Sheldon Siegel

Amazon Rating 4.5/5 (read reviews)

Goodreads Rating 4.24/5 (read reviews)

Hope springs eternal, wrote poet Alexander Pope, but optimism is wearing thin for San Francisco law partners Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez. The pair of legal eagles, who remained in business after their marriage went bust, is working to stop the execution of Nathan Fineman, a onetime Mob lawyer accused of gunning down three people at a Chinatown restaurant. Fineman’s health may be failing, but his mind is very much alive. He’s convinced San Francisco cops planted the murder weapon on him as payback for his successful defense of drug dealers in a notorious local case. Fineman’s claim is more than just an indictment of the SFPD; it’s an emotional blow to Daley, whose late father was one of the first cops to reach the scene on the night of the murders. Minutes turn to days as Mike and Rosie seek evidence that might exonerate their client (and possibly implicate Mike’s much-respected old man). Drug dealers, wily lawyers, crooked businessmen, and conflicted cops populate the pages of this latest in a best-selling series from Siegel, a practicing attorney in San Francisco for more than 25 years. A compelling cast and plenty of suspense put this one right up there with the best of Lescroart and Turow. (Booklist starred review)

“An exciting and suspenseful read—a thriller that succeeds both as a provocative courtroom drama and as a personal tale of courage and justice. With spine-chilling thrills and a mind-blowing finish, this novel is a must, must read.” (New Mystery Reader)

“It’s a good year when Sheldon Siegel produces a novel.  Siegel has written an adrenaline rush of a book. The usual fine mix from a top-notch author.” (Shelf Awareness)

1
“WELCOME TO THE ROW”

Friday, July 10. 1103 a.m.
8 days, 12 hours, and 58 minutes until execution.

The oldest man on death row eyes me from his wheelchair. Despite his frail appearance, his grip is firm and his baritone is still forceful. “Welcome to the Row, Mr. Daley. We need your help. We’re running out of time.”

More than seven hundred inmates are awaiting lethal injections on California’s death row. Every one of them is running out of time.

His voice is confident. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Did you have any trouble getting inside?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. Sometimes it seems harder for lawyers to get into San Quentin than it is for our clients to get out. It took me an hour to fill out the stack of forms, sign the multiple releases, and pass through the two metal detectors before I was locked inside one of a dozen windowless six-by-six-foot cells separated by interlaced steel bars covered by scuffed Plexiglas. The death row visitors’ area is just a stone’s throw from the little green chamber where the State of California conducts its executions. It’s a dark reminder of the burdens borne by the denim-clad prisoners who pass their time going about the mundane business of being incarcerated while their lawyers try to prolong their lives. “Mr. Fineman––,”

“It’s Nate,” my host insists in a genial manner.

Fine. “I’m Mike.” Nate Fineman may be confined to a wheelchair, but I’ve learned the hard way never to let my guard down. The first client I ever visited on the Row was a remorseless psychopath who had stabbed his ex-girlfriend twenty-seven times with an ice pick. Instead of shaking my hand, he introduced himself by slamming me against the wall. His hands were clasped around my throat when the guards finally wrestled him to the floor. He never got around to thanking me for getting his death sentence commuted. Every lawyer who handles death penalty appeals has a similar story. “I’m flattered that you’d like us to help with your defense, but practically speaking, it’s really too late to replace your lawyer.”

He strokes his trim gray goatee. “I have no intention of replacing my lawyer,” he assures me. “That would be crazy.”

Crazy as a fox, perhaps. At seventy-seven, Nate Fineman has been on the Row for ten years. This bootlegger’s son doesn’t fit the usual demographics of his neighbors, most of whom are poor, undereducated, and African-American. He’s the last of a long line of flamboyant San Francisco legal legends whose ranks included Joseph Alioto, Melvin Belli, Jake Ehrlich, and Nate Cohn. Known as a street-smart hustler with a glib manner and a photographic memory, Nate “the Great” finished first in his class at Hastings Law School, married the daughter of a superior court judge, then went to work at the public defender’s office, where he developed a reputation for courtroom histrionics and self-promotion. He also won a lot of cases. He earned a spot in the San Francisco Legal Hall of Fame when the DA took a swing at him on the steps of the Hall of Justice after he manipulated the California Rules of Evidence to convince an overmatched judge to dismiss a murder charge against a man who had shot a police officer four times at point-blank range in front of two witnesses. That incident cost the DA his job and made Nate a household name.

