Special Circumstances (9 page)

“I know. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I ask Rosie to call Pete totake my mother home. She agrees.
I walk to the back of the house where the kids are gathered with mymother. I give Grace a hug.
“Daddy has to go out for a while,” I explain.
“You’re going to have to stay with Mommy tonight.”
“Okay,” she says. Then she adds, “Is Uncle Joel in trouble?”
The wisdom of a six-year-old.
“Yeah, sweetie. But it’s a big mistake. Daddy is going downtown tostraighten it out. You look after Mommy and Grandma, okay?”
“I will, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I turn to my mother. For the first time in five years, her eyes aretruly clear. Before I can say anything, she says, “They arrestedhim.”
“Yeah.”
I see the look that I saw so many times when my dad got a call at homefrom his sergeant. It’s the look of a policeman’s wife. For a moment,she’s thirty years younger and her blue eyes are steel.
“Do what you have to do to help him, Michael.”
“Yes, Mama. Right now, I’ve got to go be a lawyer for a couple ofhours.”
“I know. You take good care of him.”
“I will. Pete’s going to come over and take you home.”
“I’ll be up late, Michael. Would you please call me when you knowwhat’s going on?”
“Of course.” After all these years, Margaret Murphy Daley is still thewife of a cop.
CHAPTER 8J
THE HALL OF JUSTICE
“The Hall of Justice is an incredibly expensive homeless shelter, detoxcenter and drug-treatment center, and an utterly inept way to handlesocial problems.”
—director OF inmate release program. san francisco examiner.
In San Francisco, the D A’s office, criminal courts and city jail arelocated in a Stalinesque seven-story structure at Seventh and Bryantthat is modestly known as the Hall of Justice. Although a newfifty-million-dollar jail wing was added in the early nineties, theHall hasn’t lost any of its original charm.
The new jail was built to ease overcrowding in the system, which hasbeen under a federal court consent decree since the eighties because ofpoor conditions.
The north wall of the new jail practically touches the 101 freeway, andprisoners sleep less than fifty feet from the slow lane.
At seven-thirty, the traffic on Van Ness is heavy as I weave southboundthrough a driving rain. Surprisingly, I find a parking place onSeventh between two squad cars. I grab my briefcase from the trunk andtry to look lawyerly in my jeans and long-sleeved polo shirt.
I’m soaked as I run up the front steps of the Hall and explain to theguard at the metal detector that I’m here to see my client, Mr.Friedman. He motions me through and I detour around the tortoise-slowDepression-era elevators and head for the stairs.
In October of 1996, a new intake center was opened in the new wing ofthe Hall. County Jail 9, as the intake center is known, is a far cryfrom the chaos that reigned at the raucous old booking center on thesixth floor of the old Hall, which at times seemed more like anovercrowded zoo on a busy night. The old jail is now used primarilyfor high-security housing and prisoner classification. The intake areawas the last part of the new facility to come online.
The booking hub is antiseptic clean. In contrast to traditional“linear” jails, which have cells lining a central corridor, the holdingcells in the new booking center are arranged in a circle around adeputies’ workstation. The prisoners are housed in well-lighted cellsbehind glass doors. When the doors are shut, the place is relativelyquiet. There are no heavy, clanking iron cell doors or shouts ofinmates. As always, the usual parade of humanity is awaitingprocessing.
Whenever I’m in the Hall, I think of my dad. I always expect to seehim walking down the corridors, his bearing erect, his chest out, acigarette hanging from his lips. He was so proud that he was a cop. Heput the bad guys away.
Although the Hall serves as the city jail, for historic bureaucraticreasons, it’s actually run by the County Sheriff’s Department. Isurvey the sheriff’s deputies working behind the desk and I recognizethe pockmarked face and thick mustache of Sergeant Philip Ramos. I’mthankful I had the foresight to get some business cards printed.
“Good evening, Sergeant Ramos,” I say, handing him my state bar cardand my driver’s license.
The heavyset man looks at my card, then surveys me up and down. Aboutten years ago, Phil Ramos found himself on the wrong side of a gangfight. A bullet wound in his left thigh moved him behind a desk. He’snever been happy about it. He’s a good, tough cop.
“Mike Daley,” he says.
“I thought you moved downtown. May I assume your visit this evening isnot entirely social?”
“That would be correct.”
“And may I ask which one of our guests will have the pleasure of yourcompany?”
“Joel Friedman. They just brought him in.”
He types on his computer.
“Excuse me, Mr. Big Time. A murder rap. He’s being processed. Gonnabe a few minutes.” He picks up his phone and asks someone to bringJoel to the holding room adjacent to his desk.
“Do me a favor and keep it short. They haven’t finished booking him.”He looks at his computer screen.
