THE CAST

All descriptions are excerpts from Special Circumstances
© 2001 Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

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The Narrator and Criminal Defense Attorney:

Michael J. Daley.45; criminal defense attorney; divorced; San Francisco native; son of a San Francisco cop; former public defender and priest; formerly married to Rosita Fernandez; one six-year-old daughter (Grace).

After my five years as an under productive partner at Simpson & Gates, our executive committee asked me to leave.  I was, in short, fired.  Although the request was polite, I was told that if I didn't leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven of our partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that 'A Partner of the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote of two-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and held meeting of the Partners of the Firm.'  In the last three years, fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened.  On Monday, I'll open the law offices of Michael J. Daley, Criminal Defense Attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-up building in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco's South of Market area.  Welcome to the modern practice of law.

The Prosecutor:

Prentice Marshall Gates III ("Skipper").  58; San Francisco District Attorney; son of founding partner of Simpson & Gates law firm; former partner of Michael Daley.

Skipper's story is a little different.  After thirty years as an under productive partner in our real-estate department, he spent three million dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win a mean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even though he hasn't set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years.  My partners are thrilled.  They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppy work and condescending attitude.  Hell, the same could be said about most of my partners.  What they can't live with is his four-hundred thousand-dollar draw.  He has been living off his father's reputation for years.  That's why all the power partners are here.  They want to give him a big send-off.  More importantly, they want to be sure he doesn't change his mind.

At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled out of solid rock, with a Roman nose, high forehead and graceful mane of silver hair.  His charcoal-gray doubled-breasted Brioni suit, Egyptian-cotton white shirt and striped tie add dignity to his rugged features.  He looks like he is ready to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to George Washington.

As an attorney, he's careless, lazy and unimaginative.  As a human being, he's greedy, condescending and an unapologetic philanderer.  As a politician, however, he's the real deal.  Even when he's half tanked and there's a piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudes charisma, wealth and, above all, style.  It must be some sort of birth right of those born into privilege.

J. Robert Holmes, Jr. ("Bob").  48; mergers and acquisitions partner, Simpson & Gates law firm; married to Beth Holmes.

In every law firm, there's one individual with a huge book of business and an even bigger ego whose sole purpose is to make everyone else miserable.  Bob is our resident nine-hundred pound gorilla.  His eight-million-dollar book of business lets him do pretty much whatever he wants.  For the most part, he's content to sit on our executive committee, torture his associates and whine.  Last year he took home a million three hundred thousand.  Not bad for a short kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Wilkes-Barre.  Although my partners find it difficult to agree on anything, they're willing to acknowledge that Bob is a flaming asshole.

Whenever a big deal is coming down at S&G, the Power Conference Room is the stage and Bob plays the lead.  At the moment, he's screaming into a cellular phone.  He hasn't slept in three days, and it shows.  He's in his late forties, but with his five-seven frame holding 230 pounds, his puffy red face and jowls make him look at least sixty.  Although some of us remember when his hair was gray, it's now dyed an unnatural shade of orange-brown that he combs over an expanding bald spot.  On his best days, he storms through our office with a pained expression suggesting he's battling a perpetual case of hemorrhoids.  Tonight the grimace is even more pronounced.

Diana Kennedy. 29; corporate associate, Simpson & Gates.

He glances at Diana Kennedy, a glamorous twenty-nine-year-old associate with deep blue eyes, stylish blond hair and a beautiful figure that reflects a lot of time at the gym. She's the only person in the room who looks presentable.  She always does.  She's a rising star.

The Accused:

Joel Friedman.  38; corporate associate, Simpson & Gates; son of Rabbi Neil Friedman; husband of Naomi Friedman; father of twin sons.

Joel is sort of a Jewish Ward Cleaver.  He's an excellent attorney with a terrific wife and twin six-year-old boys.  He's thirty-eight, a trim five-nine.  His father is the rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom in the Richmond District.  Joel left the yeshiva after two years and went to my alma mater, UC Berkeley's Boalt Law School  He graduated second in his class and joined S&G seven years ago.  His brown hair is graying, the bald spot he tries to hide is getting larger and his tortoiseshell glasses give him a rabbinical look which, in the circumstances, is entirely appropriate.  In Yiddish, he would be described as a mensch, which means an honorable man.  He's also my best friend.

The Defense Team:

Rosita Fernandez ("Rosie").  41; co-defense counsel; Mike's ex-wife; former San Francisco public defender.