An inveterate publicity hound and savvy opportunist, Nate parlayed the notoriety to open his own shop in the graceful Russ Building on Montgomery Street. He used his father-in-law’s connections to become the head of the Jewish Community Federation. He became a regular contributor to Herb Caen’s legendary gossip column, which ran for years next to the Macy’s ad in the middle section of the Chronicle. He was also one of the ringleaders of the fabled Calamari Club, a group of businessmen, politicians, labor leaders, lawyers, and influence peddlers who have been meeting for lunch in the back room of Scoma’s at the Wharf every Friday afternoon for a half century.

Over the years, Nate represented many of San Francisco’s most notorious mobsters and drug dealers. He was never apologetic in expressing his view that it was his job to do whatever it took to keep them out of jail. He proudly boasted that his most famous client, Danny “the Meat Hook” Cortese—a dapper man-about-town who also happened to be the longtime boss of the San Francisco mob—never spent a day in prison over the course of a criminal career spanning a half century. Never one to shy away from controversy, Nate defended three thugs who ran the Griffith Housing Projects and were accused of distributing bad heroin to local high school kids—three of whom died. Through a series of creative (some would say questionable) legal maneuvers, Nate persuaded a judge that a cache of drugs found in the apartment of the ringleader of the “Bayview Posse” had been obtained through an illegal search and seizure. This led to the dismissal of the charges—much to the chagrin of the DA and the SFPD. Paradoxically, Nate also garnered numerous community-service awards for setting up San Francisco’s first legal aid clinic and donating millions to charity. Depending on who was telling the story, he was either a principled crusader who stood up for the underprivileged and the unpopular, or a highly paid mercenary who was as much a part of the drug and underworld culture as the criminals he represented.

Ten years ago, Nate was at the top of his game when he was charged with killing three people in a back room of the Golden Dragon Restaurant in Chinatown during a summit conference of drug dealers on a rainy night. One of the victims was Nate’s own client. The second was a competitor and the third was the competitor’s lawyer. Nate was found unconscious in the alley behind the restaurant with a semiautomatic pistol under his arm. Ballistic tests proved the slugs had been fired from that gun. Nate steadfastly claimed the weapon had been planted. He had fallen off a fire escape while leaving the building following the shootings and sustained the injury that cost him the use of his legs. The prosecutors argued he was attempting to flee. Nate insisted he was only trying to dodge the bullets.

He hired an all-star lineup of San Francisco’s best-known criminal defense attorneys to represent him. His legal team was led by his law school classmate and card-playing buddy, Mort “the Sport” Goldberg, a theatrical showman who presided over a carnival-like trial that drew almost as much national media attention as the O.J. Simpson case. The prosecutors portrayed Nate as a man who had spent his career helping mobsters and crack dealers stay out of jail—a charge that Nate never denied and Goldberg couldn’t refute. Goldberg trotted out a dozen character witnesses to testify that Nate was a doting husband and father who had raised millions for charity and never turned away a potential client just because he couldn’t afford to pay. Nate even took the stand in his own defense. Throughout intense questioning that lasted for days, he insisted the shootings were part of a coup by disloyal members of his client’s organization. Without a witness to corroborate Nate’s claim that he was ambushed by a masked assailant, it took the jury less than three hours to convict him of first-degree murder—much to the delight of the SFPD. The legal system has played its course and Judgment Day is fast approaching.

Unlike most death row inmates, who view attorney visits as an opportunity to vent their frustrations and plead their innocence, Nate’s tone is professional. “I want to hire you as special co-counsel. I think you can provide some additional perspective on my case.”

