofcontext.”

Skipper says, “Your Honor, we believe the tape speaks for itself.”

Judge Chen looks at the jurors.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “you are about to hear a recording ofa conversation between Mr. Friedman and Ms.

Kennedy. You should consider the fact that you have not been giveninformation concerning the context in which this recording was made.”

Skipper hands the cassette to McNulty, who puts it into the tapeplayer. The courtroom becomes silent. The jurors all focus on thetape player. The heated voices of Joel and Diana resonate in thecourtroom. Joel closes his

eyes.

Naomi’s lips form a tight line across her face.

The tape ends. Skipper turns back to Banks.

“Were you able to identify the voices?”

“Objection. Inspector Banks has not been qualified as a voice-recognition expert.”

“Overruled.”

“The male voice was that of the defendant,” Banks says.

“The female voice was that of the victim, Ms. Kennedy.”

They go through a similar exercise for the voicemail message from Joelto Bob.

“Inspector Banks,” Skipper says, “do you believe Mr. Friedman wasangry enough at the time these tapes were made to kill two people?”

I’m up like a shot.

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative. State of mind.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the last question.”

Oh, sure. Skipper smiles.

“No further questions,” he says.

I stand up right away.

“Inspector Banks,” I say, “you weren’t present when these telephoneconversations were recorded, were you?”

“Of course not.”

“So you don’t really know why Mr. Friedman called Ms. Kennedy, doyou?”

He looks indignant.

“It’s obvious. He was angry at her.”

I deserved that.

“Inspector, are you aware that Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Friedman wereworking on a very large transaction?”

“Yes.”

“And they were under a lot of pressure to close that transaction thenext morning and that millions of dollars were riding on the successfulclosing?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Overruled.” It’s okay to lead on cross. McNulty whispers toSkipper.

“Isn’t it possible Mr. Friedman called Ms. Kennedy because he neededhelp on the deal?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

“I don’t think so,” he repeats.

He isn’t going to budge.

“Inspector, let’s talk about Mr. Friedman’s voicemail message to Mr.Holmes. Are you aware that Mr. Friedman was told that he wasn’t goingto make partner that night?”

“Yes.”

“And do you believe that Mr. Friedman was upset about that?”

“Yes.”

“If you’d worked for eight years to try to make partner, you’d probablyhave been upset, too.”

He shrugs.

“But you’ve interpreted Mr. Friedman’s voicemail message to Mr.Holmes as a threat.”

“Yes. I think it’s obvious.”

“Let me ask you this, Inspector. Have you ever worked in a lawfirm?”

“No.”

“But you’ve spent a lot of time around lawyers, right?”

He smiles sardonically.

“More than I’d care to,” he says.

“And you know a little bit about how lawyers think, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Can we get to the point?”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen rotates her hands like a basketball refereemaking a traveling call.

“Speed it up, Mr. Daley.”

“Inspector, lawyers sometimes say things just for effect, or just tomake a point, right?”

“Right. Kind of like right now, right, Mr. Daley?”

Touche.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Lawyers sometimes take exaggeratedpositions just as a negotiating tactic, don’t they, Inspector?”

“That’s true.”

“And isn’t it possible, Inspector, that Mr. Friedman’s voice-mailmessage to Mr.

Holmes was, in fact, lawyerly posturing?”

“Not the way I heard it.”

“But, it’s possible, isn’t it, Inspector?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on. Inspector. Be reasonable.”

Skipper stands up and objects in a measured tone.

“Your Honor, Inspector Banks has answered Mr. Daley’s question.”

The hell he has.

“Sustained.”

I’ve gone as far as I can.

“No further questions.”

Joel isn’t happy about my crossexam of Banks. We’re in theconsultation room during the break.

“Jesus, Mike,” he says, “couldn’t you have nailed Banks?”

Mort sticks up for me.

“Banks wasn’t going to move an inch. Mike got him to look like astubborn jerk. It’s the best we could do.”

Thanks, Mort.

Joel scowls.

“Maybe Mort should take a few witnesses.”

Mort looks pleased. I turn back to Joel.

“The prosecutor always looks good at the beginning,” I say.

“We have to chip away at their case a little at a time.”

He tosses a crumpled paper cup into the trash and doesn’t respond.

CHAPTER 34

I AM THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER FOR THE CITY AND

COUNTY OF SAN

FRANCISCO

“Dr. Beckert has testified at hundreds of murder trials. Histestimony will undoubtedly be very damaging to the defendant’s case.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. monday, march 23.

At three o’clock the same afternoon, Skipper stands and says in a clearvoice, “The people call Dr. Roderick Beckert.”

Beckert nods to the judge as he walks confidently to the front of thecourtroom. The college-professor tweed jacket that was hanging on thecoatrack in his office has been replaced with a charcoal-gray businesssuit and a burgundy tie. He’s the living embodiment of the voice ofauthority.

Skipper stands at the lectern. He doesn’t want to crowd Beckert.

“Would you please state your name and occupation for the record?”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert.” The hint of a smile. He closes his eyes andslowly

reopens them.

“I am the chief medical examiner for the city and county of SanFrancisco.”

He nods, as if to reassure himself that he is, in fact,who he says he is.

“I’ve held the position for twenty-seven years.”

Skipper begins to run Beckert through his credentials. I stop himalmost immediately and stipulate to his expertise. There’s no point ingiving Skipper twenty minutes of free time to wave Beckert’s diplomasin front of the jury.

“Dr. Beckert,” Skipper says, “did you perform autopsies on the bodiesof Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy on January first of this year?”

“Yes.”

“And would you be kind enough to describe the results of thoseautopsies?”

He smiles politely and turns slightly toward the jury.

“Of course, Mr. Gates.”

He says Bob and Diana died of gunshot wounds, his to the head, hers tothe chest. Time of death between one and four a.m. He explains thatDiana was two months pregnant and that the unborn fetus also died. Histone is conversational, yet forceful. I let him drone on for a fewminutes about body temperature, lividity and discoloration before Iinterrupt him and stipulate that we’ll agree to his determination onthe range he has established for the time of death. The jury alreadybelieves him. It’s not to our advantage to let him build empathy.

On cue, McNulty trots out a poster-size version of one of the photosBeckert showed me in his office. We tried to keep it out.

“Doctor,” Skipper says, “what is this a picture of?”

“It’s the left side of the head of the victim, Robert Holmes.”

“Doctor, would you please describe the gunshot wound that killed Mr.Holmes?”

“Of course. Entry through the right parietal, just above the righttemple. It severed the cerebral cortex and pierced the mesencephalon,or midbrain, before exiting through the left parietal lobe and the leftparietal bone of the skull, just above the left ear.” In other words,Beckert explains that the gun was placed against Bob’s right temple andshot laterally through his head, causing instantaneous death as thebullet passed through the midbrain structure.

The courtroom is completely silent.

“Doctor, would you mind pointing out to the jury the exit wound thatyou

just described?”

“Of course.” Beckert climbs down off the witness stand and walks tothe easel holding the picture. He takes out his pen and points at thearea just behind Bob’s left ear.

“Dr. Beckert,” Skipper continues, “was there another wound to thehead?”

“Yes, Mr. Gates.” Beckert points toward the area above Bob’s leftear, just above the edge of the exit wound.

“Right here, on the parietal bone, there’s a small hematoma, orconcussive injury.”

“Objection,” I say.

“I’m afraid we can’t tell what Dr. Beckert is pointing at.”

Judge Chen says, “I’m afraid that I can’t either. Doctor, I’m going tohave to ask you to mark the wound more precisely.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” He pulls a felt-tip marker from his pocketand he draws a circle on the picture.

“Right here, Your Honor.”

Judge Chen nods.

“Thank you, Dr. Beckert.”

Skipper studies the picture.

“Doctor,” he says, “would you mind describing the concussive wound ingreater detail?”

“Yes. Mr. Holmes suffered a blow to the head, which caused ahematoma, or bump, to the parietal bone of his skull. Based upon theswelling and the freshness of the wound, I believe he was knockedunconscious shortly before he died. It’s similar to a blow suffered bya football player in a helmet-to-helmet collision.”

“Is it possible he was killed by the concussive blow?”

“It’s unlikely. There was trauma to the skull, but not enough to killa healthy male.”

“Why would somebody go to all the trouble of knocking him out beforethey shot him?”

“Objection. Speculative. Dr. Beckert is a pathologist, not aclairvoyant.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Doctor, do you have a theory as to why someone wouldhave knocked Mr. Holmes unconscious and then shot him momentslater?”

“Objection. Still speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Doctor, does it appear to you that the killer was attempting to makethis look like a suicide?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen glares as Skipper.

“That’s enough, Mr. Gates.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I don’t wait.

“Dr. Beckert, can you show me this alleged concussive wound one moretime?”

He walks to the easel and points toward the circle he drew a momentago.

“Right here.”

“And you’re one hundred percent sure that mark you just showed me wascaused by someone taking a heavy object and hitting Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. One hundred percent sure.”

“And it is not possible the wound was caused by the bullet thatobliterated much of his head?”

“In my best medical judgment, no.”

“Doctor, did you find any evidence of the object that you claim wasused to strike Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, Doctor, if Mr. Holmes was hit with a piece of wood or a pieceof metal, you may have found fragments of wood or metal or perhapspaint in the wound.

Did you find any such evidence?”

“No,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Excuse me?”

“How is it possible that somebody hit Mr. Holmes hard enough to knockhim unconscious, yet you found no evidence of the object?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert shakes his head.

“He must have been hit with an object that didn’t leave any traces.”

“I see.” I pause.

“Doctor, you will recall that the body was found on the floor.”

“That’s correct.”

“Is it possible the concussive wound was caused by Mr. Holmes hittinghis

head on his desk as he slumped to the floor?”

He furrows his brow.

“No, Mr. Daley.”

“Why not?” I’m taking a bit of a chance here.

“Mr. Holmes died instantly. The hematoma was fairly well developed.If he’d hit his head on his desk after he’d been shot, there would havebeen no bump on his head.” He explains that bumps are formed by bloodrushing to the injured area.

When you die, your heart stops beating and your body is thereforeincapable of pumping enough blood to create a bump.

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “you can hit a cadaver as many times as you’dlike, but you can’t generate a bump on its head.

As a result, I concluded that Mr. Holmes was very much alive when hewas struck on the head.”

I’m sorry I asked. I pick up a copy of his autopsy report from theevidence cart.

“Doctor, do you recognize this report?”

“Yes. It’s my autopsy report on Mr. Holmes.”

“Right.” I hand it to him.

“You dictate these reports as you conduct your autopsy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, could you please turn to page fourteen.”

He puts on his glasses. He flips through the report.

“I’ve found it, Mr.

Daley.”

“Doctor, would you please confirm that page fourteen describes theconcussive wound.”

He studies it quickly.

“Yes, it does, Mr. Daley.”

“And would you be kind enough to read the portion of the report that Ihighlighted?”

“Of course.

“Approximately three centimeters from the top of the exit wound, thereappears to be a small concussive wound on the parietal bone of theskull.

The wound appears relatively fresh.”

” “And those were your exact words, Doctor?”

He looks serious.

“Yes, Mr. Daley. Those were my exact words as I dictated them.”

“At the time you dictated your notes, were you looking at Mr.

Holmes’shead?”

Skipper stands, then sits down. He probably could object, but he can’tfigure out a reason.

“Of course I was looking at his head,” Beckert replies with a hint ofirritation in his voice.

“Well, Doctor, when you were looking at Mr. Holmes’s head, youdescribed what ‘appears’ to be a ‘small concussive wound’ that is‘relatively’ fresh.

Yet, a moment ago, you testified that you were onehundred percent sure that it was, in fact, a concussive wound and itwas most certainly fresh. How did your tentative observation turn intosuch an absolute conclusion?”

He pouts.

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “I’ve been a medical examiner for thirty-threeyears.

You read my preliminary observations. I examined the woundmore closely during my more detailed autopsy procedures. The size anddepth of the concussive wound led me to conclude, unequivocally, thatMr. Holmes was struck on the head.”

I glance at the jury.

“How much time elapsed between the day you performed the autopsy andthe day you issued your final report?”

“About a week.”

“And how many times did you look at the body again during thatweek?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? Yet, during the course of a week, your view on theconcussive wound seems to have changed.”

“After reviewing the evidence, I became certain that there was, infact, a concussive wound.”

“And it certainly helps the prosecution’s case if there’s such a wound,right?”

Skipper and McNulty both stand.

“Objection,” Skipper shouts.

“Move to strike.”

“Sustained.”

I turn back to Beckert.

“Could you please read the portion of your report that I’ve highlightedon

page nineteen?”

“

“Chemical residue was found on victim’s right hand.”

” “What sort of chemical residue?”

He stops.

“Gunpowder,” he says slowly.

Judge Chen’s eyes open wide.

I try to look perplexed.

“Gunpowder? There was gunpowder residue on his right hand?”

“Yes.”

“How did it get there?”

Skipper pops up.

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I turn back to Beckert.

“Isn’t it true that when a gun is fired, it emits chemicals, includinggunpowder, traces of which can be found on the hands of the party whofired the gun?”

“Objection. Dr. Beckert isn’t an expert on firearms or chemicalsubstances.”

“Your Honor,” I implore, “Dr. Beckert wrote the seminal textbook onforensic science. Surely he’s capable of answering such a basicquestion.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert pushes his glasses to the top of his head.

“Yes, Mr. Daley. When someone fires a gun, it is possible to findtraces of gunpowder and other chemicals on his hand.”

“Gunpowder traces are one of the first things the police test for onthe hands of a person charged with a shooting, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, Doctor,” I say, “the gunpowder traces on the right hand of Mr.Holmes suggest that it is possible that Mr. Holmes fired the gun thatkilled him.”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes,” he says grudgingly.

“It’s possible. However…”

“In fact, Doctor, the gunpowder traces on the right hand of Mr.

Holmesalmost certainly indicate he did, in fact, fire the gun.”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Skipper leaps up for redirect.

“Doctor, in your best medical judgment, was Mr.

Holmes unconscious when he was killed?”

Yes.

“And how do you account for the gunpowder traces on his right hand?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

He nods as if he expected the question.

“I believe Mr. Holmes was knocked unconscious by a blow to the side ofhis head. I believe someone placed the gun in his right hand andcaused Mr.

Holmes to pull the trigger. It was a clumsy attempt tofake a suicide.”

“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.”

I jump up for one more crack at him. I search for my best tone ofincredulity.

“So, Doctor, it’s your testimony that you think somebody sneaked upbehind Bob Holmes, whacked him on the head, and while he wasunconscious, put a revolver in his hand and caused him to use the samehand to shoot himself.

Is that about it?”

He nods.

“Yes, Mr. Daley,” he says in an even tone.

“That’s about it.”

“You realize that nobody in their right mind would believe such apreposterous scenario.”

Skipper’s up.

“Objection,” he screams.

“Sustained,” Judge Chen snaps.

“Mr. Daley, I don’t want to see any more grandstanding in mycourtroom.

Do you understand?”

I try to sound contrite.

“Yes, Your Honor. No further questions.”

CHAPTER 35

BUILDING BLOCKS

“Prosecutors build their cases one block at a time.”

—CNN’s burden of proof. tuesday, march 24.

It’s the next morning.

“Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Skipper says.

“Edward O’Malley. Ballistics technician, SFPD.”

Ed O’Malley is a forty-seven-year-old civilian scientist who is thedepartment’s ballistics guru. He works in a hermetically sealed areain the basement of the Hall. The police refer to guys like Ed as whitecoats. He can determine with statistical precision whether a bulletwas discharged from a particular weapon.

His demeanor is studious. His tiny, rimless glasses perch on a largenose above a tidy gray mustache. His role in this play will berelatively short.

Skipper runs him through his resume, then picks up the plastic-wrappedrevolver from the evidence cart and holds it up as if it’s the SuperBowl trophy.

“Mr.

O’Malley,” he says, “do you recognize this revolver?”

“Yes.” He pauses.

“That’s the murder weapon.”

I’m up right away.

“Objection. There’s no foundation for Mr. O’Malley’s characterizationof this revolver as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen sighs. We’re starting early today.

“The jury will disregard the characterization of the weapon.” Sheturns to Skipper.

“Try it again, Mr. Gates.”

Skipper leads O’Malley through a detailed description of the revolver.He concludes that it was the weapon that fired the fatal shots. Skippersits down.

There isn’t an iota of doubt in my mind that the bullets were firedfrom this gun. Of course, this doesn’t stop me from trying to plant afew seeds of doubt in the mind of the phone company supervisor.

“Mr. O’Malley,” I say as I stand up, “how long have you been aballistics expert with the department?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Ever been suspended?”

Skipper leaps up.

“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Gates called this witness as an expert. Hisrecord is highly relevant.”

“Overruled.”

O’Malley glances at the clock.

“I was suspended for a week eleven years ago.”

“No further questions.” The jury doesn’t have to know he was suspendedwhen he pled no contest to a DUI charge. One could make a credibleargument that it was wholly unrelated to his credentials as aballistics expert. Skipper doesn’t seem to know about it. If he did,he might try to rehabilitate O’Malley on redirect. On the other hand,he might not.

The jury may not like the idea that his ballisticsexpert was picked up for drunk driving. O’Malley glares at Mort, whohas brought his integrity into question for the second time. Mortfound out about O’Malley’s suspension when he was defending a caseabout five years ago.

His client walked in that case. I hope we get the same result.

“My name is Sergeant Kathleen Jacobsen. I’m an evidence technicianwith the SFPD. I’ve been with the force for twenty-two years.”

Skipper stands at the lectern.

“Do you have a particular area of expertise?”

“Yes. Fingerprints and other chemical and physical evidence.”

KathleenJacobsen is a tall, gray-haired woman in her late fifties with aprofessional demeanor and a commanding aura. One of the first lesbiansto work her way up the ranks, she’s become a nationally known figure onevidentiary matters. Skipper begins to walk her ever so slowlythrough her impressive resume: undergrad at U S C, master’s from U CBerkeley. I stipulate to her expertise. She confirms she was the leadevidence technician in the investigation.

Skipper strolls to the evidence cart, picks up the revolver and paradesit in front of the jury.

“Are you familiar with this weapon?” he asks.

“Yes. It fired the shots that killed the victims, Mr. Holmes and Ms.Kennedy.”

Her authoritative tone is a prosecutor’s dream.

Skipper is pleased. She’s delivered her lines on cue.

“Did you find any fingerprints on this weapon?”

“Yes. The defendant’s.” Her delivery is precise.

They go through the same exercise for the computer keyboard. Sheconfirms that Joel’s fingerprints were found on it, too. Skippersignals to McNulty, who turns on a projector. The suicide E-mailappears on the screen.

“Sergeant, could you please describe the message displayed on thescreen?”

“It’s an E-mail message generated from Mr. Holmes’s computer atone-twenty on the morning of December thirty-first.”

Skipper asks her to read the message out loud. When she finishes, hesays,

“Does that appear to be a suicide message to you, Sergeant?”

“Objection. Sergeant Jacobsen is an expert on evidence, notsuicide.”

“Overruled.”

“I believe it was intended to look like a suicide message. However, itwas obvious the message was a fake. We found the defendant’sfingerprints on the computer keyboard. We believe the defendant typedthe message.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Wouldn’t he have done so to make it appear that Mr. Holmes hadcommitted suicide?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” He’s made his point. McNultyturns off the projector.

I approach her cautiously.

“Sergeant, who was the registered owner of > gun?”

“The victim, Robert Holmes.”

“So Mr. Holmes had a loaded gun in his office on the night he died.”

Jacobsen agrees.

“It would seem that Mr. Holmes had a loaded gun in his office thatnight,”

“Sergeant,” I say, “did you find any fingerprints on theweapon besides Mr.

Friedman’s?”

“Yes. We found smudged fingerprints belonging to the victim, RobertHolmes.”

“On what part of the weapon did you find his fingerprints?”

“On the handle.”

“And could you please show us where you found the fingerprints of Mr.

Friedman?”

“I’d have to review my report.” I introduce her report into evidence.I hand it to her and she studies it. She explains she found Joel’sright thumb and right middle finger, ring finger and pinky on thehandle. His right index finger was on the cylinder.

I hand her the plastic-wrapped revolver.

“Sergeant,” I say, “isn’t it a fact that you didn’t find any of Mr.Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger?”

She looks at Skipper. Then she looks back at me.

“We found smudged fingerprints on the trigger, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But, isn’t it true that you could not positivelyidentify any of Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger?”

“That’s correct.”

That helps.

“And isn’t it possible that the fingerprints of Mr. Friedman’s thatwere found on this weapon were generated while Mr. Friedman wasunloading the weapon, just the way he described it to Officer Chinn?”

Skipper stands up, but doesn’t say anything. If he objects, heundercuts her testimony. She’s supposed to be his expert. She lookshopelessly at Skipper.

“It’s possible,” she says quietly.

I pause to let her answer sink in.

“And isn’t it true that while you may have fingerprint evidence thatMr.

Friedman touched this revolver, you have no hard evidence that heactually fired it?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Skipper’s trying to stop the bleeding.

“Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

She looks right at me.

“That’s true. I can say to an absolute certainty that Mr. Friedmanheld this revolver. I can’t say to an absolute certainty that hepulled the trigger.”

I take the computer keyboard from the evidence cart and ask her toidentify it.

“Would you please tell us which keys had Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints?”I ask.

“All of the alphabetic keys.”

I take a half step back.

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“What about the numeric keys and the function keys?”

“We found his fingerprints on all of the numeric keys and three of thefunction keys.”

I signal to Rosie. She turns on an overhead projector. The suicideEmail flashes up on the screen.

“Sergeant,” I say, “you and Mr. Gates contend this message wasactually typed by Mr. Friedman.”

“That’s correct. The defendant’s fingerprints were found on thekeyboard.”

“I understand.” I pause.

“Did you find the fingerprints of Mr. Holmes on this keyboard?”

She looks at McNulty. He shrugs.

“No, we didn’t.”

“Isn’t it odd you didn’t find Mr. Holmes’s fingerprints on his ownkeyboard?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Sergeant, based on your experience as a fingerprintexpert, wouldn’t you expect to find Mr. Holmes’s fingerprints on hisown computer keyboard?”

She frowns.

“Probably, although we think he may not have been a secretor.” Shepauses.

“In other words, Mr. Holmes didn’t sweat profusely enough to give offa lot of fingerprints.”

Sure.

“But you’ve said you didn’t find any at all.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point.

“You’ve said you found Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on all of thealphabetic keys. Did you stop to determine whether the E-mail used allof the letters of the alphabet?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

She looks straight ahead for a moment.

“We were looking for his fingerprints.

We didn’t attempt to analyze the contents of the E-mail message.”

“Would it surprise you to find out that the E-mail didn’t use all ofthe letters of the alphabet?”

She looks at Skipper.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“In fact, Sergeant, if you read the E-mail carefully, you’ll find thatit does not contain the letters J, K, Q, X or Z, or any punctuationmarks other than

periods, and no numbers at all. Yet you found Mr.Friedman’s fingerprints on all of the alphabetic keys.”

“Yes, we did.”

“How do you account for that?”

“Perhaps he typed the message several times, or made corrections orerased.”

I move closer.

“The fact is, you don’t know. The fact is, you can’t explain it.

Isn’t that right?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. We can’t explain why his fingerprints were found onall the alphabetic keys.”

Now we’ll see if Skipper’s awake over there.

“Isn’t it possible, Sergeant, that the reason his fingerprints werefound on all the alphabetic keys is that somebody switched his keyboardwith that of Mr.

Holmes?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

Judge Chen looks at me.

“Unless you’re prepared to bring evidence concerning this allegation,the objection is sustained.”

“Withdrawn.” We’ll get back to this subject when it’s our turn.

“No further questions.”

Judge Chen looks at Skipper.

“Redirect?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Skipper picks up the wrapped revolver and hands itto Jacobsen.

“Sergeant,” he says, “could you please show us once again where youfound Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints?”

She picks up the revolver and points to various spots wherefingerprints were found.

“Would you please grip the gun in the manner that would have generatedthese fingerprints?”

“Objection, Your Honor. There’s no foundation for this.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “Mr. Daley asked Sergeant Jacobsen todescribe the locations of the defendant’s fingerprints. I’m justamplifying her answer.”

“Overruled.”

Shit.

She picks up the revolver in her right hand. She grips it in her palmwith her right thumb, middle finger, ring finger and pinky. Her rightindex finger rests on the cylinder.

“Sergeant,” Skipper says, “without moving your thumb or other fingers,would you please move your index finger down to the trigger?”

She holds up the gun so that the jury can see it. She easily moves herindex finger from the cylinder to the trigger.

“What would you conclude from this demonstration?” Skipper asks.

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Jacobsen nods knowingly at the jury.

“I would conclude that the defendant could have created thefingerprints I’ve described while pulling the trigger of thisweapon.”

“No further questions.”

I’m back in her face.

“It’s still your testimony that you could not find identifiablefingerprints of Mr. Friedman on the trigger, right?”

“Yes. The fingerprints on the trigger were smudged andunidentifiable.”

“So, you can’t prove he pulled the trigger.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

“The people call Richard Cinelli.” The bartender walks forcefullythrough the courtroom and is sworn in. He takes his seat on thewitness stand. He pulls the microphone toward him. He’s used totalking to people. Before he’s said a word, he’s already connectedwith the jury. Skipper walks him through the preliminaries. He was atwork on the night of the thirtieth. He confirms that Joel and Dianacame in about nine-forty-five. It was crowded.

They ordered drinksand dinner.

“Around ten o’clock, Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy had adisagreement,”

Cinelli says.

“Would it be more accurate to call it an argument?” Skipper asks.

Cinelli shrugs.

“I’d call it a disagreement.”

“But it could have been described as an argument.”

“Perhaps it might have been an argument,” he says without raising hisvoice.

“She threw a glass of water in his face and she left.”

“Was she upset?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Obviously.”

“Did you hear anything they said?”

“Not much. I’m a bartender. I get paid to be discreet.”

“But you did hear something, right?”

“Yes. Mr. Friedman told Ms. Kennedy that he’d get her for something.Those were his exact words.

“I’ll get you for this.”

” “So he threatened her, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I walk toward Cinelli.

“Do you know what they were arguing about?”

“No.”

“And you know that they were attorneys, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew they were working on a big deal together?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“That’s what I understand.”

“Is it possible Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy may have been arguingabout work?”

Skipper stands.

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer.” Give her credit. She’streating us equally.

“Yes, Mr. Daley. That’s entirely possible.”

“No further questions.”

“My name is Homer Kim. I’m a custodian at the Bank of AmericaBuilding.” Homer Kim sits nervously in the witness chair late in theafternoon. He’s uncomfortable in a new, ill-fitting suit, “Mr.

Kim,”Skipper says, “you were at work at the Bank of America Building on thenight of December thirtieth of last year, right?”

“Yes.” His pronunciation is pretty good, but his tone is tentative.

Skipper gets Kim to explain that he walked by the office of RobertHolmes at approximately twelve-thirty in the morning.

“Was there someone in the office with Mr. Holmes?” Skipper asks.

“Yes. Mr. Friedman.” He points at Joel. It’s a wooden gesturethat’s been rehearsed.

“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Friedman were having an argument.”

“Was it a loud argument?”

“Yes. Very loud. Mr. Friedman was very angry at Mr. Holmes. Veryangry.”

His eyes dart.

“Did you hear Mr. Friedman say anything to Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

Skipper explains he isn’t trying to prove the truth of what was said.

“Overruled.”

Kim gulps water from a paper cup.

“Mr. Friedman said to Mr. Holmes, “I’ll get you for this.”

” He gestures with his right index finger for emphasis.

Skipper looks solemn.

“Did it sound like Mr. Friedman was threatening Mr.

Holmes?”

“Objection. Calls for Mr. Kim to make a determination of Mr.Friedman’s state of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

I’m in his face in an instant.

“Mr. Kim, how long have you observed Mr.

Friedman?”

He looks perplexed.

“A couple years.”

“And have you ever heard him raise his voice?”

He looks at Skipper, who shakes his head.

“No,” he answers.

“Mr. Kim, do you know what they were arguing about?”

He hesitates slightly.

“No.” He sounds tentative again.

“Is it possible they may have been arguing about work?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“I don’t know,” Kim says. He glances at Skipper for help. Skippercloses his eyes.

“It’s possible, right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skipper nod.

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“Mr. Kim, you’ve had some problems over the years with your finances,haven’t you?”

Skipper’s up immediately.

“Objection. Mr. Kim’s financial situation is irrelevant.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Kim’s financial situation is very relevantto this discussion.”

Judge Chen looks troubled.

“I’ll give you a little leeway, Mr. Daley.”

“Mr. Kim,” I continue, “isn’t it true you’ve had some significantdebts over the last few years?”

He looks desperately at Skipper, then says, Tes.” He’s starting toturn red.

“And isn’t it true that you filed for personal bankruptcy last year?”

“Yes.”

“And isn’t it true that you’ve lost some substantial amounts of moneygambling?”

His shoulders slump. He hesitates.

“I don’t recall.”

“You’re under oath, Mr. Kim. I’d be happy to introduce the bankruptcycourt filings into evidence.” I turn to the judge.

“Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer.”

“Mr. Kim,” she says, “I’m going to have to ask you to answer Mr.Daley’s question.”

He shrugs.

“Yes. I have lost some money gambling.”

“Mr. Kim, isn’t it a fact that you received a check in the amount oftwenty thousand dollars shortly before you agreed to testify in thiscase?”

He shakes his head forcefully.

“No.”

I walk back to the defense table. Rosie hands me a note.

“Isn’t it true, Mr, Kim, that twenty thousand dollars was depositedinto your account at Bank of America on February twentieth of thisyear?”

“No.”

“Mr. Kim,” I say, “you’re under oath. We can subpoena your bankrecords.”

He looks at Skipper.

“Yes. I received a bonus.”

“And would you mind telling us who promised you the bonus?”

He looks around the room wildly.

“Mr. Arthur Patton.”

“Mr. Patton? The managing partner of the Simpson and Gates firm?”

“Yes.”

“And why did Mr. Patton promise you twenty thousand dollars?”

“He wanted to be sure I was available to testify at this trial. Hesaid he wanted to bring Mr. Holmes’s killer to justice.” Suddenly,his hesitant English is more fluent.

“Mr. Kim, let me ask you again. There was no argument between Mr.Holmes and Mr. Friedman, was there? You were paid to say there was,but there really wasn’t.”

“No. I mean, yes. There really was an argument. Mr. Friedman wasvery very angry.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

CHAPTER 36

MY FORMER PARTNERS

“It is unfortunate we must testify in the murder trial of one of ourcolleagues.”

—arthur patton. NEWS CENTER 4. wednesday, march 25.

At six-thirty the following morning, I’m watching the early news onChannel 4.

Every day at this time, Morgan Henderson, a self-absorbed formerfederal prosecutor who now works for a big downtown firm, reports onthe trial and gives a preview of today’s attractions.

“Today should be very interesting,” he drones.

“District Attorney Gates is going to call several of his formerpartners to testify against Mr. Friedman. Things should liven upquite a bit.”

I’m surprised he isn’t giving odds.

“My name is Charles Stern. I have been a partner at Simpson and Gatesfor twenty-seven years.” Chuckles looks stiff as he takes the stand atten-fifteen.

Skipper’s primed. He gets to put on his guys now. No more idiot copswho can’t get a legitimate confession. No more arrogant medicalexaminers and

uppity lesbian evidence technicians who won’t give himexactly the answers he wants to hear. The Skipper Network is on theair.

He slowly walks Chuckles through his resume. Chuckles gives clippedanswers directly to Skipper. He never turns his eyes even slightlytoward the jury. He confirms he was at the office the night of theincident. He says he was preparing for a partners’ meeting the nextmorning. He doesn’t go into detail on the ceremonial reading of theEstimate.

“Mr. Stern,” Skipper says, “did you attend a meeting with the firm’sassociates that evening?”

“Yes.” The crow’s-feet around his narrow eyes become morepronounced.

“We had convened a meeting to discuss certain issues involvingassociate compensation and the partnership track.”

To me, the “royal we” doesn’t fit Chuckles very well. The jury mayhave other ideas, however.

“Was the defendant there?”

He glances at Joel.

“Yes.”

“And could you tell us what happened?”

“We announced that we were extending the track to partnership by oneyear.

The vote on Mr. Friedman was going to be postponed. Mr.Friedman became very angry.

He was upset that my partner, Mr. Holmes, had not told him about ourdecision.

He expressed his displeasure and stormed out.”

“Did you see the defendant later that night?”

“Yes. He came to my office. He said he was going to read Mr. Holmesthe riot act.”

“Did his tone sound threatening?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“Did the defendant appear very upset to you?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles fingers his reading glasses.

“Yes. He appeared very upset to me.”

“Upset enough to kill two people?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” I shout.

“Sustained,” she says loudly. She glares at Skipper.

“The jury will disregard the last question.”

Skipper looks contrite and turns back to Chuckles.

“Mr. Stern, you and the defendant found the bodies of Mr. Holmes andMs.

Kennedy the following morning, did you not?”

“Yes.” Stern describes how he and Joel found the bodies. He says thathe called 911 and went back to the partners’ meeting.

Skipper picks up the revolver from the evidence cart.

“Mr. Stem, do you recognize this gun?”

“Yes. It belonged to Bob. We found it on the floor.”

Skipper bobs his head melodramatically.

“Did you touch this revolver at any time that morning?”

“No.”

“Did you see the defendant touch this revolver at any time?”

“No.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “He’s lying.”

“Did you see the defendant unload the gun?” Skipper asks.

“No.”

“Mr. Stem, is it possible that the defendant unloaded the gun whileyou weren’t watching?”

“It’s highly unlikely. We went to the partners’ meeting together. Wereturned to Bob’s office together. We were both there until the firstofficer arrived.

If he unloaded the gun, I didn’t see it.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I’m up right away.

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “you said you were with Mr. Friedman the entiretime before the police arrived.”

Tes.”

“Mr. Stem, Officer Chinn testified that you met him in the lobby.”

He shifts in his chair.

“That’s true,” he says slowly.

“And Mr. Friedman wasn’t with you when you met Office Chinn, washe?”

He takes a drink of water and clears his throat.

“No.”

“So you weren’t with Mr. Friedman the entire time before the policearrived, were you?”

He looks at the clock.

“I guess not.”

“And it’s possible Mr. Friedman may have unloaded the weapon while youwere meeting with Officer Chinn, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles shakes his head.

“I was with Officer Chinn in the lobby for only a few moments. I don’tsee how Mr. Friedman could have unloaded the gun so quickly.”

I look at the revolver.

“Mr. Stern, you were in the military service, weren’t you?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Stern has expressed an opinion as to how fast thisparticular weapon could have been unloaded. His background andexperience with weapons is relevant.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I was in the Marines.”

“And you’re familiar with firearms, aren’t you? In fact, you’ve shotthis weapon, haven’t you?”

He adjusts the microphone.

“Yes. Mr. Holmes and I went to the range from time to time.”

“And you’ve unloaded this weapon at the range, haven’t you?”

He scratches the back of his head.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you to unload it?” I emphasize the word “you” asI say it.

“A few seconds.”

“And it took you more than a few seconds to meet with Officer Chinn,didn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says grudgingly.

“Mr. Stern, you knew Mr. Holmes kept this revolver at his desk,didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“For self-protection, I might add.”

Of course.

“And he kept it loaded, didn’t he?”

Heavy sigh.

“Yes, he did.”

“No further questions.”

During the recess, I ask Joel when he unloaded the gun.

“Right after we walked in,” he replies.

“He saw me do it. He’s lyin’.”

“Did anybody else see you?”

“No. We were the only people there.”

“Why would he lie?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he has something to hide.”

“The people call Arthur Patton,” Skipper announces forcefully laterthat morning.

Patton lugs his chins through the courtroom. He smiles at the jury ashe’s sworn in. He says he’s the managing partner at S&G. He confirmshe was there on the fatal night.

“Did you have occasion to see the defendant late that evening?”Skipper asks.

“Yes.” The avuncular Art has joined us today. His tone is sincere,meant to charm.

“I saw him in the hall around twelve-thirty in the morning. He waswalking into Bob’s office.”

“Could you describe his demeanor?”

