“I am.” She nodded with finality. “I’d bet my life on that.”
Glitsky reached over and patted her hand where it rested on the table. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
• • •
IN HIS RAGGEDY old terry-cloth bathrobe, Hardy sat alone on the couch in his family room just off the kitchen. He’d just done a tour of the whole house, front to back, and the entire place was bathed in a darkness that would have been pitch except for the dim bluish light in the tank that held his tropical fish.
Just before getting into bed with his wife, he’d turned his phone back on to see if he had gotten any messages—he’d turned it off for dinner as he usually did—and saw that he’d gotten a text from Glitsky in the last couple of minutes saying that they needed to talk.
So, in spite of the late hour, Hardy knew that Abe was still awake and he’d called him and learned about his talk with Inspector Tully. It woke him all the way up.
He couldn’t have said how long he’d been sitting there, more or less mesmerized by the gentle bubbling of the tank. The eleven fish swam about in their random fashion and he watched them without conscious thought.
Eventually, though, the staggering reality of Beth Tully’s information—her belief that San Francisco’s newly elected district attorney, Ron Jameson, was a literal murderer—forced him to give it some, then a lot, and finally all of his attention.
Of course, he couldn’t be sure that it was true. Abe had told him that Tully hadn’t been able to build a righteous case against Jameson; that she had little or no evidence to back up her claim; that, in fact, the case had been closed and considered solved, with another suspect, Geoff Cooke, widely considered the true culprit.
This was all not exactly persuasive. And, beyond that, both he and Abe knew nothing about Tully’s character, habits, state of mind, or record as a police inspector. It wasn’t impossible, for example, that she’d had her own affair with Ron Jameson and that he’d broken up with her, or perhaps she wanted to have one and he’d rejected her. By keeping her from testifying in front of the grand jury, Jameson might have been trying somehow to marginalize her career, and this was her chance at payback. She might be a congenital liar. Or just a bad cop. The possibilities were endless.
And yet . . .
Her talking to Glitsky was a bold and dangerous move, and reaching out to a defense attorney such as himself even more so. Why would she put herself at that kind of risk? If Jameson got wind of it, he could lobby—and probably successfully—that she did not belong in the Homicide Detail, and maybe should not even remain on the force. And if her suppositions about Jameson were in fact true, she might actually be putting her life on the line.
Hardy knew that he himself had brought up with Devin Juhle the long-shot idea of speaking to the homicide inspectors who’d been working the Celia Montoya case to see if they might be able to help him in his defense of Phyllis. But he had not in his wildest dreams thought that one of them might contact him through his friend Abe, and with such explosive information.
Getting to his feet, he crossed the room and stood for a last moment staring at his tropicals. Then, not completely understanding why he had opened this can of worms, and vaguely wishing that he had not, he walked back up through the house to triple-check the dead bolt at the front door, then the dead bolt to the back. From long experience, he knew that he would not shake this sense of unease until he got some sleep, but that sleep would probably not come easily. Giving one last careful listen to the silence around him, he finally turned to mount the stairway that led up to his bedroom.
12
AT THE BREAKFAST table in his home the next morning—Wednesday, February 8—Ron Jameson put down his morning Chronicle and stared across the room.
Kate looked up from her coffee. “Are you all right?”
After a moment he shook his head. “A little frustrated with this coverage is all.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, but I thought it might be a little more positive.”
“Says the man who believes that all press is good press.”
He frowned and looked over at her. “I mean, who is on the side of someone who helps a murderer escape? Especially when you can tie that person, as I did, to show the kind of people who are in the Farrell camp. The McGowan woman works for the firm he’s joining up with, for Christ’s sake. It’s pretty obvious that these people don’t give a thought to obstructing justice. They really think they can do anything they want, and get away with it because they’re so special. That’s the real story here, and I’m just a little disappointed, though not particularly surprised, that the Chronicle apparently doesn’t see it that way.”
“The Courier liked it.” This was the city’s second newspaper.
“Nobody reads the Courier.”
“Yes they do. And a lot of them are your fans. You might not want to forget that.” She pointed down at the paper in front of him. “It was the dislocated shoulder,” she said.
“This just in,” he said, “the function of handcuffs is to bind and constrain. They’re not supposed to be loose. And I wanted to make the point that this woman was very much, in fact, dangerous. They found the gun in her apartment. This is an armed woman helping a murderer escape. She’d damn well better be restrained. Wouldn’t you say?”
“It seems completely defensible to me. But do you really think this lawyer, Hardy, is going to sue you personally?”
Jameson considered for a minute. “At least he’s told the papers he’s doing the whole trifecta. First, he’s filing a complaint with the state bar. He’s also suing me and my two inspectors for the injuries to his client. Those two are no-brainers for us. Then, my personal favorite, he’s filing a recusal motion, which is the only one we actually have to deal with in the criminal proceeding. He wants the whole DA’s office to be kicked off the case and the attorney general to take over the prosecution because we are bad, mean, evil, and generally prejudiced people. All the typical crap. But in fact we followed protocol every step of the way. No judge on the planet would rule we didn’t, and Hardy knows that. He’s just showboating. Welcome to the world of the sleazy defense attorney.”
