1
“Who’s Next”

At ten-thirty a.m. on Tuesday, December first, Judge Elizabeth McDaniel was running an hour behind schedule. She took a deep breath of the sauna-like air in her packed courtroom and spoke to her bailiff in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. “Who’s next?”

“The People versus Chester Choy and Fred Yee.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Betsy McDaniel was a thoughtful jurist and former prosecutor who had been running her steamy courtroom on the second floor of San Francisco’s crumbling Hall of Justice with merciless efficiency for a quarter of a century. Now north of seventy, she had gone on senior status to escort her grandchildren on trips around the world, teach criminal procedure at Hastings Law School, and take pre-dawn spin classes with my ex-wife and current boss, Rosie Fernandez, who also happened to be San Francisco’s Public Defender. From time to time, Judge McDaniel sat in for her colleagues and presided over arraignments, preliminary hearings, and motions.

She looked over the top of her reading glasses at the gallery filled with Assistant District Attorneys, Deputy Public Defenders, and private defense attorneys waiting for a few minutes of assembly-line justice. She tugged at her shoulder-length auburn hair and spoke to her bailiff in a voice that still bore traces of her native Alabama. “Are the defendants here?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He motioned to the burly sheriff’s deputy who gently escorted two octogenarian retirees into court. Chester Choy used a walker. Fred Yee used a cane. Neither topped five feet. It took the deputy a full two minutes to walk them down the center aisle to join me at the defense table.

Judge McDaniel rested her chin in her palm, turned to the prosecution table, and softened her tone. “Counsel will state their names for the record.”

“Andrew Erickson for The People, Your Honor.”

Andy Erickson had recently turned forty. I had been around long enough to remember his first day in court—in front of none other than Judge McDaniel. The alum of St. Ignatius High (also my alma mater), USF, and USF Law School had meticulously worked his way up the food chain at the D.A.’s Office to his current position as the head of the Felony Unit. He was now eyeing a move into the Chief Assistant’s slot—the final steppingstone before throwing his hat into the ring for a run at D.A. I didn’t always get everything that I wanted from him, but he was fundamentally honest and didn’t play games. He also let me use his father’s tickets behind the Giants dugout once or twice a year. As a result, I gave him a little more deference than some of his colleagues.

The judge nodded at me.

“Michael Daley for the defense,” I said.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Daley?”

I was tempted to respond with a gentle wisecrack such as, “I am the co-head of the Felony Division of the Public Defender’s Office, and I work here.” In fairness to Judge McDaniel, her question was legit. My job was mostly administrative, so I rarely appeared in court. Since she was already running late, I decided that levity might not be well-received. “My colleague, Ms. Nikonova, was called away to handle a medical emergency.”

Judge McDaniel’s voice filled with genuine concern. “Is Nady okay?”

“Fine.”

“Good to hear.”

Nadezhda “Nady” Nikonova was one of our best young attorneys. I didn’t feel compelled to explain to Judge McDaniel that the medical emergency was for Nady’s dog, Luna, a fourteen-year-old Keeshond mix who slept under Nady’s desk and was the most beloved member of the Public Defender’s Office.

The judge turned to Erickson. “Why are we here?”

“This is an arraignment for Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Again.

“Charge?” the judge asked.

“Misdemeanor public nuisance under California Penal Code Section 415.”

“Where did the alleged crime take place this time?”

“Costco.”

Her tone was stern as she addressed Chester and Fred. “Last time, I dropped similar charges against you with a warning, didn’t I?”

They responded with simultaneous nods.

“Yet here we are again.”

The octogenarians looked down at the floor.

I turned around and nodded at Fred’s daughter, Pamela, who was sitting in the front row of the gallery. She had been the evening custodian at the P.D.’s Office since the days when I was a rookie Public Defender twenty-five years earlier. Her father and Chester were lifelong friends who grew up in Chinatown, worked in various restaurants, and now lived in the Lady Shaw Senior Housing Center, an independent living facility above the Broadway Tunnel. It was run by Self Help for the Elderly, the pre-eminent support organization in the Chinese community.

