A Criminal Defense Page 11

  None of them said the words, but all were wondering whether the gun, like the forty thousand dollars, had also been removed from a crime scene, not for direct profit, but to conceal evidence in order to help a client beat a case.

  “Maybe you better let Harlan do that,” Goldhagen said. “Or at least bail out if it starts heading in a hinky direction.”

  She looked at Donnally.

  “I’ll start going through his client files,” Donnally said. “I can justify doing it now. With the Burger case and what Galen knows, it won’t look like a fishing expedition when the defense bar finds out about it later.”

  Chapter 25

  Donnally sat back in his chair in the conference room in Hamlin’s office and examined Takiyah Jackson typing on her laptop. They’d spent the day matching Hamlin’s calendar for the last two months with his files, determining which clients had hired him, what work he’d done on the cases, and what appearances he’d made—and Donnally had been astounded to see that Hamlin had done very little preparation on any of the cases.

  The briefs Hamlin had filed were boilerplate, cut-and-paste motions for discovery, motions to disclose informants, motions to retest forensic evidence. There wasn’t one that couldn’t have been prepared by a paralegal. Just insert the defendant’s name and a paragraph outlining the facts of the case and press “print.”

  Hamlin had hired private investigators, but only to do basic work like taking photos and measurements at crime scenes, performing court research on prosecution witnesses, serving subpoenas for records. Nothing that an intern couldn’t have done.

  Jackson printed out the list of private investigators Hamlin used and the cases they’d worked on. Donnally skimmed down the list. He recognized a few names from the old days and blew out a breath, not liking what he saw.

  She caught the meaning in the gesture and said, “None of the legit investigators would work for him, so he was limited to the desperate, and therefore flexible, and the already twisted.”

  Donnally noticed some of them were paired up and said, “I don’t understand why Mark would use two different ones on the same case.”

  “Sometimes so that the left hand, so to speak, wouldn’t know what the right hand is doing. Say Mark needed an investigator to get on the stand to testify about one thing, even if the DA got into other parts of the case, the investigator wouldn’t know anything about them.” She pointed to her right. “Like he sends one guy to take photos of the scene”—she pointed left with her other hand—“then sends another to try to talk to the victim. Victim later complains to the DA about being harassed, the first investigator doesn’t know anything and the DA can’t question him about it when he testifies about the photos he took. He wasn’t there. And the DA isn’t allowed to call a defense investigator as a witness all on his own.”

  Jackson nodded toward the list.

  “Most of those investigators would probably have trouble finding their shoes in the morning. Mark just liked having a posse and would get the client to pay for it. Soon as the client agreed to Mark’s fee for coming into a case, usually about twenty-five grand, he’d hit him up for five for investigation. Always. Whether there was anything to investigate or not. Then he’d hire one of these guys to do gopher stuff. It built up loyalty. Lots and lots.”

  “Loyalty for what?”

  “When he needed to … uh …”

  “Push the limits?”

  Jackson hesitated, then gave in and nodded. He took it as an opening to try to move her a little farther around the barricade of her resistance.

  “How’d you feel about that?”

  Another hesitation, and then, “Sometimes it seemed like a war.”

  “And all is fair in war?”

  Jackson looked at him dead on. “You know what happened to me, right? I figure you took the time to check me out.”

  Donnally nodded.

  “The cop who shot Bumper in the back while he was sleeping left SFPD and went to work for the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. He ended his career down there twenty years later as a captain.” Her voice hardened like a hammer. “A cold-blooded killer. A fucking executioner. He should’ve spent the rest of his life in prison, instead he’s spending his retirement years getting a tan and playing golf in Palm Desert.”

  Jackson fell silent. Her eyes moved back and forth like she was watching an internal movie. It seemed to Donnally like she was looking for a scene to describe the cop, one that captured, or maybe justified, Hamlin’s acts of war against law enforcement.

  Finally, she spoke. “How many street dope cases do you think are righteous? I’ve been around. I lived in the Pink Palace before we moved across the bay to Oakland. You been out there.”

  The Pink Palace was an eleven-story public housing project just a few blocks from City Hall, named for its paint color. It was also known as the Den of Thieves. The day came when it became so dangerous even the homeless refused to accept free apartments there and it was closed down.

  “Those dropsy cases,” Jackson continued. “Cop testifying that he was driving along and the drug dealer spotted him, then dropped the dope and ran.” Jackson spread her hands and her voice rose. “Who but a fucking racist judge is gonna believe that shit? Drop the dope and then run away? Not run first? Not duck behind a car or a bush or the fattest guy on the block and dump the dope where the cop can’t see?”

  Donnally knew she was right, that’s why he’d refused an assignment to the street drug task force and later to the vice detail. Either he would’ve had to lie to make enough cases to achieve the body count the chief wanted or lie to cover other officers so they could achieve theirs.

  It just hadn’t crossed his mind until now that the perjury of drug cops had become a recruiting mechanism for people like Jackson to sign on to the agenda of corrupt lawyers like Hamlin.

