Free Incriminating Evidence by Sheldon Siegel

hotels, the connecting door consists of back-to-back doors, one facing Room 1504 and one facing Room 1502. Evans uses his master key to unlock the door that opens into 1504. Then he pushes open the door on the 1502 side, which is not locked. The room is identical to 1504 but is furnished with tables and armchairs—no bed. Evans explains that 1502 is often used as a hospitality room for social events.
    I say, “So somebody could have gotten into 1504 by going through 1502.”
    “That’s true.”
    I’ve started to look around the room, when we hear the toilet in the bathroom flush.
    Evans gives me a puzzled look. “It must be a member of the maintenance crew,” he says.
    The bathroom door opens. “Hi guys,” says Pete.
    Evans reaches for his walkie-talkie. “Who are you?”
    “He’s my brother,” I say.
    “Nice to meet you,” Pete says.
    Evans clears his throat. “Dave Evans. Building security. What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Taking a look around.”
    “You’re trespassing.”
    “He’s a PI,” I say. “He works for me.”
    “That doesn’t give him the right to break into one of our rooms.”
    “I didn’t break in,” Pete says. “The door was open.” Peteproduces his license for Evans to study. Then he turns to me and says, “So what are you guys doing here?”
    I glance at Evans and say, “Dave was just showing me their security system and telling me how hard it would be to get to this room without being detected.”
    Pete grins. “It isn’t that hard.”

6
HANGING AL
“They come in, they enter their plea and they leave. That’s all that happens at an arraignment.”
—S AN F RANCISCO S UPERIOR C OURT J UDGE A LBERT M ANDEL. S AN F RANCISCO C HRONICLE . W EDNESDAY , S EPTEMBER 8.
    “And how did you get in here?” Dave Evans asks Pete a moment later. We’re still in Room 1502.
    “I walked in the front door.”
    Evans isn’t amused. “The hell you did.”
    “You’re the one with all the fancy surveillance equipment.”
    Evans glares at me. “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” he says.
    “Suit yourself,” Pete says. “I’m not telling.”
    “Pete,” I say, “let’s try to be cooperative.”
    “Fine. I came in through the catering kitchen,” he says to Evans. “I took the tunnel under the grand ballroom to the service stairs. I jimmied the door and walked up to the fifteenth floor. That’s when I got lucky. The door to this room was open. I suppose the cleaning people left it that way. I’ll bet you dinner at that fancy restaurant downstairs that you won’t find me in your security video.”
    “We’ll find you,” Evans says.
    “No, you won’t.”
    Evans turns to me. “I don’t care if he’s a PI. I don’t appreciate the fact that you sent him to break into my building.”
    “Mike had nothing to do with this,” Pete says. “I got up here on my own.”
    This isn’t entirely true. I did ask Pete to check out the security system. I didn’t ask him to see if he could beat it.
    Pete adds, “We did you a favor. We found a hole in your system. Now you can fix it.”
    Evans snaps, “This doesn’t have anything to do with what happened the other night.”
    “Maybe not,” I say. On the other hand, if this case moves forward, we will put Evans on the stand to admit there are ways to get into this hotel that cannot be detected by his security cameras.
    “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I recite. I’m sitting in a confessional near the back of St. Peter’s later the same evening. The church is quiet. A dozen votive candles flicker.
    St. Peter’s was first dedicated on July 4, 1886, when San Francisco was still young and the Mission was a stronghold of Irish immigrants. It has been and always will be a symbol of our neighborhood. It rose like a phoenix after it was gutted by fire a few years ago. Although it has been completely refurbished, the feeling I have for the church that I attended when I was a kid is still there. To me, St.