Special Circumstances (5 page)

“I’m sure the firm will survive.”
“I gotta run, Mike.”
“Those police inspectors are really pushy, Mike.” Doris is back in myoffice at ten-fifteen.
“They treated me like a criminal,” she says.
“Take it easy. I did my five minutes with Officer Chinn. He wasokay.”
“Maybe to you. The cop I talked to acted like I was a murdersuspect.”
“I know this is tough. They’re just trying to do their job.”
“They were rude. And they asked a lot of questions about Diana’spersonal life.”
“Like what?”
“Like whether she was sleeping with Bob.”
“Was she?”
She frowns.
“It’s none of your business. And it sure as hell is none of theirs.”
I look her in the eyes.
“Doris, this thing is tough on all of us. Give yourself a littlespace.”
She starts to cry. I get up and put my arm around her.
“It’s such a waste,” she says.
Chapter 4
THE LEGEND
“When I started working Homicide, there was no such thing asaffirmative action. I’m not saying it was right. It’s just the way itwas.”
—inspector roosevelt johnson. san francisco chronicle. july 14,1998.
At ten-thirty I’m at my desk watching Skipper being interviewed on TV.He briefly mentions the shootings and moves straight into his campaignspeech. I’m turning down the sound when Roosevelt Johnson’s familiarbaritone resonates off the walls.
“Hello, Michael,” he says.
“I didn’t realize you worked at this firm.” He takes up the entiredoorway.
“This is a pretty far cry from the PD’s office.”
“It’s been a long time, Roosevelt.”
We shake hands. He’s a legend. He and his partner, Marcus Banks, arethe SFPD’s most senior homicide team. They handle all the highprofilecases. He closes my door.
“How’s your mama?” he asks.
“She has good days and bad days. On good days she’s ornery. On baddays, she doesn’t say much. She’s in the early stages of AlzheimerIt’s not going to get better, but we’re hoping it won’t get a lot worsetoo soon. She’s still living at home. Pete’s living with her. Henever moved out.”
“Things have been tough.”
Tell me about it.
“Mom and Dad were never really the same after Tommy died.” My olderbrother was one of the last MIAs in Vietnam. They never found hisbody.
He was an allcity quarterback at St. Ignatius and all-conference atCal. Tommy had another year of eligibility. He could have gottendeferred. He volunteered for the Marines. I tried to talk him out ofit, but Dad told him it was the right thing to do. He never forgave mefor trying to talk Tommy out of going, and he never forgave himselfwhen Tommy died. Then he got sick. Roosevelt knows the story. My dadworked his ass off for thirty years for his city pension. He died fiveyears ago, about a year after Grace was born. At least he got to seehis first grandchild.
“It’s hard to bury your children, Mike,” he says. He knows. His sonwas nineteen when he was killed in a drive-by shooting near CandlestickPark.
“Did you decide to become a priest after Tommy died?” he asks.
“In part.” Unlike most of my friends, I loved going to church when Iwas a kid.
It gave me time with my mom and dad. It gave structure to my life. Andit had lots of rules. I was always good at rules. It wasn’t until Iwas in college that I started asking the hard questions about therules. I’ll never forget the look of pride on my dad’s face when Itold him I was going to the seminary. And I’ll never forget the lookof disdain when I told him I was leaving the priesthood to become alawyer. He hated lawyers.
“When Tommy died,” I say, “I went to the church to try to find someanswers.”
“What happened?”
I dodge the question.
“It didn’t have the answers I was looking for.” He looksuncomfortable.
“Don’t worry, Roosevelt. I didn’t do anything terrible. It justdidn’t work out.” I don’t really want to explain that the concept ofcelibacy is a whole lot easier in theory than in practice. And all therules that were so meaningful when I was a kid seemed hopelessly out oftouch by the time I was a priest. It was the post-Watergate era, andtraditional Catholicism felt prehistoric. It’s tough to try to getpeople to abide by rules that you question.
“Why did you end up in law school?” he asks.
“Why not? You think the church has an out placement program fordownsized priests? I figured I might be able to make a living helpingpeople who got screwed. Lawyers get to do a lot of things nobody elsecan do. Besides, I didn’t have any better ideas.” This is clearlymore than he’d bargained for. I decide to change the subject.
“How’s your family?”
“Janet has good days and bad days, too. Arthritis. My daughter isworking OB-GYN at San Francisco General. My granddaughter is at UCLALaw School. With my luck, she’ll end up a public defender like youdid.”
“She’ll probably end up at some Wall Street firm making a hundred thoua year.”