He needs more than perspective. He’s scheduled for a lethal injection a week from Sunday at 1201 a.m. By law, a death warrant must be carried out on a specified date. California conducts its executions at one minute after midnight at the very beginning of the twenty-four-hour window to provide the maximum amount of wiggle room if there are any glitches and to reduce the number of protesters who gather at the gates of San Quentin. By my watch, that gives us eight days, twelve hours, and fifty-two minutes to do what his dream defense team couldn’t do in ten years. Am I nuts to be in this room?

The third person in the cramped cell clears his throat. Louis Cohen is an eloquent former public defender who looks like Joseph Lieberman. One of California’s top appellate specialists, he grew up a few doors from Nate in the Richmond District. He’s been fighting the good fight on behalf of his childhood friend for the past decade. “We’ve filed new habeas petitions with the California Supreme Court, the Federal District Court and the Ninth Circuit. If they turn us down, we’ll take it up to the U.S. Supreme Court. We’ve also asked the governor for clemency.”

Despite countless well-intentioned attempts by our legislators to speed up the system, the Byzantine appellate process in death penalty cases remains excruciatingly slow. You start with a mandatory direct appeal to the California Supreme Court––a fine idea with limited practical value. The California Supremes have time to hear just a handful of these cases, and you may only assert claims arising from the trial record itself. It took them four years to turn down Nate’s appeal––which had no chance from the start. It took the Feds three more years to come to the same conclusion.

After you’ve exhausted your direct appeals, you file a petition for a writ of habeas corpus in state and then in federal court. Cutting through the legalistic mumbo jumbo, it means you claim your client has been imprisoned in violation of his constitutional rights. The good news is it’s the first time you can introduce evidence that wasn’t presented at trial. The bad news is you have to prove “freestanding innocence,” which means the new evidence must be so clearly and convincingly exculpatory that no reasonable jury could have convicted your client in the first place––a standard that’s almost impossible to prove. It’s customary to file successive habeas petitions right up until the very end, but your chances of prevailing become slimmer as the execution date gets closer. The final judicial recourse is to the U.S. Supreme Court, which rarely soils its hands with death penalty cases. There’s also a possibility that the governor will grant clemency. Given the current political climate in Sacramento, your chances are about the same as winning the California lottery.

If your client manages to live long enough to exhaust all of his appeals, he will be executed in accordance with a tightly scripted procedure. First he’ll get an injection of Sodium Pentothal, which causes a loss of consciousness. Next they’ll administer a dose of pancuronium bromide, which leads to paralysis of the voluntary muscles. Finally, he’ll get a shot of potassium chloride, which induces cardiac arrest and finishes the job. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be nearly as dramatic as an execution carried out by hanging, the guillotine, the firing squad, the electric chair, poison gas, or the other methods of killing that mankind has developed over the centuries. The process should be concluded in about fifteen minutes, but it frequently takes longer. Sometimes it takes the technicians several tries before they can get the needles in the right spots to allow the chemicals to flow properly.

“What’s the likelihood of a stay?” I ask.

“Slim,” Cohen says.

“And clemency?”

“About the same.”

I’m not surprised. I was a priest for three years before I went to law school. I still believe in miracles, but the Row is a place for cold-eyed pragmatism. “What do you expect me to do in eight days?”

Nate responds for him. “Prove the police withheld evidence and covered up the identity of the real killer.”

“You couldn’t do it. “You’ve had ten years to try.”

“That’s why we need you.”

“What makes you think I’ll be able to find any new information?”

“Roosevelt Johnson headed the investigation.”

The legendary homicide inspector is a meticulous man of unquestioned moral authority who began his career walking the beat with my father a half century ago. They were the first integrated team in the SFPD, and their partnership turned into a lifelong friendship. Pop was thrilled when Roosevelt moved up the ranks and became the first African-American in the homicide division. My dad was a lifelong beat cop who turned down several promotions to stay on the street. He died of lung cancer a few months after Nate was convicted.