“It’s a little worrisome.”
“No. It’s just what it is.”
Their eyes met and held.
Finally, Kate dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “And it’s not only just what it is, Ron. Let’s not kid ourselves. If this man Hardy picks a judge with a grudge . . .”
“Judge with a grudge,” he said. “Good one.”
“It’s no joke,” she said. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re aware of all the elements that are out there.”
“I think I am, thank you.”
“Don’t get mad at me, Ron. You can’t blame me for being protective. It’s for both of our sakes. And though maybe you don’t think so anymore, I don’t think it would be smart to let down our guards and invite too much trouble. It may all be in the past, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t something we need to be aware of. Constantly.”
This, between them, was the great unspoken truth.
Ron let out a heavy sigh that could have been boredom at the topic, or frustration. Or both. Wearily he said, “I have never been anything but grateful to you, Kate, and you know it.”
“Except now, after you’ve won this election, I’m a little worried that maybe you’ve got a tendency to feel a bit invincible, more or less bulletproof. And I’m just saying you might want to think about being a little cautious.”
“And it’s your job, somehow, to shut me down.”
This straightened Kate right up in her chair. “Don’t you dare even start to imply that. I’m not trying to shut you down, Ron. No one has ever been more supportive of you, and proven it time and again, than I have. Do I have to even mention this?”
“No. I know what you’ve done, for both of us. Do you think I could forget that even for a second? Beyond the fact,” he added, “that you would
never let me forget it.”
Infuriatingly, Kate’s eyes suddenly filled with incipient tears. “Goddamn it,” she said. “That is just not true, Ron. How can you even say that? You are always free to do whatever you want to do. Always. But you and I have been partners long enough to know that we both have the right to call each other if one or the other of us thinks we’re skating a little too close to the edge. And this is one of those times for me. So I’d appreciate it if you’d at least take seriously what I’m talking about. Where I’m concerned, I’ve got every right to be concerned, and you’d be foolish if you didn’t at least acknowledge what I’m talking about.”
“And you don’t think I’m doing that?
Kate paused to let her anger and hurt subside a bit. “I don’t blame you for being confident, especially after what we’ve been through and where we are now. Where you are now. But I am your muse, or at least I used to be . . .”
“And still are.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not in the same way, but I still feel that I am, too. I don’t want to have us fight over how you want to live your life.”
He reached over and put his hand over hers. “I don’t want us to fight, either. And I want to live my life with you. Period. That’s not changed in any way.”
She let a breath of relief escape. She put another hand over his. “I just worry.”
“I know you do. I can’t blame you. But all that’s happened, that’s behind us now. Nobody’s interested in what may or may not have happened two or three years ago.”
“That’s my point, Ron. I think now, especially, we don’t want to push that. You have political enemies that you never had before. If they find any way to take you down, they will try and try again. And you may not think I’ve got a role anymore, but I’ve got your back. I’m always going to have your back, even if you think it’s not necessary.”
“And I appreciate that,” he said. “I really do. And you know, I’ve got yours, too. Really. All the time.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
Then Ron’s cell phone chirped at his belt. He picked it up, glanced at it, and made a face. “I’d better get this.” Connecting, he said, “Andrea, what’s so important it rates a call at home?”
Listening, his face clouded further. “No, I see,” he said. “Yes, I get it. Any other details? Okay, well let me know. I know. No, I didn’t expect anything like that, either. It’s a major shock, I admit. Yes, I’ll be in soon.”
Ending the connection, he held on to the cell phone, looking at it as though it might bite him.
“What?” Kate asked.
“Celia Montoya,” he said. “She killed herself.”
• • •
HARDY SAT AT the big table in the Solarium. Next to him, Phyllis was going through a lot of Kleenex as she wiped a steady flow of tears spilling from her eyes over onto her cheeks.
A couple of seats farther along, Gina Roake leaned back in her own chair, arms crossed over her chest, her face closed down tight. “Somebody should have been able to predict this,” she said. “Put her on a suicide watch, if nothing else. If that’s what it was, after all. A suicide, I mean. What do you think, Phyllis? Was Celia someone who you think might have killed herself?”
Phyllis sniffed and wiped her nose. “I don’t really think so,” she said. “We were only together those four days, hanging out at the motel, watching TV, and eating junk food. So she wasn’t in a very good place emotionally. Naturally. I mean, imagine the stress. But she never mentioned even thinking about killing herself. If anything, she was upbeat that she’d made it as far as she had. It seemed to me she just wanted to get out of Dodge as soon as she could and start over again. She talked about looking forward to that. So I’d have to say no, she wasn’t really acting like she was thinking of suicide.”
“Okay,” Hardy said. “But then she got betrayed somehow and she knew she was coming back to stand trial for murder. That could have pushed her over the brink.”
“Agreed,” Gina said. “Something seems to have, anyway. It’s so senseless.”
