Telegraph Hill (15 page)

“Antonio, enough gun talk. We’ve had enough guns
discharged at us already.”

“Sorry. What the hell happened to you today?”

“It’s a long story.” Ray recounted the fire fight
in the woods.

“Unreal,” said Antonio. “You can stay here a
while.” He turned to Tania. “So how do you feel being with a famous detective?”

“Watch it,” Ray said. “I’ll slap you six miles
south of stupid.”

“You can’t move granite, baby.”

Ray and Antonio bantered while Tania sat and read
a magazine, taking in the carom shots. Ray thought Tania was finally beginning
to relax a little; Antonio’s attentive energy seemed to boost her spirits. At
least as far as it went. He hadn’t discussed it with her, but he was concerned
about the firepower they would face—these were people who, after all, had shown
a belief that resolution flowed from muzzle of a gun.

“Antonio, Tania and I need to talk a bit in private.
Can we sit outside on the back patio?”

He laughed. “Sure, just toss me out of my own
home. I’m heading out anyway. I’ll be back later. Make yourself at home.”
Antonio walked into another room, where they heard him rummaging in a closet.

Tania was hungry, but exhaustion was braying
louder. She slumped into a rocking chair and closed her eyes.

“Ray, before we talk, I need to lay down and
rest.”

“OK.”

He walked her to one of the rear bedrooms. The
shades were drawn and the room was dark and cool.

“This is a guest room. You’ll be fine here.”

Tania lay down on the bed without a word.

Chapter 25

Ray picked up the phone and called a back line at
the Berkeley offices of the Southern Law Project. A familiar voice answered,
his old roommate Kevin Burgess. They made arrangements to meet later that
afternoon at the Embarcadero Cafe.

Seabirds whirled overhead. They ordered coffee and
watched the massive freighters ease their way toward the Oakland waterfront.

“Anything new with the Bobby Cherry investigation?”

“Nothing new, Ray.” Kevin squinted behind his
glasses. He wore one of his dozen navy blue suits, an item that seemed to
reproduce in the darkness of his closet.

Kevin began to recount the details in a staccato
delivery. “We check on him every few weeks. Still lives in Oakland. Holding a
job. Not that active as far as we can tell. Tries to get some recruiting
activity going along the Oakland waterfront, which as you know is the main port
in the area. No one’s buying what he’s selling. Mostly black workers there
anyway. He passes leaflets to the white guys and talks to them about the coming
race war. He’s a dipshit— they usually chase him home.”

“Any sight of Cherry with other members?”

“No, but—”

“I still think that he’s tied in,” Ray interrupted.
“More than we think.” He was disappointed that the Center had not developed
more information. Cherry had been seen in the area before the bombing and was
questioned by police. But everything had stalled since the initial frenzy of
work.

Ray knew that Kevin was doing everything he could
on the Cherry case. He had busted his brain studying, one of the
hardest-working students Ray had known. After graduating from law school, he
began working for a pitiful salary at the Southern Law Project. Over the next few
years, he developed the legal stratagem that led to a massive civil judgment
against a local Aryan Knights group, effectively bankrupting the organization.
An appreciative local attorney nicknamed him ‘Ka-ching Kevin’ – no attorney had
ever been as successful at flipping the coat pockets of the Aryan Knights.

Kevin sat quietly, sipping his coffee. “We’re
doing all we can with limited resources, Ray.”

“I know,” Ray said. He took a deep breath.

The two men sat in the sun. A group of tourists
were pointing at a group of California sea lions that were baking their hides
on a wooden dock. Two guys tossed rocks near the dock.

“How often do you get him under surveillance?”

“At this point, we just get reports on him from
local sources. He’s a known commodity. You know our resources— it’s all
volunteers. We get students for a few months during the school year, but it’s
tough to keep real good tabs on a guy for a few months. There’s so many nuts in
California. More and more each year.”

The law center devoted considerable resources to
tracking and monitoring hate groups across the United States. It compiled data
on recent activities, recruitment drives, planned rallies, and publications.
Despite the region’s liberal reputation, hate groups operated aggressively in
Northern California.

