Incriminating Evidence (11 page)

We finish our pastries and head out the door. Under the beat-up sign that reads “La Victoria Abardotes y Reposteria,” Rosie takes Clemente’s hand. “I’ll call you, Ernie,” she says.

“I’d like that,” he replies.

Rosie’s brother, Tony, always reminds me of Sylvester Stallone. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s a lot blunter about Johnny Garcia than Ernie. “He was trouble,” he says. “It’s a wonder he didn’t die a couple of years ago.” It’s later the same afternoon and Tony is sweeping the floor of his overflowing produce market. He lives in an apartment around the corner and he’s worked by himself since his last employee quit a year ago. He hasn’t taken a vacation in five years.

“What kind of trouble?” I ask.

“You name it,” he says. “Booze. Pills. Dope. He got in with the wrong crowd.”

“Did the business owners know anything about him?” Rosie asks. “Did you find out where he lived?”

Tony holds up his hands. “Somewhere over near the projects,” he says. “A guy I know is looking into it.”

“Does your guy have a name?” I ask.

“Like I told you,” he says, “a guy is looking into it.”

It is not uncommon in this part of town for the businesses to pay some protection money to the local gangs. Tony undoubtedly participates in the program; he wouldn’t have a choice. He runs a cash operation. He’s never been robbed. “My source promised to get back to me in the next few days,” he says.

—————

Rosie and I are driving toward the office. “I wonder who paid for the funeral,” she says.

“Ramon probably figured out a way,” I say. “He’s resourceful and he probably has some discretionary funds tucked away for situations like this.” I shrug and add “Maybe he found somebody to make a donation.”

“Maybe.” She reflects for a moment and says, “Did you ever preside at a funeral where there was such a small crowd?”

“Many times.”

“What was it like seeing an empty church in front of you? Could you imagine being so alone in the world that nobody came to your funeral?”

I remember presiding over dozens of funerals where nobody showed up. It made me profoundly sad. “There are a lot of very lonely people out there, Rosie.”

“Yes, there are.” She swallows and asks, “What do you think about Johnny Garcia?”

“Makes you want to cry.”

8
FAST EDDIE

“We’re lawyers. We sell bullshit. Trial work is ninety percent theater.”

—E
DWARD
M
OLINARI
,
CONTINUING LEGAL EDUCATION SEMINAR
.

Fast Eddie Molinari is all smiles when I arrive at his office in a flat on the second floor of a renovated two-story building overlooking Washington Square later that afternoon. The place looks like an Italian villa and smells of North Beach Pizza, which is just down the street. Instead of traditional artwork, the walls are adorned with enlarged newspaper clippings about Fast Eddie’s legal conquests. Right above his antique rolltop desk is a blown-up headline that reads “Molinari Wins Stay of Execution—Client Avoids Death Penalty.” Fast Eddie has a nose for publicity.

I can’t think of a better way to end my week. I get to spend some quality time with the man whose grandstanding and sloppiness resulted in the execution of one of my clients. “Nice to see you again, Mike,” he lies.

I take a seat and admire the view of St. Peter and Paul across the park. The hardwood floors are a nice touch. A state-of-the-art laptop sits like a trophy on the corner of his cluttered desk next to a fashionable humidor. Not surprisingly, there are no pictures of a spouse or children. Fast Eddie
plays pretty loose with women. He’s been married five times. His divorces always make the gossip column in the
Chronicle
.

Molinari got the moniker Fast Eddie because he once pulled a gun on a former client who came to his office with a baseball bat and threatened to kill him. He’s a short, wiry man who can’t sit still. His most distinctive features are the wild eyebrows that sit above his beady eyes. In his spare time, he’s an amateur boxer. The combative element of his personality seems to extend to all aspects of his life. He may not be likable, but if you’re looking for a lawyer with unlimited capacity for war, he’s your guy. Today, the avuncular Ed greets me. This means he wants something. If he doesn’t get what he wants, the pit bull will appear.

I shake his thin hand. He smiles and says, “Looks like we’re going to have a chance to work together again.”

