The 7th Canon (33 page)

The night doorman at the
Chronicle
sat behind a counter with three television monitors. Frank Ross handed him a business card and told him he had an appointment to see Sam Goldman. The man used the phone to seek clearance before releasing the elevator in the lobby.

Frank Ross had been on his way home when Goldman called on the portable phone. He advised Ross that he was working on a late-breaking story and asked Ross to come by the newspaper office.

Goldman met Ross on the third floor in a secure lobby. With rich, dark paneling and stained glass, it looked more like a church vestibule.

“So, tell me what couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” Ross said.

“Today’s news is old tomorrow. You know that,” Goldman said, leading Ross down a red-tile hallway lined with plaques commemorating awards won by the newspaper. Cubicles and filing cabinets cluttered every available inch of the newsroom. Despite the late hour, reporters faced terminals, keyboards clattering, while they talked into headsets. Ross followed Goldman into a conference room with framed photographs of
Chronicle
reporters who had won the Pulitzer Prize. At the front of the room, a cluttered bulletin board displayed the front pages of local and national newspapers. Someone had marked up the pages with red ink.

“Things move fast around here,” Ross said.

“This? This is nothing,” Goldman said. “You ought to be around at four in the afternoon when everyone is filing stories. Right now, we’re trying to verify a report on a sniper taking shots at cars on the 101.”

“Really? Anyone hit?”

“Thankfully not, but we have an eyewitness who says there are at least two cars with bullet holes, and the police are descending on the place like reporters to a banquet table.” Goldman closed the door. “I want to show you page one for tomorrow.” He handed Frank Ross a mock-up of the morning paper. It still had blanks, but Ross caught the headline in the middle of the page.

Priest’s Attorney Once a Murder Suspect

Peter Donley Accused of Killing Father

“I told you I knew him.” Goldman pointed to his temple. “I racked my brains for the better part of the afternoon before it came to me. It was a hell of a story.”

Ross read the article as Goldman spoke. “Donley was a high school All-American linebacker and running back from Potrero Hill. He had a full ride to just about every school in the nation, but he chose Berkeley. It was a real ‘local boy does good’ story. Couple weeks before school is set to start, the police get a nine-one-one call from a neighbor. She says it sounds like they’re beating the hell out of each other next door. When the police get there, they find the old man covered in glass and lying on his back in the driveway. He fell ten feet through a plate-glass window. Your boy, Donley, is sitting on the steps, bleeding, and the inside of the house is a shambles.”

“What about the mother? Was she there?”

Goldman’s eyebrows arched above his black-framed glasses. “Not home. Went to visit her sister.”

Ross pulled out a chair and sat, feeling sick to his stomach. His mind went over his conversation with Donley on the drive back from Saint Helena.

“The police arrest the kid on suspicion of murder and take him to the hospital,” Goldman said. “They stitch him up, but he isn’t saying anything. Not a word. He goes to county jail and stays there for two days until his uncle, Lou Giantelli, convinces a judge he’s bailable. Three weeks later, the district attorney drops the charges.”

Ross looked up. “Why?”

“Lack of evidence. Only two people knew what happened in that house that night, and one was dead and the other wasn’t talking. Rumor had it Giantelli convinced the DA the kid was worth saving and the father wasn’t. Whatever happened, the official word was the father’s death was an accident. Donley went off to college, and the rest is history.”

Ross ran a hand over his face. Donley had said his father beat him and his mother. At eighteen, Donley would have grown big enough to do something about it, and time was running out. He had a scholarship to a premier school and a bright future, but what would he do about his mother?

Ross rubbed the tip of his ear and let out a sigh. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could talk you out of running that story, is there, Sam?”

Goldman pulled out a chair and sat.

“Maybe you could hold it for a few days. I mean, with the priest in the hospital, the story isn’t breaking news.”

Goldman leaned in. “What is it, Ross? We’ve known each other a long time. It would take a hell of a lot for you to ask me something like that.”

“I know, and I would never take advantage of our friendship, Sam, but Donley has a family now. He has a wife and a son, a little boy. They don’t need this. This is going to drag up a lot of bad, bad memories.”

“It’s news, Ross.”

Ross nodded. “Yeah, it is. And I know you have a job to do. I just don’t know that twenty-five thousand people need to know about it at this very moment. He was cleared. They didn’t charge him.”

“So was Jack Devine.”

Ross sighed.

Sam Goldman took off his glasses and sat back. Without his glasses, his eyes looked smaller, and he looked tired. “According to police sources, there was blood on the main circuit breaker to the house. Speculation is the kid pulled it, that he was lying in wait for the old man to get home, then put the fuse back after the fight.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the old man was waiting for him.”

They sat staring at each other. Point made: nobody knew what had really happened except the two men in the room, and one was dead.

“And the DA dropped the charges,” Ross said.

Goldman made a face. “We both know that was because of Lou Giantelli.”

Ross knocked on the table. “I’ll make you a deal, Sam. What if I told you that Donley and I have been doing some digging, and we know enough that I can tell you the priest did not kill that kid, that there are at least two other related murders. And there are rumors of more Jack Devine–like videotapes, and a cop could be involved.”

Goldman leaned forward, his voice a shocked whisper. “Connor?”

