1
“I’VE HEARD A LOT ABOUT YOU”

The Honorable Jonathan Stern tapped the microphone in his stuffy courtroom on the second floor of San Francisco’s crumbling Hall of Justice. “Good morning, Mr. Daley.”

I responded in an upbeat tone. “Good morning, Your Honor. Congratulations on your appointment to the bench.”

“Uh, thank you.”

The dour rookie judge seemed surprised by my cheerful voice. You will learn soon enough that not every moment in court involves hand-to-hand combat. Everybody who works here knows everybody else. It’s better for everyone’s mental health to remain civil until we need to start lobbing grenades.

He hunched his narrow shoulders, squinted at me through his John Lennon spectacles, and spoke in a nasal rasp. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Uh-oh. “Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly. I didn’t expect to see the head of the Felony Division of the Public Defender’s Office at an arraignment on misdemeanor charges.”

“Co-head,” I corrected him gently. “My colleague assigned to this case is in trial this morning, so I’m pinch hitting.”

His thin lips turned down. “Suit yourself.”

I will.

It was ten AM on Tuesday, October fifteenth, 2024. A week ago, Jon Stern was a partner in the Tax Department of Story, Short, and Thompson, a mega-firm housed on the top five floors of the prestigious Four Embarcadero Center high rise. The Marin County native was a graduate of the elite and very private Branson School in Ross, Yale, and Stanford Law. After a clerkship with a federal judge in New York, he returned to the Bay Area and spent fifteen years poring over the Internal Revenue Code to help conglomerates, tech startups, crypto companies, venture capitalists, and sovereign wealth funds of oil-rich countries engage in what is colloquially referred to as “sophisticated tax planning.” For those of us who operate in the real world, it’s more accurately described as “tax avoidance.”

Time for one more quick suck-up. “I hope your transition is going smoothly.”

“So far, so good.”

“Excellent.” I love appearing before rookie judges.

The freshly minted jurist scanned his windowless new domain, which was a far cry from his cushy corner office with a view stretching from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge. When it opened in 1961, the Hall of Justice was considered state-of-the-art. It replaced its not-so-beloved 1900-era predecessor across the street from Portsmouth Square in Chinatown. Six decades later, our aging relic was condemned because of earthquake safety issues, asbestos-laden walls, faulty plumbing, and an overwhelmed electrical system. The courts and SFPD’s Homicide Detail are still here, but the District Attorney, the Public Defender, the Southern Police Station, and the Medical Examiner have fled to buildings with functional bathrooms and working elevators. The chaotic old jail on the sixth and seventh floors was mothballed and replaced by a newer building next door. The old cafeteria in the basement where I cut countless plea bargain deals over boiled hot dogs, overcooked hamburgers, and surprisingly tasty grilled cheese sandwiches is now used for storage.

Judge Stern glanced at the gallery, which was filled with ADAs, Deputy PDs, and a few private defense lawyers who were staring at their phones while waiting for a few moments of assembly-line justice. They were joined by our regular contingent of homeless people, law students, courtroom junkies, retirees, and other hangers-on who passed the time watching the wheels of justice grind ever-so-slowly in San Francisco’s crumbling bazaar of criminal law. A homeless guy known only by his first name Mel was sleeping soundly in his usual spot in the back row next to the chipped gray wall.

Judge Stern scrunched his narrow face. Although he had just turned forty, his pale complexion, pronounced widow’s peak, and thick crow’s feet reflected the fact that he had spent more time reading the Internal Revenue Code than hanging out on the patio next to the pool of his hilltop McMansion in Tiburon. “What’s that smell?”

“Mildew,” I said. “You get used to it.” Not really.

He pointed at the water dripping from a rusted spot in the asbestos-laden ceiling tiles and into a bucket next to his bailiff. “How long has that been leaking?”

“About six months. They think it’s coming from the old jail upstairs, but they can’t tell for sure unless they rip out the walls.”

“I see.”

Still glad that you gave up a seven-figure draw to preside over misdemeanor cases in an airless courtroom in a condemned building? I bet your pals at the Pacific Union Club were impressed when you told them that you were becoming a judge.

