The Terrorist Next Door (27 page)
Read The Terrorist Next Door Online
Authors: Sheldon Siegel
Tags: #Mystery, #Detective, #(v5), #Police Procedural
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing stories is a collaborative process. This is my first non-series book with new characters, a new setting, and a new narrative voice. I got an enormous amount of help on this story, and I want to take the opportunity to thank the kind people who have been so generous with their time.
Thanks to my beautiful wife, Linda, who still reads all of my drafts, keeps me going when I’m stuck, and remains supportive when I’m on deadline. You are an extraordinarily generous soul. Thanks also for putting together the terrific video trailer, handling my website, and dealing with electronic books and other modern technology. Thanks to our twin sons, Alan and Stephen, who are very understanding when I have to spend time working on my books.
Thanks to Margret and Nevins McBride, Donna Degutis and Faye Atchison at the Margret McBride Literary Agency. Thanks to Elaine and Bill Petrocelli at Book Passage.
Thanks to my teachers, Katherine V. Forrest and Michael Nava, and to the Every Other Thursday Night Writers’ Group: Bonnie DeClark, Meg Stiefvater, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka, Janet Wallace and Priscilla Royal.
A huge thanks to two of my fellow natives of Chicago’s Southeast Side. Thanks to Rod Sellers of the Southeast Side Historical Society, who is a retired teacher at Bowen and Washington High Schools. Thanks for the grand tour of the Southeast Side and the helpful information about its history. You are an extraordinary teacher and great friend, and I now know more about our old neighborhood than I did when I was living there. Thanks also to retired Detective Mike Rowan of the Chicago Police Department, who took me on a tour of the Southeast Side’s police haunts, and explained the inner workings of South Chicago Station and Area Two. For those of you who are interested in the extraordinary history of South Chicago and the Southeast Side, please check out the Southeast Side Historical Society’s excellent website at: http://www.neiu.edu/~reseller/sehsintro.htm.
A big thanks to Caryn Amster and the contributors to the Overflow blog for residents of Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood. Special thanks to Mark Kotlick and Carlos Rosas at Calumet Fisheries at the 95th Street drawbridge. You still make the best smoked shrimp anywhere!
A big thanks to the incomparable Melanie Kuliniak for the tour of Chicago’s Polish Town.
Thanks to my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton (and your spouses and significant others), for being so supportive through the birth of eight books. Space limitations don’t allow me to list everybody, but I’d like to mention those of you with whom I’ve worked the longest: Randy and Mary Short, Cheryl Holmes, Chris and Debbie Neils, Bob Thompson, Joan Story and Robert Kidd, Donna Andrews, Phil and Wendy Atkins-Pattenson, Julie and Jim Ebert, Geri Freeman and David Nickerson, Ed and Valerie Lozowicki, Bill and Barbara Manierre, Betsy McDaniel, Tom Nevins, Ron and Rita Ryland, Bob Stumpf, Dave Lanferman, Mike Wilmar, Miriam Montesinos, Mathilde Kapuano, Guy Halgren, Aline Pearl, Jack Connolly, Ed Graziani, Julie Penney, Steve Winick, Larry Braun and Bob Zuber. A big thanks to Jane Gorsi for your incomparable editing skills.
Thanks to my supportive friends at my law school alma mater, Boalt Law School: Kathleen Vanden Heuvel and Leslie and Bob Berring. Thanks also to my supportive friends at my undergraduate alma mater, the University of Illinois: Cheryl and President Robert Easter, Chancellor Phyllis Wise and Dick Meisinger, Dean Larry DeBrock, and Tim and Kandi Durst.
Thanks always to the kind souls who provide comments on the early drafts of my stories: Jerry and Dena Wald, Gary and Marla Goldstein, Ron and Betsy Rooth, Rich and Debby Skobel, Debbie Tanenbaum, Dick and Rosamond Campbell, Joan Lubamersky, Tom Bearrows and Holly Hirst, Roz and Rabbi Bernard Spielman, Julie Hart, Burt Rosenberg, Ted George, Jeff Roth, Phil Dito, Sister Karen Marie Franks, Brother Stan Sobczyk, Elaine and Bill Petrocelli, Stacy Alesi, Jim Schock, George Fong, Chuck and Nora Koslosky, Libby Hellmann, Bob Dugoni, John Lescroart, Thomas Perry, John Sandford, Jeff Parker, David Corbett, Allison Leotta and Jackie Cooper. A huge thanks to Charlene and the late Al Saper, two native South Siders who vetted this story and who have always been there for us.