“He was very upset.” He describes his brief conversation with Joel. Helooks toward the jury and scowls.

“That’s when he started shouting at Bob.”

“Do you know what he was shouting about?”

“I believe he was expressing his unhappiness about the fact that Bobhadn’t told him that the vote for his election to the partnership hadbeen deferred.”

He pauses.

“And I believe they were arguing about Ms. Kennedy. I heard her namementioned several times.”

“Mr. Patton, were you at the firm retreat at the Silverado CountryClub last October?”

“Yes.”

“And did you have an opportunity to see Mr, Friedman at about threeo’clock in the morning on Saturday, October twenty-fifth?”

“Yes. He was in his condominium.”

“Why did you have occasion to see him in the middle of the night?”

“There was a loud noise coming from his room. I wanted to make sure hewas all right.”

Skipper hides a smirk.

“Was he alone?”

“No. There was somebody else in his room.”

“And who was in his room at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Diana Kennedy.”

“No further questions.”

“Mr. Patton,” I begin a few minutes later, “what time did you go homeon the morning of December thirty-first?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“Around one-thirty in the morning,” he replies.

“And you heard a discussion between Mr. Holmes and Mr. Friedman?”

“It was an argument. It lasted a few minutes. I heard most of it.”

“Was the door to Mr. Holmes’s office open or closed?”

He looks up toward the American flag.

“Closed.”

“You stood outside the closed door and eavesdropped on theirconversation?”

He takes a drink of water and chews on the ice.

“I wanted to help my partner.

Mr. Friedman was quite upset.”

Sure.

“Of course, for all you know, they could have been arguing aboutwork.”

“I don’t think so,” he says with disdain.

“But you aren’t sure.”

He looks right at me.

“I’m sure,” he says with authority.

“Let’s talk about the incident at Silverado.”

His eyes brighten. Skipper looks eager.

“Mr. Patton,” I say, “there was a party earlier that evening in yourroom, wasn’t there?”

Skipper’s no longer happy. Tes,” Art says curtly.

“And Ms. Kennedy was at that party, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” His eyes dart. He looks over my left shoulder.

“Isn’t it true, Mr, Patton, that you accosted Ms. Kennedy at theparty?”

He tries to look indignant.

“Absolutely not.”

“Isn’t it true that you followed her to her room and attacked her?”

He sits up taller in his chair.

“I did not.”

He sounds just like my daughter.

“Isn’t it true she went to Mr. Friedman for protection?”

He squints through his tiny spectacles. He points a menacing finger atme.

“That’s a lie.”

“We’ll see about that, Mr. Patton. No further questions.”

A few minutes later, Skipper calls another old friend. BrentHutchinson slithers to the front of the courtroom, a smarmy grinplastered on his pretty face. His golden hair glows. Whenever I seehim, I want to punch his lights out.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” Skipper says, “we’ve known each other for some time,haven’t we?”

“We were partners at Simpson and Gates. I still work there.” He lookslike a cocker spaniel who wants to be petted.

“Mr. Hutchinson, you have a nickname around the firm, don’t you?”

“Most people call me Hutch.”

He sounds like Forrest Gump. Makes me sick.

“Would you mind if I call you Hutch today?”

“Sure.” His grin widens. All this male bonding turns my stomach.

“Now, Hutch, you attended the firm retreat at Silverado in October oflast year, didn’t you?”

His eyes light up.

“Yes. We have our retreat there every year. It’s a great time.”

“I know. Could you tell us a little bit about what happens at theseretreats?”

“Objection. Relevance.” This love-test has to stop. Hutch isactually very likable on the stand—if you’re into handsome airheads.

“Overruled.”

“We have attorney meetings and social events. We play some golf andtennis.”

“Did you attend a social gathering in the cocktail lounge at the mainhouse at Silverado at approximately nine o’clock in the evening ofFriday, October twenty-fourth?”

“Yes.”

“And were Diana Kennedy and the defendant also there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind describing what happened as Ms. Kennedy was leavingthe party?”

He turns toward the jury and shows them his most sincere expression.

“Joel was sitting at a table near the door. Diana was at the bar. Shewalked toward the door. As she passed Joel, she stopped, leaned overand kissed him.” He smiles.

Good Hutch.

I look at Naomi. She stares at the floor. Joel doesn’t move.

“Did she kiss the defendant on the mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Did she kiss him hard?”

“Objection. The witness has no personal knowledge of the intensity ofthe kiss.”

“Overruled.”

“It looked pretty hard to me,” Hutch says.

A few snickers from the gallery. Judge Chen pounds her gavel,

“Hutch,”Skipper says, “did the kiss appear to you to be a romantic one?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper gives the jury a conspiratorial wink.

“Did it appear to you that the defendant was enjoying himself when shekissed him?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “I’m not asking Mr. Hutchinson to make adetermination as to whether he thought Mr. Friedman actually enjoyedthe kiss.

I’m simply asking him to describe it.”

“Nice try, Mr. Gates,” she snaps.

“The objection is sustained. Move on.”

“Hutch, did you also see the defendant and Ms. Kennedy in a hot tubthe next day?”

“Yes.”

“And would you mind telling us what they were doing?”

“They were kissing.”

Skipper turns toward the jury, his eyes wide.

“They were kissing again? Could you describe how Ms. Kennedy wasdressed?”

“She was wearing a bikini, but the top was unfastened.”

Murmurs in the back of the courtroom. Judge Chen slams her gavel.

“Hutch,” Skipper says, “was it a hard kiss?”

“Yes.”

“And did it appear to you that the defendant was, for lack of a betterterm, kissing her back?”

“Absolutely.”

“And how long did this go on?”

“About a minute. Then I thought it would be best if I moved on.”

How sensitive.

“I see.” He looks at the jury, then back at Hutch.

“Did you see Ms. Kennedy and the defendant together at any other timeduring the retreat?”

“Later that evening, I saw them sitting in the same hot tub. I’mpretty sure they were both naked. However, it was dark and I was on myway back to my room.

This time, I didn’t stop.”

“No further questions.”

“Mr. Hutchinson,” I begin, “we’ve known each other for a long time,too, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” His teeth gleam when he smiles.

“We used to be partners, too.”

“And you have another nickname around the firm, don’t you?” The smiledisappears.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Mr.

Daley.”

“Well, most people call you Hutch. But some people call you somethingelse, don’t they?”

He looks around the courtroom.

“Yes.”

“And what’s your other nickname, Mr. Hutchinson?”

“The Party Guy,” he says quietly.

I make my voice go up a half octave.

“The Party Guy?” I grin.

“Could you please tell us why they call you the Party Guy?”

He smiles sheepishly.

“I guess it’s because I like to party, Mr. Daley.”

“Were you partying the night you saw Ms. Kennedy kiss Mr. Friedman atthe bar?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“And did you have a glass of wine or two that night?”

“Probably.”

“How many glasses of wine?”

“Several.”

“More than two?”

“Probably.”

“More than three?”

“Maybe.”

“Enough so that you wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car thatnight?”

“Yeah.”

“So, when you saw Ms. Kennedy kiss Mr. Friedman, you may have beenintoxicated.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You had at least four glasses of wine. Your memory of that night maybe a little cloudy.”

“Maybe.”

“Now, let’s talk about the incident on Saturday afternoon where you sawMs.

Kennedy and Mr. Friedman in the hot tub. Could you tell us where thehot tub was located?”

“Near one of the pools at Silverado.”

“And you just happened to be walking by the pool?”

“Yes.”

“And you walked right by the hot tub and you saw Ms. Kennedy kissingMr.

Friedman?”

“Not exactly. I was walking down a path that leads to the golfcourse.”

“How far was the path from the pool?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ballpark figure, Mr. Hutchinson. Fifty feet? A hundred feet? Thelength of a football field?”

He darts a glance at Skipper.

“Maybe the length of a football field.”

“Really? From a hundred yards, you were able to see Mr. Friedman andMs.

Kennedy kissing?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure the top of Ms. Kennedy’s bikini had beenunfastened?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“You must have really good eyes, Mr. Hutchinson.”

“Objection. Move to strike.”

“The jury will ignore Mr. Daley’s remark.”

I leave it at that.

“I don’t suppose you were standing in the same place when you saw themin the hot tub later that night,” “As a matter of fact, I was standingin almost the same place.”

“I see. So, late at night, from a hundred yards away, you were able toidentify Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy in the hot tub. You were alsoable to determine that they were kissing. And you were able todetermine that they were naked. Is that about it?”

“Yes.”

“Did they get out of the hot tub?”

“No.”

“Were the jets on?”

“I think so.”

“Weren’t there bubbles in the hot tub?”

He’s starting to look a little older now. I can see the lines on hisforehead.

“Probably.”

I look at the jury.

“If it was night and they didn’t get out and the jets were on and therewere bubbles in the hot tub, how in the world were you able todetermine that they were both naked?”

He takes a deep breath.

“I saw them. I could tell.”

It’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” I say, “you realize that what you’ve just told us isutterly preposterous, don’t you?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

I look directly at Hutch.

“No further questions. Next he’ll say he saw them in a hot tub whilehe was flying over Silverado in a hot-air balloon.” I get a fewchuckles.

Judge Chen pounds her gavel.

“Enough. The jury will disregard Mr. Daley’s last remark.”

At eight o’clock the same night, I’m at my mom’s house meeting withPete.

Mom’s having one of her not-so-good nights. We sit at thedining room table. She clears Pete’s plate and says to me, “You didn’tfinish all your carrots. Tommy.

No dessert until you do.”

“I will, Mama. Right away.”

She walks into the kitchen. Pete shrugs.

“She’ll be back in a few minutes.

Sometimes she spends a little while in the fifties. Then she comesback.”

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, Pete, if we need to get you some help…”

“Not yet.” He coughs.

“Not yet.” He takes a drink of water.

“How did things go at court today?”

“Not great.”

He cuts himself a piece of French bread.

“So I gather.”

I finish my carrots.

“Have you found anything else on Russo?”

“The trail goes cold at the international terminal at SFO. One personsaid she thought he might have gone to Hong Kong, but nobody on theflight crew recognized his picture. If he’s flying on a fake passport,it’s going to be tough to find him.”

“Shit.”

“We may not be the only people looking for him. He had some coinvestors from Saudi on a few deals. They aren’t real happy that hedisappeared.

They’re looking for him, too. We haven’t found anythingelse, though.”

“What about the banker in the Bahamas?”

“Still in Kuwait. Longer than expected—he won’t be back for anothercouple of weeks. Wendy and I are going to pay him a visit as soon ashe is.”

“Good.” I pause.

“Has Wendy been helpful?”

“Yeah. She’s great.” He looks at the picture of my dead brother Tommyin his Cal football uniform, frozen in time at the age of twenty. Peteand Tommy look almost identical, except Tommy was taller and Pete has amustache.

“Mike, is she, well, seeing anybody?”

Unlike Rosie, who is all too familiar with my crush on Wendy, Petedoesn’t have a clue. Let’s just say it never came up in conversation.I’d like to tell him he’s out of luck and that I have dibs. Instead, Isay, “I don’t think so.”

“Do you think she’d have any interest?”

“I’m not sure. She’s been divorced a couple of times.”

His eyes dart.

“Then again,” I say, “you’ll never know if you don’t ask.” I decide tochange the subject.

“Did you get anything from Nick Hanson on the mystery woman at theFairmont?”

“He hasn’t been able to ID her. The people at the Fairmont couldn’t,either.”

We keep coming up empty.

“Did Nick think it was Diana?”

“He was pretty sure it wasn’t. The woman had longer hair. Nick’s realgood on details like that. He thought it might have been a hooker.”

“Does he have any ideas?”

“Just one. But he said it was just a wag.”

“A wag?”

“Yeah. W-A-G. Wild-ass guess. Guess who was making an appearance atthe Fairmont that night?”

“The mayor?”

“Get serious. Somebody more famous.”

“Come on, Pete, I’m tired.”

“Dr. Kathy Chandler.”

I sit back in my chair.

“You don’t really think? No. It couldn’t.”

He smiles.

“We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. I did some checking on Dr.

Kathy. She’s very single. She’s had a little trouble with longtermrelationships. She fits the description.”

“But is there any real evidence she was with Bob that night?”

“Nope. Like I said. It’s just Nick’s wild-ass guess.”

At the moment, Nick the Dick’s wild-ass guess is the only lead wehave.

CHAPTER 37

AND WAS YOUR MARRIAGE A HAPPY ONE?

“In what promises to be an emotional moment, the widow of Robert Holmeswill take the stand today.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. thursday, march 26.

The next morning is a Thursday. Skipper calls Beth Holmes to thestand. In lieu of her customary gray business suit, she’s wearing alight blue dress with a tiny gold chain and a small brooch. Today,she’ll be playing the role of grieving widow instead of legalbarracuda.

“My name is Elizabeth Barnes Holmes,” she says after she’s sworn in.

“Robert Holmes was my husband.”

Skipper has set up the pictures of Bob and Diana in front of the jury.It’s contrived, but he’s going to play to their heartstrings today.

“How long were you and Bob married?” Using his first name is a nicetouch.

“Five and a half years.” Skipper has her describe how she and Bob met,the children, the vacations to the Italian Riviera and the mansion inPresidio Terrace. The idyllic power marriage between power partners atpower law firms.

She doesn’t mention her divorce from Art Patton.

Skipper turns serious.

“And was your marriage a happy one, Mrs. Holmes?”

She gets a faraway look in her eyes.

“Yes. At least until recently.”

Skipper nods thoughtfully.

“And then what happened, Mrs. Holmes?”

“He became distant. I began to suspect he was seeing another woman.”

“Was he?” he asks gently.

“Yes. He was having an affair with Diana Kennedy.”

Murmurs in the back of the courtroom.

Skipper moves closer to her.

“How did you find out about the affair, Mrs.

Holmes?”

“I hired a private investigator. He found them in bed together inearly December.” She holds her head high.

“I confronted Bob. I told him he had to break off the affair, or I’dleave him.”

“What happened?”

“He broke up with her.” She doesn’t hide her disdain.

“A few weeks later, my private eye found them together again. Idecided to end our marriage. I was there when he was served onDecember thirtieth.”

“Mrs. Holmes, was your husband upset when he was served with thedivorce papers?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

“He took it pretty well. He’d been divorced several times.”

“Do you think he was so upset that he may have been driven tosuicide?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“No. He took it in stride. I think he was relieved when I filed thepapers.”

I glance at Diana’s mother in the gallery. She closes her eyes.

Skipper cringes only slightly.

“No further questions.”

“Mrs. Holmes,” I say, “what time was your husband served with divorcepapers?”

“About five-thirty in the evening.”

“And who was present when he was served?”

“A bunch of people. They were all in the main conference room atSimpson and Gates.”

“What was your husband doing when he was served?”

She scowls.

“I believe he was on the telephone.”

“Wasn’t he sitting in a room with his client and a group of attorneys?And weren’t they in negotiations on a significant businesstransaction?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it a fact that he barely looked up when you and your processserver walked in because he was in heated negotiations on amultimillion-dollar deal?”

“I was barely able to get his attention.”

“So, it’s not really surprising that he didn’t react when he saw you,is it?”

“He knew what was going on.”

I take a step back.

“Did he look at the papers your process server handed him?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Briefly.”

“You mean he may have glanced at them.”

“He knew what the papers were.”

“The fact is, Mrs. Holmes, your husband had very little reaction tothe papers because he was concentrating on his deal and he expected youto file the papers. Isn’t that true?”

Skipper leaps up.

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Daley.”

“Mrs. Holmes, did your husband carry any life insurance?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

She says Bob carried a five-million-dollar policy naming herself asbeneficiary, and a milliondollar policy for each of the kids.

“Have you received the proceeds from the policies yet?”

“No. The insurance company is working on the claim. They’re veryslow.”

I’ll bet. I’m sure the insurance company is hoping it’s a suicide.Then they won’t have to pay anything.

“Did it occur to you that your husband might change the beneficiariesif you were divorced?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“Of course, Mr. Daley. I fully expected it.” She gives me her“bigfirm evil litigator” look.

“And if you’re suggesting I had some incentive to see my husband dead,you’re out of your mind.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the phone company supervisor nod.I’ve gone a little too far. I have to remember that she’s the grievingwidow.

“Mrs.

Holmes,” I say, “do you know the names of the beneficiaries of yourhusband’s will?”

“I get a third, the children get a third and the balance goes to acharity in the

Bahamas.”

“Did it occur to you that he may have decided to change his will afteryou got divorced?”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.” Then she adds, gratuitously, “I don’t needthe money, you know.”

“One last item. You said your investigator found your husband and Ms.Kennedy together in late December.”

“That’s correct.”

“Where did that incident occur?”

“At a room in the tower of the Fairmont Hotel.”

“I see. And how did your investigator find out about it?”

“He was viewing the room from a building across the street.”

“Did your investigator positively identify Diana Kennedy in the roomwith your husband?”

“He told me he thought it was Diana. He said the woman looked likeDiana.”

“But he wasn’t sure.”

“He was sure it wasn’t me.”

“I understand. But isn’t it true, Mrs. Holmes, that he wasn’t able topositively identify the woman in the room with Mr. Holmes thatnight?”

“That may be true.”

“And it’s possible that it wasn’t Ms. Kennedy.”

“Yeah. It’s possible. What difference does it make, Mr. Daley?”

Thanks, Beth.

“I’m sorry to make you relive these difficult times, Mrs.

Holmes,” I say. She’s given me what I need.

“No further questions.”

CHAPTER 38

HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN A PRACTICING THERAPIST?

“KTLK’s very own Dr. Kathy Chandler will be testifying today at themurder trial of Joel Mark Friedman. Dr. Kathy Chandler will be ableto tell you all about it in her regular time slot at seven tonight.”

—KTLK TALK RADIO. thursday, march 26. 11:45 A.M.

We’re standing just outside the courtroom at one o’clock when Dr.

KathyChandler and her entourage arrive. She has just finished an impromptupress conference in the corridor. She is surrounded by cameras andmicrophones as she and her handlers inch their way down the hall.

Shetowers over most of the reporters. Her long blond hair flows. Shestops and faces the assembled media horde. She brushes her handagainst her hair and flashes the smile that graces Muni buses all overtown.

“Dr. Chandler, what are you going to talk about today?”

“Dr. Chandler, do you think Robert Holmes killed himself?”

“Dr. Chandler, was Mr. Holmes having an affair with Diana Kennedy?”

“Dr. Chandler? Dr. Chandler? Dr. Chandler?”

“I’m sorry, fellows,” she purrs.

“I don’t want to be late for court. I don’t want the judge to get madat me.”

Big smile.

“I’ll talk to you again after I’m done.” She walks into thecourtroom.

Skipper walks Dr. Kathy Chandler through her credentials, such asthey are.

I interrupt frequently. After the ordeal is concluded,Skipper says, “How long did you know Robert Holmes?”

She smiles.

“I began treating him in September. I was his therapist for aboutthree months.”

“And what were you treating him for, Doctor?”

“You know,” she coos, “I usually don’t talk about my patients’problems.”

She bats her eyes.

Skipper smiles like Robert Young in Father Knows Best.

“I know. But your testimony is very important. If you’reuncomfortable answering a question, let me know, and we’ll talk it overwith Judge Chen.”

Who will be more than happy to lock you up for contempt. Then you’llhave the honor of being the first person to initiate a radio broadcastfrom the new jail at the Hall. Judge Chen looks at Dr. Kathy.

“Doctor,” she says sternly, “let me simplify this for you. If there’sa question I think you shouldn’t have to answer, I’ll tell you so. Fornow, unless I instruct you otherwise, I expect you to answer Mr.Gates’s questions. Are we clear on that?”

The kitten disappears.

“Yes, Your Honor,” she replies in a businesslike tone.

“Good.” Judge Chen nods to Skipper.

“Please continue, Mr. Gates.”

“Dr. Chandler, why did Mr. Holmes first come to see you?”

“He was having relationship problems.”

“What kind of relationship problems?”

I’d give everything I own to hear her say, “He was having troublekeeping his zipper zipped.”

“With his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were very angry.”

“Why were they angry with each other?”

“They were angry because Mr. Holmes was seeing another woman.”

“Oh dear,” Skipper says quietly.

“Do you know who the woman was?”

She exhales loudly.

“Diana Kennedy.”

“Doctor, was Mr. Holmes still seeing Ms. Kennedy at the time theywere murdered?”

“Objection. Move to strike the use of the term ‘murdered.”

” “Sustained.” The judge glares at Skipper.

“The jury will disregard the term ‘murdered.” Try it again, Mr.Gates.”

“Do you know if Mr. Holmes was seeing Ms. Kennedy on Decemberthirtieth of last year?”

“I don’t think so. He was pretty sure Mrs. Holmes was going to servehim with divorce papers. He broke up with Ms. Kennedy. He said hewas seeing somebody new toward the end of last year. He was veryuncomfortable talking about it.”

I lean over to Joel and whisper, “Know anything about this?”

He shakes his head.

Skipper’s thinking the same thing when he asks, “Did he mention thename of the woman?”

“No. It may have been Ms. Kennedy. It may have been somebody else.And, to be honest, he may have been making the whole thing up.Sometimes, you couldn’t tell with Mr. Holmes.”

Skipper nods understandingly.

“Doctor,” he says, “based upon your observations of Mr. Holmes in thefinal weeks of his life, did he appear distraught to you?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“She was his therapist,” Skipper says.

“I’m asking for her professional observations.”

Judge Chen scowls.

“I’ll allow the witness to answer.”

“No,” she replies.

“He didn’t appear distraught. In fact, he appeared relaxed the lastfew times

I saw him. I think he was relieved that he’d resolved hisissues with Mrs.

Holmes.”

Oh, bullshit.

Skipper moves closer to Dr. Kathy.

“Did he appear emotionally disturbed?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Depressed?”

“No.”

“Unhappy?”

“No.”

Enough.

“Objection. We can spend all afternoon trying to identify every rangeof emotion not exhibited by Mr. Holmes.”

“Sustained. Let’s move on, Mr. Gates.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“One final question. Did he appear at any time to you to besuicidal?”

“Absolutely not,” she purrs. She smiles demurely at the jury.

“No further questions.”

“Dr. Chandler,” I begin, “I’d like to ask you a few more questionsabout your credentials. You got your degree from Southwestern TexasCity College, right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that an accredited school?”

“It depends on what you mean by the term ‘accredited.”

” “I mean it in the conventional sense. You know—schools likeStanford, Cal, UCLA—they’re accredited. Was Southwestern Texas CityCollege accredited?”

“Not exactly.”

“And your doctorate in family counseling is from the same institution,right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you actually attend classes there?”

She pauses.

“Yes.”

“But most of the courses were offered by correspondence, weren’tthey?”

“Yes,” she acknowledges.

She probably could have gotten any title she wanted if she paid themenough

money.

“And you got a master’s from the Great Pacific School ofBroadcasting?”

“Yes.”

“Not exactly Harvard and Yale, are they, Doctor?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I shift direction.

“Dr. Chandler, how long have you been a practicing therapist?”

“Seventeen years.”

“I see. And how many years have you been doing your radio show?”

“Fourteen years.”

“And you’ve got one of the toprated programs in your time slot, don’tyou?”

She smiles proudly.

“Yes, I do. It takes a lot of people to make the program a success.”

I interrupt her.

“I’m sure that’s true. I’ll bet your radio show takes up a lot of yourtime, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. It’s a very demanding job.”

“How many hours are you on the air every day?”

“Three. From seven o’clock until ten.”

“You must have a very busy schedule.”

Skipper stands.

“Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of all this.”

“Mr. Daley,” says Judge Chen, “get to the point.”

“I will, Your Honor.” I turn back to the good doctor.

“Do you handle a full caseload?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be comfortable giving advice over the radio if Ididn’t maintain a private practice.”

“I see. And how many patients do you see in a typical day?”

“Two or three.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you consider a full practice? That’s ten or fifteenpatients a week. If each of them gets an hour of your time, that’sonly one or two days’

work.”

“As I said, Mr. Daley, my radio show takes a lot of time.”

“And you also write self-help books, don’t you, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Does that take much time?”

She smiles.

“Well, my publisher gives me a lot of help with those.”

“Somebody helps you write your self-help books?”

“Yes.”

She fails to see the irony.

“Is it fair to say that you spend a lot less time seeing patients thanmost of your colleagues?”

She sits up.

“Most of them don’t have a radio show.”

I look at Rosie. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. I’m havinga great time tweaking Dr. Kathy Chandler. Unfortunately, the jurydoesn’t seem to care.

“Doctor,” I say, “have you ever had a personal relationship with one ofyour patients?”

The facade disappears. Her eyes bore in on mine.

“No,” she says.

“That would be unethical.”

“Doctor,” I say, “isn’t it a fact that your license was suspendedseveral years ago because you had a sexual relationship with one ofyour patients?”

The claws come out. She answers slowly.

“It is true that my license was suspended. It is not true, however,that I had a sexual relationship with one of my patients. A very sadand lonely man made some wild accusations. They were never proven.”

“You arrived at a settlement with the patient, didn’t you. Dr.Chandler?”

“That’s confidential.”

I turn to Judge Chen.

“Tour Honor, I must ask you to instruct the witness to answer.”

Judge Chen nods.

“Answer the question, Dr. Chandler.”

She strokes her bangs.

“We settled the matter out of court.” She glares at me.

“Any other questions, Mr. Daley?”

“Your Honor,” I say, “would you please remind the witness that theattorneys are supposed to ask the questions?”

Judge Chen looks at Dr. Kathy.

“Mr. Daley is correct, Dr. Chandler.” She turns back to me.

“So, Mr. Daley, any other questions for Dr. Chandler?”

“Yes.” I look straight at Dr. Kathy.

“Isn’t it true that your ex-husband was one of your patients?”

Her tiny nose twitches.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“He was one of my patients.”

“So it wasn’t exactly true when you said you’ve never had a personalrelationship with a patient.”

She’s angry.

“He was no longer a patient when we began our personal relationship.”

Of course. I allow myself a brief smile.

“Just one more question, Doctor.” I look at the jury, then I turn backto her.

“Were you having an affair with Robert Holmes, Dr. Chandler?”

Skipper screams his objection before he can pull himself to his feet.

“Your Honor,” he says, “this is utterly irrelevant and insulting to Dr.Chandler.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we believe Dr. Chandler was having a sexualrelationship with Mr. Holmes. It would clearly color her credibility.I would ask you to instruct her to answer.”

Judge Chen studies her bench book. She bites her lower lip.

“Dr. Chandler,” she says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you torespond.”

“The answer is no. I was not having an affair with Mr. Holmes.”

I decide to go for broke.

“Dr. Chandler, we have evidence you and Mr. Holmes were having asexual relationship in a room at the Fairmont in December of last year.Do you deny it?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for any of this.”

“Your Honor, we’re prepared to bring forth the private investigatorhired by Mrs. Holmes. It would save us an extraordinary amount oftime if Dr.

Chandler simply answers my question.”

Judge Chen turns to Dr. Kathy.

“I’m going to ask you to answer, Dr. Chandler.”

Her eyes are on fire.

“No, Mr. Daley,” she says evenly.

“I wasn’t with Mr.

Holmes.”

“No further questions.”

“What was that all about?” Joel’s father is incredulous as we sit inthe consultation room during the afternoon recess.

“How does it help to attack Bob’s widow? How does it help to attackhis therapist? What were you thinking?”

“Rabbi,” I say, “they put those two witnesses on the stand todemonstrate that Bob was a happy guy who didn’t kill himself. They’reundercutting our suicide argument. And they’re doing a good job of it.That’s why we have to go after them. We have to show that Beth Holmesis lying to protect her husband’s reputation. And we have to show thatDr. Kathy Chandler is nothing more than a bubblegum-spewing radiojockey. That’s what this is all about. And if you don’t like the wayI’m trying the case, you can get Joel another lawyer.”

Mort interjects, “Everybody. Shut up. Right now. We don’t have timefor this.

We have to keep our eye on the ball here. Maybe it wasn’t the greatestcross in the history of the legal profession. But we have to keep atit. They put on witnesses for a purpose—to put together enough of acase to get a conviction.

We’re here to get in the way of that. We can’t stop now because we’reafraid we’re going to hurt somebody’s feelings.”

Rosie holds up her hand.

“Could you please be quiet for a moment,” she says in a measuredtone.

“We aren’t going to be able to deliver a knockout punch on everywitness.

We have to stay focused.”

Joel stands up.

“May I say something here? Seeing as how it’s my ass on the line, I’dappreciate it if you’d keep your petty squabbles to yourselves. If youguys fuck up, I’m going to jail. So I don’t want to hear anything elseabout who’s doing a good job or a bad job on crossexam. I don’t wantto hear you argue about strategy. I’m not interested in blaminganybody. We’ve just wasted prep time so you all could yell at eachother. Now, I don’t want to see this again. Let’s get our headsscrewed back on and get back in there and do our jobs.”

Rabbi Friedman scowls. I look away. I hate it when the client isright.

CHAPTER 39

WE WERE WORKING ON A VERY BIG DEAL

“Of course everybody wanted the Russo deal to close. It was good forthe city.”

—the MAYOR OF san francisco. thursday, march 26.

Jack Frazier, the pride of Continental Capital Corporation, looks likehe’s ready for a board meeting when he takes the stand at three o’clockthe same afternoon. He’s wearing the standard investment-bankeruniform. His shirt is so heavily starched, it could walk across thecourtroom by itself.

Skipper is wearing a subdued gray pinstripe today, with huge gold cufflinks.

“Would you mind telling us why you were present at the Simpson andGates office on the night of December thirtieth?”

Frazier gazes past Skipper’s left shoulder.

“We were working on a very big deal. My company was going to purchasethe assets of a conglomerate called Russo International.” He explainsthe deal for a few minutes.

“The closing was scheduled for the following morning,” he says.

“Was the deal going to close on schedule?”

“As far as I knew, yes. All the papers had been signed. Everythingwas ready.”

Skipper clears his throat.

“Why didn’t it close?”

Frazier looks serious.

“With the tragic deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, there was noway we could proceed.”

“Did you see Mr. Holmes that night?”

“Yes.”

“Did he appear to be in a good mood?”

“Yes. He was looking forward to the closing.”

“Did you see any signs that he may have been distraught or stressedout?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Did Mr. Holmes appear to you to be distraught thatevening?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

I walk slowly toward Frazier.

“There were problems with the deal, weren’t there, Mr. Frazier?”

“There are always problems with big transactions.” He glances towardthe

jury.

“Fair enough. But this deal had more than its share, didn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“Isn’t it true there was substantial doubt about whether your companywould approve this deal?”

“No. The deal was approved.” Frazier looks at his lawyer, MartinGlass, who’s in the gallery today.

“Isn’t it true your board of directors had an emergency meeting thatnight to discuss whether they should pull the plug?”

“It’s true that they met. It’s not true that they wanted to pull theplug.”

Right.

“Isn’t it true your board would have voted against the deal if youhadn’t been able to negotiate a forty-million-dollar reduction in thepurchase price at the last minute?”

“It’s true that I was able to negotiate a reduction in the purchaseprice. I have no idea whether the board would have approved the dealwithout the reduction. I wasn’t at the board meeting.”

I have no idea why he’s resisting. I’m just trying to show that Bobmay have been stressed out. Frazier seems to be trying to justify thedeal to his superiors at headquarters.

“Isn’t it true,” I ask, “that the seller in the transaction, Mr. VinceRusso, was undecided about whether he would close the deal? And isn’tit true that even though all the papers were signed, Mr. Russo toldeveryone he wouldn’t make up his mind until morning?”

Skipper pops up.

“Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

They’re trying to avoid mention of Russo’s name.

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr.

Russo was a key player in this transaction. Mr. Frazier has testifiedthat the deal was proceeding according to plan. However, the evidencewill suggest that Mr. Russo didn’t want to close.”

Judge Chen thinks for a moment, then says, “I’ll allow it.”

I glance at Bill McNulty. He’s frowning. He realizes this is asignificant ruling. It opens the door for me to blame everything onRusso.

I turn back to Frazier.

“Isn’t it true that Mr. Russo was waffling on whether he wouldproceed?”

Frazier looks toward Glass again.

“I firmly believe he intended to close the deal.”

I get right in front of him.

“What time did Mr. Russo leave that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you tell us what time Mr. Russo showed up the next morning forthe closing?”

“He didn’t show up.” He pauses.

“He seems to have disappeared.”

“Did he ever call you?”

“No.”

“Leave a message?”

“No.”

“Try to get in touch with you?”

“Objection,” says Skipper.

“We get the idea.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Daley.”

“What time did you leave the building that night, Mr. Frazier?”

“About one thirty-five.”

“And was Mr. Russo still in the building when you left?”

“As far as I know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Around one o’clock. He was with Mr. Holmes.”

“What were they doing?”

“They were talking.”

“About what?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Your Honor, I’m not trying to establish precisely what was said or thetruth of what was said. I’m simply asking Mr. Frazier to report onthe subject that was being discussed.”

“Overruled.”

“They were talking about the deal.”

“Is it possible Mr. Russo told Mr. Holmes that Mr. Russo did notintend to close the deal?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Frazier holds up his hands.

“It’s possible. I just don’t know.”

“And was that the last time you saw Mr. Russo?”

Yes.

I take a deep breath.

“Isn’t it possible, Mr. Frazier, that Mr. Holmes may have becomedistraught and killed himself if Mr. Russo told him that he didn’twant to close the deal?”

Judge Chen looks at Skipper, who should object. I’ve just asked ahighly speculative question.

“It was just a business deal,” Frazier says.

“It may have been a big deal, but it wasn’t worth committing suicidefor.”

Good point.

“Isn’t it possible that Mr. Russo’s disappearance can be explained bythe fact that he killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, and that he fledafter he committed these terrible acts?”

“Objection,” Skipper shrieks.

“Highly speculative.”

Look who woke up.

“Sustained.”

I turn back to Frazier.

“Isn’t it true that you really didn’t want the deal to close?”

He looks incredulous.

“Of course not.”

“Isn’t it true you figured out that you couldn’t make the profitmargins on the deal that you had originally anticipated?”

“No.” He’s indignant.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Frazier, that if you killed the deal, you wouldhave had to pay Mr. Russo a fiftymillion-dollar breakup fee?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“Your Honor,” Frazier implores, “the terms of the deal areconfidential.”

She looks right through him.

“Mr. Frazier,” she says, “a moment ago you were trying to impress uswith the enormous size of this deal. You can’t have it both ways.Answer the question.”

His jaws tighten. Another promising corporate career is heading forthe Dumpster.

“The breakup fee was fifty million dollars,” he says. The suits inStamford

just got a severe case of indigestion.

I glance at the jury.

“Just so everybody understands this, Mr. Frazier, if you pulled theplug on the deal, your company would have had to pay Mr. Russo fiftymillion dollars. Is that correct?”

His shoulders slump.

“Yes.”

“And if Mr. Russo pulled the plug, you wouldn’t have owed him a penny,right?”

“Right.”

“And you wouldn’t have had to buy a company you really didn’t want.”

“We wanted the company, Mr. Daley.”

“Right. You could have saved your company a fiftymillion-dollarbreakup fee and you could have avoided buying a company you reallydidn’t want if you could have found a way to get Vince Russo to killthe deal. Isn’t that about it, Mr.

Frazier?”

Skipper’s up.

“Objection. I don’t believe there was a question there.”

He’s right. There wasn’t.

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

Ed Ehrlich from the city attorney’s office is next.

“Mr. Ehrlich,” Skipper says, “you were representing the city of SanFrancisco in connection with the Russo deal, weren’t you?”

He looks nervously through his thick glasses.

“Yes,” he replies. A member of the board of supervisors is here tomake sure he doesn’t screw up.

“And the city had agreed to provide financing for the deal, right?”

“Yes.” Good answer. Keep it short. Stick to the facts.

“When did you leave the Simpson offices that night?”

“Around ten o’clock.”

“And did you expect the deal to close?”

“Yes. All the papers were signed.”

“And, as far as you knew, everything was on schedule to close?”

“Yes.”

Skipper gets Ehrlich to say that Bob was in a good mood that night andwas

looking forward to the closing. Then he sits down.

“Mr. Ehrlich,” I say, “the mayor had some serious issues with thisdeal, didn’t he?”