  The truth—that Donnally knew, that she knew, that every cop in the city knew—was that the task force officers would just sweep into the projects and round people up and search them and the area. If the cop found dope on somebody, he’d falsely testify he’d seen the dealer drop it. If the cop found it in a wheel well or in a bush or in a fence board knothole, he’d look for the guy with the worst attitude or who was already on probation or parole, and lay it on him.

  Donnally thought back on his conversation with Janie at the kitchen table and understood that while his father’s lies had driven him toward a uniform and a badge in search of the truth, Jackson’s past had driven her toward a life beyond truth and lies.

  “You’re right,” Donnally said. “But I suspect the private investigators Hamlin hired weren’t like you, hadn’t had your experiences, weren’t from the street. I’ll bet they’re all college grads who never stepped into a housing project until they got paid to.”

  Donnally pointed up at the courtroom sketch in the Demetrio Arellano case, the one showing Hamlin looking at his watch. It was the case in which the private investigator working for Hamlin had left a threatening message for the main prosecution witness, who then fled to El Salvador.

  “Is that what you mean by pushing the limits?” Donnally said.

  Jackson cringed and lowered her head.

  Donnally pushed on. “I don’t understand how your moral outrage at the stuff that happened to you, and at the things you’ve seen in your life, transformed into a way of looking at the world that allowed you to work for Hamlin.”

  Donnally watched her taking long breaths, not looking up. He wondered whether he’d jammed her too hard and too fast. After half a minute, she spoke.

  “I don’t know.” She looked up. “It wasn’t about the money for me. Not like it was for his PIs. Money bought them. They pretended they were in it for the cause, but they were no more than lab rats, conditioned to do tricks for the pellets. For me …” Her voice faded. After a moment, she made another attempt. “For me, I guess, he was the only game in town.”

  “Where else did you try?”

  “The police review commission. I w
orked there for two years.” Her voice ratcheted up again. “What a bunch of incompetent assholes. They were all in it for the swagger. Didn’t do shit. The same rotten cops kept coming through over and over, but nothing ever happened to them. They beat people. Lied about them. Never got fired. Hardly ever even got suspended.”

  Jackson paused and her vision clouded. Another trip back into the past.

  “Then one day in a preliminary hearing in a dope case, I watched Mark nail one of the worst of those cops.” She blinked and focused on Donnally. “Ripped him a new one. Did more in ten minutes than the commission did in a generation. The cop resigned that same day, afraid to ever testify in court again. I walked in here the next morning and asked Mark for a job.”

  “I’m not sure that answers my question.”

  “And I’m not sure I can answer it. All I know is everything looks different now that Mark is dead.” Jackson pressed her lips together, then lowered her gaze. “For some reason I keep thinking about Jonestown. My uncle committed suicide with the rest of them down there.” She looked again at Donnally, but her eyes seemed dulled by a terror that had turned inward. “People who stayed up here and survived told me after Jim Jones died it was like they all woke up and saw what insanity it had been all along.”

  Chapter 26

  Got a lead for you,” Navarro told Donnally over the telephone just after he’d returned to Hamlin’s desk. “A court clerk just called me. A couple of months ago, one of the victims in a case confronted Hamlin outside of court after a not guilty verdict. Threatened to kill him. Wasn’t the kind of thing she’d ever seen happen before. Victims break down and cry in their seats when the crook goes free, they don’t run to the hallway to issue threats. It was People v. Thule. Got lots of local press coverage.”

  Donnally located the case on his list, found the closed file in a cabinet in the conference room, and brought it back into the office. According to the SFPD summary sheet, Thule was a mall owner who hired Gordon & Sons Construction to replace a steel pedestrian bridge from the second floor of a parking garage to the shopping area. The structure collapsed a year later, on the day before Easter, killing two shoppers, one of whom was pregnant, and injuring four others. The cause of the collapse was faulty Chinese steel used by the construction company.

  John Gordon told the police and OSHA, and testified at the grand jury, that Thule had directed him to purchase all the steel from a particular U.S. importer. He produced letters to support his claim. The defendant, Thule, refused all law enforcement interviews and pled the Fifth at the grand jury.

  The DA charged Thule with three counts of manslaughter for the two adult victims and the fetus.

  Donnally found two private investigators’ invoices in the file. One did all but one interview. That one was done by Frank Lange, among the most well-known private investigators in the city. He was one of a very few that politicians, business leaders, and the wealthy hired when the truth was against them. Donnally had never seen him and had no reason to pay attention to him during his cop years since Lange had never been hired to work on the defense side of any of Donnally’s cases.

  According to news clippings in the file, Lange had testified in Thule’s trial that he’d confronted Gordon with what Lange claimed were the true versions of the same letters, ones from Thule, not directing the contractor to buy the Chinese steel, but warning him against using it. Lange also testified that faced with this evidence, Gordon had admitted forging the ones that allegedly incriminated Thule.

  Interviews of the jurors after the trial showed three of the jurors believed Lange, and those three convinced the rest that Lange’s testimony provided sufficient reasonable doubt for a not guilty verdict.

  Donnally placed the investigators’ invoices side by side on the desk blotter.

