“Give me their names and addresses if you got it.”
“Why?”
“Ray if I have to explain everything to you this isn’t going to go anywhere. Don’t ask me to do that. It won’t work. I just get as much information as I can, and then I look at, push it around, and decide what to do.”
Kathleen hopped up from the couch and grabbed a writing tablet and a pen from a small end table near a wall mounted telephone. She handed it to Ray.
“Give me the lawyer’s contact info, too. And if you want me to, I’ll spend a day or two on this and then we’ll see what’s on the table. That work?”
“Yes!” Kathy snapped. Her freckles seemed to glow.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Ray adjusted the tablet on his lap and started writing.
The front door jerked open and seven year old Kit ran into the house.
“Grandpa!” he shouted. He was carrying a new football, still in the box. Keith came in behind him, carrying two bags of groceries.
“Hey, kid,” I said. He came up to me and gave me a one armed hug. “Give me the football and help your old man.”
Kit turned, looked at Keith trying to close the front door with his foot, and dropped the football in a box in my lap and scurried to help his dad.
Ray left the house shortly after Keith and Kit arrived, and I stayed through dinner. I got home around nine o’clock and telephoned the Public Defender assigned to Ray’s case, Edwin Tetlow. He wasn’t particularly happy about being called on a Sunday night, and I apologized, but I didn’t really care if he liked it or not. I explained who I was, and my relationship with Ray and said I’d like to meet with him in the morning, if it was at all possible. Tetlow said he had to be in court on Bryant Street at ten, but agreed to meet before that somewhere near the courthouse.
“Let’s meet at eight-thirty. Cafe Roma is across the street from the courthouse. And if you could, bring me a copy of Ray’s arrest report.” Tetlow agreed and quickly hung up the phone. He may not have been especially friendly, but at least he was quick about it.
CHAPTER FOUR
At twenty-seven minutes after eight Tetlow walked into the coffee shop. He side-stepped a young woman dressed in a dark suit carrying a to-go cup and nodded at her as she left. He walked toward the rear where I was sitting in the last booth chewing on a bear claw and washing it down with coffee. I’d described myself on the telephone the night before, and he paused briefly when he was beside my table.
“Mr. Lucas?”
“Yeah. Tetlow? Thanks for meeting me. Sit down.” Tetlow is one of those guys who will never look comfortable wearing a suit. Some guys are born to them. Some are not. The suit was an off the rack choice, flat brown in color and hung on Tetlow’s thin six foot frame like the Scarecrow’s clothes in The Wizard of Oz. His wire frame glasses were tilted slightly to one side, as if they had slid down his nose, and he didn’t have the time or the inclination to straighten them. Of course, maybe he hadn’t noticed.
He plopped his briefcase on the floor and set a stack of manila folders on the table top.
“You want something? A coffee?”
“Huh” he brushed at his business cut straight brown hair. “What? Oh, yes a cof…coff…coffee. Than…thanks.”
I hadn’t noticed the stammer the night before during the telephone conversation, but then I’d done most of the talking. I wondered how it played in the courtroom. I waved a hand at the girl behind the counter and mouthed the word, “Coffee”, and pointed at Tetlow.
Tetlow was digging through the folders on the table. He opened two before he found the one he wanted.
“This is the Rhodes stuff. He turned a couple of pages, adjusted the glasses which had slipped down his nose to the point of being ineffective. “The arr…arrest report is in the…in there t…t…too.” He slid the pile across the table to me.
“Can I keep these?”
The waitress arrived with an empty mug and set it in front of Tetlow, filled it and topped off my own cup.
“Yes, you c…can,” he said. He reached for the cream canister and fed his coffee. “I went b…b…by my office…this mor…morning and made copies.”
“Thanks.” I was impressed. Despite his disheveled appearance Tetlow was an early riser and apparently a hard and efficient worker. I glanced briefly at the set of pages he had given me.
“I called Ra…Ray last night,” he said. “About yo…you. Jus…jus…just to clear it with him. He is th…th…the client.”
