1
“They Caught Him Red-Handed”

The Honorable Elizabeth McDaniel tapped her microphone, surveyed her packed courtroom on the second floor of San Francisco’s crumbling Hall of Justice, and spoke to me in an upbeat voice that still contained a hint of her native Alabama, even though she had lived in San Francisco for her entire adult life. “Nice to see you, Mr. Daley.”

“Nice to see you, too, Your Honor,” I said.

It was ten-fifteen AM on Tuesday, January twenty-first, 2025. It was pouring rain outside, but you would never have known it inside Judge McDaniel’s windowless courtroom that smelled of perspiration and mildew. The Hall of Justice opened in 1961 and was showing its age. The old warhorse was condemned a decade ago because of earthquake safety issues, faulty wiring, and unreliable plumbing. The Southern Police Station, the DA’s Office, and the Public Defender’s Office have fled to newer buildings. The old jail on the sixth and seventh floors was mothballed and replaced by a newer facility next door. For now, only the Homicide Detail and the courts remain. A decade ago, there were discussions about building a new courthouse on the site of a long-demolished McDonald’s next door. Those plans were shelved, and the chance that a replacement will be built in my lifetime is slim.

I inhaled the heavy air and glanced at the gallery filled with ADAs, Deputy PDs, and a few private defense lawyers who were staring at their phones while waiting for a brief audience with the judge. 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 dilapidated bazaar of criminal law.

Judge McDaniel tugged at her shoulder-length auburn hair and smiled. “It’s always a treat to see the co-head of the Felony Division of the Public Defender’s Office in my courtroom even if it’s just to argue a motion.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

Betsy McDaniel has run her stuffy courtroom with ruthless efficiency for three decades. She is a “lawyer’s lawyer,” and her colleagues frequently ask her for advice to her on complex legal issues. The former felony prosecutor is brilliant, thoughtful, even-handed, and wickedly funny. She went on senior status a few years ago to teach criminal procedure at my alma mater, Berkeley Law, travel with her grandchildren, and take pre-dawn Pilates classes at the upscale gym around the corner from her refurbished Victorian in Noe Valley. I have appeared before her dozens of times, and she’s always given me a fair shake. She has been the Hall of Justice’s resident mother hen for years, and she has mentored countless attorneys, prosecutors, defense lawyers, and other judges. Notwithstanding her cheerful demeanor, if you show up late or unprepared, she won’t hesitate to skewer you in open court.

She absent-mindedly played with her reading glasses. “I saw our distinguished Public Defender at the gym earlier today. She reported that you and your family are doing well.”

“Thank you. We are.”

Our Public Defender and my boss, Rosita Fernandez, also happens to be my ex-wife. I met Rosie almost three decades ago in the file room of the old PD’s Office. I was a new Deputy PD fresh out of law school after I spent three unhappy years as a priest at St. Anne’s Parish in the Sunset. Rosie had just been promoted to the Felony Division after spinning out of an unhappy marriage to one of her law school classmates. We got married after a quick and intense romance. Our daughter, Grace, was born a year later. She just turned twenty-seven and works at Pixar along with her husband, Chuck. Rosie and I divorced two years after we got married when the pressures of a baby, our jobs, and our egos overwhelmed us. Our son, Tommy, came along five years later. Old habits. He’s a senior at Cal.

Rosie and I left the PD’s Office after we got divorced. She opened a solo criminal defense practice on Mission Street. 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, 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. Rosie just won re-election for her third and (she swears) final term as Public Defender.

“Are you really going to retire at the end of next month?” I asked the judge.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“You’ve already tried twice.”

“I mean it this time. I want to spend more time with my grandchildren before they head off to college. I am going to continue to teach one class a year in Berkeley. And I’m planning to finish a book that I started writing a long time ago.”

“A casebook on the California Rules of Evidence?”

“A mystery novel.”

Every lawyer I know is writing a novel, except for the ones in L.A., who are writing screenplays. “Maybe you’ll be the next John Grisham.”

“It’s more like Donna Leon.” Her eyes twinkled. “It means that I have to go to Italy to do research.”

Well played. “Sounds like an excellent retirement gig. I look forward to reading it.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes moved to the prosecution table. “Good morning, Mr. Paolini.”

The lanky young ADA sprang to his feet, buttoned the jacket of his charcoal Men’s Wearhouse suit, and spoke a little too enthusiastically. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

Ernie Paolini is a nice young man and a competent, if unimaginative, ADA who comes from a politically connected family. After two years on the job, the third-generation San Francisco native is a proficient prosecutor who has inched his way up the ladder at the DA’s Office from handling traffic cases to misdemeanors to nonviolent felonies. If he plays his cards carefully and doesn’t irritate his bosses, the alum of St. Ignatius High School (also my alma mater), USF, and USF Law School may get a chance to handle a murder trial someday.