I shrug. “I know Inspector Johnson well enough to get a meeting, but he isn’t going to reopen the investigation just because he used to work with my father.”

“There was a police conspiracy.”

Every convicted murderer thinks he’s Oliver Stone. “What about the pistol they found under your arm with a perfect set of your fingerprints?”

“It was planted.”

“By whom?”

“The cops. It was payback for getting the charges dropped in the Posse case.”

“The jury didn’t buy it.”

“They were wrong. The cops covered up and closed ranks.”

“What were you doing at the Golden Dragon in the first place?”

“I was representing a Bayview heroin distributor who was at war with a Chinatown drug ring. I was negotiating a truce.”

Nate’s trial was the top story on the news for weeks. From what I recall reading in the papers, that part of his story hasn’t changed.

He’s still talking. “We had everything worked out. Then a man came in and started shooting. I jumped out a window and ran down the fire escape, but I slipped. That’s the last thing I remember.”

He fell two stories and landed on his back. “Do you have any idea who the shooter was?”

“He was wearing a mask.”

“Did you bring a gun into the restaurant?”

“Of course not. Everybody was searched when they entered the building. It was a stolen gun. The serial number had been removed.”

“You’re still saying somebody else brought in the gun and killed three people?”

“I was lucky they didn’t kill me too.”

And all I have to do is prove it in the next eight days. “You didn’t pick my name out of the Yellow Pages. There are other lawyers who have contacts with Inspector Johnson and the SFPD.”

“We want you and we’re prepared to make it worth your while.” Nate nods to Cohen, who reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulls out a white envelope, and places it on the table. “That’s a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer,” Nate says. “It should cover your fees and costs for the next eight days.”

It should cover us for the next six months, and there might be something left over for Christmas presents. I can feel my eyes opening wide, but I don’t take the envelope. Our firm has only two lawyers. We spend most of our time representing small-time drug dealers and petty criminals who frequently have to choose between paying us or making bail. Most opt for the latter. It’s a big day when some poor soul charged with driving under the influence gives us a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer. “It might make more sense to spend your money on a private investigator.”

“We’d also like to hire your brother.”

He’s done his homework. My younger brother, Pete, was a beat cop at Mission Station before he and some of his colleagues broke up a street fight in the plaza adjacent to the Sixteenth Street BART station with a little too much enthusiasm. When one of the participants filed the inevitable police-brutality claim, the city caved. Pete and two of his buddies were summarily dismissed. He’s been justifiably bitter about it ever since. Now he works as a PI.

“His rate is a thousand dollars a day plus expenses,” I say. It’s a slight exaggeration.

“We’ll pay him two thousand.”

He’s serious about hiring us or he’s desperate—or both. Pete recently became a father for the first time. This may be an opportunity to make amends for the times I’ve strong-armed him into helping me for free. “I’ll call him as soon as we’re finished, but I still need to talk to my partner.”

“What’s there to discuss?”

How much time do you have? Rosita Fernandez and I have been working together for almost two decades, first in the PD’s office, then for the last seven years in private practice. Rosie is the managing partner of Fernandez and Daley. I defer all financial decisions to her. It’s an important reason why our law partnership has lasted longer than our marriage, which began after a highly enthusiastic romance while we were at the PD’s office, and was called a few years later on account of irreconcilable living habits. Our daughter, Grace, just turned fourteen. Our son, Tommy, is two. Tommy’s arrival was a pleasant and unplanned surprise long after Rosie and I had split up. Old habits––we can’t live with each other, yet we can’t seem to get enough of each other. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

“We never take on new matters without discussing them first,” I say.

Grace and Tommy live with Rosie in a rented bungalow a couple of miles from here. I have my own apartment three blocks from them. Life with a teenager and a toddler presents logistical and financial challenges. Recently we decided to cut back our workload to give parenthood more focus.

The wily old trial lawyer flashes a confident smile. “We’re willing to bet fifty grand that you’ll give it your best shot.”

“I still have to talk to Rosie.”