“I know you are doing what you can.” Ray struggled
to mute the frustration in his voice.

One of the rock-tossing guys banged a boulder off
the dock and into a sea lion. The animal let out a roar. The guy put his hand
to his mouth, muffling laughter.

“Is SFPD being helpful?”

“Sort of. They’re not about to let this case drop
to cold case status at the back of some file cabinet,” said Kevin. “It’s still
high profile. We re-interviewed every resident on the street, but no one
remembered seeing a package delivered.”

Ray took a sip of coffee and watched as another
rock went sailing into the sea lions. Someone yelled at the guy; he gestured
and swore back.

“What about the elderly Chinese woman, Mrs. Chin?”

“She still recalls seeing a young white guy with
dark hair walking or running up Telegraph Hill just before the explosion. She
never saw a face or noted his clothing. She says he disappeared around the
corner of an apartment building near Greenwich and Powell streets. We showed
her pictures of Cherry, but she couldn’t ID him.”

The sparse description was more maddening than
helpful. But Ray hung a lifetime of hope on the Chinese woman’s brief, useless
recollection. He pictured the event in his mind, watched the fleeing figure,
trying to formulate a face. For Ray, the definitive piece of evidence was not
something he needed. As his rage cooled, he knew that the case against the
Aryan Knights would rest on Bobby Cherry’s shoulders. The case would come
together bit by bit, piece by piece, until the sheer mass of the thing, its hot
black heart, burst its shell and illuminated the face of the bomber.

“How did the research down South go?” he asked.

“Good. Did some interviews in Alabama. Cherry had
a home life that could only be called a toxic mess. Alcoholic parents and
rumors of sexual abuse. There was some sort of family court involvement early
on involving a sister. Records were sealed. The sister was removed from the
house. Father was charged with rape but the case never went to trial.

“Some of the neighbors we talked to said that
Bobby was a nasty little motherfucker as a kid. Lots of fighting, tossed out of
school repeatedly, that sort of thing. He also had a habit of torturing
animals. No cat was safe from Bobby. He was an active Aryan Knights soldier
from his early twenties. He had no prospects there, so he drove his light blue
pickup truck to live with a friend in California. That’s pretty much the last
anyone there has heard of him,” said Kevin.

“The boy’s chemistry sounds flawed.”

“Ray, I know you think this guy is involved. If we
learn anything else, you’re the first to get a call.”

“I know that. I just want to stay on him.”

“I know this has special meaning to you.” said
Kevin.

Ray paused for a moment. “I am taking up some of
the work while I am here. Time permitting.”

“Of course,” said Kevin, looking at his friend.

Kevin leaned over and pulled out a folder. “I put
this together for you. All of our work over the past few years.” He handed the
file to Ray.

“Thanks.” Ray opened to the one-inch thick stack
of documents neatly clasped inside. He examined the photographs that one of the
Law Center investigators had taken during a surveillance last year. Cherry was
short and stooped, as if he was constantly warding off a blow from an unseen
hand. His black eyes and short dark hair set off noticeably from his pale skin,
giving him an intense, almost evangelical look. Ray focused on the eyes. They
were phenomenal; they loomed from Cherry’s head like separate beings, bulging
with unseen pressures. Ray let the image of Cherry’s face, his eyes, seep into
his brain.

They talked for a while and finished their
coffees.

“Let me know if you need anything,” said Kevin.
“Office space, whatever.”

Ray shook his hand and they said good-bye. He felt
tense. He walked toward Fisherman’s Wharf, where he had parked the car. He
stopped to use a public restroom. Inside he saw one of the men who had pelted
the sea lions with rocks. The guy tottered a bit on his way to a urinal. He
wore a Steelers jacket and baseball cap with the number 0. Without looking at
him, Ray went to the sink to wash up. He could smell rock-gut vodka fumes
wafting from the guy.

The drunk looked over at Ray. “Hey bro. This a
great city or what?”

“Sure is. So why were you tossing rocks at the
wildlife?”

The guy paused and then laughed. “Fuck 'em. Why do
you care about some stupid animal like that? That a western thing?”

“No, it’s just a human thing. Probably too much
for a shitbag like you to comprehend.”

