Incriminating Evidence (43 page)

“Here’s Stanford walking out the back door of his house.”

No big deal so far.

“Here’s Stanford entering the back door of Skipper’s house.”

Still no big deal. “When did you take these pictures?”

“Saturday night.”

“Could you tell who answered the door?”

“Mrs. Gates.”

I shuffle through several more pictures of the back door of the Gates mansion. Finally, I get to a picture of Turner coming out the back door. “When did you take this one?” I ask.

Nick finishes his calamari. “It was about seven o’clock the next morning.”

“He spent the night at Natalie’s?”

“Indeed he did.”

Indeed I am stunned. “Natalie and Turner are having an affair?”

He gives me a sideways grin. “I don’t know for sure,” he says. “I couldn’t see inside the house.” He drinks his wine. “That would appear to be a logical conclusion, however.”

Christ. I close my eyes. Moose’s is a very noisy restaurant. At the moment, I don’t hear a thing. My mind races. I see freeze-frames of Natalie and Ann. I see Skipper’s smiling face. The room spins. Who is protecting whom? Who is setting up whom? Did Turner set up his best friend? Did Natalie set up her husband? I can’t put it together. There is a whole array of unanswered questions, of trails I can’t connect.

I open my eyes. I see Nick Hanson sitting in front of me, looking serious. “Thanks, Nick,” I say. “You did your job.” I ask him if he’s prepared to testify if we need him.

“Indeed I am,” he says.

I head right to Rosie’s after Nick and I part. “What are you going to tell Skipper about Natalie and Turner?” she asks.

“The truth,” I say. “We have no choice. It gives both of them a motive to have framed Skipper. They were both there that night. They both had a chance to plant the GHB.”

“And what do you propose to tell Natalie?”

“For the moment, nothing. I want to talk to Skipper first.”

“And Ann?”

“Nothing there yet, either.”

“And Turner?”

“Not a word,” I say. “We need to think this through. If we tell Natalie, she’ll tell Turner. We don’t want him to find out anything. We may need to ambush him in court.”

43
“I’M A POLITICAL CONSULTANT”

“Gates defense ponders whether to let defendant take the stand.”

—
S
AN
F
RANCISCO
D
AILY
L
EGAL
J
OURNAL
. T
UESDAY
, O
CTOBER
26.

Skipper explodes Tuesday morning. “That son of a bitch!” he shouts. “I’ll rip him apart.” He throws a paper coffee cup against the wall in the consultation room and says, “Turner had no right. That bastard.”

“You didn’t know?” Molinari asks.

“Of course I didn’t know. I had no idea. Natalie and I have been married for almost forty years. He was best man at my wedding. Who the hell does he think he is?”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. Skipper chews on his fingernail. His face is red.

It’s time to lay all the cards faceup. I strain to find my best priest-voice. “Skipper,” I whisper, “it’s possible they may have been involved in what happened at the Fairmont.”

I get an icy glare. He says emphatically, “Natalie would never get involved in something like that.”

I struggle to keep my tone measured. “That may be true,” I say, “but she is very unhappy and her relationship with Turner may have some bearing on your case. I need to know what was going on with you and Natalie and Turner.”

Skipper eyes me with disdain. “Look,” he says, “Natalie and I made a deal a long time ago. I already told you about it. We agreed to remain married for the sake of appearance. We were each allowed to have other relationships as long as we were discreet about it. It isn’t a perfect arrangement, but it was the best we could come up with.”

Why am I not surprised that his marriage evolved into a business deal? “And her relationship with Turner?”

“Technically, if she wanted to have an affair with him, it fell within the parameters of our agreement, although it strikes me as—as inappropriate. He’s our neighbor. He’s my best friend. He is Ann’s godfather, for God’s sake. At least I kept my affairs discreet.”

Right up until the time you got arrested when they found a dead male prostitute in your room, you bastard. I realize I’m furious. I can’t contain it. “So it was one thing for you to sleep with prostitutes but another thing for Natalie to sleep with Turner?” The back of my neck is red hot.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“You just said that.” I am leaning forward in my chair.

