A Criminal Defense by Steven Gore

wanted him dead.”
    â€œYou’re being a little too cryptic for me to spend the hours it would take to get up there and back at this point in the investigation.”
    â€œYou’re gonna have to see me eventually, might as well make it now.”
    â€œI’ll think about it.”
    Donnally disconnected and called the SFPD homicide detective whose name appeared on the log. She told him that Bennie Madison had pled guilty to a robbery murder. He’d dragged the victim into an alley near her downtown office as she walked from an ATM to her car. He stabbed her, robbed her, and then flopped her body into a Dumpster.
    Madison had been homeless at the time, living under an overpass. He was arrested for trespassing a couple of days later, and the arresting officer found the victim’s wallet and credit cards in his backpack. Madison claimed he found it all in an alley. A city worker in the area of the bank around the time of the murder wasn’t able to ID Madison, but gave a description of the killer’s clothes that matched his.
    The clincher in the case was a statement from a jailhouse informant that Madison had confessed to the crime and tried to get the informant to send someone to dispose of the knife, which was hidden inside his sleeping bag. Detectives went to the overpass, located it, and the lab later found traces of the victim’s blood lodged between the blade and the hilt.
    â€œThe unusual thing,” the detective said, “was that Hamlin volunteered to represent the guy pro bono and took the case over from the court-appointed lawyer.”
    â€œWhy was that?”
    â€œMy guess? Grandstanding and money. A public defender proved that an informant in another case was making up stories in exchange for get-out-of-jail-free cards. I suspect Hamlin figured if he had a horse in the race he could ride the scandal to the bank a few times. I think the plan was that he’d prove that the informant in the Madison case was a liar, then get other convicts sending him retainers to reopen their cases.”
    â€œBut Madison ended up pleading guilty anyway.”
    â€œTwo weeks later, before he even had a preliminary hearing—and I still don’t have a clue why. What kind of idiot pleads to a life sentence? The smarter move would’ve been to roll the dice. You never know what a San Francisco jury will do.”

Chapter 9
    D onnally looked at his watch as he hung up the telephone. An hour-and-a-half drive out to Vacaville in the Central Valley, an hour with Madison, and the trip back. A decade earlier he could’ve badged his way into the facility; this time he’d have to rely on Navarro to make the appointment for him and get him inside.
    After a drive that took him over the spot where Hamlin’s body was found under Golden Gate Bridge, up through the hills of Marin County, skirting the north end of the bay, and past suburbs and outlet malls spread out in a series of wide valleys, he pulled into a parking spot outside the California Medical Facility. He unclipped his holster and slipped his semiautomatic into the glove compartment.
    Madison’s correctional counselor met Donnally in the small administration building, a one-story, wooden structure set into the razor wire–topped fence surrounding the prison.
    â€œFive years nobody comes to see this guy,” Rich Taylor said after Donnally showed him the court order appointing him special master, “and now you’re third in the last month.”
    â€œWho else?”
    Taylor pointed at the order. “Hamlin was the first. Then a lawyer who specializes in getting convictions overturned. Not as sleazy as Hamlin, may he rest in peace, but close.”
    â€œWhy is Madison in here rather than in a regular prison?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask him. That kind of medical information is covered by HIPAA.” Taylor paused, biting his lower lip, then said, “But I can tell you this.