“What’s this about?” he asks.
“You heard about the shootings last week at the Simpson and Gatesfirm?”
“Yeah.”
“I worked there. Friedman still works there. Skipper’s trying to pinthe shootings on him.”
He’s surprised.
“I thought it was a suicide.”
“There’s something else going on. Skipper’s calling the shots. There’sno way this guy did it.”
He gives me the “I’ve heard it a million times” look.
“Sometimes people do stupid things,” he says.
“I just process them. Roosevelt wouldn’t have charged him if he didn’thave a solid case.”
“Do me a favor, Phil. I don’t know if we’ll be able to get a judge toset bail tonight. If he has to stay the night, put him in his owncell, okay? If you put him in with everybody, he’ll get eatenalive.”
He scowls.
“I’ll try. We have a full house. Fridays are always busy. I’ll seewhat I can do.”
“Thanks, Phil.”
Two deputies lead Joel into the holding room behind the intake desk. Iused to meet with my clients in similar rooms when I was a PD. Thelucky ones got five minutes of my time. I didn’t create the system.I’d try to come up with a workable deal and move to the next case. Idid the best I could. Joel keeps his head down. Intake isn’t fun.First you get fingerprinted. Then you have a medical interview. Insome cases, you get strip-searched. Finally, you’re issued an orangejumpsuit and you’re assigned to a cell.
Ramos presses a button and the door opens to let me into the room. Thedeputies have taken off Joel’s handcuffs. He slumps into a chair. Iask the deputies to wait outside. The larger one tells me we have tenminutes.
Joel’s eyes are tired.
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” he says. His voice is desperate.
“We need to talk fast. First, I’m going to try to find a judge to setbail. I don’t know if I’ll be able to find one at this hour on aFriday night.”
“You can’t let them keep me here.”
“I know the desk sergeant. He’s going to get you your own cell.” Idon’t know this for sure, but I’m hoping Ramos will keep his word.
“Don’t talk to anybody.
Everybody here will lie about you. They’ll say you confessed tosomething. Even the ones you don’t talk to will lie. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. They’re going to finsish your paperwork and they’ll probablytake you to a holding cell.”
“What am I going to tell Naomi and the kids?”
“I’ll take care of that. We’ll take this one step at a time. Rosie’sthere and so are your mom and dad. We’ll get through this. Right now,you’ve got to stay calm and be smart. You got it?”
“Yeah.” There’s panic in his voice.
The deputy opens the door.
“Time to go,” he says.
“We need to finish his paperwork.”
“Just one more minute,” I say. He steps back outside.
“Joel, one other thing.
I’ll do everything I can to help you if you want me to represent you.But I don’t want you to feel obligated to hire me as your lawyer. Youdon’t have to tell me tonight. But you’re going to have to decidesoon.”
He looks me in the eye.
“I wouldn’t trust anybody else. You’re the man.”
“Good. Now do what these nice deputies say. I’ll take care ofeverything else.”
He looks back at me as they lead him out the door. He mouths the word“Thanks.”
At ten-fifteen, I’m at the pay phone in the lobby of the Hall. Ishould have brought my cellular. I dial Joel and Naomi’s number. Rosieanswers.
“It’s Mike.”
“No bail,” she says.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“We saw it on the news. Fucking Skipper got in front of the camerasand said he’s charging Joel with first-degree murder.”
“The duty judge wouldn’t set bail.”
“I figured. I didn’t think they’d let him out tonight.” If it’sfirst-degree, they may not set bail at all.
“Here’s Naomi.”
“Hi, Mike.” Her voice cracks.
“Look, Naomi, I just talked to Joel. He’s doing okay.” A small lie.
“I know the desk sergeant. He’s going to put Joel in his own cell.He’ll be all right for the night.”
“What am I supposed to tell the boys?”
I pause. What is she supposed to tell the boys?
“The legal system works slowly, so we have to stay calm.” Easy for meto say. People hate it when their lawyer tells them their only choiceis to be patient.
“I’ll be right over,” I say.
“Have Rosie screen any calls. And don’t talk to the press.”
“Whatever you say.”
The kids are asleep at eleven-thirty when Rosie, Naomi and I sit downin the dining room where we’d been eating Naomi’s chicken a few hoursearlier. The minicams left after the eleven o’clock news programsended. Rabbi and Mrs.
Friedman just went home. Pete picked up my mom an hour ago.
Naomi turns her puffy red eyes toward me.
“What do we do now?” she asks.
I take her hand.
“I’ll talk to another judge. It would help if you have access to somemoney.”
“We’ll find it. They said on the news they may not grant bail.” Ilook at Rosie. If Skipper goes for special circumstances (that is, thedeath penalty), there will be no bail. Not even for a pillar of thelegal community. Not even for the rabbi’s son.
