The 7th Canon (13 page)

“I feel like shit. What else did Kim tell you?”

“She said you were a terrible lay, but then we already knew that.”

Donley laughed.

Harris sipped his coffee. “She’s worried about you; she said you’ve been having a rough couple of days. She said you mentioned your father.”

Donley and Harris had met at the Potrero Hill Boys’ Club. Harris came from a broken home but had become an all-city basketball player and escaped by playing in college and briefly in Europe. He’d wanted to be an FBI agent, but the background check revealed three juvenile arrests, one with Donley. He’d joined the San Francisco Police Department instead.

“I’m all right.”

“So, why’d you call?” Harris spoke over the collar of his jacket, which was pulled up to cover his neck. “Turn the heat on in here.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“I can see my breath. It’s like a refrigerator. This time next week, I’ll be sunning my black ass in Hawaii and sipping tropical drinks in the sand.”

“I didn’t think black people tanned.”

“Please, white boy, do not make me hurt you. Turn on the damn heater.”

Donley turned on the engine and flipped a few switches. “There’s something strange going on, Mike. I met with Ramsey yesterday, and he hinted at a plea—”

“Not for murder one.” Harris shook his head. “DA doesn’t plea murder one.”

“How come everyone knows that except me?”

“’Cause you’re a dumb shit.”

“Maybe so, but I’m telling you Ramsey did everything except say the word.”

Harris seemed to contemplate this. “You didn’t hear this from me, OK? It could be my job.”

“OK.”

“Word is, they have some major problems with the evidence against your guy.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Problems with the way they got it, which means problems with using it.”

The light went on. “No warrant. Illegal search and seizure,” Donley said.

“One of the detectives apparently went to the scene and turned everything upside down, including breaking down some locked doors and opening locked cabinets.”

“They’re worried,” Donley said. “It’s a business, but it also could be considered the priest’s personal residence—maybe even the boys’. Different rules apply.” He wished he’d have known earlier, so he could have done some research.

Harris sipped at his coffee. “I don’t know about the legal crap, but I can tell you the detective was suspended.”

“You think they might be hiding him?”

“I don’t know, but this guy is liable to say or do almost anything,” Harris said. “He’s a GI Joe–type, medals in Vietnam, hero cop. He’s also a racist, homophobic asshole, though he does a pretty good job of hiding it. I don’t know what happened at the shelter that night, but I suspect there is more to it. Connor is an asshole, but he’s not dumb when it comes to police procedure and evidence.”

“Connor? That’s the detective’s name?”

“Dixon Connor. He’s been in homicide more than twenty years, and his old man was a cop before they kicked him out, too.”

“So, he had to know that breaking down doors would cause problems,” Donley said.

“One would think, my friend. One would think.” Harris reached for the door handle. “I need to get home so Rochelle can get to work. Remember, you did not hear any of this from me. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“At your party. Christmas Eve? Goodwill to men? Ho, ho, ho?” Harris took his hand out of his pocket long enough to give Donley a halfhearted handshake. “I love you, brother. Give that asshole Ramsey hell.”

Donley waited for Harris to leave before stepping from the car. The traffic on Bryant Street had become more congested. Black-and-white police cars lined the curb, along with television trucks. Men taped cables to the sidewalk with duct tape while well-dressed men and women holding microphones mapped out positions with camera crews so the news shot would include the large seal of the State of California affixed to the building. Apparently, everyone was expecting a show. Donley wasn’t about to provide one. Get in and get out, as Ruth-Bell and Lou had both said. He went over his three main notes. Do not enter a plea, waive time, and otherwise say as little as possible.

The second floor of the Hall of Justice was a marbled tunnel, devoid of windows and dimly lit by fluorescent lights. The mood seemed subdued for a morning calendar. A few anxious-looking men sat huddled on worn benches talking to their lawyers as security guards and court personnel strolled past in no apparent hurry. One wore a red-and-white Christmas hat, but that was it for the Christmas spirit.

As Ruth-Bell advised, Judge Milton Trimble would temporarily preside over Courtroom 13, the ceremonial courtroom usually reserved for public functions. Ramsey expected a crowd and was likely to get it. Donley checked the criminal calendar posted on a bulletin board just outside the fifteen-foot doors. The clerk had placed the arraignment of case number C87–0545,
State of California v. Thomas Wilson Martin
, first on the calendar, likely to get it over with and get back to routine.

Donley turned when he heard a commotion in the hall behind him. Gil Ramsey and Linda St. Claire had stepped from the elevator followed by five or six reporters, including a camera crew. Both had dressed in navy blue and were smiling so bright they could have been doing a chewing-gum commercial. Donley wanted no part of it. He reached for the handle to the large wooden doors. Locked. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

“This is Peter Donley,” Ramsey said as the horde arrived. “He has been retained to represent Father Martin.”

The questions came rapid-fire, some too idiotic to generate a response.

“Will Father Martin enter a plea this morning?”

“Do you have any comment on reports the evidence in this case is overwhelming?”

“The police say pornographic material was found in Father Martin’s office. Can you confirm that?”

“Was there an accomplice?”

“Will the archdiocese be involved in his defense?”

Donley knew he should say, “No comment,” but his competitive juices kicked in when he saw St. Claire and Ramsey enjoying the attack. He cleared his throat. “I am aware of no such evidence. If the district attorney has overwhelming evidence of Father Martin’s guilt, they’ve certainly done a good job of hiding it from all of you folks. Your articles and news stories have been a bit bland.”

The reporters smiled. “What have you been told?” a woman in front asked.

Donley gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m afraid the DA has kept the defense in the dark also.”

