19th Christmas Page 7

  “What we’re going to do,” Russell said, “is stop at the Lands End Lookout off El Camino del Mar. Loman is going to meet us there, and you’ll go in his car with him. I’ll drive around for a little while, make sure I wasn’t followed, and then I’ll meet you at the restaurant. There’s our turnoff.”

  Russell turned left and drove toward a paved parking area flanked by trees and, ahead, the USS San Francisco Memorial. On the left was a breathtaking view of the Pacific, to the right, the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “I need a little help,” Russell said. He angled the car and backed it up so that the rear was against the parking barrier and the front was pointed toward the road. Lambert noticed that the weather had kept the tourists inside. The parking lot, usually busy, was empty.

  “Sure, Dick. What do you need?” Lambert asked.

  And now he noticed that Russell seemed edgy.

  “Everything okay?” Lambert asked.

  “I’ve got a ton of weapons in the trunk. They’re in duffel bags, so no worries. We’ll transfer them to Loman’s car, but let’s get them out now.”

  Russell pulled up on the trunk release and got out. Lambert climbed out of the passenger seat and, walking straight into the wind, reached the back of the car before the older man. He pulled up on the latch. The trunk lid sprang up.

  The cargo space was carpeted in black. Lambert saw a duffel bag, but it was flat; it didn’t seem like it held “a ton of weapons.” He leaned in and patted it.

  The bag was empty. Was he missing the obvious, or had Russell exaggerated?

  Lambert was straightening up to ask when he felt a jolt of fear.

  It was animal instinct, a realization that he’d read this game all wrong.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE MAN WHO had said that his name was Dick Russell fired a round into the back of Lambert’s neck.

  Lambert was dead when Russell pushed him into the open trunk. The gunman didn’t look it, but he was strong enough to easily fold Lambert’s body into the rear compartment without getting any blood on himself.

  He frisked the dead man for his wallet, took it from his back pocket, closed the trunk, then went through Lambert’s backpack, still in the front seat. Finding no other ID, he left the backpack and locked up the car. By now it would have been reported stolen, but it would be days before a car left here would be called in or even noticed.

  Standing at the rear of the Ford, the man in the old-geezer clothes tossed the car keys, the wallet, and the unregistered gun over the cliff, one after the other, and watched each one bounce down over the sharp rocks and land.

  Then he made a call with his burner phone.

  “Dick, where are you? … Good. I’m leaving the parking area now. I hope you brought my clothes. All right. See you soon.”

  The phone followed the wallet, gun, and keys over the edge almost two hundred feet down to the rocks above the crashing waves. After double-checking that no one was around the parking area, Loman started walking along the verge of El Camino del Mar.

  Only a few minutes had passed before a horn blew behind him and his black Escalade stopped. Russell reached across the front seat and opened the door for him.

  Loman got in.

  “Man, I’m wet. And hungry,” Loman said to his number two.

  “Clothes are in the back seat and I’ve got reservations,” Russell said. “Table with a hazy view.”

  “How’s it going from your end?” Loman asked.

  “Like clockwork,” said Russell.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said Loman.

  He grinned at Russell, who grinned back and stepped on the gas.

  CHAPTER 26

  CINDY WAS ALREADY hard at work in her home office at dawn, polishing the article about Christmas in San Francisco’s barrios.

  Her interviews with undocumented immigrants had left her feeling sad. There was nothing uplifting about people celebrating Christmas in the darkness, wondering if a slipup or a traffic stop could turn into a deportation. Was it even possible to keep cultural tradition alive when living in shadows that could stretch for decades?

  She attached a photo to her file, an image of a Christmas tree with a handmade papier-mâché manger underneath. She titled the piece “Feliz Navidad” and sent it to publisher and editor in chief Henry Tyler.

  Cindy drained her third mug of coffee and texted Yuki. Are we still on?

  Yuki responded, I’ll be at the office at eight. C u soon.

  Cindy closed her laptop and dressed, then nudged Richie and told him she was his requested wake-up call.

  He kissed her, tried to roll her into bed.