He shifts to flattery. “We’re cut from the same cloth, Mike. We became lawyers to help people. You have a reputation as somebody who is more interested in finding the truth and doing what’s right than making a bundle of dough.”

My bank account attests to the fact that he’s right. Rosie and I also agreed to avoid capital cases until Tommy is out of diapers. A fifty-thousand-dollar retainer causes me, at least, to revisit that policy. Rosie may be somewhat more flexible too. She recently persuaded her landlord to remodel her fifties-era kitchen, which will undoubtedly lead to a commensurate increase in her rent. There is also the reality of Grace heading to college in four years.

Nate isn’t finished. “We both cut our teeth at the PD’s office. We’ve represented unpopular clients. We’ve handled more than our share of pro bono matters. That makes us kindred spirits––even colleagues.”

Except I’ve never been convicted of murder.

His tone turns somber. “I believe everybody is entitled to die with self-respect. Being strapped to a gurney and injected with poison for a crime I didn’t commit isn’t the way I want my wife, children, and grandchildren to remember me. That’s not the legacy I had in mind. Besides, you have a personal interest in the case.”

What? “How’s that?”

“Your father was part of the police cover-up.”

2
THE PATRON SAINT
OF HOPELESS CAUSES

Friday, July 10. 105 p.m.
8 days, 10 hours, and 56 minutes until execution.

My ex-wife’s dark brown eyes stare intently into mine as she taps her fingers on her IKEA desk piled high with file folders. Rosie rarely raises her voice and never pulls any punches. “So, Nate Fineman and his lawyer think your father was part of a police cover-up?”

“So they say.”

“That’s preposterous. Who are they insinuating he was trying to protect?”

I pause to gather my thoughts as I look up at the bare walls of the cramped space that doubles as Rosie’s office and the conference room of Fernandez and Daley. We work in a thirties-era walk-up at 84 First Street. It’s above the El Faro Mexican restaurant and down the block from the Transbay Bus Terminal in what might charitably be described as the pre-gentrified portion of San Francisco’s South of Market area. It’s one of the last downtown structures where the windows still open––a concept that’s more charming in theory than in reality. Our building is in one of the few corners of San Francisco with warm summer weather, and we don’t have an air conditioner. We spend July and August trying to decide whether it’s preferable to wilt from the heat or asphyxiate from the fumes emitted from the El Faro’s exhaust fan. “That’s what they want us to find out,” I finally say.

Rosie’s shoulder-length jet-black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. A cream-colored blouse and a pair of faded Levi’s complement a toned figure that reflects a torturous daily regimen at the gym. Her full lips, chiseled cheekbones, and glowing olive skin belie forty-seven years and the birth of two children. A native of the Mission District and a graduate of San Francisco State and Hastings Law School, she’s fought countless wars with prosecutors, judges, cops, and me. Her toughest struggle came four years ago when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She battled through a mastectomy and radiation treatments with stoic determination. We don’t talk about it much, but I can tell you that she’s been cancer-free for three years, nine months, and four days.

“Come on, Mike,” she says. “For all of his faults, your father was probably the most honest cop in the SFPD.”

It’s only a slight exaggeration. We rarely agreed on political or social issues and he had a multitude of shortcomings as a father. Still, he never gave me a reason to question the direction of his moral compass.

She isn’t finished. “I trust you’d agree that Fineman’s allegations are untrue?”

“Yes, I would.”

Arguing with Rosie is like undergoing an intense cross-exam. She frames her questions in a manner that elicits the response she wants.

“Then why are we having this discussion?” she asks.

“I can think of fifty thousand reasons.”

The corner of her mouth turns up slightly. “I have nothing against being paid, but it’s too late for Fineman to change lawyers.”

“This isn’t some nutcase who walked in off the street.”

“He made a career out of representing scumbags like Danny Cortese and the Bayview Posse. Not to mention the fact that he was convicted of murdering three people at the Golden Dragon.”

“Maybe the jury was wrong.”

She looks up at the ceiling. “Why did I decide to practice law with the patron saint of hopeless causes?”