Another point for Tetlow. He was conscientious. He called Ray and he told me about it, just to be sure I wouldn’t make any assumptions about his professionalism or his allegiances.
“Is he guilty?” I asked, closing the file of papers.
“I don…don’t know. I’ll do my be…be...best to beat th…th…the charges.”
“That’s lawyer speak. What does your gut tell you?”
“I’m a law…lawyer, Mr. Lucas…sometimes…it’s best not to kn…know t…t…too much. It does…doesn’t really matter, you know.”
“What do your feelings tell you?” I pushed.
“I don…don…don’t examine my fe…feelings in that way, and that’s the tru…truth. But, if it ma…ma…makes any difference t…to you, I can tell you I work in the pub…pub…public defender’s office, because I like to hel…hel…help people who might not always get a fa…fair shot. It’s impor…important work.”
“Checks and balances. You guys and the D.A’s office.”
Tetlow smiled, “Yes, exactly.”
I put Tetlow at around thirty years old and on the side of the good guys, deferring private practice and the financial benefits to work on things he felt important. Most guys I knew went into the law for the money. That was their wheel. Of course, having a good heart didn’t necessarily make Tetlow a good lawyer. Either way, he was the card Ray drew, for better or worse.
“I gotta get going now,” he said. He gathered his files and slid from the booth. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Keep me informed.”
“I’ll do that. One more thing. How many cases you working on right now?”
“Seven…seventeen, He said. “So extra help is al…al…always wel…welcomed. Maybe Ray is one of th…the…lucky ones.”
“Maybe,” I said as Tetlow turned to leave. I had my doubts that Rhode’s would consider himself one of the lucky ones, but then everything is a matter of perspective.
CHAPTER FIVE
After Tetlow left, I ordered some breakfast and started reading Rhodes’ file. The Police Department’s arrest report differed significantly from Ray’s interpretation. The broken tail light was the reason the car was initially stopped, but the Officer stated that Ray’s belligerent attitude was the reason the problem escalated. The report stated Rhodes got out of the car without being asked and aggressively confronted the Officer. When the Officer asked for identification Rhodes supposedly went into a verbal tirade about police harassment. The Officer stated Rhodes’ behavior was sufficiently contentious to ask him to move to the sidewalk, away from the car. The Officer again asked for identification, which Rhodes removed from his wallet and tossed it at the Officer, while continuing to swear and curse at the Officer. Instructing Rhodes to “Calm down”, and stay on the sidewalk, the Officer moved to the car, basing his decision to look in the car upon Rhodes’ behavior.
Inside the car, beneath the passenger’s front seat the Officer found a cellophane bag filled with individual bindles of cocaine. He also found a loaded .45 caliber hand gun. At this point the Officer made the arrest.
The tone of the report was hardly surprising. The cop didn’t work who wrote a report where the suspect emerged in a favorable light. Still, I thought I might learn something more if I could talk to the cop who made the bust. I noted the Officer’s name at the bottom of the report: It was Martin Milner.
Nourished by a hash browns and two egg breakfast, I stood on the sidewalk outside the Cafe Rom
a and used my cell to telephone Lieutenant McNamara, a cop I’d known in Pasadena when we were both young. He’d moved north after three years in Pasadena, but we’d kept in touch, and saw more of each other since I’d come to San Francisco.
“Mac, it’s Lucky.”
“Hey! What’s up?” McNamara said.
“I want to use you,” I said.
“Nothing new there. What is it this time? Want an illegal wiretap? Try to persuade a Judge you’re innocent of running red light?”
“Ha, ha! No, nothing so stressful for you, though I’ll keep those offers in mind. How about a wiretap on a Judge?”
“Yeah, right. Listen, I’m driving here, and California says I’m not supposed to talk on the phone while operating a car. Pussy ass law, but what are you going to do?”
“I know what you’d do. You’re doing it. You’re ignoring it.”
“Well, you got me there.”
