“And the gun?”

“That, too. I’m sure it wasn’t there for self-defense. Otherwise it would’ve been within easy reach like the 9mm he was supposed to have had in his nightstand, instead of hidden under a floorboard.”

None of them said the words, but all were wondering whether the gun, like the forty thousand dollars, had also been removed from a crime scene, not for direct profit, but to conceal evidence in order to help a client beat a case.

“Maybe you better let Harlan do that,” Goldhagen said. “Or at least bail out if it starts heading in a hinky direction.”

She looked at Donnally.

“I’ll start going through his client files,” Donnally said. “I can justify doing it now. With the Burger case and what Galen knows, it won’t look like a fishing expedition when the defense bar finds out about it later.”

Chapter 25

Donnally sat back in his chair in the conference room in Hamlin’s office and examined Takiyah Jackson typing on her laptop. They’d spent the day matching Hamlin’s calendar for the last two months with his files, determining which clients had hired him, what work he’d done on the cases, and what appearances he’d made—and Donnally had been astounded to see that Hamlin had done very little preparation on any of the cases.

The briefs Hamlin had filed were boilerplate, cut-and-paste motions for discovery, motions to disclose informants, motions to retest forensic evidence. There wasn’t one that couldn’t have been prepared by a paralegal. Just insert the defendant’s name and a paragraph outlining the facts of the case and press “print.”

Hamlin had hired private investigators, but only to do basic work like taking photos and measurements at crime scenes, performing court research on prosecution witnesses, serving subpoenas for records. Nothing that an intern couldn’t have done.

Jackson printed out the list of private investigators Hamlin used and the cases they’d worked on. Donnally skimmed down the list. He recognized a few names from the old days and blew out a breath, not liking what he saw.

She caught the meaning in the gesture and said, “None of the legit investigators would work for him, so he was limited to the desperate, and therefore flexible, and the already twisted.”

Donnally noticed some of them were paired up and said, “I don’t understand why Mark would use two different ones on the same case.”

“Sometimes so that the left hand, so to speak, wouldn’t know what the right hand is doing. Say Mark needed an investigator to get on the stand to testify about one thing, even if the DA got into other parts of the case, the investigator wouldn’t know anything about them.” She pointed to her right. “Like he sends one guy to take photos of the scene”—she pointed left with her other hand—“then sends another to try to talk to the victim. Victim later complains to the DA about being harassed, the first investigator doesn’t know anything and the DA can’t question him about it when he testifies about the photos he took. He wasn’t there. And the DA isn’t allowed to call a defense investigator as a witness all on his own.”

Jackson nodded toward the list.

“Most of those investigators would probably have trouble finding their shoes in the morning. Mark just liked having a posse and would get the client to pay for it. Soon as the client agreed to Mark’s fee for coming into a case, usually about twenty-five grand, he’d hit him up for five for investigation. Always. Whether there was anything to investigate or not. Then he’d hire one of these guys to do gopher stuff. It built up loyalty. Lots and lots.”

“Loyalty for what?”

“When he needed to . . . uh . . .”

“Push the limits?”

Jackson hesitated, then gave in and nodded. He took it as an opening to try to move her a little farther around the barricade of her resistance.

“How’d you feel about that?”

Another hesitation, and then, “Sometimes it seemed like a war.”

“And all is fair in war?”

Jackson looked at him dead on. “You know what happened to me, right? I figure you took the time to check me out.”

Donnally nodded.

“The cop who shot Bumper in the back while he was sleeping left SFPD and went to work for the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. He ended his career down there twenty years later as a captain.” Her voice hardened like a hammer. “A cold-blooded killer. A fucking executioner. He should’ve spent the rest of his life in prison, instead he’s spending his retirement years getting a tan and playing golf in Palm Desert.”

Jackson fell silent. Her eyes moved back and forth like she was watching an internal movie. It seemed to Donnally like she was looking for a scene to describe the cop, one that captured, or maybe justified, Hamlin’s acts of war against law enforcement.

Finally, she spoke. “How many street dope cases do you think are righteous? I’ve been around. I lived in the Pink Palace before we moved across the bay to Oakland. You been out there.”

The Pink Palace was an eleven-story public housing project just a few blocks from City Hall, named for its paint color. It was also known as the Den of Thieves. The day came when it became so dangerous even the homeless refused to accept free apartments there and it was closed down.

“Those dropsy cases,” Jackson continued. “Cop testifying that he was driving along and the drug dealer spotted him, then dropped the dope and ran.” Jackson spread her hands and her voice rose. “Who but a fucking racist judge is gonna believe that shit? Drop the dope and then run away? Not run first? Not duck behind a car or a bush or the fattest guy on the block and dump the dope where the cop can’t see?”

Donnally knew she was right, that’s why he’d refused an assignment to the street drug task force and later to the vice detail. Either he would’ve had to lie to make enough cases to achieve the body count the chief wanted or lie to cover other officers so they could achieve theirs.

It just hadn’t crossed his mind until now that the perjury of drug cops had become a recruiting mechanism for people like Jackson to sign on to the agenda of corrupt lawyers like Hamlin.

The truth—that Donnally knew, that she knew, that every cop in the city knew—was that the task force officers would just sweep into the projects and round people up and search them and the area. If the cop found dope on somebody, he’d falsely testify he’d seen the dealer drop it. If the cop found it in a wheel well or in a bush or in a fence board knothole, he’d look for the guy with the worst attitude or who was already on probation or parole, and lay it on him.

Donnally thought back on his conversation with Janie at the kitchen table and understood that while his father’s lies had driven him toward a uniform and a badge in search of the truth, Jackson’s past had driven her toward a life beyond truth and lies.

“You’re right,” Donnally said. “But I suspect the private investigators Hamlin hired weren’t like you, hadn’t had your experiences, weren’t from the street. I’ll bet they’re all college grads who never stepped into a housing project until they got paid to.”

Donnally pointed up at the courtroom sketch in the Demetrio Arellano case, the one showing Hamlin looking at his watch. It was the case in which the private investigator working for Hamlin had left a threatening message for the main prosecution witness, who then fled to El Salvador.

“Is that what you mean by pushing the limits?” Donnally said.

Jackson cringed and lowered her head.

Donnally pushed on. “I don’t understand how your moral outrage at the stuff that happened to you, and at the things you’ve seen in your life, transformed into a way of looking at the world that allowed you to work for Hamlin.”