Thanks always to Charlotte, Ben, Michelle, Margie and Andy Siegel, Joe, Jan and Julia Garber, Terry Garber, Roger and Sharon Fineberg, Beverly Rathje, Jan Harris Sandler and Matz Sandler, Scott, Michelle, Stephanie, Kim and Sophie Harris, Cathy, Richard and Matthew Falco, and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden and Ari Stewart.
Finally, a big thanks once again to all of my readers, and especially to those of you who have taken the time to write. Your support means more to me than you’ll ever imagine, and I am very grateful.
A Note to the Reader
Dear Reader,
Thanks very much for reading this story. I hope you liked it. If you did, I hope you will check out my other books. In addition, I would appreciate it if you would let others know. In particular, I would be very grateful if you would tell your friends and help us spread the word by e-mail, Amazon, Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, Linkedin, etc. In addition, if you are inclined (and I hope you are), I hope you will consider posting an honest
review on Amazon
.
If you have a chance and would like to chat, please feel free to e-mail me at
[email protected]
. We lawyers don't get a lot of fan mail, so it's always nice to hear from my readers. Please bear with me if I don't respond immediately. I answer all of my e-mail myself, so sometimes it takes a little extra time.
Regards,
Sheldon
Click here to leave a review on Amazon
Sheldon Siegel is the New York Times best-selling author of seven critically acclaimed legal thrillers featuring San Francisco criminal defense attorneys Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez, two of the most beloved characters in contemporary crime fiction. He is also the author of the thriller novel
The Terrorist Next Door
featuring Chicago homicide detectives David Gold and A.C. Battle. His books have been translated into a dozen languages and sold millions of copies worldwide. A native of Chicago, Sheldon earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Illinois in Champaign in 1980, and his law degree from the Boalt Hall School of Law at the University of California-Berkeley in 1983. He specializes in corporate and securities law with the San Francisco office of the international law firm of Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton LLP.
Sheldon began writing his first book,
Special Circumstances
, on a laptop computer during his daily commute on the ferry from Marin County to San Francisco. A frequent speaker and sought-after teacher, Sheldon is a San Francisco Library Literary Laureate, a member of the national Board of Directors and the President of the Northern California chapter of the Mystery Writers of America, and an active member of the International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime. His work has been displayed at the Doe Library at the University of California at Berkeley, and he has been recognized as a Distinguished Alumnus of the University of Illinois and a Northern California Super Lawyer.
Sheldon lives in the San Francisco area with his wife, Linda, and their twin sons, Alan and Stephen. He is a lifelong fan of the Chicago Bears, White Sox, Bulls and Blackhawks. He is currently working on his ninth novel.
Sheldon welcomes your comments and feedback. Please email him at [email protected]. For more information on Sheldon, book signings, the “making of” his books, and more, please visit his website at
www.sheldonsiegel.com
.
Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez Mysteries:
David Gold/ A.C. Battle Mysteries:
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Excerpt from
SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES
A Mike Daley &
Rosie Fernandez Mystery (#1)
Chapter 1
“Founded in 1929 and headquartered in San Francisco, Simpson and Gates is the largest full-service law firm based west of the Mississippi. With over nineteen hundred attorneys in eighteen offices on four continents, Simpson and Gates is recognized as an international leader in the legal profession.”
— Simpson and Gates Attorney Recruiting Brochure.
“For seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I’d bite the heads off live chickens.”
— J. Robert Holmes, Jr., Chairman, Simpson and Gates Corporate Department. Welcoming remarks to new attorneys.
For the last twenty years, being a partner in a big corporate law firm has been like having a license to print money. At my firm, Simpson and Gates, we’ve had a license to print
a lot
of money.
At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the printing press is running at full speed forty-eight floors above California Street in downtown San Francisco in what our
executive committee modestly likes to call our world headquarters. Our 420 attorneys are housed in opulent offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank of America Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes up almost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest testimonial to unimaginative architecture in the city skyline.
Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the size of a basketball court. A reception desk that is longer than a Muni bus sits at the south end of the forty-eighth floor, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosed conference room on the north wall. The gray carpet, overstuffed leather chairs and antique coffee tables create the ambiance of a classic men’s club, which is entirely appropriate since most of our attorneys and clients are white, male and Republican.
Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between Christmas and New Year’s, our reception area is buzzing with a higher level of activity than most businesses see in the middle of the day. Then again, most businesses aren’t the largest and most profitable law firm on the West Coast.
Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to shove my way through three hundred attorneys, clients, politicians and other hangers-on who have gathered for one of our insufferable cocktail parties. I hate this stuff. I guess it’s appropriate that I have to walk the gauntlet one last time.
In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed in festive dark gray business suits, starched monogrammed white shirts and red power ties. A string quartet plays classical music in front of the blinking lights of our twenty-foot Christmas tree. The suits have gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d’oeuvres and pay tribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall Gates III, the son of our late founding partner, Prentice Marshall Gates II. Prentice III, one of many lawyers in our firm with Roman numerals behind his name, is known as Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firm tomorrow. The circumstances of our respective departures are, shall I say, somewhat different.
After my five years as an underproductive partner in our white-collar criminal defense department, our executive committee asked me to leave. I was, in short, fired. Although the request was polite, I was told that if I didn’t leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven of our partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that “a Partner of the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote of two-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and held meeting of the Partners of the Firm.” In the last three years, fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have graciously agreed to resign. On Monday, I’ll open the law offices of Michael J. Daley, criminal defense attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-up building in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco’s South of Market area. Welcome to the modern practice of law.
Skipper’s story is a little different. After thirty years as an underproductive partner in our real estate department, he spent three million dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win a mean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even though he hasn’t set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partners are thrilled. They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppy work and condescending attitude. Hell, the same could be said about most of my partners. What they can’t live with is his six-hundred-thousand-dollar draw. He has been living off his father’s reputation for years. That’s why all the power partners are here. They want to give him a big send-off. More important, they want to be sure he doesn’t change his mind.
The temperature is about ninety degrees, and it smells more like a locker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor, shake hands with two of my former colleagues from the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office, and carefully avoid eye contact with Skipper, who is working the room. I overhear him say the DA’s office is his first step toward becoming attorney general and, ultimately, governor.
In your dreams, Skipper.
I’m trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a settlement agreement. Ordinarily, such a document would be delivered by one of our many in-house messengers. Tonight, I’m on my own because the kids who work in our mailroom aren’t allowed to come to the front desk when the VIPs are around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a tuxedoed waiter and elbow my way to the desk, where four evening-shift receptionists operate telephone consoles with more buttons than a 747. I lean over the polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has an envelope for me.
“Let me look, Mr. Daley,” she says. She’s a twenty-two year-old part-time art student from Modesto with long black hair, a prim nose and a radiant smile. She has confided to me that she would like to become an artist, a stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. I have it on good authority that a couple of my partners have already taken her out for a test drive.
A few years ago, our executive committee hired a consultant to spruce up our image. It’s hard to believe, but many people seem to perceive our firm as stuffy. For two hundred thousand dollars, our consultant expressed concern that our middle-aged receptionists didn’t look “perky” enough to convey the
appropriate image of a law firm of our stature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two receptionists who were members of the male gender.
At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took place, our executive committee concluded that our clients—the white, middle-aged men who run the banks, insurance companies, defense contractors and conglomerates that we represent—would be more comfortable if our receptionists were younger, female, attractive, and, above all, perkier. As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists were reassigned to less-visible duties. We hired Cindi because she fit the profile recommended by our consultant. Although she’s incapable of taking a phone message, she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model. S&G isn’t a hotbed of progressive thinking.
Don’t get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I have nothing against attractive young women. I do have a problem when a firm adopts a policy of reassigning older women and men to less-visible positions just because they aren’t attractive enough. For one thing, it’s illegal. For another, it’s wrong. That’s another reason I got fired. Getting a reputation as the “house liberal” at S&G isn’t great for your career.
Cindi’s search turns up empty. “I’m sorry, Mr. Daley,” she says, batting her eyes. She flashes an uncomfortable smile and looks like she’s afraid I may yell at her. While such wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she doesn’t know me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White House the last time I yelled at anybody. “Let me look again.”
I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in front of her. “I think that may be it.”
Big smile. “Oh, good.”
Success. I take the envelope. “By the way, have you seen my secretary?”
Deer in the headlights. “What’s her name again?”
“Doris.”
