—obituary NOTICE, san francisco chronicle. tuesday, january 6.
“Did you read Bob’s obit, Mike? Jesus, you’d have thought he wasfucking Mother Teresa.” Arthur Patton is talking to me on a mistymorning as Rosie and I stand waiting for Joel on the front steps of thecity’s magnificent Grace Cathedral, which sits atop Nob Hill. Hissecond trophy wife, Shari, a one-time model and former S&Greceptionist, smiles politely. She’s certainly come a long way sinceshe was a giggly nineteen-year-old working our phones four years ago.From her appearance, you would never have a hint that she and Art aregoing through a nasty divorce.
I lean over and say just loud enough so Rosie and the two of them canhear me, “Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you’re using the word‘fucking’ in this context.”
Rosie stifles a chuckle. Shari keeps smiling. Art ignores me. Theywalk inside.
“They never knew what hit them,” Rosie says.
Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like PrincessDi’s, except Bruce Springsteen would sing “Born to Run” instead ofEiton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” As it turns out, the funeralBeth Holmes has arranged isn’t far from Bob’s wish.
The front steps of Grace look like the Academy Awards. The TVcameras, minicams and A-team reporters are here. The service itself isgoing to be filmed. Two traffic copters hover overhead. Some peopleare here just to see the celebrities. Everybody is dressed to theteeth. A thousand people are expected.
Rosie is being a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best ofcircumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband’s former lawfirm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriageand divorce, we always went to funerals together. It’s our unspokenpact. We wait for Doris to arrive.
I’ve never really been very good about funerals. It goes back to mydays as a priest. When you’re the low priest on the totem pole, youtend to get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing five of them inone day for people I’d never met. I felt bad for the families. I didmy standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Toughgig, funerals.
The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance and I have naive hopesthis will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper’s black Lincoln arrivesand the feeding frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position asthe reporters shove microphones into his face. His longsufferingwife, Natalie, a well-known society matron, looks embarrassed. Skippermouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner’s funeral andsays the DA’s office is working day and night to solve the case. Tohis credit, Skipper seems to be resisting the urge to turn Bob’sfuneral into a press conference.
My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries toignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I’ve always liked Ellen. Forthe life of me, I can’t figure out how an outgoing interior decoratorwho serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay marriedto Chuckles for thirty-two years.
Maybe she’s a closet tax-code junkie.
Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shakehands with Rosie. Jenny’s pretty face is pale and she looks sad in herdark dress. She’s taking this harder than I would have thought. Dorisnever warmed up to Rosie.
It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things werepretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at theSimpson firm. We had a big fight over custody. Big mistake on mypart. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have letRosie have custody from the beginning.
It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks whenemotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie’s mom and mymom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace’s entirelife if we didn’t stop acting like idiots. I’m glad we listened tothem.
“Pretty rough time, Doris,” I say.
“You got that right.”
I turn to Jenny.
“How are things at Stanford?”
“One more semester to go.”
“Are you still thinking about law school?”
“I’m not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We’ll see. Ihave a lot on my mind.”
I’d like to be twenty-two again just to see what it feels like to havea lot on my mind.
Joel and Naomi Friedman arrive by cab and join us. Joel has been askedto speak and he looks nervous. Naomi is a petite brunette with curlyhair and dark features who teaches nursery school at the JewishCommunity Center. She’s a ball of fire. Perfect for Joel.
We head in and pay our brief respects to Bob’s widow, Beth, and herthree children, ages two to five, all of whom are sitting in the frontrow. The second row is reserved for Bob’s three ex-wives and theircurrent spouses and significant others and Bob’s four children from hisprevious marriages.
The Simpson and Gates contingent occupies about twenty rows on the leftside of the cathedral as you face the front. We take our seatsopposite them on the right side. I’m not in the mood to visit with myformer colleagues today. The back of the house is packed. The legalcommunity has turned out. So have the politicians and the upper crustof Pacific Heights. Somber organ music emanates from the front of thecathedral. I never had a chance to work such a big crowd when I was apriest.
At ten-fifteen, the organist plays a loud chord, signaling the serviceis about to begin. A young minister welcomes us and says a fewperfunctory words about Bob’s life and career. He clearly never methim. He introduces Art Patton, who tries to appear respectful, butlooks like David Letterman preparing to deliver a monologue as hesaunters to the front. Rosie is thinking the same thing and shewhispers to me, “He thinks it’s the firm Christmas party.”
