Sheldon Siegel

Amazon Rating 4.5/5 (read reviews)

Goodreads Rating 4.19/5  (read reviews)

Siegel’s fourth stand-out legal procedural features likeable law partners Mike Daley and ex-wife Rosie Fernandez working together in their San Francisco firm, Fernandez, Daley and O’Malley. As with the others in the series (Special Circumstances, Incriminating Evidence, Criminal Intent), it’s a low-key but pleasantly compelling read.

Skid row resident Leon Walker, successfully represented by Michael and Rosie in a murder case 10 years earlier, reappears and seeks legal help once again. Leon is charged with the murder of Tower Grayson, a Silicon Valley venture capitalist found stabbed to death in a Dumpster behind a liquor store. The firm has several good reasons to turn Walker down. After Rosie’s battle with breast cancer, they’ve sworn off exhaustive murder investigations, and the original Leon Walker case destroyed their marriage. But Michael’s unbending moral code compels him to take the job, and Rosie reluctantly goes along. It’s a tough case as both the cops and the prosecutors are doing everything in their power, including intimidating witnesses and threatening Michael, to take the accused man down. Leon, who lives in a flophouse and is dying of liver disease, is equally determined to go to his grave an innocent man. Although Grayson’s famly and business partners depict him as a pillar of the community, dogged detective work (Michael’s ex-cop brother is a PI) turns up a wealth of unsavory evidence attesting to Grayson’s many failings, both legal and moral.

Michael’s careful deliberations and ethical considerations are a refreshing contrast to the slapdash morality and breakneck speed of most legal thrillers. The lengthy, detailed courtroom scenes are instructive and authentic, the resolution fair, dramatic and satisfying. Michael, Rosie, daughter Grace and friends are characters worth rooting for. The verdict is clear: another win for Siegel. —Publisher’s Weekly

Final Verdict, the new legal thriller from Bay Area author Sheldon Siegel, is good fun for anyone familiar with San Francisco and its larger-than-life cast of characters. S.F. law partners MIke Daley and Rosie Fernandez spar like Tracy and Hepburn. Final Verdict maintains a brisk pace, and there’s genuine satisfaction when the bad guy gets his comeuppance. More important, there are some new twists to Daley and Fernandez’s relationship, and this bodes well for the next installment in the series. . — San Francisco Chronicle

In this outstanding entry in an always reliable series, former husband and wife defense attorneys Michael Daley and Rosie Fernandez must confront the events that broke them apart. When Leon, a former client whose case caused the marital rift, asks the team to defend him once again as he faces murder charges, Mike and Rosie reluctantly agree, influenced by the fact Leon is now suffering from a deadly kidney disease. All the evidence, albeit circumstantial, points to Leon as the one who stabbed a wealthy venture capitalist. Enlisting the help of their cadre of colorful supporting characters, Mike and Rosie attempt to find out what really happened, employing their usual investigative and courtroom acumen in the process. As always, Siegel makes the most of Mike’s cunningly cautious cross-examination technique. An ending that’s full of surprises–both professional and personal–provides the perfect finale to a supremely entertaining legal thriller. —Booklist

About a decade ago, lawyers Michael Daley and Rosie Fernandez triumphantly represented bum Leon Walker in a murder trial. Leon returns needing legal assistance from his attorneys as he is charged with the stabbing killing of Silicon Valley venture capitalist Tower Grayson. The duo knows they must reject this case and all murder cases as Rosie recovers from breast cancer. Besides obtaining an acquittal in the first case, the marriage between the two lawyers ended. Perhaps it is the code of an ex-priest, but Michael, over his own judgment that reminds him of the mental and physical price these representations mean, accepts the job. The prosecution side uses every weapon in their arsenal including abuse of power through intimidation of witnesses and the defense to win. Encouraged by their client’s obsession to prove his innocence before he dies from a liver ailment, Michael and Rose with the professional help of his brother a private eye type go all out in their defense, but the other side has more in its arsenal to hide the truth.

The verdict on Sheldon Siegel is that few if any of today’s writers provide a better legal thriller. His latest tale contains a strong story line with incredibly realistic and compelling courtroom scenes that last for more than a paragraph or two. Fans will root for the defense team whose courageous client sets the tone and feel horrified at the “legal” excesses of the prosecution side. FINAL VERDICT is great novel that sub-genre fans will enjoy immensely, but also will think of the song The Spy Who Loved Me upon finishing the book because baby Mr. Siegel is the best. – Harriet Klausner, Blether’s Book Reviews

1
“ASSAULT WITH A DEADLY CHICKEN”
Rosita Fernandez, Michael Daley and Carolyn O’Malley announce the re-opening of the law offices of Fernandez, Daley and O’Malley, at 84 First Street, Suite 200, San Francisco, California 94105.  The firm will specialize in criminal defense law in state and federal courts.  Flexible fee arrangements are available for clients with demonstrated financial needs.  Referrals welcome.