“It’s just one of the many ways that I bring excitement to your life.”

I get the smile I was hoping for. “Hopeless causes aren’t exciting. Did you ever consider the possibility that I like boredom?”

“Not a chance.”

Her lips turn down. “I don’t like it, Mike.”

I’m not crazy about it either, and I’m really not in the mood for a catfight on a Friday afternoon when I have tickets for the Giants game tonight. Though we’ve had our share of high-profile cases over the years, ours is still a nickel-and-dime operation. Our only employee is a former heavyweight boxer and small-time hoodlum named Terrence “the Terminator” Love, who works as our receptionist, secretary, process server, photocopier, and bodyguard. He had also been one of my most reliable customers at the PD’s office. Standing seven feet tall and weighing 320 pounds, the soft-spoken giant retired after four unsuccessful professional bouts to pursue a more lucrative career in theft. He became quite adept at breaking and entering, but he was less accomplished at escaping. His rap sheet ran well into its third printing.

The proceeds from Terrence’s criminal activities went to buy enough booze to keep a three-hundred-pound man in a drunken stupor for the better part of two decades. There was little left over for necessities such as food, housing, and clothing. Things came to a head a couple of years ago when he was facing a life sentence under California’s so-called three-strikes laws. Rosie and I persuaded the judge to reduce the charges, subject to the condition that we would find him gainful employment and treatment for his alcohol addiction. There wasn’t a huge market for the services of a third-rate prizefighter and second-rate shoplifter, so we hired him with the understanding that we would fire him immediately if he showed up late or started drinking again. He hasn’t missed a day of work and he’s made enough money to ditch his room in the flophouse on Sixth Street for a tiny apartment in the Bayview. In our line of work, we measure progress in baby steps.

I try an appeal to Rosie’s practical side. “You’re always on my case for not bringing in enough paying clients.”

“Obviously, that isn’t a problem here. I can’t even get a countertop for my kitchen in eight days and you want to try to free a man on death row?”

“It will enhance the visibility and reputation of our firm.”

“I’d rather not get a high profile for a lost cause. We’ll have to go around the clock. There isn’t a realistic chance we’ll be able to do anything for him. It’s a waste of our time and his money.”

“He wants to die with dignity.”

“It smells.”

“We’ve handled smellier stuff. He was one of the best lawyers who ever worked at the PD’s office. He started the Legal Aid Society. His reputation was stellar until that night at the Golden Dragon.”

“He’s no saint, Mike. He played fast and loose when he represented Cortese. They said he was paying people to intimidate witnesses during the Posse case.”

“Those charges were never proven.”

“Get real, Mike.”

“We’d be out of business if we start ducking cases because we think our clients are scum.”

She responds in the sanctimonious tone that I’ve found profoundly irritating for two decades. “I’m well aware that it’s our job to represent scumbags. On the other hand, they found his prints on the murder weapon. He admitted that he organized a meeting of a couple of drug bosses. Nobody bought his story about a phantom masked shooter who disappeared into the night. What makes you think the jury was wrong?”

“I’m prepared to work through the process to try to find out.”

“Don’t be naive, Mike.”

“Don’t give up so easily, Rosie.”

“It’s a case we can’t win.”

“That’s never stopped us.” I think of the faded citation hanging on the wall of my office. The Nathan Fineman Award used to be given by the San Francisco Bar Association to an attorney who demonstrated exemplary commitment to community service. Though the commendation is no longer named after Nate, it’s still one of my most prized possessions. “I used to admire him.”

“So did I.” Rosie glances down at the engraved gavel that her colleagues gave her as a going-away present when she left the PD’s office––another tradition that Nate started. “This couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m buried with other work. There will be contractors at my house for the next two weeks. My life is a zoo right now.”

Every home-improvement project takes on a life of its own. Her weeklong kitchen-remodel job is already into its second month. She declined her landlord’s offer to put her up in a hotel for a couple of weeks because she didn’t want to uproot Grace and Tommy––a decision she now regrets.