“Thank you for coming,” Art says.
“Bob would have been pleased to see such a large turnout. It’s sadthat it takes a great tragedy to bring us together. I hope we willhave a chance to meet on a happier occasion.” His eyes gleam. Hetakes a deep breath. It’s hard to look somber with a smirk plasteredon your face.
“Bob Holmes was a great lawyer and my best friend.”
Murmurs from the S&G section. Art’s taking some license. He and Bobcoexisted, but it’s a stretch to say they were friends, let alone greatfriends. Some people think they hated each other’s guts.
“He was also a great humanitarian.”
Someone in the S&G section laughs out loud.
“It’s appropriate that we gather here to celebrate his life and pay ourrespects to his memory.” He describes Bob’s humble beginnings inWilkes-Barre, his education at Penn and Harvard Law School, hisadmission to the partnership at the age of thirty-two. He says Bob wasa loving father, but doesn’t linger on the subject of his fourmarriages. Bob’s eldest son once told me that the children from hisfirst three marriages stopped speaking to him several years ago.
After a brief description of Bob’s achievements, he introduces Joel,who walks slowly to the lectern, a faraway look in his eyes.
“My name is Joel Friedman. Bob Holmes was my colleague, my mentor andmy friend.
This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Easy, Joel.
“Bob taught me how to be a lawyer. He taught me how to handledifficult situations. And, despite what some people may think, hetaught me how important it is to treat everyone with respect. He was afine man whose legacy is in this room. He leaves his family,colleagues and friends with memories of a man who worked hard, lovedhis family and loved his job. I will miss him.”
Well done. He steps away from the podium to compose himself. Theminister comforts him.
Skipper’s up next. Rosie whispers, “This should be a beaut.”
Skipper does his best to look serious. He faces the television cameraand says, “I knew Bob for twenty-two years. He was one of the finestlawyers I’ve ever met. More than anyone else, Bob built Simpson andGates into a powerhouse.” He pauses.
“More importantly, I want to say a few words about Bob, the man. Bobwas sometimes difficult to get along with. That’s the price you payfor dealing with genius. He never demanded more from his colleaguesthan he expected from himself. Yes, he was a perfectionist. Yes, hewas driven. Yes, he screamed at times. It was never out of malice. Hesimply wanted to be the best he could be, and he expected the same fromhis colleagues.”
More coughing from the S&G section. Rosie whispers, “This is reallygetting thick.”
“It is tragic Bob won’t have an opportunity to see his children growup. It is sad he won’t have a chance to fulfill his dreams. A greatlife. Cut short.” He stops to wipe away a tear that isn’t there.
“The legacy he leaves us is great.
In his honor, I promise to each of you, and to Bob, that I will notrest until I find out the true circumstances surrounding his death. Itis my solemn pledge.”
Doris nudges me and whispers, “For God’s sake, he’s making a campaignspeech at a funeral.”
Skipper finishes his remarks with a tribute to Bob’s distinguishedrecord as a husband and as a father, which brings audible laughter fromseveral members of the firm. Two of Bob’s college friends say a fewwords about his life’s achievements. A neighbor reads a poem. Theminister reads two psalms and a small choir sings “Amazing Grace.”Finally, the organist plays “Born to Run.”
At eleven-thirty, we begin to file out.
The TV cameras jockey for the standard shot of the pallbearers bringingthe casket down the steps. Bob would have loved the fact that thepallbearers include Skipper, the two surviving members of X-Com andthree of his partners.
When we reach the bottom of the steps, I gaze around and my eyes meetthose of Roosevelt Johnson, who is standing on the sidewalk, arespectful distance away.
He is looking discreetly through the crowd. It is common practice fora homicide inspector to show up at the funeral of the subject of hisinvestigation, but somehow, I didn’t expect to see him today.
Joel and Naomi find us and we watch the pallbearers load the casketinto the hearse. I say good-bye to Doris and Jenny. Skipper’s Lincolnpulls up behind the hearse and the reporters surround him.
“Mr. Gates,” a reporter calls out, “any new information on thecase?”
Skipper elects to take the high road.