Both widowed, Fred and Chester were inseparable. The outgoing Fred had a knack for pushing the reserved Chester’s buttons. On occasion, they got into shouting matches in the dining room at Lady Shaw and on field trips. A couple of months earlier, they had a disagreement in the produce aisle at Costco. A well-intentioned clerk intervened and received a bump on his ankle after Fred accidentally hit him with his cane. Cooler heads prevailed, but the store manager filed a police report. At Pamela’s request, I represented Fred and Chester, and I was able to get the charges dropped after they both agreed to write a “sorry letter” to the clerk.

The judge turned to Erickson. “What happened this time?”

“Mr. Choy, Mr. Yee, and some of their neighbors at Lady Shaw took the facility’s van to Costco for their weekly visit.”

“They went to shop?”

“No, they went for lunch. The residents enjoy the free samples.”

“So do I, Mr. Erickson.”

So do I.

“In any event,” Erickson continued, “it seems that Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee had a disagreement when they got in line for sliders.”

“Sliders?”

“Mini-hamburgers, Your Honor. According to Mr. Yee, Mr. Choy cut in front of him. Evidently, they were running out of samples, and Mr. Yee was concerned that he wasn’t going to get one. They’re very tasty.”

Yes, they are. I gave Andy credit for keeping a straight face.

He shot a look at Chester and Fred. “Mr. Yee hit Mr. Choy on the arm with his cane. Mr. Choy responded by stomping his walker on Mr. Yee’s foot. Mr. Yee lost his balance and knocked over the display of sliders.”

“Was anyone injured?”

“Thankfully, no. The woman working at the slider station—a Ms. Gladys Wu—got out of the way. Mr. Choy sustained a bump on his elbow. Mr. Yee had a bruise on his toe. Fortuitously, the blow was cushioned by a tennis ball on the foot of Mr. Choy’s walker.”

“Why are we here?”

“Ms. Wu summoned Costco security, who contacted the police and called an ambulance. Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee were transported to Saint Francis Hospital, where a doctor determined that their injuries were not serious, and they were discharged. Pursuant to SFPD policy, the police filed a report based on statements provided by Ms. Wu and the security guard.”

“Costco decided to press charges?”

“Correct, Your Honor. Company policy places a premium on customer safety.”

“Legitimately so, Mr. Erickson.” Judge McDaniel pushed out a sigh and spoke to me. “Do your clients dispute any of these facts, Mr. Daley?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“How do your clients wish to plead?”

I glanced at Chester and Fred, who were staring at the ground. “Your Honor, before they enter their pleas, I would note that Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee are both very sorry.”

“Noted.”

“They have apologized in person and in writing to Ms. Wu, the security guard, the officers who came to the scene, the EMTs, and the doctors and nurses at Saint Francis.”

“Further noted.”

“I would also like to introduce into evidence copies of the letters written by Chester and Fred to the aforementioned people in which they apologized in writing.”

“Thank you. How do your clients wish to plead, Mr. Daley?”

“We were hoping that their expressions of remorse might persuade Mr. Erickson to consider dropping the charges.”

The judge turned to Andy. “How do you feel about it, Mr. Erickson?”

“Sorry notes aren’t enough, Your Honor. Somebody could have gotten hurt. The previous incident demonstrates a pattern of inappropriate behavior.”

“Is there any way that we might be able to resolve this?”

“Possibly, Your Honor.” He waited a beat. “We will suspend the charges under two conditions. First, if Mr. Yee and Mr. Choy are involved in a similar incident in the next year, the charges will be reinstated.”

“That’s acceptable to us,” I said.

“Second, Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee will agree not to go to Costco for one year.”

Chester swallowed as he looked at the floor. Fred turned to me, panic in his eyes.

“Your Honor,” I said, “that strikes me as a bit excessive. Mr. Choy and Mr. Yee are unable to get out much. Their weekly visits to Costco provide needed social interaction. I would ask Mr. Erickson to reduce the suspension of their Costco privileges to a period of two weeks.”

Erickson shot back. “Six months.”

“One month.”

“Three months.”