“It’s not what I meant.”

My face is about eight inches from his. “I think it’s exactly what you meant.”

We stare each other down. After a moment, Molinari stands and pushes us apart. “This is a serious issue,” he says, “but we have to keep our eye on the ball here. This is material new information that may have a significant bearing on this case.”

That’s for damn sure. “We’re going to have to put Natalie on the stand,” I say. “She and Turner were both at the Fairmont. Either of them could have spiked the drinks. She had access to your study and the storage locker. She knew about everything.”

Skipper folds his hands in front of his face, deep in thought. Finally, he says in a measured tone, “Natalie has
been protecting me for four decades. She is the mother of my child and one of the most caring members of our community. She respects human life more than anybody else I know. She would never get involved with anything like this. She would never do something that might cause her such embarrassment and humiliation. And she would never—ever—kill anybody.”

His raw emotions are exposed. I don’t think there’s a chance that he’s lying. Nor do I think he’s trying to cover for her.

“What about Turner?” Ed asks.

His expression changes instantaneously to one of scorn. “That’s an entirely different story,” he says. “We’ve been friends since we were kids, and we always will be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know the kind of man he is. He’s the consummate user. He always has been. He’ll do anything to get what he wants. That’s why he’s such a successful political consultant. That’s why he’s the best juice lawyer in town. If people are hurt along the way, so be it.”

I get a quick glance from Molinari that suggests he’s thinking exactly the same thing that I am: This is also a self-portrait of Skipper. “Do you think he set you up?” I ask.

He ponders for a moment and says, “After all these years, nothing would surprise me about Turner. On the other hand, I can’t see any motive he would have.”

“Except Natalie.”

Skipper swallows and says, “He seems to have had that already.”

True enough. “Did Turner know about your arrangements with Andy Holton and Johnny Garcia?” I ask.

“Of course. He put me in touch with Holton in the first place.”

So Turner lied. He really did know what was going on with Skipper. I stop to think for a moment. How would he have known a pimp like Holton? Then the answer becomes
obvious. “He represents Martinez and Anderson,” I say. “There must be a connection.”

“Maybe, but if Martinez is involved, you’ll never find any hard evidence that leads to him.”

We stare at the walls for a few minutes. I’m certain there are more pieces to the puzzle, but I can’t find them. Finally, Molinari says to Skipper, “It would help our case if we could call Natalie and Turner as witnesses and deflect suspicion over to them.”

Skipper is indignant. “I realize that you are just doing your job,” he says with an edge in his voice. “And I appreciate the fact that the correct legal strategy is to put Natalie on the stand. Nevertheless, I want to make something absolutely clear to you: Natalie didn’t do anything and I will not let her testify. She’s suffered enough humiliation.”

“Can we talk about this for a moment?” I ask.

He sits up ramrod straight. “I’m the client. Natalie will not testify. That’s final.” Molinari and I exchange glances, and Skipper adds, “Do whatever you want with Turner. Take him apart on the stand if you have to. But I don’t want Natalie in the courtroom.”

Sensitive guy. “What do you want me to tell Natalie?”

“The truth. That we know about their relationship.”

“She’ll tell Turner.”

He ponders this. “Don’t say anything to her yet,” he decides, “and be sure to get her out of the courtroom before Turner takes the stand. Then she can be told.”

“How?”

“You figure out a way.”

The deputy knocks on the door to take Skipper to the courtroom. Molinari and I stay behind for a moment. After the door closes, he asks, “How do we handle this?”

“Rosie?” I say. Who else?

When I huddle with her moments later just outside the
courtroom, she asks me in a whisper what she’s supposed to do. “Take Natalie home when we break for lunch,” I say.

“And tell her what?”

“The truth. That we know about her affair with Turner. It won’t be easy and I don’t know how she’ll take it, but we have to get it over with. I guess you’d better tell Ann, too—she’s got to know.”

