Special Circumstances (4 page)

I walk into my office and sit down. The room is empty of my stuffexcept for a few last boxes and my coffee cup with Grace’s picture onit. I listen to the sirens forty-seven floors below. It sounds asthough every police car and fire engine in the city is heading towardour building. Doris walks in a few minutes later.
“Is it true?” she asks.
“It’s true. Patton said Bob and Diana are dead.
Chuckles and Joel broke up the partners’ meeting. I don’t know anydetails.”
Tears well up in her eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” she cries. I give her a hug.
She starts sobbing into my shoulder.
“It’ll be all right,” I say feebly.
“It finally got to him. The divorce, the deal, the money. I knewsomething would happen. And Diana, too. Why Diana?”
“These things happen for a reason.” As I say it, I realize this linefrom my religious training never rang very true. It was one of thereasons I ended up leaving the priesthood. I had a lot of troublesaying the party line toward the end. She wipes her eyes and sitsdown.
We’re silent for a moment and I absentmindedly turn on my computer.It’s funny how you revert to habit. I have two E-mail messages. Thesecond message, which I open first, is from Patton, advising that therewill be an emergency meeting in the reception area at nine o’clock. Theother is from Bob Holmes. It was sent at 1:20 this morning. I getchills.
“Look at this,” I say.
Doris comes around behind my desk and reads over my shoulder. Bob’sfinal words are concise.
“To everyone. I am genuinely sorry for the pain I have inflicted.
I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I cannot go on. Iwish you all the best. Bob.”
“Jesus,” I say.
“An E-mail suicide note. This is weird, even for Bob.” I get a sourfeeling in my stomach. His body is still in the office next door.
My phone rings and I pick up.
“Mickey, I’m watching TV.” My mother is at home in the SunsetDistrict.
“They said somebody got shot at your office. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Ma. Don’t worry.”
“Thank God, Mickey. Did you know them?”
“Yeah, Ma, I knew them.”
“Mickey, be careful.”
“I will. I’ll call you back a little later, okay?” I hang up and pawthrough my boxes until I find the five-inch black-and-white TV I keptunder my desk to watch sports. I turn to Channel 4 and play with theantenna until I make out a fuzzy reporter standing in the plaza outsidethe California Street entrance to our building. She’s in front of thehuge black polished-granite sculpture designed by Masayuki Nagare thatthe late Herb Caen, the immortal San Francisco Chronicle columnist,dubbed the Banker’s Heart.
“This is Rita Roberts. We are live in San Francisco, where police arereporting an incident in the offices of Simpson and Gates, the city’slargest law firm.
Details are sketchy, but it appears that two Simpson and Gatesattorneys have been killed by gunshots. Newly elected San FranciscoDistrict Attorney Prentice Gates III was a partner at the firm. Mr.Gates and the mayor were in the firm’s office last night. We don’tknow whether the incident has anything to do with Mr. Gates or themayor. Moments ago, a spokesman told us that the mayor left theSimpson and Gates suite about nine o’clock last night and arrived athis office this morning at his usual time. We haven’t been able toconfirm the whereabouts of Mr. Gates. Rita Roberts for News Center4.”
I’m turning down the sound when a young Asian policeman knocks on myopen door and politely says, “I’m Officer Chinn. We’re asking everyoneto return to their desk.”
“We understand,” I say. He nods and walks down the hall. Doris looksoffended.
“He’s just following procedure,” I explain.
“He’s supposed to secure the scene and wait for help.” In reality he’salso supposed to separate us so we can’t compare stories. She headsout the door.
My phone keeps ringing. My younger brother, Pete, a former SanFrancisco cop who works as a private investigator, gets through on thefirst try.
“You okay, Mick? I heard it on the box.”
“I’m fine.”
“You talked to Ma?”
“Yeah. Told her I’m okay. Mind giving her a call? She’ll feel betterif she hears from you.”
“No problem, Mick. Gotta go. I’m working. I’ll see you thisweekend.” I pity the poor unfaithful husband he’s tailing. What helacks in finesse he makes up for in tenacity.
“Que pasa, Miguel? You all right?” My ex-wife. Rosita CarmelaFernandez doesn’t speak Spanish, except to me.
“I heard it on the radio.” She grew up in the Hispanic enclave in theMission District. Her dad was a carpenter. Her mom baby sits Gracewhenever Rosie’s in trial. Rosie was the first member of her family togo to college. She worked her way through San Francisco State andHastings law school. We used to work together at the PD’s office. Wewere married for about three years. We were a lot better at tryingcases than we were at being married.