“I’ll be quick. I want to drop your name. I plan to try and talk to an Officer Milner, works out of Vallejo Street station. He made a bust of a guy I know and the two versions I got seem to differ quite a bit.”
“There’s a shocker for you,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. But anyway, using your name to get the guy to see me might help.”
“I thought you were retired, or semi-retired? You’re running around looking into cop matters again? Who’s the guy?”
“Friend of a family member. Not my friend, but I got dragged in. Name is Ray Rhodes. You wouldn’t know him.”
“Nope that doesn’t mean a thing to me. But, sure you can tell the Officer it would be appreciated by the Lieutenant if he took the time to see you.”
“Thanks. And let’s do a dinner or make it over to Golden Gate fields to see the nags run and lose some money.”
“Deal. Now I got to get off the phone. I see a patrol car coming up beside me and I’m scared I might get a ticket.” He was laughing as he disconnected the call.
I telephoned the Vallejo Street Police Station and asked for Milner. I was told he worked the swing shift, did I want to leave a message. I left the message, knowing it would probably have a fifty-fifty chance of being delivered, but then also used McNamara’s name to see if I could pry a personal number for Milner from the cop on the phone. It worked, and I telephoned Milner’s home.
“Yeah?” the groggy voice on the other end of the call answered, as if the call had woken him.
“Officer Milner?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
I explained who I was and what I wanted.
“And I should see you because the Lieutenant says he will consider it a personal favor. Even though we don’t know each other.”
“That’s about it.” Even young Cops realize that requests from their superiors in the department are ignored at their own peril. “Won’t take long. Fifteen minutes.”
“This guy? What’d you say his name was? Rhodes? He’s a friend of yours?” He sounded as if he coming more fully awake.
“Listen, can we meet today? Lieutenant McNamara said…”
“Yeah, yeah.” He interrupted me before I could even push a little bit more with the influence. “Okay, listen my shift starts at three. I’ll meet you around two at Clown Alley. It’s a burger joint on Columbus in North Beach, close to the station.”
“See you then.”
I walked to my car and decided to kill some of the next four hours looking at some of the guys on the list Ray had provided. There were three guys who had come by to see him more than once. One of those names was the guy called Bones, the drug dealer Kathleen also knew from high school. Since Ray was also caught with drugs, and this Bones character was in the business, I would start with him. Maybe Ray was in thick with Bones and dealing drugs, and maybe I’d get a feel for that from Bones. Maybe yes, and then maybe no. Bones had an address on Waller Street in the Haight, which was the opposite direction of where I’d be meeting Milner, but there wasn’t any part of this favor for Kathleen that was set up for my convenience.
The Waller Street place was an old Victorian subdivided into four flats. There were four mailboxes on the porch lettered A through D. Bone’s last name, Staggers, corresponded with B. I knocked on the door, waited, rang the bell and knocked again. Nobody came to the door. I turned to walk down the steps leading from the porch when the door to apartment A opened. A gigantic guy with a beard and shoulder length hair stepped onto the porch. He had on greasy black jeans and motorcycle boots, and a Levi jacket with the sleeves cut off, and worn over a dark grey sweatshirt. He looked at me, and there was a brief moment of recognition, of understanding. He knew I had something to do with the law or the cops or the courts and I knew he had something to do with the other side. Sort of recognition between two professionals.
“You want something?”
“I’m looking for the guy in B, next door.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to talk to him. I’m not a cop.”
“No?” he replied in a sarcastic tone.
“Retired,” I said. “I just want to ask him about somebody. About something I’m helping on. I’m not looking to cause anybody any trouble.”
“Say you. But he ain’t here anyway. He’s gone man. This time for a while.”
“He leave San Francisco?”
“If he wants to stay healthy, he did.”
“Know where?”
Something in my manner seemed to relax Goliath a bit, and he shook his head, almost smiling. “No, I don’t know where. But he crossed some people he should not have fucked with, and he does not want them finding him.” He pulled the door to his apartment closed behind him and moved down the steps of the porch. “He’s in the shit this time,” he added.