“Naomi,” Rosie says, “sometimes they don’t set bail. It depends on thecharge.”
Naomi is holding back tears.
“What’s next? You guys are the lawyers.”
“He’ll probably be arraigned on Monday,” I reply. We lawyers oftenforget how Byzantine the legal system sounds to civilians.
“We go to court and formal charges are read. Joel pleads not guilty.It takes about five minutes. Then I’ll go have a big fight with the
DA.”
“And if they don’t drop the charges?”
Rosie and I glance at each other, and I say quietly, “We’ll get readyto go to trial, if we have to.”
“I see.” It’s sinking in. Naomi pauses, then asks, “When will thatbe?”
“Technically, we can demand a trial within sixty days, but almosteverybody agrees to a delay so they have more time to prepare.” She’sstarting to lose it.
“One other thing,” I say.
“You and Joel may decide to let somebody else handle the case. If youdo, I’ll understand.” Rosie looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
Naomi shrugs.
“I’ll talk it over with Joel. I’m sure he’ll want you. I do.”
“Thanks, Naomi. I’d better get going.”
I carry Grace to Rosie’s car. She’s getting heavy.
“Rosie,” I say, “mind if I stop by for a few minutes on my way home?”
“You were reading my mind.”
“Just business tonight. I seem to have a murder case to preparefor.”
“Absolutely.”
I smile at her.
“How do you think George Costanza would describe us?”
“I believe the term is ‘crisis sex,” with a few doses of’ sympathy sex’and ‘guilt sex’ thrown in.”
“One of these days, you’re going to find a guy you really like andwe’re going to have to shut this down.”
“I know. But, for the time being, this works all right for me.”
“Me too. I’ll see you at home.”
CHAPTER 9
LARKSPUR
“You’re moving to Larkspur? Marin County? You’re kidding, right? Youcan’t move to Marin. You’re a city boy, Mike. The fresh air will killyou.”—joel friedman.
Rosie and I live about three blocks from each other in Marin County ina little suburb called Larkspur, which is about ten miles north of theGolden Gate Bridge. Larkspur’s eleven thousand residents live insmall, welltended houses on the flatlands between the 101 freeway andthe base of Mount Tamalpais. In Marin, the single folks live inSausalito, the artists and writers live in Mill Valley, the nouveauriche live in Tiburon and the old money live in Ross. The few workingstiffs tend to congregate in Larkspur and its sister city, CorteMadera, although housing prices are getting so high that only the trulyaffluent will be living there soon.
Moving to Marin was one of our many compromises. It’s a move we neverwould have made if Grace hadn’t been born. If it had been up to me,we’d have moved back to Berkeley. If Rosie had had her way, wewouldn’t have left the city.
Kids change things. A lot. The scary thing is I like where we are.Maybe you don’t have to make a political statement with every aspect ofyour life.
It’s a few minutes after midnight now and I’ve just crossed the GoldenGate Bridge. The Corolla strains up the Waldo Grade toward the tunnelabove Sausalito. If it weren’t raining so hard, I’d have a great viewof the city out my right window.
As usual, I’m listening to KCBS, the all-news station. Joel is a hottopic.
“In tonight’s headlines, Joel Mark Friedman was arrested for the murderof two prominent attorneys at the Simpson and Gates law firm.”
Randy Long, my mentor at the PD’s office, used to say you know yourclient is in really big trouble when they use all three of his names onthe news.
“District Attorney Prentice Gates will hold a press conference Saturdaymorning to discuss the case. KCBS will cover it live. KCBS news timeis twelve-ten.” I switch the station to jazz.
I take Paradise Drive west past the upscale Corte Madera mall. I headnorth on Magnolia, Larkspur’s main street. A mile later, I turn rightonto a side street called Alexander Avenue, and pull into the narrowdriveway of Number 8, across from the Twin Cities Little League field.Because of its proximity to the ballpark, it’s known as thehey-batter-batter house. Rosie has been renting the tiny whitebungalow since Grace started school last year. Many homes in Larkspurwere built as temporary housing after the 1906 earthquake. Some havebeen remodeled, but most are still quite small. Rosie’s was built in1925 for a local schoolteacher, who paid twenty-five hundred dollarsfor it. Today, the seven-hundred-square-foot house would set you backat least three hundred thousand.
The light’s on. Rosie is watching the rebroadcast of the late news. Iknock quietly on the door and let myself in. It’s a good sign whenyour ex-wife lets you have your own key. It wasn’t always the casewhen we were in the middle of our divorce. Her dark eyes light up. Sheholds a finger to her lips and motions me into the living room. Graceis asleep.