“I’m fine, Rosie.”
“Good. I was worried my new tenant wasn’t going to move in.” That waspart of the problem when we were married. Among other things, Rosie isgood at keeping track of money, I’m not. She’s also very organized.Let’s just say I’m more flexible. It used to drive her nuts. We gotalong great right until the time we got married. Then all of my faultscame to light. After a couple of years of ceaseless sniping, wefinally split up. It was right after Grace turned one. Once thedivorce messiness was really over, we started to get along a lotbetter. Go figure.
“I’m moving in just the way we planned,” I say.
“Good man. I’ll call you later. Adios.”
Rosie, you’re the best ex-wife a man could have. Damn shame wecouldn’t stand living together.
Joel pokes his head in while I’m on the phone with my baby sister,Mary, a first-grade teacher in L.A. His hair is disheveled. His eyesare puffy. I motion him to sit down. I say good-bye to Mary.
“Long night, Mike,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
I pick up a rubber band.
“What can I say?”
“I’ve never seen a dead body before. We Jewish folks don’t do opencaskets.” He pauses for a moment to compose himself and says, “Hepractically blew the side of his head off.” He looks out the window.
“We finished negotiations about nine o’clock and we gave the documentsto the word processors. Diana and I went to Harrington’s for a quickbite. She went home. I got back around eleven-fifteen.
We finished signing papers by twelve-thirty. Everybody was leaving. Iwent down to the lunchroom for a Coke. I read documents for two orthree hours and I took a nap down there. I got up around six and wentback to my office. It was quiet.
I thought Bob had gone home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o’clockand Chuckles asked me for the keys to Bob’s office. That’s when wefound them.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Did Russo kill the deal?” As I say it, I realize that my choice ofwords could have been more discreet.
“I don’t know. I can’t find him. He was here when we signed thepapers. He said he was going back to the Ritz. He stays there when hedoesn’t want to drive all the way down to his house in Hillsborough. Hewasn’t sure if he’d authorize the wire transfers to close the deal. Hesaid he was going to sleep on it. He said he might have to go to hisbackup plan.”
“What’s that?”
“A flying leap off the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“I see.”
“I called his hotel. They said he didn’t sleep in his bed last night.”He sighs.
“I just can’t believe Bob killed himself, even ifVince decided to pullout. Bob’s seen deals go south before.”
“The police are going to want to talk to you. I’ll drive you home whenyou’re done.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
This is going to be tough on Joel.
At five after nine, Arthur Patton is still wearing his tuxedo when heconvenes an all-hands meeting in the main reception area. Thankfully,somebody’s had the good judgment to turn off the lights on theChristmas tree. Patton asks for quiet and says, “As many of you areaware, we have had a great tragedy. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy werefound dead in Bob’s office this morning. The police have indicatedthey died of gunshot wounds. Bob’s wounds may have beenself-inflicted.
“This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the SFPD, who is in charge ofthe investigation. I would ask each of you to assist the police. Ouroffice is now closed until Monday, and you are free to go home as soonas the police say you may do so.”
Roosevelt Johnson was my father’s first partner. Every time I see him,I think of my dad. I’ve known Roosevelt since I was a kid. He workedhis way up the ranks and made homicide inspector. Dad stayed on thestreet. Although Roosevelt is in his early sixties, at about six-fourand maybe 235 pounds, he still looks like he can play linebacker atCal. His dark brown skin, gray mustache, bald head and goldwire-rimmed glasses command the attention of everyone in the room.
His eloquent baritone is captivating.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “I promise we will get you home assoon as we can. We would like to obtain a statement from each of you.For those of you who didn’t see or hear anything, I would ask you towrite a note to that effect and give it to one of our officers. Iwould appreciate it if you would return to your office or workstation.I must ask you not to discuss this matter with one another until wehave talked to you. Please stay away from the area around the officesof Mr.
Holmes and Ms. Kennedy so we may gather evidence. I apologize inadvance for the inconvenience and I thank you for your cooperation.”
Doris raises her hand.
“Inspector, can you give us any information about the circumstancessurrounding Bob’s and Diana’s deaths?”
“We are beginning to gather evidence. It appears they were victims ofgunshot wounds.”
“Were the wounds self-inflicted?”
“We don’t know yet. A handgun was found at the scene. We will provideadditional information as soon as possible.”