“Two months.”

Erickson thought about it for a moment. “Fine.”

In my long and infrequently illustrious legal career, this was the first time I had resolved a case by negotiating the term of a Costco suspension.

Judge McDaniel flashed a triumphant smile. “It seems that we have a deal.” She turned to her bailiff. “Who’s next?”

The gregarious barkeep tossed his ever-present dishtowel over his shoulder and spoke to me in a phony Irish brogue. “What’ll it be, lad?”

“Fish and chips and a Guinness, Big John.”

He looked over at my boss/ex-wife. “And for the distinguished Public Defender of the City and County of San Francisco?”

“Same for me. Instead of the chips, may I please have a salad?”

He arched a bushy eyebrow. “You know, darlin’, the kitchen usually doesn’t allow substitutions.”

Rosita Carmela Fernandez’s jet-black eyes twinkled as she flashed the magical smile that I still found captivating almost thirty years after we’d met in the file room of the old Public Defender’s Office. “Just this once?”

Game over.

Big John returned her smile. “I think we can work it out.”

Rosie and I were sitting in a booth in the back room of Dunleavy’s Bar and Grill, which my uncle, Big John Dunleavy, had been running for sixty-two years. My mother’s older brother was going to celebrate his eighty-seventh birthday on Christmas. The one-time all-City tight end at St. Ignatius was the last living family member of my parents’ generation. Big John was still pretty spry and sharp as a razor, but he had started using a cane to help him carry the two-hundred and forty pounds on his six-four frame. Ten years earlier, he had turned over the day-to-day operations of his pub on Irving Street to his grandson, Joey, a onetime lineman at S.I. Big John still came in three days a week to make the secret batter for his fish and chips and chat with his longtime customers—a combination of cops, firefighters, PG&E workers, senior citizens from the neighborhood’s Asian community, and, more recently, tech kids who were moving out to the foggy Sunset where the rents were a little cheaper.

He looked at Rosie. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

“Fine. Grace and Chuck have set a date in December of next year.”

“Excellent. My offer to provide the venue for the rehearsal dinner still stands.”

“Thank you, Big John. Grace wants something a little more elaborate.”

“Let me know if she changes her mind.”

Our twenty-four-year-old daughter, Grace, was a USC Film School alum and a production assistant at Pixar. Her fiancé, Chuck, was a UCLA Film School alum and a senior production assistant at the same company. Grace was born a year after Rosie and I met at the Public Defender’s Office. I had gone to law school after a difficult three-year tenure as a priest. Rosie had just spun out of a brief and unsatisfying marriage. We had an instant chemistry, and Rosie enjoyed teaching a former priest about some aspects of life that were not emphasized at the seminary. The demands of a baby and our jobs collided, and we called things off when Grace was two. I spent the next five years working at a big firm at the top of the Bank of America Building to pay the bills, alimony, and child support. Rosie started her own criminal defense practice and took me in after I was unceremoniously booted from the firm when I didn’t bring in enough clients. We’d been working together ever since—first at our two-person firm on Mission Street, and, more recently, at the P.D.’s Office. Our “colleagues-with-benefits” arrangement has lasted significantly longer than our marriage, and Big John always described us as “being more married than most married people.” Our son, Tommy (named after my dad), was a freshman at Cal, my alma mater. He came along after Rosie and I divorced. Old habits.

My uncle’s blue eyes twinkled. “I saw that you liberated Chester and Fred again. People are calling them the octogenarian ‘Butch and Sundance.’”

“Justice was served,” I deadpanned.

He winked at Rosie, then he turned back to me. “I tell my customers that my favorite nephew is a bigshot at the P.D.’s Office who handles only highly sophisticated cases. Then they see you on TV after you cut a deal for two guys who got into a fight over free burgers at Costco. It’s bad for business, Mikey. I have a reputation.”

“You’ve done okay for six decades.”

His bar had put his kids and grandkids through college and paid off his house around the corner and a condo in Palm Springs.

“You’re only as good as your last customer’s experience,” he said. He leaned on his cane. “I’ll have Joey bring out your fish and chips.” He headed back to the bar.