He chuckles.
“How are Rosie and the baby?”
“Complicated subject. Rosie and I split up about a year after Gracewas born.
We were on each other for a couple of years. We couldn’t figure out away to work out the little stuff. And if you can’t deal with thelittle stuff, you can’t deal with the big stuff. Things got betterafter we split up. Grace is in first grade. She lives with Rosie, butI’m a couple of blocks away. She stays with me every other weekend.”
He changes the subject quickly.
“How did you end up in a fancy-dancy place like this?”
“I needed the money. We were getting divorced. The firm was startinga white-collar criminal defense practice. They needed a criminaldefense attorney. I was the best guy at the PD’s office, so they hiredme. They made me a partner. Doubled my salary.”
He glances around my stripped office.
“I take it you’re leaving?”
“It didn’t work out. The big-time white-collar practice didn’t happen.The guy with the big book of business left after a year. I startedbringing in some DUI and robbery cases. The firm didn’t like it. Firmslike S and G don’t like to have real crooks roaming around the office.It scares the corporate clients away.” I pause.
“Today’s my last day. I’m going out on my own. I’m renting some spaceon Mission.”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“I hope so. Rosie’s my landlord.”
He grins.
“You’ve always had a flair.” He turns serious and I sense the socialportion of our conversation is coming to an end.
“I know we didn’t always see eye to eye when you were at the PD’soffice,” he says.
“I’d like to think it was because we were on opposite sides of a fewcases.”
“Roosevelt,” I say with conviction, “we worked different sides of thesame screwed-up system. There’s always some tension.”
He looks right at me.
“Let me ask you for a favor,” he says.
“I’d like your help in sorting out this case. Off the record, if you’dlike. Professional courtesy.”
He’s savvy. He’s listening to every word I say. He’s watching everymove I make.
“I’ll do anything I can to help you,” I tell him.
“Great. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our discussion confidentialfor the time being.”
“Of course.”
He skims his notes.
“So far, we know Holmes and Kennedy died of gunshot wounds.
His to the head, hers to the chest. His wound looks self-inflicted.Your colleagues Charles Stern and Joel Friedman found the bodies and aSmith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver on the floor. Friedmansaid he last saw Holmes about twelve-thirty this morning. He haddinner with Kennedy about ten last night. He said she went home fromthe restaurant. We don’t know when she came back. Our people aredusting the office and the gun. If I had to guess, it looks like hekilled her and then killed himself. We’ve seen the E-mail message thatwas sent from his computer. But it’s too soon to tell. You know me. Ido it by the numbers.”
“I know. Have you been able to impart your way of thinking upon yourpartner?”
He looks troubled.
“Marcus is a good cop,” he says emphatically.
“Sometimes he doesn’t handle things the way I would. He’s kept hisnose clean the last few years.” He pauses.
“What can you tell me about Holmes? Was anything bothering him? Wasanybody pissed off at him?”
“A lot was bothering him. And everybody in the city was pissed off athim.”
He raises his eyebrows. I tell him what I know about Bob. How mypartners hated his guts. About his acrimonious divorces. About thedivorce papers his wife served on him last night.
“Anybody else mad at him?”
“He was working on a big deal. Everybody was unhappy. There was quitea scene last night. His client, Vince Russo, was screaming at him. Ipresume it isn’t going to close now.” I ponder how much I can andshould tell Roosevelt about Joel’s description of the deal.
“I heard Russo seems to have dropped off the face of the earth,” hesays.
“What’s his story?”
I describe how Russo inherited his father’s business and it went tohell. I explain that Russo’s creditors were forcing him to sell thebusiness.
“I hear he’s a tough guy to like,” I say.
He knows more than he’s letting on.
“Where does Ms. Kennedy fit in?”
“She was Bob’s star associate and a real go-getter. She was on thefast track.”
“What about their personal relationship? Anything out of the ordinary?Any hanky-panky?”
“Purely professional, as far as I know. But some people think therewas more to it.”
“Were they sleeping together?”
“Don’t khow.” I answer too quickly and he gives me a skeptical look. Iraise my right hand like a Boy Scout.
“Honest, Roosevelt. If there were something I promised to keep quiet,I’d tell you that much. The fact is, I just don’t know.”
“Was she sleeping with anybody else?” He’s boring in now.
“I don’t know. She was single. She didn’t have a steady boyfriend.She always had a date for the Christmas party. I’m not tuned in tofirm gossip.”
“Fair enough. Who is tuned in?”
Before I can catch myself, I blurt out, “Joel.”