“I’d like to know how the betrayal happened,” Hardy said. “Who turned her into Immigration.” He turned to Phyllis. “Any ideas there?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that wasn’t my part of it. I heard they were having some trouble like that in Ukiah, but there were always those rumors. To me, she was just another in a very long line of very scared people.”
“Well,” Gina said, “although I hate to say it, except for the murder part.”
“If you believe that,” Phyllis said, her voice taking on a bit of an edge.
Hardy put his hand over hers. “Wait a minute. What are you saying?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it sounded for a second there like you don’t think she killed anybody.”
“That really wasn’t my concern, but if I had to say, I’d say I never thought that.”
Gina asked, “You didn’t think she killed anybody? This Mr. Valdez, for example?”
“No.”
“Then why did you . . . ?” Gina asked. “How did you get involved at all?”
“Well, the main thing to me is that she was undocumented. Those were the people I’d been helping for the past several years, so I had some idea of what I had to do and the urgency of it, before ICE got any wind of it. It was nothing to do with anybody murdering anyone. My brother Adam knew Celia from a bar named El Sol, and when he called me, he told me he had to get her out of town right away, that she was the main suspect in this murder.”
“Why was that?” Hardy asked.
Phyllis shrugged. “Because she . . . well, no . . . not she. Valdez had brought her up from Mexico a few months before and apparently they had an ongoing relationship, though Adam said she was more like his sex slave, with every reason in the world to have shot him. Anyway, it was all rushed and crazy and we had to get on the road immediately.”
“Didn’t you ask her?” Gina asked.
“If she killed him? I mostly just assumed she did. I think she brought the murder weapon to my house with her.”
“You think?” Gina asked.
Phyllis nodded. “Well, it was there for the police to find later when they searched, which is probably a big part of the reason why they charged me with being an accessory.” She turned to Hardy. “Wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“It wouldn’t have hurt,” Hardy said.
Phyllis went on. “But whether or not she’d actually killed him wasn’t my issue. If she did, he sounds like he deserved it. Celia didn’t have anything good to say about Valdez, but she never said she killed him, either.”
“That was just being smart,” Gina said.
“Maybe that.” Phyllis dabbed at her eyes again. “This is such a tragedy. That poor girl.”
• • •
HARDY SPENT THE next couple of hours in his office, writing up his motions against Ron Jameson.
The complaint to the state bar was the easiest. Because Jameson had abused his office and charged someone without probable cause for political reasons, he should be disbarred.
The civil suit he farmed off to one of his associates with instructions to name the two investigators and Jameson personally, and to include a demand for punitive damages.
He kept the recusal motion for himself.
Fun stuff.
But for all the fun, about two minutes after he’d sent his document to print, he found himself again having slumped into what was becoming an all-too-familiar anger, or was it melancholy? Unconsciously he must have gone over and opened the doors to his dartboard, because now he was standing at the throw line, three darts in hand. He took up his throwing position, set himself, and then stopped.
If he thought he’d been enraged over Ron Jameson’s treatment of Phyllis—and he was—he was suddenly and acutely aware that the DA’s indictment of Celia Montoya for the murder of Hector Valdez—whether or not she had in fact been guilty of that murder—had been far more cons
equential, and more tragic. It had forced her to go underground, where she had somehow been betrayed, and this had apparently driven her to a despair that led her to suicide.
He walked back to his dart cabinet and put the darts in their slots.
His hands were shaking, blood ringing in his ears.
13
FOR WELL OVER twenty years, Jeff Elliott had been writing the “CityTalk” column for the San Francisco Chronicle. Hardy had made his acquaintance early on and the two had formed and maintained a friendship that had served them well over the years, both personally and professionally. Back when he’d just been starting out, Jeff had been a slender, clean-shaven guy who soon enough would be struck by multiple sclerosis. Now he got around mostly by wheelchair, and his most striking physical features were his full gray beard and a substantial potbelly.
Hardy had brought with him a couple of bánh mì from a place down Mission Street, and now Jeff was just swallowing the last of his. “Well, that hit the spot, thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
“History argues, though, that bringing this lovely lunch down here has a price.”
“Absolutely not. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by, and then I noticed the bánh mì spot and thought you were probably starving yourself and could use a bite.”
Elliott nodded. “But what, really? Since you already came out smelling like a rose in today’s column from your court appearance yesterday. And Jameson? How do you not look like a horse’s ass if you ask for ten million dollars, not to say dislocating the shoulder of a sweet, elderly woman. How is Phyllis, by the way?”
“She’s fine. And her shoulder has a ping-pong fracture, clearly visible on the X-rays. They offered her Oxycontin, but she’s taking Advil instead. Sometimes as often as twice a day. I had to speak to her about addiction.” Hardy was scrolling through his cell phone, looking for the copy of the X-rays. “Here you go. Check that out.”
Elliott squinted at the screen. “You want my honest opinion, Diz? This doesn’t look so bad.”
“It doesn’t look bad. It just hurts a lot. Off the record, I was thinking about asking her to scratch herself up a little, make it look a little worse. But that would be unethical, wouldn’t it?”
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