Incriminating Evidence (46 page)

“No sir. I don’t know anything about a pornographic Web site. I had no idea the domain name was registered in the name of that entity.”

“Was anybody other than Mr. Holton involved?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“What can you tell us about Mr. Holton?”

“He’s dead.”

“What else?”

“Not much. I didn’t know him well. He used to work at a restaurant on Sixteenth Street called the Pancho Villa. He and the victim lived at the Jerry Hotel across the street.”

“Are you aware that he was a drug dealer?”

“That’s what I understand.”

“And are you aware that he was a pimp?”

“So I’m told.”

“And are you aware that Johnny Garcia, the individual for whom you were a social worker, was a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“And you must have been aware that Mr. Garcia was working for Mr. Holton.”

“I am aware of that now. I thought they were just roommates. I had no idea they had a business relationship.”

Bullshit. “It seems to me that you didn’t keep a very close eye on Johnny Garcia.”

“Objection,” Payne says. “Is there a question there?”

“Sustained.”

Let’s take this in another direction. “Mr. Anderson,” I say, “I understand that Johnny Garcia called you the night he died. Twice, in fact.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you’ve told the police that Mr. Garcia left messages for you that he needed help.”

“Yes. I didn’t get the messages until the following morning.”

“Right. And he wanted you to go over to the Fairmont to help him, right?”

He looks appropriately contrite. “Yes. If I had gotten the message a little earlier, I might have been able to help him.”

Sure. “Mr. Anderson,” I say, “who was Mr. Garcia working for that night?”

“Mr. Gates.”

“No. I’m not asking who procured his services. I want to know the name of his pimp.”

Anderson looks toward the judge for help. She instructs him to answer the question. He says, “I believe he was working for Andy Holton that night.”

I feign incredulity. “The same Andy Holton who started the Boys of the Bay Area Web site?”

“Yes.”

“The same Andy Holton who was found dead a few weeks later at the Hotel Royan on Valencia Street?”

“Yes.”

“Yet it is your testimony that neither you nor Mr. Holton had anything to do with Mr. Garcia’s death.”

“That’s correct.”

One more connection. I cue the video player and run a portion of the security videos from the Fairmont. I turn to Anderson and ask, “Do you recognize the person in that video?”

“Yes. It looks like Andy Holton.”

“It is. And would it surprise you to find out that he returned to the Fairmont the night Johnny Garcia died?”

He pauses. “I was told that was the case.”

“Did you talk to Andy Holton that night?”

“No.”

“Did he try to contact you?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea why he may have gone to the Fairmont that night?”

“No.”

“Is it possible that he may have gone there to pick up Johnny Garcia?”

“It’s possible.”

“And isn’t it a fact that you told the police that Mr. Garcia and Mr. Holton were fighting shortly before Mr. Garcia died?”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Garcia’s death.”

“How do you know? What were they fighting about?”

He remains calm. “The usual stuff, Mr. Daley. The rent. The bills. They were roommates. They also had a business relationship. They didn’t get along very well.”

“Mr. Anderson,” I say, “explain this to me. We have a corporation set up by Mr. Stanford at the instruction of you and Mr. Martinez. Out of the goodness of your heart, you gave the corporation to a known prostitute and pimp named Andrew Holton, who ran a pornographic Web site and prostitution service out of a room at the Curtis, which, coincidentally, was owned by the nonprofit corporation controlled by Mr. Martinez. Mr. Holton’s roommate turned out to be a male prostitute who was found dead in my client’s hotel room. Coincidentally, both Mr. Stanford and Mr. Holton were at the Fairmont right around the very same time that Mr. Garcia died. In fact, you were there that night, too. You
have also told us that Mr. Holton and Mr. Garcia were fighting. To top it off, you claim that neither you nor Mr. Martinez nor Mr. Stanford is in any way involved in any of this. Is that about the gist of it?”

“Objection. Mr. Daley is starting his closing argument a little early.”