The big guy got real quiet. “Well, what you gonna
do about it, friend?” he slurred.

Ray ignored him. Always a massive breach of
etiquette to speak to another guy in the men’s room. Nothing ever came of it.
He knew better.

“Hey man, I'm talking to you.”

Ray looked at the guy. He was in no hurry. He felt
a barely controlled rage flowing through his body. Cherry, the sea lions—all of
it hot sap powering his muscles. Some wrath down in his bones needed to be
worked off. But there was no need to start anything. The guy was just drunk.

“Fuckin'A, buddy—” the drunk reached out and
grabbed Ray’s shirt. The guy was big and strong but Ray could see his belly
flopped over his belt. The guy had another characteristic often paired with
physical heft: he was very slow. Ray slipped the guy's grasp. Then he pivoted
on his left foot as he had been trained, as he had done ten thousand times
before, swinging his right leg and turning it into a scythe. The knobby bone of
his instep thudded into the meat of the guy's thigh. The guy went down like he’d
been poleaxed. He cried out in pain and writhed on the tile.

Standing over him, Ray still felt irritated. He
unzipped his fly and pissed all over the guy, soaked his chest and head. The
guy stared at him with a look of befuddled pain.

“Jesus, my fucking leg!” The drunk held his
quadriceps, moaning. He looked damp. “You fuckin’ pissed on me!” His voice was
high. “What the hell!”

Ray zipped up and adjusted his pants. “Just
marking my turf. It’s a western thing.” Then he left the guy on the bathroom
floor and walked outside.

Chapter 26

Ray walked his anger off with a long slow stroll
to the house on Telegraph Hill. He took a seat in the kitchen and read the
newspaper. The front page was devoted to another anthrax scare. A packet with
white powder and a threatening note was sent to a clinic in Brookline,
Massachusetts. The white powder had turned out to be flour. The sender handled
the envelope so many times that fingerprints were lifted and matched to an
out-of work pharmaceutical salesman on Cape Cod. For every criminal mastermind,
there were ten cretins: the cruel algebra of intelligence applied across the
masses.

He thought again of the carnage in Marin and
called Hulme for an update. After the shooting, the Asians had cleaned up
quickly. There were no bodies left for the cops to tag. But the Ashtanga staff
was terrified. The police were still hot for him to call. Ray promised to get
back to them.

The Asians were smart: no bodies, no evidence. But
on that hill, he had run over one man and shot another at close range. Although
he couldn’t be sure, the possibility of both men surviving was slim. But it
felt easier to deal with anonymous bodies. He hoped he never learned the names
of those two men.

Ray spent over an hour on the phone with a cop
from Marin. They wanted to interview him and Tania in person at the station. He
told them they were in hiding, and Tania was unsure about making a statement.
The cop, a young guy, was not happy with that decision. Ray told him that they
were the victims but didn’t want to press charges. The cop yelled a bit and Ray
ended the call. He got up, knocked gently on Tania’s door. She told him to come
in, and she sat up abruptly.

“How are you feeling?” he asked

“OK.” She rubbed her eyes. “What do we do now?”

“Police want you to come in for an interview.”

“No way.”

“That’s what I said.”

“They can’t protect me.”

“Probably not. But neither can I. You should think
it over.”

She said nothing. He sat down on the thick cotton
blanket covering the bed.

“I talked to Lucas, the attorney. He wants to
meet, if you’re agreeable. I didn't set a time yet.”

Ray walked into the kitchen while Tania got ready.
They were starving. Antonio came back with some Thai food: shrimp with a chili
sauce and chicken with yellow curry. “I’m warning you,” he said, “I like my
food spicy. It clears your head.” They ate and drank while Ray filled in
Antonio on the day’s events. He watched Tania for signs of stress, but she
seemed rejuvenated. As did he. Ray decided that they would to stay at Antonio’s
that night. No need to be on the streets.

Something was nagging him about Lucas. He decided
that he would review a certain item, a small matter, the next morning. He had
long ago learned that intuition was a king who did not tolerate disobedience.