"Que pasa, Miguel?  You all right?"  My ex-wife, Rosita Carmela Fernandez, doesn't speak Spanish, except to me.  "I heard it on the radio."  She grew up in the Hispanic enclave in the Mission District.  Her dad was a carpenter.  Her mom babysits Grace whenever Rosie's in trial.  Rosie was the first member of her family to go to college.  She worked her way through San Francisco State and Hastings law school.  We used to work together at the PD's office.  We were married for about three years.  We were a lot better at trying cases than we were at being married.

"I'm fine, Rosie,"

"Good.  I was worried my new tenant wasn't going to move in."

That was part of the problem when we were married.  Among other things, Rosie is good at keeping track of money.  I'm not.  She's also very organized.  Let's just say I'm more flexible.  It used to drive her nuts.  We got along great right until the time we got married.  Then all of my faults came to light.  After a couple of years of ceaseless sniping, we finally split up.  It was right after Grace turned one.  Once the divorce messiness was really over, we started getting along a lot better.  Go figure.

It was much more fun when we were first dating and we didn't worry about rent, car payments and, later, diapers.  We had started going out when we worked at the PD's office.  Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage.  I was coming off a long-term relationship with a law school classmate.  We found each other on the rebound.  I think she liked me because I'm funny.  I liked her because she was direct.  And Lord knows, we knew each other's work schedules.

Peter Daley ("Pete").  38; private investigator; former San Francisco cop; Mike's brother; specializes in finding unfaithful husbands.

My phone keeps ringing.  My younger brother, Pete, a former San Francisco cop who works as a private investigator, gets through on the first try.  "You okay, Mike?  I heard it on the box."

"I'm fine."

"You talked to Ma?"

"Yeah.  Told her I'm okay.  Mind giving her a call?  She'll feel better if she hears from you."

"No problem, Mick.  Gotta go.  I'm working.  I'll see you this weekend."

I pity the poor unfaithful husband he's tailing.  What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in tenacity.

Morton R. Goldberg ("Mort the Sport").  63; co-defense counsel; over-the-hill criminal defense attorney; Rabbi Friedman's hand-picked person to assist Mike; a plea bargain specialist.

Mort Goldberg.  Mort the Sport.  Smart.  Shrewd.  Well connected in the Jewish community.  In his day, he was one of the more successful criminal-defense lawyers in town.  He taught criminal procedure and evidence at Hastings for a few years.  Unfortunately, his day ended about twenty years ago.  These days, he spends most of his time cutting deals on drunk-driving cases.

Wendy Hogan.   38; part-time tax attorney at Simpson & Gates; divorced; six-year-old son; knowledgeable about foreign trusts and other tax shelters.

Wendy and her husband split up a couple of years ago.  She went through the mother of all custody battles.  I can relate.  She keeps her sad brown eyes hidden behind large wire-rimmed glasses.  Her frizzy hair and mousy demeanor belie the fact that she's an absolute terror in negotiations with the IRS.  I like her. We divorced, recovering Catholics have a lot in common.  And S&G has treated her like shit for the past five years.  Someday, I'm going to summon the courage to ask her out.  She's a little gun-shy around men these days.

William McNulty ("McNasty").  48; experienced district attorney assigned to assist with the prosecution.

Sitting quietly in one of the overstuffed chairs and observing this banal exchange is a trim, middle-aged man with short gray hair and thick glasses.  Bill McNulty, the ADA in charge of homicide cases, is a native San Franciscan and a career prosecutor.  He thought his number had come up last year for the DA job.  There were only two problems.  First, there isn't a single ounce of charisma anywhere in Bill's body.  Put him in front of a TV camera and he makes Richard Nixon look photogenic.   Second, Skipper tossed his hat into the ring and outspent Bill by about ten to tone.  Skipper annihilated him in the election in a vicious negative campaign.  For twenty-six years, McNulty has been on a mission from God to put the bad guys away.  He's good at it.  What he lacks in charm, he makes up for by being careful, hard-nosed and meticulous.  He has a reputation as a fighter and his nickname around the Hall is Bill McNasty.

Roosevelt Johnson.  64; senior homicide inspector, SFPD.

He's a legend.  He and his partner, Marcus Banks, are the SFPD's most senior homicide team.  They handle all the high-profile cases.

Marcus Banks.  58; senior homicide inspector; SFPD.