“There were some concerns about our ability to obtain sufficient fundsto finance the deal.”

“How serious?”

“Not serious,” he says slowly.

“Yet you were prepared to move forward.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe Mr. Russo and Mr. Holmes were prepared to moveforward?”

“Yes.”

“And you were aware that Mr. Russo had serious reservations aboutproceeding with the deal?”

“I knew he had some issues.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Ehrlich, that the mayor had instructed you to doeverything in your power to terminate the deal?”

He looks at the mayor’s henchman from the board of supervisors.

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that the mayor determined that the city didn’t havesufficient funds to conclude the deal on the original terms?”

“There were cash-flow issues. But we wanted to close the deal and keepthe jobs in the city.”

I may have him cornered.

“Mr. Ehrlich, where was the city going to get the money to concludethe financing of the deal?”

“From sources within the San Francisco banking community.”

“What was the interest rate?”

“Prime plus four.”

“And what rate were you charging the buyer?”

“Prime plus one.”

“So the spread was three percent?”

“Right.”

“And how big was the loan?”

“A hundred million dollars.”

“I see. The spread at three percent is three million dollars a year,right?”

“That’s right.”

“And how many jobs would you have saved for the city?”

“About three thousand.”

“By my math, that’s about a thousand dollars a job.”

He nods.

“I guess you could look at it that way.”

“And you’re sure this was okay with the mayor?”

Skipper’s up.

“Asked and answered, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“And it’s your testimony that throughout all of this, Bob Holmes was ina great mood.”

Ehrlich takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

“He did not appear upset to me.”

Add the city to the list of parties that look like idiots.

“No further questions.”

The parade continues a few minutes later when Clan Morris takes thestand and smiles confidently.

“I was present that evening,” he replies to Skipper’s first question.

“The mayor asked me to assist with the closing. He wanted to be sureit got done. A lot was riding on it.”

“What time did you leave the office, Mr. Morris?”

“Around one-thirty-five.” Skipper gets him to say that Russo andHolmes were ready to close the deal. According to Morris, everybodywas in a great mood.

“Did you have any indications from Mr. Holmes or Mr. Russo that theywould not proceed with the closing?”

“None.”

“No further questions.”

I stand.

“Mr. Morris, isn’t it true that the city couldn’t afford the deal?”

He shrugs.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Isn’t it true that the city didn’t have enough money to fund the deal?And isn’t it true that the mayor sent you and Mr. Ehrlich to theSimpson and Gates offices to try to torpedo it?”

“That’s ridiculous. It was a good deal for both parties.”

“If it was such a good deal for Vince Russo, why did he disappear?”

“Objection. Argumentative. Speculative. Foundation.”

“Sustained.”

“Did Mr. Russo appear agitated to you that night, Mr. Morris?”

He’s smug.

“He always appeared agitated.”

“Do you have any idea why Bob Holmes committed suicide?”

“Objection,” Skipper says.

“Move to strike the suggestion that Mr. Holmes committed suicide.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I look him right in the eye.

“Come on, Mr. Morris. Level with us. Two people are dead and anotherperson disappeared. Why did it happen? Why were so many peopleunhappy about this deal?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Certainly, you must have a theory, Mr. Morris?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

There’s nothing else I can do. I’ve planted the seed with the jury.

“No further questions.”

CHAPTER 40

I’VE BEN A HOMICIDE INSPECTOR FOR THIRTY SEVEN YEARS

“They’ve finished the preliminaries. Gates is going to bring in hiscleanup hitter. Inspector Roosevelt Johnson.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. friday, march 27.

The next morning is Friday, and Skipper goes to his strength.

Rooseveltlooks directly at Skipper.

“My name is Roosevelt Johnson. I’ve been a homicide inspector forthirty-seven years.”

Joel tenses. Naomi scowls. Rosie eyes Roosevelt. Mort studies thejury.

“Inspector Johnson,” Skipper begins, “could you tell us what time youarrived at the Simpson and Gates offices on the morning of Decemberthirty-first of last year?”

“Eight-thirty-seven.” His tone is authoritative. The courtroom issilent.

“Would you please describe what you found at the scene?”

Skipper’sapproach is textbook. You lob open-ended questions to strong witnesseslike Roosevelt. This will allow him to tell his story the way

he’srehearsed it. I’m going to have to try to figure out ways to break uphis flow.

Roosevelt clears his throat. He turns slightly toward the jury. He’snot just going to tell his story. He’s going to tell his story tothem.

“The office was in a state of chaos and shock. Word had spreadthroughout the firm of the homicides.”

I stand and interrupt. I try to sound respectful.

“Your Honor, there’s no foundation for Mr. Johnson’s characterizationof the events that day as ‘homicides.” We must move to strike.”

She turns to Roosevelt.

“Inspector, please limit your testimony to factual matters. We’lldetermine whether the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy should becharacterized as homicides.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Roosevelt says.

She tells the jury to disregard his characterization of the deaths ashomicides. She looks at me with a pained expression, as if to say,“Are you happy now?”

“Inspector,” Skipper continues, “you were telling us what happened whenyou arrived.”

He describes his interviews with the police on the scene and hisdiscussions with the paramedics and the technicians from the coroner’soffice. He confirms that Bob and Diana were pronounced dead at 8:22.He describes the all-hands meeting in the reception area. After twentyminutes, he concludes by saying, “We knew this was an important case.We wanted to make sure we got everything right.”

“Inspector Johnson,” Skipper says, “what happened next in yourinvestigation?”

“We interviewed witnesses and gathered evidence.” He says the policeobtained statements from everyone who was present that night.

Theytalked to building security and impounded the security videos.

“Did you interview the defendant?”

He takes off his glasses.

“Yes. He confirmed he was at the office that night.”

“Was he a suspect on December thirty-first?”

“No. Originally, we thought this case was a murder-suicide. It wasn’tuntil later that we began to focus more closely on the defendant.” Henever mentions Joel by name.

“Inspector, when did you first begin to suspect the defendant may havebeen involved?”

Roosevelt says they became suspicious of Joel when they received thecoroner’s report and began to examine the physical evidence.

Skipper picks up the cue. He signals to McNulty.

“This would probably be a good time to turn to the physicalevidence.”

Rosie whispers in my ear, “We’re going to take a pounding for a while.”She’s right.

Skipper picks up the gun and hands it to Roosevelt.

“Do you recognize this weapon?”

“Yes. It’s the weapon that fired the bullets that killed the victims,Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy.”

Time moves slowly for the next two hours. Skipper has Rooseveltdescribe every piece of physical evidence in detail. Ten minutes onballistics. Fifteen minutes on fingerprints. Fifteen minutes on themessage on Diana’s answering machine.

Ten minutes on the voicemail message to Bob. Ten minutes on thefingerprints on the computer keyboard. I object frequently,ferociously and, for the most part, futilely. We have a fundamentalproblem with the physical evidence. It all points toward Joel.

At eleven o’clock, they’re still going strong. Skipper’s on today.Roosevelt and the jury seem like old friends. Rita Roberts sitsquietly in the gallery.

Rabbi Friedman stares straight ahead. Naomiis stoic. At eleven-forty-five, Skipper asks Roosevelt to summarizehis views on the physical evidence.

“We concluded the defendant fired the shots that killed the victims. Ina clumsy attempt to cover up his crime, he typed a bogus suicidemessage on Mr.

Holmes’s computer.”

Judge Chen looks at her watch and says, “This is a good time to breakfor lunch.”

Joel ignores his sandwich.

“We’re getting killed, Mike,” he says. We’re sitting in the crampedconsultation room behind Judge Chen’s courtroom. Mort eats a cornedbeef sandwich. Rosie drinks a Diet Coke. I hold a can of Diet Dr.Pepper.

There won’t be much fine dining until the trial is over.

Mort takes a fatherly tone.

“You take some lumps when the prosecution presents its case.”

I add, “We haven’t had a chance to crossexamine Roosevelt yet.” Joelis unconvinced. Without a word, he puts his uneaten sandwich into thewhite paper bag and drops it into the wastebasket.

The afternoon session doesn’t start any better.

“Inspector Johnson,” Skipper begins, “this morning, we spent a greatdeal of time discussing how Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy werekilled. We talked about the murder weapon. We listened toincriminating tapes. The defendant’s fingerprints were found on acomputer keyboard that was used to type a bogus suicide message.”

Enough.

“Objection. Mr. Gates is making his closing argument a littleearly.”

“Sustained. Mr. Gates, do you think you can find a question to askInspector Johnson?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He continues to lecture.

“This afternoon,” he says to nobody in particular, “we need to discusswhy the defendant killed Mr. Holmes and Ms.

Kennedy.”

I interrupt again.

“Your Honor,” I say sarcastically, “is there a question in theresomewhere?”

“Let’s get to it, Mr. Gates,” she says sharply.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Then he turns back to Roosevelt.

“Inspector Johnson, do you have any reason to believe the defendant wasangry at Mr. Holmes and Ms.

Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Angry enough to kill them?”

I’m up.

“Objection. Inspector Johnson isn’t a mind reader.”

“Sustained.” She points her gavel at Skipper.

“Please, Mr. Gates.”

He’s undaunted.

“Do you have any reason to believe the defendant was angry at Mr.Holmes?”

“Yes.” Skipper leads Roosevelt through a description of Joel’s angerat Bob about the partnership decision.

“Why would he have been upset at Mr. Holmes?” Skipper asks.

“Mr. Holmes was his mentor. Mr. Holmes had been assigned the task oftelling the defendant he wasn’t going to make partner. Apparently, hedid not do so.”

“That led to the agitated voicemail message to Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you believe the defendant’s voicemail message toMr.

Holmes related to the fact that Mr. Holmes failed to inform thedefendant that he wasn’t going to make partner?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes,” Roosevelt says.

“I believe the defendant’s voicemail message related to the fact thatMr.

Holmes failed to tell him he wasn’t going to make partner.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “Can’t you object to this? You think I’dkill somebody because I didn’t make partner?”

I signal him to be quiet. I whisper, “The jury’s watching us.”

Next, Skipper takes Roosevelt through the evidence that suggested thatJoel may have been having an affair with Diana.

“Inspector,” Skipper says, “are you aware of any reason why thedefendant may have been angry with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes. The defendant told us Ms. Kennedy did not complete a set ofescrow instructions for the Russo deal. He stated that he was upsetbecause he had to complete the task himself.”

Skipper gives him a puzzled look.

“Isn’t it odd that the defendant would kill Mr. Holmes because hedidn’t make partner, and Ms. Kennedy because she failed to complete alegal document?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, are you aware of any other reasons why the defendant mayhave been upset with Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy?”

“We believe the defendant was having a romantic relationship with Ms.Kennedy, which she terminated in order to rekindle an earlier romancewith Mr. Holmes.”

“Move to strike. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

Joel looks straight ahead. I look back to the gallery. Rabbi Friedmanis rocking back and forth in his chair. Naomi is staring directly intothe back of Joel’s head. Ruth Fink rubs her forehead.

Skipper is pleased. After a week of forensics, guns, fingerprints,autopsy reports, computer keyboards and tape recordings, we’ve finallygot some really juicy stuff for the jury.

“Inspector, I want to be sure I’m clear on this. Are you saying thatMs.

Kennedy, for lack of a better term, dumped the defendant in orderto resume a romantic relationship with Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes.”

“Is it your belief that he killed Mr. Holmes in a jealous rage afterMs.

Kennedy dumped him?”

“Objection. Speculative. State of mind. Foundation.” The kitchensink.

“Sustained.” Judge Chen gives Skipper a sharp look.

“Let’s stick to the facts, Mr. Gates.”

He barely blinks. He’s getting to all the sordid goodies now.

“Inspector, let’s take this one step at a time. What evidence do youhave that Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy were romantically involved?”

“Mrs. Holmes’s private investigator confirmed that he had discoveredthat Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy were having a romantic relationship.” Hetestifies that Beth stated she had found out about the affair in earlyDecember and told Bob she would file divorce papers if he didn’t breakit off. He terminated his relationship with Diana at that time.

“Yet on December thirtieth, Mrs. Holmes served divorce papers on herhusband.”

“Yes. The private investigator observed Mr. Holmes having arendezvous at the Fairmont with a woman other than Mrs. Holmes.”

“Was the private investigator able to identify the woman?”

“He wasn’t absolutely sure. He said the woman may have been DianaKennedy. That led to the filing of the divorce papers by Mrs.Holmes.”

Skipper glances at the clock at the back of the courtroom.

“You also determined that the defendant was having a romanticrelationship with Ms. Kennedy, did you not?” I glance at Ruth Fink.

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes. We interviewed several partners at the Simpson and Gates firmwho attended the firm retreat at Silverado last fall.” He confirmsHutch’s accounts of the hot-tub incidents. He reiterates Patton’sstory about finding Diana in Joel’s room at three in the morning.

Naomi looks at the floor. This is going to be the bloodiestcrossexamination I’ve ever done.

Skipper asks, “Inspector, if the defendant and Ms. Kennedy wereromantically involved, why would the defendant kill her?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, do you have a theory as to why the defendant would havekilled Ms.

Kennedy?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

Judge Chen glances at her bench book.

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt takes off his glasses.

“We believe Ms. Kennedy was the woman in the hotel room with Mr.Holmes. We believe she told the defendant that she had resumed herrelationship with Mr. Holmes. And we believe she told the defendantthat she no longer wanted to see him.”

“Objection. Move to strike. There’s no foundation for any of this.”

“Overruled.”

“So, Inspector, you believe that the defendant was so upset about theend of his relationship with Ms. Kennedy that he killed Ms. Kennedyand Mr.

Holmes in a jealous rage?”

“Yes.”

Joel starts to stand up. I grab his arm and pull him back into hisseat.

“Stay calm,” I whisper.

Skipper spends the rest of the afternoon lobbing softball questions toRoosevelt, who keeps pounding out winners. He describes his interviewswith Rick Cinelli and Homer Kim. I object frequently and, for the mostpart, inconsequentially. Skipper stretches out Roosevelt’s testimonyuntil four-thirty.

Judge Chen looks at her watch and says, “I think we should break hereuntil

Monday.”

It’s a bonanza for Skipper. The jury has all weekend to mull overRoosevelt’s testimony.

Judge Chen looks at me.

“I trust you’re prepared to begin crossexamination on Monday?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.” She pounds her gavel.

CHAPTER 41

THE CROSS EXAMINATION OF A LIFETIME

“After Inspector Johnson’s devastating testimony on Friday, MichaelDaley better be at the top of his game today.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. monday, march 30.

We spend the weekend preparing for my crossexamination of Roosevelt.Mort keeps pounding on the idea that we have to give the jury a reasonto think somebody else did it. Our best bet is Vince Russo. As Mortleaves on Sunday night, he summarizes our defense succinctly.

“When all else fails,” he says, “blame it on the dead guy.”

Monday morning arrives too soon. I’m watching Morgan Henderson givehis daily sermon on Channel 4 at six-forty-five.

“You know,” he says, “it might be a good idea to let Mort Goldberghandle Johnson’s cross. Goldberg’s an old warhorse.

He has more capacity for all-out war than Daley does.”

Thanks, Morgan.

The former talk-show host who now fancies himself a serious newsmanfurrows his brow under his blond, blow-dried hair.

“Who do you think’s winning, Morgan?”

“The prosecution has scored a lot of points, but they haven’t delivereda knockout blow.”

“Any predictions?” the anchorman asks.

“It’s looking pretty good for the prosecution,” Henderson says.

“I wouldn’t want to be wearing Michael Daley’s shoes today.”

Frankly,neither would I. The reporters swarm around me today when we get to theHall because they know I’ll have a major speaking role. I remind themI’m not permitted to talk about the case. That doesn’t stop them. Iutter the usual platitudes about my faith in the justice system. Ican’t ignore them.

On the other hand, I don’t want to say anythingthat may get me in trouble.

The judge watches the news, too.

The routine in court is familiar to us all. Joel takes his seatbetween Rosie and me. Mort sits at the end of the table. Harriet Hillasks us to rise. The judge takes her seat. The jury is brought in.Roosevelt is called back to the stand. The judge reminds him he’sunder oath. Then she turns to me and says, “It’s your turn forcrossexamination, Mr. Daley.”

I walk to the lectern.

“Good morning, Inspector.” I turn to the judge.

“May I approach the witness?” I want to appear respectful. She nods.I walk toward Roosevelt. As of this moment, the battle is now fullyengaged.

“Inspector,” I say, “I’d like to go over a few of the items youdiscussed on Friday in a little more detail.”

Our eyes lock.

“Of course, Mr. Daley.”

I pick up the revolver from the evidence cart. I go over to the jurybox and slowly hold it in front of them. Then I walk back toRoosevelt.

“Inspector,” I say, “you have identified this revolver as the weaponthat fired the bullets that killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, didyou not?”

“Yes.”

I hand it to him.

“And you’ve testified that Joel Friedman’s fingerprints were found onthe revolver, right?” I’m trying to elicit one-word answers.

“Yes.”

“When you arrived, Officer Chinn told you Mr. Friedman had informedhim that he had picked up the revolver and disarmed it when he foundthe bodies, right?”

He pauses.

“That’s true.”

“So it’s possible Mr. Friedman may have gotten his fingerprints onthe revolver when he picked it up and disarmed it, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt looks at Skipper and shakes his head.

“Yes. It’s possible,” he says.

One small victory for the good guys. I hold out my hand and he givesme the revolver.

“Inspector, you’ve studied the lab reports on this gun, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

I hand it back to him.

“Would you mind showing us exactly where Mr. Friedman’s fingerprintswere found on this revolver?”

He asks to see the lab report. Rosie hands it to me, and I turn itover to him.

She’s marked Sandra Wilson’s diagram of the location of thefingerprints on the revolver. I direct him to the correct page. Heputs his glasses on the top of his head. I turn to Rosie, who turns onthe overhead projector. The diagram appears on a screen I’ve placed inthe front of the courtroom.

“Inspector,” I say, pointing toward the screen, “is this the diagramthat you’re looking at?”

“Yes.”

“Would you please show us where Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints were foundon the revolver?”

He holds up the revolver and fumbles with it. He goes through the sameexercise that Kathleen Jacobsen, the evidence technician, went throughlast week. He explains that fingerprints from Joel’s thumb, middlefinger, ring finger and pinky were found on the handle. He says thefingerprint from Joel’s index finger was on the cylinder. He shows thejury how Joel was holding the gun.

“Inspector,” I say, “could you please show us how Mr. Friedman wouldhave fired the revolver with his hand in that position?”

“He couldn’t, Mr. Daley. His finger wasn’t on the trigger.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

“But, Mr. Daley…”

“You’ve answered my question. Inspector.” I nod to the jury.

“Just so we’re clear about it, isn’t it a fact that you didn’t find Mr.Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger?”

“We found smudged, unidentifiable fingerprints on the trigger, Mr.Daley.”

“I understand. But you couldn’t identify Mr. Friedman’s fingerprintson the trigger, could you?”

“That’s true.”

“So, it’s fair to say that you have no evidence to demonstrate thatMr.

Friedman pulled the trigger. Isn’t that true?”

“We have no identifiable fingerprints of Mr. Friedman on the trigger.That’s all.”

I’m not going to wage a war of semantics. Juries hate it.

“Isn’t it a fact, Inspector, that the locations of Mr. Friedman’sfingerprints

were consistent with the act of unloading the revolver?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled. Inspector Johnson is capable of giving an opinion onwhether the fingerprints are consistent with the act of unloading thegun.”

“Mr. Daley,” Roosevelt says, “I believe that Mr. Friedman left asmudged fingerprint on the trigger of this revolver when he fired it.On the other hand, his fingerprints were in a position that might havebeen consistent with the act of unloading it.”

Good answer.

“Thank you, Inspector. You’re also aware that when a gun is fired, itemits a cloud of gas and particles of gunpowder fly into the air.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley, that’s correct.”

I ask him whether any such traces were found on Joel’s hands orclothing.

The room is silent. He confirms Kathleen Jacobsen’s testimony thatthey didn’t test Joel’s hands or clothing.

“By the time he became a suspect, he had showered several times and hisclothes had been laundered or cleaned. As a result, we would not havefound traces of gunpowder or other chemical substances.”

“So you decided not to do the tests because you thought you wouldn’tfind anything.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point. For good measure, I add, “And you can’t show thatMr.

Friedman ever touched the trigger of the revolver.”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

“That’s true,” he says quietly.

We hammer at each other for the rest of the morning and into theafternoon.

I challenge the handling of the evidence and the phonemessages. We argue about the fingerprints on the keyboard. At threeo’clock I glance at Rosie, who tugs on her left ear.

“Inspector,” I say, “did you ever seriously consider any othersuspects?”

“Yes. We ruled them out very quickly. Not enough evidence.”

“For example, Inspector, did you ever consider Vince Russo as apotential suspect?”

“For a brief time, yes. But we ruled him out.”

“But you knew, of course, that Mr. Russo had been at the Simpson

andGates offices that night, and that he was very upset about the dealthat he was supposed to close the next day.”

“Yes.”

“He was so upset that he drove to the Golden Gate Bridge and has notbeen seen since.”

“We’re aware of the circumstances, Mr. Daley.”

“He may even have jumped off the bridge.”

“We don’t know that, Mr. Daley.”

“Yet you didn’t consider him a serious suspect?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I’m blowing smoke.

“Is it possible he fled because he killed two people?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“You would at least acknowledge Mr. Russo had a substantial motive tocommit this terrible crime, wouldn’t you, Inspector?”

“No.”

“Come on. Inspector. Mr. Russo was very unhappy about this deal.

Bykilling Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, he had an opportunity to disrupt the deal andflee the country.”

“Mr. Daley, we have no evidence to that effect.”

“You haven’t found his body, have you, Inspector?”

“No.”

“And it’s possible, isn’t it, that he may have faked his suicide andfled the country?”

Skipper’s up.

“Objection. This is all hopelessly speculative.”

It certainly is.

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, there was evidence confirming that Mr. Russo was in Mr.Holmes’s office that night, wasn’t there?”

Roosevelt eyes me slowly.

“Yes, Mr. Daley. We found his fingerprints on the desk of Mr.

Holmes.However, we have no way of knowing what time he was in Mr.

Holmes’s office, and we did not find a single shred of evidence thatsuggests

that he was involved. His fingerprints were not on theweapon. His fingerprints were not found anywhere near the bodies ofMr. Holmes or Ms.

Kennedy. As a result, we ruled him out as asuspect.”

Sure.

“Inspector,” I say, “you were able to determine who was present in thebuilding that night by reviewing the security tapes, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you were able to rule out several individuals as suspects becausethe security tapes indicated that they left the building, right?”

“That’s correct.”

Now, for some serious smoke and mirrors.

“Inspector, are you aware that it is possible to get into the buildingwithout passing by the security desk in the lobby? In fact, it ispossible to enter the building by the stairways or the freightelevator, isn’t it, Inspector?”

“The stairways and the freight elevators are kept locked,” he says.

“I understand. But it is theoretically possible for someone to haveentered and exited the building via the stairways or the freightelevator without passing by the security desk, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, it’s theoretically possible,” Roosevelt says.

“However, you would need a key to access those areas.”

“I know. But if somebody had a key, or a stairway door was proppedopen, it is possible somebody could have gotten upstairs and enteredand exited the Simpson suite without passing by the guard desk,right?”

“That’s true.”

“And it’s true that there are no security cameras on the stairways orthe freight elevator, right?”

“That’s also true.”

“So somebody could have entered the building, gone up the stairs or thefreight elevator, killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, and left thesame way, without ever being detected, right, Inspector?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley,” Roosevelt says.

“That’s theoretically possible.”

I glance at Rosie, who nods. We have one more item on today’sagenda.

“Inspector,” I say, “we’ve heard a lot of talk about the personal livesof Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy.”

“We certainly have,” he agrees.

“You’ve testified that you believe Joel and Diana were having anaffair, which she terminated.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you base your conclusion on the testimony of Mr. Patton and Mr.

Hutchinson?”

“Yes.”

“You realize Mr. Patton did not say he actually saw Joel and Diana inbed together.”

“That’s true.”

“And you realize Mr. Patton saw Joel and Diana in the same roomtogether immediately after he attempted to attack her?” A bit of astretch, but I decide to go for it.

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt looks right into my eyes.

“We questioned Mr. Patton at length. We have no reason to doubt theveracity of his testimony.”

“Mr. Hutchinson claims he saw them in a bar and in a hot tub. YetMr.

Hutchinson admitted that he was intoxicated at the time. Surely, youmust have doubted Mr. Hutchinson’s testimony?”

“We had no reason to question the truthfulness of Mr.

Hutchinson’stestimony, either.”

Great.

“Inspector,” I say, “Mr. Hutchinson said he thought he saw them in ahot tub from a distance of about a hundred yards away. He could havebeen mistaken. It was dark that night. He’d had a lot to drink. Otherthan the highly tentative testimony of Messrs. Patton and Hutchinson,you really don’t have any evidence that Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedywere having an affair, do you?”

Skipper leaps up.

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative. Leading. Asked and answered.”

All of the above.

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.” I return to my seat. The courtroom issilent.

Judge Chen turns to Skipper.

“Mr. Gates, I think we’ll call it a day.”

She pounds her gavel.

Joel, Rosie, Mort and I sit in the consultation room behind thecourtroom.

I’m beyond exhausted.

“Mike,” Mort says, “that was nice work on cross today.”

“Thanks. Coming from a pro like you, it means a lot to me.” A smalllie.

Rosie’s always a step ahead.

“We’ll move for dismissal tomorrow.”

Joel perks up.

“Do you think they’ll really dismiss the case?”

Mort gestures with his cigar.

“Maybe. Mike got Johnson to admit they have no hard proof that youfired the gun. He made a lot of points on motive. That’s always beenthe weakest part of their case. They’ve never been able to proveconclusively that you and Diana were having an affair.”

“That’s because we weren’t,” he replies.

Mort adds, “I’ve seen cases tossed for a lot less.”

Joel smiles briefly.

“I’m not going to get my hopes up too high,” he says.

“We’ll see tomorrow,” I say.

Roosevelt is waiting for me by my car.

“Nice work today,” he says.

I toss my trial bag into the trunk.

“Thanks, Roosevelt. I’m sorry if I beat you up in there a littletoday. Nothing personal.”

He glances at the cars roaring by on the 101 freeway.

“I hear they’ve found something. I don’t know what it is. You’regoing to find out tonight and it’s going to come down tomorrow.”

I pause.

“You think he’s innocent, don’t you, Roosevelt?”

“There’s a lot of evidence that points in his direction. There are alot of holes in the case, too.” He motions toward the Hall andshrugs.

“But it’s not up to me. The guy on the third floor is making thedecisions.”

I watch a police car drive by on Bryant. He’s silent as a uniformedcop walks by us.

“I’ve got to run,” he says.

“It’ll be my ass if anybody sees me talking to you.” He turns andwalks away.

“Thanks, Roosevelt,” I call out to his back.

CHAPTER 42

THE FACTS OF LIFE

“District Attorney Prentice Gates says he’ll call only one more witnesstomorrow. Court watchers expect Friedman’s defense attorneys to movefor dismissal.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. monday, march 30. 6:00 P.M.

Rosie’s secretary, Rolanda, hands me a large manila envelope when Ireturn to the office at six o’clock the same evening. Theoretically,she’s supposed to be working just for Rosie. During the trial, she’sbeen helping me out, too.

“Thanks for sticking around,” I say.

“You did a nice job on cross, today. Even the bitchy woman on CNN

saidso.”

Small consolation.

“Thanks.”

I tear open the envelope and pull out a thick stack of paper.

“Skipper didn’t call, did he?”

“No. But McNulty did. Said it was important. He left his pagernumber.”

“Thanks.” I rifle through the pages.

“What is it, Mike?”

I give her page 5 of the report.

“Read this,” I say.

Her eyes get bigger. “

“The blood and DNA tests conclusively prove that Joel Friedman was thefather of Diana Kennedy’s unborn child.”

” She stares at the report.

“Shit,” she whispers.

“Yeah.” I think Rolanda’s going to go to law school after she finishesat City College.

“I’ll call McNulty. Could you see if you can get Mort and Pete to comedown here? Rosie’s on her way.”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me tonight. You okay, Mike?” Justgreat.

We’ve built our defense on the fundamental proposition that my clientwasn’t sleeping with the victim and therefore had no motive to killher.

I’ve probably created enough doubts in the minds of the jurors toget an

acquittal. And now I realize he was probably lying all along.

“I’ll be okay. It may be a long night.”

“Bill McNulty speaking.” Even on a cheap cellular phone, his deliveryis crisp.

“It’s Mike Daley.” My voice is hoarse as I cradle the phone in myshoulder.

“You get the lab results?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to introduce it into evidence tomorrow.”

“I’m going to ask the fudge for some time to study it and have our ownexperts look at it.”

“She won’t go for it. You pushed for the early trial date. You’regoing to have to live with it.”

“If she doesn’t give us some extra time, we’ll appeal.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

I would, if I were in your shoes.

“It doesn’t change anything, Bill, You guys still can’t prove your casebeyond a reasonable doubt. You still can’t show he pulled thetrigger.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

Asshole.

Pete arrives first. He walks in with authority, dressed in blue jeansand a black leather bomber jacket. He glances at the report.

“Looks like we’ve got a problem,” he says.

“You got that right. You know any good DNA guys?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll ask Mort.” I rub my eyes.

“We had them. We were going to move for a dismissal.”

“They said on the radio your cross on Johnson was really good.”

It was.

“Anything new on the search for the elusive Vince Russo?”

“Nothing. We’ve drilled a bunch of dry wells. They’re supposed to belooking for him at border crossings. Fat chance.”

Rosie is already here when Mort walks in. He’s heard.

“So,” he says, “turns out our client was the father after all.”

“Seems that way, Mort,” I reply. I show him a copy of the paternitytest in the report.

“You realize, of course, we’re completely and totally fucked.”

Rosie snaps, “That’s helpful. Got any other suggestions, Mort?” Shemay as

well have added, “you asshole.”

“Easy, Rosie,” Mort says.

“I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. We’ve still got somecards to play.”

“He’s right,” I say.

“When in doubt, go back to the evidence. Point one: If we can put on agood enough expert to rebut Rod Beckert, we can argue it was a suicide.We could win the case right there.”

Mort smiles.

“Now you’re starting to think like a lawyer again.”

“Our expert better be good in court,” I reply.

“He’s the best. Full professor at UCSF. And he’s my brother-in-law,for God’s sake. If he fucks up, he’s going to have to listen to mepiss on him at the Passover seder for the next twenty years.” He turnsserious.

“Wait till you see him in court. He’s beaten Beckert. He can do itagain.”

Rosie’s quiet. She’s thinking.

“Point two,” I say.

“Even if the jury decides it wasn’t suicide, they still can’t show Joelfired the gun. Maybe he handled it, but they can’t prove he fired it.Reasonable doubt right there.”

“Another perfectly legitimate argument,” Mort agrees.

Rosie still isn’t biting.

“Point three. They’ve got a problem with the computer keyboard.

Joel’sfingerprints are all over it. But Bob’s aren’t. It doesn’t makesense. If Joel was going to try to fake a suicide, why would he gethis fingerprints all over Bob’s keyboard?

“Point four. The paternity test will prove Joel and Diana had anaffair.

They’re going to argue he killed her because she broke it off to getback together with Bob. If we can show that Bob and Diana weren’ttogether at the end of the year, it blows a big hole through theirmotive.”

Rosie shrugs.

“It’s tough to prove a negative, Mike.”

“I know. But we’ve got to try.” I look at Pete.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The mystery woman at the Fairmont?”

“Exactly. If we can prove she wasn’t Diana, we’ve got a pretty goodargument that Bob and Diana never got back together. It might be

agood time for you to have a talk with Nick the Dick.”

“He’ll testify,” Pete says.

“He has another book coming out this fall. It’s free publicity.”

I stop to think for a minute.

“The one thing we haven’t considered is the possibility that Joel isn’tthe father. We could argue the test results were flawed. How reliableare these tests, anyway?”

Silence. Rosie finally says, “Ninety-nine percent.”

Mort adds, “It probably means we’re ninety-nine percent fucked. On theother hand, I know a guy at UC who’s good. I can get him to confirmthe test results.

It’ll take a little time, though.”

“You guys got any better ideas?” I ask.

Mort says, “You forgot point five.”

“Point five?”

“Yeah. If everything else fails, we’ll use the S-0-D-D-I defense.”

“SODDI?” Pete asks.

“Some Other Dude Did It. We need to try to pin it on somebody else.Give the jury a choice.”

He’s right. It may be our best shot.

“Vince Russo’s perfect,” I say.

“He’s dead. He can’t defend himself. If he didn’t do it, why did hejump off the Golden Gate Bridge? Art Patton’s a great candidate, too.For one thing, he’s a first-rate asshole. For another thing, he’s beensleeping with the Widow Holmes. And he put the moves on Diana. Wedon’t have to prove anything. We just have to suggest it to the juryin a plausible manner to give them something to let them reachreasonable doubt. Hell, we should try to find a way to work in thefact that Skipper was there that night.”

“You’re stretching, Mike,” Rosie says.

Mort tells her, “You’ll see, Rosie. It works.”

She isn’t convinced. I’ve always trusted her instincts.

Mort rubs his fingers around a cigar.

“Well,” he says, “what should we do first?”

“Rosie, I need you to prepare papers to get things delayed until we canfind our own expert and do our own tests. Mort, I want you to callyour guy at UC. Pete, I want you and Wendy to go to the Bahamas rightaway and see what you can dig up before Trevor Smith gets back. Beforeyou leave, I

want you to set up a meeting for me with Nick Hanson. AndI need you to pound on a few more witnesses to see if we can nail ArtPatton. And anything you can get on the whereabouts of Vince Russowould be greatly appreciated.”

“What are you going to do tonight?” Rosie asks me.

“I guess it’s time for me to have a little talk with our client aboutthe facts of life.”

“We need to talk.” I meet Joel at the front door of his father’s houseat nine-thirty that evening. I try for my best subdued tone. He seemsto be in a pretty good mood. Then I remember that the last time wespoke, we were suggesting that we may be able to get the case dismissedtomorrow.

“Whatever you need, Mike.” He smiles.

“Great job on cross today.”

“Thanks.” My eyes dart.

“Your mom or dad around?”

“No. They’re at an Israel Bond dinner.”

Relief.

“Good.” We walk into the living room and sit down. The TV is tunedto CNN.

“Something’s come up. It’s serious.”

His smile vanishes. His eyes bore in on mine. I look right back intohis.

“I

thought things went pretty well today.” He finds the remote and turnsoff the set.

“They’ve gotten the test results back on Diana’s baby.”

The color leaves his face.

“And?”

“I think you know.”

He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes.

“It’s me, isn’t it?” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

He folds his hands and looks out the window for a moment. In myfamily, such news would have been met by at least twenty minutes ofworld-class histrionics, followed by another half hour of assignment ofblame. When you’re the rabbi’s son, you aren’t allowed suchluxuries.

We sit in silence.

“Are they sure?” he finally asks.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

He rubs his index finger across his lips.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Did you know?”

“I wasn’t sure.” He scratches his head.

“Diana said it was possible.”

“I see.” But I really don’t.

“What am I going to tell Naomi?” he says to nobody in particular.

“You might start with the truth,” I reply. I realize my tone is harshas I say it.

He swallows hard.

“You don’t understand,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You just don’t fucking understand.” He stands up and walks toward thekitchen. I follow him. He pulls a glass from a cabinet and fills itwith water. He leans against the refrigerator and I lean against thecounter. We’re barely five feet apart. There’s a look of desperationin his eyes.

“Then explain it to me,” I say.

“If you want me to defend you, I have to understand.”

“You can’t.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

He blinks back tears.

“You don’t know what it’s like being the rabbi’s son, Mike. You livein a fishbowl. Everything gets blown out of proportion. If you getsent home from school, you aren’t just another little kid getting introuble. You’re the rabbi’s son getting in trouble. If you aren’tdressed perfectly for services, it’s viewed as a poor reflection on therabbi and on the entire Jewish community.

People notice.” He looksaway. It’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who was working on abillion-dollar deal a few weeks ago.

I don’t say anything.

“Naomi is more fragile than she lets on,” he says.