I offer a morsel. “I’ll help with your caseload. We’ll eat out. We could use the extra money. You know your rent will go up as soon as the new appliances are in.”

“If my landlord doesn’t sell it to the highest bidder, which isn’t going to be us unless we win the lottery or we get a substantial infusion of cash from another source.”

“All the more reason to do it. There’s an unwritten rule that new clients only call when it’s hopelessly inconvenient. It isn’t as if we have a lot of prospective cases to choose from right now.”

“A last-minute death penalty appeal isn’t exactly what I had in mind, Mr. Rainmaker.”

“Do you have anything more interesting in the pipeline?”

“At the moment, no.”

“Then I think we should go for it.”

Her scowl becomes more pronounced. “Lou Cohen is bringing us in for a reason. Maybe he’s trying to set us up to take the fall in a last-minute IAC claim.”

Asserting an “Ineffective Assistance of Counsel” claim is a standard legal tactic in death penalty cases. If you have nothing more convincing, you argue that the attorneys screwed up. It’s one of the reasons trial lawyers rarely handle appeals for their clients––it puts them in the awkward position of having to assert IAC claims against themselves.

“There isn’t enough time,” I say. “It won’t fly in a habeas petition.”

“Lou is a smart lawyer.”

“He also admitted that we aren’t going to stop the execution with esoteric legal theories.”

“Which means our only hope is to prove freestanding innocence in the next eight days. As a practical matter, that means we’ll have to find the real killer––assuming it isn’t our potential new client. That isn’t going to happen unless we find some guilt-ridden soul who pops out of the woodwork and confesses.”

“Not necessarily. We just need to find enough new evidence to persuade the California Supremes or the Ninth Circuit to order an evidentiary hearing.” Easier said than done. “If we can delay the execution, we might be able to come up with something more substantial.” Or Nate could die of natural causes before they can get around to rescheduling his execution.

This elicits the all-too-familiar eye roll that I’ve always found so infuriating––and infatuating––since our days at the PD’s office. “Come on, Mike.”

“I know it’s a long shot. You have to admit, though, that if we pull off a miracle, we’ll be heroes. If we don’t, Fineman is no worse off than he is today. Either way, we’re fifty grand to the happy side. Plus we might be able to save a dying man’s life.”

She acknowledges that I may have a point, then treads into murkier water. “Did you ever talk to your father about the case?”

“Not much. Fineman was arrested during one of our non-communicative periods.”

We had many of them. Thomas James Charles Daley Sr. was born seventy-eight years ago at St. Mary’s Hospital. He grew up on Garfield Square in the Mission. Pop married his high school sweetheart the week after they graduated. The newlyweds moved into a furnished one-bedroom apartment two doors from her parents. My dad joined the SFPD on his twenty-first birthday. My mom stayed home to take care of us.

When I was ten, we moved to a bungalow in the Sunset, where our family dynamics were closer to the Osbournes than the Brady Bunch. My older brother, Tom Jr., was a star quarterback at St. Ignatius and Cal before he volunteered to go to Vietnam and never returned. I was the rebellious second son who protested the war in Berkeley. When the antiwar movement didn’t provide enough answers after Tommy died, I ended up in the seminary. My father didn’t talk to me for a year after I left the priesthood to attend law school. We made an uneasy peace when I graduated. We took another hiatus from communication when I joined the PD’s office. My mom spent years conducting shuttle diplomacy between the two of us. Pete was the diligent third son whose greatest transgression was that he wasn’t a jock like Tommy or an excellent student like me. He became a cop to show our old man that he was just as tough as he was.

“My dad was one of the first officers at the scene, but he didn’t testify at the trial. Evidently, they had more than enough evidence without him.”

“What did your father think of Fineman?”

“Every cop in San Francisco hated his guts—especially after the Posse case.”

“Didn’t Fineman’s lawyers make some allegations of police misconduct?”

“They claimed the cops had planted the murder weapon. The charges were never substantiated. Internal Affairs did an investigation after the trial was over. Everybody was cleared—including my father.”