  “Can’t. Rain check. Love you.” She kissed his ear and fled.

  She drove through the misty morning toward the Hall of Justice along streets lined with lights and houses adorned with twinkling Christmas characters. They didn’t lift her mood at all, wired as she was about her meeting with Yuki.

  Twenty minutes after leaving home, Cindy tossed her keys to Brad, the parking attendant in the All-Day lot on Bryant. She shouted to him over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  She raced for the crosswalk, but as she reached the corner, she heard Brad calling her.

  “Ciiiiiiiindyyyy. You dropped this.”

  He held up her scarf. She trotted back, said, “Damn. Thanks, Brad,” and headed off again. Even after turning her ankle, she still made the green light.

  She jogged up the granite steps, cleared security, crossed the lobby, and got into the elevator, her mind still fixed on Eduardo Varela and his lovable wife, Maria. After Tyler had green-lighted the jailed-undocumented-immigrant story, Cindy had spent enough time with Maria that she was totally convinced of Eduardo’s innocence.

  But believing in someone’s innocence didn’t make a publishable story, and it wouldn’t spring him from jail, either.

  Yuki had offered to help even though, as a prosecutor, she couldn’t work the case herself. Yet in a couple of hours, Yuki would be visiting Eduardo in the jail where he had been detained for the past two years.

  Cindy couldn’t go with her, but Yuki would not be alone. She was bringing her old boss Zac Jordan, who worked at the not-for-profit Defense League. Zac was a do-gooding superstar with a Harvard law degree. He would decide if he wanted to take Eduardo’s case and defend him at trial.

  Cindy jerked her thoughts back to the present, exited the elevator, and opened the door to the DA’s suite. Although the office was officially closed for the holiday, the reception area was lit by a gooseneck lamp at the front desk and the blue-and-gold twinkling of the tree in the corner.

  She was about to phone Yuki when a man in a mail-room shirt entered reception through the side door and held it open for her to come through.

  Cindy headed along the main corridor and knocked on the frame of Yuki’s open door. Her friend looked up and said, “Come in, come in, Girl Reporter. Sit yourself down. We have to work pretty fast. Want coffee?”

  Cindy said, “No, thanks.” She was maximally caffeinated already.

  Yuki said, “You brought the papers?”

  Cindy opened her bag and put the folder in front of Yuki. Yuki flipped through the arrest record, police report, court transcript, and two witness statements, then transferred the folder to her own handbag.

  Cindy asked, “What have you got for me?”

  Yuki said, “There’s no central database for this, Cin. So I can’t get ahold of actual comprehensive data. The best I can do is give you the overview from thirty thousand feet.”

  “That’s fine, Yuki. Right now I know less than zilch.”

  CHAPTER 27

  CINDY SAT ACROSS from Yuki, her arms folded on the desk, looking at her friend with her trademark intensity.

  Yuki said, “You sure I can’t get you some coffee?”

  “Only if you want to see me levitate,” Cindy said.

  Yuki said, “Okay, then, Cindy, here are the basics. If you’re an undocumented immigrant—that is, living here with
out citizenship, green card, or visa—and you commit a crime of any kind, ICE can detain you.”

  Cindy nodded. She knew.

  Yuki went on. “Once you’re in custody, ICE decides whether or not to initiate removal proceedings. If you’re charged with a felony, ICE can deport you, or local or federal law enforcement can process you through the system. You know the drill: arraignment, then a bond, if you can get one, or else you stay in jail pending trial.”

  Cindy said, “Eduardo has been charged with murder and has been detained pending trial for two years.”

  “I hate to hear that,” Yuki said. “That really stinks.”

  “Doesn’t it, though,” Cindy said, clearly in full crusade mode. “And worse, according to his wife, the case against Eduardo is entirely based on false statements. He was framed.”

  “As you know, that’s why there are criminal defense attorneys.”

  Cindy said, “Apparently, Eduardo had a lawyer at one point, but not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Varelas don’t know. They can’t reach the guy. He doesn’t return their calls. They think he just took their money and ran.”

  Yuki sighed. “That’s crazy.”