“She’s been on antidepressants. I didn’t mean to sleep with Diana,Mike. It just sort of happened. And it only happened once. It wasstupid. And I have to live with it.”

“Joel,” I say, “for the moment, you have to remember you’re a defendantin a murder trial. You can’t dwell on the fact that the Jewishcommunity may find out about your relationship with Diana. You have totell Naomi and your parents tonight. They’re going to introduce thelab report in open court tomorrow. I may not be able to stop them.”

“I’m completely fucked,” he says. The stress overwhelms him. Hedissolves into tears. He knocks his glass of water off the counter. Iput my arm around his shoulder. The sobs are long and loud.

“What am I going to tell her?” he repeats several times.

For a guy who thinks he has all the answers, I’m speechless.

I hear the front door open behind me. I hear Mrs. Friedman’s voice.

“Anybody home?”

Rabbi Friedman says, “Joel, are you still up?”

I see that Joel has miraculously regained his composure. His parentsfind us in the kitchen. We stand in silence for a moment.

“What is it?” Joel’s mother asks.

Joel looks at me. Then he turns to them.

“Something’s come up. We need to talk.”

“How did he react?” Rosie asks later that night. We’re watching thenews in her living room.

“Not well,” I reply.

“He broke down. He’s humiliated. His marriage is falling apart.”

She closes her eyes. She and I were down the same path not so longago.

“Did he tell Naomi?”

“They were talking when I left. They were both crying. She wasn’t asangry as I thought she’d be. I don’t think she has the energy to beangry. She looked so sad.”

“And his parents?”

“He told them, too.”

“How did they take it?”

“Stoic. It’s the way they are.”

“Shit.”

“Do you think I should have stayed there, Rosie?”

“Probably not. You have to deal with some things in private.”

“Would you do me a favor?” I ask.

“Would you stop by Naomi’s on your way in tomorrow? I think she’sgoing to need some support. It might be better if it comes fromyou.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

She turns off the TV.

“What are you going to do in court tomorrow?”

Beats me.

“We have two choices. We can ask for a continuance and get Mort’sexpert to challenge the validity of the paternity test.”

“Medical science isn’t perfect.”

“Paternity testing is pretty close. I’m sure he’s the father.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“We stipulate that Joel is the father. We get to the truth quicklywithout a lot of hysterics.”

“Why would we do that?”

“To avoid pissing off the jury with three weeks of expert testimony onthe unreliability of paternity tests that we know are accurate.”

“Tough choice. What does Joel want to do?”

“He wants to stipulate. He’s ready to come clean.”

“You think he’s lied about anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” I don’t add that I’m not sure.

“Let’s talk in the morning with Joel.”

I’m still lying awake at one o’clock in the morning when my phonerings.

“Mike, it’s Naomi.” Her voice breaks. She’s been crying.

“Hi.”

“Mike,” she says slowly, “I just don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I know. I just can’t believe he’d lie to me.”

I have no response.

“Maybe we should talk about it in the morning, Naomi.”

She tries to catch her breath.

“I can’t go to court tomorrow. It will be too humiliating.”

I pause.

“I understand.”

“No, you really don’t,” she replies sharply.

“You really don’t.”

“I know things will be tough for you. But it would help us if the jurysees you there.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning. We’ll stop by on our way in.”

Five minutes later, the phone rings again.

“It’s Rabbi Friedman.” He clears his throat.

“This isn’t good news.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“How reliable are these tests, Michael?”

“Very.”

“What would you suggest?”

I pause.

“We’re going to ask for more time to let our expert review theevidence. The judge may not give it to us. At the very least, we’llfind another expert and blow some smoke at the jury.” I regret sayingit as soon as I’ve said it.

“You mean you think we should lie?”

“No. It’s my job to get the jury to reasonable doubt. If I have totrot out an expert for three weeks of testimony, that’s what I’lldo.”

He clears his throat.

“This is very difficult.”

“Maybe we should talk about it in the morning.”

CHAPTER 43

THE PROSECUTION RESTS

“District Attorney Prentice Gates is expected to call his final witnesstoday.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. 7:40 A.M. tuedsay, march 31.

It’s pouring when I reach Rabbi Friedman’s house at seven-thirty thenext morning. Joel and his parents are ready to go. Nobody says aword about last night.

“Michael,” Rabbi Friedman says, “we don’t want to be late for court.”

“Rabbi, may I have a word with Joel in private?”

“Of course.”

I pull Joel into the kitchen.

“You okay?”

“As okay as I’m going to be.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’re pissed off.”

“And?”

“They’re still my parents. They’re embarrassed and they’ll probablykill me after the trial is over. Until then, they’re going to play outtheir roles.”

This helps.

“What about Naomi?”

“That’s tougher. She said she didn’t want to go to court this morning.She may take the kids down to her mother’s in Southern California untilthe trial’s over.”

“One step at a time.”

We gather our umbrellas and raincoats. As Rabbi Friedman opens theheavy front door, I see Naomi and Rosie walking up the steps under alarge umbrella. Even though it’s dark out and it’s raining, Naomi iswearing sunglasses.

“What are you all looking at?” Naomi snaps.

“It’s time to go to court.”

Joel tries to give her a hug, but she pulls away.

“We have a lot to talk about when the trial’s over,” she says to him.

Rosie repeats firmly, “It’s time to go to court.” I give her hand aquick squeeze as we walk down the steps toward our cars.

“Your Honor,” I say, “the prosecution has just provided some new andpotentially inflammatory evidence. We need some time to review it.”We’re sitting in Judge Chen’s chambers. I asked for a meeting as soonas we got to court and before the jury was brought in.

Judge Chen isn’t in a particularly gregarious mood this morning. Shegives Skipper a sharp look and demands, “What’s this all about, Mr.Gates? It’s a little late to bring in new evidence.”

He smiles confidently. He hands her a copy of the lab report.

“Your Honor,” he says, “we just got this. We would have introduced itsooner if we’d had it, but the defendant insisted on an early trialdate.” He clears his throat, but he’s still grinning.

“The defendant was the father of Diana Kennedy’s unborn baby.”

Silence. She puts on her reading glasses and studies the report.

“Your Honor,” I begin.

She holds up her hand.

“Let me look at this, Mr. Daley.”

Rosie remains silent. Mort studies the judge. Skipper and McNultyexchange satisfied looks. I’m waiting for the high fives to start.

After what seems like an eternity, she puts down the report.

“This is serious,” she says.

“These tests are very reliable.”

Skipper agrees vigorously.

“Very reliable, Your Honor. Close to one hundred percent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gates.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we just got the report last night. We haven’thad an opportunity to review it with our expert. And we certainlyhaven’t had an opportunity to conduct an independent test.”

“That could take weeks,” Skipper protests.

“If they wanted to verify the results, they should have made therequest months ago. They pushed for the early trial date. We’reready to conclude our case. We can’t wait six weeks while theirexperts redo the paternity test.

It isn’t fair.

We’ll lose the jury. They’re going to come back with the same results,anyway.”

The judge looks at me.

“Mr. Daley, you really should have made your request sooner.”

She’s right. I’ve made a significant blunder. I believed my clientwhen he told me he didn’t have an affair with Diana Kennedy.

“In the interests of fundamental fairness, Your Honor,” I say, “wewould request that you give us at least a few weeks to examine thereport and consult with our expert.” When all else fails, I tryfundamental fairness.

She shakes her head.

“I’m not going to put this jury on ice for a month.”

“Judge Chen,” I say, “I won’t ask for a few weeks. But you have togive us a couple of days.”

“I don’t have to give you anything.”

“I know. But all I’m asking for is just a few days.”

She turns to Skipper, who’s whispering to McNulty.

“Mr. Gates,” she says, “it’s Tuesday. I was planning on a couple ofshort trial days this week so I can attend to some other business.Would you object if we recess until Monday so the defense can reviewthe lab report?”

“Your Honor,” he replies, “I think we should proceed. I see no purposefor this delay.”

“Mr. Gates,” she says, “it looks like the rain may stop for a whilethis afternoon. Why don’t you and Mr. McNulty go out and hit somegolf balls?”

Skipper gets the message.

“When you put it that way, Your Honor, I guess we might be in aposition to adjourn until Monday.”

“We’re done,” she says. Skipper and McNulty dart out the door. As I’mpacking my trial case, she says to me quietly, “He lied to you aboutDiana, didn’t he?”

I swallow.

“Yeah.”

“There isn’t much I can do about it, you know.”

“I know.”

“Mike,” she says, “I know you’ll be tempted to try to get me to declarea mistrial so you can start over and retool your case.”

I’m silent.

She looks right at me.

“I won’t let it happen. Don’t push my buttons on this one,understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. I’ll see you Monday.”

We spend the rest of the week trying to fill some of the holes in ourcase. On Thursday, Mort’s DNA expert from UCSF confirms what we allexpected.

The paternity tests were conducted by a reputable lab.Unless we can demonstrate that there were some shenanigans, it’svirtually certain that Joel was the father. Pete and Wendy leave forthe Bahamas on Friday.

I have one bright spot on Friday. I take Nick Hanson out for lunch atMoose’s, an upscale eatery on Washington Square in North Beach.

Ateighty-something, he’s still a character. He assures me that he’d bedelighted to testify, as long as we agree to pay him for his time athis standard hourly rate.

I spend all day Saturday and most of Sunday working with our medicalexpert.

Dr. Robert Goldstein, on his testimony to rebut Rod Beckert. At seveno’clock Sunday night, Rosie, Mort and I regroup in our office. Joelhas agreed to stipulate that he’s the father. I phone Skipper with thenews. He’s pleased.

Within fifteen minutes, McNulty faxes a draft stipulation to us. Weagree on the language.

Mort inspects a fine Cuban cigar.

“It’s the best we can do. We’ll get the issue off the table as quicklyas we can.”

I’m not so sure.

Rosie and I drive home on Sunday night. As we head northbound on theGolden Gate Bridge, I turn to her and say, “How did you get Naomi tocome to court the other day?”

“She’s tougher than you think. I told her she and Joel have big issuesto work out, but that it would help Joel if she waited until after thetrial.”

Rosie is one smart cookie.

“You think they’ll be able to hold it together after all this isover?”

“Tough to predict. They’re going to have to make some changes.” Shelooks out the window and tugs at her hair.

I’ve learned there are times when I shouldn’t ask too many questions.We drive in silence.

On Monday morning, Judge Chen is pleased when we inform her inchambers that we’ve agreed to stipulate about the paternity test.

We’vejust saved a couple of weeks of trial time. She has Skipper read ourstipulation to the jury as soon as they’re brought in. Although thereare a few raised eyebrows among the jurors, there isn’t much reaction.They’re getting tired.

“Mr. Gates,” Judge Chen says, “do you have anything further at thistime?”

“No, Your Honor.” He turns toward the jury.

“The prosecution rests.”

“Very well.” She looks at the jury.

“The prosecution has completed its presentation. We’re going to take ashort break while the attorneys discuss some legal issues.” She nodsto Harriet Hill, who leads the jury out.

“Mr.

Daley,” she says, “I presume you’d like to make a motion at thistime.”

“Yes, Your Honor. The defense moves that all charges be dropped.”

Themotion is routine. The defense always moves for dismissal at the endof the prosecution’s case.

“On what grounds?”

“As a matter of law, the prosecution has failed to prove its casebeyond a reasonable doubt.”

Skipper stands.

“Objection.”

“Sit down, Mr. Gates.” She turns to me.

“Mr. Daley, your motion is denied. The defense should be prepared tocall its first witness tomorrow morning.”

CHAPTER 44

THE BRAIN TRUST

“After two weeks of damaging testimony from the prosecution’switnesses, Friedman’s attorneys will begin their defense. I hope theyhave a few rabbits in their hats.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. monday, april 6.

“Have you heard anything from Pete and Wendy?” Joel asks. We’remeeting

in Rabbi Friedman’s dining room at two o’clock the sameafternoon. Joel looks intense.

Rabbi Friedman is in a contemplative mood. Mort fingers a cigar. Rosieis drinking iced tea.

“The banker isn’t back in town yet, but Wendy was able to sweet-talkhis secretary into giving her copies of some of the correspondence inthe file.

She’s faxing it to us tonight.”

Joel scratches his head.

“So, who goes first?”

“We’ll start with our medical expert, Dr. Goldstein.” Rabbi Friedmanglances at Mort.

“He’s good,” Mort says.

“I worked with him on his testimony over the weekend,” I say.

“If he can persuade the jury it was a suicide, we can all go home.”

“And if he can’t?”

Joel asks.

“We’ll attack the physical evidence. If we have to, we’ll show thejury that Russo and Patton had a lot more motive and opportunity thanyou did. If things get really tight, we’ll put some of my formerpartners on the stand and try to deflect the blame over to them.”

“What about me?” Joel asks.

“What about you?”

“When do I go on?”

“We’ll see how it goes. If things are going well, you don’t.”

“I want to testify, Mike.” He pauses.

“I need to testify.”

Over my dead body.

“We’ll decide when the time comes.”

We conclude our discussion after an hour or so and I begin to gather mynotes.

Rosie starts to put on her coat. Mort clears his throat.

“There’s something I’d like to bring up,” he says.

“What is it, Mort? Did we forget something?”

He takes a drink of water. He chews the ice. He looks at RabbiFriedman and then he turns to Joel.

“No,” he says, “we didn’t forget anything. I wanted to discusssomething.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. Rosie looks puzzled.

Mort glances around the table.

“I wanted to discuss this privately with Joel, but it doesn’t appearthat I’ll have an opportunity to do so. So, let me explain thesituation to all of you.”

Rosie’s expression turns to a severe scowl.

“What situation, Mort?” she asks.

“After we got the results of the paternity test, I decided to talk tothe DA.”

What? I lean across the table and say firmly, “You didn’t have theauthority, Mort.”

He holds up his hand.

“Hear me out,” he says.

“In light of the test results, I thought it would be in Joel’s bestinterests to feel out the DA about a possible deal.” He looks atJoel.

“I think we need to explore all of our options.”

My heart races. It’s all I can do not to leap out of my seat and grabhim.

Rosie’s eyes are on fire. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes say,“Light up this asshole.”

I struggle to keep my tone measured.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the DA?”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t agree to it.”

“That’s not true. We would have discussed it. We would have consultedwith Joel.

Then we would have made a decision.”

He shrugs.

“I doubt it.”

“Bullshit,” I reply.

“You should have told us,” I shout.

“Look,” he says, “I talked man-to-man with Skipper. He thinks hiscase is shaky enough that he’d be willing to let Joel plead tovoluntary manslaughter. He’ll say it was heat of passion. It takesthe death penalty off the table. And he’s willing to recommend afairly lenient sentence.”

I look at Joel. Joel glares at his father. They both turn to me. Joelbreaks the silence.

“Seeing as how I’m on trial, maybe you guys would be interested in myopinion.”

Mort interrupts him.

“Look, Joel. I know how it sounds. But I was doing it for your owngood. I

think you should consider all your options.”

“You think I’m guilty, you asshole.” Joel’s father looks away.

“I didn’t say that,” Mort replies.

“I just thought it was important to know your options.”

“How could you possibly think I might agree to a plea bargain?”

“Look at their case. You’re an admitted adulterer. You’re an admittedliar.

How big a leap is it for the jury?”

“You’re right,” Joel says sharply.

“I am an adulterer. I’m not proud of it. I lied about it. I’m notproud of that either. But I am not a murderer. I did not kill twopeople. If the jury wants to convict me for something I didn’t do, sobe it. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to admit to something Ididn’t do.

Period.” He stares Mort down. Then he glares at his father.

“Give it some thought,” Mort says.

“I’ve given it all the thought that it deserves, Mort,” he replies.

“No deal.”

Mort nods.

“Okay,” he says.

“I understand.” He reaches for his briefcase.

“There’s one other thing,” Joel says. He looks directly at Mort.

“Your assistance on this case is no longer required. You’re fired.”

Mort glances at Rabbi Friedman, who closes his eyes. Mort turns toJoel.

“I

thought you might have that reaction.” He picks up his briefcase.

“Good luck, Joel. No hard feelings.” He hesitates for a moment, thensays,

“I can show myself out.”

After the door shuts, I turn to Joel.

“You okay about this?”

“Yeah,” he answers quietly.

“I’m fine.”

Rosie and I sit in her office later the same evening to talk aboutstrategy.

The hallway is lined with binders, charts and exhibits. It looks likethe backstage area of a theater.

“Well, Rosita,” I say, “it’s just you and me again.”

“Just like old times,” she says.

“You ready?”

“You bet. We’ve got them right where we want them.” She grins.

“You’ve never been at a loss for self-confidence.”

“I just hope we don’t have any more surprises.” I pause.

“And I sure wish Pete would find that goddamned Vince Russo.”

CHAPTER 45

OUR TURN

“Friedman Defense Begins Today.”

—san francisco legal journal. tuesday, april 7.

I knock on Rosie’s door at seven the next morning.

“Come in for a minute,” she says.

“You won’t believe this.” She opens the door. Grace is eating a bowlof Froot Loops at the kitchen table. She’s happy to see me. I say hito Rosie’s mom, who has been logging overtime with Grace as the trialhas continued.

Being a trial lawyer isn’t a nine-to-five job. Iremind myself that we’ll have to do something nice for her after thetrial is over.

Rosie leads me into the living room. The TV is tuned to Channel 4.Morgan Henderson is delivering his daily sermon.

“The defense will begin its case today,” he intones.

“So what?” I say to Rosie.

“Just a sec,” she says. She turns up the volume.

“As we reported earlier this morning,” Henderson continues, “last nightProfessor Morton Goldberg resigned from the defense team. His officesaid his departure was the result of ‘philosophical differences.”

” “Philosophical differences my ass,” I say.

“Just wait,” Rosie says.

Henderson smiles at the morning anchorwoman. She bats hereyelashes.

“Susan,” he says, “Mr. Friedman’s loss is our gain. I’m pleased tointroduce the newest member of our legal team here at News Center 4.”His grin widens.

“We are joined by Professor Morton Goldberg, who will be providingcommentary on the trial for the duration.”

“For the love of Jesus Christ,” I say.

Rosie grins.

“Unbelievable.”

The camera shifts to a beaming Mort, who is in a separate studio,fiddling with a small earphone.

“Is that you, Morgan?” he stammers.

“What did you say?”

Henderson looks down at his monitor.

“Uh, Professor Goldberg will join us in a moment.”

The picture stays on Henderson, but Mort’s voice is heard.

“I’m ready, Morgan.”

They’re going to have to decide who’s going to play Laurel and who’sgoing to play Hardy.

“Mort,” Henderson says, “what are your thoughts on the beginning of thedefense’s case?”

The camera shifts to Mort. The bright lights reflect off his hugeglasses.

“You know, Morgan, I want to remind our viewers that I’ve justterminated my association with the defense team for philosophicalreasons. I have to be careful not to divulge any clientconfidences.”

I rub my temple.

“Can you believe this?” Rosie says.

“At this point, I’ll believe anything.”

Henderson looks serious and asks, “Without divulging any confidences,how do you feel about the defense’s case, Mort?”

“The defense has a lot of ground to cover, Morgan. But Michael Daleyis a very good lawyer. I’m sure justice will prevail.”

How insightful.

“Turn it off,” I say.

“Just turn the damned thing off. I can’t stand it.”

Grace looks at me. In between bites of cereal, she says, “Are youokay, Daddy?”

Oops.

“Yeah, sweetie. Everything’s fine.” Daddy has a slight case ofindigestion.

It’s overcast, but not raining, when we reach the throng of reportersat the Hall.

“Mr. Daley, are you going to consider a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true Mr. Goldberg was fired?”

“Mr. Daley, does Mr. Friedman’s affair change your defense?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

I feel like screaming, “Shut the fuck up, you assholes.” Naturally, Isimply look composed as Rosie and I push our way past them and meetJoel and his parents just inside the doors.

“Naomi is in the bathroom,” Joel says.

“She said she’d meet us upstairs.”

Rabbi Friedman glances at me.

“Looks like it’s up to you, Michael.”

“We’ll just keep going. Rabbi.”

We go upstairs and take our seats. Skipper says blandly, “I understandwe have a change in the lineup today.”

“Yeah. We decided to trim some of the fat.”

He grins.

Joel leans over and whispers, “You ready?”

I don’t have time to think of all the things I would have donedifferently.

With hindsight, I would have deferred our openingstatement until now. I might have had a chance to undo some of thedamage.

“You bet,” I reply.

“Now we get to tell our side of the story.”

Before the jury is called in, Judge Chen turns to me and says, “Iunderstand there’s been a change in the team at the defense table.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I reply.

“Mr. Goldberg won’t be with us for the remainder of the trial.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see McNulty whisper to Skipper. JudgeChen nods.

“Very well,” she says.

“Let’s proceed.” She instructs Harriet Hill to bring in the jury. Ididn’t expect her to stop the trial just because Mort’s gone. Hehasn’t said a word to the jury, anyway.

“Please call your first witness, Mr. Daley.”

“The defense calls Dr. Robert Goldstein.”

Mort’s brother-in-law, Bob Goldstein, is a professor at UCSF

MedicalCenter.

His physical appearance might be described as the anti-Mort. He’s inhis late sixties, with a full head of gleaming silver hair and dazzlingblue eyes. He glides his six-foot-four-inch frame across the courtroomwith the grace of a senior squash champion. His double-breasted lightgray suit matches his hair. A tasteful white kerchief sits in hisbreast pocket. He looks like he’d be right at home in a boardroom or acountry club. The Rolex and gold cuff links suggest he’s verysuccessful and probably very rich.

Pound for pound, he can hold his own with Skipper in the charismaderby.

He’s sworn in and takes his place on the witness stand. He casuallyadjusts the microphone. He knows his way around a courtroom and heknows how

to work an audience. From what I gather, he and Mort don’tget along very well. Mort says he isn’t the kind of doctor you’d callif you’re sick. On the other hand, he ;‘s the kind of doctor you’dcall if you need someone to testify.

He states his name for the record. He smiles knowingly at the jury.

Onsomeone else, it would appear condescending.

“I’m a full professor in the departments of Pathology and TraumaSurgery at UCSF Medical School.”

I begin taking him through his impressive credentials. We get throughhis undergraduate degree at Stanford and his medical degree from JohnsHopkins when Skipper interrupts us.

“We’ll stipulate to Dr. Goldstein’s expertise,” he says.

Goldstein smiles. The two lawyers on the jury seem to nod to eachother. I hand him copies of Beckert’s autopsy reports.

“Dr. Goldstein,” I say, “are you familiar with the autopsy reportsprepared by Dr. Roderick Beckert with respect to Mr. Robert Holmesand Ms. Diana Kennedy?”

“Yes. I have reviewed both reports very carefully.”

Skipper starts to stand, then he sits down. He’s a little jumpytoday.

“Would you be kind enough to tell us whether you agree with Dr.Beckert’s conclusions?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for this.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Gates just stipulated on the record thatDr.

Goldstein is, in fact, an expert. He did not object when I asked Dr.Goldstein whether he had reviewed the reports. Certainly, he can’tobject when I ask Dr.

Goldstein for his opinion as to the validity of the conclusions in thereports.

Why else would I call him to the stand?”

Judge Chen isn’t buying into this completely.

“I’ll overrule the objection for now. But Dr. Goldstein better beprepared to explain his conclusions.”

“He will.” I turn back to Goldstein.

“You were going to tell us your views on the autopsy reports.”

“I have reviewed both reports. I have known and worked with RodBeckert for many years. We are colleagues on the UCSF faculty in theDepartment of Pathology. I respect him.”

You also have more titles than he does, Bob, but don’t lay it on toothick just yet.

“In the case of the autopsy of Ms. Kennedy,” he continues, “I thinkRod got

it absolutely right. She never had a chance.” He explains inboth medical and layman’s terms that she died of gunshot wounds to herlung and heart.

“And the autopsy report on Mr. Holmes?”

He looks at the jury and grimaces.

“That’s where I have a problem with Dr.

Beckert’s conclusions. There’s no doubt Mr. Holmes died from massivetrauma from a gunshot wound to his head. However, I have very seriousdoubts about Rod’s conclusion that Mr. Holmes was knocked unconsciousprior to the shootings.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that I believe Rod was wrong.”

I glance at the jury. They seem to like him so far. I’ll have to askRosie when we’re done.

“Would you mind explaining your conclusions. Doctor?” I’m taking achance. It may be better to lead him with short, precise questions. Onthe other hand, at our rehearsal—I mean our trial preparation—he wasable to explain some very complicated concepts in terms that I couldunderstand.

“Of course,” he says. He looks at Rosie.

“I wonder if we could look at the autopsy photos.”

Rosie sets up the easel and puts an enlarged picture of the left sideof Bob’s head in front of the jury. Dr. Goldstein turns to the judgeand asks whether he can stand by the picture so he can point outcertain items. He speaks to her in a tone that suggests they’re oldfriends. She agrees.

He buttons his suit jacket as he walks toward the easel. He takes athin gold pen out of his pocket.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the jury, “we’re looking at anautopsy photograph of the left side of the head of Mr. Holmes.

For your reference, here’s the outer edge of the skull.” He makes asweeping circular motion with the pen. The jurors look at the photo.Goldstein studies the jurors one by one. As I instructed him, he looksat the phone company supervisor at the end of the second row and pointsto her.

“Madam, can you see all right?”

She says, “Yes.”

“And can everybody hear me? I hate using microphones.”

They nod in unison. Mort was right. This guy is smoother than goodscotch.

He turns to the photo and draws an imaginary circle around the exitwound just above Bob’s left ear.

“This area here is called the parietal bone. As you’re all aware,” hesays,

“here’s where the bullet came out. We call it the exit wound.Although we don’t have a picture of it here, the entrance wound was, asyou know, in the right parietal bone, just above the right temple.”He’s striking a perfect balance between knowledgeable and folksy. Theaccountant is looking receptive.

“Everybody with me so far?”

They all nod again. Skipper stands.

“Your Honor,” he says, “would you please instruct Dr. Goldstein not toask questions of members of the jury. This isn’t his anatomy classat UC.”

Judge Chen looks annoyed.

“If that was an objection,” she says, “I’ll have to sustain it.” Sheturns to Goldstein and says gently, “Please answer the questions Mr.Daley asks you, Dr. Goldstein. Please don’t ask the jury anyquestions.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I say, “Dr. Goldstein, you were describing the exit wound.”

“Yes.” He looks at the photo. He describes the wound in detailedmedicalese for the next five minutes. Then he interprets in languageGrace could understand.

“As you can plainly see,” he concludes, “the trauma to the head wasmassive.”

“Were you able to make a determination about the accuracy of Dr.Beckert’s conclusion that the wound may not have beenself-inflicted?”

“Objection, Your Honor. He’s leading the witness.”

No, I’m not. I give the judge a puzzled look.

“Your Honor,” I say, “that wasn’t a leading question.” Skipper istrying to break Goldstein’s rhythm.

“You’re right, Mr. Daley. Overruled.”

Goldstein says, “In my judgment. Rod was wrong. I believe the woundwas self-inflicted.”

Murmurs in the back of the courtroom. This shouldn’t be a news flashto anybody. Did they think my medical expert was going to agree withBeckert?

Judge Chen pounds her gavel. I ask Goldstein to explain hisconclusion.

“I am certain Mr. Holmes fired the gun.” He says that gunpowderresidue was found on Bob’s right hand.

“There’s no other way he could have gotten gunpowder on his hand,unless,

of course, he happened to fire another gun the same day.”

This brings mild chuckles from the gallery.

“Isn’t it possible that someone may have placed the gun in his handwhile he was unconscious and caused him to fire it? Wouldn’t thatgenerate the same chemical residue on his hand?” I’m trying tomitigate Skip per’s argument that somebody knocked Bob unconscious,placed the gun in his hand and caused him to pull the trigger, makingit look like a suicide.

“Yes. But that assumes that Mr. Holmes was unconscious at the timethe gun was fired.”

“Was there any evidence that Mr. Holmes was unconscious at the timethe gun was fired?”

“No.” He pauses.

“I have all the respect in the world for Rod Beckert. I’ve known himfor many years. But this time around, I think he’s just flat wrong.”

I pretend to study the picture of Bob’s head. I’m actually glancing atthe jury. I was hoping I’d get a little more than the halfheartedreactions I’m seeing.

“Could you please explain why you believe Dr. Beckert’s conclusion waswrong?”

“Certainly, Mr. Daley.” He explains that the report indicated thatHolmes wasn’t under the influence of drugs, and the amount of alcoholin his system was so small he couldn’t have been prosecuted for a DUIcharge. As a result, he ruled out the possibility that he was renderedunconscious by the use of any chemical substance.

He turns back to the photo.

“Consequently,” he says, “it seems the only way Mr.

Holmes would have been rendered unconscious would have been through ablow to his head.” He points to a spot just above the top of the exitwound.

“This is the area where Dr. Beckert claims there was a majorconcussive wound. In fact, the blow to the skull, if there indeed wassuch a blow, wasn’t nearly as traumatic as Dr. Beckert says. Itcertainly wasn’t enough to render him unconscious.”

I try to look skeptical.

“How can you be sure, Dr. Goldstein?”

“For one thing, it’s small. It’s less than a quarter of an inch indiameter.

It’s not as though somebody hit him with a hammer. There was nosignificant contusion. More importantly, Dr. Beckert took X rays ofMr.

Holmes’s head.

There was no skull fracture. It was probably caused when the headbanged against the desk immediately after he shot himself.” Hepauses.

“Let me put it this way. If he was a football player and he sustainedsuch an injury, he wouldn’t have left the game. Based on my bestmedical judgment, it is my opinion that he fired the gun and that hetook his own life.”

“Dr. Goldstein,” I say, “you understand that Dr. Beckert concludedthat the injury could not have been sustained after the shootingbecause the hematoma, or bump, could not have formed after theshooting.”

He smiles.

“In general, that’s true. A hematoma cannot form once the heart stopsbeating because it cannot pump blood to the injured area. However, incircumstances such as this where there is a wound to the head, theheart may continue to beat for seconds or even minutes after theshooting. As a result, it is likely that the hematoma was caused whenMr. Holmes bumped his head on the desk after he’d shot himself.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Skipper’s up like a shot.

“Dr. Goldstein,” he says, “you didn’t examine the body, did you?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t have an opportunity to question Dr. Beckert, did “Andisn’t it likely that Dr. Beckert’s exam was more comprehensive thanyours?”

Watch out. Bob. I’ve warned him to deflect hypothetical questions.

“Of course, Mr. Gates. Dr. Beckert had the body in front of him whenhe performed the autopsy. I’ve been working off photos and X rays.”

“Well, Dr. Goldstein, wouldn’t it seem to make more sense in thiscontext to rely on Dr. Beckert’s description of the wounds thanyours?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Don’t you think Dr. Beckert’s descriptions of thewounds would be more reliable than yours given the fact that he wasobserving the body as he performed the autopsy?”

“Objection. Still speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Surely he’s going to do more than just ask Goldstein to agree withBeckert.

On the other hand, if he gets into hand-to-hand combat, Goldstein will probably hold his ground. If I were in Skipper’s shoes, Iwouldn’t push too

hard. The jury understands Goldstein is our hiredgun.

They joust for another twenty minutes. They argue about the blow tothe head.

Goldstein doesn’t give an inch.

“Dr. Goldstein,” Skipper finally says, “are you being paid to testifytoday?”

“Yes I am.”

“And how much are you being paid?”

Goldstein looks at me. This is a standard question. If Skipper can’tshake him, at least he can try to show that we’ve bought his medicalopinion, which, of course, we have. Unfortunately, we’re paying him alot of money.

“Four hundred fifty dollars an hour.” Then he adds, sarcastically,“Plus two dollars to ride the streetcar each way.” A smattering oflaughter breaks out in the back of the courtroom.

“And how many hours have you spent on this case?”

“Counting today, about fifty.”

Skipper looks at the jury and nods melodramatically.

“So, they were able to buy your medical opinion for about twenty-fivethousand dollars?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper pouts briefly.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

As Goldstein steps down, Joel whispers, “That went pretty well, didn’tit?”

I nod. Thanks, Mort. I hope you get good ratings tonight.

Our next witness is Dr. Greta Hudson, a dignified black woman who is aprofessor at USE. She used to be one of the top evidence techniciansin the FBI crime lab. She’s written several texts on evidentiaryissues. We decided to go out of town for our expert on guns andfingerprints to make it tougher on Skipper’s team to learn much abouther. In all honesty, we picked a black woman because we thought she’dplay well to the jury.

After she states her name for the record, I ask her if she’s a medicaldoctor.

“No,” she replies.

“I’m a Ph.D. in the field of criminology. My area of expertise isforensics and, in particular, the gathering and analysis of physicalevidence. I’ve written extensively on the subject of fingerprints. I’malso an expert on certain types of firearms, including revolvers.”

Just the way we rehearsed it. We spend a few minutes going over

hercredentials before Skipper stipulates to her expertise.

In response to my question concerning Bob’s position when he was shot,she explains that the trajectory of the bullet and the blood-splatterpatterns on Bob’s desk indicate that he was sitting at a ninety-degreeangle to his desk, with his left side closest to the desk. He slumpedto the floor, possibly banging the left side of his head against hisdesk.

“Dr. Hudson,” I say, “were you able to make a determination as towhether Mr. Holmes or Ms. Kennedy was shot first?” I want to showBob died last.

If he died first, it doesn’t look like a suicide.

“Yes,” she replies. She explains that the tattooing at the entrancewound indicates that the barrel of the gun was placed against Bob’shead. In such circumstances, a vacuum is created when the gun isfired, which sucks a minute amount of blood into the barrel of thegun.

“If the last shot fired from the gun was the shot that killed Mr.Holmes,” she says, “there would be traces of his blood in the barrel ofthe gun. Of course, if the gun was fired again to kill Ms. Kennedy,the traces of blood in the barrel would have been cleared out and notraces of his blood would have been found.”

“Were any traces of Mr. Holmes’s blood found in the barrel?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies.

“As a result, I concluded that the last shot fired from this weapon wasthe shot that killed Mr. Holmes.”

Good answer. I take the revolver from the evidence cart and hand it toher.

“Dr. Hudson,” I say, “have you reviewed the police reports and the labreports concerning this weapon?”

“Yes.”

“In particular, did you have an opportunity to review the fingerprintanalysis prepared by the crime lab?”

“Yes, I did.”

I signal to Rosie. She puts an enlarged diagram showing all sides ofthe revolver on the easel in front of the jury. I ask Dr. Hudson togive the jury a summary of the fingerprint report.

Skipper objects.

“Your Honor, the report on this weapon has already been entered intoevidence. Surely we don’t need Dr. Hudson to restate the entirereport.”

Actually, I want her to do just that—and to put our spin on it.

“Your Honor,” I say, “the prosecution has had its turn. If Mr. Gateshas a

problem with Dr.

Hudson’s analysis, he can take it up on crossexamination.”

“Overruled.”

I restate my question. Dr. Hudson looks at the jury. She asks JudgeChen for permission to leave the jury box so she can point out variousitems. Then she uses her pointer to show exactly where Joel’sfingerprints were found, carefully noting that only unidentifiable,smudged fingerprints were found on the trigger of the gun.

I hand her the gun, which is still wrapped in clear plastic.

“Dr. Hudson,” I say, “would you mind showing us exactly how youbelieve Mr.

Friedman gripped this weapon in order to generate the fingerprintsthat you’ve described?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Hudson holds the handle with her thumb, middle, ring and pinky,carefully avoiding contact with her index finger. She holds it up forthe jury to see.

“There,” she says.

“That’s as close as I can get.”

“What about your index finger?”

She carefully places her right index finger on the cylinder of the gunand holds it up again.

“The index finger was on the cylinder.”

“Could you explain why Mr. Friedman’s index finger may have been onthe cylinder?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Dr. Hudson, how do you open this revolver to unloadit?”

“You press against the cylinder with your finger.”

“And Mr. Friedman’s right index fingerprint was found on the cylinder,was it not?”

“Yes.”

“And if he was unloading the weapon, it would have been very likelythat he would have gotten his fingerprint on the cylinder, right?”

“Objection. He’s leading the witness.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. Mr. Friedman’s fingerprint was in a place that isconsistent

with the act of loading or unloading this weapon.”

Good.