“How is your father?” I asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good to hear. Please give him my regards.”

“I will.”

Actually, you probably won’t. Two decades ago, I left the PD’s Office after my then-supervisor and current boss, Rosita Fernandez, and I got divorced. Rosie is now the Public Defender. I spent five years as a junior partner at a big law firm at the top of the Bank of America Building until I was unceremoniously fired because I didn’t bring in enough high-paying clients. Rosie rented me an office at the solo practice that she was running at the time, and we’ve been working together ever since—first at our two-person law firm and, for the last decade, back at the PD’s Office. Judge Stern’s father, Charles Stern, is another terminally morose tax attorney who was a partner at the firm where I used to work. He led the charge to get me fired. In a moment of whimsy and less-than-stellar judgment, I had dubbed him with the nickname of “Chuckles,” which stuck. When I heard about Jonathan’s appointment to the bench, I anointed him as “Baby Chuckles.” You know that you’ve been around the block a few times when you’re appearing before a judge whose father used to be your law partner.

Judge Stern turned to the prosecution table. “Good morning, Mr. Paolini.”

The earnest young ADA sprang to his feet, tugged at the lapels of his baggy Men’s Wearhouse suit, and invoked an ingratiating tone. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

Ernie Paolini is a third-generation native of the City. His great-grandfather, Luigi, immigrated from Palermo and opened a deli in North Beach. Seven of Luigi’s eight sons became police officers. The black sheep was a firefighter. The next generation included a judge, two ADAs, a union organizer, and a member of the Board of Supervisors. Ernie’s parents moved to the foggy Sunset District, a few blocks from the house where I grew up after my family moved from an apartment in the Mission. He graduated from St. Ignatius High School (also my alma mater), USF, and USF Law School. He’s a nice young man who has been a baby ADA for about a year and a half. He’s starting to get the hang of it.

Judge Stern nodded at his bailiff. “Please call our case.”

“The People versus Sean Murphy, et al. Arraignment.”

“Et al.?”

“There are twelve defendants, Your Honor. They’re waiting in the corridor.”

A smart-aleck reporter at the Chronicle had dubbed them as the “Dirty Dozen.”

“Bring them inside,” the judge said.

The bailiff motioned to a burly sheriff’s deputy, who headed out the door and returned a moment later leading a motley procession of a dozen people clad in ill-fitting orange jumpsuits. They ranged in age from early twenties to mid-eighties. While they came in various shapes, sizes, and genders, the family resemblance was evident. Sean Murphy led the parade. He was a sixty-year-old retired Muni bus driver with an erect bearing, a confident manner, and anger management issues. His younger sister, Katie Murphy O’Brien, followed him. She worked at PGE and was also a hothead. Her husband, Tim O’Brien, a decorated firefighter prone to emotional outbursts, trailed Katie. Various children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and cousins tagged along behind them, expressions somber, eyes down. Bringing up the rear was eighty-five-year-old Jacob “Jake” Flynn, a combative retired cop whose pronounced limp required him to walk with a cane. Sean, Katie, Tim, and Jake joined me at the defense table. The rest of the Murphy clan lined up in front of the jury box. Per my instructions, they stood with their arms at their sides, eyes forward, mouths shut.

Judge Stern surveyed the conga line and spoke to Paolini. “Charge?”

“The defendants violated California Penal Code Section 415.”

The judge’s quizzical expression indicated that this wasn’t in the Tax Code. “Which is?”

“Disturbing the peace.”

That’s my cue. “It was a misunderstanding, Your Honor. Mr. Paolini is blowing this matter out of proportion.”

“It was a brawl,” Paolini said. “It took a dozen police officers to stop what Mr. Daley has mischaracterized as a ‘misunderstanding.’”

Baby Chuckles was intrigued. “Where did this alleged misunderstanding happen?”

“At a funeral.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Seriously.

Judge Stern rested his chin in his hand. “What happened, Mr. Paolini?”

“The defendants attended the funeral of Ms. Fiona Flynn Murphy, who passed away last Friday at the age of eighty-seven. Ms. Murphy was the mother of defendant Sean Murphy and defendant Kate O’Brien. She was also the sister of defendant Jacob Flynn. The funeral took place at St. Peter’s Catholic Church in the Mission where Ms. Murphy was baptized and where she married her late husband.”