— SAN FRANCISCO DAILY LEGAL JOURNAL.  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1

JUDGE ELIZABETH MCDANIEL is glaring at me over the top of her reading glasses.  The good natured veteran of the California Superior Court rarely raises her voice, but her demeanor leaves no doubt that she’s in complete control of her stuffy courtroom on the second floor of San Francisco’s Hall of Justice.  It’s a few minutes before noon on Friday, June third, and she’s been listening to pleas with characteristic patience for almost three hours.  Today’s cattle call has dissipated and most of the petty criminals whose numbers came up this morning are out on bail.  A few unlucky souls have returned to the unsightly new jail building next door.

Judge McDaniel’s chin is resting on her left palm and her light brown hair is pulled back into a tight ball.  She arches a stern eyebrow in my direction and says, “We haven’t seen you in quite some time, Mr. Daley.”

I sense that she may be somewhat less than ecstatic to see me.

I dart a glance at my law partner and ex-wife, Rosita Fernandez, who is sitting in the front row of the otherwise empty gallery.  Rosie stopped by to offer moral support after she’d finished a DUI case next door.  I suspect she’d rather be spending her forty-fifth birthday in more elegant surroundings.  I’ll make it up to her over the weekend.

I turn back to Judge McDaniel and try to strike an appropriately deferential note.  “Ms. Fernandez and I took a year off to teach law in Berkeley,” I tell her.  “We recently returned to private practice on this side of the Bay.”

There’s more to the story.  Rosie and I have been representing criminals for a living for the past fifteen years, first as public defenders, and more recently in private practice.  About a year ago, we decided to take a break after we defended Rosie’s niece, who was accused of murdering a megalomaniac Bay Area movie director who also happened to be her husband.  In an attempt to stabilize our schedules, collect some regular paychecks and spend more time with our eleven year-old daughter, Grace, we took a sabbatical to run the death penalty clinic at my alma mater, Boalt Law School.  It didn’t work out the way we had hoped.  We traded the headaches of running a small law firm for the heartaches of supervising a half dozen death penalty appeals and we spent what little free time we had trying to raise money to keep the clinic afloat.  Most defense attorneys don’t hang out with people who have hundred dollar bills burning through their pockets unless the money happens to be stolen.  Our noble experiment in academia ran its course when the school year ended a few weeks ago.

 * * *

Judge McDaniel’s round face rearranges itself into a bemused look.  The former prosecutor came to the law after raising her children, and unlike most of us who work in this building whose idealism gave way to cynicism long ago, she relishes every moment she spends on the bench.  I can make out the hint of the drawl that is the last remnant of her proper Southern upbringing when she says, “Academia’s loss is our gain, Mr. Daley.”  The corner of her mouth turns up slightly as she adds, “I take it you taught your students to comport themselves with the same professionalism and dignity that you have always exhibited in this courtroom?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

Rosie and I are unlikely to win any popularity contests in the Hall.  The criminal justice system in our hometown is an incestuous little Peyton Place where the prosecutors, police officers, defense attorneys, and, yes, judges, get to know each other pretty well–some would say too well.  Our reputation as effective–and zealous–defense attorneys accompanies us whenever we enter the imposing gray structure where Judge McDaniel and her overworked colleagues do their best to mete out justice as fairly and expeditiously as they can.

She isn’t finished.  “And I trust you instructed them to demonstrate the same respect that you have shown to this court?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Glad to hear it, Mr. Daley.”  Her smile disappears.  Time to get down to business–at least until the lunch bell rings.  “What brings you back to my courtroom?”

I try to keep my tone perfectly even when I say, “A chicken, Your Honor.”

“Excuse me?”

A rookie ADA named Andy Erickson is getting his feet wet today.  The earnest USF grad was an all-area baseball player at St. Ignatius and his new gray suit hangs impressively on his athletic frame.  He’s going to be a good prosecutor when he grows up, but it’s his first time at the plate and he’s a little nervous as he tries to muster an appropriately prosecutorial tone.  “Mr. Daley is attempting to minimize the seriousness of this case,” he says.  “The defendant violated Section Two-Forty-Five-A-One of the Penal Code.  He committed a felony.”

I’ve never been impressed by people who recite Penal Code section numbers.  The judge’s pronounced scowl suggests she isn’t, either.  In English, Andy is saying that the tall African American man sitting to my left has been charged with assault with a deadly weapon.

Show time.  I give young Andy a patronizing look and begin the usual defensive maneuvers. “My client has been accused of a felony,” I say.  “Whether he’s guilty is a matter for a jury to decide.”