Rosie smiled. “You got a good result for Chester and Fred. The fix was in, wasn’t it?”

Uh, yes. “There was nothing nefarious about it. The people at Costco filed a reasonable complaint. The police made a legitimate arrest. Andy Erickson had valid grounds to file charges. I was simply providing Chester and Fred with a zealous defense.”

“Nobody was going to jail, Mike.”

True. “They got a more severe punishment, Rosie. They’re going to Costco jail.”

Her grin broadened. “If you had written their case into a novel, nobody would have believed it.”

“You think Chester and Fred are the first guys to get arrested for fighting over free samples at Costco?”

“Seriously?”

“You’d be amazed.”

She shook her head. “It was nice of Betsy and Andy to play along.”

“They’re good souls.”

“Do you think it was a proper use of city resources to have a court proceeding to scare a couple of guys into behaving better at Costco?”

“It took them longer to walk into court than to resolve their case, Rosie. We did it completely by the book. Besides, you sound like a bureaucrat.”

“I am a bureaucrat, Mike. So are you.”

“We’re supposed to call ourselves ‘public servants.’”

“We do—in public. Do you think it was appropriate?”

“It wasn’t ideal, but our options were limited, and Fred’s daughter asked me to do it. The people at Lady Shaw and Costco are getting tired of refereeing arguments between Chester and Fred, so they asked us to send them a little message. They’re good guys, but they get frustrated when they can’t do everything that they used to do.”

“They’re adults, Mike. They need to deal with their issues in a more mature way.”

“Old habits. Think of it as a cheap intervention.” I smiled. “My dad used to say that the longer you know somebody, the more annoying they become.”

“He was wise.”

Thomas James Charles Daley, Sr., had died twenty-six years earlier. He was a solid cop, a fine husband, and a demanding father. He and his partner used to come into Dunleavy’s after their shifts to wind down in the booth where we were sitting.

“Your mom okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

We had reached the age where every conversation began with a status check on the health of our aging relatives. Rosie’s mother, Sylvia, was a year younger than Big John. She was in reasonably good health and still living in the bungalow in the Mission where Rosie grew up.

A few minutes later, Big John’s grandson and my cousin, Joseph Dunleavy, Jr., approached us bearing our orders. “One with chips, one with salad,” he said.

At thirty-five, he looked like the Big John that I remembered when I was a kid, although his red hair was receding and turning gray. Notwithstanding his imposing size, he was still known as “Little Joey.” His father, Joseph Dunleavy, Sr., had been a San Francisco cop who had died fifteen years earlier of liver cancer. His mother, the former Jeannie O’Brien, issued marriage licenses at City Hall. She still lived around the corner between Big John’s house and the house where I grew up.

“You still seeing that teacher?” I asked.

“Didn’t work out.”

Too bad. Joey had never been married. He was a college grad and a nice guy, but he never found a good match. After Joey’s father died, Big John took Joey under his wing and taught him how to run the bar. It worked out well for everybody. Big John’s other children had no interest in running a saloon, and Joey developed excellent business sense and an uncanny feel for his customers.

“Your mom okay?” I asked.

“Yes.” He confirmed that his brother—another police officer—was also fine.

I pointed at the two cops sitting in a booth next to the pool table. “Is that Eddie Corcoran?”

“Yup.”

“I haven’t seen him in years. How’s he doing?”

“Not so great. He and Eva separated.”

Eddie Corcoran was fourth-generation SFPD who had also grown up in the neighborhood. His late father was my classmate at St. Ignatius. Eddie had a reputation as a solid cop who occasionally used a little too much enthusiasm during arrests.

“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “It’s a tough job.”

“Do you have to be in court this morning?” Rosie asked.

“Nope.” I took a sip of coffee. “You?”

“Not today.” She smiled. “That was nice last night.”

“Yes, it was. We should do that more often.”

“We should.” Her grin widened. “You busy tonight?”

“I can make time.”