“Christ—that’ll make my day complete,” Rosie says.

“My name is Jason Parnelli. I’m a political consultant.”

The reporters in the gallery are settling in. The courtroom artists are holding their sketch pads. This morning, we’ve decided to put Jason Parnelli, Dan Morris’s little toad on the stand before his boss so Morris won’t have a chance to brief Parnelli on what he testified. I’m sure they’ve already compared notes on how to proceed.

Parnelli has abandoned the business-casual look in favor of a traditional pin-striped suit. He looks uncomfortable in the witness chair. He’s never done this before. People with his connections are generally not subjected to this sort of thing. He looks toward Payne for moral support.

I stand at the lectern for a few extra moments and shuffle paper. I want to give him plenty of time to sweat. “Mr. Parnelli,” I begin, “you were at a meeting in Room 1504 in the Fairmont tower on the night of September sixth of this year, weren’t you?” I try for a tone that gives the jury the impression that he’s committed a felony just by being in the hotel that night.

“Yes,” he replies.

“And the meeting ended at twelve-thirty in the morning on Tuesday, September seventh, correct?”

“Yes.”

I walk toward him and point my index finger at him. “But
you didn’t leave the hotel at twelve-thirty, did you, Mr. Parnelli?”

“No.” He’s been told to keep his answers short.

“In fact, Mr. Parnelli, you stayed for quite some time after the meeting ended, didn’t you?”

“I stayed until about one-thirty.”

“One-thirty?” I say. I’m tempted to ask him why he stayed for so long, but that would be a mistake. I don’t want to ask open-ended questions. I want to keep him on the defensive by eliciting brief answers. “Who was with you until one-thirty?”

He glances around the courtroom. “I was with my boss, Mr. Dan Morris, in Room 1502.”

“Anybody else?”

“No.”

I go back to the lectern and leaf through my notes. It’s an act. I’m trying to make him nervous. It’s sort of like calling a time-out right before a basketball player is about to shoot a free throw. “Mr. Parnelli,” I say, “you met someone in the hallway around one o’clock in the morning, didn’t you?”

His eyes dart. “Yes. As we were leaving, we saw Mr. Nicholas Hanson in the hallway.” He acknowledges that Nick the Dick gave them the videotape, after which they returned to the room.

“In fact,” I say, “you hired Mr. Hanson to try to dig up some dirt on the defendant, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Hanson did just that, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And did you and Mr. Morris have an opportunity to view the videotape in Room 1502 that night?”

“Mr. Hanson left as soon as he delivered the information and the tape.”

Not exactly responsive. I ask him again whether he and Morris watched the videotape in Room 1502 that night.

He gulps water. “Yes.”

Good. “There was a problem with the tape, wasn’t there, Mr. Parnelli?”

“Objection. The witness is not qualified as an expert on videotaping techniques.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I am not attempting to elicit a film review. I’m trying to determine whether the videotape contained the information that Mr. Parnelli and Mr. Morris hoped it would.”

Judge Kelly gives me some leeway. “Perhaps you could rephrase the question?”

“Of course.” I ask him whether the tape contained uncontroverted evidence that a prostitute had entered Skipper’s room that night.

“There was a problem with the tape, Mr. Daley,” he says.

Yes.

“The problem,” he continues, “is that the tape did not clearly show who opened the door.”

“You mean you couldn’t tell whether it was Mr. Gates?”

“That’s correct.”

He’s far too honest for his own good. He keeps letting the truth get in the way of an effective story. He’ll never work for Dan Morris again. “And you couldn’t see the face of the individual who entered the room, could you?”

“It was the victim, Johnny Garcia.”

“But you couldn’t tell that for sure from the tape, could you?”

“We were sure.”

I try once more. “But you couldn’t see his face, could you, Mr. Parnelli?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“You knew Mr. Gates was going to see a male prostitute that night, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You must have been pretty sure.”

“We didn’t know.”

“Then why did you hire Mr. Hanson to spy on him?”