Welcome to the practice of law, Andy.  And you’re right:  I am trying to minimize the seriousness of this case.  That’s my job.  My client, Terrence Love, is a soft-spoken, good-natured thug who makes ends meet by taking things that don’t belong to him.  That’s his job.  I represented him for the first time when I was a PD and I help him out from time to time for sentimental reasons.  He’s never hurt anyone and he uses his loot to pay for booze and a room in a flophouse.  On those rare occasions when he’s particularly flush, he pays me.  I’ve suggested to him that he might consider a more conventional–and legal–line of work, but he’s elected to stick with what he knows best.  He’s spent about a third of his forty years in jail.  He’s been drug-free for almost two years now, but sobriety has been more elusive.

Andy furrows his brow and says, “The defendant has a long rap sheet, Your Honor.”

Nice try.  Every baby prosecutor nowadays tries to sound like Sam Waterston on Law and Order.  Luckily for Sam, his cases on TV are resolved in an hour or so, minus time for commercials, credits and a preview of next week’s show.  Andy will find out soon enough that things don’t always go quite so smoothly out here in the real world–especially when he has to deal with pesky defense attorneys like me.  He’ll calm down in a few weeks.  I’ll ask him if he wants to go out for a beer when we’re done.  We’ll be seeing each other again–probably soon.

I keep my tone conversational.  “Your Honor,” I say, “the prosecution has blown this matter out of proportion.”

There’s more at stake than I’m letting on.  Terrence has been convicted of two prior felonies.  If he goes down again, he could be in jail for a long time–perhaps even for life–under California’s mandatory “three strikes” sentencing laws.

Judge McDaniel stops me with an uplifted palm.  “Mr. Daley,” she says, “this is an arraignment.  Your client is here to enter a plea.”

“Your Honor, if we could talk about this for just a moment–”

“If you’d like to talk about anything other than your client’s plea–including the subject of chickens–you’ll have to save it for the preliminary hearing.”

“But Your Honor–”

“Guilty or not?”

“Not guilty.”

“Thank you.”

She sets a date for a preliminary hearing a week from today.  She’s about to bang her gavel when I decide to take a chance and break a fundamental rule of courtroom etiquette by addressing her without an invitation.  “Your Honor,” I say, “if we could discuss this, I think we can come to a fair and reasonable resolution that will be satisfactory to all parties and will not require us to take up more of your time.”

I would never think of asking for anything that’s less than fair and reasonable and judges are often receptive to suggestions that might alleviate congestion in their overcrowded dockets.

She points to her watch and says, “You have two minutes.”

It’s more than I thought she’d give me.  “As I said, this case is about a chicken.”

She mimics a basketball referee by holding up her hands in the shape of the letter T.  “Time out,” she says. “Your client is charged with assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Yes, he is, Your Honor, but there are mitigating circumstances.”

“There are always mitigating circumstances when you appear in this courtroom.”  She turns to Andy Erickson for help.  “What’s this all about?”

Perfect.  I’ve done nothing other than to question the charges, and now she’s making poor Andy explain it.  It’s time for me to shut up and let him tell his story.

I can see beads of sweat on his forehead, and I’ll bet his armpits are soaked under his new suit.  He studies his notes and then looks up at the judge.  To his credit, his tone is professional when he says, “The defendant attacked Mr. Edward Harper, who was seriously injured.”

Not so fast.  “It was an accident,” I insist.  “Mr. Harper had a couple of scratches.”

The judge exhales loudly and asks me, “Where does a chicken fit into this?”

* * *

Here goes.  “My client purchased a fully-cooked roasted chicken at his local supermarket.”  My tone suggests he wandered into the upscale Safeway in the Marina District.  In reality, Terrence patronized a deli on the blighted Sixth Street skid row just north of here.  “Then he stopped at a nearby liquor store to purchase a beverage.”  King Cobra is popular on Sixth Street because it’s cheaper than Budweiser and comes in a larger bottle.  “He inadvertently left the chicken on the counter at the liquor store.”  Actually, he was in such a hurry to crack open his King Cobra that he forgot all about the chicken.  “He realized his mistake and returned a few minutes later, where he found Mr. Harper walking out of the store with his dinner.  He politely asked him to return it.”  Politeness is in the ears of the beholder.  Terrence bears an uncanny resemblance to Shaquille O’Neal and outweighs Harper by more than a hundred pounds.  They live in the same dilapidated residential hotel and have had several run-ins.  Terrence probably told him to give back the chicken or he’d beat the hell out of him.  “Mr. Harper refused and a discussion ensued, followed by some inadvertent shoving.”  In the world of criminal defense attorneys, shouting matches are always characterized as discussions and shoving always happens inadvertently.