The judge put on her reading glasses, glanced at her computer, and spoke to Paolini. “We’re here to discuss The People versus Juwon Love, right?”

“Correct, Your Honor. The charge is second-degree robbery under California Penal Code Section 211.” He shot a scathing glance at me, then he turned back to the judge. “Mr. Daley filed a specious motion to dismiss the charges that is a waste of this court’s time.”

That’s a bit chilly, Ernie.

My client, Juwon Love, towered over me as we stood at the defense table. At six-five and two-forty, the native of Hunters Point had just turned twenty. His orange jumpsuit contrasted with his ebony skin, shaved dome, bushy beard, and tattooed arms. The soft-spoken giant is the son of a single mother who is addicted to crack. After he graduated from Balboa High School, he worked at fast-food restaurants and as a security guard to scrape together enough money to pay for a studio apartment in the Bayview. His financial situation has been exacerbated by alcohol issues and an online gambling habit. I have represented him on several shoplifting charges and a DUI at the request of my onetime client, long-time assistant, recovering alcoholic, and former small-time professional boxer and shoplifter, Terrence “The Terminator” Love, who was sitting behind me in the front row of the gallery. Terrence is Juwon’s great-uncle.

“Your Honor—,” I began.

She stopped me with an upraised hand. “I’ve read your motion, Mr. Daley. Your client pleaded not guilty at his arraignment. At his preliminary hearing, Judge Ignatius Tsang ruled that there was sufficient evidence to bind him over for trial, which is scheduled to begin next week in Judge Robert Stumpf’s courtroom. Why are we here?”

I’m glad you asked. “As I explained in my motion, the facts do not support a charge of second-degree robbery. The charges should therefore be dropped as a matter of law.”

Paolini was still on his feet. “The defendant robbed a bank.”

Yes, he did. “My client’s actions did not meet the requirements of robbery as defined in the statute.”

Paolini’s face turned red, and his voice got louder. “Yes, they did.”

For future reference, Ernie, it generally isn’t an effective strategy to feign hysterics when you appear in front of a smart judge like Betsy McDaniel.

She rested her chin in her palm. “Remind me of what happened, Mr. Paolini.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice filled with excitement. “On June fifteenth of last year, the defendant entered the Bank of America branch on Bayshore Boulevard in Visitacion Valley near the Cow Palace. He handed the teller a note demanding money. She gave him an envelope with five hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills. The quick-thinking teller also set off a silent alarm and slipped a dye-pack explosive device into the envelope. The defendant immediately left the bank. As he was walking down Bayshore, the envelope exploded and covered his hands and clothing with red dye. The police arrested him ten minutes later at a nearby bus stop.” Paolini smirked. “You might say that they caught him red-handed.”

Attaboy, Ernie. It took too long to set up the punchline, but you finally got there.

Judge McDaniel gave me a bemused grin. “Does your client dispute any of this?”

Not really. “Mr. Paolini left out some critical context.”

Paolini went to his go-to move: whining. “The defendant robbed a bank, Your Honor. The police caught him ten minutes later. He still had the money in his possession.”

All true. “I need just a moment to offer some additional details, Your Honor.”

Her grin widened. “You’ve made some creative arguments in my court over the years, Mr. Daley. In the spirit of justice and because this may be the last time that we’ll see each other professionally, I am going to give you one minute to make your case.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Here goes. “My client entered the bank and gave the teller a note that read, and I quote, ‘Please give me an envelope with all the money in the cash drawer. I promise not to hurt anybody.'”

“He said please?”

“Yes. Good manners are still worth something.”

“Quite right.”

I pretended to read from a bound volume of the California Penal Code that I use for theatrical purposes in court. “Section 211 of the Penal Code defines second-degree robbery as ‘the felonious taking of personal property in possession of another, from his person or immediate presence, against his will, accomplished through means of force and fear.'” I reminded the judge that first-degree robbery occurs only in limited circumstances such as robbing an inhabited dwelling, a driver or a passenger of a vehicle, or someone using an ATM. “Second-degree refers to all robberies that don’t meet the criteria for first-degree.”

“What’s your point, Mr. Daley?”

“Mr. Love was not armed. He did not make any menacing moves. He gave the teller a note in which he politely asked for money. He specifically said that he wouldn’t hurt anybody. He therefore did not use force or instill fear. Consequently, he cannot be guilty of second-degree robbery.”

