Had this case gone to the grand jury in the normal way, after an investigation by an assigned police officer, service of the warrant would have been assigned to that officer, in this case Inspector Sergeant Abraham Glitsky. But Glitsky, along with the rest of Homicide, was unaware of Peter Struler’s work on behalf of the D.A.‘s office. So the service was assigned to Marcel Lanier, who was lounging around the office waiting for something to happen.
Judge Fowler had weathered a cyclone of vitriol and criticism, gossip and embarrassment, but, like all storms, this one had passed. The reprimand he received from the Ethics Committee, due to his long and distinguished career stopped far short of having teeth, and the Bar Association told him that had the May Shinn trial gone on, it would have seriously considered suspension or even disbarment. But in the end, three months later, he was back in the business of the law with a spacious corner office at Embarcadero One – a partner in the firm of Strand, Worke & Luzinski.
When Wanda buzzed him and told him Officer Marcel Lanier was waiting to see him he said of course, he knew Marcel, send him on in. Fowler hadn’t been completely ostracized at the Hall – a lot of the attorneys and staff saw his side of things, the human side. His colleagues on the bench were less understanding but he’d expected that. There was nothing he could do about it.
To the cops, the Shinn fiasco had been the district attorney’s screwup, not Fowler’s; it hadn’t gone down as a loss for the police department, except for the false arrest, but the grand-jury indictment had de facto corroborated Glitsky’s judgment anyway, so even that wasn’t an issue.
Fowler came around his desk and extended his hand to Lanier. ‘How are you doing, Marcel? Social call? How can I help you?’
Lanier remained standing. ‘No… not a social call, Judge.’
‘Andy, please.’
‘Judge.’ He took the warrant out of his coat pocket, ‘I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve got a warrant here for your arrest.’
‘For my arrest?’
That’s right, sir.‘
Andy tried to smile. Marcel Lanier wasn’t smiling. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘No, sir. The grand jury issued an indictment against you this morning on the murder of Owen Nash.’
Fowler found he needed to put his weight back against the corner of his desk. ‘The grand jury,’ he repeated. He had gone pale, poleaxed. ‘Owen Nash?’
Lanier stood mute.
Wanda was buzzing again, and Fowler punched the intercom button. ‘It’s your daughter, Judge. Lunch.’
‘Just hold her a second -’
But Jane had already opened the door. ‘Hi, Dad. Oops, sorry. Wanda didn’t say you had a meeting.’ Seeing him so pale, she stopped. ‘Dad? What’s going on?’
‘Jane, hon, why don’t you wait outside a minute?’
‘Are you all right? What’s happening?’
‘I’m fine. Scoot, now. Go.’
The door closed behind her reluctant retreat. ‘This is ridiculous, Marcel. It’s Locke, isn’t it? Payback time.’
‘All I know, sir, is I’ve got to bring you in.’
‘Sure, I know, I understand, of course. It’s not you. What in the world do they think they have?’
‘Sir, I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent, and anything you do say…’
‘Marcel, please,’ Fowler said, holding up a hand. ‘You have my word I won’t plead Miranda.’
‘It’s got to be pure harassment. Locke swore a thousand times he’d crucify me. Now he thinks he’s got the chance.’
The crumbs of a hero sandwich littered David Freeman’s desk. The last few bites had been interrupted by Andy Fowler’s telephone call from the Hall of Justice. Fowler hadn’t spoken to him since he’d refused to challenge his department that day last July in the May Shinn matter, but now, in trouble himself, he had called again.
What Fowler was saying made little sense to Freeman. Christopher Locke might in fact hate Fowler’s guts, but he wasn’t going to take another hit being wrong on a high-profile murder like Owen Nash. They must have found some real evidence. And Freeman knew Fowler had more motive to kill Owen Nash than had ever been even imputed to May Shinn.
‘Listen, Andy, I’m not sure I can take this one.’
‘What do you mean you’re not sure? What would be the problem?’
‘Well, two come to mind. I’m not saying no just yet, Andy, but I’m going to have to consider it. Number one, I’m still representing May Shinn in some civil work. I’d want to avoid the appearance of any conflict there.’
‘I can’t see how that would apply, David. May and I are totally separate.’
‘Yes. Well, the other one is our collusion…’
‘Collusion?’
‘That’s what it was, Andy, so damn close to conspiracy I still get nightmares. And I believe you know it.’
‘There was absolutely nothing illegal about that relationship and you know it.’
‘Well, be that as it may, I’m having a little trouble envisioning the two of us together at a defense table and getting anything like reasonable treatment from the bench.’
‘So we’ll file for change of venue.’
Freeman leaned back in his chair and took another bite of his sandwich. Again, he didn’t agree with Andy. Change of venue was called for when you didn’t think you could get a fair trial in a certain locality because of pretrial media coverage or other excessive public awareness of the purported facts in a case. But it presumed that the prejudice you’d encounter would be on the jury.
What Fowler was ignoring, and what Freeman knew to be true, was that there wasn’t a judge in the state, perhaps in the country, who didn’t know what he’d done, and wouldn’t be prejudiced against him for it. He was this year’s legal Benedict Arnold.
Any judge of Freeman’s acquaintance, and he knew most of them, would be far tougher on one of their own – on an Andy Fowler – than they would on other miscreants, all other things being equal. Andy Fowler had, in their official view, befouled their collective cave, and David Freeman understood that. It would be this side of a miracle if Fowler could get a fair trial anywhere, and with Freeman, his colluder, beside him, the chances became more remote.
‘Venue is an issue all right, Andy. But I’ll really have to give this some consideration.’
‘Meanwhile, David, what do you recommend?’ Freeman was surprised to hear the note of anger in the judge’s voice. There was nothing personal here, and Fowler must know that.
‘I could recommend an interim counsel, Andy. Several, in fact. What did they set bail at?’
Fowler clipped it. ‘There’s no bail on the bench warrant. They want to be sure I’m here for the arraignment. Look, David, my two minutes are about up and I need some representation here.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Freeman put down the receiver and popped the last bite of his sandwich. There must be something in the San Francisco air, he thought. Dry salami, mortadella, sourdough bread. Any food that sat and fermented picked up something from it, some essence, that enhanced its flavor.
He put his feet up, chewing. He figured Fowler’s bail would be at least a million, if he got it at all. He could guarantee offhand that three judges out of the six on Superior Court would let the judge rot in jail just to express their displeasure. And it would all be impartial, impersonal, within the bounds of their prerogatives.
Institutionalized pettiness. Perfectly legal. The law was a many-splendored thing.
39
Jane Fowler walked into the Little Shamrock and back to the dart boards, where Dismas Hardy was playing for money. She let him finish his round, let him turn and see her. They hadn’t spoken in three months, since she’d yelled at him about forcing her father to retire. He hadn’t returned her phone calls – four of them altogether, one about every three weeks.