“One final question, Dr. Hudson. Were any identifiable fingerprintsfound on the trigger of the gun?”

“No. There were unidentifiable smudged fingerprints on the trigger.”

“So, in your opinion, is there any conclusive evidence that Mr.Friedman fired this weapon?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

Skipper tries in vain for the next hour to trip her up. He’s in atough spot.

He can’t simply ask her if she thinks it’s possible that Joel fired thegun.

For one thing, she’ll say there’s no evidence that he did. Foranother, she can say anything’s possible. Neither will help him. Hetries to get her to admit that Joel could have left smudgedEngerprints on the trigger when he shot the gun. She says there’s noevidence to prove it. She holds her ground.

Finally, he takes the same approach he took with Dr. Goldstein andasks her how much she’s being paid for her testimony. This time, thebill is only fifteen thousand. Skipper sits down in frustration.

CHAPTER 46

YOUR’RE THE HEAD COMPUTER GUY, RIGHT?

“Daley’s presentation has been a little wooden so far.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morton goldberg. noon. tuesday, april7.

“How many more witnesses, Mr. Daley?” Judge Chen asks when we returnfrom lunch.

Jesus, we’ve just started.

“Two for sure, maybe three or four.”

Skipper perks up.

“The defense calls Eric Ross,” I say.

Whispering in the gallery.

“Who’s he?” Skipper looks at McNulty. They pore over our witnesslist.

Ross has been head of information systems at S&G for five years.He’s the head computer dweeb. Skipper never spoke to him. He probablynever figured out how to turn on his computer.

Ross is sworn in. He’s early thirties and uncommunicative. His eyesdart through thick wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing his only suit forthe first time in years. Somebody should inform him that wide lapelsare out. His

mustache twitches. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Mr. Ross, we’ve known each other for a while, right?”

“Objection. Relevance.” Skipper is buying time.

“Overruled.”

“We knew each other when you were at our firm,” Ross says.

“Right. And could you please tell everyone what your job is at thefirm?”

“Yes. I’m the head of information systems.” His delivery is stiff.

“Right. The head of information systems. In layman’s terms, what doesthat mean?”

“I’m in charge of firm-wide information and technology systems.”

I nod melodramatically.

“Firm-wide information and technology systems.” I stroke my chin.

“For those of us who are technologically challenged, that means you’rethe head computer guy, right?”

He’s annoyed. How dare I not respect his two years of computer classesat Diablo Valley Junior College. I’m treating him like he’s a TVrepairman.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he replies.

“As the head computer guy, are you in charge of keeping track of allthe firm’s computer stuff?”

He looks at the judge.

“Computer stuff?”

“Yeah, you know—the hardware, the software—the computer stuff.”

“Yeah.” His irritation is showing. Just the reaction I want.

“Actually, I’m most concerned about the hardware. You know—

themachines.”

He hasn’t the foggiest idea where I’m going.

“Mr. Ross,” I continue, “as the head computer guy, you’re in charge ofkeeping track of all the equipment, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“And Simpson and Gates is a big firm, so you’ve got a big job,right?”

Skipper rises slowly.

“Your Honor,” he says sarcastically, “we’re happy to stipulate that Sand G

is a large firm and Mr. Ross has a lot of computers to keeptrack of. What’s the point?”

The judge says, “Overruled. I presume this is leading somewhere, Mr.Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Ross, how many computers do you keep track ofat S

and

G?”

“Firm-wide?”

“Yes. Firm-wide.”

“You want an exact number?” he asks incredulously.

“Ballpark’s fine.”

He sits up a little taller.

“I’d say’ bout eighteen hundred.”

“Eighteen hundred. Wow. That’s a Ipt of computers, isn’t it?”

Skipper stands.

“Your Honor, please?”

She glares at me.

“Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I just want to play with him for another questionor two.

“Now, of the eighteen hundred computers, how many of them havekeyboards?”

“Keyboards?” He looks at me like I’m out of my mind.

“Yes, Mr. Ross. Those nifty detachable keyboards.”

“All of them, of course.” He may as well have added the words

“youmoron.”

“You can’t use them without keyboards,” he adds.

“That’s what I figured. You’re in charge of keeping’ track of thekeyboards?”

I get the “you moron” look again.

“Of course,” he says.

“Okay. Now, do you keep a list of all the keyboards?”

“Basically, they’re all the same. Some are a little newer thanothers.”

“I understand. But do you make a list of all the people who havekeyboards?”

He looks indignant.

“As a matter of fact, I do. When a new person comes to the firm,they’re issued a computer and a keyboard.”

“And do you keep a list of those computers and keyboards?”

“Yes.” Then he pauses.

“But…” He stops.

“Yes, Mr. Ross? Did you want to add something?”

He winces and takes a deep breath.

“Well, sometimes people switch keyboards without telling me. Some ofour keyboards are pretty old. The action is better on the newkeyboards. They’re faster.”

Imagine. People taking each other’s keyboards. What’s the worldcoming to?

“Is it a problem when people switch keyboards?” It’s probably a felonyin some jurisdictions.

“Not really. It just makes it more difficult to keep track ofeverything.”

“I see. How often do you update the list?”

“Whenever a new keyboard is issued.”

“And do you take an inventory of all the keyboards from time totime?”

“Once a year. We don’t always get around to it. Sometimes we’re toobusy.”

Too busy to count keyboards? Hard to believe.

“When did you take the last inventory?”

“We just finished right before the end of the last year.”

“That’s great, Mr. Ross.” I signal to Rosie, who hands me athirty-page computer printout. I give copies to Skipper and JudgeChen.

“Your Honor, the defense would like to have this keyboard inventoryentered into evidence. This list was provided to Mr. Gates beforethe beginning of the trial.” Along with eighteen boxes of Simpson andGates records that we subpoenaed, but never had any intention ofusing.

Skipper and McNulty look at it. It’s nothing more than a list of namesand serial numbers.

Judge Chen turns to Skipper.

“Any objection?”

Skipper looks at McNulty and shrugs.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good,” I say, as I hand the list to Ross.

“Can you please tell us what this printout is?”

He tenses.

“It’s the inventory we took in December. How did you get a copy?”

Laughter in the courtroom. Judge Chen admonishes him not to askquestions.

“We have our ways,” I say. It’s nice to know all the time Wendy spentporing over mountains of S&G records was not in vain.

“Can you tell us what’s described in this list?”

“The first column has the serial number for each of our keyboards.

Thesecond column shows the first initial and last name of the employee towhom each keyboard is issued.” It’s in alphabetical order.

“Including attorneys?”

“Including attorneys.”

“Can you please look at the serial number of the keyboard opposite thename

JFRIEDMAN?”

“Sure.”

“And would you please confirm that JFRIEDMAN refers to the defendant,Joel Friedman?”

“Yes. He’s the only Friedman in the firm.”

I’m sure he is.

“Would you please read the serial number opposite his name?”

He studies it.

“It’s 7145811263.”

I walk over to a large flip chart that I’ve set up just for this littleexercise.

“Would you mind reading that number again?”

“Sure.” He repeats it, and I write it in big block numbers on the flipchart.

I pause for a moment. I walk over to the evidence cart and pick up thekeyboard found in Bob’s office. It’s wrapped in clear plastic. I walkback to Ross and hand it to him.

“Mr. Ross,” I say, “can you see through the plastic?”

Yes.

“Good.” I walk back to my flip chart.

“Can you read the serial number on the back?”

“7 1 4 5 8 1 1 2 6 3.”

I write each of the numbers on the flip chart directly below theidentical numbers that are already there. The grandstand play seems tobe working. I pause to look at the two rows of identical numbers’, onthe flip chart.

“Mr.

Ross,” I say, “are you aware that the keyboard you are holding wastaken from the office of Robert Holmes on December thirty-first?”

Skipper’s up.

“Objection. The witness has no basis to answer that question.”

“Mr. Daley,” Judge Chen says, “perhaps you could rephrase?”

“Sure.” I turn back to Ross.

“Mr. Ross,” I say, “would it surprise you to find out that thekeyboard you’re

holding was found in the office of Mr. Holmes onDecember thirty-first?”

He looks helplessly at Skipper.

“Uh, no, I didn’t know that. I mean, yes, it would surprise me.”

“Yet the keyboard you’re holding is inventoried as the one belonging toJoel Friedman.”

“Uh. Yes it is.” His mustache twitches furiously.

“Well, how can you account for the fact that Mr. Friedman’s keyboardwas sitting in Mr. Holmes’s office on the morning of December thirty-first?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you have any idea how Mr. Friedman’s keyboard gotinto Mr.

Holmes’s office, Mr. Ross?” I realize I’m smiling.

“No, I don’t.”

“You didn’t move it, did you?”

“No, sir. I didn’t.”

“Well it probably didn’t get up and walk next door, now did it, Mr.Ross?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

Skipper confers with McNulty and approaches Ross. He hands Ross theinventory.

“Mr. Ross,” he says, “what is the date in the upper righthand cornerof the printout?”

“December first of last year.”

“I see. Does that mean the inventory was conducted on December firstof last year?”

“Not exactly. It means the inventory was completed on December first.It usually takes us a few days to check the serial numbers. And wehave people in our other offices who do it there.”

“I see. And was this inventory updated after December first?”

“No, sir. We have too many other important things to keep us busy.”

I’ll bet you do.

I see where Skipper’s going.

“So, Mr. Ross, this inventory means that on December first, thekeyboard in your hands was sitting on Mr. Friedman’s desk, right?”

“Right.”

“And it could have been moved from Mr. Friedman’s desk to Mr.

Holmes’sdesk at any time after December first, right?”

I decide to slow down the train a little.

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you have any way to account for the whereabouts ofthis keyboard after December first?”

“No, sir.”

“No further questions.”

I ask for a brief recess.

Joel, Rosie and I caucus in the consultation room. I look at Joel.

“We may have a problem. There’s a thirty-day window when the keyboardcould have been moved from your office to Bob’s.”

Rosie says, “I say we go with what we’ve got, Mike. The jury probablyalready figures there’s been some monkey business because Joel’skeyboard ended up in Bob’s office.”

She’s right.

“I say we leave it where it is. The jury knows it was moved.”

Joel looks troubled.

“I think we stop now,” I say.

We return to the courtroom. I tell Judge Chen we will have no morequestions for Ross.

“I’m inclined to adjourn for the day,” she says.

“How many more witnesses do you have?”

“Two or three. We should have the case in the hands of the jury by theend of the week.”

I look over to Skipper. I’m hoping he’ll spend’ all night preparing tocrossexamine Joel.

Pete calls from the Bahamas that night.

“They’re expecting a storm in the morning,” he says.

“Great. You and Wendy have any luck tracking down Trevor Smith?”

“He’s back the day after tomorrow. See if you can stall until then.”Swell.

“Time’s getting short.”

“I know.”

CHAPTER 47

NICK THE DICK

“A good dick can’t be afraid to wear out a little shoe leather.”

—private INVESTIGATOR nicholas hanson. san francisco chronicle.wednesday, april 8.

The next morning, at precisely nine-fifteen, I stand up and say in aclear voice, “Your Honor, the defense calls Nicholas Hanson.”

The doors in the back of the courtroom open. Nick the Dick—all fourfeet ten of him—comes strutting down the center aisle. He’s wearing adark gray double-breasted Wilkes Bashford pinstripe with a burgundytie. A matching kerchief sits in his breast pocket. A small red roseadorns his lapel. His three-thousand-dollar toupee has been carefullygroomed. He nods to the press.

He looks like the president walking down the center aisle in the Houseof Representatives just before the State of the Union speech.

The secret weapon just arrived.

The courtroom breaks out in a combination of laughter and chaos.

JudgeChen bangs her gavel. I hear McNulty mutter, “For the love of God.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “Is this for real?”

“The fun’s about to start,” I tell him.

“I wish we were on Court TV.”

Nick stops in front of the bench and acknowledges Judge Chen, likethey’re old friends.

“Hello there, Your Honor,” he says.

“It’s been a long time.”

A very long time, indeed. They’ve never met. She can’t help herselfand she smiles.

“Hello, Mr. Hanson. I believe you’re familiar with our procedures.”

“Indeed I am, Your Honor.” When Harriet Hill asks him if he swears totell the truth, he replies, “Indeed I do.” He climbs into the witnessbox and casually adjusts the microphone. He pours himself a glass ofwater and beams at the jury.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks. I stand at the lectern. Ilet him bask in the spotlight.

“Good morning, Mr. Hanson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Daley,” he replies cheerfully. He told me he’ll beeighty-three on his next birthday. I should look so good.

“Would you please state your occupation for the record?”

“Yeah. I’m a private eye.”

“How long have you been a private investigator, Mr. Hanson?” Hecloses

one eye and looks up, as if he’s running an imaginary calculatorin his head.

“I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen.” He nods.

“I guess that means I’ve been doing this for almost sixty-six years.”

“And you’ve been working in San Francisco the entire time?”

“Born and raised in the heart of North Beach. I played a little ballwith the DiMaggio boys when we were kids.” The accountant looksimpressed. If Joe DiMaggio was the Yankee Clipper, maybe Nick was theSan Francisco Dinghy.

“Mr. Hanson, did Elizabeth Holmes retain your services in the fall oflast year?”

“Yeah.” He talks out of the corner of his mouth, like Sean Connery.

“For what reason?”

“She wanted me to put a tail on her husband. She thought he wassleeping around.”

Just the tone I was hoping for. Polished. Professional. Dignified.

“Were you able to determine whether Mr. Holmes was in fact having anextramarital affair?”

He turns to the jury.

“Oh yeah.” He nods for emphasis.

“He was.”

“And how were you able to make this determination?”

“How do you think? I followed him all over town.”

The jurors are eating this up.

“And you found him with another woman?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Where was that?”

“In the woman’s apartment at the Golden Gateway Commons.”

“I see. And when was that?”

“On December first of last year.”

Skipper stands up. He’s seen enough.

“Your Honor, I must object to this entire line of questioning. Whatpossible relevance does this have to this case?”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Hanson was retained to investigate thepossibility that Mr. Holmes was having an affair. He has criticalinformation concerning his social life in December of last year. Theprosecution has suggested that Mr.

Friedman acted in a jealous rage because Mr. Holmes had rekindled

hisrelationship with Ms. Kennedy. As we’re about to show you, Mr.

Holmeshad terminated his relationship with Ms. Kennedy in early December.By the end of December, there was nothing for Mr. Friedman to becurious about.”

“Overruled.”

Skipper is sorry he said anything.

“Mr. Hanson,” I continue, “are you sure he was having a sexualrelationship with this woman?”

He reaches into his pocket.

“I can show you some pictures, if you’d like.”

Skipper leaps up.

“Your Honor,” he shouts.

Judge Chen turns to Nick.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hanson.”

He pouts.

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Hanson,” I continue, “were you able to identify the woman?”

He juts out his lower lip and nods at the jury.

“Oh yes. It was Diana Kennedy.”

“So, on December first, you saw Mr, Holmes and Ms. Kennedy engaging insex at Ms. Kennedy’s apartment?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. I don’t expect him to blush.

“And you reported this to Mrs. Holmes?”

“Indeed I did.”

“And what did she do?”

“She paid me.”

Judge Chen beats back a smile.

“Didn’t she also confront her husband with pictures you provided?” Iask.

“Yeah.” He frowns.

“I think she laid it on him pretty thick.”

I’ll bet she did.

“And did Mrs. Holmes ask you to do anything else?”

“Yeah. She wanted to be sure he stayed on the wagon, if you know whatI mean.”

He winks.

“I take it you mean that she wanted you to keep Mr. Holmes undersurveillance to be sure that he didn’t continue his relationship withMs.

Kennedy?”

“Yeah. Or anybody else, for that matter.” He grins.

“Except for Mrs. Holmes, of course.”

“Of course. Mr. Hanson, did you continue to observe Mr. Holmes?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he ‘stay on the wagon,” as you’ve so eloquently put it?”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says.

“Sit down, Mr. Gates,” she replies.

Nick shakes his head.

“No, Mr. Daley,” he says.

“Sadly, Mr. Holmes fell off the wagon.”

More grins in the gallery. I can see how this guy writes mysteries inhis spare time.

“Oh, dear,” I deadpan.

“When exactly did he fall off the wagon, Mr.

Hanson?”

“On December twenty-eighth.”

“Would you mind telling us what happened?”

“Sure.” He clears his throat.

“Mrs. Holmes told me Mr. Holmes was going to attend a dinner at theFairmont. On a couple of occasions, he’d met Ms. Kennedy there. Hehad a favorite room in the tower where they used to go for, uh,recreational purposes.” He glances at the judge.

“When I heard he was going to be at the Fairmont, I got a room acrossthe street at the Mark Hopkins. It had a direct view into the roomwhere Mr.

Holmes liked to hang out. I ordered room service, set up mytelescope and telephoto camera, and waited. At eleven-forty-five, hecame back to the room with a woman. It was hard to tell what was goingon because it was dark.”

“But you could see that Mr. Holmes was in the room with a woman.”

“Oh yeah.”

“And you’re sure the woman was not Mrs. Holmes?”

“I’m sure about that. I was talking to Mrs. Holmes on my cellularphone the entire time. She wasn’t very happy about it.”

“What were Mr. Holmes and the woman doing in the hotel room?”

He looks at the judge.

“Am I allowed to say this in court, Your Honor?” he asks innocently.

“Please be discreet,” she says.

“But you must be truthful, of course.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” He shrugs and looks at me.

“For lack of a better term, Mr. Daley, Mr. Holmes and the woman wereengaging in oral sex.”

I stand at the lectern. I try not to move a muscle until the roar diesdown.

Judge Chen pounds her gavel. Skipper shouts his objections. I look atthe jurors. They’re all smiling.

Judge Chen points her gavel at me and says, “Mr. Daley, you’ve madeyour point.

Can we move along, please?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Nick.

“Mr. Hanson, were you able to identify the woman in the room with Mr.Holmes?”

“No. Like I said, it was pretty dark. She left quickly. I ran acrossthe street to try to identify her, but by the time I got up theelevators, she had already left.”

Somehow, I have trouble imagining Nick running anywhere.

“Can you describe the woman?”

“Yes. Young. Slender. Long hair.”

“Long hair?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Mr. Hanson, you’re aware that Diana Kennedy had short hair, aren’tyou?”

“Indeed I am.”

“So, what did you conclude?”

“I concluded the woman in the room was not Diana Kennedy.”

I glance at Rosie.

“Mr. Hanson, did Mrs. Holmes ask you to follow Mr. Holmes during theentire month of December last year?”

“Yeah. I was on him like a glove.”

“And from December first through December twenty-eighth, did you eversee Mr.

Holmes and Ms. Kennedy together, other than at work?”

“No.”

“Did you take any nights off during that period?”

“No. For what Mrs. Holmes was paying me, I would have stayed up forsix months straight.”

“And you never saw Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy together?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Skipper says wearily.

“Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

Skipper’s crossexamination ends quickly. First, he questions Nick’seyesight.

It’s twenty-fifteen. He question? how Nick could have been able todetermine that Bob and the woman were having oral sex in a dark room.Nick replies that he has a very powerful telephoto lens and offers todescribe their every move in intimate detail. Skipper decides not topursue it. He questions Nick’s stamina.

He suggests that an eighty-two-year-old man may not be able to stay upall night watching Bob Holmes for an entire month. This irritates theretired bus driver on the jury. Nick explains that he and his threesons and four grandsons work in shifts. Unbeknownst to Bob Holmes,there was a set of Hanson eyes on him virtually every waking moment inthe month of December. Another set of Hanson eyes chased DianaKennedy. Skipper sits down. He knows the jury is entranced with thisdiminutive PI. After five minutes, Nick marches triumphantly down thecenter aisle and out of the courtroom. As soon as he’s out the door,Judge Chen turns to me and says,

“This might be a good time for a shortbreak.”

Rosie and Joel are all smiles in the consultation room.

“Cherish the moment,” Rosie says.

“You may never get a chance to examine him again.”

Joel shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“We’ve got some good momentum now,” I say.

“Let’s keep pushing.”

chapter 48

TOEING THE PARTY LINE

“Defense attorney Michael Daley is expected to call several witnesseswho were at the Simpson and Gates offices on the night two attorneysdied.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morton goldberg. wednesday, april 8.

Jeff Tucker slithers to the stand after lunch. I stand right in frontof him.

“You used to work at the Simpson and Gates firm, didn’t you, Mr.Tucker?”

“Yes. Currently, I am general counsel of First Bank.”

“I see. And was your bank involved in the sale of Russo Internationalthat was supposed to close on December thirty-first?”

“Yes. We were one of Mr. Russo’s lenders.”

“Were you going to have a continuing relationship with Mr.

Russo’scompany?”

“No. Our loans were being paid off. We were delighted with theresult.”

“Mr. Tucker, you visited with Mr. Russo at Simpson and Gates in theearly evening of December thirtieth, didn’t you?”

“Yes. My superiors asked me to check on the deal. I had no reason tobelieve it wasn’t going to close.”

“Did Mr. Russo appear upset to you?”

This prompts a grin.

“Mr. Russo always appeared upset to me. He was particularly nervousthat night.”

“Was he happy about the deal?”

“No. He wanted to keep his company. He thought he could manage itback to profitability.”

“So, Mr. Russo didn’t really want to close the deal.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let’s not argue about semantics, Mr. Tucker. Isn’t it fair to saythat Mr.

Russo was unhappy about selling his father’s company and that you haddoubts as/to whether the deal would close?”

“That’s fair.”

That pretty much covers it.

“Mr. Tucker, did you talk to Mr. Holmes about the deal that night?”

“Briefly. He was very agitated. He said he couldn’t predict whatVince Russo would do.”

“It’s possible that Russo pulled the plug before he disappeared, isn’tit?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s even possible Russo killed Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy,isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative. No foundation.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.” I’ve made my point.

The parade continues throughout the afternoon. Ed Ehrlich swears thatthe deal was going to close. He assures us the city was 100 percentbehind the deal.

Clan Morris is even more reassuring than Ehrlich. And far morepolished.

Morris tells us he was certain that the deal was going toclose.

“The only way it wouldn’t have closed,” he says, “was if Vince Russochanged his mind.”

“Is it possible that he did so?”

“Anything’s possible, Mr. Daley.”

That’s as far as I get before Judge Chen sustains Skipper’sobjection.

The afternoon concludes with testimony from Jack Frazier, who agreeswith everyone who preceded him that Russo was going to close the deal,come hell or high water.

“Mr. Frazier,” I say, “isn’t it true that you negotiated aforty-million- dollar reduction in the purchase price at the lastminute?”

“Yes.”

“And wasn’t Mr. Russo quite upset about it?”

Frazier looks at his attorney, Martin Glass, who is sitting in thegallery.

“Yes,” he replies.

“He was quite upset. At one point, he stormed out of the conferenceroom.

He made quite a scene. He interrupted a cocktail party forMr.

Gates.” He nods sheepishly at Skipper, whose face is impassive.

“So it’s possible Mr. Russo may have been so upset he decided toterminate the deal?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I guess so. But the fact is, I really don’tknow. He seemed ready to close the last time I saw him.”

“And when was that?”

“Around one o’clock.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“Around one-thirty-five. Mr. Morris and I left together. We weretalking about business.”

“Where did you and Mr. Morris go?”

“We went home.”

There’s nothing more that I can do.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Joel is beside himself in the consultation room at the end of the day.The trial is nearing its conclusion and he is wearing down.

“I thought the idea was to make them believe it was a suicide,” hesays.

“If that doesn’t work, I thought we were going to blame Russo. Why areyou

fucking around?”

I’m exhausted. My patience is short.

“All we can do with these witnesses is to ask them to speculate aboutwhat happened that night. The other side has the right to object. Wehave to do everything indirectly. We can’t just ask them if they thinkBob committed suicide. We have to give them a bunch of reasons why Bobwould have been suicidal. I think we’ve shown the jury that Bob had alot on his mind: a divorce, a deal that was going to implode, agirlfriend who was leaving him and a bonus that he wasn’t going to get.That’s as far as we can go.”

Rosie interjects in a calmer tone, “We have the same problem withRusso.

Nobody saw him do anything. His fingerprints weren’t on thegun. There’s no evidence connecting him to the scene. All we can dois show he had opportunity and perhaps a lot of motive. That may beenough to get us to reasonable doubt and get an acquittal.”

Joel slumps back into his chair. He stares at the gray steel table. Hechews on his lower lip.

“That’s really all we’re trying to do at this point, isn’t it? We’retrying to punch holes in their case to generate enough doubt in enoughmembers of the jury to get me off.”

He’s hit the nail right on the head.

“I want to testify,” he says emphatically.

“I want to set the record straight once and for all.”

Rosie and I look at each other.

“Let’s see how things go in the next few days,” I say gently.

“We don’t have to make a decision until we’ve finished with the otherwitnesses.”

Rosie and I sit in her office at eight o’clock the same evening.

She’sfinishing her cashew chicken. I’m drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper. I’mjust not hungry these days.

“You think Joel is starting to crack?” she asks.

“Maybe. Yeah. Probably.” Time for a reality check.

“You think we’ve got enough for reasonable doubt?”

She ponders for a moment.

“Hard to say. If you’re on the jury, you’re looking at a guy who’s anadmitted adulterer who’s lied about his relationship with the victim.They’ve heard enough to conclude she dumped him. They know he wasreally pissed off at Bob. They may even decide that Bob stole

hisgirlfriend.

His fingerprints were all over the murder weapon and the keyboard. Heleft a threatening voice mail for Bob and he made a threatening phonecall to Diana.

He had a fight with her at Harrington’s. He may have even lured herin. All we’ve shown so far is that they couldn’t positively identifyhis fingerprint on the trigger. And that his keyboard somehow walkedfrom his office to Bob’s.”

“But our experts were good,” I say.

“They made a decent case for the suicide theory.”

“Our experts were expensive hired guns who were paid to say what wewanted them to say. The jury knows that. They’ll discount theirtestimony.”

She’s right, of course.

The phone rings. Rosie puts Wendy on the speaker.

“It’s pouring in Nassau,” she says.

“Have you been able to talk to Trevor Smith yet?”

“Not yet. Delayed again. He won’t be back until Sunday. We’ll bewaiting for him.” She pauses.

“Have you put Chuckles on the stand yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“I was looking through the correspondence I got from Smith’ssecretary.

And I went down to the office of public records. I’mgoing to fax some stuff to you.”

We talk for a few minutes and I hang up. I stand and put on myjacket.

“You going home?” Rosie asks.

“Not yet.”

“Where are you going?”

“To play a hunch.”

CHAPTER 49

IT JUST GOES TO SHOW WHAT A LITTLE PLANNING CAN DO

“The Guilford Insurance Agency. Life. Health. Peace of Mind.”

—brochure FOR THE guilford insurance agency.

My hunch pays off. At nine o’clock the same evening, I’m paying avisit to the darkened ofEces of Perry Guilford, S AND G’s insuranceagent. His office is in a highrise building on Market near Van Ness,a few blocks from City Hall. Most of the tenants in this building arestate and local government

agencies. The Guilford Insurance Agencyoccupies half of the third floor.

The walk from the Civic Centerunderground parking garage through the homeless encampment on the CivicCenter Plaza was treacherous. The streets are mean in this part oftown, especially after dark. Guilford’s reception area has lots ofbrochures on variable annuities. They promise life, health and peaceof mind.

“Mr. Guilford, I’m Mike Daley.”

Guilford and I are the only people here.

“Please, Mr. Daley,” he rasps, “it’s Perry.” Incandescent smile. Hisage and waistline are right around fifty-five years and inches,respectively. His jowls measure right up there with Art Patton’s, whois, coincidentally, his former brother-in-law from Guilford’s firstmarriage about twenty years ago. His toupee is flattering in apathetic sort of way.

“Fair enough, Perry. It’s Mike.” His cuff links are in the shape ofgold cigars. His jowls jiggle. His red suspenders shake.

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me. I know it’s late.”

He laughs.

“I’m sorry I’ve been hard to get hold of. I have a lot of eveningappointments. Make yourself at home. Brent Hutchinson said you’d becalling.

Anything I can do to help a member of the firm. Anything.” He patshis ample gut and takes a gulp of Coke Classic. My arteries arebeginning to harden just looking at this guy.

“Actually, Perry, I left the firm at the end of last year. I’vestarted my own shop. I was hoping you could help me get my insurancesituation squared away.”

He’s pleased. Fresh meat.

“Great, Mike. That’s just great. Anything I can do to help you. Youknow I handle all the insurance for S and G, It’s my biggest account. Ihandle a couple of the other big law firms in town, too. I’m sure Ican take care of you.”

“That’s great, Perry. Let me tell you what I have in mind.” We spendforty-five minutes discussing my insurance needs. I tell him I’vepurchased malpractice insurance through the state bar and ask him if hecan get a better deal. I tell him about Grace and he describes variouswhole life policies. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. Ifigure if I let him talk, he may wear himself out.

At the one-hour mark, he’s starting to slow down. We’re already on ourthird diagram. Insurance agents can’t sell anything without drawingpictures. The last one looks like a basketball court, with ahalf-court line and two free-throw lines. I’m lost when we start onvariable annuities.

An hour and fifteen minutes into this torture, I ask him to prepare awritten estimate of everything we’ve talked about. After he reminds mefor the sixth time that he isn’t in insurance just for the money, Idecide it’s time to see if I can get any useful information.

“Helluva thing over at the Simpson firm, eh, Perry?”

“Unbelievable, Mike. Helluva thing. Were you there that night?”

“Yeah. Helluva thing.”

“You know, they’d really be in the soup if they hadn’t planned ahead.”He shuffles his papers.

“It’s a good thing they had life insurance on Bob Holmes.”

“It just goes to show what a little planning can do, right Perry?”

“You bet. That’s why you need to plan now, Mike. You want to takegood care of little Mary if anything ever happens to you.”

“Actually, my daughter’s name is Grace.”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s right. Grace. Five years old.”

Close enough.

“Did you handle all of Bob’s life insurance?”

“Yeah. And between us girls, it’s a damn good thing I did. I talkedhim into buying some extra coverage. Didn’t cost much. Got his wife afive-million term policy, and each of the kids got a million. They’reset for life.” He frowns melodramatically.

“I was talking to Art about it. Helluva thing.”

“Yeah. And it was a damn good thing you got the firm to take downthose key-man life insurance policies. Hell, without those, they’dreally be in the soup.”

“No shit. Art was telling me you guys were going to get a big fat feefor Vince Russo’s deal. Now, he says you guys may not get anything.Helluva thing.”

“Looks that way, Perry. Maybe I should take down some more lifeinsurance. How much was the firm carrying on Bob?”

He smiles.

“They were carrying two and a half million until December. Lucky forthem,

I talked them into taking down a big term policy on some of theheavy hitters right before all the excitement. The policy on Bob wenteffective only a couple weeks before the end of the year. Art knewabout it.”

Hello?

“Yeah, Perry. Sure is a good thing they got that big policy in placewhen they did. Do you recall how much the policy was for?”

He laughs.

“Hell, you should know. It was a big, fucking deal, Mike. The damnthing’s worth twenty fucking million. Biggest fucking policy I’ve eversold.

Art says it’s going to save his ass.”

Twenty fucking million dollars? Jesus.

“Perry, another client of mine was asking about key-man insurance. Doyou have a copy of the key man policy on Bob?”

“If my secretary were here, I’d be able to pull it up for you. I’mlost without her.”

“Maybe you can messenger it to me in the morning? The client’s in sortof a hurry.”

Big smile.

“Sure, Mike. First thing.”

I give him my business card.

“Perry, how soon can you get those quotes to me?”

“End of the week sound all right?”

“Sounds great to me.”

“There was a twenty-million-dollar life insurance policy on Bob?”Rosie asks.

There’s something wildly erotic about talking life insurance with anaked woman. I’ve stopped by her house for a meeting on the way home alittle after midnight. Grace is asleep. Dave Brubeck’s on the stereo.She rubs my back with her long, thin hands.

“Yeah. Twenty million bucks. It all goes to the firm.” I turn overand kiss her ear.

“Does any of this strike you as a little odd?”

“How’s that?”

“I’m not sure. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

She runs her fingers through my hair.

“Maybe this will feel better,” she says.

CHAPTER 50

EXACTLY WHAT DOES THE ADMINISTRATIVE PARTNER DO?

“Friedman Defense Grasping at Straws.”

—san francisco legal jouiwal. thursday, april 9.

The next morning, Chuckles sits uncomfortably on the witness stand,gulping water.

“Exactly what does the administrative partner do at a large law firm?”I ask.

He gives me a sour look.

“The administrative partner handles all aspects of day-to-dayoperations.”

He gestures with his reading glasses.

“Finances.

Personnel. Facilities. Computers.”

“Sort of the glue that holds the firm together as an institution?”

He almost smiles.

“Why, yes.”

“And how many years have you served as administrative partner?”

“Eleven,” he says proudly. He sits up.

“I sit on the executive committee, too.”

I glance at the accountant, who nods with admiration.

“Could you please tell us about the current financial situation at thefirm?”

“Objection,” Skipper sings out.

“Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“Your Honor,” Chuckles pleads, “this information is highlyconfidential.”

She glares at him.

“I don’t expect you to reveal the details of how much money each ofyour partners makes. Answer the question.”

“We have filed for bankruptcy protection,” he acknowledges.

“We are in the process of reorganizing our finances and negotiatingwith our creditors.” He arches an eyebrow, as if to say, “Are youhappy, now?”

“Thank you, Mr. Stern,” I say. I leave out, “You condescending ass.”I look at Rosie, who gives me the “cheap shot” scowl. I add, “I’m sureit hasn’t been easy.” I pause.

“Mr. Stern, you were at the Simpson and Gates offices on the night ofDecember thirtieth, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you go home that night?”

“About two in the morning.”

“And when was the last time you saw Mr. Holmes?”

“About twelve-thirty.”

“After twelve-thirty, did you see Mr. Friedman together with Mr.Holmes or Ms.

Kennedy?”

“No.”

I bore in.

“Did you see anyone else there that night?” Let’s see who he’s willingto implicate.

He pauses and looks at the clock. Then he rattles off the names ofVince Russo, Art Patton, Ed Ehrlich, Clan Morris, Jack Frazier andMartin Glass.

“Of course,” he says, “I don’t believe any of them had anything to dowith the tragedy.”

Of course not.

“Anybody else?”

He purses his lips.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “you didn’t perhaps see Mr. Gates at the officethat night, did you?”

His eyes dart toward Skipper.

“Why, yes. We had a reception for him. It was his last day at thefirm.” I see the accountant frown.

“But did you see him later that evening? After the reception hadended?”

He looks helplessly at Skipper.

“I saw Mr. Gates at about one o’clock in the morning. He was in oursuite for a few minutes.”

I walk over to the evidence cart and pick up a copy of Bob’s will.

“Mr. Stern,” I say as I hand it to him, “do you recognize thisdocument?”

“Yes. It’s the will of Mr. Holmes. I prepared it. It is a matter ofpublic record.”

“Mr. Stem, would you mind turning to page thirty-four?”

He puts on the reading glasses. He flips to the correct page.

“Would you mind telling us the names of the beneficiaries of thewill?”

He glares at me over the top of the reading glasses.

“I’ll have to refresh my memory.”

Bullshit. You can recite all eighty-nine pages by heart.

“Take your time, Mr.

Stern.”

He pores over the entire will, pausing briefly to lick his index fingerto turn the pages. Finally, he says a third went to Beth, a third tothe kids and a third to the International Charitable Trust. He takesoff his reading glasses and puts them back into his pocket.

“Mr. Stern, you’re aware Mr. Holmes was served with divorce papers onDecember thirtieth.”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Holmes ever ask you to prepare an amendment to this will tochange the beneficiaries?”

His eyes dart momentarily.

“No,” he says.

Rosie hands me three copies of a document. I hand one to Skipper, oneto the judge and one to Stern.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we’d like to introduce this document intoevidence.”

“Any objections, Mr. Gates?”

He’s trying to speed-read.

“I don’t think so, Your Honor.”

I turn back to Stern.

“Do you recognize this document, Mr. Stem?”

He studies it.

“Yes.” He takes a drink of water.

“It’s a draft of an amendment to the will.”

“Really?” I’m trying for biting sarcasm.

“And did you prepare this amendment?”