“This is an inappropriate time to discuss the investigation,” hesays.
“I will talk to you at the office.” The hearse pulls away and beginsthe long drive to the town of Colma, just south of the city, where SanFranciscans bury their dead.
You won’t find Bill’s Place in Gourmet magazine. Housed in an oldbuilding at Twenty-fifth and Clement, it was a diner before dinersbecame fashionable and it served “comfort food” four decades beforefood critics coined the term. The long counters, huge chandeliers andFormica tables are a throwback to simpler times. The waitresses havehair in varying shades of blue and orange and call their customers“honey.” It’s the best place in the city to take screaming childrenfor hamburgers and milk shakes. It may never be the subject of anAmerican Express commercial, but it’s been one of my favorite placessince my dad took me here when I was a kid.
Naomi Friedman is eating a trench fry.
“Mike, I’m worried about Joel,” she says. Joel is in the men’s room.Naomi takes off her red-framed glasses. Rosie, Joel, Naomi and I areeating a quick lunch before we head south on the 280 freeway to Colmafor our second funeral of the day. Diana’s funeral is going to be agraveside affair for immediate family and friends. I’ve been asked tosay a few words.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“He was at police headquarters all day Sunday. They asked him a lot ofquestions.”
Rosie and I glance at each other. I take a bite out of mycheeseburger.
“I’m sure they’re just trying to be thorough,” I say.
“This is a highprofile case.”
Joel returns and there’s an uncomfortable silence.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Naomi says.
“Come on,” he says.
“All right,” Naomi says.
“I was just telling them about your glorious afternoon Sunday.”
“I already told you. It’s nothing to worry about.”
She gives him a sharp look.
“It’s a lot to worry about. Why are they so interested in talking toyou for so long?”
I sense annoyance. They’ve been through this already and Joel doesn’twant to replay it in front of Rosie and me. He picks up his hamburger,turns to me and says, “I don’t know how you can eat this stuff. It’llkill you.”
“My grandfather ate this stuff every day of his life for eighty-sevenyears.”
“Imagine how long he would have lived if he had taken better care ofhimself.”
Naomi is annoyed.
“Can you guys stop it for a minute? This is serious. Mike, why do youthink they’re giving Joel the third degree?”
Joel answers her.
“They’re just trying to figure out what happened. That’s it.
Nothing more to it. Jesus, it’s not like I’m a suspect. Two peopleare dead and the cops are just doing their job. They said they’dprobably declare it a suicide in the next couple of days.”
Naomi scowls.
“What about Vince Russo?” she asks.
“No word yet,” Joel says.
“Did the cops tell you anything more about what happened?” I ask.
“Not much. The bullets came from Bob’s gun.”
Naomi loses interest in her trench fries.
“Do we have to talk about this at lunch?”
“Sorry,” I say.
“I’m just trying to figure out why they’re so interested in talking toJoel.” I turn toward him.
“Which cop did you talk to?”
“Your buddy, Roosevelt Johnson, and his partner, Marcus Banks.”
“Johnson’s a good man.”
He shifts in his chair.
“He’s a very suspicious man. And his partner isn’t a nice guy.”
“Marcus got himself into some trouble a few years ago. He’s a littleheavy-handed. He beat a confession out of a white man for the murderof a black prostitute. Turns out the guy really did it, but they hadto turn him loose because they had nothing besides the coercedconfession. A week later, the guy woke up dead.”
“Oops.”
“Don’t underestimate them, Joel. They’re the best on the force.”
Rosie has heard enough.
“Can we change the subject now?”
Naomi looks relieved.
“You know, Mike,” Joel says, “my dad is doing the service for Diana.”
“I didn’t know she was Jewish.”
“Yeah. Well, sort of. She grew up in our neighborhood and went to ourtemple.
Except back then, her name was Debbie Fink, her hair was dark brown,her nose was longer than mine and she weighed about two hundred andfifty pounds.”
“What happened to Debbie Fink?”
“The way I understand the story, between her senior year in college andher first year in law school, she spent a summer at a fat farm, had herhair dyed and got her nose fixed. Lord knows what else she had takenin. Her personal trainer was a guy named Billy Kennedy. They weremarried for about six months.
By the time she finished her first year in law school, they weredivorced. But the remake stuck. Debbie Fink became Diana Kennedy.”