"Marcus is a good cop.  Sometimes he doesn't handle things the way I would.  He's kept his nose clean the last few years."

Dr. Roderick Beckert. 64; Chief Medical Examiner of the City and County of San Francisco. 

A stout sixty-two year-old with a huge bald head and black-framed glasses, Dr. Roderick Beckert is the dean of big-city coroners.  And he knows it.  And he'll tell you so.  I wouldn't dream of addressing him other than as Dr. Beckert.  Then again, he'd never call me Mike.  He has been chief medical examiner for almost thirty years.   His textbook on autopsy procedures for victims of violent crimes is a seminal work.  He is very good at what he does.

Sandra Wilson.  38; Criminalist, SFPD.

Sandra Wilson is the best field-evidence technician, or FET, in the SFPD.  She gathers evidence at crime scenes.  Now in her late thirties, this articulate black woman may be the ideal prosecution witness--the voice of authority combined with the tone of reason.  Her office reflects her meticulous approach.  Her pens and paper clips are lined up neatly in front of a small picture of her husband.  There's a picture of a toddler on the top of her computer. No pictures on the walls, although her diploma from UCLA is on display.  Her short black hair and dark brown skin frame intense eyes.  Her sensible clothing isn't accessorized.  Her husband is a cop.  They aren't rolling in extra cash.

Arthur R. Patton IV.  62; chairman, Simpson & Gates Executive Committee; commercial litigator; formerly married to Beth Holmes.

Patton's huge bald head, Nixon-like jowls and Brezhnev-like eyebrows overwhelm the rest of his tiny face.  His red suspenders strain to hold his ample gut.  At sixty-two, his gravel baritone is commanding, but its forcefulness has been tempered by forty years of cigars and single-malt scotch.  At times, he's capable of playing the role of the genial grandfather.  Last year, he was Santa at our Christmas party.  The next day, he fired his secretary because there was one typo in an eighty-page brief.  That's part of his charm.  On any given day, you never know if you'll get the puppy or the pit bull.

In law-firm-lingo, he handles complex civil litigation.  Of course, I've never met a lawyer who admits he handles litigation that's anything less than "complex."  In reality, he represents defense contractors who get sued when their bombers don't fly.  To Art, every case is a holy war of attrition.  He showers the other side with paper.  Fortunately, his clients have the resources to wear down their opponents.  He responds to every letter with his own version that rearranges the facts in his favor.  He follows up every phone call with a letter that bears only passing resemblance to the matters that were discussed.  Around the firm, he's known as the Smiling Assassin.  He's one mean son of a bitch.

Charles Stern ("Chuckles").  55; Simpson & Gates Administrative Partner; tax attorney.

For the last ten years, Charles Stern has held the boring, thankless job of serving as the administrative partner of Simpson & Gates, a position for which he is uniquely suited.  A terminally morose tax attorney, his unnaturally pasty complexion, pronounced widow's peak and emaciated physique make him look considerably older than fifty-five.  He views the Internal Revenue Code as akin to the Bible.  He always refers to it as the Good Book. Likewise, he calls the 1986 Tax Act the Satanic Verses, because it took away many of his favorite tax-avoidance schemes. At S&G, we call what he does creative tax planning.  Out there in the real world, most people would say he helps his clients engage in varying degrees of tax fraud.

In addition to his modest tax practice, he devotes most of his time to serving on virtually every firm committee; thereby bringing order to the chaos that would ensue without his steady hand.  He has also appointed himself as the financial conscience of the firm, and reviews each and every expense report and check request before any of our hard-earned cash goes out the door.  He handles personnel matters and insists on being present when anyone is fired.  He seems to take particular pleasure in this aspect of his job.  He's known as the Grim Reaper.

A couple of years ago, in a meeting with the associates, my mouth shifted into gear while my brain was still idling, and I sarcastically dubbed him Chuckles.  Naturally, everyone now refers to him by that name.

Brent Hutchinson ("Hutch").  42; Simpson & Gates firm toady.

My former partner, Brent "Hutch" Hutchinson is a remarkable package of blond hair, gleaming white teeth and a spectacular line of bullshit.  His emotional development came to a screeching halt at a frat party during his sophomore year at USC.  After nine years as Art Patton's personal lapdog, he finally sucked his way into the partnership last year.  He's not much of a lawyer, but he'd make a terrific TV game-show host.  We're hopeful advances in medical science will someday permit his doctors to surgically remove his lips from their permanent position affixed to Art's bottom.