Erickson finally stops me. “The defendant hit Mr. Harper intentionally,” he says.  “He attempted to inflict great bodily injury.”

It’s a legitimate legal point.  The Penal Code says you’re guilty of a felony if you assault someone with a deadly weapon or by means of any force that’s likely to produce great bodily harm.  In the absence of a gun or a knife, prosecutors usually argue the latter.  Theoretically, you can be convicted of hitting somebody with a Nerf ball if the DA can show your action was likely to result in a serious injury.

I invoke a time-honored legal tactic used by defense attorneys and second graders:  blame the other guy.  “Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Harper started it by stealing Mr. Love’s chicken.  My client had no intention of injuring him.  Mr. Love simply asked him to return his dinner.  When he refused, Mr. Love had no other choice but to attempt to take it from him, resulting in an inadvertent struggle.”  I’m laying it on a little thick when I add, “My client didn’t press charges against Mr. Harper for stealing his chicken.  Mr. Love also suffered a gash on his head.”

It was a scratch, and it’s unclear whether Harper inflicted the less-than-life-threatening wound.  For all I know, Terrence could have nicked himself while shaving his bald dome.

This time Erickson comes back swinging.  “Your Honor,” he says, “Mr. Daley is intentionally mischaracterizing the circumstances surrounding this vicious attack.”

Yes, I am.

He points a finger at Terrence and adds, “The defendant struck Mr. Harper with a deadly weapon.”

He was doing pretty well for awhile, but now he’s overplaying his hand.  It’s a common rookie mistake–especially in front of a smart judge like Betsy McDaniel.  I read the expression on her face and keep my mouth shut.  She gives Erickson an irritated look and says, “What deadly weapon did he use?”

I was hoping she was going to ask.

Erickson realizes he’s in trouble.  He lowers his voice and says, “The chicken.”

“Excuse me?”

Game over.  One might say Andy’s goose–or chicken–is cooked.  Judge McDaniel gives him a quizzical look when she asks, “Are you suggesting a chicken is a deadly weapon?”

Unfortunately for Andy, he just did.  He has no choice.  “Yes, Your Honor.”

I say to the judge, “Your Honor, with all due respect to Mr. Erickson, when I read the Penal Code, a chicken is not a deadly weapon, and assault with a deadly chicken is not a crime.”

I catch the hint of a grin from the judge.

Andy tries again.  “The defendant was a professional boxer,” he says.  “He was known as Terrence ‘The Terminator’ Love.”

Judge McDaniel’s stomach is growling.  She points her gavel at him and says, “So?”

“In the hands of a trained fighter, even a seemingly innocuous item such as a chicken can be deadly.  Some states have gone so far as to provide that the hands of a licensed boxer can be construed as lethal weapons.”

“California isn’t one of them,” I interject.  “Our statute is silent on the issue and there are no California cases holding that the hands of a professional boxer are deadly per se.  In fact, there are California cases that hold that hands and feet are not deadly weapons.”

Erickson says, “In the hands of a former boxer, even the smallest item can be deadly.”

Judge McDaniel gives me a thoughtful look and says, “There is some authority to support Mr. Erickson’s position under current California law.  If I hit you with my gavel, it would hurt, but it’s unlikely that I could inflict serious damage.  Given your client’s size and strength, the same cannot be said for him.”

True enough.  I hope she isn’t going to put her theory to a test by handing her gavel to the Terminator.  I start to weave.  “Your Honor,” I say, “the cases have construed certain items, such as guns, knives, chains and tire irons, as inherently deadly.  Other objects must be evaluated on a case-by-case basis, taking into account the circumstances of their use and the size and strength of the person holding them.”

She isn’t buying it.  “Your client is a trained fighter who weighs over three hundred pounds.  What’s your point?”

“Other factors should be taken into consideration.”

“Such as?”

“There’s a reason he’s no longer boxing.”

“And that would be?”

“He wasn’t very good at it.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Erickson says. “Relevance.”

I show a patient smile.  “Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Erickson’s position turns on the issue of whether a chicken became a deadly weapon in my client’s hands.”  I turn to the Terminator and say, “Would you please tell the judge your record as a boxer?”

He gives her a sheepish look and says, “Zero and four.”

I feign incredulity.  “Really?  You fought only four times and you never won a fight?”

His high-pitched voice is child-like when he says, “That’s correct.”

“Did you ever manage to knock anybody down?”

“No.  I have soft hands.”

“What does that mean?”

“I couldn’t hit anybody hard enough to knock them out.”

I glance at Rosie, who signals me to wrap up.  I say to the judge, “In light of this testimony, we respectfully request that the charges be dismissed as a matter of law.”