Paolini was still standing. “The defendant was wearing a mask.”

“He was wearing an N95 mask to mitigate the possibility of Covid.”

“Covid is over.”

“No, it isn’t. Mr. Love suffers from an immune deficiency. He always wears a mask in public places.” Well, sometimes. “The fact that he wore a mask was not uncommon and not threatening. The teller was in no danger.”

“The teller didn’t know that. The defendant is built like an NFL lineman. His mere presence is intimidating.”

“The note said that he wouldn’t hurt anybody. He took no actions to instill fear.”

Judge McDaniel let Paolini and me go at it for a full five minutes. It was her last month on the job, and she probably found it amusing that two lawyers were arguing about the legal technicalities of a case where my client had unquestionably stolen money and been caught dead to rights.

She finally stopped us. “I have heard enough, gentlemen.” She took a deep breath and spoke to me. “Your motion is denied, Mr. Daley. I give you credit for the novelty of your argument, but I am not going to dismiss the charges.”

“But, Your Honor—,”

“Whether the defendant acted in a manner to instill fear in the bank teller is a question of fact for the jury to decide.”

It’s disappointing, but probably the right legal call.

Paolini smiled triumphantly. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Paolini. Since it’s my last month on the job, I am going to take the liberty of giving you a little free advice. While I am not ruling in favor of Mr. Daley, I find his analysis to be pretty convincing. If I were in your shoes, I would be inclined to try to resolve this matter before trial.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Daley has been unwilling to listen to reason.”

“I have always found Mr. Daley to be very reasonable.” She turned my way. “Putting aside the question of your client’s motivation, he did, in fact, take money that didn’t belong to him. Where I came from in Alabama, we called that stealing.”

Where I came from in San Francisco, we call it the same thing. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Her drawl became more pronounced. “I have worked with you and Mr. Paolini on many cases. I know that you are good lawyers and fine people. As a lovely retirement present for me, perhaps you could get together and figure out a way to resolve this case so that Judge Stumpf will not have to spend the time and energy to empanel a jury and preside over a trial.”

“What do you say?” I asked Paolini.

His eyes darted from me to the judge and back to me. “I might be able to convince my boss to go down to first-degree burglary.”

It’s a start. First-degree burglary is a felony with a minimum sentence of two to six years in state prison along with a fine of up to ten thousand dollars. It’s comparable to a sentence for second-degree robbery, where the minimum is also two years.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but this isn’t a first-degree burglary case. We might have something to talk about if you’re willing to discuss second-degree burglary.”

“I would have to charge it as a felony.”

Let the haggling begin. Second-degree burglary can be charged either as a felony or a misdemeanor in the discretion of the DA. At the Hall of Justice, we refer to such cases as “wobblers.” The maximum sentence for a felony conviction is three years in state prison. For a misdemeanor, it’s a year in County Jail.

“It isn’t a felony,” I said. “If you are willing to talk about charging it as a misdemeanor, we’re interested.”

The judge spoke up again. “You gentlemen seem to be on the right track.”

Maybe. I waited for Paolini.

“I’ll have to clear it with my boss,” he finally said. “I think I can get this down to a misdemeanor with a sentence of one year in County Jail plus two years of probation.”

Not bad. “Credit for time served?”

He glanced at the judge, who smiled. He turned back to me. “Fine.”

Juwon has been in jail since July. He would be out in about five months.

I whispered to Juwon. “You took the money. You aren’t going to get a better deal.”

“Okay.”

I turned back to Paolini. “Deal.”

Judge McDaniel was smiling broadly. “Thank you for your cooperation, gentlemen.”

* * *

My raincoat was soaked as I walked down the sauna-like corridor of the PD’s Office at eleven-forty 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 an upgrade from our ratty old digs at the Hall where the heater worked sporadically, there was no air conditioning, and the walls were covered in lead-based paint. Two decades of deferred maintenance later, our “new” office needs a tune-up.

I stopped at the workstation outside my office. 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. “Thanks for helping Juwon, Mike.”

“I did the best that I could, Terrence.”

“I know.” He flashed a melancholy smile exposing a gold front tooth. “He’s a sweet kid with a propensity for doing stupid things. Hopefully, he’ll learn from the experience.”

“Hopefully. Is your granddaughter okay?”

His voice filled with pride. “She’s walking. I may need to take a few days off to go down to San Diego and see her.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

Terrence wanted to retire a year ago, but I persuaded him to stick around and work two days a week plus every other Friday. Rosie and I can’t run the office without him.

“Anything I need to know?” I asked.

