Incriminating Evidence (20 page)

“No, Mr. Daley, it isn’t possible. There simply wasn’t enough heroin in his system to cause an overdose. The victim died of asphyxiation.” He nods as if to say “That’s all there is to it.”

We joust over the level of heroin in Garcia’s bloodstream. He doesn’t give an inch, although I do get him to acknowledge that other highly qualified pathologists may disagree with his conclusions. We go through a similar exercise over the level of GHB in Garcia’s system. Beckert acknowledges that GHB can kill you if you take enough of it but insists that Garcia ingested only a trace of that substance, too. I decide to try one more end run. “Doctor, isn’t it possible that the combination of the heroin and the GHB created a reaction that caused Johnny Garcia’s death?”

“No, Mr. Daley. It didn’t happen that way. He simply didn’t have enough heroin or GHB in his system to cause the reaction that you suggested.”

It’s the best I can do for now. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Payne trots out Sandra Wilson to confirm that all of the evidence was gathered in accordance with proper police procedure. I elect not to cross-examine her.

Payne finishes up with Roosevelt Johnson, who describes
the contents of the storage locker in persuasive detail. Photos of handcuffed, nude women.
Hustler
magazines. The reporters in the jury box seem to be enjoying themselves. I catch the police beat reporter from the
Chronicle
winking at his counterpart at the
Oakland Tribune
. I can already picture the headlines in tomorrow’s paper.

At a quarter to three, Payne asks Roosevelt whether he believed there was any connection between the pictures and the items found in the storage locker and Johnny Garcia’s case. The judge overrules my objection.

“Yes,” Roosevelt says. “I believe Mr. Gates needs help. I believe he likes to engage in alternative forms of sexual stimulation. I believe he likes to tie up and drug his victims. Then he has sex with them.”

“Is that what happened in this case?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you have a theory about what happened in this case, Inspector?”

“One of the sexual encounters got out of hand. Unfortunately, Johnny Garcia was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He paid for his mistake with his life.”

Payne says she has no further questions. My cross-examination lasts for only a few minutes. I can demonstrate that Roosevelt’s conclusions are speculative. However, there’s no way I can discredit his testimony.

Payne and I make our perfunctory closing arguments. She says it is a simple case of an evil man who lured in a teenager for sex and then killed him. I argue it’s all a setup.

Judge Vanden Heuvel doesn’t hesitate. “I have concluded that there is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over for trial.”

Skipper doesn’t move.

Vanden Heuvel consults with her bailiff. “May we assume,” she says to me, “that Mr. Gates will waive time?”

“No, Your Honor,” I say.

Vanden Heuvel gives me a puzzled look. “Are you sure about this, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“May we assume that you’ll be asking for a change of venue?”

“No, Your Honor,” I say. “Mr. Gates would like to have his case heard in San Francisco. As DA, he has come to respect the fairness and judgment of San Francisco juries.”

I swear my nose is getting longer as I say these words.

Vanden Heuvel studies her calendar. I’d bet almost anything she figured this case was heading out of town. Now we’ve gone and gummed up the works. She confers with her bailiff. Finally, she says, “Judge Joanne O’Donnell Kelly is supposed to finish a jury trial two weeks from Friday. Her calendar should be free on Monday, October eleventh. I am setting a trial in her courtroom on that date.”

“That’s two weeks from Monday,” I say.

“That’s right, Mr. Daley. You asked for an early trial date, and now you’re going to get it.”

I glance at Skipper. The judge says, “Is there a problem, Mr. Daley?”

“One moment, Your Honor.” Two and a half weeks to prepare for a murder trial is a very short period of time. Judge Kelly is a veteran of at least thirty years on the bench. She was one of the first women appointed to the San Francisco superior court. She’s another former prosecutor who speaks her mind and spends most of her time trying to negotiate plea bargains. She prides herself in keeping a clear docket. She isn’t the most thoughtful jurist on the San Francisco bench, but things move along very quickly in her courtroom. I ask the judge for a moment and I confer with Skipper. “Are you sure about this?” I ask.