At eight-thirty the following morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table in Rosie’s post-Earthquake bungalow in Larkspur, a leafy suburb about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Rosie had rented the house when she and I split up, and I moved into an apartment a couple of blocks away. Since the Public Defender was required to have an “official” residence in San Francisco, Rosie also leased a studio apartment down the street from her mother’s house in the city. I spent most nights here with Rosie, but I kept my apartment when we needed a little space.

My phone vibrated. Big John’s name appeared on the display. “Morning,” I said.

His tone was somber, the brogue gone. “Mike, it’s John. I need your help.”

Uh-oh. “What is it, John?”

“They found Eddie Corcoran’s body in the alley behind the bar.” He waited a beat. “They took Joey downtown. They said that he killed him.”

“Where are you?”

“At Dunleavy’s.”

“Don’t talk to anybody. I’ll meet you at the Hall of Justice.”

2
“YOU GOTTA GET HIM OUTTA HERE”

Big John was waiting for me in the otherwise empty corridor outside Judge McDaniel’s courtroom on the second floor of the Hall. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“They arrested Joey.”

Crap. “Do you know the charge?”

“No. I haven’t been able to talk to Joey, and the cops won’t talk to me.”

“I’ll deal with it, John.”

“You gotta get him out outta here, Mike.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Do it fast.”

“I will. Joey is tough.”

“Not that tough.”

Maybe not. “What do you know?”

His voice was shaky. “Joey called me at home. He said that the garbagemen found Eddie’s body in the alley behind the back door. By the time I walked over, the police had taken him down here. That’s when I called you.”

“You did the right thing. Have you talked to Joey?”

“Not since he called me.”

“What about his mother?”

“I told her what was going on and that I was coming to see you. She wanted to come down here, but I told her to stay home and stay calm. I asked Joey’s brother to stay with her.”

“Did you talk to the cops when you got to the bar?”

“Briefly. I told them that Joey was innocent and that I didn’t see anything last night.”

“Anything else?”

“My nephew the Public Defender has always said that I shouldn’t talk to the cops unless my attorney is present.”

“Good advice. Who did you talk to?”

“Ken Lee.”

Lee had been a homicide inspector for about a dozen years after a distinguished career working undercover in Chinatown. He didn’t arrest people without reason.

“Did he give you any details?” I asked.

“No.” He exhaled. “Joey and Eddie were friends since they were kids, Mike. There’s no way that Joey killed him.”

“Was something going on between them?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Was anybody mad at Eddie?”

“I don’t know.” He lowered his voice. “Eddie was a good cop, but he hasn’t been the same since his partner was killed in the line of duty a couple of years ago.” His tone filled with desperation. “I need to see Joey.”

“They won’t let you inside, but they’ll let me.”

Joey was being processed in the chaotic intake center in County Jail One in the seven-story facility that was jammed between the Hall of Justice and the 80 Freeway in the nineties, which the cops had dubbed the “Glamour Slammer.” It was never glamorous, and three decades of deferred maintenance later, it was showing its age. They would move Joey into a cell in that building or down to County Jail Five, the warehouse-like facility fifteen miles south of here in the hills of San Bruno.

Big John struggled to keep his emotions in check. “Can you handle his case, Mike?”

“Of course.”

“He won’t qualify for a P.D.”

“I’ll take a leave of absence.”

“You can do that?”

“I’ll work it out with Rosie.”

“I don’t know what to say, Mike.”

“You don’t need to say anything, John.”

I looked down the corridor and saw my younger brother walking toward us. The ex-cop-turned-private-investigator was stockier than I was, and his gray stubble matched his mustache.

He spoke in a raspy voice. “I got here as soon as I could, Mick.” He tugged at the sleeve of his bomber jacket and spoke to our uncle. “You okay, Big John?”

“Been better, Pete.”

“Mike and I will take care of everything.” He turned back to me. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Go back to Dunleavy’s with Big John and start asking questions. And check with your moles at Taraval Station to see what you can find out about Eddie Corcoran.” I turned to my uncle. “Don’t talk to the cops unless I’m there. If they give you any grief, call me.”

“Got it. What about you, Mike?”

“I’m going to talk to Joey.”