The judge exhaled heavily.

Paolini was still talking. “During the funeral mass, defendant Sean Murphy and defendant Kate O’Brien exchanged heated words about their respective inheritances. As the mourners were filing out of the church, Sean said something to his sister to which she objected. Defendant Timothy O’Brien interceded and shoved Mr. Murphy, who responded by hitting Mr. O’Brien. Other family members joined the melee, and things got out of hand. Defendant Jacob Flynn struck defendant Sean Murphy in the forehead with his walking stick which resulted in a bloody bruise.

I’ll bet that Thanksgiving dinners at the Murphy house are a riot.

Jake spoke from his seat at the defense table. “They were being disrespectful to my sister.”

Yes, they were.

The judge turned my way. “Mr. Daley, please instruct your client not to address the court unless I invite him to do so.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turned to Jake. “Please.”

“Fine.’

Paolini spoke up again. “The fight escalated on the steps of St. Peter’s as the casket was being taken to the hearse. Defendant Timothy O’Brien shoved defendant Sean Murphy into the casket and almost knocked it over.”

All true. “For the record,” I said, “they did not knock it over, and the decedent’s body remained inside.”

The judge nodded. “Good to hear, Mr. Daley.”

Paolini was on a roll. “A dozen current and retired police officers attended the service out of respect to their former colleague, defendant Jacob Flynn. They interceded and broke up the fight. Fortunately, other than a bloody bump on Sean Murphy’s head and a few bruises, nobody was seriously injured.”

“How fortunate,” the judge said.

“All in all,” Paolini continued, “it was a very sad and undignified way to end a beautiful memorial service for a beloved member of our community.”

Amen.

The judge took off his glasses and pointed them at me. “Do your clients dispute any of what Mr. Paolini just described?”

Not really. “Emotions sometimes run high at funerals.”

“True. You used to be a priest, weren’t you, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor. It was a long time ago.”

I decided to become a priest after my older brother, Tommy, died in Vietnam. I always loved the spirituality of the Church. After three long years at St. Anne’s in the Sunset, I concluded that I wasn’t adept at saving souls, and I was terrible at Church politics. I turned in my collar and went to law school, much to the chagrin of my late father, a San Francisco cop who knew Jake Flynn. Pop was even more upset when I decided to become a Public Defender.

The judge eyed me. “Did you ever officiate at a funeral where emotions led to a brawl?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“I didn’t think so. How do your clients wish to plead?”

“I would appreciate it if you would give me a few minutes to provide a little context.”

“This is an arraignment, Mr. Daley. The sole purpose is for your clients to enter their pleas. Guilty or not?”

“Just a moment of your time, Your Honor. Please?”

He made a big display of rolling his beady eyes. “I’ll give you one minute.”

“Thank you. I would like to call a witness who saw everything.”

Paolini was on his feet. “You can’t call a witness at an arraignment.”

“Yes, you can,” I said.

Judge Stern put his hand over his microphone, turned to the bailiff, and spoke in a whisper. “Can he call a witness at an arraignment?”

“If you let him.”

The judge turned back to me. “Who do you wish to call, Mr. Daley?”

“Father Guillermo Lopez, the priest at St. Peter’s Catholic Church.”

The new judge took a moment to get his bearings. The question of whether I could call a priest as a witness at an arraignment in a case involving a brawl at a funeral probably wasn’t addressed during his one-day judicial orientation program. It definitely wasn’t covered in the Internal Revenue Code.

Paolini pivoted to his go-to move—whining. “Your Honor, this is highly irregular.”

Yes, it is. “Your Honor has discretion to allow Father Lopez to testify. He is waiting in the hall, and he welcomes the opportunity to do so.” And if you don’t let him, you’re going straight to hell.

Paolini tried again. “But Your Honor—,”

The judge stopped him with an upraised hand. “I will hear Father Lopez’s testimony.”

So far, so good.

The deputy summoned Father Lopez from the corridor. The charismatic priest bore a striking resemblance to Pedro Pascal. He strode down the aisle, was sworn in, and took his place in the box.