  “Agreed,” said Cindy. “I don’t get the feeling that this has never happened before. I’m sure this isn’t the first time an immigrant has paid a lawyer and then been blown off. Can you give me an idea how many undocumented immigrants are overcharged or poorly defended?”

  Yuki said, “Hey, do I look like your research assistant?”

  Cindy laughed. “Sorry. I’m on a tight deadline.”

  Yuki said, “If this helps, you’re onto something. Even US citizens get improperly detained, and some are intimidated into waiving their rights or confessing when not guilty. Immigrants with no criminal record have been bused over the border and abandoned in wide-open spaces with no papers, no money.”

  Cindy nodded. “I read that, last year, eighty people who were detained in California died of injuries or untreated illnesses. And in the US, four hundred thousand people pass through detention every year.”

  “See, you don’t even need a research assistant,” Yuki said. “But your primary interest right now is Eduardo Varela.”

  “True.”

  “And why are you so convinced he’s innocent?” Yuki asked her friend.

  “I believe his wife. There’s that—and my solid-gold, award-winning gut instinct.”

  Yuki laughed. “Don’t go public with your gut-instinct opinion until Zac and I meet him, okay? Not all undocumented immigrants who are arrested are innocent.”

  “I know, but Eduardo only has a traffic violation and a fake ID on his record. He’s not a criminal.”

  “Did you hear me say I was going to help?”

  “Yes. Yuki, you are the best of the best.”

  Cindy got up, hugged her friend, and said, “I wish I could go with you.”

  There was a knock on the door frame, and they looked over to see a tall man standing there. Yuki said, “Zac, come in and meet Cindy. Cindy, Zac Jordan of the Defense League. From time to time, Zac’s been known to save the day.”

  “Great,” Cindy said. “Nice to meet you, Zac. I think today is a day worth saving. It’s almost Christmas, after all.”

  CHAPTER 28

  YUKI GOT INTO Zac’s old baby-blue BMW, and they took off toward County Jail #5 in San Bruno. She hadn’t seen him in a year, and she was struck by how much he’d changed. He had a pierced ear and a bunch of string bracelets, and he’d swapped his cords and camel hair for denim. His longish hair needed a cut.

  He saw her looking at his attire and smiled. “My day off,” he said.

  “You look younger,” she said, meaning it.

  The drive was a great opportunity for Yuki to catch up with her old friend. She told Zac about her most recent case. “I believed the victim, but he lied to me from the moment we met.”

  Zac commiserated and shared with her what he called his “extremely rotten year.” Not only had Zac lost more cases than he had won, but his wife had filed for a separation. Then Mike Stoddard, the mega rich donor who kept the Defense League’s lights on, had died at the age of fifty-two.

  “It was sudden,” Zac said. “Mike was such a good friend to us. I’ll miss him, and not just for the money. He kept me fighting the good fight.”

  “But surely he provided for the Defense League in his will?”

  “Nope. He just … never expected to have a massive coronary.”

  A few moments of silence ensued. Then Yuki said, “Zac? You okay? Will you be able to keep the Defense League going?”

  “I’m fine. Really. Enough about me, Yuki-san. Tell me more about Eduardo Varela.”

  Yuki was glad to get into it. According to Cindy, she explained, Eduardo was a hardworking undocumented immigrant with a family who had been arrested for going ten miles over the speed limit and driving with a fake license. Then he claimed that he’d been falsely charged with murder.

  “Eduardo’s friends and family would all testify that he’s innocent,” she said, “and now he’s got the indomitable Cindy Thomas of the San Francisco Chronicle on his side. If you take the case, his odds of acquittal zoom from ‘no frickin’ way’ to ‘maybe a shot.’”

  “Nice of you to say so,” Zac said. “We’ll have to see.”

  Of course, Zac was right to reserve judgment. He was a good-as-gold person, a terrific lawyer and a busy one, but she had taken a chance asking him to look into this sad and likely hopeless case a couple of days before Christmas. Her pitch to Zac was based only on Cindy’s enthusiasm and gut instinct. Of course, in Yuki’s humble opinion, Cindy was right about 90 percent of the time. She was an investigative reporter. Her instinct was always supported by research.