“Is there a question there, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes there is, Your Honor. My question is this: How are Mr. Anderson, Mr. Stanford, Mr. Martinez and Mr. Holton connected to the Boys of the Bay Area Web site and Johnny Garcia?”

The judge says, “I’ll allow the witness to answer.”

Anderson sums it all up by saying, “Mr. Martinez, Mr. Stanford and I were involved only to the extent that we arranged to have incorporation papers filed with the secretary of state for the entity that owned the domain name. We had nothing to do with its operation and we certainly had nothing to do with the events that took place at the Fairmont Hotel in the early morning of September seventh.”

I give him an incredulous look and he adds, “I know how it must look, Mr. Daley.”

“So does everybody in this courtroom, Mr. Anderson.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

He’s given a forceful denial. Payne has no reason to cross-examine him.

“How is Natalie?” I ask Rosie, who is still at Natalie’s house. I’ve called her from my cell phone from the corridor in the Hall.

“Not well. She must be in dreadful pain. She’s withdrawn. She won’t talk to me. One of the servants told me she hasn’t slept in weeks.”

“Is Ann with her?”

“Yes, but she won’t talk to Ann, either. Her doctor is here. He’s prescribing sleeping pills.”

Damn.

She asks me how things went at court.

I tell her about El Camino Holdings and say, “I think I was able to show that Turner, Martinez and Anderson were all connected to the Boys of the Bay Area Web site.”

She pauses to consider for a moment. “That’s great, except all it shows is that they were involved in the porn business,” she says. “It doesn’t prove that any of them killed Garcia.”

“I was also able to connect them all to Holton and Garcia. But you’re right. Let’s face it: There’s no smoking gun. We know Turner and Holton were there that night, but we have nothing solid that can let us blame Garcia’s death on either of them. All we can do is hope the jury gets to reasonable doubt.”

She sighs. “We’re supposed to wrap up the case tomorrow. What now?”

“Time for one more trip down to the Mission,” I say. I ask her to meet me there.

“What do you propose to do down there?”

“Hold a summit conference.”

45
“DO WHAT YOUR HEART TELLS YOU IS RIGHT”

“Gates defense team attempts to discredit respected Mission businessman.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. W
EDNESDAY
, O
CTOBER
27.

The defense team regroups at eight o’clock that night in the corner of the squad room at Mission Station. Ron Morales is sitting on his desk, a grim look on his face. Pete, Rosie, Molinari and I huddle around him. A moment later, Tony walks in with Hector Ramirez.

“You wanted to see me?” Hector asks.

“We need your help,” I say.

He eyes me warily. “Why me?”

“You’re our only contact who knows anything about Martinez’s operation. We were hoping you might be able to give us some additional information.” And we’re desperate.

He scowls. “What do you want to know?”

“We think Donald Martinez, Turner Stanford and Kevin Anderson are all somehow involved in the business that operates the Boys of the Bay Area Web site, which has been run out of the Curtis Hotel. We can’t figure out how the pieces fit together.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing,” Rosie says. “Maybe you’ve told us everything you know. Maybe this is all just a dead end. But you’re the only person who might be able to help us connect the dots. Is there anything you haven’t told us about Donald Martinez?”

Hector glances at Tony and asks me, “What sort of things?”

“His involvement with the Boys of the Bay Area Web site and Andy Holton,” I reply. “Anything unusual or suspicious in his activities. Do you know anything?”

“I can’t help you,” he says.

“Let me ask you this,” Rosie says. “Is there stuff that you know that you can’t tell us? Maybe you can at least point us in the right direction.”

I’ve seen Rosie use this line before. It works.

“There are some things I haven’t told you,” he says. “Things that I
can’t
tell you.”

“Hector,” Tony says, “what you tell us tonight won’t leave this room. I promise.” He looks at me and then at Rosie.

“I can do even better than that,” Rosie says. “As of this moment, you are now a client of Fernandez and Daley’s. Everything you say to us is confidential.” She gestures toward Tony, Pete and Morales and adds, “You guys aren’t here.” It’s a slightly strained interpretation of the attorney-client privilege rules, but it will have to do in the circumstances.