He smiled at the judge. “Congratulations on your appointment, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Father Lopez.”

I was standing at the lectern. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

“You may.”

I walked to the front of the courtroom and stopped a respectful distance from the box. “You are the priest at St. Peter’s Catholic Church in the Mission?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. For twelve years.”

“You enjoy doing God’s work?”

He adjusted his traditional collar. “Very much.”

I’ve known Gil for years. Now pushing forty, he is one of the younger priests at the church where Rosie and I were baptized and later married. So were my parents. And our daughter. Gil had attended St. Peter’s Elementary School, St. Ignatius High, and USF before heading to the seminary. Smart, savvy, charismatic, and intensely political, he is primed to lead the historic church deep into the Twenty-first Century.

I moved closer to the box. “You officiated at the funeral mass for Ms. Fiona Murphy?”

“I did. She was a member of our parish for her entire life. She was a lovely woman and a warm and generous soul.”

“Was there a misunderstanding at the conclusion of the service?”

“Yes. There has been tension among Fiona’s children for many years. Some of those feelings came out during and after the funeral. It was unfortunate.”

I’ll say. “I understand that they got into a fight on the front steps of St. Peter’s.”

“I would call it a conversation.”

Just the way we rehearsed it. “Several other relatives joined the conversation?”

“They did. Unfortunately, when emotions run high, people sometimes say and do things that they regret.”

Like shoving someone into his mother’s casket. “How long did this misunderstanding last?”

“Just a few minutes. As you know, Jake Flynn is a retired police officer. Several of his former colleagues attended the funeral. They were able to de-escalate the situation, and cooler heads prevailed. Thankfully, nobody was seriously injured. They instructed each of the participants to come to Mission Police Station to sort things out. At my request, they let the family attend the burial at Holy Cross Cemetery and turn themselves in afterward.”

I pointed at the Murphy family members sitting at the defense table and lined up in front of the jury box. “My clients conducted themselves appropriately at the cemetery?”

“They did.”

“And they apologized to you and each other after the burial was concluded?”

“Yes.”

“You found their apologies to be sincere?”

“I did.”

“You forgave them?”

“Of course.” Another tug at the collar. “The Bible encourages us to forgive those who acknowledge their mistakes, offer sincere apologies, and show contrition.”

That’s the way it worked when I was a priest. “Do you believe that any useful purpose would be served by proceeding with criminal charges against the defendants?”

“Objection,” Paolini said. “Father Lopez isn’t a lawyer. With respect, he is not qualified to opine on legal matters.”

Give me a break. “I am not asking Father Lopez for a legal opinion. I’m asking him to comment about a moral issue.”

“Overruled.”

Gil sat up taller. “Secular law isn’t my area of expertise, but I believe that I have some understanding of a higher law. Given the sincerity of your clients’ apologies, I believe that no useful purpose would be served by bringing criminal charges.”

“Thank you, Father Lopez. No further questions.” I retreated to the defense table.

“Cross-exam, Mr. Paolini?”

Do you really want to cross-examine a priest, Ernie?

“No questions, Your Honor.”

Good call. “Your Honor, in light of Father Lopez’s testimony, we respectfully request that the charges be dismissed.”

Paolini bounced to his feet. “This is a more serious situation than Mr. Daley has led you to believe. Substantial police resources were expended to stop a fight that almost turned into a riot.”

Oh please. “Mr. Paolini is exaggerating.”

“No, I’m not. We seriously considered bringing felony assault and battery charges against defendants Murphy, O’Brien, and Flynn. We are giving them a very lenient deal by charging them with misdemeanor disturbing the peace.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “This case isn’t even a wobbler.”

“A wobbler?” the judge asked.

It’s your first day on the job. “A case that could be charged either as a felony or a misdemeanor in the DA’s discretion.”

“I see.”

Paolini’s tone became adamant. “We can’t just let this go. It would be disrespectful to the police officers who broke up the brawl. And it would set a bad precedent.”

Happens all the time.

The judge looked my way. “Mr. Paolini has a point. I am not inclined to simply dismiss the charges.”

