“Fair,” she says.
“Understandable.” I collect my thoughts.
“Naomi, why did you come to see me?”
She looks at her fingernails.
“I wanted to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“There is. I need you to take care of the kids. And yourself. And Ineed you to support Joel. The next few months may not be easy.”
“I figured that much already. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”
“You are. You’re tougher than you think.”
“I hope so.”
I look directly into the eyes of this decent young woman whose life hasbeen turned upside down through no fault of her own.
“Why did you really come here, Naomi?”
Her lips form a tight, thin line across her face.
“There are a few things I think you should know.” She pauses.
“Joel doesn’t know I’m here. Do you have to tell him I came to seeyou?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.” Actually, if she tells me somethingthat will impact the case, I probably have a legal duty to tell Joel.We’ll see.
“What is it?”
She folds her hands.
“This isn’t easy to talk about.”
“Take your time.”
She takes a drink of water.
“We’ve had some problems the last few years. Things haven’t alwaysbeen so good between us. And when you’re the rabbi’s son, you don’ttalk about your problems. You figure everybody at the temple will findout.”
“I can relate. My dad was a cop. When other kids got in trouble, itwasn’t a big deal. When I got sent home from school, word alwaysseemed to get out that Officer Daley’s son got in trouble.”
The corners of her mouth turn up almost imperceptibly.
“I’ve had some problems since the kids were born,” she says.
“It’s tough with little kids. And real tough with twins.”
“I’ve been taking medication for depression, Mike. It started rightafter the boys were born. And it won’t go away.”
“A lot of people go through the same thing.”
“I know. But I think it bothers Joel.” She looks down.
“I feel like I’ve pushed him away.”
“The important thing is that you’re getting better.”
She sighs.
“There’s been a lot of talk about Joel and Diana. Joel and I don’thave any secrets.” She’s starting to cry. I hand her a tissue.
“Joel told me about the incident with Art Patton at Silverado. I don’tcare what they say. I believe my husband when he tells me he wasn’thaving an affair with Diana. I came here to tell you that no matterhow it looks, and no matter what they say in the papers, my husbandwasn’t having an affair. I’m sure of it.”
I give her a hug.
“I believe you.” I’m relieved he told her. I wasn’t sure he wouldhave.
She buries her head in my shoulder and sobs. A moment later, she liftsher tear-stained face and looks at me. She blurts out emphatically,“My husband isn’t a killer, Mike.”
“I know.”
Later the same afternoon, Rolanda brings in a large manila envelope. Itcontains police reports and photos and the coroner’s report.
I always start with the pictures. They put things into perspective.When you put aside the news reports and the lawyerly posturing, thepictures tell the essential story. Two people are dead. The picturesare about what I’d expect.
Bob’s partially destroyed head. Diana sitting near the door, eyesopen, chest covered with blood. A .38-caliber revolver on Bob’sdesk.
The coroner’s report is succinct. The time of death was somewherebetween one and four a.m. Coroners always give themselves at least athree-hour range.
Diana was killed by gunshots to her lung and heart. Bob died of asingle bullet wound to the head. The wound had the outward appearanceof being self-inflicted. Traces of gunpowder were found on his righthand. Powder marks and burns were found on his head at the entrancewound. There was an apparent concussive injury to his head just abovethe exit wound.
Based on what I’ve seen so far, Mort’s probably right. Unless we get aconfession from somebody else by Tuesday, this case is going totrial.
I flip through the police reports. It’s all there. The fingerprints.The arguments. The tapes. The alleged threats. I’m about to pick upthe phone when the last police report catches my eye. It’s signed byInspector Marcus Banks.
It describes an interview with Joel at the Hall of Justice on January8. It contains no new information, except for the last paragraph, whichdescribes some questions Banks asked Joel. It then says, in capitalletters, “SUSPECT
CONFESSED TO THE MURDERS OF HOLMES AND KENNEDY.”
CHAPTER 16
HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?
“It’s an open-and-shut case. We will reveal evidence at thepreliminary hearing on Tuesday that will undoubtedly cause Mr. Friedmanto change his plea to guilty.”
—skipper gates. CNN’s burden of proof. wednesday, january 14.
“Of course I didn’t confess. For the love of God, Mike, how stupid doyou think I am?” I’m at Rabbi Friedman’s house at nine the nextmorning, getting Joel’s version of the Marcus Banks interview. Idecide to give him the benefit of the doubt and treat his question as arhetorical one.
