The 7th Canon (6 page)

“Yeah,” Donley managed to say, still struggling to catch his breath.

The deputy stepped into the room and retrieved the chair. Exiting, he said, “Creeps me out, too.”

Donley took back the contents of his briefcase. About to leave, he glanced at the narrow, wire-mesh window.

The priest had shut his eyes.

Chapter 6

Lieutenant Aileen O’Malley massaged her eyelids, careful not to dislodge her contact lenses. At 10:00 a.m., the damn things already burned, and the pounding in her temples maintained a steady beat that two Tylenol hadn’t come close to silencing.

Gil Ramsey, San Francisco’s district attorney, stood with his back to her, staring out the glass wall into the homicide room, where detectives sat at cluttered desks. In the middle of the room, someone had set the traffic-signal light to red, but O’Malley knew that was wishful thinking. There would be no stopping this day. O’Malley had been going since getting the call at four thirty in the morning.

Linda St. Claire, Ramsey’s chief prosecutor, sat across O’Malley’s desk, her bare legs crossed, foot tapping. John Begley stood in the corner, trying to avoid the wandering leaves of a philodendron plant.

“Without a search warrant?” St. Claire shook her head. “I say we let the priest go and try Connor.”

O’Malley buried her chin in her hand. On first blush, she and St. Claire had much in common. Both had succeeded in traditionally male-dominated professions by being smart and resolute. Tall, both of them kept in good physical condition. But the similarities ended there. O’Malley exercised because her job required she be in shape, her figure an athletic cut with swimmer’s shoulders and narrow hips. Growing up, she’d been the girl next door the boys wanted to play with. St. Claire worked out to further her significant social life, her curves defined under the tutelage of a personal trainer and augmented by a plastic surgeon. Growing up, she’d been the girl next door every boy wanted.

“There’s no sense trying to make it better than it is,” St. Claire said. “Connor screwed up. How did he find out about the kid at the shelter? Anything we can use?”

O’Malley shook her head. “Anonymous caller. Connor and John were on standby. Connor was in the office when the call came in.”

Ramsey turned from the window, impeccably dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and silver tie that matched the color of the salt in his salt-and-pepper hair. He directed his attention to Begley. “What did the caller say?”

“‘There’s a dead body at the shelter,’” Begley said.

“Anything else?”

Begley shook his head. “You can hear background noise, cars on the street, people talking. It was a pay phone.”

St. Claire spoke to Ramsey. “What evidence we’ll be able to get in will depend a lot on Connor’s state of mind.”

“Then pack your bags,” Begley said. “’Cause we’re going down if that’s the case.”

St. Claire continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “We need to know whether, when Connor got to the building, he thought there could be more than one body, or if he had probable cause to believe there was something or someone in the locked office.”

Begley shook his head. “Not likely.”

St. Claire persisted. “There has to be something to justify his knocking down a locked door.”

Ramsey jingled the change in his pockets, a habit. “The crime scene was the recreation room. It’s a stretch to extend that to a locked office across a hall. John’s right. It’s a building, not a home, but let’s have someone do some research and see if there is some precedent when the building is for a single purpose, like a boys’ club . . . something like that. It could be a stretch, though, since the priest keeps a room in the office, and the boys sleep there.”

“He lives there?” St. Claire asked.

“He has a bed and a sink in a closet at the back of his office.” Ramsey sat in the chair next to St. Claire, crossed his Ferragamo loafers, and pressed his fingertips together, creating a pyramid beneath his chin. “I had a tour.”

Ramsey would not be district attorney long. Every significant poll predicted he would be California’s next attorney general. His father, Augustus, had taken the same career path to become a two-term governor, an office from which he had launched an unsuccessful bid for the Republican presidential nomination.

Ramsey said what everyone in the room had been thinking. “We all know this is a political hornet’s nest. A lot of people in city hall supported Father Martin and his project, including me. If we mishandle this, there will be enough mud to cover us all.”

“What about the letter opener? Where did Connor find it?” St. Claire asked.

“Also in the office,” Begley said.

“Also a problem,” Ramsey said. “How bad are the photographs?”

“Bad,” St. Claire said. “Hard core, prepubescent. Enough to shock any juror.”

The softness of St. Claire’s blonde hair and blue eyes belied her reputation and her résumé. Her ten capital-murder convictions numbered more than any other prosecutor in the state and had earned her a nickname she publicly rebuffed, but which many of her colleagues believed she privately relished: “St. Claire, the Chair.” This was the type of high-profile, winnable case Ramsey seemed to always assign her, which had led to other, less-flattering nicknames from her colleagues, names like “Cherry Picker” and “Glory Hound.” It had also raised suspicions about the nature of their relationship.

“How old is the victim?” Ramsey asked.

“Undetermined,” O’Malley said. “Sixteen, according to his juvenile records.”

“Any theories on a possible motive?”

Begley shook his head. “Father Martin has no history of violence or sexual misconduct.”

“He has a juvenile record in New York,” St. Claire said.

That got everyone’s attention, which O’Malley suspected had been St. Claire’s intent. Out-of-state records had to come from the FBI through the National Crime Information Center. Getting them was difficult, getting them so quickly, usually impossible.

“I made a call to a law-school friend this morning,” she said coyly. “Father Martin was arrested for vandalism and malicious mischief. He stole a car when he was thirteen and did some time in a juvenile facility.”