Ramsey stepped forward. “As you know, this matter is moving quickly. The evidence and authorized statements were withheld pending notice of the deceased’s next of kin. They will be presented to the court this morning.”

“I’m just surprised all of you were able to find the next of kin so quickly when the DA apparently couldn’t,” Donley said, holding up the
Chronicle
. The group chuckled. Ramsey did not. Donley continued. “As for the evidence, let me say this.” He looked to Ramsey. “The police department engaged in an unauthorized search, without a warrant, of Father Martin’s shelter in violation of his Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable searches.”

Ramsey and Linda St. Claire exchanged a glance. The reporters moved the tape recorders closer to Donley’s chin. Others wrote furiously, firing off additional questions. Donley talked over them.

“We are considering bringing a motion to suppress all evidence illegally obtained as a direct result of that unlawful search. I would also seek to question the detective who conducted that search, but I understand he has been suspended for his acts of indiscretion.” Donley paused. “But as the district attorney said, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll leave that to him and Ms. St. Claire to present to the court this morning.”

The crowd shifted to Ramsey and St. Claire. Timing being everything, as Lou liked to say, someone had unlocked the wooden doors. Donley pulled one open and ducked inside as the reporters began again with their series of questions.

Inside, Donley realized he’d failed at the first of his three notes—say as little as possible. His temper and competitiveness had gotten the better of him again. Lou would have called it an amateur’s move: you push me, and I’ll push you back. Donley thought of Mike Harris and hoped no one would put two and two together. Then he thought again of Lou and smiled.

It had been a hell of a lot of fun.

He pushed through the swinging gate in the wooden railing that separated the gallery from the temporary altar of His Holiness, Milton Trimble. He set his briefcase on the table closest to the jury box and removed his notepad, file, and his notes and then set them on the table, along with the silver Waterman pen Kim had given him upon his graduating law school.

The volume of voices from the hallway increased, indicating the doors had opened behind him. Spectators filed in, and within minutes the courtroom, usually as reserved as a funeral parlor, bristled with energy and hushed voices. A reporter seated behind the railing tried to get Donley’s attention, but Donley ignored him. He crossed his legs and stared straight ahead, calm and poised, his courtroom demeanor well rehearsed. It had been that way since his first trial. His nerves usually raged until he entered the courtroom and spoke his first words. Then he relaxed. The singular focus of a hearing or a trial inside a courtroom brought Donley a certain sense of peace, though this courtroom was bigger than any in which he had previously appeared. The centerpiece was an ornate, elevated bench flanked by flags and bathed in a dull light from candelabra-style light fixtures along the walls and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A massive gold seal of the State of California hung on the dark-wood walls behind the bench.

The decibel level in the room continued to increase, voices echoing off the marble floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. Donley did not need to turn around to know that St. Claire and Ramsey had entered, likely striding down the aisle like a wedding couple. He heard the gate swing open. St. Claire nodded as if the confrontation in the hallway had not happened and moved to the other table. As she did, the bailiff entered from a door to the left of the bench and called out, “All rise and come to order. The Honorable Milton Trimble, judge, presiding.”

The words had barely escaped the bailiff’s mouth when Trimble burst through the door and vaulted the four steps behind the bench like a man chasing a windblown $100 bill. Despite the acrobatics and for all his reputation, Trimble’s entrance was a letdown. Short and thin with a receding hairline, he looked more like a besieged accountant during tax season than a judge. The regal courtroom dwarfed him. When he sat in the black-leather chair, he momentarily disappeared from view. Sitting forward, he looked like a child at his father’s desk. Perhaps sensing this, he leaned on his forearms as if to prop himself higher, and he busied himself moving stacks of files while looking out at the packed gallery over bifocal glasses. He ran his fingers over strands of hair, which he parted low on the side and combed over to unsuccessfully cover a bald spot. He did not look happy to be there.

“Call the first case.”

The clerk spoke in a monotone. “Case number C87–0545. The people of the State of California versus Thomas Wilson Martin.”

The door to Donley’s right opened, and two burly deputies escorted Father Martin into the courtroom. The priest wore an orange top and pants, white socks, and rubber sandals. Despite the cast on his left wrist, Father Martin held his hands at stomach level to provide enough slack in the chain that extended between his legs to shackles around his ankles. It seemed to take him forever to shuffle his way across the marble floor. Nearing the table, he stumbled. The two guards caught him under the arms.

Trimble looked up from the file he’d been reading. “Remove those shackles immediately.”

St. Claire spoke instantly. “If it pleases the court—”

“It doesn’t.” Trimble shot St. Claire a look that knocked her back onto her heels. “Remove the shackles. This is a courtroom, not a zoo.” The murmur in the gallery was instantaneous, as was Trimble’s solid, single wrap of the gavel. “I will not tolerate any outbursts in my courtroom this morning,” he growled. “If there is a single shenanigan, I’ll close it.”

Maximum Milt was taking charge, setting the ground rules on the first day of school.

The deputies removed the shackles and led Father Martin to the chair beside Donley. The priest looked worse than the day before, his jaw now covered by pronounced stubble. Recalling Lou’s advice that the priest was likely scared, and recognizing he had an audience behind him that had read his client was a monster, Donley made a point of reaching out his hand. Father Martin hesitated before taking it.

“State your appearances, counsel,” Trimble instructed.

“Linda St. Claire on behalf of the people of the State of California, Your Honor.”

“Peter Donley specially appearing on behalf of the defendant, Father Thomas Martin.”

“Specially appearing? What does that mean?” Judge Trimble sounded annoyed.

“I’m appearing today on Father Martin’s behalf. I have not, however, been retained by Father Martin.”