“Tell me about your interview with Banks.”
He’s exasperated.
“I already told you. I spent about four hours with Banks and Johnsonat the Hall. I told them everything. They were interested in Diana’ssex life. I told them I didn’t know who she was sleeping with. Theyseemed to think she was sleeping with me. I straightened them out.”
“So, where did Banks get the idea you confessed?”
“He made it up.”
“Are you sure?”
“We went over the same stuff about ten times. I told them everything.They said I wasn’t a suspect. If I thought I was a suspect, I wouldhave called you. It was about eight at night. I thought we werefinished. Johnson left the room for a few minutes. While he was gone,Banks asked me if I did it. I said no. He asked me again. I said noagain. He asked me if I was absolutely sure. Finally, I asked himwhat he wanted me to say. He said he wanted me to say I did it. And Iremember exactly what I said. I said, and I quote, the word ‘right.”
” “You agreed with him?”
“Of course not. I was being sarcastic. And he knows it.”
Joel’s his own worst enemy.
“He seems to have taken the word ‘right’ a step farther than you mighthave intended.”
“Then he’s full of shit.”
“It’s still a problem.”
He frowns.
“There’s no way they can use it at trial, is there?”
“We’ll get it thrown out before the trial. Did they read you yourMiranda rights?”
“No. Nobody read me my rights until I was arrested.”
“Good. We’ll say you weren’t properly Mirandized. We should be ableto get it thrown out.”
“That’s not the point. He’s lying. I didn’t fucking confess.”
“I understand. But it’s his word against yours. He’s going to testifythat you confessed.”
The crow’s-feet around his eyes become more pronounced.
“I’m completely fucked.”
He’s right. At least for the moment.
“We’ll try to get it knocked out.”
At eleven o’clock the same morning, I’m in my office on the phone. Itry my best source first.
“Roosevelt,” I say, “I got the police reports. Your partner seems tothink my client confessed.”
Silence at the other end. He clears his throat.
“I just got a copy of his report. I didn’t know.”
I pause for effect.
“How is it possible you didn’t know? You were there.”
“I wasn’t there when he confessed,” he says.
“Allegedly confessed, Roosevelt. We’re going to get it knocked out.For one thing, he didn’t confess and Marcus knows it. For anotherthing, he wasn’t Mirandized. If you guys were going to question him,you should have read him his rights. Judge Brown will never let itin.”
Silence.
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“I never would have figured this from you. I don’t like beingsandbagged.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” he repeats.
“Skipper, it’s Mike Daley.” I could leap through the phone.
“What’s up?”
“I just got the police reports.”
“So?”
“It seems Marcus Banks claims my client confessed.”
“Really? Imagine that.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“What do you want me to say? That Marcus lied?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
“Bullshit. We’re going to the judge. We’re going to get this allegedconfession kicked out right away. He’ll never let you use it.”
“I’ll see you at the prelim.”
“Mort, I’m faxing the police report I told you about. I need you toprepare a motion to get this thing tossed out. I don’t want it to seethe light of day. I want it out before the prelim Tuesday.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I can hear a chuckle in his voice. He livesfor moments like this.
“I talked to the judge’s clerk. I told him we want to see the judge.
He’s available right before the prelim.”
Mort may be useful after all.
The phone rings in my office later in the afternoon.
“Mr. Daley,” a familiar voice sings, “Rita Roberts, News Center 4.” Iswear the name on her birth certificate is “Rita Roberts, News Center4.”
“I’m a great admirer, Rita.”
“Thank you. As you know, I’m covering the Friedman murder case.”
I hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, Rita. I know.”
“We’ve received a tip from a reliable source that Mr. Friedmanconfessed. Can you confirm this information?”
“Will you tell me who gave you the tip?”
“You know I can’t.”
“Sure you can. And if you want anything from me, you’ll have to tellme who tipped you.”
She stops.
“I can’t do that, Mr. Daley.”
I stop to think. If I say there was no confession, I’ll sounddefensive. If I say no comment, it probably sounds worse. As Mortwould say, either way I’m fucked.
“For the record, Mr. Friedman did not confess. And if you run a storythat suggests that he did, you will be embarrassed and I will bringlegal action against your station.”
“Come on, Mr. Daley. You don’t really plan to sue us, do you?”
She’s right, of course.
“I know you’ll do the right thing so it doesn’t come to that.”