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

* * *

Rosie was sitting behind her desk when I walked into her office and took a seat. Her jet-black hair that she used to wear long and straight was now coiffed into a stylish bob. Her makeup was perfect, and her wardrobe came from Bloomingdale’s. Her intense eyes had a hint of whimsy.

“I heard you got a good result for Juwon,” she said. “He strikes me as a nice young man who learns things the hard way.”

“Exactly.”

In addition to being the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Rosie is the most astute judge of character that I’ve ever known.

I looked around her functional office where the only nice piece of furniture was a mahogany desk that she bought on her own dime. Her credenza, bookcase, and conference table were standard City-issue. Her “ego wall” was modest: a few photos of her with local politicians and one with the governor. She regularly updated the framed pictures of our children which were displayed on her credenza.

“Kids okay?” I asked.

“Fine.”

Grace is wrapping up a movie at Pixar. Tommy is starting his final semester at Cal.

“Your mom?” I asked.

“Status quo. Her knee is acting up again. I gently asked her about the possibility of moving into independent living. She not-so-gently told me no.”

No surprise. Sylvia Fernandez is eighty-seven. My ex-mother-in-law and Fernandez family matriarch is as sharp and opinionated as ever, but she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that two artificial hips and an artificial knee have slowed her down. She still lives in the two-bedroom bungalow in the Mission that she and her late husband, Eduardo, bought almost sixty years ago. She can handle living on her own, but the twelve steps from the garage to the front door are becoming more challenging—especially since she refuses to use the cane that her doctor recommended when she got her first hip replacement. During Covid, she grudgingly hired somebody to come in a couple of mornings a week to help her clean the house and do her laundry.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine. Now that the election is over, I can get back to doing my job.”

I glanced at the faded campaign poster in the corner. “Four more years,” I said.

“Four more years.”

“Terrence said that you wanted to see me.”

“I may need your help on a new case that’s coming in later today. I don’t know the name of the client, but I was told that it’s going to be a heater.” She lowered her voice. “Roosevelt is the homicide inspector.”

Interesting. Roosevelt Johnson is the same age as Sylvia. He is SFPD’s most decorated homicide inspector. For forty years, he handled most of San Francisco’s high-profile murder cases. Sixty years ago, he walked the beat in the Tenderloin with my late father. At the time, they were one of SFPD’s first integrated teams. Roosevelt moved up to homicide inspector. Pop stayed on the street. Roosevelt retired twenty years ago, but he works on cold cases from time to time.

Her eyes narrowed. “Evidently, one of Roosevelt’s cold cases turned hot. I got a message that the defendant has requested a Public Defender.”

Roosevelt doesn’t arrest anybody unless he has the evidence to convict.

“Do you have time to deal with it?” she asked.

As co-head of the Felony Division, I devote most of my time to staffing, budgets, and other administrative tasks. Once or twice a year, I handle a trial.

“Sure,” I said.

“Good. Roosevelt is coming in to talk to us about it in a few minutes.”

This is unusual. Homicide inspectors generally don’t discuss their cases with Public Defenders.

Terrence knocked on the open door. “Inspector Johnson is here.”

“Please show him to the conference room,” Rosie said.

Terrence nodded and headed into the corridor.

I looked at Rosie. “Did Roosevelt mention why he wanted to talk to us?”

She flashed her million-dollar smile. “We’re about to find out.”

2
“I Want To Be Sure That I’m Right”

Inspector Roosevelt Johnson leaned his cane against the table and eased his two-hundred-and-thirty-pound frame into one of the creaky swivel chairs in our conference room. His hair was a distinguished shade of silver matching his trim mustache. As always, he was dressed in a custom charcoal suit, a starched white dress shirt, and a subdued polka dot tie.

He spoke in a melodious baritone tempered by age and a battle with throat cancer a decade earlier. “Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “It’s good to see you, Roosevelt.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Mike.” He declined my offer of coffee and nodded at Rosie. “Congratulations on your re-election.”

“Thank you, Roosevelt. How are you getting along?”

“Not bad for an eighty-seven-year-old.”

My dad’s old partner took off his aviator-style glasses and wiped them with a cloth. His voice was raspier than the mellifluous one that I heard almost every Sunday night when he and his family joined us for dinner when I was a kid. He reported that he was healthy, but an old knee injury required him to walk with the cane. His wife, Janet, passed away a couple of years ago. His older daughter, Dorothy, is an OB at UCSF. Her sister, Maya, is a prosecutor in L.A. He is immensely proud of his five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

“Are you getting used to your new apartment?” I asked.

“It’s fine. I have everything that I need, and it makes Dorothy and Maya happy.”

