Incriminating Evidence (36 page)

Beckert pauses. I catch a glimpse of Natalie in the gallery. She is staring straight ahead.

“No, Mr. Daley. That isn’t what happened in this situation. Mr. Garcia’s heart did not fail.”

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

35
A PARADE OF EXPERTS

“Daley won’t be able to shake them. They’re the best evidence techs on the SFPD.”

—N
EWS
C
ENTER
4 L
EGAL
A
NALYST
M
ORT
G
OLDBERG
. T
UESDAY
, O
CTOBER
19.

Hillary Payne is running a beautifully choreographed show. She keeps promising Judge Kelly that she’ll have her case wrapped up by the end of the week. First up on this afternoon’s dance card is Sandra Wilson, the FET who gathered the evidence at the Fairmont. She’s sworn in. She looks uncomfortable in the stuffy courtroom. In her loose-fitting maternity clothes, she appears as if she could give birth in the witness box. One of the women on the jury gives her a thumbs-up. Sandra hasn’t said a word, but she’s already bonding. I won’t object to anything she says unless I must. I want her off the stand as fast as possible.

Payne starts to run her through her impressive credentials, and I stipulate to her expertise before they get to her college education. Like Rod Beckert, there’s no point in giving Sandra a chance to read her résumé to the jury. She confirms that she was the lead evidence technician at the Fairmont. She describes the scene. She explains the procedures for collecting and tagging the evidence. She and Payne
walk though a rehearsed description of how each piece of evidence was catalogued.

Skipper whispers, “We’re getting killed.”

Payne spends about twenty minutes standing next to the exhibit cart. She has Sandra identify every piece of evidence from Skipper’s room: the handcuffs, the key, the champagne bottle and glasses, the duct tape, the telephone. I object when they introduce the handcuff key. It’s overruled.

They go through a similar exercise for the evidence found at Skipper’s house. “We followed standard police procedure there, too,” Sandra says. She identifies the handcuffs found in Skipper’s study, as well as the dirty pictures and the storage locker key. Finally, they go through the same ritual for the items found in the storage locker. Sandra has done her job. She’s off the stand in less than thirty minutes. My cross-exam is short. We won’t win any arguments on chain-of-custody issues.

Payne gathers further momentum when she calls Sergeant Kathleen Jacobsen to the stand. “I am an evidence technician with the SFPD,” Jacobsen says. “I’ve held the position for twenty-four years.” Jacobsen is a calm, gray-haired woman in her early sixties. She’s a national authority on evidentiary matters. They’ve put the first team on this case.

Payne walks to the evidence cart and picks up four sets of handcuffs that are neatly wrapped in clear plastic. “Are you familiar with these?” she asks.

“Yes.” She identifies each set. “Those are the handcuffs that were found on the wrists and ankles of the victim, Johnny Garcia. He was handcuffed to the bedposts in Room 1504 of the Fairmont tower.”

Payne is pleased. “Did you find any fingerprints on the handcuffs?”

“Yes. The defendant’s.” There is no doubt.

“And these handcuffs are standard issue for law enforcement officers in San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

They go through a similar exercise for the handcuff key, except that she says the key is too small to find identifiable fingerprints.

“And this key was tested to determine whether it fit the handcuffs we just discussed, right?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” She turns back to Jacobsen. “Did you test this key to determine whether it would open the handcuffs we just looked at?”

“Yes.”

“And did it fit?”

“Yes.” She adds, “All four sets of handcuffs.”

Payne is very pleased now. “Sergeant,” she continues, “do you have any explanation as to how the handcuff key found its way into the toilet in the defendant’s bathroom?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Payne is trying to remind the jury that Skipper tried to get rid of the key. She picks up the champagne glasses from the evidence cart and has Jacobsen identify them. “Sergeant,” she says, “did you find any fingerprints on these champagne glasses?”

“Yes.” She points to the first glass. “We found the defendant’s fingerprints on that one.” She points to the second glass. “We found the defendant’s and the victim’s fingerprints on that one.”

Payne studies the glasses for a moment. “And what did you conclude from that?” she asks.

Everyone in the room knows the answer. Jacobsen confirms
that Skipper touched both glasses and Garcia touched one of them.

Payne takes the unused roll of duct tape from the evidence cart. She has Jacobsen confirm that Skipper’s fingerprints were found on the roll of tape. Likewise, she takes the strips of used duct tape that are packed in plastic and shows them to Jacobsen. She confirms that Skipper’s fingerprints were found on the used tape, too.

Skipper leans over to Molinari and whispers, “Isn’t there anything we can do to stop this?”

Ed shakes his head. I hear him whisper, “Nope.”

Payne leads Jacobsen through a similar analysis of the handcuffs, magazines and photos found at Skipper’s house and in the storage locker. His fingerprints were on all of them. The local law schools should bring their students down here to watch a textbook direct exam of an excellent witness by a well-prepared prosecutor. We take a pounding for an hour and a half before Payne sits down.

I approach Jacobsen. If I try to embarrass her, I’ll look like an imbecile. From the cart I take the four sets of handcuffs that were used to bind Garcia and hand them to her. “Sergeant,” I say in my most respectful tone, “did you find any fingerprints on these handcuffs besides those of the defendant?”

“No.”

“Are you aware that Mr. Gates attempted to remove the handcuffs from the victim?”

“That’s what I understand.”

“And it is therefore possible that the defendant may have gotten his fingerprints on these handcuffs when he tried to remove them, isn’t it?”

She has no choice. “Yes,” she responds.

“And even though you have testified that you found Mr. Gates’s fingerprints on these handcuffs, you cannot, in fact,
tell us whether he got his fingerprints on these handcuffs while he was trying to take them off or when he was putting them on. Isn’t that a fact, Sergeant?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Overruled.”

