The 7th Canon (2 page)

Though Barnes’s brow remained furrowed, his expression of disgust softened, and his eyebrows rose. Was it curiosity? At least he hadn’t rejected the idea outright, or directed the bailiff to put Donley in handcuffs for contempt. “And you intend to put him . . . it . . . you intend to put the bird on
my
witness stand and have it mimic a phrase it has been taught?”

“Every day when Mr. Russo left his apartment, he turned on the television to keep Albert company.” Russo nodded like a bobblehead doll. “And it seems that Albert picked up an ability to mimic something he heard.”

Rattigan furiously flipped the pages of her Code of Civil Procedure book. “Your Honor, we object. This is a bird. Only people can testify.”

“You found that in the code, did you?” Barnes asked.

Rattigan lifted her head. “Well . . . no. But I mean, it has to be in here . . . somewhere. I mean, this . . . this is a bird!”

“Actually there is precedent for introducing animals as evidence.” Donley snapped open his black binder and pulled out a short brief he’d typed up late the previous evening but had hoped to never use. He handed one copy to Rattigan and a second to Judge Barnes’s clerk, who provided it to the judge. “The court will take particular note of the Connecticut case
Adams v. Martin
, in which Barney, the dancing terrier, was allowed to demonstrate a unique ability to juggle red rubber balls.”

“Your Honor, that is not the same thing,” Rattigan whined. “We’re talking about letting a bird testify, not demonstrate a trick.”

Donley lowered the brief. “I mean no disrespect to this court, but the most important thing here, the equitable thing, is to determine Albert’s rightful owner. Allowing Albert to take the witness stand will conclusively prove either he is, or is not, the same bird that has lived with Victor Russo for more than five years.”

Barnes sighed. “What exactly is the phrase you contend this bird will mimic, Mr. Donley?”

“It’s not exactly a phrase, Judge.”

“Then, what is it?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s a show tune.”

Barnes leaned forward, now considering Donley out of one squinted eye. “A show tune?”

“Apparently, Albert is particularly fond of
The Andy Griffith Show
, and—”

“Andy Griffith?”

“Yes, Your Honor. You know . . . Mayberry RFD. Andy and Barney, Opie, Aunt Bea—”

“I know the show, Mr. Donley; I raised three kids of my own and have seven grandchildren.”

“Right. Well, apparently Albert picked up the ability to whistle the show’s opening tune.” And with that, Donley put aside what little dignity he retained and whistled the tune to
The Andy Griffith Show
.

Barnes sat back, lips pursed, running a hand over his bald head for what seemed an eternity but was just a few seconds. Then, without uttering a word, he looked to his bailiff and swept his hand toward the large birdcage on the table between the two counsel tables. When she hesitated, Barnes repeated the gesture and widened his eyes to encourage her. The bailiff lifted the cage by the ring and placed Albert on the witness chair.

Now it was the clerk’s turn to look perplexed. “Should I . . . swear in the witness?”

Barnes closed his eyes and gently shook his head. Opening his eyes, he gestured for Donley to proceed.

“Your Honor, if it is acceptable to the court, Mr. Russo would like to handle this witness himself.”

Barnes clasped his hands. “Of course he would. Why not?”

Donley whispered in Russo’s ear. “OK, Victor. He’s all yours.”

Russo pushed back his chair and walked to the open space between the judge’s bench and the witness stand. He bowed with great deference to Barnes and turned to the cage.

“Albert? Over here, Albert. That’s a good boy. Albert, do you want to watch Andy Griffith? Andy Griffith?”

The bird began to prance along the bar and bob its head.

“Andy Griffin, Albert. You know.” Russo whistled.

“Objection!” Rattigan shouted so loud, Russo flinched as if she’d snuck up and goosed him.

Barnes looked dumbfounded. “Excuse me, Ms. Rattigan?”

“He’s leading the witness, Your Honor.”

Barnes bit his lower lip and closed his eyes. “Overruled.”