In a few weeks, you’ll be dismissing the charges on cases like this in a hot minute. I turned to Sean Murphy. “Would you please tell the judge how you and your family feel about your behavior?”

Sean did his best to feign contrition. “We are very sorry, Your Honor. We behaved badly, and we are embarrassed. We apologize to the court, the police, and Father Lopez.”

And now for a little old-fashioned Catholic guilt. “How do you think your mother would have felt about your behavior?”

“She would have been embarrassed, too.”

Yes, she would have.

The judge spoke to me. “Do you have a suggestion as to how we might resolve this matter?”

I was hoping you would ask. “I do. Disturbing the peace can be charged as an infraction instead of a misdemeanor. There would be no jail time, and the maximum fine is two hundred and fifty dollars.” Here goes. “Each of my clients will plead guilty to an infraction and pay a fine of fifty dollars. They will proceed to St. Peter’s, where they will go to confession with Father Lopez and do whatever penance he requires. Finally, everybody will do ten hours of community service at St. Peter’s. The social hall needs a new paint job. After everybody fulfills those conditions, the infractions will be expunged from their records.” I invoked my best priest-voice. “There would be an acknowledgement of responsibility, an expression of contrition, and a concrete act to rectify their mistake through community service.”

Judge Stern spoke to Gil. “Does that work for you, Father Lopez?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He turned to Paolini. “What about you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Good.” The judge contorted his face into a pained expression suggesting that he was trying to smile. “We have a resolution.” He turned my way. “You and Mr. Paolini will prepare the necessary paperwork?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Congratulations on resolving your first case.” Welcome to your first day on the bench, Baby Chuckles.

“Thank you, Mr. Daley.” His tone was less than convincing when he added, “I will look forward to seeing you again in my courtroom in the near future.”

My suit jacket was drenched in perspiration as I walked down the sauna-like corridor of the PD’s Office at eleven-ten that same morning. Twenty years ago, we moved into a repurposed auto repair shop on Seventh Street, a half block south of the Hall of Justice. At the time, it was a substantial upgrade from our ratty old digs where the heater worked sporadically, there was no air conditioning, the walls were covered in lead-based paint, and the plumbing operated on its own schedule. Two decades of deferred maintenance later, our “new” office was in better shape than Judge Stern’s courtroom, but it needed a tune-up.

I inhaled the stale air and stopped at the workstation outside my office. “Good morning, Terrence.”

My onetime client, long-time assistant, recovering alcoholic, and former small-time professional boxer and shoplifter, Terrence “The Terminator” Love, looked up from his computer and spoke in a high-pitched voice that seemed out of place for a guy who was six-six and weighed three hundred pounds. “Good morning, Mike. I heard you got the ‘Dirty Dozen’ off with an infraction and community service. Nice work.”

“Thanks, T.”

Terrence had planned to retire at the end of last year, but I was able to persuade him to stick around and work two days a week and every other Friday.

“How’s your granddaughter?” I asked.

He smiled broadly, flashing his signature gold front tooth. “She’s starting to walk.”

“That’s great. She’ll be running soon.”

“I won’t be able to keep up with her.”

“You’re still pretty light on your feet. Anything I need to know?”

He pointed at the open door to the office next to mine where the nameplate read, “Rosita Fernandez, Public Defender.” “The boss needs to see you right away.”

I headed into Rosie’s workmanlike office, where I found her sitting behind the oak desk that she had bought on her own dime. Thirty years after we met and twenty-six years after we got divorced, she’s still the most beautiful woman on Planet Earth. I took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

She flashed a radiant smile. “I trust that the members of the Murphy family expressed their gratitude?”

“Everybody except Uncle Jake. He’s still pissed off.”

“He’ll calm down. What was it like appearing before Baby Chuckles?”

“He’s as sour as his father.”

“The lemon didn’t fall far from the tree.” Her expression turned serious. “How’s your time?”

As co-head of the Felony Division, I spend most of my days dealing with staffing, budgets, and other administrative tasks. Once or twice a year, I handle a trial.

“Not too busy,” I said. “I’m working on our budget.”

“I need you to step in and take the lead on a murder trial.”

Excellent. “When does it start?”

“A week from Monday.”