Later that night, he lay in bed in the front
bedroom. He dozed off listening to faint strains of an electric guitar coming
from the Saloon. He dreamt of his old home, the basketball court and the
glittering green grass in the fenced yard. A gurgling sound. The yard flooded
with a milky-blue liquid. Something moved beneath the turgid azure, a bubbling.
A fin slit the surface. He slipped beneath the ghostly murk, struggling to find
his footing. The black fin jerked toward him as he slipped up to his neck,
deeper and deeper into the wetness. Above the fence, a leering face appeared, a
man watching. He could not make it out. Then some unseen thing hammered his
legs.

He woke and got out of bed. Red digits on the
clock read 7:21 AM. He went to the bathroom and took a long hot shower. Then he
put on a pair of jeans, a blue shirt, and combed his hair. He left a note on
the table and headed out to the cool dawn.

Pelicans dove through the cold waters of the San
Francisco Bay. The scentless salt air of the bay gusted over the hills. He
walked down Telegraph Hill, headed up Powell, and right on Jackson. He turned
left onto Polk Street. He passed two cafes that battled for customers by
perching enormous cinnamon rolls in the window. He evaluated the offerings of
both cafes, entered the cleaner of the two. He bought a cinnamon roll, and sat
down in a seat by the window. Watching shards of glaze fall to his plate. The
sugar kick-started him. Two fine young things entered the cafe, fresh from an
all-night club, platform shoes, toes exposed, midriff bare. Hooker chic. After
fifteen minutes, he headed south on Polk Street to the library.

The most frequent visitors to the library stood
waiting by the enormous doors: college students facing semester-breaking
possibilities, a couple of seventy-year old bibliophiles, a homeless man
waiting to warm up in the magazine section. Ray was a little envious of the
homeless guy’s grubby lassitude—he could spend hours reading peacefully. Ray
took his place in line. The wooden Italianate doors rumbled open and a small
waifish woman stepped out over the threshold. She gave a halfhearted good
morning.

Ray secured a spot at a terminal, and surfed to
the home page of the Massachusetts Board of Bar Overseers. In the search
section he entered “Michaels, Lucas” and the results came back: Lucas B.
Michaels, member since 1958. Law School: U.C. Berkeley. Undergraduate: Boston
College.

He then walked over to the reference section,
where the scent of rarely opened books permeated the air. He looked through several
lawyer guides, but most volumes only went back to the 1980s. Older volumes were
on microfiche.

After reviewing several pages of microfiche, he
found the listing for San Francisco circa 1958: Lucas had been employed at the
Law Office of Richard Scheckman, 86 Sansome Street, San Francisco. The note
indicated that the firm’s practice was limited to criminal defense.

He checked an index of news articles from 1957 to
1965—there were 44 sheets in all. After an hour, he looked at a black and white
photo with an article about Lucas Michaels, young attorney about town. The date
was August 14, 1961. The headline: POLICE ARREST ONE IN CHINATOWN GUN BATTLE. A
photo showed a young man with chiseled cheekbones and short, black hair that
stood straight up as if he were being jolted with major voltage.

The article described how during the early morning
hours, police officers had responded to an emergency call: four Chinese men had
exchanged gunfire at the intersection of Stockton and Pacific. When police
arrived, they chased a man who was bleeding from gunshot wounds. He was later
identified as Ralph Ho Chen. The police suspected that the incident was the
latest in a series of battles between Chinatown tongs.

Ray followed the story as it had developed. The
district attorney returned with an indictment against Ralph Ho Chen, a reputed
member of the notorious Black Fist Triad, for his role in the 1957 execution of
two Chinatown merchants in the basement of the Blue Moon Restaurant on Vallejo
Street.

Mr. Chen’s attorney was identified as Lucas
Michaels, an attorney with the criminal defense firm Sheckman & Riley.
Lucas had issued a statement on behalf of his client: “These charges are
baseless, false, and without merit. My client will be exonerated once all
facets of the incident are evaluated by a jury of intelligent and reasonable
people.”

“Well spoken, counsel,” Ray said to himself
softly.

Lucas had porked him nicely, Ray thought. The lost
little girl routine. He looked at his watch and then hurried from the library.