Jacobsen has no choice. “That’s true, Mr. Daley. It would be impossible to determine precisely when he got his fingerprints on these handcuffs.”

I glance back toward Skipper.

“Sergeant,” I continue, “let’s talk about the handcuff key for a moment.” I ask her to confirm that she did not find any fingerprints on the key. She acknowledges that this is true. I hand her the strips of used duct tape in their plastic wrappers and ask, “You testified that you found Mr. Gates’s fingerprints on these strips of tape, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, it is certain that Mr. Gates may have gotten his fingerprints on these strips of tape when he removed them from the victim’s face, isn’t it?”

She glances at Payne and says, “It’s possible.”

Juries hate games of semantics, but I have to push the point. “It isn’t just possible, Sergeant. It is an absolute certainty that Mr. Gates may have gotten his fingerprints on the tape when he removed it, isn’t it?”

I’ve framed the question in a manner that she has only one possible response. “Yes,” she says.

Thank you. “So, in other words, Sergeant, isn’t it fair to say that even though you found Mr. Gates’s fingerprints on the handcuffs and the duct tape, you have no conclusive evidence that Mr. Gates put the handcuffs or the duct tape
on
the victim, Johnny Garcia?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

It’s a legitimate objection.

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point. “No further questions.”

—————

Payne finishes the afternoon with Roosevelt Johnson, who goes through every dirty picture and magazine found in Skipper’s study and storage locker. The testimony about the copies of
Hustler
and the pictures of the naked prostitutes seem to offend several members of the jury. There is very little I can do about it. The searches were legal.

Payne leads Johnson through a tour of Skipper’s book-marked Web sites, complete with graphics and projections. We spend an hour looking at pictures of naked men and women, many of whom are bound and gagged. At ten to five, they focus on the Boys of the Bay Area Web site. A copy of the site’s home page flashes on the screen. Payne directs Johnson to a photo on the screen. “Do you recognize this young man, Inspector?” she asks.

“Yes,” he replies. “That’s a picture of the victim, Johnny Garcia.”

We adjourn for the day.

That night, Rosie, Pete and I are at Tony’s produce market. You can’t tell it was trashed just a few days ago. Tony stands by the cash register, his arms folded. Ernie Clemente is standing by the door, eating an apple. Pete has just handed me a copy of a printout of the home page of the Boys of the Bay Area Web site. There’s a handwritten street address on Valencia in the corner and the words
Room 204
.

“Where did you get this?” I ask Pete.

“I gave it to him,” Ernie says.

“How did
you
get it?”

“A couple of months ago, Andy Holton asked one of my kids if he wanted a job doing some modeling. Turns out he meant nude modeling. The kid was supposed to meet Andy at this address on Valencia. He chickened out and didn’t show up.”

“How old is the kid?”

“Seventeen.”

“Is he willing to testify?”

“I doubt it.”

Then again, we may not need him. “Where is this address?”

Pete says, “It’s the Curtis Hotel on Valencia. It’s the building where Martinez and Stanford went a couple of days ago.” He hands me another piece of paper. “This is a certified copy of the deed of the building located at the same address on Valencia Street. I got it from the county recorder’s office.”

I scan the legal document. The owner of the building is listed as the Mission Redevelopment Fund. Bingo. It’s the connection we’ve been looking for between Andy Holton and Donald Martinez.

Rosie looks at Pete and asks, “Have you gone up there and checked out Room 204?”

“Sure, but it was locked. Nobody answered when I knocked. And I wouldn’t think of breaking the door down. Breaking and entering is illegal,” he says primly.

“So what do you propose we do?” I ask.

“What every good citizen would do—call the cops.”

We call Ron Morales at home and meet with him at Mission Station. Pete tells him that he’s received an anonymous tip that there are illegal activities going on in Room 204 of the Curtis Hotel. Morales is cautious. He legitimately points out that the information is still too sparse to justify a search warrant. He suggests that Pete keep the room under surveillance for a couple of days. “Maybe we’ll spot somebody who is involved in running the operation,” he says. He offers backup if necessary—Mission Station is just down the block.

I ask, “What if we don’t find anything?”

“Then we’ll pull a warrant and go in.”

36
A CHANGE OF PACE

“Things are going to liven up considerably this morning.”

—N
EWS
C
ENTER
4 L
EGAL
A
NALYST
M
ORT
G
OLDBERG
. W
EDNESDAY
, O
CTOBER
20.

Mort the Sport is all excited as he gushes, “Today should be a big one. The prosecution is going to call a known prostitute to describe her sexual escapades with District Attorney Gates. If you think this trial has been sordid so far, just wait. We’re going to start wallowing in the mud now.”

They cut to the pretty young woman who reads the traffic reports.

Hillary Payne stands and says, “The people call Roberta Hall.” There’s murmuring in the courtroom. The petite prostitute who appeared on the Jade Warner show walks up the center aisle. She’s wearing a pantsuit with a plain white blouse this morning. She’s left off any makeup and her short hair is simply set. Payne has told her not to dress like a prostitute.

She’s sworn in. She takes her seat in the witness box, pours herself a glass of water and drinks it. Then she pours herself another one. She adjusts the microphone.

Hillary picks up the cue. She moves toward her and says
in a comforting voice, “Would you please state your name for the record?”

“Roberta Hall.” She tugs at her blouse.

“And what is your occupation?”

She clears her throat and says, “I’m a prostitute.”

“Ms. Hall,” Hillary begins, “you’ve met the defendant, Mr. Gates, haven’t you?”

“Objection. Leading.” No sense letting anybody get too comfortable here.

“Sustained.”

Payne is annoyed. “I’ll rephrase. Ms. Hall, have you ever met the defendant, Mr. Gates?”