Anyone who believes substance will ultimately triumph over style hasn't met Brent Hutchinson.  His entire career is an ongoing charade of teeth, blond hair and good looks.  So far, he's been wildly successful. His office overlooking Alcatraz Island and the Marin Headlands is furnished with an antique roll-top desk and two antique chairs.  A small oriental rug graces the middle of his floor.  He has his own collection of Currier and Ives lithographs.  A picture of his cheerleader wife, Barbi, smiles at him from his spotless desk.  Life is good in Hutchworld.

Doris Fontaine.  56; secretary to Mike Daley and Bob Holmes; single mother of Jenny, a senior at Stanford.

Doris.  Ever the diplomat.  She's worked for Bob Holmes for about twenty years.  Doris is a dignified fifty-six year old with serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hair and the quiet confidence of a consummate professional.  If she had been born twenty years later, she would have gone to law school and become a partner here.  She absent-mindedly fingers the gold reading glasses that hang from a small gold chain around her neck.  She reminds me of sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher at St. Peter's.

Vincent Jefferson Russo, Jr. ("Vince").  39; real estate developer.

He nods in the direction of our client, Vince Russo, an oily-looking man about Joel's age who has jammed his Jabba the Hutt torso into the chair at the table next to Holmes.  I've never had the pleasure of meeting Russo.  From what I've read, he' run his father's real-estate investment conglomerate into the ground.

Beth Holmes.  42; Fourth wife of Bob Holmes; ex-wife of Art Patton; commercial litigator at a large law firm.

She's early forties, with unnaturally bleached-blond hair, leathery skin from the tanning machine, a slightly altered nose, several minor enhancements to her hips and, if I'm guessing right, breasts.  If all of her bodily adjustments slip at the same time, she'll probably look like a rubber band being shot across the room.  On the other hand, she's one helluva commercial litigator.  She reminds me of her ex-husband, Arthur Patton, without the charm or the chins.

Jack Frazier.  32; investment banker, Continental Capital Corporation.

Jack Frazier, Continental Capital Corporation's mergers-and-acquisitions stud, occupies a corner office that's far too large for a thirty-two year-old.  He's a tall blond with a vacant expression who looks out of place behind his large mahogany desk.  It's hard to believe this guy persuaded his corporate masters in Connecticut to pay nine hundred million dollars for Vince Russo's company.  From what I gather from Joel, he's one of those young MBAs who got out of school at just he right time.  At the next downturn in the economy, he'll be driving a cab.

Dan Morris.  43; San Francisco political consultant. 

Not surprisingly, the political consultant's office is a monument to his favorite person--himself.  Two walls are lined with pictures of Dan grinning with local dignitaries whose political fortunes he's orchestrated.  Another wall is adorned with framed political posters for his candidates.  A paunchy redhead, Morris is known as the Chameleon in San Francisco political circles because he'll represent candidates of every political denomination, as long as they're able to come up with the four hundred thousand dollars he charges to run a campaign.  He isn't a nice human being, but his candidates win.  Lately, he has been running a senate campaign for Edward Cross, a Republican, and a congressional campaign for Leslie Sherman, a Democrat.

Edward Ehrlich.  50; San Francisco City Attorney. 

At two o'clock, I walk into Assistant City Attorney Ed Ehrlich's windowless office on the fourth floor of a mid-rise fifties office building near the Moscone Convention Center.  The city can't be criticized for spending taxpayer funds to lease opulent offices.  The owl-eyed Ehrlich looks at home behind his metal desk.  There's no artwork on the walls.  "I'm due at the redevelopment agency," he says as I walk in.  "Can we talk later?"

Jeff Tucker.  42; General Counsel of First Bank, the lender for Simpson & Gates. 

First Bank's general counsel, Jeff Tucker, is a tight-assed little man in his mid-thirties who started his career at S&G.  He went to work at First Bank two years ago when he didn't make partner.  Bob Holmes stabbed him squarely in the middle of the back at the partner election.  He's still bitter.  He works in a ten-by-ten office with a small window on the third floor of a boxy seventies office building on the south side of Market Street.  In the mid-eighties, First Bank was a highflier.  By the early nineties, the real-estate market tanked and so did First Bank.  Its chairman was indicted for cooking the books and a Japanese conglomerate took over.  To cut costs, the bank moved its headquarters from palatial space on the fortieth floor of the Four Embarcadero Center tower to offices formerly occupied by a now-defunct insurance company.