Late that night, I run my fingers through Rosie’s dark hair as shenuzzles my chest. Sex was always the best part of our marriage. We’vecome a long way since our first date when she said she wouldn’t sleepwith me until they took off my training wheels. Rosie taught meeverything I know about sex. She was a good teacher. Before westarted going out, I had dated only younger women. I had one longtermrelationship with a woman in my lawschool class. She dumped me assoon as she got a job offer from a Wall Street firm. By the time Istarted seeing Rosie, I had a lot of catching up to do. Nowadays, wehave a workable arrangement. We have recreational sex every few weeks.It’s not ideal, but it’s easier and safer than the personals. Grace isstaying at Rosie’s mom’s house tonight.
She purrs and I kiss the back of her neck. She opens her piercing,dark eyes and looks at me.
“So,” she says, “do you think he really confessed?”
“It’s just like when we were married. Can’t we forget about businessfor just a few minutes and focus on high-quality sex? We’re consentingadults, after all.”
She laughs.
“Sorry, Mike. It’s just the way I’m drawn.”
I kiss her on the forehead.
“That’s why I’ll always love you. Even if you drive me nuts.”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Yes, Counselor. I don’t think he confessed. Marcus lied orrearranged the facts.”
“Good answer. Here’s your reward.” She kisses me softly on the mouth.As always, she has me eating out of her hand.
“Let me ask you another question.
After your little talk with Naomi yesterday, how solid do you thinktheir marriage is?”
Interesting question.
“Very solid. At least I think so.” I pause and smile.
“Maybe our marriage wasn’t as screwed up as we thought.” At least wenever cheated on each other.
She kisses me again.
“Now for the tough one. Do you think he was sleeping with Diana?”
In this little game, the prizes tend to get better as the questions getharder.
I decide it’s in my best interests to answer.
“I don’t think so. He would have told her.” She gives me a cynicallook and softly bites my leftear.
“Then again,” I say, “I don’t know for sure.”
CHAPTER 17
THE CORONER AND THE CRIMINALIST
“You have to be curious to be a coroner. Your patients can’t talk toyou.”
—san francisco chief medical examiner roderick beckert. san franciscochronicle. thursday, january 15.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Beckert. I know you’re busy.” Ateleven o’clock the next morning, I’m meeting with Dr. RoderickBeckert, chief medical examiner of the city and county of SanFrancisco, in his small office on the first floor of the Hall. A stoutsixty-two-year-old with a huge bald head and black-framed glasses, heis the clean of bigcity coroners. And he knows it. And he’ll tellyou so. I wouldn’t dream of addressing him other than as Dr. Beckert.Then again, he’d never call me Mike. He has been chief medicalexaminer for almost thirty years. His textbook on autopsy proceduresfor victims of violent crimes is a seminal work. He is very good atwhat he does.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies politely. His neat officesmells antiseptic. His bookshelves hold meticulously arranged texts onanatomy and pathology. There are carefully framed pictures of hiswife, two grown children and three grandchildren. A model of askeleton smiles at me from the corner.
I’ve always wondered what coroners talk about at the dinner table.
His glasses are perched on his furrowed brow. His thick lips frownthrough a brown-gray beard. He wears a paisley tie under his white labcoat. A tweed sports jacket hangs on a wooden coatrack in thecorner.
“How may I help you, Mr. Daley?” he asks. His voice is the perfectcombination of authority and empathy, with a singsong lilt and hint ofa New York accent that’s particularly effective at trial. I’ll bet theanatomy class he teaches at U C S F is terrific.
“Dr. Beckert,” I say, “you know I’m representing Joel Friedman.”
“Of course, Mr. Daley.”
“I was hoping we might go through your autopsy reports on Robert Holmesand Diana Kennedy. Maybe you can help us figure out what happened.”
He juts out his lower lip in a mock pout.
“Mr. Daley, I already know exactly what happened. It’s in my report.”He adds, with little enthusiasm, “I’d be happy to discuss it with you.”We eye each other. There is no malice in his tone. He knows I’m hereto try to find holes in his report. I have a better chance at winningthe lottery.
“Where would you like to start?” he asks.
“Maybe you can explain how you figured out the time of death.”
He flips through his report. It’s an act. He’s capable of recitingverbatim the contents of his reports from twenty years ago.
“In both cases,” he says, “I put the time of death between one and fourin the morning.”
“I’ve wondered how you figured that out,” I say, trying to soundinnocent.
Actually, I already know. He knows I know. I still want to hear itfrom him.
It’s a free preview of his testimony.
“We look at a number of factors,” he says.