Yeah. Just like old times.

He opens his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Look, Mike,” he says, “I know we’ve had some hard feelings in the past.”

Tell me about it. It wasn’t only the day he announced on Channel 4 that our client had been executed because I wasn’t adequately prepared for trial. There was also the time he told the judge in open court that the San Francisco public defender’s office was a cesspool of corruption. That didn’t do much for morale around the PD’s office. “Are you still seeing Jill?” I ask. Ed was going out with the ex-wife of one of my former partners from Simpson and Gates a few years ago.

“It didn’t work out,” he says.

No big surprise. He talks about business for a few minutes. He tells me he’s just handled a matter for a man who was exposed to asbestos forty years ago. As always, Fast Eddie is the hero of his own story. “The defendant settled for five million bucks,” he boasts. “My client’s estate is going to get a nice piece of change.”

So are you. Fast Eddie will collect one third of the money as his fee. Too bad his client died seven years ago and won’t have a chance to enjoy his newfound wealth.

“Mike,” he says, “I hope we can put our differences behind us and handle Skipper’s case in a professional manner.” Grandpa Ed is here to make everything all better.

“Of course,” I reply.

The lizard grin broadens. “That’s just what I was hoping you would say.” He slides into the ergonomically correct leather chair that looks as though it was borrowed from the space shuttle. It doesn’t jibe with the rolltop desk. He offers me coffee and buzzes his secretary. It’s a warm day. You would think he would be more comfortable if he took off his jacket. No chance. His navy suit seems to be surgically attached to his body.

A moment later, his secretary appears with two small bone-china coffee cups. She looks as if she were taken intact from a feature article in
Cosmo
. I take a drink of the scalding espresso. It’s tastier than the Maxwell House we pour over at Fernandez and Daley. Ed takes out a gold fountain pen, removes the cap and pulls a white pad of paper out of the top drawer of his desk. He’s all set to go. “What have you found out so far?” he asks.

“Not much more than you’ve read in the papers.”

He leans back in his chair, takes off his glasses and says, “Skipper wants me to take a significant role in the case. He wants my input on strategy and all major decisions.” He replaces the cap on his pen. “If it goes to trial, you’ll sit first chair and try the case. I’ll be Keenan counsel.”

In California, death penalty cases are divided into two parts. First there is a determination of guilt or innocence. If the defendant is found guilty, the trial proceeds to the penalty phase. The penalty phase attorney, known as Keenan counsel, is almost always different from the trial attorney. It’s good to show the jury a fresh face, and the penalty phase
attorney often argues that the trial attorney was incompetent. If the same lawyer handles both parts of the case, the lawyer might have to argue that he or she screwed up.

“I want to address one other issue,” I say. “The only way I’m going to represent Skipper is if I have full authority to make all final decisions on strategy. I have told him this. Is that clear?”

“I was thinking we’d make it more of a partnership.”

“Not good enough. I get to make the final calls on strategy or I’m walking.”

“Let me talk to Skipper about it,” he replies.

“There is nothing to discuss. I make the final calls on strategy or I’m out.”

He pauses for just a moment and says, “I understand.”

I decide to change the subject. “How well do you know him?” I ask.

“We see each other socially. We’re both members of the P.U. Club and the Calamari Club.” The Pacific Union Club is housed in the old Flood mansion across the street from the Fairmont. It takes decades to get in unless you’re well connected. People from my old neighborhood don’t get in at all. The old-moneyed gentry of San Francisco gather there to play dominoes. The Calamari Club is even more exclusive. It’s a group of about two dozen politicians, labor leaders, businesspeople and lawyers who meet for lunch at a restaurant at the Wharf every Friday and decide who’s who and what’s what. Its existence isn’t exactly a secret, but it certainly isn’t well publicized. You can buy your way into the P.U. Club, but you have to wait for somebody to die before you can get a seat at the table at the Calamari Club. Fast Eddie may be a hothead and his ancestors may have been of modest means, but the fact that he has been able to gain entrance into the P.U. Club and the Calamari Club is conclusive evidence that he’s a player. He reflects for a moment and then adds, “You could describe us as friends.”