“No. One of my associates prepared it.”

“And did she do so at your instruction?”

“Yes.”

“And which associate was it that prepared this document?”

“I believe it was Ms. Wendy Hogan.”

“I see.” You’d never believe what may turn up in somebody’s files whenshe leaves the firm.

“And could you please tell us what this amendment purports to change inthe will of Mr. Holmes?”

His shoulders slump.

“It was intended to change the beneficiaries of the will.”

“Really?” I scowl melodramatically.

“When was this amendment prepared, Mr.

Stern?”

“In December of last year, I believe.”

“Why do you suppose Mr. Holmes asked you to prepare this amendment?”

“Presumably because he intended to change the beneficiaries of hiswill.”

I get right in his face.

“Did he tell you who the new beneficiaries were going to be?”

“No.”

“Any hints?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Did he tell you which of the beneficiaries were going to bereplaced?”

“Yes. His wife.”

“But if he proceeded in the manner that you’ve suggested, Mrs.

Holmesstood to lose a substantial sum of money on the death of Mr.

Holmes.”

“Yes, she did.”

I shift focus.

“Could you please tell us what you know about the InternationalCharitable Trust, Mr. Stem?”

He grimaces.

“It’s a charity organized in the Bahamas by Mr. Holmes.”

“It does good things for mankind?”

“Yes.”

“What sorts of good things?”

“The annual income of the trust is donated to various charitablecauses.

Schools, day-care centers, community centers, that sort of thing.”

Prostitutes, drug dealers, that sort of thing, too.

“And the charities that receive funding every year are called theincome beneficiaries, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the same income beneficiaries will divide the trust assets uponthe death of Mr. Holmes, right?”

“No. Upon the death of Mr. Holmes, the remaining assets, or corpus,of the trust are divided among various designated individuals calledthe remainder men

“Could you tell us which charities received the most money lastyear?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Schools? Day-care centers? Community centers?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Could you tell us the names of the remainder men

“I’m afraid I don’t know. That information was confidential. Thetrustee in the Bahamas was the only person who knew the names of theremainder men

“Mr. Stern, did you assist in setting up the trust?”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you don’t know the names of the income beneficiaries or theremainder men

“That’s true.”

That’s bullshit.

“Why did you choose to set up the trust in the Bahamas?”

“Mr. Holmes enjoyed vacationing there. He became very involved invarious causes over the years. Ultimately, he wanted to retire there.And, to be perfectly honest, the tax laws were favorable.”

The accountant perks up. The lawyers look at each other.

“When you set up the trust, I’m sure you investigated the incomebeneficiaries very carefully, right?”

“Actually, the trust administrator in the Bahamas handled it,” hereplies.

“I’m not involved in the day-to-day management.”

He’s tap-dancing around my questions.

“I see.” Rosie hands me another document.

It has the seal of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas at the top. I handcopies to Skipper, the judge and Stern. I ask that it be introducedinto evidence.

Skipper doesn’t object.

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “do you recognize this document?”

“Yes. It’s the charter for the trust. It sets forth the rules for thegovernance of the trust. It names First Bank Bahamas as the soletrustee.”

“It also names the income beneficiaries and the remainder men doesn’tit?”

I’m setting him up. I know the names of the income beneficiariesand the remainder men are set forth in a confidential addendum whichI’ve not yet seen.

“Well, no. That information is in a separate document. It’sconfidential.”

“And do you now recall the names of the income beneficiaries and

theremainder men

“As I said before, I don’t know.”

Sure.

“There are two individuals who serve as the socalled trust protectors,aren’t there?”

“Yes. The trust protectors have the authority to take action on behalfof the trust and change the trustee. The trust protectors are Mr.Holmes and myself.”

Now, we’re getting somewhere.

“As trust protector, Mr. Stern, I presume you would know the names ofthe income beneficiaries and the remainder men of the trust?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley. As I said, that information is in aseparate document. Under the laws of the Bahamas, it’s confidential. Idon’t know.”

Liar.

“You mean to tell us the trust protector doesn’t know who gets themoney when Mr. Holmes died?”

“That’s true. It was all handled in the Bahamas.”

“So though you are the attorney who helped set this thing up, you don’tknow who gets the money?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I glare at Stern.

“Did you get a fee for acting as trust protector, Mr. Stern?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“It is relevant, Your Honor. Unless Mr. Stem wants to tell us that hedoesn’t know how big his fee is, either.”

“That’s enough, Mr. Daley. The objection is overruled. Answer thequestion, Mr.

Stern.”

“It depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“On the value of the assets in the trust at any given time.”

“You get a percentage of the value of the assets?”

“Yes.”

“What percentage?”

“Your Honor,” he implores.

“This is highly confidential information.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Stern, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Five percent,” he grumbles.

“Now, Mr. Stern, how much was your fee last year?”

He looks at the judge. She stares him down.

“About four hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

“Four hundred fifty thousand?” I repeat loudly.

“If my high-school arithmetic is correct, this means the trust hadabout ten million dollars’ worth of assets. Is that about right, Mr.Stern?”

“Yes,” he says.

“That’s about right.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “this is all very interesting. But I failto see the relevance.”

She turns to me.

“Mr. Daley, are we going to see a point to this anytime soon?”

“Yes.” Here goes.

“Mr. Stern, isn’t it a fact Mr. Holmes was unhappy about your fee?”

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

“Let me be more specific. Isn’t it a fact Mr. Holmes thought your feewas excessive?”

“No.”

I turn to Rosie, who hands me three copies of a letter. I hand onecopy to the judge, one to Skipper and the other to Stern. I introduceit into evidence.

“Do you recognize this letter, Mr. Stern?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Let me refresh your memory. It’s a letter dated September third oflast year addressed to a Mr. Trevor Smith at First Bank in theBahamas. As you’ll see, you were copied on this letter.”

He studies it and shrugs.

“Would you please read the sentence I’ve highlighted, Mr. Stern?”

On go the reading glasses. “

“I believe that the fees paid to the trust protector are extravagantlyhigh. I would like to terminate the services of Mr.

Stern at the end of this year.”

” “Who signed the letter?”

He takes off the reading glasses and exhales.

“Mr. Holmes.”

“It appears that Mr. Holmes wanted to fire you. Isn’t that aboutright?”

He clears his throat.

“From time to time, he expressed some reservations about the amount ofmy fee. I don’t believe he intended to implement the terms of thisletter.”

“You mean you don’t think he would have fired you?”

“No. The trust was in place for many years. But he certainly couldhave done so if he wanted to.”

I glance at the jury. I turn back to Chuckles.

“What happens to your fee now?”

“It is paid until the trust is liquidated.”

“When is that supposed to happen?”

“It will probably take two or three years.”

“So, at half a million a year, the death of Mr. Holmes will result inyour receiving an additional million or million and a half dollars.Isn’t that right, Mr. Stern?”

“I have no choice, Mr. Daley. I have a contractual obligation to actas trust protector. When the trust was put in place, my fees weretiny. Over the years, the assets in the trust have grown considerably.It’s not my fault that it turned into a very favorable contract forme.”

“And if Mr. Holmes had lived, he would have terminated your deal, andyou would have lost out on another million and a half dollars.”

“As I said, Mr. Daley, I don’t believe he intended to terminate myservices.”

Bullshit.

“That’s terribly convenient, isn’t it, Mr. Stern?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

Rosie hands me a thick legal-size document. I hand it to Chuckles.

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “you’re familiar with this life insurance policy,aren’t you?”

He puts on his reading glasses and glances at it.

“Yes.”

“It’s what’s called a key-man life insurance policy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It was taken out by the Simpson and Gates firm, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And the firm paid all the premiums, right?”

He looks over the top of his glasses.

“Yes. That’s how key-man insurance works.

A business such as ours buys life insurance policies on the lives ofimportant members of the firm. In our case, we took down this policyon the life of Bob Holmes. We had similar policies for all of ourpartners.”

“I see. And would you mind telling us how much this policy was worthto the firm?” I’ve set the trap. At least I hope so.

He looks at Skipper.

“Two and a half million dollars.”

I pause.

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “I believe you’ve misread the policy value. Wouldyou mind looking at the policy again?”

He flips open the policy. He adjusts his reading glasses. He stopsstone cold.

He takes off the reading glasses and looks at me.

“Mr. Stern? Would you mind telling us how much the policy wasworth?”

Our eyes meet.

“Twenty million dollars,” he says quietly.

“Twenty million dollars,” I repeat.

“That’s a lot of money, isn’t it? That’s even more money than BobHolmes had in that hokey trust you set up for him in the Bahamas.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Let’s stop the editorial comments right now, Mr. Daley.”

I don’t stop.

“Mr. Stern, if the firm had a twenty-million-dollar policy on Mr.

Holmes, how come it had to file for bankruptcy protection?”

“The insurance company hasn’t paid us yet. These things take time, Mr.Daley.”

“And then all of the firm’s financial difficulties will be workedout?”

“We think so, Mr. Daley.”

“When was this policy issued, Mr. Stern?”

He puts on his reading glasses and glances at the cover page of thepolicy.

“December fifteenth of last year.”

“Mr. Stern,” I say, “you’ve read this policy pretty carefully, haven’tyou?

You were a partner in a big law firm, after all. So you read thefine print, right?”

There’s only one possible answer.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“Would you please turn to page six of the policy?”

He shuffles through the first pages.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“Would you please read the heading on page six?”

“

“General Provisions.”

” I turn and face the jury. Without looking at Stern, I say, “Wouldyou please read the title of the fifth paragraph in the right column ofpage six?”

“

“Ownership and Control.”

” I’m still looking at the jury when I interrupt him.

“No, Mr. Stern. The following paragraph. It’s entitled “SuicideExclusion.”

” His voice is barely a whisper. “

“If the Insured, whether sane or insane, dies by suicide within twoyears from the issue date, we will pay no more under this contract thanthe sum of the premiums paid, minus any contract debt and minus anypartial withdrawals.”

” I turn and face Chuckles.

“Mr. Stern, that section contains what is customarily known as asuicide clause, doesn’t it?”

“Objection. Foundation. Mr. Stern isn’t qualified as an expert oninsurance.”

“Overruled.”

“It’s a suicide clause,” Stern says.

“And in layman’s terms, what does it mean?”

“If the insured commits suicide within the first two years, theinsurer doesn’t have to pay.”

“And, if it was determined Mr. Holmes committed suicide, what would itmean for the firm?”

“We wouldn’t get the twenty million dollars.”

I turn back to the jury.

“Just so we’re all perfectly clear on this, Mr. Stern, if the death ofMr.

Holmes is determined to be a suicide, you guys will lose thetwenty-milliondollar insurance payment.”

“That’s right,” he says. His lips barely move.

“You might say the firm has twenty million reasons to hope the death ofMr.

Holmes is not declared a suicide.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen points her gavel at me.

“I’ve already warned you about grandstanding in my courtroom, Mr.Daley.”

I’ve gone far beyond the bounds.

“No further questions.” Thanks, Perry. I’ll buy a million bucks oflife insurance from you.

Skipper practically leaps out of his seat. First things first. Sternhas placed Skipper at the scene that night. He must clear his namebefore he starts his crossexamination. It’s as I had hoped. He’sdistracted. His reputation is on the line.

“Isn’t it true that you saw me at the Simpson and Gates office ataround one o’clock that night?”

“Yes.”

“And we had a brief conversation, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And I told you that I had returned to the office to pick up mybriefcase, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay. Mr. Stern cannot testify as to whatMr.

Gates said. If Mr. Gates wants to testify about what he said,we’re perfectly happy to permit him to do so.”

She can’t resist a grin at Skipper.

“Sustained.”

Skipper gathers himself.

“Mr. Stern, did you see me leaving the office with my briefcase?”

“Yes.”

“Did I say anything to you?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper frowns. This isn’t going very well.

“Mr. Stern, do you have any reason to believe that I was in the officefor any purpose other than to collect my briefcase?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.” She certainly can’t be faulted for going easy on him.

Skipper spends five minutes asking Chuckles perfunctory questions aboutthe insurance policy and the firm’s financial condition.

Chucklesswears that the firm is in solid financial shape and doesn’t need theproceeds from the policy to survive. He’s unconvincing. The damage isalready done.

We’re back in my office at eight o’clock the same night.

“You don’t think it was Stern, do you?” Rosie asks.

“I don’t know. I’d say he had about a million of his own reasons to doit.

And the firm had about twenty million reasons for him to do it.”His memory lapses about the insurance policies and the trust made himlook like a lying ass in front of the jury. I can understand hisdesire to keep the terms of Bob’s trust confidential, but his testimonyon the insurance policy was odd.

The phone rings. It’s Pete. I tell him about our day in court.

“Listen,” he says, “somebody wants to talk to you.” The phone goessilent for a moment.

I punch the speaker button so Rosie can hear. A nasal male voiceshrieks,

“Who the hell is this?”

“Who the hell is this?” I bark back.

“Vince Russo. Who the hell are you? And tell this goon to let mego.”

The line goes quiet. My mind races. A moment later, I hear Wendy’svoice.

“You’ll never guess who we found down at the bank today.”

“Elvis Presley?”

“Close.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

“We ran into Vince at Trevor Smith’s office. I guess he decided tocome down here to visit his money. Pete and I followed him back to hishotel.

He’s got a little cottage at the Graycliff. It’s really verynice.”

Indeed. The finest hotel in Nassau.

“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s a little tough finding a room down here,so Pete and I decided to bunk with Vince. He was just telling us allabout his trip.”

Jesus.

“Wendy, listen to me. Don’t hurt him. What you’re doing may besomewhat illegal.”

“Don’t worry. We ordered room service. The foie gras is delightful.Pete takes off the handcuffs when he has to eat or pee. We offered tocall the cops. Seems Vince is a little nervous about that. It kind offouls up the part of his story where he wanted everyone to think hecommitted suicide.”

Fabulous. Either we’ve just got the biggest break in the case or we’reall going to jail.

“You guys going to be there for a while?”

“Of course. We just ordered champagne.” I hear a cork pop and shesays

thank you to Pete.

“Say, Mike,” she says, “are you doing anything this weekend?”

“I think I may need to take a little trip. The stress is getting tome.”

“Anyplace in particular?”

“I understand the Bahamas are nice this time of year.”

“Our cottage is called Yellow Bird. Tell the concierge you’re with Mr.Kramer’s party.”

“Are they getting suspicious?”

“Probably. We told them we aren’t to be disturbed.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up. I look at Rosie.

“I need you to go to Judge Chen tomorrow and tell her I was called outof town on an emergency. See if you can get her to put things offuntil Monday.”

“What do you want me to tell her if she asks me what the emergencyis?”

“Just tell her something came up.”

At nine o’clock that night I’m on the phone.

“Roosevelt,” I say, “I need your help.”

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Mike.” He chuckles.

“So, what do you need?”

“Got any plans for the weekend?”

“The usual.”

“How would you feel about an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas?”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

CHAPTER 51

TECHNICALLY, YOU’RE DEAD

“With long beaches, friendly people and perfect weather, the Bahamashave been a tourist mecca for over two hundred years.”

—bahamas TRAVEL BROCHURE Fourteen hours later, at two o’clock in theafternoon Bahamas time, Roosevelt and I get out of a cab in front ofthe Graycliff, the dignified three-story Georgian colonial mansionacross the street from the Government House in Nassau. No matter whereI go, it seems to be raining. Our connecting flights through Chicagoand Miami were late, and we flew through a hailstorm to reach themodern airport in Nassau. Air travel has never really agreed with me.And I’m getting too old for all-nighters. I’m beat. Roosevelt isholding up better.

His stamina is remarkable. It comes with the territory if you’re a copand

you’re interested in living long enough to collect your pension.

The Graycliff was built as a private residence about two hundred yearsago.

For the last hundred years or so, it’s been the finest hotel inNassau. With only nine guest rooms in the main house and four suitesby the pool, it’s a slice of nirvana in the middle of town. Althoughit’s been a long time since the Beatles stayed here, it’s still verypopular among rock stars, businessmen and politicians.

When we walk into the lobby, our disheveled appearance immediatelyattracts the attention of the concierge. He stands and says with aclipped British accent, “May I help you, gentlemen?” He sounds likeSir John Gielgud and bears a striking resemblance to John Cleese.

“Yes, please,” I say.

“We’re here for an important meeting with Mr. Rus—Mr.

Kramer. I believe he’s in Yellow Bird.”

He eyes us suspiciously.

“We’ve been instructed not to disturb Mr. Kramer and hiscolleagues.”

“He’s expecting us. If you’ll explain to his assistant that Mr. Daleyand Mr.

Johnson from the San Francisco office have arrived, I’m sure they’llhave you show us to his suite.”

“One moment, please.” He picks up the antique phone. He nods severaltimes. I hope he’s talking to Wendy or Pete and not to the localpolice.

“Right this way, please,” he says politely.

As we walk through the garden, I decide to speak the locallanguage—

money.

“I

trust you have access to a local banker,” I say.

“It may be necessary to set up an account here so we can wire somemoney to various locations around the world.”

Roosevelt gives me the eye. I’m laying it on pretty thick.

The concierge keeps looking straight ahead.

“It can be arranged, sir.” He pronounces the word “sir” as “suh.”

“Do you have a fax machine we can use? And I trust we’ll be able toplug in our computers?”

“Of course, sir. The rooms have modems, sir. We can make specialarrangements, sir.”

I love people in this part of the world. They understand theirexistence

depends on tourists and maintaining their status as a taxhaven.

“Excellent.

What did you say your name is?”

“Burton, sir. Duncan Burton.”

Perfect.

“Thank you for your assistance, Duncan.”

“Of course, sir.”

The Yellow Bird cottage is next to the pool where Winston Churchillused to swim. I can see that the drapes are drawn as Duncan leads usto the door.

“Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?”

“I’m afraid not. Our business should be completed by the end of theday.

We’ll be taking the red-eye back to the mainland.”

“Very good, sir.”

I love this guy.

“Duncan,” I say, “we’ll be in high-level negotiations all day.

Would you please tell the hotel staff that we’re not to bedisturbed?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you, Duncan.” I shake his hand and slip him three crisphundred-dollar bills. The universal language. Good help is hard tofind.

“Remember, Duncan. We mustn’t be disturbed.”

He almost smiles.

“Please let me know if there is anything we can do to assist you,sir.”

As he leaves, I glance around the garden and knock on the door. Peteopens it immediately.

“Come in,” he whispers. He darts a quick look around the pool areabefore he shuts the door and fastens the bolt.

“Anybody follow you?” He’s still whispering.

Roosevelt shakes his head.

“No, Pete. This isn’t a James Bond movie.”

He grins sheepishly.

“I’m out of my element.”

You could have fooled me.

The sitting room in the Yellow Bird is furnished with period piecesfrom the early Georgian era. An elegant blue sofa sits next to acomfortable tall chair with a paisley pattern. A ceiling fancirculates warm air. The window air conditioner detracts only slightlyfrom the ambiance. A small TV and a fax machine in the corner are theonly signs of the twentieth century. Trays

containing the remains ofdinner and breakfast sit by the door. An empty champagne bottle restson the antique side table.

Wendy walks in from what I presume is the bedroom and smiles at us.

“What took you so long?”

“We ran into a small hurricane. Where’s our guest of honor?”

“Watching TV. He didn’t want to miss his cartoons.”

“Is he pissed off?”

“You could say that.”

“How did you find him?”

“We got lucky. We saw him coming out of First Bank. We followed himhere.”

“How did you get in?”

Pete grins.

“You don’t want to know.”

I glance at Roosevelt.

“Has he said much?”

“Nothing you would repeat to Grace. He said he’s going to kick ourasses and sue us for everything we’re worth. Fortunately, that isn’t awhole lot.”

Roosevelt turns serious.

“You know, you guys could be arrested for kidnapping.”

“I don’t think he’s going to complain,” Pete says.

“We offered to let him use the phone. He refused. He’s gone to a lotof trouble to convince everybody he’s dead. He’d have to call the copsto bring charges.” Pete sounds pleased with himself.

“It seems a couple of his investors are looking for him.

They aren’t as friendly as we are.” He lowers his voice.

“In all seriousness, a couple of his investors from the Middle East areunhappy about some money they lost on one of his deals. He thinks hislife may be in danger.”

Roosevelt is silent.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” I ask.

“Not really,” Pete replies.

“He tried to grab Wendy, so we got into a little shoving match. I justpushed him. Wendy was the one who kneed him in the balls.

Lilted him all the way off the floor. He was doubled over for a coupleof minutes.”

“The asshole grabbed me,” Wendy says.

“He tried to put his hand over my mouth.

I drilled him.”

“Let’s go see our little friend,” I say.

We walk into the bedroom. The TV is tuned to CNN. The unshaven Russois dressed in khaki pants and a maroon polo shirt. He’s sitting at asmall table eating a muffin and drinking coffee. I notice he’s usingonly his right hand.

Then I see his left hand is handcuffed to thetable.

“Mr. Russo,” I say, “my name is Michael Daley. I’m Joel Friedman’sattorney.

This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the San Francisco PoliceDepartment.

He’s the lead investigator in the case involving the deaths of RobertHolmes and Diana Kennedy.”

He doesn’t look up.

“Are you the one who sent this goon to kidnap me, Mr.

Daley?” he barks.

“That goon is a licensed private investigator. He’s also my brother.You’re lucky that he found you before somebody else did. You’re apopular guy. A bunch of bankers are looking for you. So are a few ofyour investors and a couple of bounty hunters.” Probably a fewex-wives, for good measure.

“Assholes.” He pushes the muffin away.

“I have nothing to say.” He strains to fold his arms before herealizes that he can’t.

I hand him a short legal document.

“This is a subpoena that requires you to appear at Mr. Friedman’strial.”

Roosevelt and I got Judge Chen to issue a subpoena on our wayto the airport. It’s a bluff. A California subpoena isn’t binding inthe Bahamas.

“I may have to get some dispensation from the judge to get you totestify, however.”

“Why the hell is that?”

“Technically, you’re dead. But I think I can persuade the judge tothe contrary.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

Pete hands him a card with English writing on one side and Arabicwriting on the other.

“This gentleman is looking for you,” he says.

“We saw him last night. He’s asked us to call if we find you.”

He stares at both sides of the card.

“Read my lips. Fuck you.”

“Mr. Russo,” Roosevelt says, “I’ve come here to ask you to voluntarilyreturn to San Francisco so that we can sort out this matter.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“If you have nothing to hide, you shouldn’t have any problem returningwith us.”

He eyes him closely.

“We’d be happy to buy you a ticket. You don’t have anything to hide,do you, Mr. Russo?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hardway.

The easy way means you’ll get on a plane with us and we’ll goback to San Francisco together.”

“And the hard way?”

“I’ll call the local police. They’ll want to know why a dead manchecked into this lovely hotel under an assumed name. I’ll ask them todetain you.

We’ll begin extradition proceedings. You’ll be spending afairly long time in jail here in Nassau. I’ll swear out a complaintthat you’re a flight risk.

They’ll keep you in jail until yourextradition is resolved.”

“Are you charging me with something?”

“Not yet. But you’re a suspect. Which reminds me,” he adds, “thiswould be a good time to read you your rights.” He clears his throatand recites the Miranda warnings.

“Mr. Russo,” he says, “we’re prepared to call your lawyer right now.He can meet us at the airport.”

Russo looks at the TV.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says.

“It isn’t a crime to go on a vacation.”

“All the more reason for you to cooperate,” Roosevelt says.

“I want to talk to my lawyer.”

Wendy takes out her cellular phone.

“Who do you want me to call?”

“Arthur Patton.”

“Who the hell do you guys think you are?” Art Patton bellows at methrough Wendy’s cellular phone.

“You can’t detain him. It’s kidnapping.”

“He’s here voluntarily,” I reply.

“I can call the local cops.”

Silence.

“Let me talk to Johnson.”

I hand the phone to Roosevelt. He listens for a moment. He says “Uh-huh”

a few times. Then he says, emphatically, “No deal. Look, ifyou’re going to be an ass about this, we’ll call the local cops. I’msure they’d be delighted to make up a bed for Mr. Russo for the nextsix months while you argue about his extradition.” He winks at me.

“By the way, we’re going to make sure all his assets down here arefrozen. I think all his assets up your way are already frozen, so youmay be doing his legal work pro bono.” He listens for a minute.

“Uh-huh. Okay.” He has Pete unshackle Russo. He hands the phone toRusso and turns to me.

“I think reason is about to prevail,” he says.

I call the concierge.

“Duncan,” I say, “it’s Mr. Daley. I need you to make some travelarrangements for us. Mr. Kramer, Mr. Johnson and I need to get toSan Francisco as soon as possible. Yes, first class is fine. Justbill it to Mr.

Kramer’s credit card.”

The line goes silent for a few moments. Then Duncan comes back.

“We’ll have all the arrangements ready within the hour, sir,” hesays.

“Thank you, Duncan.” I wink at Pete.

“Mr. Kramer’s colleagues will need a place to stay for the next fewnights.

They have banking business on Monday. Would you makearrangements for them to keep Mr. Kramer’s cottage?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you, Duncan. You may want to send a housekeeper up here.

Andsome cold drinks.”

“Very well, sir.”

Our plane leaves Nassau at six o’clock Friday night. We connectthrough Chicago. When we get off the plane at O’Hare, we’re met bythree cops. At first, I think they’re going to arrest Russo. Or me.Then I realize Roosevelt has called in a favor from a friend in theChicago Police Department. He doesn’t want to let Russo make a breakthrough the mobs at O’Hare. With the help of Chicago’s finest, wenegotiate the United terminal. Naturally, our flight to San Franciscois delayed two hours.

Art Patton and three San Francisco police officers meet us at the gateat S F

O. Art isn’t taking any chances. He’s brought Rita Roberts withhim. As soon as we’re off the plane, he turns to Rita’s camera anddemands that we release Russo.

Roosevelt looks at him.

“Mr. Russo accompanied us voluntarily from the Bahamas.”

“Then he’s free to go?”

“After he’s answered some questions.”

Patton scowls.

“I’m instructing him not to answer any questions until I’ve spoken tohim.”

“Fine,” Roosevelt says.

“You can accompany us to the Hall, where you can talk in the comfort ofone of our consultation rooms.”

I haven’t ridden in a paddy wagon in years. My head is throbbing asRoosevelt, Russo, Patton and I sit in silence in the back of a van,with two other officers. Patton looks at Roosevelt.

“You know,” he says with a sneer, “he doesn’t have to talk to youguys.”

Roosevelt yawns.

“I know. I’m sure he has nothing to hide.”

“You got that right,” Russo snaps.

Patton holds up his hands.

“Vince, we’ll talk about this when we get there. I don’t want you tosay anything right now, understood?”

Russo pouts.

“Understood.”

“Are you going to charge him?” I ask Skipper as we sit in aconsultation room down the corridor from where Patton has been meetingwith Russo for the last hour. Roosevelt drinks coffee. Marcus Banksis there too, sitting quietly and drinking a Sprite. Bill McNultystudies the sports section in the Chronicle.

“With what?” Skipper asks.

“It isn’t a crime to park your car at the Golden Gate Bridge. Lasttime I looked, it isn’t a crime not to show up for a closing.

It’s still legal to travel to the Bahamas.”

“How about murder?”

Roosevelt looks up.

“How about murder, Skipper?” he repeats.

“On what basis?

There’s no evidence pointing toward Russo.”

“Yes, there is,” I reply.

“He was at the scene. He faked his own suicide. He fled the country.He was traveling under an alias. What else do you want?”

“Where’s the motive?” Skipper asks.

“He didn’t want the deal to close. He had to create a diversion to getout of the country.”

Skipper is skeptical.

“If he didn’t want the deal to close, he could have just said so. Hedidn’t have to kill two people. Besides, there isn’t a single shred ofevidence he pulled the trigger. We can put him at the scene, but wecan’t tie him to the murder weapon.”

I search for a retort. He’s probably right. There isn’t any physicalevidence to convict Russo. I look at Roosevelt.

“I need him to testify,” I say.

“You can’t let him leave the country again. I’ll put him on the standon Monday.”

There’s a knock on the door. A uniformed deputy reports that Pattonand Russo want to talk.

“Mike,” Roosevelt says, “I have to ask you to wait here. I’ll tellthem you want to speak to them.”

“I understand.”

I sit in the cramped gray consultation room by myself in the middle ofthe night. The lights are dimmed. The Hall has an eerie, deafeningquiet at this hour. My body is overwhelmed by a combination of fatigueand jet lag. I sit in never-never land—not quite asleep, butcertainly not awake.

My mind starts playing tricks on me. I see Grace’s face. I’m at theHall of Justice in the middle of the night. I should be home takingcare of her.

I hear footsteps in the hallway and I see a uniformed policeman walkby. I think of my dad. So proud of his uniform. So proud he put thebad guys away. A good cop. He did what he thought was right. Hard tothink he’s been gone for five years. So little time to know his firstgrandchild, Grace.

He was so proud of her. And she’ll never rememberhim. Sometimes, I think I never really knew him. Sometimes I think Iknew him too well. He was a good dad, but somewhat distant. I thinkof my brother Tommy, who went to war to please him. And Pete, whobecame a cop to show him. And for a

brief moment, I think of myself. Ibecame a defense attorney to spite him. I think of my sister, Mary,who pleaded with him to take early retirement, just so she could stopworrying about him.

I think of my mom, who raised four kids on a cop’s salary. How she’dstay up every night, waiting for him to come home. How she wouldn’tsleep until she heard his car door slam. How she counted the daysuntil his retirement.

And how she had to nurse him when theydiscovered the cancer only a few weeks later.

Five years of caring for him through all that pain. She worried aboutall of us. Now she lives half her life in a world of confusion thatshe doesn’t understand and I can’t imagine.

I think about Rosie, the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. And ourmutual realization that we’re utterly incapable of living together. Ifeel the pain of our separation all over again. I wonder whether I’llever find the same kind of love again. I hope I’ll never feel the painagain.

I worry about Grace. I wonder where she’ll be in another ten years.

Oranother twenty years, for that matter.

I think about my friend and client Joel. I think about his less-than-perfect marriage. I think about his relationship with his father, andhow it isn’t all that different from my relationship with mine. Iwonder whether he’ll have a chance to repair the damage to his lifethat’s been inflicted on him—and that he’s inflicted upon himself.

I think about our special circumstances. It may be the fatigue or itmay be the stress. Or it may be both. I realize I’m crying. And Iwonder if it’s all worth it.

“Mike?” Roosevelt stands in the doorway of the consultation room, hishands in his pockets.

“Huh? Sorry, Roosevelt. I must have dozed off for a few minutes.”

“Patton and Russo want to talk to you.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“No.”

“Will he testify?”

“I think so.”

“Keep it under your hat, Roosevelt.”

“I will.” He pauses.

“I can’t make the same promise for the DA.”

“I understand.” I look at him.

“Roosevelt?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

CHAPTER 52

DID YOU HAVE A NICE TRIP?

“In an unexpected twist, local financier Vincent Russo Jr. was locatedin the Bahamas. He will be called to testify at the murder trial ofJoel Mark Friedman later today.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. monday, april 13. 6:30 A.M.

The traffic on Bryant is terrible on Monday morning. The minicams arelined up two-deep. Word got out about Vince Russo’s resurrection.

Thegallery is packed.

“The defense calls Vincent Russo Jr.”

Judge Chen watches as Russo slithers into the courtroom in his darkblue suit.

Russo is sworn in. He takes the stand. He’s sweating. He gulps waterfrom a Styrofoam cup. I can smell his aftershave. His diamond ringgleams. His cuff links look like gold golf balls.

Judge Chen says, “We weren’t sure we were going to see you, Mr.Russo.”

He glances at the clock.

“I’ve been out of town.”

“You may proceed, Mr. Daley,” she says to me.

“May we approach the witness, Your Honor?” I want to get right in hisface.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I button my jacket as I walk from the lectern toward Russo. I positionmyself directly in front of him and I turn slightly so the jury can seehis facial expressions and mine.

“Mr. Russo,” I begin, “you were in the Simpson and Gates offices onDecember thirtieth, were you not?”

His slitty eyes wander.

“Yes.”

“And you were working on an important deal involving the sale of yourcompany, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the sale was supposed to close on the morning of Decemberthirty-first, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. He’s leading the witness.”

Indeed I am.

“Request permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

Judge Chen says, “All right, Mr. Daley.”

“Thank you.” It’s okay to lead hostile witnesses. I turn back toRusso.

“The deal didn’t close, did it, Mr. Russo?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want it to. I didn’t want Continental CapitalCorporation to take over my father’s company. It would have beendisrespectful to his memory.”

He glares at me.

“It didn’t close because I said so.” So there.

“So, Mr. Russo, instead of showing up for the closing, what did youdo?”

“I decided to take a little vacation. Most recently, I was in theBahamas.”

I look at the jury and I grin sarcastically.

“Did you have a nice trip?”

Skipper stands up, but doesn’t say anything.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Russo replies.

“Right up until this weekend when you insisted that I return to SanFrancisco.” His expression is longsuffering.

All right, asshole.

“Mr. Russo,” I say, “let’s talk about the night of Decemberthirtieth.”

Victim face again.

“Whatever you’d like, Mr. Daley.”

“The negotiations went into the night on December thirtieth?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you finished negotiations by about nine o’clock thatnight?”

“That’s true.” He tries to sound nonchalant.

“And then you went out for dinner with Mr. Holmes, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We went to Tadich Grill. I’d recommend it.”

“And you returned to the office around eleven-fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“And everything was ready to go by about twelve-thirty?”

“Yep. Everything.” He takes another swallow of water.

“You had a meeting with Mr. Holmes around twelve-thirty, didn’t you’“Yes.”

“What did you talk about with Mr. Holmes?”

“A lot of things. Our plans for New Year’s. Our kids. His latestdivorce.”

“Did you talk about the deal?”

He turns his head at a slight angle.

“Yes. I told him I wasn’t going to proceed with the closing. Idecided I would keep my company or take my chances in bankruptcy.”

“Or go to the Bahamas. How did Mr. Holmes react when you told him?”

“He was pissed off. He said I should sell the company. And he told meif the deal didn’t close, Simpson and Gates was going to go bankrupt.”He smirks.

“Of course, you can’t run a successful business worrying about whetheryour lawyers are going to be able to pay their bills.”

Or an unsuccessful business like yours, Vince.

“Mr. Russo, were you aware Mr. Holmes was going to receive a bigbonus?”

“Yep. Three million bucks.” The corners of his mouth turn upslightly.

“And you realize, of course, that by pulling the plug, Mr. Holmes wasgoing to lose his bonus.”

“Like I said, you can’t spend your life worrying about how much moneyyour lawyer makes.”

Legitimate point.

“Mr. Russo, did Mr. Holmes look upset when you told him you weren’tgoing to close?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Your Honor, I’m just asking for an observation of Mr.

Holmes’sappearance.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, he was very upset. Really honked off, if you know what Imean.”

I know what you mean.

“Was he upset about his divorce?”

“No, he wasn’t.”

Shit. I should have left well enough alone.

“Actually,” he continues, “he was far more upset about the fact thathis girlfriend dumped him.”

Hello?

“Really? And would that girlfriend have been Diana Kennedy?”

He chuckles.

“No, Mr. Daley. It wouldn’t. His relationship with Ms. Kennedy waslong over. Old and cold. Dead as a doorknob.”

We get the idea.

He looks at the jury.

“He was upset because his new girlfriend dumped him.”

I look frantically at Rosie. I’m going to have to break the cardinalrule of crossexamination and ask a question for which I don’t know theanswer.

“Mr.

Russo, do you know the name of this new girlfriend?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me. It was his little secret. He said it wassomebody we knew. He said he’d tell me when the time was right. Henever did.”

“Mr. Russo, did Mr. Holmes give any other indications that he mayhave been upset that night?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “are you asking me if he was suicidal?”

“In a word, yes.”

“The answer, in a word, is maybe. He was very upset about the deal. Hewas very upset about losing the money. And he was particularly upsetabout his girlfriend. But he wasn’t that upset.”

I had it coming.

“Mr. Russo, what time did you leave Mr. Holmes’s office?”

“Around one o’clock.”

“Did you see Diana Kennedy before you left?”

“No.”

“And Mr. Holmes was still alive when you left?”

“Very much so.”

