Criminal Intent

CHAPTER 1"He's Definitely Dead" Richard "Big Dick" MacArthur was once a promising young director. Now he churns out B movies on his best days and soft-core flicks on his worst. For those of us who remember his early work, it's a sad waste of an extraordinary talent.-Film Critic Rex Lucas San Francisco Chronicle. Friday, June 4 "HE'S DEAD, MIKE," the familiar voice says without the slightest hint of emotion. Even in the middle of the night, Rosita Carmela Fernandez, my ex-wife and current law partner, exudes calm professionalism. If we had demonstrated such reserve in our personal dealings a few years ago, we might still be married. My eyes strain to adjust to the darkness in the unfamiliar bedroom as I fumble with my cell phone. A moment later, I'm able to focus on the green numerals on the clock radio. Four-fifteen A.M. It's June fifth and I'm freezing. Another glorious San Francisco summer. I ask, "Who's dead, Rosie?" I'm not much for guessing games before dawn. "Richard MacArthur." Three decades ago, Richard "Big Dick" MacArthur was heralded as the second coming of Stanley Kubrick. He made his first movie, The Master, when he was only twenty-five. It was nominated for best picture and he won the Oscar for the screenplay. Then he formed his own production company to make what he liked to call "high-quality art films." Some of his movies were more artistic than others, but all were over budget. He hit the skids a couple of years later when he depleted his bank accounts to cover the monumental cost overruns on his films. His lavish spending habits eventually pushed him to the brink of bankruptcy. In recent years, he's kept his creditors at bay by churning out formula action movies and soft-core flicks. If you believe the papers, the debts of MacArthur Films rival those of some third-world countries. Notwithstanding his spotty track record, Big Dick still had a knack for convincing the major studios to pony up big bucks for a mainstream film every few years. The results have been mixed. His baseball film, The Leadoff Man, grossed over a hundred million dollars. The ill-fated sequel, Extra Innings, seemed longer than the seventeen-inning game it portrayed. Most of his spare cash has gone to pay alimony to his two ex-wives and to maintain his winery in Napa, where his Cabernets are on a par with his B movies. His new film, The Return of the Master, is scheduled for release next week. It's being touted as yet another attempt to return to mainstream respectability. We'll see. The early buzz has been lukewarm. My brain shifts into second gear. I sit up in bed and reach for the lamp. For most people, a call before the sun comes up means serious trouble. When you make your living as a criminal defense attorney, it comes with the territory. Most of my clients don't have the common courtesy to get themselves arrested during normal business hours. I turn on the light and glance at the elegant four-poster bed and the sleek oak dresser. I look out the picture window that frames Alcatraz Island, but all I can see is a layer of thick fog. I remind myself that this fashionable condo on Telegraph Hill isn't exactly the working-class neighborhood in the outer Sunset where I grew up. Then again, this isn't exactly my condo. I ask Rosie, "Where did they find him?" "Baker Beach. Sounds like he may have fallen off the deck of his house." Whether it was movies, divorces or houses, Big Dick did everything on a scale that was larger than life. His mansion is perched at the top of a rocky precipice in the exclusive Sea Cliff neighborhood just west of the Presidio and has a panoramic view of the Marin Headlands and the Golden Gate Bridge. It's an exclusive corner of town. The Chroniclemagazine reported that he took out a three-million-dollar mortgage when he bought the house. [read more]