Not an especially enthusiastic response. “Do you believe his story?” I ask. Might as well see where he’s coming from.

He pulls a long Cuban cigar from the humidor. “I think so,” he says.

“But?”

“You never know with Skipper.”

I give him a puzzled look. “How does a dead male prostitute fit in?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.”

“Ed,” I say, “Skipper is straight, isn’t he?”

“As far as I know,” he answers. I’m inclined to think he’s right.

“We need to talk,” I tell Skipper. I’ve come by myself. It’s time to clear the air.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

“The composition of the defense team.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re in charge. Ed is Keenan counsel. That’s it.”

“Ed has other ideas.”

“He’s mistaken.”

“I want you to make that very clear to him.”

“I will.”

Good. “There’s another issue I want to discuss.”

“What else?”

“Your daughter.”

He sighs. “You certainly play your cards faceup, don’t you?”

“It’s the way I’m wired.”

He asks me what I want to talk about.

“I am having issues with Ann.”

“What sorts of issues?”

She’s bitchy. “She’s hostile. She second-guesses everything I do. I don’t understand her agenda.”

“She’s concerned,” he says. “And she’s entitled to her opinions.”

“Which she is more than willing to express.”

“She’s opinionated. She’s very independent. I can’t help that. That’s the way
she’s
wired.”

“I understand,” I say, “but we’re all on the same side in this case. I’m worried that she may say something to the press that will come back to bite us.”

His response surprises me. “Frankly, so am I.” He reflects and adds, “She simply hasn’t been the same since her divorce. She’s become very unpredictable.”

I’ll say. “Skipper, this stays in this room. Maybe it would help if you’d tell me what happened.”

He holds up his palms. “She was married to Richard Stanford, Turner’s nephew. The marriage lasted only a couple of years. It seemed like a great idea at the time. He’s from a good family and he had a job as an investment banker.” He sighs. “It all came apart in a hurry. They were very young. We encouraged them to have counseling, but it didn’t work. Ann blamed Natalie for pushing her into marrying Richard. And she blamed me, of course. She became terribly strident. She said she’d never let us interfere with her personal life again.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Mike,” he says, “she’s my only daughter. I know she can be difficult, but this is a very hard time for her. My current situation hasn’t helped. I hope you’ll take her as she is and help us deal with everything.”

“I can deal with almost anything, and I’ll do the best I can,” I say, “but I don’t want her to do something that might interfere with our defense.”

“I’ll talk to her,” he promises.

Rosie and I are sitting on the sofa in her living room. The TV is tuned to the late news, but the sound is turned down. I
brief her about my meeting with Skipper. She’s worried about Ann, too, but is pleased that I was firm about being the one in charge. “Molinari’s an asshole,” she says, “but he’s smart and at least we know where he’s coming from. I try not to worry about things I can’t control.”

I grin and ask, “Do you still worry about me?”

“All the time.”

“I thought you said you don’t worry about things you
can’t
control.”

Her eyes gleam. “Oh, I can control you when I want to.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’re a man.”

“So?”

“Men can be controlled. Not all the time, of course, but most of the time. You can control a man when he’s hard up. In my experience, most men are hard up about ninety percent of the time. In your case, the percentage is a little higher.”

“You still want to do this case?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “We’re only a week into it and we’ve already got a client we can’t stand and a co-counsel we detest. Sounds pretty good so far. Besides, you’re going to need me.”

That’s true. I look at the TV and see Skipper’s picture. I turn up the volume. “There has been a startling new development in the case of District Attorney Prentice Marshall Gates the Third,” the anchor tells us. They replay footage of Skipper being led into the Hall. They show me proclaiming his innocence. Leslie Sherman gives a brief statement that the criminal justice system must take its course. A few days ago, she was fifteen points down in the polls. Today, they’re dead even. Elaine McBride recites the party line that the police have important, compelling evidence tying Skipper to the crime. She says she’ll have no further comment.