A year ago, Roosevelt grudgingly moved into an independent living facility on Nineteenth Avenue a few blocks from his house. His transition has been challenging.

“Kids okay?” he asked.

“Everybody’s fine,” Rosie said. She confirmed that Grace and her husband were still working at Pixar, and Tommy was a senior at Cal.

Roosevelt’s eyes twinkled. “No lawyers in this generation?”

“Afraid not.”

“How’s your mother?”

Rosie wiggled her fingers. “Getting along. We’ve suggested that she should consider moving into independent living, but she’s been unwilling so far.”

“I understand her reluctance. Please give her my best.” He turned to me. “Is your brother okay?”

“He’s fine, Roosevelt.”

My brother, Pete, is two years younger than I am. He became a cop to prove that he was as tough as our dad was. He and his partner were fired after they broke up a gang fight in the Mission with a little too much enthusiasm. One of the kids ended up with a concussion and a broken collarbone. It turned out that he was the nephew of a member of the Board of Supervisors. The family filed the inevitable lawsuit against the City, and the powers-that-be caved. Pete became a PI. His partner became an alcoholic.

Rosie spoke up again. “How can we help you, Roosevelt?”

“I wanted to let you know that I found some new evidence on an old case. We made an arrest earlier today, and the defendant is going to request a Public Defender. The case is likely to draw media attention.”

“Thank you for the heads-up,” I said. “What’s the charge?”

“Murder.”

Of course. “How old is the case?”

“1978.”

“Who is the defendant?”

“You’ll find out later today.”

Roosevelt always measured his words carefully, but he was more coy than usual today.

“This is the first time that you’ve ever alerted us to a new case,” I said.

“I wanted you to hear about it from me, and it’s personal.” He cleared his throat. “I know who killed Luther.”

Rosie and I exchanged a glance. Roosevelt’s son, Luther, was killed in a drive-by shooting in Hunters Point on Christmas Eve of 1978. Luther was twenty years old at the time. He was a star tight end at San Francisco State. The police believed that he was killed in a drug deal that went bad, but Roosevelt wasn’t convinced. His former partner, Marcus Banks, led the investigation. No arrest was made, and the case was never solved.

“What’s the new evidence?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Did you find evidence linking the case to a drug dealer?”

“No.” He paused. “I found evidence linking the case to a cop.”

Interesting. “Which cop?”

“You’ll find out later today.”

“Are you suggesting that SFPD covered up the identity of the murderer?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply letting you know that I found new evidence implicating a retired police officer.”

This did not come as a complete surprise. My father once told me that Roosevelt always believed that a police officer had killed Luther.

“Are you pretty sure about this?” I asked.

“Very sure.”

“You really want to deal with this?”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “I promised Janet that I would keep looking for Luther’s killer. It’s my last piece of unfinished business.”

Fair enough. “Why are you telling us this now?”

“I want you to represent the defendant.”

“Our office will represent him if he qualifies for our services.”

“He’ll qualify. He has no money, and he lives in a nursing home. His police pension isn’t enough to cover his nursing home and medical care. He relies on Medicaid and food stamps.”

“He could ask the police union to provide an attorney.”

“From what I gather, he doesn’t trust the union.”

Got it. “We’ll assign one of our best attorneys to his case.”

Roosevelt lowered his voice. “I would like you to handle it yourself.”

“You know that I don’t do a lot of trial work anymore.”

“I would consider it a personal favor if you would work on this case. If possible, I would also ask for Pete to help with the investigation.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be sure that I’m right. I want this defendant to have first-rate lawyers and investigators. You and Rosie are the two best defense attorneys I’ve ever known. Pete is the most tenacious PI in the Bay Area.”

I shot a look at Rosie, then I turned back to Roosevelt. “Rosie and I will need to discuss this. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

“Of course. Mike?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

* * *

Rosie was back at her desk, expression somber. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I. We’ve been doing this for thirty years, Rosie. It’s the first time that a homicide inspector came to our office to give us notice of an arrest and to ask us to handle the case personally.”

“Do you have time to deal with this?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to deal with it?”

“It’s Roosevelt. I’m going to need somebody to sit second chair. Is Rolanda available?”

Rosie nodded. “She just cut a deal on a second-degree murder case. She has time.”

Excellent. Rolanda Fernandez is the co-head of the Felony Division and one of our best young attorneys. She also happens to be Rosie’s niece. In Rosie’s master plan, Rolanda will take Rosie’s slot as PD when Rosie retires at the end of her current term.

“Can I hire Pete to lead the investigation?” I asked.

“Of course.”

Also excellent. “You sure?” I asked.

“It’s Roosevelt.”

* * *

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