“But, Your Honor—”

The catcher’s mitt hand reached out again. “Sit . . . down, Ms. Rattigan.”

“But—”

Barnes moved his hand as if placing it on Rattigan’s head and forcibly lowering her into her chair. “Sit . . . down.” He looked to Russo. “Continue, Mr. Russo.”

“I think he’s distracted, Your Honor,” Russo said.

“Just do your best, Mr. Russo,” Barnes said.

Russo bowed again and resumed. “Andy Griffith, Albert. Andy Griffith.” His voice became desperate. He whistled, but Albert remained silent.

Russo coaxed the bird a third time, also without success. Tears had again pooled in his eyes, and he dropped his head in resignation.

Barnes sat forward, speaking gently. “Thank you, Mr. Russo. I think that will be all.”

Donley stepped out from counsel table and touched Victor Russo’s elbow, leading him back to his seat.

“Madame Bailiff, you may take Albert from the witness stand,” Barnes said.

As the bailiff carried Albert back to the table, Barnes said, “I assume you are prepared to submit this matter, Mr. Donley?”

Resigned, Donley nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well, then. Mr. Russo, I’m deeply sorry, but the burden in this case was upon you, as the plaintiff, to convince me the parrot belonged to you, and I’m afraid I can’t conclude that is the case. Therefore, it is the decision of this court—”

“Andy Griffith. Andy Griffith.”

The court reporter, taking down every word spoken in the courtroom, lifted his head, uncertain who had interrupted the judge. Everyone else, however, had turned to the table behind Donley, where Albert, head bobbing, pranced along the bar.

“Andy Griffith,” he squawked.

“I’ll be damned,” Barnes said.

And with that, Albert began to whistle.

At nearly six in the evening, Donley had expected Ruth-Bell to have left the office and gone home, but when he stepped into the cramped reception area, she remained at her desk, the telephone pressed to her ear. Lou’s voice spilled from his office, a one-sided conversation indicating he, too, was on the telephone.

Ruth-Bell handed Donley a stack of pink message slips without any further acknowledgment, and he stepped past the file cabinets and small table with the stained coffeepot into his office.

He draped his jacket over the back of a chair and set his briefcase beside his desk. Outside, he heard two of San Francisco’s homeless arguing. The Law Offices of Lou Giantelli were located on the first floor of a historic building in San Francisco’s Tenderloin District. The building’s proximity to the courthouse had prompted Lou to buy it three decades earlier, when the neighborhood had been a relatively safe area. The intervening years had not been kind to the Tenderloin. What remained were run-down apartment houses and commercial buildings, and corner liquor stores and peep shows that attracted drug dealers and addicts, prostitutes and their pimps and johns, and the homeless and mentally unstable. Sometimes getting to work meant stepping across bodies—not all still alive.

Donley’s desk phone rang, and he was surprised to see from the console that it was Ruth-Bell. Usually, she just shouted from reception that Donley or Lou had a call.

“You have a call,” Ruth-Bell said.

When Ruth-Bell didn’t elaborate, Donley said, “Did they give you a name?”

“Someone named Polly.”

“Polly? Polly who?” he said, and immediately regretted it.

“Polly want a cracker,” Ruth-Bell cackled, and with that Lou, who had obviously been waiting just outside the door, stepped into Donley’s office flapping his elbows and squawking. “Andy Griffith. Andy Griffith.”

Ruth-Bell hurried in behind him. “I heard you almost got yourself in trouble because your star witness was a little
fowl mouthed
,” she said.

“Very funny,” Donley said, letting them have their moment. “You two should go on the road together.” He checked his watch. “How about now?”

Lou paused, laughing so hard he was having trouble catching his breath. When he did, he said, “I would have given anything to have seen it.”

“Can’t believe it worked,” Donley said. “And it cost me only my dignity and my career.”

Lou’s voice rose. “Are you kidding? You’re the talk of the courthouse. My phone has been ringing off the hook. Three judges called to ask if it was true; apparently, they’re having their Christmas party, and Barnes is telling everyone and anyone who will listen.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Donley asked.