Judge McDaniel’s poker face gives way to a wry grin.  Erickson starts to talk, but she cuts him off with a wave and asks him, “Are you aware that Mr. Love could be sentenced to life in prison if he’s convicted?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

She sounds like my third grade teacher at St. Peter’s when she asks, “Do you really expect me to send him away because of a shoving match over a chicken?”

“Mr. Harper had to go to the hospital, Your Honor.”

She looks at the clock and starts tapping a Bic pen on her bench book.  She sighs heavily and says to nobody in particular, “Gentlemen, how are we going to resolve this?”

Erickson glances at me for an instant, then he turns to the judge and says, “Your Honor, we’re prepared to move forward.”

He’s exhausted her patience. She points her pen at him and says, “You aren’t listening to me, Mr. Erickson.  How are we going to resolve this?”

It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for.  “Your Honor,” I say, “I’ve tried to persuade Mr. Erickson that this matter can be resolved without any further intervention by this court.”

“What do you have in mind, Mr. Daley?”

I try to strike a tone of unquestionable reason when I say, “Mr. Love will apologize to Mr. Harper for inadvertently hitting him, and Mr. Harper will apologize to Mr. Love for accidentally taking his chicken.  In the spirit of cooperation, my client won’t press theft charges.”

The judge mulls it over and says, “What else can you offer, Mr. Daley?”

I need to sweeten the pot.  “In an effort to conclude this matter amicably, I will take everyone, including Mr. Harper and Mr. Erickson and Your Honor, across the street for lunch.  The roast chicken is pretty good.”

It takes the judge a moment to warm up to my proposal.  Finally, she says, “Sounds fitting.”  She turns to Andy and adds, “That’s going to work for you, isn’t it, Mr. Erickson?”

“Your Honor,” he says, “you can’t simply dismiss the case.”

“Yes, I can.”  She points a finger at him and adds, “If you plan to work here for any length of time, you would be well advised to keep that in mind before you press felony charges against somebody who got into shoving match over a chicken.”

Andy Erickson’s initiation is now complete.

The judge says to him in a tone that leaves no room for negotiation, “Mr. Daley’s proposal is acceptable to you, isn’t it, Mr. Erickson?”

“I guess so, Your Honor.”

She bangs her gavel.  “Case dismissed, subject to Mr. Daley agreeing to take the defendant, Mr. Harper and Mr. Erickson to lunch.  I will expect all of you to behave in a civil manner and I don’t want to see any of you back here this afternoon.  Understood?”

Erickson and I mumble in unison, “Understood.”

The judge grins at me and says, “I’m going to pass on your generous offer to join you.”

“Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.”  She stands and says, “It’s nice to have you back, Mr. Daley.  You bring a certain practical expedience to our proceedings, along with some badly-needed humor.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

The smile leaves her face as she adds, “I trust you won’t be back in my courtroom anytime soon.”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Good.”

2
“WE HAD AN AGREEMENT”
“Death penalty cases take on a life of their own.”

— Michael Daley. Boalt Law School Monthly.

“THE TERMINATOR seemed very appreciative,” Rosie says. Her full lips form a magic smile and her cobalt eyes gleam as she’s sitting on the windowsill in my cramped office at two o’clock the same afternoon. Her short, jet-black hair is backlit by the sunlight that’s pouring in through the open window.

“He always says thank you,” I tell her.

I just got back from my lunch with Terrence Love, Ed Harper, and my new friend, Andy Erickson. Terrence and Ed didn’t speak to each other the entire time, but it wasn’t a total waste. I found out that Andy shares Giants’ tickets with a couple of the other junior DAs. Even bitter adversaries are willing to put aside their differences every once in awhile to sit in the lower deck behind first base at PacBell Park. Regrettably, I was unsuccessful in my attempt to negotiate a couple of seats for the Dodgers’ series next week.

Rosie’s grin turns sly and the lines at the corners of her eyes become more pronounced as she deadpans, “I’m sure our former colleagues at Boalt will be writing law review articles about your state of the art, ‘Assault with a Deadly Chicken’ defense.”

“It’s nice to know the magic tricks are still working.”

“You got a good result for him.”

Yes, I did. I take a long drink of my Diet Dr Pepper and soak up the ambiance of our elegant surroundings. The world headquarters of Fernandez, Daley and O’Malley is housed in a rundown eyesore a half block north of the Transbay bus terminal in one of the last remnants of an era when this was the earthy side of downtown. We’re surrounded by office towers that were built in the go-go days of the late nineties.

