nearly every workday, always choosing a table in Staciâs section, arriving early enough, often enough that they got time to extend their repartee. His tips began at a generous twenty percent and grew to reflect the pleasure he took in her company. He learned that she was single, without a steady boyfriend, that she lived alone in a rented studio apartment just north of Market above Castro. She went to school part-time at SFCC and hoped to finish at junior college and go to Berkeley in the next couple of years, but the mission now was simply to make a living, which wasnât that easy on tips, in spite of the judgeâs largesseânot everyone was as generous as he was. She confided to him that she was thinking about taking another waitress job at another place on her days off here. But then she might have to quit school altogether and didnât want to do that. You didnât have a future if you didnât finish school.
She in turn found out, not only from him, that the judge had been married to Jeannette for nearly forty years. He lived in a big house in Pacific Heights on Clay Street. He had three grown children. He worked at the federal courthouse and worked on appeals to the Ninth Circuit. âFun stuff,â he told her. He also was an avid fly fisherman and something of a wine nut, as sheâd already guessed from what he usually ordered to drink after his gin on the rocks for lunch.
After a while, they began to see each other outside of MoMoâs, at quiet places down the coast where the judge would not be recognized. One day, he had come in much later than usual, close to one thirty, timing it so he was getting up to leave at around three, as she was finishing her shift. They walked together down the Embarcadero for a hundred yards or so, making easy conversation as they usually did at the restaurant. He asked her if sheâd like to go over and walk by the water, where it was more private. He told her he had a present for her, which he so hoped sheâd accept.
It was a solitaire one-carat diamond necklace on a platinum-and-gold braided chain.
6 /
Although he was now considered an official hero, Inspector Devin Juhle was coming off a very bad time. Six months ago, he and his partner Shane Manning were on their way to talk to a witness in one of their investigations at two in the afternoon, when theyâd picked up an emergency call from dispatchâa report that somebody was shooting up a homeless encampment under the Cesar Chavez Street freeway overpass. As it happened, they were six blocks away and were the first cops on the scene.
Manning was driving, and no sooner than he had pulled their unmarked city-issue Plymouth into the no-manâs-land beneath the overpass, a man stepped out from behind a concrete pillar about sixty feet away and leveled a shotgun at the car.
âDown! Down!â Juhle had screamed as Manning was jamming into park, slamming on the brakes. One hand was unsnapping his holster and the other already on the doorâs handle, and Juhle ducked and hurled his body against the door, swinging it open and getting below the dash just as he heard the blast of the scattergun and the simultaneous explosion of the windshield above him, which covered him with pebbles of safety glass. Another shotgun blast, and then Juhle was out of the car on the asphalt, rolling, trying to get behind a tire for shelter.
âShane!â he yelled for his partner. âShane!â
Nothing.
Peering under the carâs chassisâhe remembered all of it as one picture, though the images were in different directions, so it couldnât have beenâhe saw two bodies down on the ground by a cardboard structure and behind them a half dozen or so people crouched in the lee of one of the concrete buttresses that supported the overpass, penned in so they couldnât escape. At the same time, the man with the gun had retreated behind the pillar again. To the extent that
She in turn found out, not only from him, that the judge had been married to Jeannette for nearly forty years. He lived in a big house in Pacific Heights on Clay Street. He had three grown children. He worked at the federal courthouse and worked on appeals to the Ninth Circuit. âFun stuff,â he told her. He also was an avid fly fisherman and something of a wine nut, as sheâd already guessed from what he usually ordered to drink after his gin on the rocks for lunch.
After a while, they began to see each other outside of MoMoâs, at quiet places down the coast where the judge would not be recognized. One day, he had come in much later than usual, close to one thirty, timing it so he was getting up to leave at around three, as she was finishing her shift. They walked together down the Embarcadero for a hundred yards or so, making easy conversation as they usually did at the restaurant. He asked her if sheâd like to go over and walk by the water, where it was more private. He told her he had a present for her, which he so hoped sheâd accept.
It was a solitaire one-carat diamond necklace on a platinum-and-gold braided chain.
6 /
Although he was now considered an official hero, Inspector Devin Juhle was coming off a very bad time. Six months ago, he and his partner Shane Manning were on their way to talk to a witness in one of their investigations at two in the afternoon, when theyâd picked up an emergency call from dispatchâa report that somebody was shooting up a homeless encampment under the Cesar Chavez Street freeway overpass. As it happened, they were six blocks away and were the first cops on the scene.
Manning was driving, and no sooner than he had pulled their unmarked city-issue Plymouth into the no-manâs-land beneath the overpass, a man stepped out from behind a concrete pillar about sixty feet away and leveled a shotgun at the car.
âDown! Down!â Juhle had screamed as Manning was jamming into park, slamming on the brakes. One hand was unsnapping his holster and the other already on the doorâs handle, and Juhle ducked and hurled his body against the door, swinging it open and getting below the dash just as he heard the blast of the scattergun and the simultaneous explosion of the windshield above him, which covered him with pebbles of safety glass. Another shotgun blast, and then Juhle was out of the car on the asphalt, rolling, trying to get behind a tire for shelter.
âShane!â he yelled for his partner. âShane!â
Nothing.
Peering under the carâs chassisâhe remembered all of it as one picture, though the images were in different directions, so it couldnât have beenâhe saw two bodies down on the ground by a cardboard structure and behind them a half dozen or so people crouched in the lee of one of the concrete buttresses that supported the overpass, penned in so they couldnât escape. At the same time, the man with the gun had retreated behind the pillar again. To the extent that
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