She isn’t satisfied. “Would he have lied to protect another cop?”

“Absolutely not.” I try not to sound too defensive. “He was old-school, but he was his own man. He did what he thought was right. It’s one of the reasons he was never one of the more popular guys on the force.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “If we take this case, we’ll have to revisit his involvement.”

“There’s no legal conflict of interest. It’s part of our job.”

“How do we figure out if he was telling the truth?”

“We’ll talk to Roosevelt.”

“He has a vested interest in protecting the conviction––and himself.”

And maybe my father too. Loyalty runs deep at the SFPD. “Roosevelt wouldn’t cover up evidence if somebody was about to be executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Are you prepared to attack your father’s reputation to defend our client?”

Rosie always goes straight to the heart of it. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Sure you will.” She glances at the framed photo of our daughter that sits on the corner of her desk. “What about our promise to Grace that we wouldn’t take on another death penalty case?”

“The circumstances are unusual.”

“You’re absolutely sure about this, Mike?”

“Yes.”

My pragmatic ex-wife starts reciting her conditions. “You and your brother will not play cops and robbers.”

“Agreed.” It’s a long-standing bone of contention. I like to tag along with Pete when he’s working. Rosie thinks we take unnecessary chances.

“You will also let the police handle any matters involving illegal activities.”

“Understood.”

Her eyes turn to cold steel—it’s the sign that she’s ready to go to war. “Okay. I’m in.”

When push comes to shove, she’ll never back down. That’s why I will always love her––no matter what.

There is a knock on the door. My brother saunters in with his thumbs tucked inside his pockets. Pete is five years younger than I am. He’s a stockier version of the standard Daley family model, but there isn’t an ounce of fat in the two hundred pounds he carries on his five-eight frame. His slicked-back hair was once a darker brown than mine. It’s still thick, yet now almost completely gray. A two-day stubble covers his pockmarked face. His silver mustache is neatly trimmed. Ever a slave to fashion, he’s wearing black jeans and a faded orange Giants T-shirt with Dusty Baker’s picture on the front. He’s never forgiven the team for letting his favorite manager go to the Cubs.

He’s spent the last week doing round-the-clock surveillance on an unfaithful husband. He’s in no mood for pleasantries. “What’s the big emergency, Mick?” he rasps.

“We have to talk to you about a new case.”

“Are we still going to the Giants game tonight?”

First things first. “That may be a bit of a problem.”

Not the answer he wanted. He turns to Rosie. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been asked to work on Nate Fineman’s appeal.”

Pete’s expression indicates that he thinks we’ve lost our minds. “Isn’t his execution a week from Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Next you’ll say we have a week to find the real killer.”

“Essentially.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“We know the odds.”

My brother takes a seat on the windowsill. “Why are you doing this?”

It’s my turn to respond. “It’s what we do.”

“The guy is pure slime.”

“He’s entitled to a defense.”

“He defended the guys who sold bad heroin to a bunch of kids.”

“Allegedly sold.”

“Gimme a break, Mick.”

“They were entitled to a defense.”

“It doesn’t bother you that three kids died from that stuff?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Then why do you want to represent the scum bucket who defended them?”

“Somebody has to.”

He shakes his head with disdain. “How much is he paying you?”

“Fifty grand up front.”

“So you’re willing to sell your soul for fifty grand?”

“We’re willing to represent a client who is prepared to pay us.”

He turns to Rosie. “You’re okay with this?”

“For now.”

His annoyed expression gives way to an inquisitive look as he turns back to me. “Where do I fit into this picture?”

“They’ve asked for your help.”

“Does that mean I’m getting paid too?”

“Two thousand dollars a day, plus expenses––in advance.”

“They’re serious.”

“Yes, they are.”

He stares out the window.

I wait a long beat. “Are you in?” I ask.

My brother’s response is equal parts surprising and troubling. “I wouldn’t touch it.”

End of Chapter 2. Buy JUDGMENT DAY now on Amazon.