The prior occupant of our space was Madame Lena, a tarot card reader who put her professional skills to good use when she correctly predicted the dot-com collapse six months before it happened. She made a killing on the NASDAQ and now tells fortunes from a condo on a golf course in an upscale retirement community outside Palm Springs. As a small token of her appreciation for our agreement to take over her lease, she gave me a faded poster of the signs of the zodiac that still hangs on the wall above my metal desk. We have a slightly better view than we did at our old place around the corner on Mission Street in a now-demolished former martial arts studio. The smell is better, too. Instead of inhaling the pungent odors of the offerings from our old neighbor, the Lucky Corner Chinese restaurant, we enjoy the aroma of burritos from El Faro, the Mexican place downstairs.

Rosie hasn’t finished her post mortem on this morning’s proceedings. She plants her tongue firmly in her cheek and says, “You were very entertaining. The only thing missing was a big box of popcorn and a Diet Coke.”

“If the law thing doesn’t work out, I can always try stand-up.”

She leans across my desk, pecks me on the cheek and says, “In my capacity as the managing partner of this firm, I’m compelled to ask you an important question.”

“And that would be?”

“Is the Terminator planning to pay us?”

Always the unyielding voice of practicality. We met at the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office. I was an idealistic new lawyer who had survived three difficult years as a priest, and she was a savvy PD who had survived three difficult years in a bad marriage. She taught me how the criminal justice system works and provided some remedial lessons on certain practical matters that I had neglected during my years in the Church. You might say she was a full service mentor. In a moment of great romance and questionable judgment, we got married after a brief and highly acrobatic courtship. Grace arrived a couple of years later. Then things went south. We still love each other in ways that most people can only dream about, but we can get on each other’s nerves in ways that would give the same people nightmares.

We left the PD’s office when our marriage broke up. Rosie opened her own firm and I went to work for Simpson and Gates, a tony downtown shop at the top of the Bank of America building. Our professional paths intersected again four years ago when the Simpson firm showed me the door because I didn’t bring in enough business. I subleased an office from Rosie and asked her to help me when one of my former colleagues was accused of murder. It was an unlikely genesis for a law firm, but we’ve always been good at working together.

Living together has been a bumpier ride. We’ve tried on countless occasions to go our separate ways, but we seem to be drawn back to each other by forces that we can’t control, as well as a compelling bond in Grace. Things came to a head about a year ago when Rosie was battling breast cancer. In terms of raw fear and anxiety, it was far more difficult than the darkest times of our divorce. She’s been cancer-free for eight months, but her emotional battle scars are taking longer to heal. She freely acknowledges that her mood swings can be difficult to predict. We’re dealing with it. After a brush with mortality, we finally acknowledged something that everyone around us had been telling us for years: we’re going to be a permanent couple. It’s unlikely that we’ll ever remind anybody of Ozzie and Harriet and we still have separate places in Marin County. It’s a long shot that we’ll ever live under the same roof and the chances that we’ll get married again are slim, although neither of us would rule it out completely. It’s nice to have sex from time to time, too–especially with somebody who is as skillful at it as Rosie.

I tell her, “Terrence was a little short. He said he’d try to get it to us next week.”

This elicits the familiar eye roll. “Same old story,” she says. “He’s going to have to steal the money to pay us, isn’t he?”

Undoubtedly.

“Doesn’t it bother you that he pays us with stolen cash?”

Defense attorneys try not to probe too deeply into the sources of our clients’ funds. “I never ask him where he gets the money. I don’t know for sure that it’s stolen.”

“Yes, you do. He’s going to call again next week. Sometimes I think he wants to go back to prison.”

Sometimes I think she’s right. “It keeps him away from the booze,” I say. “He gets medical attention, three squares a day and nobody bothers him. Prison is still one of the few places where size really does matter.”

She gives me a sardonic grin and says, “We gave up a sophisticated death penalty practice to cut deals for guys like Terrence the Terminator.”

We’ve covered this territory and I go with the old standby. “It pays the bills,” I say. “Terrence isn’t a bad guy. He’s never hurt anybody.”

“He’s a career criminal.”

“You’re always telling me we aren’t supposed to judge our clients.”

“We’re allowed to do it after they’ve been convicted a dozen times.”

I let Rosie have the last word on the moral ramifications of Terrence Love’s career choice and I shift to a more pleasant subject: our plans for the weekend. Grace has her Little League championship game tomorrow and I promised Rosie that we’d go out for dinner to celebrate her birthday. We told Rosie’s mom that we’d take her to the cemetery on Sunday.

My private line rings and I pick it up. “Michael Daley,” I say.

A confident baritone says, “It’s Marcus Banks.”

My antenna goes up. The dean of San Francisco homicide inspectors didn’t pull my name out of a hat and I’m reasonably sure he isn’t calling to congratulate us on the opening of our office. “What can I do for you, Marcus?”