At ten o’clock, I’m on the phone when a subdued Chuckles Stem walksinto my office. I hold my thumb and forefinger about a quarter of aninch apart, signaling I’ll only be a minute. He sits down. I reassuremy mother for the third time today and hang up.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. I wonder why he’s come to see me. ThenI realize he has nobody else to talk to.
“I haven’t seen so much blood since I was in the service,” he says.
To Chuckles, the service usually means the IRS. I’m surprised when Irealize he’s talking about the armed service.
“You were in the service, Charles?”
“Vietnam. Marines. I’ve got a bum shoulder to show for it.”
I never would have figured. Although it’s entirely inappropriate, Ifind myself imagining Chuckles and his platoon lobbing copies of theInternal Revenue Code toward the Vietcong.
“I lost a brother over there, Charles,” I say.
“Near the end of the war.”
“I didn’t know that,” he replies.
I pause. My brother Tommy’s death was one of the big reasons why Ibecame a priest. My family was very seriously Catholic. I was betterat it than either of my brothers. Although the church had a lot ofrules, it was a truly spiritual place for me while I was growing up.Then I became a priest and the spirituality disappeared. I decide itmay not be a great time to discuss my participation in the antiwarprotests on the Berkeley campus.
He looks out the window.
“I know we have other things on our minds,” he says, “but I wanted tolet you know we decided to let bygones be bygones and just give youyour capital back. We aren’t going to insist that you sign arelease.”
He pulls a check out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
“Thanks, Charles. That’s very decent of you.” My mind races. Why arethey doing this? I add, for the record, “I think you made the rightdecision.”
“Sometimes you make decisions just because it’s the right thing to do,”he says.
And sometimes you fire your partners because their book of businessisn’t big enough. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. There’s anuncomfortable silence.
“So,” I say, “you knew Bob for a long time. Do you have any idea whatthis is all about?”
“I don’t know. We weren’t close. I’m not sure he had any closefriends.”
The same could be said about you, Chuckles. I hold back.
He continues.
“Art knew him the best. They used to talk about stocks. They investedin a restaurant together. That fancy place in Palo Alto. Bob calledit his private black hole for money. Bob and I just used to talk aboutfirm business. He was having his biggest year ever. I can’t believehe’d kill himself the night before his big deal was supposed to close.Confidentially, he was going to get a big bonus today.”
I feign mild surprise. Joel was right.
“I didn’t realize that, Charles.”
“That’s why it doesn’t make sense. You know Bob. Or knew him, Iguess. He’d never turn down a paycheck. Maybe it was the divorce.” Hepauses.
“You heard he used his own gun.”
Huh?
“He had a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“He brought a gun to the office?”
“He kept it at the office, Mike. At his desk. Jesus, I thoughteveryone knew.”
No, not everyone knew.
“Loaded?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“What the hell for?”
“Don’t be naive. You were here when that lunatic killed all thosepeople at 101 California.”
In July of 1993, a crazed former client walked into the offices of aprominent San Francisco law firm and opened fire with an arsenal ofsemiautomatic weapons. He killed eight people and wounded a dozenothers before he killed himself. The firm closed its doors two yearslater.
“I knew some people over there,” I say.
“Good lawyers. Nice people.”
“Ever since, every big firm has put in a security system. We spentalmost a hundred grand on ours. Each receptionist has a panic button.If they see trouble, they punch it. The doors lock and a red lightgoes on in personnel and at the security desk. Thank goodness we’venever had to use it.”
“Brave new world.”
“No kidding. After the incident at 101 Cal, Bob said he wasn’t goingto let the same thing happen to him. He kept a loaded gun at hisdesk. He didn’t make a big deal about it.” He pauses.
“We’d like to try to keep it out of the papers, if we can.”
“Not a bad idea.” What’s next? Metal detectors? I can just see theheadlines.
“Prominent San Francisco Attorney Kills Himself with Loaded Piece HeKept at His Desk.”
“Anyway,” he continues, “we have a problem. We were counting on thefees from the Russo deal to make our year-end numbers. Some of thepartners won’t be happy with the results now.”
There’s the Chuckles I know and love. Two hours after he finds hispartner’s body, he’s already worried about his draw. As Art Pattonlikes to say, we shouldn’t dwell on the negative.
“What a mess,” I say.
“Art’s beside himself. I think he may retire and move to Napafulltime. I’m thinking about getting out. I don’t know if the firmcan survive.”
He isn’t very convincing when he’s being melodramatic.