Nick Hanson ("Nick the Dick").  83; well-known San Francisco PI. 

The doors in the back of the courtroom open.  Nick the Dick--all four feet ten of him--comes strutting down the center aisle.  He's wearing a dark gray double-breasted Wilkes Bashford pinstripe with a burgundy tie.  A matching kerchief sits in his breast pocket.  A small red rose adorns his lapel.  His three-thousand dollar toupee has been carefully groomed.  He nods to the press.  He looks like the president walking down the center aisle in the House of Representatives just before the State of the Union speech.  The secret weapon just arrived.

The Honorable Judge Shirley Chen.  45; San Francisco Superior Court Judge.

Judge Shirley Chen is in her mid-forties, although she looks younger.  She began her career at S&G twenty years ago.  It seems as if every judge in California started at S&G.  She moved to the San Francisco District Attorney's Office three years later.  I tried two cases against her when I was a PD.  I won one and I lost one.  She was an ambitious prosecutor.  She'll bring the same tenacity to the bench.

Her chambers are sterile.  Her law-school diploma hangs on the wall, but her books and files are still in boxes.  I'm reminded she's single as I notice there are no pictures of a spouse or children.  There's a plaque on her wall from the San Francisco Women's Bar Association.  There's a gavel from her alma mater, the Hastings College of Law in San Francisco, which indicates that she was named distinguished alumna three years ago.  There's a small picture of her with the California attorney general.

Dr. Kathy Chandler.  38; therapist of Bob Holmes; radio shrink.

Dr. Kathy Chandler fancies herself the Bay Area's very own Dr. Frasier Crane.  Of course, Dr. Frasier Crane has an imaginary degree from Harvard.  Dr. Kathy Chandler, on the other hand, has an honorary doctorate in family counseling from Southwestern Texas City College and an honorary degree from the Great Pacific School of Broadcasting.  More importantly, Dr. Frasier Crane only talks to imaginary patients.  Dr. Kathy Chandler, unfortunately, talks to real people.  Every weeknight from seven until ten, she dispenses bubblegum psychology on the live one, KTLK Talk Radio.

I must confess that her show is mildly entertaining.  I listen to it sometimes on my way home from work.  I think I'll appreciate it more if and when I get the lobotomy that I keep promising myself.

Like many radio talk-show hosts, she's always known as Dr. Kathy Chandler.  She's never simply Dr. Chandler--or, God forbid, Dr. Kathy.  And she always refers to herself on the air in the third person, kind of like the ballplayers and politicians do.  "Dr. Kathy Chandler says to break up with your boyfriend," or "Dr. Kathy Chandler says your husband's no good," or "Dr. Kathy Chandler says your sex life could be a lot better."  Makes you want to puke.

Richard Cinelli ("Rick"). 47; Bartender at Harrington's.

Rick Cinelli is an olive-skinned, dark-haired man with a raspy voice and a reserved manner.  He's been tending bar at Harrington's for twenty years.  He could run for mayor.

Homer Kim.  34; custodian, Bank of America Building.

I approach Homer Kim, a young Korean custodian, at the employees' entrance to the Bank of America Building. The evening shift is about to start.  I introduce myself and hand him a business card.  He looks suspicious.

Margaret Murphy Daley.  68; Mike's mother; widowed; early stages of Alzheimer's.

I see the look that I saw so many times when my dad got a call at home from his sergeant.  It's the look of a policeman's wife.  For a moment, she's thirty years younger and her blue eyes are steel.  "Do what you have to do to help him, Michael," she says

Jenny Fontaine.  22; daughter of Doris Fontaine.

Jenny's pretty face is pale and she looks sad in her hard dress.  She's taking Bob's death harder than I would have thought.

Perry Guilford. 55; insurance agent.

Guilford and I are the only people here. He gives ma an incandescent smile. His age and his waistline are right around fifty-five years and inches, respectively. His jowls measure right up there with Art Patton, who is, coincidentally, his former brother-in-law from Guilford's first marriage about twenty years ago. His toupee is flattering in a pathetic sort of way.

Eric Ross. 31; head of information systems at Simpson & Gates.

Ross is early thirties and uncommunicative. His eyes dart through thick wire-rimmed glasses. He's wearing his only suit for the first time in years. Somebody should inform him that wide lapels are out. His mustache twitches. He doesn't make eye contact.