“I have somebody who needs to talk to you.”

Uh-oh. “Who?”

The line goes silent for a moment, and the next thing I hear is a raspy, “Michael Daley?”

I can’t place the voice, but I can tell immediately when one of my former clients is out of jail and looking for me. The fact that he’s with a senior homicide inspector isn’t a good sign. My heart starts to beat faster as I say, “This is Michael Daley.”

“It’s been a long time.”

Why do they always call on Friday afternoon?

Rosie gives me a circumspect look. She takes a sip of her ever-present Diet Coke and mouths the word, “Who?”

I cup my hand over the phone and whisper, “I’m not sure.”

She holds up her right index finger and asks, “Category One?”

Rosie divides the world into two broad groups. Category One consists of people who make her life easier, and Category Two includes everybody else. It’s a useful, albeit imperfect, rating system. Depending on her mood, I can switch from one category to the other several times a day. Every once in awhile, I seem to be in both groups simultaneously.

I hold up two fingers, then I put the phone back up to my ear and say, “Who is this?”

“An old friend.”

I hate cat-and-mouse. “Which one?”

“Leon Walker.”

I can feel a knot starting to form in the bottom of my stomach. Walker is another career criminal, but unlike Terrence the Terminator, he isn’t such a nice one. Rosie and I represented him ten years ago when we were PDs. He and his brother were accused of killing a convenience store clerk in a botched armed robbery. It wasn’t an experience that will make our personal highlight reels. I say, “It’s been a long time, Leon.”

A look of recognition crosses Rosie’s face. She makes no attempt to lower her voice when she asks, “Are you serious?”

I nod.

I see her jaws clench, but she doesn’t say a word.

I turn my attention back to the phone, where Walker’s voice is becoming chatty. “I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” he says.

Not a chance. “What do you want, Leon?”

“I need your help. I’ve been arrested.”

“For what?”

“Murder.”

I give Rosie a helpless look and tell her, “They’re saying he killed someone.”

She stares daggers at me and says, “We aren’t going to represent Leon Walker again.”

“Let me find out what’s going on.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’ll have to refer it to somebody else. We had an agreement.”

Yes, we did. When we left academia, we decided that we wouldn’t take on any murder cases. They’re emotionally draining and horrifically time consuming. Rosie’s energy still isn’t what it was before her cancer treatments and there will be fifty candles on the cake when I celebrate my next birthday. Most accused murderers don’t have a lot of spare cash to pay their lawyers. I cup my hand over the mouthpiece and repeat, “Let me find out what’s going on.”

Her tone turns emphatic. “Don’t let your benevolent instincts overrule your better judgment. I’m not going to try to deal with a murder case, menopause and breast cancer at the same time. We aren’t going to represent Leon Walker again.” She walks out of my office.

It’s great to be back in private practice. I say to Walker, “I’m going to have to refer you to somebody else.”

He gulps down a deep breath and says, “Can you come down here just for a few minutes? I’ll pay you for your time.” His voice is filled with the unmistakable sound of desperation when he adds, “Please, Mr. Daley. I don’t know who else to call.”

Hell. “Where are you?”

He gives me an address at a residential hotel in an alley off Sixth Street.

I tell him, “Let me talk to Inspector Banks.”

“Hang on.”

A moment later, Banks says,“You can meet us down at the Hall.”

“I’m only a few blocks from you,” I say. “I’ll come right over.”

He does a quick mental calculus. If he gives me a little access now, he may be able to cut off arguments about the securing of the crime scene and the admissibility of the evidence. He says, “We’ll be here for twenty minutes.”

“Understood.” I ask to speak to Walker again. Banks hands him the phone and I tell him I’m on my way. I’ll figure out a way to explain it to Rosie. We talk for another minute, but he provides no additional details. Finally, I ask him, “Why did you call me?”

“You’re the only person I trust. You were the only one who believed me last time.”

I’M ABOUT TO WALK out the door when our third partner, Carolyn O’Malley, stops me and says, “Rosie said you were on the phone with Leon Walker.”

“I was.”

At five-one and barely a hundred pounds, Carolyn is a tightly-wound bundle of nervous energy. She was a tenacious prosecutor for almost twenty years before an ill-advised affair with her former boss ended her career at the DA’s office. She joined our firm about two years ago and kept our office open while Rosie and I took our sabbatical in academia. She’s developed a reputation as a solid defense lawyer. I’ve known her since we were kids and we went out when we were in high school and college. I tried to persuade her to marry me, but she said no. Rosie says the only prerequisite for becoming a partner in our firm is that you must have had a failed relationship with me at one time or another.

She tugs at her short red hair and asks, “Why the hell did he call you?”

