I slid him copies from the case file: letters on his professional stationery, signed by him.
He smiled but didn’t look at the page. “My eyesight isn’t what it once was.”
“The petitioner’s name was Elvira Dela Cruz. You were her lawyer, too.”
“I’ve been in practice for fifty-six years. Do you know how many clients I’ve represented?”
“You introduced Ms. Dela Cruz to William Arenhold and encouraged her to invest with him. Is that what you did for Mrs. Salvador?”
“I’m not qualified to make such recommendations.”
“You’re not qualified to practice law, either, but that’s not stopping you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were disbarred,” I said. “Eight years ago.”
Pineda laughed. “Chris is getting his money’s worth with you, isn’t he.”
“What you’re doing is punishable by a fine of up to a thousand dollars and up to one year in jail.”
“Nobody goes to jail. They pay the fine.”
“How do you think your other clients would feel if they found out?”
“They don’t care. They only want me to write angry letters to Comcast.”
“Should we start again?”
He sighed and gestured go ahead.
“Did you advise Marisol Santos Salvador to purchase property in Swann’s Flat?”
“I am always concerned about my clients’ welfare.”
“Is that a yes?”
“I may have. It was a long time ago.”
“Did you introduce her to William Arenhold?”
“I may have.”
“How many other clients did you introduce to Arenhold?”
“I can’t recall the specifics.”
“When Mrs. Salvador bought her property, did you receive a finder’s fee?”
“I worked for Bill on retainer.”
“What about the monthly payments? Did you receive a cut of those?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Were you aware that Mrs. Salvador was writing checks up until her death?”
“I urged her to sell. More than once.”
“I thought you didn’t give financial advice.”
“I was speaking as a friend,” he said.
“Is that how you’d characterize your relationship with her?”
“Young man, you watch your mouth, please.”
“Why didn’t she listen to you and sell?”
He shrugged. “The ways of women are inscrutable.”
“What’s Swann’s Flat Resort Area?”
“As I said, it’s been a long time, but I seem to recall they were in charge of maintaining the grounds. Grooming trails, things of that nature.”
“That’s what she was paying a hundred thirty-five bucks a month for? Trail grooming?”
“They don’t groom themselves.”
“What’s at the address? Is it a house? Acreage?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I’ve never been there.”
“I’m going to ask you again. How many people did you introduce to Arenhold?”
“My answer is the same. I don’t recall.”
“How did you meet Arenhold?”
“He was an accountant. I hired him as an expert witness on a case and we got to be friendly. Eventually he required representation of his own.”
“He had you on retainer,” I said. “You must have been doing a lot of work for him.”
“He was a busy man, with many business interests.”
“Do you still work for him?”
A flicker in the eyes.
“Unfortunately not,” he said.
You gave my girl quite a turn.
I’d taken Pineda to mean that I’d startled her by raising my voice. But it wasn’t the shout she’d reacted to; it was the name. William C. Arenhold sent me.
“He’s dead,” I said.
“Unfortunately.”
“Since when?”
“About twenty years ago.”
“How?”
“He was crossing the street and got hit by a car.”
“Any context you’d like to add? Before you answer, I was a sheriff-coroner. I can look it up. But you’d be saving me some time.”
“You’re a little young for an ex-cop, no?”
The door opened and the receptionist put her head in. “Mr. Abayon is here.”
“I’ll be right with him,” Pineda said. He stood up. “My clients need me. Best of luck.”
Out in the waiting room, an older Filipino man in orthotic shoes leaned on a four-footed cane, clutching papers in one trembling hand.
Pineda flashed teeth. “Manuel! Good to see you, my friend. Please.”
The older man moved past me with a hopeful, easy smile.
Back at my desk, I studied up on the late William Collins Arenhold.
Like Marisol Santos Salvador, he had possessed neither a watercraft nor pilot’s license.
That was the extent of their overlap. His history included two bankruptcies, two DUIs, and a drunk in public. He’d spent most of his adult life in San Francisco and at the time of his death was residing in Potrero Hill with his wife, Pamela, and their teenage daughter.
A friend at the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s office emailed me a copy of their report. On the afternoon of September 6, 2007, Arenhold left his apartment for a business meeting at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. Pamela told the investigator that she didn’t know who the meeting was with or what it concerned. A server at the hotel bar recalled waiting on Arenhold and another gentleman of about the same age; they ordered a screwdriver and a glass of bourbon, respectively. The server did not recall hearing them argue, but when she came to the table to check on them, she found both men gone and a pair of twenties trapped under a glass.
After leaving the hotel, Arenhold had stopped at a Starbucks on the corner of Powell and O’Farrell to purchase a cup of coffee. He then walked two and a half blocks south to Market Street, where he stepped off the curb and into the path of an oncoming Muni bus.
His death was ruled an accident.
Having read — and written — thousands of similar reports, I sensed the ambiguity hiding in a plainspoken narrative. The investigator noted that Arenhold was under considerable strain, facing multiple lawsuits and the possibility of a third bankruptcy.
But the stigma of suicide is so severe and scarring for next of kin — as one of my former colleagues says, it taints the family tree — that some coroners will do everything they can to avoid the ruling, absent conclusive physical evidence or clear indication of intent.
Arenhold had not left a note.
He was struck while crossing a busy street.
The bus driver stated that he had no time to honk.
It happened so fast.
For her part, Pam Arenhold was adamant her husband would not have taken his own life.
Why would he buy coffee if he meant to... That doesn’t make any sense. That’s silly.
I looked her up. She was sixty-seven years old, currently residing in La Jolla.
I called her.
Someone answered on the first ring but didn’t speak.
“Hello?” I said.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Pamela Arenhold.”
“Yes?”
“Is this Mrs. Arenhold?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mrs. Arenhold, sorry to disturb you like this—”
“No, it’s wonderful to hear your voice.”
“Um... thank you. Would you be willing to talk to me about your late husband William?”
“Who?”
“William Arenhold.”
“He’s my Billy boy,” she said.
“Pam, what do you remember about Billy’s job?”
“He’s a rascal. My Billy boy.”
“Did he ever mention people he worked with, or things he was working on?”