“So, Mr. Russo, just so we’re straight on this, you didn’t happen tokill Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy that night, did you?”

“Of course not. Bob was still alive when I left him. I didn’t seeDiana.”

“And you didn’t see anybody else kill them, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hear any gunshots?”

“Nope.”

“What time did you leave the building?”

“Around one-forty-five.”

“After you left the Simpson and Gates office, you abandoned your car atthe Vista Point at the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

“I intended to retrieve it the next day.” He looks up.

“I was too tired to drive.”

Right.

“And you left your wallet in the car, didn’t you?”

“I forgot it.”

“And your keys.”

“I forgot them, too.”

“And you decided to leave the country.”

“It isn’t a crime to go on vacation, Mr. Daley.”

“No, it isn’t, Mr. Russo,” I agree.

“And where did you go?”

“First, I went to New Zealand. Then Thailand and Greece. Then theBahamas.”

“Where you were checked into a very fancy hotel under an assumedname.”

“Yes. I always travel under an assumed name. I don’t like to drawattention to myself. Wealthy Americans are often targets in otherparts of the world.”

“Mr. Russo, you realize that reasonable people might interpret youractions as an attempt by a desperate man to flee the scene of acrime?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Come on, Mr. Russo. Let’s put our cards on the table. Let’s tellthe truth today, for once. You killed Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy,didn’t you?”

He shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“And you fled the country.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And you went to the Bahamas to collect a bunch of money that you kepthidden there.”

“That’s not true.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper interrupts.

“Is this harassment of Mr. Russo really necessary?”

“Your Honor,” I say, “this man is lying. It’s evident to everyone inthis room that Mr. Russo killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy and fledthe country.”

“Move to strike, Your Honor. Mr. Daley is out of order.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard Mr. Daley’s last remarks.” Shestares at me.

“Sidebar.”

We approach the bench. She puts her hand over her microphone.

“Mr. Daley,” she says sharply, “if you’re trying to get a mistrial,you’ll be

disappointed. Now finish your examination.”

We return to our places. Judge Chen looks at me.

“Anything else for this witness, Mr. Daley?”

I see Rosie close her eyes.

“No further questions.”

She looks at Skipper.

“Crossexam, Mr. Gates?”

“No, Your Honor.”

She pounds her gavel.

“Tenminute recess.”

Joel isn’t overjoyed with my direct examination of Russo.

“I thought you were going to nail him,” he says.

“Did you think he was going to break down on the stand and confess?”

“Maybe.”

“This isn’t an episode of fucking Perry Mason,” I snap. I catchmyself.

“I’m sorry. I gave it a shot. It was worth a try, but it’sunrealistic to think that Russo is going to do anything but lie. Hewas better-coached than I thought.

And he held up better than I thought he would.”

“I want to take the stand,” Joel says firmly.

“We’ll talk about it after Patton testifies.”

CHAPTER 53

WHAT DOES THE MANAGING PARTNER DO, MR. PATTON?

“The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of theboard of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership.And you have to have a vision.”

—arthur patton. san francisco legal journal. monday, april 13.

“You are the managing partner of the Simpson and Gates firm, aren’tyou, Mr. Patton?”

“Yes I am.” After lunch, Arthur Patton has squeezed himself into theuncomfortable wooden chair in the witness box. He’s dressed carefullytoday. The red suspenders are at home. His chins jiggle.

Hiseyebrows form a straight line right above the tiny wire-rim glassesthat sit against the bulbous nose and mask the tiny eyes.

“What does the managing partner do, Mr. Patton?” He purses his dry,thin lips.

“The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of theboard of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership.And you

have to have a vision.”

“Your vision seems to have led the firm into bankruptcy, Mr. Patton.”

“It was merely a protective filing,” he assures me.

“The firm continues to operate and will remain fully functional whilewe are sorting out our obligations to our creditors.”

I note that the accountant doesn’t seem convinced. It’s time to talkabout something Art understands: money.

“Mr. Patton, you are aware that the firm maintained a key-man lifeinsurance policy on Mr. Holmes, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew the firm had a twenty-million-dollar policy on the lifeof Mr.

Holmes?”

“Of course.”

I face the jury.

“And you knew, of course, that the policy had a socalled suicideclause, right?”

This is ticklish. If he admits he knew about the suicide clause, headmits the firm stood to gain twenty million dollars if he can showJoel killed Bob and Diana. It gives him incentive to set Joel up. Ifhe says he didn’t know, I’ll have the pleasure of chastising him inopen court for not having read the policy carefully—very un lawyerlikefor an attorney of his stature.

In fact, he handles it pretty well.

“Mr. Daley,” he says, “it’s a standard clause in every life insurancepolicy.

Of course, I never thought about the suicide exclusion clause.I was much more concerned with the loss of Mr.

Holmes. We’d certainly miss him and his contribution, but we’re alarge firm with many productive partners.”

So there.

That didn’t go very well. Now for some fun.

“Mr. Patton,” I say, “you have an ongoing social relationship withElizabeth Holmes, don’t you?”

“We’re friends.”

“Would it be fair to say your relationship is more than justfriends?”

“Objection. Mr. Patton’s social life is not at issue here.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor, his social life very much is at issuehere.”

“Overruled.”

“Mr. Patton, would it be fair to say that you and Mrs. Holmes are now‘an item’?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. You and Mrs. Holmes have a romantic relationship,don’t you?”

“That’s not true. We’re just good friends.” He’s starting to turnred.

“Mr. Patton,” I say in a measured tone, “I’m prepared to introduceevidence that you and Mrs. Holmes have spent more than a few nightstogether in the last few months. And I’m prepared to introducepictures of you and Mrs.

Holmes together on a beach in Mexico.” He’svery unhappy.

“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Patton. Do you and Mrs. Holmes have aromantic relationship?”

“All right. We have a romantic relationship. What’s the big deal? Weused to be married.”

“And how long has this romantic relationship been going on?”

He looks away from me.

“For a couple of months.”

I was hoping he’d say a couple of years. I move closer to him.

“Mr. Patton, are you aware that there was a five-million-dollar lifeinsurance policy on Mr.

Holmes’s life?”

“Yes.”

“And are you aware that the policy named Mrs. Holmes as thebeneficiary?”

“Yes.”

“And your former brother-in-law. Perry Guilford, is the firm’sinsurance agent, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he was the insurance agent for Mr. Holmes, right?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that your former brother-in-law told youthat Mr.

Holmes was going to change his life insurance policy after he and Mrs.Holmes separated? And isn’t it true that your girlfriend, Mrs.

Holmes,was going to be removed as a beneficiary of that policy?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

Sure. I’m convinced.

“You’re friends with your partner, Charles Stern, right?”

“Yes.”

“And are you aware that Mr. Holmes had asked Mr. Stern to draft anamendment of Mr. Holmes’s will when his marriage was on the ropes?”

He doesn’t deny it.

“Yes.”

“And you were aware that as soon as Mrs. Holmes filed for divorce, shewas going to be written out of the will, right?”

He takes off his glasses.

“Once again, Mr. Daley, your jump in logic is nothing short ofremarkable. I had no idea what the will said before Mr. Holmesdied.

It was none of my business. And if you’re suggesting that I had somefinancial motivation to kill Mr. Holmes, you’re crazy.”

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting, Mr. Patton. If Mr. Holmescommitted suicide, the firm was going to lose twenty million dollars.And you will be forever known in the legal community as the managingpartner who presided over the dissolution of what was once the largestand most profitable law firm on the West Coast.”

“Objection. Mr. Daley has started his closing argument a littleearly.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Patton, how much money will the firm get from the life insurancepolicy if they can pin this crime on Mr. Friedman?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I rephrase the question.

“Twenty million dollars.”

“And how much money was your girlfriend, Mrs. Holmes, supposed to getunder the terms of the will that Bob Holmes was about to change justprior to his death?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

“Five million dollars.”

“And how much money was Mrs. Holmes supposed to get from the lifeinsurance policy that he was about to change just prior to hisdeath?”

“Five million dollars.”

“So, Mr. Patton, isn’t it fair to say that you had about thirtymillion reasons to hope Mr. Holmes died? Especially if it was amurder, and not a suicide?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Come on, Mr. Patton. You had all the incentive in the world. Youhad a chance to save the firm. You had a chance to help yourgirlfriend. You’d look like a hero. What more could you want?”

“Your Honor,” Skipper wails.

“Move to strike.”

“Sustained,” Patton is starting to foam.

“Look, you little jerk,” he blurts out, “I’m going to haul you intocourt and sue you for slander. These preposterous, unsubstantiatedcharges…”

“Your Honor,” I say calmly, “would you please instruct the witness thathe is supposed to answer questions and not make speeches.”

She pounds her gavel and looks at him.

“Mr. Patton,” she says, “please.”

He manages to bluster, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Patton,” I say, without looking at him, “what was yourrelationship with Diana Kennedy?”

“She was an associate at our firm,” he says.

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“Yes. She got very good reviews.”

“And did she get good reviews in bed, Mr. Patton?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Mr. Daley, please.”

“I’ll rephrase. Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you thought Ms.Kennedy was very attractive?”

“Everyone at the firm would probably agree that Ms. Kennedy was veryattractive.”

“And isn’t it a fact that you asked her out on several occasions?”

“No. That would have been inappropriate.”

“Really, Mr. Patton? Your colleague Mr. Holmes apparently came outthe other way on that particular moral dilemma.”

“I wasn’t privy to Bob’s private life.”

“But you were attracted to her, weren’t you?”

“She was a professional colleague. Nothing more.”

Sure.

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you asked her to sleep with you at thefirm retreat last year?”

Skipper leaps up.

“Your Honor, for Cod’s sake,” he cries.

“Your Honor,” I say, “it’s a completely relevant question.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer.”

“No,” Patton says.

“I did no such thing.”

“Isn’t it true she left your party because you wouldn’t leave heralone?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Isn’t it true you followed her back to her room and attacked her?”

No.

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true the firm has had to pay four multimillion-dollar settlements to female associates who have accused you of sexualharassment?”

He glares at me. Then he looks helplessly at Skipper.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton?”

He mutters through clenched teeth, “The firm has settled various casesinvolving unsubstantiated charges. We decided we didn’t want thepublicity or the trial costs.”

Right. I glance at the phone company supervisor. I get right backinto Patron’s face.

“Isn’t it true that Ms. Kennedy made a claim against you for sexualharassment? And that you were negotiating a substantial settlementwith her?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true she threatened to go to the newspapers if the firmdidn’t agree to her demands?”

“No.”

“Mr. Patton, if you don’t start telling the truth, I’ll call witnesseswho will.”

He addresses the jury.

“Mr. Daley’s claims are entirely without merit.”

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you killed Diana Kennedy because shethreatened to expose your pattern of sexual harassment to the media?

And isn’t it true you killed Bob Holmes because he threatened you withexpulsion from the firm because of your escapades? And so that thefirm and your girlfriend could collect the insurance money?”

His response is concise, the tone incredulous.

“No, Mr. Daley. That is not true.”

Patton eyes the jury. I look at Rosie. She closes her eyes.

I look at the ceiling and exhale melodramatically.

“No further questions.”

CHAPTER 54

I NEED HER TO CALMLY ASSASSINATE ALL OF THE

PROSECUTION’S KEY

WITNESSES

“The defense is still battling uphill. Mr. Daley has done a decentjob so far.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morton goldberg. tuesday, april 14.

“My name is Doris Charlotte Fontaine.”

“What was your relationship to Robert Holmes?” I ask.

“I was his secretary.”

At ten-thirty the next morning, Doris is dressed in her finestschoolmarm attire: a navy blue dress, a small, decorative pin and aminimal amount of makeup. Her glasses hang from a small gold chainaround her neck. I want her to project the very embodiment of thevoice of reason. In the simplest terms, I need her to calmlyassassinate all of the prosecution’s key witnesses.

And I want Skipperto look like an arrogant ass if he tries to interrupt her.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I begin, “could you please tell us how long you workedfor Mr.

Holmes?”

She smiles politely. Nice touch, Doris.

“Twenty-two years. From the day he started.”

“I see. You must have been very close.”

Skipper starts to stand, then stops. Good idea. It’s too soon to becombative.

“We were. We’d been through a lot together.”

“It’s unusual to see such loyalty.” I remind myself not to let thingsget too thick.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I continue, “could you please tell us where you wereon the evening of December thirtieth?”

“Of course. I was in the Simpson and Gates offices, assisting Mr.Holmes on a big closing.”

“How many people were working on the deal?”

She bobs her head back and forth as if she’s counting.

“Probably about fifty,” she decides.

“When did you go home?”

“Around eight o’clock. We were having a going-away party for Mr.

Gatesthat evening.” She looks at Skipper.

“I stopped by for a few minutes. I live out in the avenues. I gothome around

nine.”

She’s hitting the right notes. The jury seems to like her.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I continue, “could you please describe Mr. Holmes’smood that night?”

“Objection,” Skipper says.

“State of mind.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I’m not asking for a medical determination.

I’masking her to describe her observation of his mood, based upon her manyyears of experience working with him.”

Judge Chen gives Doris a small smile.

“Overruled.”

Doris says Bob appeared extremely upset that night. The deal wasn’tgoing well.

“We weren’t sure Mr. Russo would authorize us to proceed with theclosing,” she says.

“He was worried about his bonus. Wouldn’t you be upset?” she asksrhetorically. Skipper could object to her asking a question, butwisely chooses not to.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I continue, “is there any other reason why Mr. Holmesmay have been upset?”

“Yes. Mrs. Holmes served him with divorce papers.” She says he wassurprised and repeats that he was very upset.

“Do you know what caused the breakup of their marriage?”

“Mr. Holmes was seeing another woman. She threw him out.”

“Do you know who that other woman was?”

“It was Diana Kennedy.”

“You’ve testified Mr. Holmes was surprised and distraught when thepapers were served. Shouldn’t he have expected it? He was seeinganother woman and his wife threw him out. Why would he have beensurprised when Mrs.

Holmes served him with divorce papers?”

“He tried to reconcile with his wife because Ms. Kennedy had told himshe didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“Ms. Kennedy broke off their relationship?”

“Yes. Emphatically, I might add.” She’s doing better than she did inour rehearsals.

“So,” I say, “after Ms. Kennedy dumped him, he tried to reconcile withhis wife?”

“Yes. It didn’t work out. In late December, Mrs. Holmes’sinvestigator caught him with another woman.”

“Was it Ms. Kennedy?”

“No. It was a different woman. That’s when she decided to file thedivorce papers.”

A half hour later, we are still discussing Bob’s love life.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say, “are you sure Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy wereno longer seeing each other on December thirtieth?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. I was always aware of the women in his life. Fromtime to time, Mr. Holmes asked me to cover for him.”

“You mean he asked you to make up stories so Mrs. Holmes didn’t findout about his affairs?”

“Yes,” she replies quietly.

“Can you identify the woman he was seeing in late December?”

“He never mentioned her name. He said he’d tell me when the time wasright.”

“Could it have been Diana Kennedy?”

“No.”

I pause.

“Was it Dr. Kathy Chandler?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s switch gears,” I say.

“Were you aware that Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy had beenromantically involved at some point in the fall of last year?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“It’s been suggested Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were still involvedin late December. Do you have any knowledge of that?”

“No.”

“It’s also been suggested that Ms. Kennedy informed Mr. Friedman onDecember thirtieth that she was seeing Bob Holmes. Do you have anyknowledge of that?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Well, Ms. Fontaine, would it surprise you to find out severalwitnesses in this courtroom have suggested Mr. Friedman killed Mr.Holmes because Ms.

Kennedy dumped Mr. Friedman in favor of Mr.Holmes, and he was jealous?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Doris tugs at her hair.

“Yes, Mr. Daley, that would surprise me. Ms. Kennedy’s relationshipwith Mr. Holmes was over. There was nothing for Joel to be jealousabout. How many times do I have to say it? Diana broke up with Bob inthe beginning of December.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fontaine.”

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say a little later, “let’s talk a little bit aboutVince Russo’s deal.”

She explains that Russo wasn’t happy about selling his father’sbusiness.

“There was great doubt as to whether it would close,” she says.

“Ultimately, it didn’t and Mr. Russo disappeared.”

“Was Mr. Russo distraught on the evening of December thirtieth?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll try it another way,” I say.

“How long have you known Mr. Russo?”

“About ten years.”

“Did he spend a lot of time at the S and G offices?”

“Yes. He was in the office at least twice a week.”

“Based upon your knowledge as an acquaintance of Mr. Russo for aboutten years, did it appear to you that Mr. Russo was distraught on theevening of December thirtieth?”

Skipper starts to stand, but McNulty stops him.

“Yes,” Doris says, “he appeared very unhappy about selling hiscompany.”

“I see. And could you please describe Mr. Russo’s behavior thatnight?”

“Erratic. At one point while I was standing outside the mainconference room, Mr. Russo stormed out the door while he was screamingat Mr.

Holmes. He was angry because he had been told that thepurchase price for his company was going to be reduced by forty milliondollars.”

No reaction from the jury.

“Is it fair to say Mr. Russo was extremely upset that night?”

“Yes.”

Rosie nods. Time to move on. Judge Chen interrupts me to ask how muchlonger I’ll be questioning Doris. I say a couple more hours.

Shedecides to adjourn for lunch.

Rosie, Doris, Joel and I eat sandwiches in the consultation room.

“So far, so good,” Rosie says.

“You’ve created a plausible argument for suicide. You’ve cast doubt onthe jealous-rage theory. And you’ve established motive for Russo.”

She turns to Doris.

“You’re doing great.”

Doris shrugs.

“Let’s see how it goes. It’s easy with Mike asking the questions.”

She’s right.

“We’ve got about another hour, Doris. I need you to slay one moredragon for me this afternoon. Just follow my lead and keep the answersshort.

Just the way we talked about it.”

“You got it.”

“Did you hear anything from Pete?” Rosie asks.

“I talked to Rolanda. He called and said the banker won’t reveal thenames of the income beneficiaries or the remainder men of theInternational Charitable Trust. Wendy is looking for a judge.”

Joel changes the subject.

“When do I get to testify?” he asks.

“We’ll talk about it later. If everything goes well today, we won’tneed you.”

“But I want to.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” I say again.

We begin the afternoon session at one o’clock.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say, “are you acquainted with a man named ArthurPatton?”

“Yes. He is the managing partner of Simpson and Gates. I’ve known himfor many years.”

“Are you familiar with an incident involving Mr. Patton and Ms.Kennedy at the Silverado Country Club in October of last year?”

“Yes I am.”

“How did you become aware of this incident?”

“The firm conducted an internal investigation.”

“How did you become aware of the internal investigation?”

“My boss, Mr. Holmes, was in charge of the investigation. He told meabout it. Mr. Friedman was interviewed in the course of theinvestigation. He told me about it, too.”

“I see. And why didn’t you come forward with this information when thepolice first questioned you?”

“They didn’t ask me. And I didn’t think it was relevant. It was aconfidential, internal investigation. The matter was closed.”

“Can you tell us about the nature of the investigation?”

Skipper stands.

“Your Honor, I must object. Any testimony that Ms. Fontaine is aboutto give on this investigation is inadmissible hearsay.” It’s alegitimate objection. I glance at the jury. The phone companysupervisor seems perturbed.

“Your Honor,” I say, “rather than argue the merits of this objection,we would like to handle this issue in a different manner. We wouldlike to introduce into evidence a memorandum prepared by Mr. Holmeswhich was dated December fifteenth of last year and was addressed tothe Simpson and Gates executive committee.” Rosie hands copies of amemo to Skipper and to the judge.

“This memorandum sets forth the official findings of a specialinvestigative committee appointed by the Simpson and Gates executivecommittee with respect to the socalled Silverado Incident.”

“Objection. Irrelevant.” Skipper is on his feet.

“This is highly inflammatory, It is an internal memorandum that isprivileged communication. Furthermore, we have no basis to verify itsauthenticity. Finally, this information has not been provided to us bythe defense.”

“We produced this memorandum several weeks ago, Your Honor,” I say.

Idon’t mention that it was included with those eighteen boxes of S&Gfinancial records that we never planned to introduce into evidence.Skipper glares at McNulty.

Somebody on their side missed it.

“In addition,” I continue, “if Mr. Gates is concerned about theauthenticity of this memorandum, I am prepared to call Mr. Stern andthe head of the firm’s labor law department to verify that they got acopy of it. If Mr. Gates were permitted to testify, he wouldacknowledge that he has seen a copy of it.”

Judge Chen pounds her gavel.

“The bailiff will take the jury out. I want to see all the attorneysin my chambers. Now.”

We meet in chambers. Skipper tries to sound incredulous.

“What kind of stunt are you trying to pull?” Often, this isn’t theright tone in

chambers.

Judge Chen interrupts him.

“Be quiet, Mr. Gates. Let me see that memorandum.”

She puts on her reading glasses. Skipper, McNulty, Rosie and I sit insilence.

She scans it quickly and then studies it carefully.

“Mr. Daley,” she says, “where did you get this?”

I keep my tone professional.

“From Ms. Fontaine.”

“I see. How do you know it’s authentic?”

“She typed it. She’ll swear to it under oath.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper begins.

She cuts him off.

“Shut up, Mr. Gates. It will be your turn to talk in a minute.” Shelooks at the memo again. She turns to Skipper.

“Mr. Gates,” she says, “I happen to find Mr. Daley’s argumentpersuasive on this point. Do you have anything to say?”

He glances at McNulty, then turns to the judge.

“There is no foundation proving its authenticity. It could have beencooked up on Doris Fontaine’s word processor. It isn’t signed. Wedon’t have an original. Before you destroy Art Patton’s career, youshould consider the ramifications.”

I put both my palms on her desk and push myself up.

“Your Honor, if he’s accusing us of manufacturing evidence, he’s crazy.Doris will swear under oath the document is authentic. I’ll swearunder oath we obtained it through legitimate means. If I’m lying, youcan have my ticket to practice law right now. I will trot outeverybody who ever saw this memo. If you insist, I will testify. Ourrequest is legitimate and our evidence is good. And if Skipper thinksit’s tainted, he can argue it to the jury. Let them decide whether wemade this whole thing up. We’ll take our chances.”

“Your Honor, with all due respect to Mr. Daley and his ticket topractice .. “

She holds up her hand.

“Mr. Gates, have you ever seen this memo before?”

He swallows. He looks at McNulty, who raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t recall,” he stammers.

Judge Chen shakes her head.

“I’ve heard enough. The objection is overruled. The memo comes in.Now all of you get out of here.”

Skipper sits on his hands and seethes the rest of the afternoon whileDoris and I go through the memo in detail in front of the jury anddestroy what’s left of Art Patton’s reputation. There is a lessonsomewhere in this. The memo reveals Diana had, in fact, reportedPatton’s advances to the head of the firm’s human-resourcesdepartment, and had threatened to sue the firm for sexual harassment.According to witnesses, Patton had propositioned her at the party inhis room. She rejected him and returned to her own room. He followedher. Diana said Patton then grabbed her from behind and pinned her toher bed.

He tried to muffle her calls for help. She managed to free one of herlegs and kicked him in the groin. She ran to Joel’s room. About fiveminutes later, Patton knocked on Joel’s door and found Diana there.

Patton claimed it was all a misunderstanding.

The report says Patton had been sued for sexual harassment on fouroccasions and that the firm settled all four lawsuits. The firm alsoreceived a dozen other claims that did not lead to formal legal action.In each case, Patton claimed he was misunderstood. In his mind, it wasall a problem of perception.

The other members of X-Com ordered him to have counseling and fined hima hundred thousand dollars. His points were reduced. He was told hewould be expelled from the firm if another incident ever took place.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say, “were there any other developments after thismemorandum was issued?”

“The day before Christmas, Ms. Kennedy gave her resignation to Mr.Holmes. She had accepted a job in San Diego. She wanted a freshstart.”

I introduce the resignation letter into evidence.

“What does this have to do with Mr. Patton?”

“When she tendered her resignation, she told Mr. Holmes and Mr.

Pattonthat she had retained a lawyer. She was going to sue the firm and Mr.Patton for sexual harassment. Mr. Holmes told me he was going tobegin procedures to have Mr.

Patton expelled from the firm.”

“Did Ms. Kennedy ever initiate legal action against Mr. Patton?”

“No, Mr. Daley. She died before she had time to do anything.”

“Ms. Fontaine, would it surprise you to know that Mr. Patton hastestified that he had never propositioned Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Patton telling the truth, Ms. Fontaine?”

“No,” she says firmly.

“Mr. Patton is a liar.”

“No further questions.”

Skipper asks a few perfunctory questions on cross. As Doris stepsdown, I write a note to Rosie.

“Is it enough?” it says. She whispers into my ear, “I think so.”

That night, we spend two hours at Rabbi Friedman’s house arguing withJoel about whether he should take the stand. The conventional wisdomsays you never let your client testify unless you absolutely must. Agood prosecutor will turn a defendant’s story around in a nanosecond.In a circumstantial case such as ours, the entire case could turn onJoel’s demeanor.

“Mike,” he pleads, “I don’t want to hide behind my lawyer.”

“It’s too risky. Skipper could tie you in knots.”

“I’ll take my chances. I’m not going to spend the rest of my lifewondering if my testimony could have made the difference. I want totell my story to the jury.”

And maybe piss your life away. We spend an hour going over histestimony, just in case. As I’m leaving, he begs again for a chance totake the stand.

“Let me sleep on it, Joel. We’ll make a final decision in themorning.”

I spend the night consulting my most trusted consigliere. I’m inclinedto put Joel on the stand for just a few questions. Rosie is dead setagainst it. Her instincts are usually better than mine. Randy Long,my mentor from the PD’s office, says I should follow the conventionalwisdom.

I decide to make a final phone call at eleven-thirty.

“Mort, it’s Mike.”

“Long time no talk.”

“How’s life as a TV star?”

“Not all that it’s cracked up to be. I have to be up in a few hoursfor the morning news.”

“The price of fame.”

“Beats working for a living.” He chuckles.

“What’s up?”

I pause.

“I wanted a gut reaction from you.”

“My gut is listening.”

“You think I should put Joel up on the stand tomorrow?”

Silence. I picture him sitting in his bathrobe, fingering a cigar.

“That’s a two-cigar question.”

“I know.”

I hear his asthmatic breathing.

“The conventional wisdom says no.”

“I know.”

“The conventional wisdom isn’t always right.”

“I know that, too.”

He pauses.

“I’d put him on. But I’d get him off in a hurry. Just a fewquestions. Get a good, forceful denial and get him the hell off.”

“Thanks, Mort. I’ll be watching you in the morning.”

CHAPTER 55

JUST KEEP EVERYTHING SHORT AND SWEET

“In what court observers are describing as a reckless gamble, Joel MarkFriedman will take the stand in his own defense today in what might bedescribed as the legal profession’s equivalent of the Hail Mar)’

pass.Michael Daley should be sued for malpractice.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. wednesday, april 15.

“You ready?” I ask Joel the next morning. He’s pacing in theconsultation room.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you understand my reservations?” A standard lawyerly CYAquestion.

“We’ve been through it a million times. I’m going to testify. It’s mylife.”

It’s your funeral.

“Fair enough. I’ll be with you all the way.”

He stares at the wall.

“What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

“I’d listen to my attorney.”

He gives me a knowing smile.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Just keep everything short and sweet. Just the way we rehearsed it. Iwant you off the stand in no more than five minutes. Skipper cancrossexamine you only on stuff that we’ve talked about. I don’t wantto open the whole

case. I want you to tell everyone you’re innocent,and sit down. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The courtroom buzzes. The gallery is packed. Naomi sits between Rabbiand Mrs.

Friedman in the first row behind us.

Skipper has given V.I.P passes to three big contributors from theRepublican caucus. The gossip columnist from the Chronicle is here.It’s the biggest local news event since the Niners were eliminated fromthe playoffs in January.

We rise as Judge Chen enters the courtroom. Harriet Hill brings in thejury.

“Mr. Daley,” Judge Chen says, “will this be your last witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Joel Friedman.”

Joel looks lawyerly. His hair has more gray than it did four monthsago. His features are drawn, if not gaunt. Yet his eyes are clear.After four long months, he’s going to tell his side of the story. I’vetold him not to drink any water unless he has to. It makes you looknervous.

“Mr. Friedman,” I begin, “you were assisting Robert Holmes on a dealfor Vince Russo on December thirtieth of last year?” I like to startwith an easy, leading question.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I ask Joel to provide a brief summary of the deal. We talk about hisdinner with Diana at Harrington’s. He says she left because they gotinto an argument about the deal. He says he returned to the office andDiana went home.

“What did you do when you got back to the office?” I ask.

“I assembled all of the final documents for the closing. The paperswere signed by twelve-thirty. I went to see Mr. Holmes. I explainedto him that the escrow instructions that Ms. Kennedy was working onhad not been completed and that I was going to finish them. Mr. Holmeswas in the middle of a heated discussion with Mr. Russo at the time.Mr. Holmes instructed me to call Ms. Kennedy and tell her to comeback to the office.”

“And it was that telephone call from you to Ms. Kennedy that wastape-recorded on Ms. Kennedy’s answering machine?”

“Yes.”

I stop for a moment.

“Did you see Ms. Kennedy after she returned from her apartment?”

“No.”

“Mr. Kim, the custodian, testified that he heard you and Mr. Holmeshaving a rather intense discussion about twelve-thirty on the morningof the thirty-first. Do you recall that discussion?”

“Yes. Mr. Kim overheard us discussing the closing and certain issuesinvolving my career.”

“What career issues?”

“I was told on the thirtieth that I was not going to make partner.”

“And were you upset about that?”

“Yes.”

“And did you convey your feelings to Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was his response?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

I continue.

“Let’s try this another way. On the evening of the thirtieth, were yougiven an indication that you would be put up for partner the followingyear?”

Skipper stands. He’s trying to figure out which objection to use.Before he can speak, Joel says, “Yes, I was promised that I would beput up for partner the following year.”

“And did Mr. Holmes promise to support your election to thepartnership the following year?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

Judge Chen looks perplexed.

“I’ll allow it this time, Mr. Daley. Then I want you to move on.”

“He promised to support me,” Joel responds.

“Mr. Friedman,” I say, “could you please tell us what happened thefollowing morning?”

Joel describes how he and Chuckles got the keys to Bob’s office fromDoris’s desk. He says he got sick and went to the bathroom and threwup. When he returned, he opened the gun and took the three remainingbullets out.

“I had shot the gun at the range,” he says.

“It was sensitive and unreliable. I disarmed it so that nobody wouldbe injured. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Could you describe your relationship with Diana Kennedy?”

“Yes. We were colleagues. And we were friends.” He pauses. This isgoing

to get tough.

“And, for a very brief period of time, we were lovers. It’s notsomething I’m proud of.”

“How long did your affair with Ms. Kennedy last?”

“One night during October of last year.” He looks at Naomi.

“I’m embarrassed. I’ve let my family down. I’ve let myself down.” Helooks appropriately contrite. You could put a scarlet A on his chestright about now.

“I’m sorry, Naomi,” he says.

“Joel,” I say quietly, “did you know she was pregnant?”

“Yes, I did,” he whispers.

“She told me in early December.”

“And were you aware that you were the father of her baby?”

“No. She told me that I wasn’t the father. I guess she was wrong.”

“Were you aware that Diana had decided to move to San Diego?”

“Not until the night of the thirtieth.”

“When did she tell you?”

“When we were having dinner at Harrington’s.” Careful now.

“You know, Joel,” I say, “some people might think that your argumentwith Diana at Harrington’s may have had something to do with the factthat you were the father of her baby and she was leaving town. Somemight suggest that she dumped you and demanded support for the baby. Isthat what really happened that night at Harrington’s, Joel?”

He looks serious. He says, in a perfectly level tone, “No, Mr. Daley,that’s not right. Diana and I were arguing about work. Ourrelationship was over long before the evening of December thirtieth.”

“One final question. Let’s put all of our cards right on the table.Did you kill Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy?”

His words are perfectly measured.

“No, Mr. Daley. I did not.”

I glance at the phone company supervisor. No discernible reaction.

“No further questions.”

Skipper can’t wait.

“Mr. Friedman,” he begins, “do you remember having a conversation withInspector Roosevelt Johnson on January eighth?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Gates is attempting to introduce intoevidence matters that were not addressed in direct exam.”

“I’ll tie it together,” Skipper pleads.

Judge Chen grimaces.

“Overruled. But I want to see some direct relevance right away.”

“Thank you,” Skipper says. He turns back to Joel.

“Do you remember the conversation with Inspector Johnson?”

“I had lots of conversations with Inspector Johnson.”

Easy, Joel. Don’t get cute. Just answer the questions.

“Well, Mr. Friedman, let me refresh your memory. According toInspector Johnson’s police report, you had an interview with him at theHall of Justice.

Do you recall the meeting?”

“Yes I do.”

“And do you recall at that meeting Inspector Johnson asked you whetheryou had ever had a sexual relationship with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes, I recall that he asked.”

“And how did you respond?”

Joel looks at me.

“I told him we had never had a sexual relationship.”

Skipper is pleased.

“We later found out that you were the father other unborn child, didn’twe?”

“Yes.”

“So, Mr. Friedman, when Inspector Johnson asked you about yourrelationship with Ms. Kennedy, you lied, right?”

It’s pointless to object.

Joel casts his eyes downward.

“Yes, I did,” he says quietly.

“What other things have you lied about, Mr. Friedman?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I twist in the wind for the next forty-five minutes as Skipper crossexamines Joel. He gets Joel to admit the fight at Harrington’s was abig one. He gets Joel to acknowledge his voicemail message to Bobsounded ominous. He gets Joel to admit that he didn’t tell the copsabout his phone call to Diana until he was confronted with the tape. Iobject every three or four questions, just to break up Skipper’srhythm. The jury is riveted. Naomi stares at the floor.

Rabbi Friedman sits with his hands folded. I second-and third-andfourth-guess my decision to put him on the stand.

Joel acknowledges his affair with Diana. His explanation is credible.When you’re the father of two kids and the rabbi’s son, you don’tnecessarily want to admit adultery. He explains his love-haterelationship with Bob.

After a seemingly endless string of questions, Skipper gets right inJoel’s face.

“Mr. Friedman,” he says, “as Mr. Daley so eloquently said, let’s putour cards on the table. Let’s admit what really happened that night.We’ll all feel better about it.”

Here we go. Stay the course, Joel.

“Mr. Friedman,” Skipper continues, “what really happened that night isthat Diana Kennedy dumped you at Harrington’s. She told you she didn’twant to see you again. And she told you she was going to resume herrelationship with Bob Holmes. Isn’t that the truth, Mr. Friedman?”

“That’s not true,” Joel says evenly. He looks Skipper right in theeye.

“And,” Skipper says, “you went back to the office that night and gotinto a big fight with Bob Holmes. Oh, it may have started out as afight about business, but eventually it turned to a fight about Ms.Kennedy. Turns out she was two-timing you. She was sleeping with Mr.Holmes.”

“That’s not true, either,” Joel says. He glances at Diana’s mother.

“Come on, Mr. Friedman. We’ve seen you lie when things get tough.

Youlured her back to the office and you killed both of them with Mr.Holmes’s gun. And you tried to make it look like a suicide. Exceptyou got a little sloppy. You left your fingerprints on the keyboard.And you didn’t realize your message to Ms.

Kennedy had been recorded. Isn’t that the truth, Mr. Friedman?”

“No, Mr. Gates, that is not the truth.”

“You did it, Mr. Friedman, didn’t you? You’ll feel better if you getit off your chest.”

Joel takes a deep breath.

“It is not true. I did not kill Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy.”

“You’re lying again, aren’t you, Mr. Friedman?”

I leap up.

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

My redirect is brief. I want to leave the jury with a final impressionof a calm, collected Joel. I ask him to reiterate once more that hedid not kill Bob

and Diana. Then I sit the hell down.

At eleven-thirty Judge Chen looks at me.

“Do you have any more witnesses, Mr.

Daley?”

“No, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

“We’ll hear motions right after lunch and we’ll begin closingarguments first thing in the morning. We’re adjourned.” She poundsher gavel.

Late that night, Rosie and I are watching CNBC in her living room.

“I can’t understand why Daley put him on the stand,” intones Marciadark.