I watched him cross the street and climb on a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He kicked started the bike and drove off, leaving me all alone on the porch and feeling abandoned, so I left too.
I still had time before meeting Milner to swing by the Mission District address Ray gave me for Angel Deza. I slipped down Oak Street to Webster, made a right, and weaved my way across Market Street and into the Mission. A smiling, tiny Latina, maybe nineteen and not more than five feet tall, with shiny black hair hanging to the middle of her back, and hoisting a baby on her hip answered the door.
“Angel’s not here,” she said. “But he should be back later this afternoon.” She had a beautiful smile and was surprisingly friendly to a stranger obviously not from the neighborhood. “You can come back.”
“I might do that. I’m a friend of a friend. I just want to talk to him for a couple minutes.”
“Okay,” she said in lilting, almost sing song voice.
She was cute as a dream.
CHAPTER SIX
I was sitting in Clown Alley on Columbus at one thirty finishing a lunch of a cheeseburger and a diet coke. It was the sort of lunch a schizophrenic dieter orders. At least I skipped the fries.
A few minutes before two a young good looking uniformed cop walked in. He had a full head of thick black hair, a good build, and an easy smile. He stopped to say hello to one of the young girls working behind the counter, and I got up from my booth and approached him.
“Officer Milner?” I extended my hand. “Robert Lucas.”
Milner blew an air kiss to the girl and turned to face me.
“How you doing?” he said, and shook my hand.
“I’ve got a table.” I motioned to the booth in the corner. “You want something?”
“Cindi will bring me some coffee. That’s enough.”
We moved to the booth and Cindi brought Milner his coffee, and removed my dishes. “Anything else?” she asked.
“No thanks,” I said.
“So what’s up?” Milner said. “You said the Rhodes thing?”
“Yeah. I just want to hear your side of things. About that night. But there’s two things I should tell you. One, I’m an ex-cop, so I’m on your side. Two, I’m looking into his bust as a favor for family, and
I’m not real crazy about getting involved.”
Milner held up three fingers.
“Three things,” he said. “You’re a friend of an SFPD Lieutenant. That’s why I’m here.”
“Right, three things. Point is...”
“What do you want to know?” Milner interrupted as he reached for a couple packets of sugar and emptied them into his cup of coffee.
“Just what you remember about the stop. Your impressions.” There was no need to mention I’d read his report.
“I pulled him over in North Beach. His tail light was busted and that’s a violation. I was just going to mention it to him. I wasn’t even going to give him a fix-it ticket. Not even that. Simple. It had been a good night. Nice and quiet. I wasn’t on him. He’s the one who fucked it up.”
Milner repeated his story just as he’d written it up. It was so closely detailed, in fact, I wondered if he had gone back and re-read the report. It would make sense. Cops can’t remember the details of every bust and every report.
“Rhodes said you told him you recognized him. And that you knew he was an ex-con? That true?”
“Well, that’s just bullshit. I‘d never seen him before. Some guys like to believe their persecuted. Always the victim. Nothing’s ever their fault, ya know? It’s always on the other guy.”
“There is that.”
“So you know.” He sipped from his coffee and then asked, “Where were you a cop?”
“Pasadena. Almost twenty-five years.”
“Long time”
“Yeah. So with Rhodes. He was the reason you eventually searched the car?
Because of his behavior?”
“Yeah. His stressed out attitude. If he’d stayed in the car he could have given me the registration himself, it would have gone done like juice. But he had to make it a confrontation. His behavior gave me cause for the search. I found the registration in the glove box, but I dropped it on the floor. I shined my flashlight to find it, and that’s when I saw a glimpse of the piece underneath the seat. I looked more closely and found the drugs. Under the seat? I mean, c’mon. At least put the shit in the trunk. Asshole.” He backed off, momentarily softening his tone, perhaps realizing he didn’t know the specific connection between me and Rhodes, and I had mentioned family. “If he’d kept his composure nothing would have happened and he’d have been on his way. I mean it started off with a tail light, right. Would have been the end of story.”