Ramsey dismissed it. “I could have saved you the call. He offered that information when he was stumping for his shelter. He made it a positive, said it helped him to relate to the boys—kids with problems, without role models; kids in need of a break.”

“Maybe not so positive,” St. Claire said.

“The point is, he isn’t hiding it.” Ramsey stood and stretched his back, then resumed jiggling the change in his pockets.

O’Malley turned to Begley. “What do we know about the victim?”

Begley pulled out a notebook. “Andrew Bennet. Goes by the nickname ‘Alphabet.’ Multiple arrests for prostitution, lewd behavior, drugs, possession with intent to distribute, a couple of B and E’s. He’s a regular in the Gulch.”

“Not a choirboy,” Ramsey said.

“Far from it,” Begley agreed.

“We need to get back inside the building, find something that gets us closer to a motive. You froze it?” Ramsey asked.

“I had no choice after Connor went Rambo.”

“Does the priest have a lawyer?” Ramsey asked.

Begley shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Has he asked for one?”

“No, but I don’t think we can question him again without the defense making a stink later.”

“I’m more curious whether the archdiocese will get involved,” Ramsey said.

St. Claire shook her head. “Not if they’re smart, they won’t. Isn’t this the reason why it did not affiliate itself with the shelter in the first place?”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ramsey said. “The archbishop’s a stubborn SOB when he wants to be.”

St. Claire stood and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the edge of O’Malley’s desk. “Who’s handling the arraignment?”

“Trimble,” Ramsey said, referring to Judge Milt Trimble.

St. Claire stopped in mid-pour. “Maximum Milt?”

“With the consolidation of the municipal and superior courts, he’s on the rotation,” Ramsey said, though O’Malley detected a tone to Ramsey’s voice she inferred meant he had something to do with the assignment. Ramsey changed gears. “I want to move quickly. My phone’s ringing off the hook. Be prepared to go day after tomorrow.”

“Christmas Eve?” St. Claire asked.

“The courts are open a half day,” he said. His tone again suggested he’d played a part in expediting the matter.

St. Claire set down the pitcher. “Maximum Milt on Christmas Eve—he should be in a good mood.”

Ramsey looked to O’Malley. “We’ll need to be prepared to meet a Riverside standard,” he said, referencing the US Supreme Court case requiring a prompt judicial hearing to determine whether sufficient evidence existed to establish probable cause to hold a defendant arrested without a warrant.

“You’ll have my statement this afternoon,” Begley said.

“What about a statement from Connor?” St. Claire asked.

O’Malley shook her head. “I put him on the beach. Hopefully, he stays there. John can handle the specifics.” She stood, eager to end the meeting so she could deal with a dozen other matters, finish her Christmas shopping, and try to find at least a spark of holiday spirit. “Anything else?”

“That should do it,” Ramsey said. “Except for determining who’ll be representing Father Martin.”

Ruth-Bell was not at her desk, and Donley was glad he wouldn’t have to answer her questions about what he’d learned from the priest, which was jack. Too early for lunch; she was likely in the bathroom down the hall. Donley went into his office and shut the door. He removed his tie and jacket and draped them over a chair, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His legs and arms felt weak, like he was coming down with the flu. He had the onset of a headache and felt like he’d just woken from a deep sleep.

It had been years since he’d suffered a panic attack, and even longer since he’d had an attack brought on by the memory of his father. Donley opened his desk drawer, shook free two aspirin, and downed them with water. Past experience had taught him the best thing to do to get past the attack was to keep busy, occupy his mind, bury the memories under an avalanche of legalese and critical thinking. It had worked before. It had worked for years.

He made a to-do list of things to accomplish before the Christmas holiday and began checking them off as he went, pouring through one file after the next, making phone calls, dictating letters. An hour passed. He heard the telephone on Ruth-Bell’s desk ring in the reception area. Simultaneously, the red light on his desk phone console lit up, indicating an outside caller. When Ruth-Bell failed to answer on the third ring, Donley answered the phone himself.

“Law Offices of Lou Giantelli.” No one spoke. “Hello?”

“Peter.”

He hardly recognized the voice.

Twenty minutes later, Donley was racing down a linoleum floor, turning corners and following signs.

In between sobs, Ruth-Bell had managed to tell Donley she was calling from a pay phone at San Francisco General. The court clerk in Judge Kaplan’s courtroom had called that afternoon. Lou had collapsed during his cross-examination of Dr. Kinzerman and been taken from the courtroom on a stretcher.

When he reached the waiting room, Donley paused to take a few deep breaths before entering. His aunt Sarah sat beside Ruth-Bell, both pale, their eyes swollen and red. Sarah stood and hugged him.

“Have they told you anything?” he asked.

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

“The clerk said it was a heart attack,” Ruth-Bell said. “We haven’t talked to anyone since we got here.”

“I’ll go see what I can find out,” Donley said.

He stepped past an empty nurse’s station to glass doors that opened automatically. Continuing, he peered behind curtain partitions. He found Lou behind the second partition from the end, though he had to look twice to confirm it was his uncle. The old man in the bed looked nothing like the robust drill sergeant who’d been barking out orders that morning. A morass of tubes and wires pierced his body and connected to humming machines with blinking, colored lights. Donley gently rested a hand on Lou’s arm.