“It was a terrible mistake,” says Morgan Henderson, who has left thecomfort of the News Center 4 studio for an appearance on CNBC.

“I should have left well enough alone,” I say to Rosie.

“I never should have put him on the stand. It was too risky.”

“He did okay. At least he got it all off his chest. That’s good.”

“I don’t think the jury bought it.”

“They’re a tough group to read. I just can’t tell.”

“Want to hear my closing one more time?”

“Sure.”

The following day, Skipper and I spend the morning engaging in thelegal profession’s version of hand-to-hand combat. We line uptoe-to-toe and deliver our closing arguments. The commentators willdescribe it as a classic matchup:

the charismatic DA against the eloquent defense attorney. Skipperrants for the better part of two hours. He pounds the lectern. Heprances like a gazelle. He points at Joel as he describes each pieceof evidence. The theatrics are effective. The jury follows his everymove.

I speak for less than an hour. I try to keep my tone measured. Ican’t compete with histrionics, so I have to try for empathy. Thecourtroom is a blur of jurors’ faces. I attack each piece of evidence.I plead with them to believe Bob killed Diana and then committedsuicide. I remind them that somebody could have entered and exited theS&G suite by the stairs or the freight elevator without being seen onthe security tape. Finally, I tell them that if they insist onconcluding that somebody killed Bob, they have far better choices thanJoel. With glib self-assurance, I try to deflect the blame towardVince Russo, Chuckles Stern and, above all, Art Patton. I remind themArt had at least thirty million reasons to kill Bob.

At a quarter to twelve, I thank them and tell them that Joel’s life isin their

hands.

When all is said and done, I’m not a big believer that you win casesin closing arguments. If the jury isn’t already predisposed to voteyour way, your goose is probably cooked. We take a brief lunch breakand Judge Chen charges the jury. At two o’clock, she pounds her gaveland sends them to the jury room.

After four long weeks of trial, it’s out of my hands.

CHAPTER 56

I OVERREACHED. I JUST KNOW IT

“We are very pleased with our closing arguments. We have great faithin this jury and we are confident Mr. Friedman will be acquitted.”

—live INTERVIEW ON channel 4 WITH DEFENSE ATTORNEY michael daley.thursday, april 16.

“I bombed, Rosie. I blew it. I overreached. I just know it.” Rosieis driving us back to the office after closing arguments.

“Calm down,” she replies, as she pulls onto Bryant and heads easttoward our office.

“You’re overreacting. You did fine.”

I’m looking for any wisp of comfort that I haven’t just blown our caseinto kingdom come. Some lawyers walk out after closing argumentsfirmly convinced they were so good they could have persuaded the popeto convert to Judaism. I remember all the things I should have saiddifferently, or didn’t say at all.

“You’ve got to admit I overreached a little.” It’s starting todrizzle.

“You did fine,” she repeats.

“They were listening and they were with you. I could see it.”

“I hope you’re right. You never can tell with juries.”

“You got that right.”

We park in the pay lot across the street from the office. A row ofminivans line up on Mission Street. It looks like a taxi stand. Iknow most of the reporters by name. Rosie and I push through them. Imouth appropriate platitudes about the strength of our case.

Inside the door, Rolanda hands me a stack of phone messages. I siftthrough them quickly. One catches my eye.

“Rosie,” I say, “I’ve got to make a couple of calls.”

I dial 1, 809, and the seven-digit number. You don’t need to dial Oil,the international access code, to call the Bahamas. The person answersin an

elegant British accent. I recognize the voice of Duncan Burton,the concierge at the Graycliff.

“Ms. Hogan has left for the airport,” he says.

“You can reach her at the following number.” It’s Wendy’s cellular.

I can barely hear her when she answers.

“It’s Mike. Where are you?”

“O’Hare. We just got in from the Bahamas. Our plane for San Franciscoleaves in a few minutes. How are things?”

“It’s up to the jury.”

“You ought to go back to the Bahamas when you can spend more time.”

“Maybe when I have a lot of money to hide. Did you find anything?”

There’s a pause.

“The good news is we finally got Trevor Smith to talk. We found outwho gets the money from the International Charitable Trust. The badnews, I’m afraid, is the information won’t help you much. If you werelooking for a magic bullet, I don’t think it’s here.”

“Try me. Who gets the money?”

“Bob’s kids.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. And one other person. Jenny Fontaine.”

“Really?” I stop for a second. Why would Bob leave money to Doris’sdaughter?

But it makes sense, I guess.

“Bob always had a soft spot for Jenny,” I say.

“Kind of a thank-you to Doris.”

“I suppose. Is it divided up evenly?”

“Not exactly. Jenny gets a third of the money. The other kids sharethe rest equally.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, I guess. Any of this going to help you, Mike?”

“I doubt it. It’s too late to introduce any of it into evidence. Ican’t imagine Bob’s kids or Jenny were involved.”

“Yeah.” Silent disappointment at the other end of the line.

“Look, Wendy, I didn’t expect you to break the case. You really helpeda lot, okay?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“When will you be home?”

“Tonight.”

I look through the bars on my window. I hang up the phone as Rosiewalks in.

“Find out anything good from Wendy?” she asks.

“How did you know it was Wendy?”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The T wish Wendy would realize how big a crush I have on her’ look.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Nope.” She’s lying. At least I think so.

“You’ll see. Nothing will come of it.”

She smiles.

“I may not give up my boy toy without a fight.”

A few minutes later, Rosie and I sit in my office. My TV is tuned toNews Center 4. Morgan Henderson and Mort Goldberg are arguing aboutwhether I should have put Joel on the stand. They’ve already declaredSkipper the hands-down winner of closing arguments. Henderson isexplaining to the world how I’ve botched Joel’s defense and what ahorse’s bottom I am.

“He never should have let his client get up on the stand,” he says.

“Friedman should have hired a real lawyer.”

“Don’t worry,” Rosie says.

“The only people whose vote counts right now are locked up in a closedroom. And they’re not talking to anybody but themselves.”

“Thanks,” I tell her.

“I hope you’re right.”

At four o’clock Rolanda walks into my office.

“They just called. The jury’s in.

CHAPTER 57

WHAT SAY YOU?

“It’s a complicated case. The jury will be out for several days, ormaybe even a week.”

—news center 4 LEGAL ANALYST morgan henderson. thursday, april 16.

“That’s quick,” Rosie says. The jury was out for less than twohours.

“I don’t like it,” I say, more out of superstition than conviction. Iknow attorneys who never change their shoes while a jury is out. Mysuperstition

is simple. I never predict a positive outcome. Thenagain, I never predict a negative one, either.

“You never can tell with juries, Rosie,” I say yet again. I turn toRolanda.

“What time?”

“Five o’clock. The clerk said they wanted to give everybody a littletime to get back.”

“I’ll call Joel,” I say.

“What do you think, Rosita?” I can’t leave it. We’re in Rosie’s car,driving toward the Hall. The radio newsman solemnly intones that theverdict will be read at five.

“Too hard to predict. I’m too close to it.” We turn onto Bryant.

“Me too.” I look out at the auto-body shops and bail bondsmen.

“I

know I’ll regret saying it out loud, but I just can’t see how they canvote to convict.” Even superstitious people have moments of weakness.And moments of wishful thinking, perhaps.

“Juries are funny,” she says.

“They make decisions for different reasons. I had one jury vote toacquit because they didn’t like the way the prosecutor dressed. Inthis case, they might vote to convict just because Joel is a lawyer. Orthey may not like guys who cheat on their wives. You just neverknow.”

A dozen white TV minivans are parked bumper-to-bumper on the north sideof Bryant in front of the main entrance to the Hall. At least twodozen TV reporters from the local and national media have staked outspots on the front steps and are broadcasting live. There’s barelyenough room for all of them.

Mobile satellite transmitter trucks line the south side of Bryant. Iheard that one enterprising bail bondsman is renting his tiny drivewayto a cable station for a thousand bucks a day.

The horde surrounds Rosie and me as we walk through the police linetoward the front door.

“Mr. Daley, how do you think the jury’s going to decide?”

“Mr. Daley, doesn’t it seem like the jury was out for a very shorttime?”

“Mr. Daley, do you plan to appeal?”

“Mr. Daley, do you think your client got a fair shake?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

We push our way inside. Joel and Naomi are waiting with Rabbi and

Mrs.Friedman by the metal detectors. Naomi gives me a hug.

“This is it,” she says.

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

Rabbi Friedman and I shake hands, but we don’t speak. We take theelevators.

They seem even slower than usual.

We huddle outside the courtroom.

“Listen,” I say, “no matter what happens in there, we’ll have nocomment today. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to the reporters.”

As we’re about to walk into the courtroom, Rosie touches my arm andmotions down the hall with her eyes.

“Check this out, Mike,” she says.

I see Skipper and his entourage. McNasty is at his side. A few printreporters follow them. For some reason, Art Patton and Charles Sternare with him.

Moral support from his old partners, I suppose. Theylook grim and I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“What do you make of that?” she whispers.

“Beats me.”

Skipper sees me and nods. Chuckles’s face is unreadable. Patton looksdaggers at me.

We walk into the courtroom. The bailiff escorts us to the defensetable.

Naomi and the Friedmans sit in the first row of the gallery.

“Mike,” Joel says, “I guess this is it. What do you think?”

“They haven’t been out very long. That’s usually a good sign.Remember, the O.J.

jury was out for only a few hours.”

“And they made the wrong decision.”

I don’t respond.

“What’s your gut?” he asks.

I look him in the eye.

“Innocent.” There’s no point in telling him the truth. I just don’tknow.

We take our places. The court reporter is already seated. We rise forthe judge. She recites we’re on the record. She asks Harriet Hill tobring in the jury. Time slows down.

Joel looks at the jury as they walk in. They aren’t looking at him.Not a good sign. Naomi is wearing her sunglasses. Rabbi and Mrs.Friedman hold hands.

Rosie sits perfectly still. I’m glad she’s here. My stomach churns.

Judge Chen turns to the jury.

“Have you reached a verdict, Madam Foreperson?”

The phone company supervisor stands.

“Yes we have, Your Honor.”

We watch the ceremonial passing of the paper from the phone companysupervisor to Harriet Hill to the judge. She looks at the verdictimpassively. No discernible sign either way.

“Will the defendant please rise.”

Joel, Rosie and I stand. So does Skipper. McNulty stays seated. Outof the corner of my eye, I see Naomi and the Friedmans. Their eyes areclosed.

Here we go.

Judge Chen turns to the jury.

“What say you?”

I can hear myself breathing.

The phone company supervisor takes a deep breath. Time stops.

“Not guilty on all counts, Your Honor,” she replies without emotion.

Pandemonium in back of me. Reporters sprint to the door. Joel fallsback into his chair. Judge Chen pounds her gavel.

“The jury is excused with the court’s thanks. The bailiff isinstructed to release Mr. Friedman at once. We’re adjourned.”

Joel turns to me with a bewildered look.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah. It’s time to go home, Joel.”

When a client is acquitted, the defense lawyer becomes an extraneousobserver in a matter of seconds. Joel, Rosie, Naomi and I get togetherin the front of the courtroom for what Grace likes to call a group hug.Naomi is sobbing. Then Joel climbs over the rail and hugs hisparents.

The reporters have already left the courtroom. I give Rosie a big hugof her own.

“Thanks,” I manage to say. I barely notice the tears in her eyes. Ifeel the tears in mine. I pause for a moment before I gather mypapers.

“What the hell just happened?” I say.

“You won, Mike.”

Skipper strides toward me, the threemillion-dollar smile plastered onhis face. He shakes my hand forcefully.

“Nice job, counselor,” he says.

“Yeah. Thanks, Skipper.” Let’s go out for a beer sometime.

He turns and addresses the gallery.

“Obviously, we’re disappointed with the result. However, we believe inthe system and we must accept the jury’s verdict. I’ll be holding apress conference in my office in twenty minutes.” I tune it out.

I turn and see Bill McNulty sitting at the prosecution table, shakinghis head.

He hasn’t moved. He’s looking straight ahead, and he’s muttering overand over, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

CHAPTER 58

MY LAST CONFESSION

“We still have faith in the criminal justice system.”

—skipper gates. lasry king live. thursday, april 16.

There are no victory laps or trips to Disneyland for victorious defenseattorneys. A few get interviewed by Larry King. Some get bookcontracts. Most are held up to universal scorn and are cited as thereason for the collapse of the justice system and, by extension, themoral fabric of our society.

I seem to be one of them. As Rosie and I drive from the Hall to Joel’shouse for an early-evening celebration, the Monday-morning quarterbackson the radio are already proclaiming I’m a social pariah.

“In local news, in a stunning conclusion to the trial of the decade,accused double murderer Joel Mark Friedman was found not guilty.District Attorney Prentice Gates expressed his disappointment with theverdict, but said he would abide by the result.

Friedman’s attorney, Michael Daley, said he was pleased and had nofurther comment. KCBS news time is six-ten.”

Rosie turns off the radio.

“Enough,” she says.

“This case will be held up as a textbook example of what’s wrong withthe justice system.”

“And the American way of life,” I add.

“Actually, Rosie,” I wax, “I doubt anybody will be thinking about it ina couple of days.”

“You’re probably right. By the way, did the judge have anything tosay?”

“Skipper and I talked to her for a few minutes right after the verdictwas read. She said it was the most disgusting display she had everseen in a courtroom. It seems she isn’t real fond of lawyers who hideevidence and

bring witnesses back from the dead. It violates her senseof fair play.” I smile.

“She said she hopes she’ll never see any of us again.”

“You’re running out of judges, Mike.”

“I know. Well, you know the old saying.

“So many judges, so little time.”

” Rosie grins.

“Actually, I thought she did a good job.” I agree.

“She did. She’s going to be a good trial judge.”

“Did you interview the jurors?” After a trial is over, the lawyers arepermitted to ask the jury about the case and how they reached theirdecision.

“Briefly. They thought it was a suicide. They didn’t buy Beckert’stheory that Bob was knocked unconscious.”

“What did they think about you and Skipper?”

“They said Skipper was arrogant.

And they thought I was whiny.”

“Sounds about right,” she replies.

“What about Joel?”

“That’s interesting. They were impressed that he had the guts to getup on the stand.” I look out at City Hall.

“And they didn’t really believe a word he said.”

“Why?” I grin.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Got it.” She chuckles.

“Did you get anything out of Skipper or McNasty?”

“Not much. I talked to them after we interviewed the jurors. Skipperwas extolling the beauty and wisdom of the criminal justice system.McNasty kept saying he couldn’t believe it.”

“He’s such a jolly guy.”

“You know, he may be a sourpuss, but at least he’s an honest one.”

“You’re not going soft on prosecutors in your old age, are you?”

“I’d take a hundred Bill McNastys ahead of Skipper Gates anytime.”

Wedrive in silence north on Van Ness and turn west on Geary and headtoward Joel’s house. We’re reversing the route I took in January whenI made my mad dash to the Hall of Justice the night he was arrested. Itwas only four months ago, but it seems like years.

We find a parking space in front of Joel’s house. You know the starsare really lining up right when you find a place to park on the streeton a weeknight.

It’s warm and the sun is still out. Winter may be ending.

The news vans are parked in every driveway on Joel’s street. Theneighbors will be furious. Rosie pushes me toward Rita Roberts.

“Go ahead,” she says.

“Say something nice about Joel and your renewed faith in the criminaljustice system.”

Rita sticks the microphone in my face and asks me how it feels. Iutter banalities about how pleased I am that justice has been served,that a good and innocent man was set free and how the criminal justicesystem worked. I also prattle on about how proud I am to be a lawyer.I take the obligatory gratuitous swipe at the press for attempting totry the case in the media. I make a plea that they respect Joel andNaomi’s privacy and give them an opportunity to put their lives backtogether. Rita nods solemnly. To me, it sounds like “blah blah blahjustice, blah blah blah legal system, blah blah blah media, blah blahblah privacy.” Rosie grabs my arm and we push our way toward thedoor.

The party is already in full swing when we enter. Joel gives me a bighug and puts a cold beer in my hand. Naomi kisses me. Alan andStephen come running down the hallway. Alan leaps up and gives me abear hug. Doris has a glass of champagne in her hand and we toast eachother. High fives and more hugs. The owners of Shenson’s deli onGeary are members of Rabbi Friedman’s temple. They have sent over hugetrays of corned beef, pastrami, roast beef and turkey.

Naomi gives me a sandwich and I devour it. I’m hungry for the firsttime in weeks.

I see my mother in the living room. Her eyes sparkle.

“I’m proud of you, Michael,” she says.

I’m glad she’s having a good day.

“Thanks, Mama. It means a lot to me.”

About thirty people jam into Joel and Naomi’s living room to watch theearly news. There’s wild applause when the announcer gives theverdict.

I get an odd feeling when I see myself on TV. Rosie screams,“Mike, you look like shit.”

Roars of laughter.

I see myself talking to Rita Roberts. Then I’m talking to the serious-looking Vietnamese reporter from Channel 5. The anchors on Channel 7joke that I must be having a great day. I watch myself on threedifferent channels. Then I catch Mort interviewing Skipper on Channel4.

“So, Mr. Gates,” Mort says, “do you feel like Marcia Clark?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Goldberg. We’redisappointed with the result, but we respect the process and the jurysystem.”

Mort rolls his eyes. I watch him spar with Skipper for five moreminutes before I leave the throng in the living room and make my way tothe back porch, where I find Joel sipping a beer.

“Getting some air, Joel?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“By the way, thanks for everything. I don’t know if I would have madeit without you.”

“You’re welcome. You would have been okay, one way or another.”

He looks unpersuaded.

I look out at the small patio. The garden has fallen into a state ofdisrepair.

“Joel,” I say, “if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to ask you something.Man to man, attorney-client, just you and me.”

He takes another gulp of beer.

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Fair enough.”

“You probably know what’s coming.”

He nods.

“Well, here goes. Was justice served today?”

He takes a long draw from his Samuel Adams. He looks me in the eye anddoesn’t blink.

“Yeah, justice was served today.”

“I thought so. I just wanted to be sure.” Then I ask, “How are youand Naomi doing?”

“One day at a time, Mike.”

“Maybe you could get some counseling.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“I know some people who might be able to help you.”

“I thought I’d call Dr. Kathy Chandler.” A pause.

“Just kidding. Give me a few days, I’ll call you.”

I wonder if he will. I take a deep breath of the unseasonably mildair.

“Thought about what you’d like to do next?”

“I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I thinkmaybe I’d like to try teaching for a while.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Maybe. Naomi thinks I should write a book.”

“Really? A law book?”

“Nah. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Legal thriller. You know.John Grisham.”

I laugh.

“Forget it. It’s harder than it looks. And every lawyer I know iswriting a novel. It’s been done to death.”

He grins.

“You’re probably right.” Then he says, “What about you and Rosie?

Youguys are so good together. You’re more married than most marriedpeople. Why don’t you try it again?”

Tough question. No good answer.

“We talk about it every once in a while. I think we finally figured itall out.

We work great together. We love each other very much. Wehave a great time when we’re together.” And, Lord knows, the sex isterrific.

He interrupts me.

“There’s a big ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Do you know any people who are really nice, wonderful people,but when they get together with somebody in particular, they becomeobnoxious jerks?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the same concept sort of applies to Rosie and me. We’re nicepeople and we get along great. But when we try to live together, welose it. I can’t explain it. We’re fundamentally incompatible. Andwe take it out on each other.

She’s careful about money. I don’t have a clue. I’m neat. She’s not.She likes everything to be scheduled. I don’t. We drive each othercrazy.”

“Maybe the status quo isn’t so bad after all, Mike.”

“I guess. One of these days, she’s going to find a guy and I’m goingto get really jealous.”

“Maybe not for a while. You never know. People change.”

Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman walk onto the back porch. They each give Joela

hug.

Then, to my surprise, they each give me a hug.

“Michael,” says Rabbi Friedman, “thank you for all that you’ve done.”He pauses to clear his throat.

“I’m sorry I may have underestimated you. You’re a fine attorney.”

“I’m glad everything worked out, Rabbi,” I say. We all go back intothe house.

At seven-thirty, Wendy and Pete walk up the steps and enter to anotherround of wild cheers. They look bushed. Wendy comes right over to meand gives me a big hug.

“You did it Mike!” she shouts.

“We did it, Wendy. And we couldn’t have done it without you.”

Pete’sbeaming.

“You son of a bitch,” he says.

“We heard it on the radio in our cab.”

“How the hell did you get the banker to talk?”

Wendy says, “Pete’s very persuasive. He held him by his ankles fromthe window of his office. It’s on the tenth floor.”

I look at her. She’s a good liar.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.

She grins.

“Yes, I’m kidding.”

Pete tells me, “Actually, Wendy came up with the plan.”

“Uh-oh,” I say.

“Wendy, you didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

“Of course not, Mike. That would be crude. My methods of persuasionare far more sophisticated.”

“So how’d you do it?”

“I offered to sleep with him.”

“Really?”

She laughs.

“No. It’s Pete who had the really sophisticated plan.”

Pete smiles.

“Bankers don’t like pain, Mike,” he says.

Oops.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“Not much. No broken bones.”

Jesus.

Wendy beams.

“And Mike, there’s one other thing. Guess what? Pete and I have spenta lot of time together the last couple of months. We’ve decided to getmarried.”

Jesus. Shit. Great. I think. How do you tell a woman her taste inmen still leaves a lot to be desired? How do I tell my brother I haddibs on Wendy? I know these people too well. I feel too close tothem. I know all their flaws.

There’s no purpose pointing them out now. Wendy shows me theengagement ring they bought in Nassau.

“That’s great, you guys,” I say.

“I’m very happy for you.” I raise my hand and shout at the top of mylungs that Pete and Wendy have an announcement to make. Wendy holds upher ring finger and the room bursts into cheers. I see my mother inthe corner of the room, her face glowing.

At eight-fifteen, I’m on the back porch. The sun has gone down and acool breeze is beginning to blow. After two beers and a glass ofchampagne, I’m starting to get lightheaded.

“Hi, Mikey.” Doris grins at me.

“You did a helluva job. I knew you’d pull it out.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Doris. Like always.”

“You’re a helluva lawyer.”

“Thanks. Now will you come work for me?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“I might be able to afford you now.”

“I’ll let you know.”

We look out into the evening sky.

“So, Doris,” I say, “let me ask you something.”

“Anything, Mikey. It’s your night.”

“You won’t get mad at me, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Well, there are a couple of things I’ve been wondering aboutfor a while now. Maybe you can help me piece them together.”

She drinks her champagne.

“Sure.”

“Well, for one thing, could you explain how you managed to get backupstairs after you ran your security card through the scanner and madesure the security camera showed you leaving? That was the key, right?

To be certain that you had witnesses who saw you leave.”

There’s a pause. She sets her champagne flute on the railing. Thenshe says,

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

I don’t say anything. I feel my jaws tighten. I wait.

The silence finally gets to be too much for her. She fingers herglasses.

“I

could lie to everybody else, but I never could lie to you, Mikey,” shesays.

“You figured it all out, didn’t you?”

“I think so.”

“When?”

“Just this afternoon. When I found out Jenny was going to get themoney from the International Charitable Trust. Bob was trying to amendthe trust.

That’s when I realized there was a big financial stake forJenny in all of this.

It gave you a motive.”

“Are you going to turn me in?” she asks.

I take a deep breath. I think of the day she came by and gave me thehundred-dollar retainer check that’s hanging in a frame in my office.

“No, Doris. I can’t. I’m your lawyer and you’re my client. Everythingwe say is privileged.” I look directly into her eyes.

“It doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

She’s trying to hold back tears.

“Good,” she whispers.

There’s a big lump in my throat. I swallow hard.

“You killed two people, Doris,” I tell her.

“I know.” Tears roll down her cheeks.

We stand in silence for a few minutes, staring at the trees in Joel’sbackyard.

I think of Doris’s daughter, Jenny. I think of Diana Kennedy and hermother.

I realize I’m standing next to a woman who has murdered twopeople, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

The pain at the bottom of my stomach is excruciating. I’m speechless.I can’t stop thinking about Diana’s mother. And Joel. And Naomi andthe kids. Lives forever changed. Finally, I manage to say, “But youframed Joel.

How could you do that to an innocent man?”

She grimaces.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know I had. That’s not what was supposedto happen.”

I wait.

“It was such a perfect plan, Mike,” she bursts out.

“I’d really read up on investigative techniques, planned it all out socarefully. I thought of everything to make it look like suicide.

Bob’sfingerprints on the gun. A close shot, so there’d be residue from thegunpowder on his hands and shirt and tattooing around the entrancewound. Typing the suicide Email on his computer.

I didn’t miss a thing. And it would have worked, except for Joel. Noway I could have predicted all the goofy things that pointed towardhim.”

True enough.

“But you were willing to ruin his life for something he didn’t do,” Itell her.

“I know. I’m truly sorry about that—believe me. But I was trapped.Hell, if he hadn’t made such an ass of himself when he called Dianathat night, they probably wouldn’t even have brought charges. And thenhe went and picked up that damned gun—how could I have guessed anyonewould do something that stupid?”

She’s right about that. I even think she means it when she says she’ssorry.

But it doesn’t change anything, and I still can’t put it together.

She’s watching me uneasily.

“Look,” she says, “it was always supposed to be a suicide. That’s theway I planned it. And even with Diana turning up, it would have workedif it hadn’t been for Joel. It was such a standard script. She andBob were sleeping together and he was a jilted lover. Plenty of reasonfor him to kill her and then himself.”

“Were they sleeping together?” I ask.

“For a while. But she’d dumped him.”

I need to backtrack. I’ve got the /2ow—some of it, at least—but thewhy is missing. It doesn’t make sense. No matter how much of anasshole and a bastard Bob was, Doris had endured him for twenty-twoyears. What in Christ could have brought her to decide onmurder—coldblooded murder?

And it isn’t as if she did it on impulse.She’d organized it like a military campaign: reading up on it, gettingall her ducks in a row. Nothing can alter the atrociousness of twodeliberate killings, but I think somehow it will help if I can onlyunderstand why.

That’s going to take a while. I know Jenny’s got to be at the heart ofit but I’ll wait on that. Best to begin with the timing.

I say, “How long did you plan all this?”

“For several months,” she says.

“I didn’t pin down the time when I began, but I knew I had to do it.”

“And that night Beth served Bob with the divorce papers, the time hadcome? You figured he might change his will? Maybe write Jenny out ofthe trust?”

“Yes.” She’s crying now.

Okay, I have the when. I decide to fill in the rest of the how.

“How did you get back upstairs?” I ask again.

This time she tells me.

“I took the freight elevator. There’s no security camera there. AfterI made sure everyone saw me leave at eight, I went downstairs to theCatacomb and took the freight elevator up to the new construction areaon forty-nine. I just waited there until one in the morning. Ifigured everyone else had probably left by then.”

“How did you know Bob would still be there?”

“I didn’t—I just took a chance he might still be finishing up onRusso’s deal.

If there was anyone else around, I wasn’t going to do anything. I’dhave just gone home.”

“And after you went to Bob’s office, then what?”

“I told him I came back to work on his bills. I started giving him aback rub, like I always do—did. Then I whacked him on the side of thehead with one of those heavy Plexiglas bookends on the shelf behind hisdesk chair. You know:

the ones with the scales of justice on them that say, “Justice,Equality and Mercy.” I’d put on gloves so there’d be no fingerprints.He just sat slumped over in his chair after I hit him, quiet as a baby.Then I put the gun in his hand and brought it up to his right temple,and I was set to make him pull the trigger …”

“And Diana walked in.”

I see her shoulders sag.

“And Diana walked in and fouled everything up.” She swallows.

“She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happened in aflash—

1 didn’t even stop to think, I just aimed at her and shot. Andthen I went back and made Bob shoot himself.”

The bloody photos of the bodies flash before my eyes. I shake my headtrying to get rid of them. I can’t. She’s keyed up too,remembering.

“I was shaking all over,” she tells me.

“I couldn’t keep my hand under control. The gun was jiggling when

Ipressed his finger against the trigger. I wanted to get a cleanfingerprint on it, but I didn’t. I was too upset about Diana. I meantto press his finger on it again but I had to finish everything up—typethe E-mail message with my gloves on, wash the bookend to get rid ofany traces of blood—and I forgot about it.”

The smudged fingerprint—I have all the how now, except for all thekeyboard evidence that pointed toward Joel.

“What about the keyboard?” I ask.

“Was it Bob’s?”

“How do I know? I assumed it was. It must have been.”

“Then how did it get switched?”

She says she doesn’t know. But Art and Charles were certainly eager topin it on Joel, and even get him to confess before the case ever got totrial.

“Maybe Charles switched them or got someone else to do it,” shesuggests.

“You didn’t move it?”

“Swear to God, Mike.”

“Well, you almost pulled it off,” I say.

“If it hadn’t been for Joel…”

“Yes. If Joel hadn’t screwed it up, it would have gone down as amurder and a suicide. And that’s what I wanted: the suicide verdict onBob.” Then she says “Suicide” again, so emphatically that I’mstartled.

“That’s what mattered most.”

Well, sure, I think—that would have ended it then and there, unlike acharge of murder, which never closes until it’s solved. But so what?Doris was never under suspicion. It was Joel who was the unwittingvictim of that foul-up, but she was clean. Why is she so fixated onsuicide? I’m at a loss.

“Doris,” I say, “what difference does it make now? Sure, the officialcause of death is murder and that means they can reopen theinvestigation at any time, but I don’t think you’re in any danger. I’vetold you everything we’ve said here is privileged.”

“I know that.” She sounds impatient.

“You don’t understand. That’s not the reason the suicide verdict wasso important.”

I look at her blankly. Her eyes are on fire.

“Don’t you get it, Mike?” she asks.

“It’s the key-man policy. The suicide clause. I wanted Bobdead—Christ did I ever!—but I wanted the whole damn firm wiped outtoo. Just as dead as he

was. Stone-cold dead.”

I’m stunned. The venom in her voice is palpable. I don’t understandit. Sure, Bob treated her like shit for years. And there’s Jenny toprotect.

But killing two people because she hates him? Bringing down the firmbecause she hates him? It doesn’t make sense. All I can manage is abarely audible, “Why, Doris?”

“Because I hate them all—every last one of them. They’re all scum. Iknew they were in trouble. I wanted to be sure there was nothing tosave them. I didn’t want them to get the twenty million from the keyman policy. I hope they all go to the poorhouse and rot in hell.”

I keep trying to bring some semblance of reason to all of this. Ican’t. I tell her she may get her wish about the firm—after theverdict, Skipper said Art told him they were going to shut down becausethey’d lost too many partners—but there’s still a chance of theirgetting the insurance money.

“The official cause of death is still murder,” I remind her.

She holds up her hands.

“It isn’t a perfect world, Mike,” she says.

“They’ll be fighting about it with the insurance company until hellfreezes over, anyway.”

I give up.

“Doris,” I say, “I still don’t get it. Why do you hate them so? EvenBob—

Jesus, you put up with his shit for more than twenty years. Iknow he treated you like dirt, but murder? Even to protect Jenny’sshare of the trust, how could that justify killing him in coldblood?”

“Oh, Mike,” she says softly, as if she’s spent.

“It wasn’t the money. I couldn’t kill for money. You should knowthat. It’s Jenny.”

“Jenny?”

I see her take a deep breath.

“Bob was sleeping with her, Mike.”

Dear God. A married man more than twice her age preying on thedaughter of his secretary. Bob was an even fouler bastard than Ithought. But I still find myself thinking why the leap to murder?

“I begged him to stop.” She’s crying now.

“I begged him over and over, and he refused.” I can hardly hear herfor the sobs.

“Oh, Mike, I had to, don’t you see? He was Jenny’s father.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Did he know?” I ask softly.

“Of course he knew. From the very beginning. That’s why he left allthat money in the trust for her.”

“And Jenny?”

“No. I never told her. I didn’t think she had to know.” She’s tryingto pull herself together. She takes a deep breath.

“I asked him to stop and he wouldn’t. He was infatuated. He wouldn’teven acknowledge he was doing anything wrong. My God, I even went toArt Patton. He wouldn’t believe me. He said I was making it all up. Igot so furious I threatened him. I said I’d reveal things that wouldbring down the whole damn firm—and he he sneered at me, Mike, as if Iwas a piece of dirt.

He said he’d crush me.

She looks at me imploringly.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asks.

“What else could I do? What would you have done if it were Grace?”

Shetakes a deep breath.

“I did what I had to do, and I’d do it again. Twenty-two years ago Imade a mistake when I slept with Bob. He controlled my life. I wasn’tgoing to let him control Jenny’s. Destroy it. No way. So I didit.”

I realize Jenny was the new girlfriend that Bob talked about, the womanBeth’s investigator had seen at the Fairmont. I know why now, and Ifeel sick. We stare into the backyard and hear the joyous voices ofthe party behind us.

“You going to turn me in?” Doris asks.

Actually, I’m prepared to shred my state bar card right now and lose mylicense. But I won’t.

“Nope. You’re a client. I can’t do it.”

“Thanks, Mikey.”

Jesus Christ.

“What are you thinking about, Mike?” Rosie asks.

At eleven o’clock the same night, Rosie and I are sipping champagne onher back porch in Larkspur. Naomi gave us a bottle as we were leaving.I glance at the full moon.

“Nothing, Rosie.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes the legal system just sucks everythingout of

you.

And sometimes, it just sucks.”

She smiles at me.

“Don’t beat yourself up on this one. Your client is free. He didn’tdo it, and now he’s back home with his kids. What’s so bad aboutthat?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’ll probably get to fulfill my lifelong dream ofbeing the first lawyer to grace the cover of a Wheaties box.”

I get a chuckle.

“You’re upset, though.”

“It’s the way I’m drawn.”

“Why do you always do this to yourself? The system got the rightresult this time. That’s not so bad. Half the time it gets the wrongresult and puts the good guys away or sets the bad guys free. Thisisn’t like figure skating. You don’t get style points. Your clientended up in the right place. So for once in your life, take what youcan and enjoy it.”

“Okay, Rosie. But just for tonight. Tomorrow I get to go back and bemy usual guilt-ridden, tortured self.”

“It’s a deal.” She drinks her champagne.

“There’s more to all of this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

I remain silent.

“He didn’t do it, did he?”

“He didn’t do it. That’s all there is to it.”

She grins.

“It wasn’t a suicide, was it?”

“I’m not talking.”

“What’s it going to take to get it out of you?”

“I’m not talking.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“I know.”

“Let’s try this. I’d like you to become a full partner in the firm.”

“Sounds pretty good so far. I’ll have my people talk to your peopleand we can set up a meeting to discuss terms.” We can use thesettlement agreement from our divorce as the model form for ourpartnership agreement.

“Good. Oh, by the way, matrimony is out of the question in thesenegotiations.”

“Absolutely.”

“Now that we’re partners, everything you say to me is

completelyconfidential within the confines of our firm.”

“I like the sound of that. Our firm.”

“I thought you would. It’s what we should have done from the start.”

“I know.”

“Now, about your little secret.”

Well, you see, Rosie, my former secretary—the one I’ve been trying toget to come to work for me—murdered two people in cold blood and isgoing to get away with it—scot-free. She probably had a good reasonto kill Bob, but she killed Diana just because she was in the wrongplace at the wrong time.

But, hey, don’t worry—she hasn’t killedanybody else in the last four months and she promised me—pinkyswear—that she’d never do it again.

“It’s going to take more than a partnership to get it out of me.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She pours the rest of her champagne into my empty glass.

“If I didn’t know better,” I say, “I’d say you’re trying to get medrunk and take advantage of me.”

“You could say that.”

Her dark brown eyes reflect the moonlight. I remove the elastic bandthat holds her hair in a tight ponytail. I pull her close.

“Where’s Grace?” I whisper into her ear.

She kisses me softly on the mouth.

“Staying with her grandmother.” Her warm breath smells likechampagne.

“I see.” I smile.

“Well, a second ago you said that for tonight, I should just take whatI can and enjoy the moment.”

She shakes her hair.

“After all, you won your big case, but you didn’t get your trip toDisneyland.” She begins to unfasten the buttons on my shirt.

“I’ve got another trip in mind.”

“What do you suppose George Costanza would call it?”

“Victory sex?”

“Victory sex. I like that. It has a nice ring to it.”

THE END