Steven Gore - A Criminal Defense

Janie appeared in the doorway and came toward him.

“How much did you hear?” Janie asked.

“Did she know I was listening?”

“I don’t know. She knew you were in the office, but over her crying I’m not sure she could tell when you arrived.”

“So it all could’ve been a performance?”

“I don’t think so. What you heard was the second time through, a more chronological account. She’d already done a scattershot of bits and pieces.”

She dropped onto the couch.

“I didn’t expect it. At least not this way. Not after she ran away last time. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Needed just to let it out. It blew me away.” She released a breath. “She felt all this pressure building up from you being here all the time. I think I was partly a proxy for you. She won’t ever admit it, but I think she wanted you to hear what she was saying.”

Janie leaned back and closed her eyes for a few moments, then opened them and said, “She’d come to hate Hamlin. Really hate him. I got the feeling that what her father had done to her sexually, Hamlin had done to her intellectually and emotionally, and she didn’t recognize it as abuse until way, way, way too late.”

Ijust got a heads-up the feds have a wiretap on Camacho and all his people,” Navarro told Donnally in a late night call. “Our narcotics task force is staffing the wire room and doing some of the surveillances.”

Donnally covered the speaker and whispered, “Navarro” to Janie across the kitchen table. She set her spoon and chopsticks down alongside her takeout beef noodle soup.

“You mean the DEA thinks Camacho is double dealing?”

“No. The cooperation deal requires that he roll down on everybody in his own organization. He handed over the names, cell numbers, drop spots, and where they lay their heads. The intercepts and surveillances are to develop enough other evidence so the government doesn’t need to use him as a witness-that’s the good news.”

“And I take it the bad news is that if he thinks his calls with these guys are being intercepted, there won’t be anything on the tapes about doing Hamlin in.”

Donnally heard brakes squeal in the background and then Navarro mumbling.

“It’s pretty late,” Donnally said. “Must be ten o’clock. You driving home?”

“No. Your place. There’s other good news. A deal is going down late tonight and they hope to snag both Camacho’s guy-Chino-and the buyer.”

“Will they give us the first shot at him?”

Navarro laughed. “I told them if they did, they might be able to take down some criminal defense lawyers. Chino’s all ours.”

Donnally thought about Ryvver’s mother and whether she was still parked on the street in front watching the house.

“How about circle the block before you land here,” Donnally said. “Check to see if Leslie Scoville is out there or whether she’s given up for the night.”

“Hold on, I’m just turning off Geary. If she’s there, do you want me to have a patrol officer chase her off? People out here are always worried about their kids being kidnapped. We can tell her we got a call about somebody loitering.”

Donnally thought for a moment. Mother Two would know she didn’t fit the profile, so she’d figure it was a pretext to ID her or to allow Donnally to break free.

“No,” Donnally said. “If she’s there, I’ll go over the back fence and meet you on the other side of the block.”

As it turned out, Donnally didn’t need to. She was gone. But then he realized he’d missed an opportunity. He should’ve had her followed. Maybe she’d find Ryvver on her own and lead him to her.

As he slid into Navarro’s car, Donnally heard a voice announce over the two-way radio, “He’s on Mission, turning right on Ninth Street, toward Market.”

Navarro flicked on his overheads and shot through intersections until he reached Balboa, then hung a left toward downtown. Donnally knew why he picked the street. There were few stop signs and fewer lights.

“What’s Chino driving?” Donnally asked.

“A silver Escalade.”

The voice again. “He’s crossed Market Street.”

Navarro slowed at the next intersection, backed off a driver who tried to shoot across in front of him, and punched the accelerator.

“Left on Hayes.”

Another intersection. Navarro blew past the stop sign.

“He’s pulled over, checking for surveillance. We’ll pass him by. Chuck and Freddie take over. We’ll drop down and parallel him on Fell Street.”

Pole-lit intersections and neon-blasting storefronts passed them by like they were tumbling down a kaleidoscope.

A different voice. “He’s moving again. Right on Webster. . left on Fell. Watch out. He may spot you.”

Navarro turned right on the steep Masonic Avenue, nose down toward where Fell bordered the north side of the Golden Gate Park Panhandle.

The original voice. “He’s about sixty yards ahead of us. . Shit. He’s pulling over again. We’re trapped. No place to stop. He’s gonna make us.”

Donnally pointed at the Chevron station on the opposite side of Masonic. Navarro cut across two lanes of traffic, pulled in, and turned off his lights.

The second voice. “Forget the deal and the money. Let’s just grab him and the dope.”

A jumble of voices and sirens blared from the radio.

“Fell at Broderick. . Fell at Baker. . Fell at Lyon. . Fell at Central.”

Navarro flipped on his lights and siren and eased into the intersection. Donnally could see patrol overheads coming toward them on the one-way street; leading the pack was the silver Escalade, jerking and swerving into the lanes to his left and right. Donnally imagined Chino both trying to watch the road and trying to reach for the cocaine and throw it out the window. And moments later Donnally saw flashes of light on plastic as kilos arced from the truck and bounced along the pavement and then puffs of white as they exploded and fogged the street.

Navarro angled his car, forcing the Escalade into the far lane, but he didn’t leave enough room for the SUV to get by. Just before it would’ve hit, Navarro shifted into reverse and backed out of the way, but too late for Chino to react. He scraped door-to-door with vehicles parked along the curb until his front bumper caught the rear deck of a delivery van, spun tail first, then slid to a stop.

Chino pushed off from the driver’s side like a football lineman, head down into a sprint toward the Panhandle. Donnally had his door open by the time Chino had cut between two cars and was crossing the sidewalk, trying to get beyond the reach of the streetlight and into the darkness of bushes and trees.

Donnally heard Navarro broadcasting the route. Siren wails enclosed him like a tornado of sound as he started after Chino. Cutting between the same cars, voices yelling behind him, surveillance cars accelerating again to cut through the park and intercept Chino on the other side.

The slap and squish of boots on wet grass led Donnally into the shadow between the trees. His front foot hit a lump and his leg went out from under him. A shock of pain tore into his hip. He fell onto his back, his breath blown out of him. He rolled over and onto the leather jacket he’d slipped on. He guessed it was Chino’s and that he’d tossed it aside to change his appearance for when he emerged from the park. Donnally grabbed it and pushed himself to his feet and ran toward the sound of distant sirens-then a thunk and a yell twenty yards ahead. He spotted Chino on his knees reaching up toward a low oak branch to pull himself up. Donnally accelerated and dived, driving a forearm into Chino’s side, ramming him into the trunk. Then footsteps from behind him and hands grabbing and cops yelling, “Got ’em, got ’em, got ’em.”