He chuckles.
“I figured that out already. There are still a few instincts left inthis old carcass.”
“Did you ask him?” I’m as curious as the next guy.
“Yeah. He said he wasn’t sure. He’s heard the rumors. Who elseshould I talk to?”
“Charles Stern knows about the firm’s finances. Arthur Patton is themanaging partner.”
“I’ve talked to them. They think Holmes wouldn’t have killed himself.Patton said Holmes was up for a big bonus.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“What about his secretary?”
“Doris? She’s a gem. She can give you the skinny on Bob’s divorces.She’s very discreet, though. And very protective of him.” I add, “Bythe way, if you get any dirt on his divorces, I’ll buy you a dinner atany restaurant in town to hear about it.”
“You got a deal. What about Mr. Gates?”
I laugh.
“Our district attorney? He wore out his welcome years ago. Betweenus, they couldn’t wait to get him out the door.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” He wipes his glasses.
“Mike, do you think Holmes was the kind of guy who would killhimself?”
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“A few days ago, I would have said no way. On the other hand, his dealmay have been cratering. His wife served him with divorce papers. Now,I’m not sure.”
“I’ll call you when I have a better handle on things.”
I’m sure he will.
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Say hi to your mama.”
Joel is standing in my doorway at twelve-thirty.
“You ready to get out of here?” he asks.
“Let’s hit it.” I pick up my coffee mug. As we walk out my door I seea female police officer standing by the door to Bob’s office. A teamfrom the coroner’s office is inside.
“Did you ever find Russo?” I ask Joel, as he opens the double doors toour elevator lobby.
“Nope. Never showed up. Never called. We had a ten o’clock deadlinefor the wire transfers. We didn’t make it. The buyer’s attorney saidhe’d call me Monday. As far as he’s concerned, the deal is off. Iguess we’ll deal with bankruptcy if and when Vince surfaces.”
We reach the lobby and head down the escalators toward the garage,which is two levels below ground. We stop on the intermediate level soI can drop off announcements for my new office in our mailroom, whichis in a windowless suite next to the entrance to the health club. In acost-saving move a few years ago, we moved our mailroom, copy centerand accounting department to this subterranean vault everyone calls theCatacomb. I feel sorry for these poor people who never see thedaylight.
I bang on the heavy steel door. In view of today’s events, our usualjokes about Bela Lugosi answering don’t seem funny. Virginia Wallace,the officious, utterly intimidating manager of our accountingdepartment, opens the door. A ghoulish, gray-haired woman ofindeterminate age, she started as a file clerk about thirty years ago.She’s clawed her way up the ladder and runs the entire “backroom”without the slightest hint of finesse. I’ve always been terrified ofher. True to form, she’s waiting to see if any of our clients send usany money before the stroke of midnight and our fiscal year turns intoa pumpkin.
“Hi, Virginia,” I say politely.
“You holding up okay?”
She looks bored. In fact, she always looks bored.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Good. Can you do me a favor and leave these envelopes for the guys inthe mailroom? I was hoping they might be able to get these out to thepost office in the last run today.”
Big sigh.
“Just this once, because it’s your last day.”
“Thanks, Virginia.” I solemnly swear I’ll never impose upon youagain.
I look over her shoulder and see Mark Jenkins, our head deliveryperson, getting out of the freight elevator that connects the Catacombwith our main offices upstairs. I’ve always liked Mark, an articulateyoung black man from Hunter’s Point who’s worked his way out of theprojects and spends his days riding up and down the freight elevatorand putting up with Virginia’s shit. He’s finishing up at SanFrancisco State this year. I’m hopeful he’ll be able to find somethingbetter suited to his talents when he graduates. Mark agrees to sendout my announcements and I wish him well. Virginia glares.
The steel door slams and Joel and I head to the garage. With a littlecoaxing, my nine-year-old Corolla turns over, I pay eighteen bucks tothe Asian teenager with monster headphones in the booth, and we headwest up the hill on Pine. The street is littered with paper. It’s NewYear’s Eve. In San Francisco, the people who don’t work inhermetically sealed highrises traditionally toss their obsoletecalendar pages out their windows. The city pays a fortune in overtimeto clean up the mess.
Traffic is relatively light as we drive in silence past the Ritz andthe back of the Stanford Court toward Joel’s house in the RichmondDistrict. When we reach Van Ness, he says, “I can’t believe it.Yesterday, I was getting ready to close a huge deal and to celebrate myelection as a partner. Today, two people are dead, the deal is off andmy career is in limbo.”