  The investigator who did most of the work charged a hundred dollars an hour and billed a total of twelve thousand dollars.

  Lange billed at a flat rate of fifteen thousand dollars—for one interview and one hour of testimony.

  Donnally called Jackson into the office to ask her about the connection between Lange and Hamlin.

  “Mark and Lange go way back,” Jackson said. “They started out at about the same time. I guess you could say that they grew up together in the business. Because of how much Frank charges, for the last ten years Mark only used him for the make-or-break interviews.”

  “Like the Thule case.”

  Jackson nodded. “He specializes in impeaching witnesses and victims, and jurors love him. Maybe because he seems like an ordinary guy, one of them. Somebody you’d go to have pizza with and complain to about your wife. I went to watch him a couple of times. Comes across kinda mousy. Yes-sirring and no-sirring the DA and the judge. The prosecutor gets aggressive with him and the jurors feel like they’re under attack, too. But when he got back here after testifying in court, he wasn’t that way at all. They’d come in swaggering and hoot it up like they’d bluffed their way to winning the World Series of Poker. High-fiving like juveniles.”

  “You ever see any proof he perjured himself?”

  Jackson smiled and gazed at Donnally as though at a child who’d selected the correct square peg, but couldn’t quite fit it into the hole.

  “I can see you don’t get it yet,” Jackson said. “Around here there was no such thing as proof, no such thing as facts. There were only differing opinions. That was the fundamental principle of life in this office. It could’ve been etched in wood and nailed above the door. ‘Abandon Truth All Ye Who Enter Here.’ ”

  “Which means you never checked.”

  “There was never anything to check. What was I going to check it against? I wasn’t there when the crime was committed or when the witness or victim said what they said. No way for me to know what really happened.”

  To Donnally she sounded like too many of the cops he’d served with. Whenever internal affairs accused an officer of beating a suspect—even when the officer’s baton was painted with blood and the suspect was lying in intensive care—nearly every officer in the department would go coward and say the same thing: “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

  But that didn’t prevent those same officers from arresting burglars when they didn’t witness the burglary, or murderers when they didn’t witness the murder, or child molesters even when the molestation took place a generation earlier in a school classroom or in a priest’s office of a church that had long since been torn down.

  It reminded Donnally of a history professor he had at UCLA, an old guy who claimed that since history is just a form of memory and had to be expressed in words whose meanings change over time, there was no such thing as historical truth.

  Donnally had liked the professor, had even been invited to his house for dinner, but was glad the man had decided to become a teacher rather than a doer—or a filmmaker like his father, a man who’d combined French cinematic theory with American war movies to create an Academy Award–winning career of mindless violence and historical mythology.

  One idea Donnally took with him from college when he moved up to San Francisco was that an offense report was a kind of history that was either as true as the Holocaust or as false as one of his father’s movies. And he swore his would always be the former, even if some of those around him specialized in the latter.

  Donnally rose from his chair. “I’m going to do my best to find out what the truth is.”

  Jackson stared at him for a moment, then said, “Take your best shot.”

  Donnally recognized the sarcasm in her voice, but also heard an undertone of longing, suggesting she meant it.

  He walked with Jackson to the outer office, then drove south toward the Gordon & Sons headquarters near the San Francisco International Airport.

  The ride down Highway 101, called the Central Freeway where it wasn’t central, the Bayshore Freeway long before it came close to the bay, and the James Lick when people weren’t sure what to call it, was less like driving than being swept along. Maybe
it was because the freeway was a gateway from the constraints of the city to the liberation of possibility. A hop over the hills, a skip along San Francisco Bay, and then a launch from the San Francisco Airport into the sky.

  Donnally felt the surge of motion on takeoff like everyone else, but didn’t like the feeling of being wrenched from the earth. He’d fly places if he had to, but preferred having his tires on the ground and the steering wheel in his grip and the speedometer arrow fixed at a speed that kept him in control.

  As he transitioned from the freeway to the frontage road just north of the airport, he knew the chances were small that John Gordon would talk to him. The judge had suspended the victims’ civil suit against Gordon and Thule until the criminal trial was over since the defendants had Fifth Amendment rights. It was as though the judge had said to Gordon, You have the right to remain silent and if you’re smart, you’ll use it.

  Even some of the witnesses who worked for Gordon and for Thule would also have refused to testify in the civil case until they were certain the DA wouldn’t expand the indictment to include them in a broader conspiracy.

  Donnally pulled into a guest parking space in front of the two-story administration building. Gordon’s secretary directed him out to the football field–sized yard in the back where he found Gordon talking to a hard-hatted worker. Gordon sent the young man into the warehouse, then turned toward Donnally, who concluded from Gordon’s ruddy and wind-beaten face and hard eyes that he’d built the business. He was Gordon himself, the father, not one of the sons.

  Donnally told him about the threats to Hamlin and asked him whether any of the victims had also threatened him.

  “My lawyer’s gonna shit his pants when he finds out I talked to you,” Gordon said. “But what happened, happened. I never should’ve used that steel. Never did before that contract and never did afterwards.”