  Maria Varela had given Cindy a fat packet of letters from Eduardo along with gigabytes of family photos. Cindy had met their kids, individually and privately. She had also paid a call on Eduardo’s employer at the Stop ’n’ Shop gas station and convenience store where he had worked for years.

  This was a small sample, but according to Cindy, they were all on Team Eduardo and of the same mind. Eduardo could never have shot anyone.

  Cindy was sold. And despite Yuki’s lawyerly reservations, she was on the Varela train and looking to get Zac on it, too.

  A half hour after leaving the Hall, Zac and Yuki cleared the security systems at San Bruno and were brought to a small interview room. They had just taken seats when the door opened again and two jail guards escorted an unchained forty-eight-year-old Mexican in an orange jumpsuit and flip-flops into the room.

  Judging from his blackened eyes, swollen nose, and stitches above his right eyebrow, Yuki surmised he’d recently taken a beating.

  Yuki introduced herself and Zac and explained who they were and why they had come.

  “You’re a Christmas gift from my wife,” Varela said, shaking his head, “I swear to God.” Then, to Zac, “But if you’re going to be my lawyer—I have no money.”

  Zac said, “I’ll decide if I’m taking your case after we talk, Mr. Varela.”

  “Eduardo. Please.”

  “Eduardo,” said Zac. “We’ve got only fifteen minutes. Tell me about the murder.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “I DIDN’T KILL that guy. I didn’t kill anyone,” Varela told Yuki and attorney Zac Jordan.

  He looked anguished, defeated. Two years in a maximum-security jail would have that effect on anyone. Double that if he was innocent.

  “Do you know who did kill him?” Yuki asked.

  “It was one of the three damned gangsters who put it on me,” said Varela. “Their names are in my file. Pablo Esteban, Miguel Perez, Antonio Vasquez. Gangsters on our street. They told the cops it was me.”

  Zac asked him to start at the beginning. Eduardo nodded and collected himself.

  He said, “I had three jobs. On the weekdays I kept the auto-body repair shop clean, then at night, I worked at the Stop ’n’ Shop ga
s station and convenience store. I did house painting on the weekend. This happened on a Wednesday night.”

  Zac nodded. Go ahead.

  Varela said that he had left his day job at the auto-repair shop and gone home to wash up. He had dinner with his wife and kids. Then he walked to his car, reclined the seat back, and took a nap before to driving to his night job.

  “I heard a bang,” said Varela. “I was still in my dreams. Did someone hit a car with a pipe? But then another bang. Then two more.”

  He was breathing heavily now.

  “I think, What’s happening? I sit up and look out. A man is lying in the street up near the corner. I get out to see, and three thugs I know from the neighborhood see me—and run very fast up the street. Like the devil was chasing them.”

  Varela looked panicky as he said, “I go over to the man lying in the street. It’s dark. He is facedown in his blood. The back of his head—gone. I see his brains.” He tapped the back of his head to indicate where the man had been shot. “I think maybe I should call for help, but he’s dead. I don’t want to talk to the police. Maybe they take me in. I have a family. I can’t go to jail. So I go to work.”

  He lowered his head and shook it: No, no, no.

  “Police come to the Stop ’n’ Shop and arrest me. They tell me the three gangsters—”

  “They used that word, gangsters?” Zac asked.

  “They say men called the police and gave my name as the killer. The policemen drive me to the station. They take my fingerprints and my picture and fill out forms and ask me, ‘Where is the gun?’ I tell them, ‘I don’t have a gun. I never have a gun.’

  “They ask me the same questions all night. They tell me that the dead man is my neighbor. First time I knew.”

  “Did they tell you you had a right to have a lawyer?” Zac asked.

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Did you waive your rights?”

  “I don’t know. I answer all the questions they ask. They tell me the dead man is Gordon Perez. I do know him. He lives across the street. We had arguments about where we park our cars. It was never anything. Some shouting. But no fights, understand? So I tell them that. After all night of this, they put me in a cell.”