“Ah, yes.” Long pause. “Dooooris.” Longer pause. “What does she look like?”
I opt for the path of least resistance. “I’ll find her, Cindi.” I start to walk away, but she stops me.
“Mr. Daley, are you really leaving? I mean, well, you’re one of the nice guys. I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners never leave.”
Cindi, I’m leaving because I have more in common with the kids who push the mail carts than I do with my partners. I was fired because my piddly book of business isn’t big enough.
I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy eyes and pretend that I’m pouring out my heart. “I’ve been here for five years. I’m getting too old for a big firm. I’ve decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want more time for Grace.”
My ex-wife has custody of our six-year-old daughter, but we get along pretty well, and Grace stays with me every other weekend.
Her eyes get larger. “Somebody said you might go back to the public defender’s office.”
I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years before I joined S&G. The
State Bar Journal
once proclaimed I was the best PD in Northern California. Before I went to law school, I was a priest for three years. “Actually, I’m going to share office space with another attorney.” Without an ounce of conviction, I add, “It’ll be fun.” I leave out the fact I’m subleasing from my ex-wife.
“Good luck, Mr. Daley.”
“Thanks, Cindi.” It’s a little scary when you talk to people at work in the same tone you use with your first-grade daughter. It’s even scarier to think that I’ll probably miss Cindi more than I’ll miss any of my partners. Then again, she didn’t fire me.
I know one thing for certain. I’ll sure miss the regular paychecks.
* * *
I push my way toward the conference room in search of Doris when I’m confronted by the six-foot-six-inch frame of Skipper Gates, who flashes the plastic three-million-dollar smile that graces fading campaign posters nailed to power poles across the city. He is inhaling a glass of wine. “Michael,” he slurs, “so good to see you.”
I don’t want to deal with this right now.
At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled granite, with a Roman nose, high forehead and graceful mane of silver hair. His charcoal-gray double-breasted Brioni suit, Egyptian cotton white shirt and striped tie add dignity to his rugged features. He looks like he is ready to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to George Washington.
As an attorney, he’s careless, lazy and unimaginative. As a human being, he’s greedy, condescending and an unapologetic philanderer. As a politician, however, he’s the real deal. Even when he’s half tanked and there’s a piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudes charisma, wealth and, above all, style. It’s some sort of birthright of those born into privilege. As one of four children of a San Francisco cop, privilege is something I know little about.
He squeezes my hand and pulls me uncomfortably close. “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” he says. His baritone has the affected quality of a man who spent his youth in boarding schools and his adulthood in country clubs. As he shouts into my
ear, his breath confirms he could launch his forty-foot sailboat with the chardonnay he’s consumed tonight.
His speech is touching. It’s also complete crap. Instinctively, I begin evasive maneuvers. I pound him a little too hard on his back and dislodge the shrimp from his chin. “Who knows, Skipper? Maybe we’ll get to work on a case together.”
He tilts his head back and laughs too loudly. “You bet.”
I can’t resist a quick tweak. “Skipper, you
are
going to try cases, right?”
District attorneys in big cities are political, ceremonial and administrative lawyers. They don’t go to court. The assistant DAs try cases. If the ADA wins, the DA takes credit. If the ADA loses, the DA deflects blame. The San Francisco DA has tried only a handful of cases since the fifties.
He turns up the voltage. Like many politicians, he can speak and grin simultaneously. He hides behind the cocoon of his favorite sound bite. “Skipper Gates’s administration is going to be different. The DA is a law enforcement officer, not a social worker. Skipper Gates is going to try cases. Skipper Gates is going to put the bad guys away.”
And Mike Daley thinks you sound like a pompous ass.
He sees the mayor and staggers away. I wish you smooth sailing, Skipper. The political waters in the city tend to be choppy, even for well-connected operators like you. Things may be different when your daddy’s name isn’t on the door.
* * *
A moment later, I find my secretary, Doris Fontaine, standing outside our power conference room, or “PCR.” Doris is a dignified fifty six-year-old with serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hair and the quiet confidence of a consummate professional. If she had been born twenty years later, she would have gone to law school and become a partner here.
“Thanks for everything, Doris,” I say. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll never get another one like you, Mikey.”
I hate it when she calls me Mikey. She absentmindedly fingers the reading glasses hanging from a gold chain. She reminds me of Sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher at St. Peter’s. She looks at the chaos in the PCR through the glass door and shakes her head.