“The papers seem to think so.” Ruth-Bell handed him a pink message slip. “Bill Main called from the
Chronicle
.”

“And I just got off the phone with Victor,” Lou said. “Three television trucks are parked outside his restaurant. He and Albert are going to be on the six o’clock news. It’s the best publicity his restaurant has had in twenty years.” Lou turned for the door. “Come on. Let’s watch it on the television in my office.”

“I’d rather not,” Donley said. “I had to live it.”

Ruth-Bell started for the door. “And much as I’d like to, I’m already late, and if I don’t get home and make husband number three something to eat, I’ll be looking for husband number four. That man can’t boil water.”

After Ruth-Bell had left, Lou leaned on the edge of the round table in the corner of Donley’s office, nearly toppling the stack of case files.

“Come on, give me the details.”

Donley explained how he knew he had not proved the bird belonged to Russo and how he’d come up with the idea the night before and performed research to support the argument. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of Victor watching that guy carry Albert out of that courtroom. To be honest, I was surprised Barnes let me do it.”

“Please,” Lou said. “Franklin Jefferson Barnes lives for stuff like this. He’s got an ego as big as his gut, and you made him the star attraction at the party. Trust me, no matter what he looked or sounded like in court, the only thing Barnes likes better than telling a good story is when he’s in it. And he’ll be telling this one long into his retirement. He won’t forget it. Neither will you.”

Lou straightened and started for the door, but he paused at the threshold and turned back. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing meaty forearms. Though nearing seventy, Lou had maintained much of the stocky build that made him an All-City high school football player back in the day when running backs were still called wing backs. The notable exception was an expanded waistline from a healthy love of Italian food. “I know this hasn’t been exactly the practice you had in mind—”

“Lou, I’ve told you before, I’m grateful for the job.”

Not to be deterred, Lou continued. “Your day will come, Peter. And when it does, you’ll be ready because of days like today. There’s no experience like standing up in court before a judge or a jury and letting your ass hang in the wind. You don’t get that experience sitting in a law firm library performing research and drafting interrogatories for six years.”

“Let’s hope I don’t die from overexposure,” Donley said. Just three years out of law school, he’d already had seventeen jury trials and numerous bench trials.

Lou laughed. “Your Aunt Sarah made calzone. You want to join us?”

“Thanks, but Kim usually needs a break from Benny about this time,” he said, referring to his wife and two-year-old son.

Lou left the office with a skip in his step, whistling a tune Donley also knew he’d not soon forget.

Chapter 2

Father Thomas Martin prayed for bad weather the way some people prayed to win the lottery. Tonight it looked as though his prayers would be answered. Dark clouds advanced across an indigo night sky, and gusts of wind rattled the glass panes in his office and whistled through the putty-filled cracks in the hundred-year-old wood sash.

Bad weather was good for business at his Tenderloin boys’ shelter. He had no empirical data to support his theory, but in the few months since he’d opened for business, he’d noticed a definite correlation between bad weather and the number of boys who chose his shelter over sleeping on San Francisco’s streets.

He counted eight entries on the log-in sheet, then drew a line through the name of Andrew Bennet, who’d checked in but left unexpectedly. Seven boys. Father Thomas always hoped for more, but he tried not to get discouraged. He knew it would take time to build the boys’ trust. They considered anyone over thirty either an agent of the police department or associated with social services. With that thought, Father Martin placed the log-in sheet within the pages of his Bible, shoved it into the top right-hand drawer of his army-green metal desk, and locked the drawer. He quickly pushed back his chair and checked his watch. He was late locking the front door. He could stall only so long. Rules were important at the shelter. He didn’t want it to become a midnight crash house. The goal was to get the boys off the street before they sold themselves or did drugs.

He stepped into the hall. The front door was at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Halfway down the hall, however, he turned 180 degrees, like a pitcher lifting his leg and spinning to fake a pickoff move to second base. He walked instead to the dormitory at the other end of the hall. He’d check on the new boy. Then he’d lock the door.