“It’s perfect,” he says without hesitation. “Go for it.”

I turn back to the judge and say, “We’ll be ready, Your Honor.”

“You don’t look great,” Rosie observes after we’ve returned to the office. I feel much worse than I look.

“On top of everything else,” I say, “Ann read me the riot act.”

“You were expecting some other reaction from her?”

“It’s a god-awful case,” I say.

She shrugs. “You’ve known that from the start. The evidence is stacked against us. It’s a case we can’t win for a client we can’t stand.”

“That pretty well covers it.”

“And how is this different from most of our cases?”

“It isn’t.” I reflect for a moment and add, “You know, Rosie, there is something very odd about Skipper’s demeanor.”

“How’s that?”

“Most of the evidence cuts against him, but he isn’t acting like a guilty man. Not a bit. He hasn’t changed his story. He’s adamant about a plea bargain.”

“I’ve noticed the same thing,” she says. “Guilty people waver. They keep adjusting their story to make it a little better each time. He isn’t doing that. He’s indignant—even angry at times. That’s more likely to be a sign of someone who’s been wrongly accused.”

“Or someone who is a terrific liar,” I say.

Rosie’s lips turn up slightly. “Well, do
you
think he’s innocent?”

“Something certainly happened at the Fairmont that night, but I’m not convinced he killed Johnny Garcia. What about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not letting you off easy. I told you what I thought—now it’s your turn. Turn your cards up. What do you think? Did he do it?”

Rosie gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Fair enough,” she says. “Something very bad happened at the Fairmont and I think Skipper was involved somehow. But no, I don’t think he killed Johnny Garcia, either—at least not on purpose.”

“You won’t change your mind, will you?”

She breaks into a wide grin. “I might.” She looks at the stack of phone messages in my hand and asks, “So, what are you up to tonight?”

“I thought I would treat myself to a nice dinner.”

“Got a hot date?”

“Not exactly. I’m having dinner with Kevin Anderson.”

17
“WHAT CAN YOU TELL ME ABOUT JOHNNY GARCIA?”

“Police are still searching for the mysterious roommate in the Garcia slaying.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
C
HRONICLE
. W
EDNESDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
22.

Kevin Anderson and I are sitting in the back of Mike’s Chinese Cuisine, an inconspicuous two-story restaurant in the middle of the block on Geary, between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Avenues. Many people believe the muckity-mucks who run San Francisco dine only in places like Postrio, Boulevard and Aqua. Not true. On a given day, our resident United States senator, our congresswoman and half the Board of Supervisors will stop by Mike’s. I’m amazed the paparazzi haven’t figured this out yet. Then again, maybe they have. I’ll bet they eat here, too.

“What can you tell me about Johnny Garcia?” I ask Kevin as he takes a bite out of a pot sticker. No sense beating around the bush. He has made it clear he has only half an hour to talk to me. Then he and Turner Stanford are off to work their magic at a planning commission meeting; his dad wants to convert some old industrial space down by the ballpark into lofts. He is wearing a business suit for the occasion. He’s an unpretentious lad for a millionaire.

“Not much,” he replies. “He was from the Mission. Raised in the projects. No father. Mother was an addict. We found him in the BART station plaza a couple of years ago.”

This squares with the accounts of Ernie Clemente and Ramon Aguirre.

He glances around the crowded restaurant. He says he was able to convince Garcia to come to the Mission Youth Center. They cleaned him up and gave him a place to live. They got him into rehab. They found him a room and a job.

I ask about his drug problems.

“Heroin. He was in bad shape when we found him. He would have been dead within a month or two. He was selling his body to pay for drugs. He was the poster child for everything that could have gone wrong. I thought we had him straightened out.” He wipes his hands on the white cloth napkin. “I guess not. I hear they found heroin in his system when he died. I should have watched him more closely. I have only so much time to work with the kids.”

I pick up a spring roll and dip it into the sweet sauce. Then I add a touch of hot mustard. It’s easy to see why the bigwigs eat here. “Kevin, you seem to have a pretty full plate. What brought you to social work?”