“You’ll have to take me at my word. We’re very close, and if we get there, it will make this look like a fluff piece,” he said, tapping the table again. “But we don’t have it all yet. We need some time.”

There was a knock on the door. A young man in a wrinkled shirt stuck his head in the room. “Sam? Sorry to interrupt, but I got confirmation on the sniper. He’s now taken out three cars and put two people in the hospital. I’ve spoken with two of the families and have the husband of the third calling me back in fifteen minutes. The police will have a statement for me at the end of the hour. That’s after the eleven o’clock news signs off. We’ll be first in the morning. I’ll have a minimum of forty-eight inches. Can we fit it?”

Sam Goldman sat swinging his glasses, considering Ross. After a beat, he looked back to the reporter. “Yeah, we can fit it. Page one, center.”

Donley pushed through the door of Tequila Dan’s and maneuvered through a crowd to the horseshoe bar. He had not been able to reach Frank Ross. Ross had left Donley his home number, but his wife said Ross had gone to a meeting, which sounded odd for that hour of the night. Donley hoped Ross wasn’t out drinking.

At the counter, Donley made eye contact with the bartender. The man no longer wore his rose-tinted glasses, and the scowl he gave Donley indicated he was not happy to see him.

“I thought we had a deal?”

“What are you talking about?” Donley asked.

He motioned Donley to an area just to the right of the bar, away from the noise. “You said I didn’t have a problem.”

“You don’t,” Donley said.

“Then why the hell did the police show up here busting my balls?”

Donley had a sinking feeling. “The police came here?”

“Yeah, a major asshole, said he was going to shut the whole bar down because I was letting Danny live in the back.”

Donley felt the bow of the ship sinking. “Was his name Connor?”

“Who?”

“The cop. Was his name Dixon Connor?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“Big man? My size. Square head with a crew cut.”

“Yeah, that was him. A real prince.”

“Did you show him Danny’s room?”

“No, but he went back there, anyway. Tore the fucking place apart. You want to tell me what the hell happened?”

Donley ran a hand through his hair. He’d just lost a critical piece of evidence.

Donley sat in his car on the side street perpendicular to the corner video store on O’Farrell, watching a group of young people congregating in the alley. Though it was cold out, most wore nothing more than short sleeves and tank tops, displaying exotic tattoos and a lot of piercings. Some wore dog collars; others military-style pants and black boots. All seemed to have thick chains dangling from their pockets and innovative hair colors and styles: Mohawks, spikes, shaved heads, and elaborate carvings. Donley did not see Red, and he doubted he’d find anyone who’d tell him where he could.

He got out of the car.

“Ragtop. Nice car.”

A man wearing an army fatigue jacket, black ski hat, and worn shoes sat atop a four-foot-high concrete wall. He wasn’t one of the punks. He had bags in a shopping cart positioned below him. One of San Francisco’s many homeless.

“Watch that car for you for a couple of bucks. Make sure no harm comes to it. Ragtops are easy to break in. Rip the top, open the door, do all kinds of damage.”

Part of Donley wanted to knock the man off the wall and tell him that if any harm came to the car, Donley would find him, but that was just the anger he could feel building inside him. And it was stupid. The man held all the leverage. He had no place to go. Donley did.

Donley walked closer and smelled the cheap wine and mildew. He reached up and handed the man two dollars. “Do I get a wash and wax with that?”

The man studied him, uncertain. Then he broke into a gap-toothed grin. “That’ll be extra.”

“I thought so.” Donley handed him another dollar.

The man took the money. “Thank you, brother.”

Donley turned to cross the street.

“Hey, you going to the O’Farrell?”

Donley shook his head. “I’m working tonight.”

The man cocked his head. “Working? What do you do?”

“I’m an undercover cop,” Donley said.

Donley crossed the street and continued around the block to the end of the alley farthest from the door to the party room. He stood behind the wall, occasionally peering around the corner to watch the entrance to the underground club. The lightbulb over the door cast an orange glow that colored the alley a blood red. A bouncer stood just outside the door in a sleeveless T-shirt with hair that looked like the plume of a peacock’s tail.

Donley waited forty minutes, fighting the cold. As he peered around the corner, he sensed someone approaching. He turned and recognized the transvestite from the video store sauntering up the street wearing the same red-sequined dress. Donley started to turn away, then got an idea.

“Cold tonight,” he said, engaging her.

“Very cold.” She leaned against the wall and flipped her shoulder-length hair, which Donley concluded to be a wig. “Hey, I know you.” She grinned. “You were in the store. Are you a cop for real?” She squealed the last part of the sentence.

“Not me,” Donley said. “What’s your name again?”

“Crystal. Delicate and expensive. Who you waiting for?”

“He’s in the club down this alley.”

Crystal pursed her lips, a pout. “I’ll make you forget him.”

Donley pulled a fold of money from his pocket. It looked substantial, but was actually two twenty-dollar bills, a five, and a lot of ones. He held the money at his side. “Would you take a look and see if he’s in there for me?”

Crystal considered the money but shook her head. “Uh-uh. Punks have the club tonight.”

Donley looked down the alley. The punks continued to file past the bouncer or stood in the alley smoking. No sign of Red. “It’s very important to me.” He peeled off the twenty. “I can describe him.”

Crystal looked again at the money. “What do I have to do?”