Hector turns to Tony and asks, “Why are you so interested in helping out Skipper Gates?”

Tony says, “I’m not. I’m interested in helping out Rosie. And I’m interested in finding out what happened to Johnny Garcia.” He thinks for a moment and then adds, “Though in all honesty, I wouldn’t mind nailing Donald Martinez’s ass to the wall for sending that goon to my store.”

Hector scowls. “I can’t do it,” he says. “I have a wife and kids. I’ve already lost my job.”

Tony looks at him and says, “I’m going to fix that right now. I need help at the market. Effective immediately, you’re working for me—full-time.”

Hector ponders and says, “It isn’t that I’m ungrateful, but next time they could beat me up like they did you—or worse.”

Morales says, “There won’t be a next time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“We will protect you and your family. Guaranteed.”

“There are no guarantees. If you’re wrong, I’ll end up dead.”

Morales raises his index finger and says in a tone that leaves no doubt, “That will not happen.”

“Ron,” I say, “Hector needs more than a promise. He needs assurances.”

“That’s right,” Hector says. “Assurances.”

“What kind?” Morales asks.

Rosie says, “Guaranteed, full-time, round-the-clock protection from the SFPD. We need a police car sitting in front of his house—twenty-four hours a day—at least until this blows over.”

“You know we don’t have the resources,” Morales says.

“Then find them,” Rosie replies.

Morales drums his fingers on his desk. “I haven’t even heard his testimony yet—it better be awfully good.”

Hector stares him down and says emphatically, “Oh, it’s good.”

Morales’s eyes open wide. “How good?” he asks.

“Real good.”

Morales is now fully engaged. “Like what?”

“I’ve delivered envelopes containing large amounts of cash from Room 204 at the Curtis Hotel to various destinations in the neighborhood.” Hector looks at Morales as if to say “Is that good enough for you?”

“I’ll need to know the details,” Morales says.

I interject, “We’ll have to work out arrangements for Hector first.”

Morales is irritated. “What arrangements?” he asks.

“We need to find him a decent apartment in the neighborhood for his wife and kids. He can’t stay in the projects.”

Morales throws up his hands. “Be reasonable,” he says. “We’re cops—we’re not in the housing business. You know I can’t promise him a new apartment.”

I say, “Call Ernie Clemente. Call Ramon Aguirre. They know everybody in the neighborhood. They have connections. They can find a new place for him.”

Rosie adds, “And we’ll need complete immunity for Hector. I don’t want you guys to arrest him for a traffic ticket after he testifies.”

I add the final touch. “We want all of this in writing tonight.”

Morales swallows. “Why tonight?”

“Because we’re supposed to finish up our case in the morning. We need Hector to testify.”

Hector’s eyes dart in my direction. He’s afraid.

Morales is exasperated. This is more than he had bargained for. “We’re the SFPD, not the CIA, for God’s sake. Do you think this is the federal witness protection program? These things take time. I don’t have the authority to do this on my own.”

I hand him my cell phone. “Then find somebody who does. This may be the best chance you’ll ever have to get Donald Martinez. You can start by calling your captain and Elaine McBride and Roosevelt Johnson. And call Hillary Payne and tell her she’s more than welcome to come down here and join us.”

And then Hector finally talks.

—————

Ten o’clock. The crowd now includes Payne, McNulty, the captain at Mission Station, an assistant chief, McBride and Johnson. If we pooled the resources of everybody present, we could bring down a small third-world country.

Payne stands with her arms folded. “This had better be good,” she says.

“It is,” I promise.

“Then, what
is
it?”

I glance at Hector, who is sitting in Morales’s chair. I introduce him and explain that he used to work for Martinez until he was unceremoniously fired. “Mr. Ramirez,” I say, “is prepared to testify that he was called upon three times a week to deliver thick manila envelopes from Room 204 of the Curtis Hotel to various places.”

“So?”

“The envelopes contained large amounts of cash.”

Payne is intrigued. “How much cash?” she asks.