“It comes from my father, Mr. Daley. He came from a poor family. He caught a few breaks when he was growing up—some people helped him out when he was short on money, and one of the guys at the YMCA gave him a job so he could work his way through State. He’s never forgotten it. He donates a lot of money to charity. He insists that everybody in the company give something back to the community. I like to work with kids.”

He seems like a solid citizen, yet there is something in his tone that sounds a bit too slick for me. I change the subject. “Can you tell me anything about Andy Holton?”

“Not much.”

It’s a circumspect answer. I’m not surprised, given the word of mouth about Holton. He has political ambitions. The mayor has taught him to be cautious. He motions to the waiter to bring us more tea. “I met him a couple of times,” he says. “Andy was a street kid, too. He went through the Mission center about five years ago. He was on amphetamines. Ernie got him off drugs and found him a place to live and a job. We used to bring him back to the center to talk to the kids. He was one of our success stories.”

Now he’s a missing person.

“He took Johnny under his wing,” he says. “He showed him the ropes and helped him get the job at the Pancho Villa.”

“Do you have any idea where he may have gone?”

“Nope.” It seems to me the answer comes a little too quickly. “I expect he’s scared. I’m sure he figures the cops will want to talk to him.”

No doubt. “Does he have anything to hide?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he says. He looks across the room and nods to the mayor, who has just entered the restaurant. Then he leans forward. “You know,” he says, “Johnny and Andy weren’t getting along very well.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Johnny said they had an argument at the restaurant a couple of weeks before he died.”

“About what?” I’m getting annoyed. He mentioned this once before but didn’t provide any details. He’s too damned coy.

“The usual. The room. The rent.”

“That’s it?”

“As far as I know.”

“We heard they may have been lovers.”

He takes a fortune cookie. “I don’t know.”

“We heard Holton was a drug dealer.”

This time he’s emphatic. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“We’ve also heard he was trying to start a new business.”

I seem to have his attention now. “What kind of business?” he asks.

It’s my turn to say, “I don’t know.”

He shrugs. “Sorry, Mr. Daley. I wasn’t Andy’s social worker. I don’t know anything about that, either.”

Let’s try something else. “I understand Johnny called you the night he died.”

“Twice,” he answers, feigning nonchalance. “I reported it to the police.” His expression changes to one of concern. “If I had been home when he called, I might have been able to do something. I didn’t get the messages until morning.” He’s being very sincere, but it doesn’t ring true.

I ask if he saved them.

He hesitates. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know—no special reason. I just hit the delete button.”

“You may have destroyed some valuable evidence.”

He holds his hands up. “Hey, calm down. I didn’t mean to do anything.”

I’m not giving in yet. “What did he say in the messages?”

“He was at the Fairmont. He said he’d made a terrible mistake. He asked me to come pick him up.”

“Did you do anything about it?”

“There was nothing I could do. It was the next morning when I got the messages. It was too late. I’d already heard about it on the news by then.”

“I’d like to talk to Holton. Any idea how to find him?”

“Not really. Before he went to work at the Pancho Villa, he used to work at another restaurant around the corner. I suppose you might ask around down there.”

“You happen to know the name of the place?”

“LaCumbre Taqueria.”

It’s a start. “Thanks for your help.” The boy millionaire with the trust fund graciously lets me pick up the check.

Pete and I survey Sixteenth Street from the BART station plaza the next morning. The activities around the Green Monster have already started. Heroin addicts wake up early and try to get their daily fix. The plaza has a busy ambiance, almost festive if you didn’t know what was going on. A homeless man with a shopping cart asks us for money. Pete obliges with a quarter.

We head up Sixteenth past the residential hotels and the Pancho Villa toward Valencia, where we turn left. We see a dangling sign over the entrance to LaCumbre. It’s early for lunch, so the modest taco stand is quiet. The sweet aroma of burritos and beans fills the small room. There’s a young Hispanic man behind the counter. We order two cups of coffee.