I’ve always been attracted to women who are not prone to pulling punches. “We represented him when we were PDs,” I tell her.

“I remember the case,” she says. “Have they identified the victim?”

“Not yet. The body was found behind a liquor store on Sixth Street.”

“Do you know the cause of death?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a fountain of information. Who made the arrest?”

“Marcus Banks.”

Her lips form a tiny ball. “He’s very good.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to represent Walker again?”

“I don’t know. I promised that I’d go down there and talk to Banks.”

“Rosie was very upset.”

“I’ll bet.” Leon Walker was an all-city basketball player at Mission High and got a scholarship to play at USF. His older brother, Frank, was an enforcer for a loan shark. Late one night, Leon went into a Seven-Eleven, bought a Coke and went back to the car. A masked man presumed to be Frankie walked in a moment later, pulled a gun and demanded money. When the clerk hesitated, the man shot him and fled. It was captured in loving detail on the store’s security camera. Leon and Frankie were stopped for running a red light a short time later. The police found a gun in the trunk and the brothers were charged with first degree murder.

Our guys didn’t come up with a particularly original alibi. Frankie claimed he never went inside the store and Leon corroborated his brother’s story. Unfortunately, they hadn’t noticed a woman in the gas station across the street who said she saw Frankie remove his mask as he was leaving the store. The bullets that killed the clerk matched the gun in the trunk.

The prosecution’s case went to hell before it got to trial. The security tapes were inconclusive for identification purposes because the gunman was wearing a mask that was never found. That made the testimony of the eyewitness crucial. She developed a case of selective amnesia and couldn’t–or wouldn’t–provide a positive ID. There were claims that Frankie’s associates had intimidated her. The DA’s nightmare became a full-blown disaster when a misguided judge ruled that the search of Leon’s car was illegal and that the gun was inadmissible at trial. The case fell apart without a videotaped ID, a solid witness or the murder weapon. It was a stunning and unexpected legal victory for Rosie and me, but it wasn’t a banner day for the criminal justice system.

There was no happy ending. Frankie was killed in a deluge of police fire during another armed robbery two weeks after the charges were dropped. Some people think the cops set him up. The chancellor at USF pulled Leon’s scholarship and he never played basketball again. He dropped out of school and has been living on Sixth Street ever since.

After the hoopla died down, a Stanford law professor published an analysis of the case in the State Bar Journal, in which he proclaimed that Rosie and I were the finest PDs in the State of California. Our fame was short-lived. An overzealous investigative reporter at the Chronicle was considerably less effusive. He accused us of manipulating the system and encouraging our clients’ friends to intimidate witnesses. More people read the Chronicle than the State Bar Journal and the mayor strong-armed the PD’s office into opening an investigation. Rosie and I were put on administrative leave for three agonizing months. The matter was eventually dropped.

Characteristically, Carolyn shows no visible reaction and provides the correct legal analysis. “You got a good result for your clients,” she says.

“Yes, we did.”

She arches an eyebrow and asks the question that defense attorneys are never supposed to answer. “Were they guilty?”

I give her the customary evasive response. “I don’t know.”

Not good enough for a former prosecutor. “Come on, Mike.”

I try to deflect in another direction. “Rosie thought so.”

“So did everybody working at the Hall at the time, including me.”

It doesn’t surprise me.

Her green eyes light up and she flashes the engaging smile that I saw so many times when she wanted something from me. “So,” she says, “what did you think?”

I try to disarm her by using her childhood nickname. “It doesn’t matter any more, Caro.”

She isn’t giving up. “Yes, it does–especially if you’re thinking about representing him.”

I’ll have to fess up sooner or later. “I believed Leon when he told me he didn’t know that his brother was going to rob the store.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It was just a gut feeling. Unlike his brother, Leon wasn’t a garden variety punk. He was a smart kid and a starting forward on the USF basketball team. He wouldn’t have sacrificed a shot at the NBA for a few extra bucks.”

“Your conversation with Walker certainly pushed Rosie’s buttons.”

No doubt. Grace was a baby and Rosie and I were at each other’s throats during the investigation. She worked tirelessly to get the DA to offer the Walker brothers a plea bargain for voluntary manslaughter. I didn’t think the prosecutors could have proved their case beyond a Final Verdict and was dead set against any deals. So were the Walkers. We never had a chance to find out what a jury would have decided. From a professional standpoint, Rosie was pleased with the result, but personally, she thought two killers were set free. In all the years we’ve worked together, it was the only time I’ve seen her question the system.

I give my partner and ex-girlfriend a shrug. “There was more to it than you might think.”

“You guys disagree about everything. Why was it such a big deal?”

“The case ruined our marriage.”

End of Chapter 2. Want to read more? Buy now on amazon.