The Ophelia Cut

by John Lescroart

  Hardy pulled his phone from its holster, glanced at it, and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sometimes I forget to turn the darn thing on.” He pushed down on the top of the instrument. “There. And oops, look at that. Here’s your message. I’d better go call him before it gets any later.”

  IT WAS A classic conflicts case. The public defender could defend only one of the bartenders because whenever two people get arrested together, it is overwhelmingly likely that one will end up pointing the finger at the other. One lawyer, or one firm (in this case, the public defender), cannot represent both defendants. Or, in this case, more than one of the dozen or so defendants. The court would have to appoint a private lawyer for every defendant after the first one. It wasn’t just a conflict, it was a cluster.

  When business otherwise was slow, these cases could be something of a godsend, since attorneys’ fees were paid reliably, if not promptly, by the court. So the judges had no problem having a lawyer in court every day to pick up a conflicts case if there happened to be one. But there wasn’t a contingency for a dozen conflicts at once, so Ed Benson was on the phone explaining. “You read about the ABC sweep last night, Diz? Putting the word out on the scourge of underage drinking the city’s experiencing right now.”

  “Better yet,” Hardy said, “I was part of it. Dumbest thing I ever saw.”

  “Tell me about it,” Benson replied. “So now we have a dozen felony arrests, all of them set for arraignment this morning, most of them first offenders, none of them remotely happy, and few if any lawyers down here answering the conflicts call.”

  “You want me to make a couple of calls,” Hardy asked, “see who’s around?”

  “The more the merrier.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Ed. Give me about fifteen.”

  AFTER SPENDING THE night awake in the slammer and getting booked for felony conspiracy to distribute alcohol to minors, then released on his own recognizance along with the other mixologists, Tony Solaia didn’t bear much resemblance to the dashing young swimmer from the Dolphin Club or the dervish from Burning Rome. Now, a little after two P.M., he slid into a booth across from Hardy at Lou the Greek’s, an ancient semisubterranean establishment across the street from the Hall of Justice that served the legal community—cops, attorneys, clients, relatives, jurors, secretaries, social workers, reporters. The place opened at six A.M. for the hard-drinking crowd and didn’t slow down much until it closed at two A.M.

  They both ordered Anchor Steam on tap.

  “How am I supposed to thank you for this, much less pay you?” Tony asked.

  “You don’t,” Hardy replied. “The city’s going to pay us. If these cases go all the way to trial, which I doubt, my firm could bill a few grand. If anything, I’m in debt to you. But my real feeling is these turkeys aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Their beers arrived and Hardy drank. “We can’t guarantee results, but I can’t imagine the DA playing hardball. At most, he’ll reduce to misdemeanors, you’ll do some community service. Case dismissed. End of story.”

  “So why did all this happen?”

  “That’s the question. Somebody trying to make political hay. One of our supervisors, I’m thinking probably Liam Goodman, on his way to the mayor’s office. Stupid.” Hardy lifted his glass. “You look like you could use a little sleep.”

  Tony nodded. “You’re an observant guy.” He sighed. “The good news is I don’t have a job anymore, so I can sleep all I want.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Hardy said. “If your bar doesn’t open again soon, I can get you a couple of shifts at the place I own. Keep you in cash, anyway, until Burning Rome reopens.”

  “If it reopens.” Solaia swirled his glass. “You own a bar?”

  Hardy shrugged, broke a small grin. “I like to think we’re a full-service firm. But yeah, I own a bar. A quarter of it, anyway. The Little Shamrock. Out in the Avenues.”

  AFTER TONY SOLAIA caught a cab home outside the Hall of Justice, Hardy entered the building, passed through the metal detector, and debated whether he wanted to visit Abe Glitsky on five or the DA on three. Deciding to let fate make the call, he boarded the always crowded elevator in the lobby. If somebody pushed three, he’d stop off and see Wes Farrell. Otherwise, he’d ride up to Glitsky’s floor.

  A minute later, he was walking down the long hallway past the offices where he’d first worked as an assistant district attorney almost forty years earlier. As usual, he was astounded to find that the hallway still looked, smelled, and felt exactly the same.

  When the clerk at the window announced his arrival to Farrell’s secretary, Treya Glitsky gave the order to let him right in, and the door to his left buzzed. Hardy went through it and stopped again.

  This hallway, with its heavy doors leading off to tiny cramped offices on either side, carried an even larger mnemonic charge than the walk down from the elevators. Halfway down, two earnest young women who couldn’t possibly be old enough to be working here whispered like conspirators, and perhaps they were. A guy in a business suit stood in one of the doorways and suddenly laughed and just as suddenly cut it off. Behind Hardy, the door opened again, and when he half turned, he was facing Paul Stier, a tough adversary whom he’d trounced in their two trials opposing each other, the most recent only two months before.

  Stier pulled up in his tracks, failing to conceal his surprise and displeasure. “Mr. Hardy.”

  Hardy inclined his head. “Paul. How are you?” He held out his hand, and the other man took it perfunctorily.

  “Can I help you?” Obviously, it bothered Stier that Hardy, a defense attorney, was standing unaccompanied in the prosecutor’s hallway. Probably spying.

  “I’m just on my way in to talk to Mr. Farrell. We used to be partners.”

  “Yes, I know. You can find your way, then?” Meaning: move it along and quit loitering here where you don’t belong, polluting our sacred hallway.

  Hardy tried to keep traces of apology out of his voice. He had every right to be here, and if Stier didn’t like it, that was his problem. Pointing, he said, “On my way.”

  A chilly smile. “Nice seeing you.”

  When he stood in front of Treya’s desk in Farrell’s anteroom, she looked up from her keyboard, flashed him a genuine smile—“Diz!”—pushed out her chair, and came around to give him a quick hug. Regarding him at arm’s length, she asked him if he was all right.

  “Fine, except I just ran into Paul Stier. I think he took our last trial together a little personally.”

  Treya tsked. “How does he think that helps anything?”

  “I bet it keeps him motivated. But still . . .”

  “They don’t call him ‘The Big Ugly’ for nothing, Diz. Don’t let him get inside your head.”

  “No, of course not. Nothing gets to me. I’m a defense attorney. I have no inner life.” Hardy inclined his head toward Farrell’s door. “Is His Majesty in?”

  She lowered her voice. “I just woke him up and told him you were here.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “He said to show you right in.”

  “Really?”

  “His exact words.”

  “I’m feeling better already.” Hardy stopped at the door and turned back to her. “On the wildly improbable assumption that I have feelings at all.”

  AFTER ALMOST TWO years in his official position, Wes Farrell had acquired enough furniture to imprint on his physical office the stamp of his personality. He had never been a believer in the desk, for example, feeling that it created an unnecessary barrier between people. Instead, Farrell had installed a couple of wooden library tables on the room’s periphery. Randomly arranged on the table over by the Bryant Street windows were his computer and printer/fax, his landline telephone, and several thick stacks of folders. The table on the back wall held his enormous flat-screen television, with a dozen or so folding chairs in front of it, theater-style. The office was also large into the game theme,
with a foosball table smack in the center of the room, a Nerf basketball net hung from the bookshelves, and a chessboard on a small table next to the door, right under the dartboard—the latter a gift from Hardy. Farrell had converted the counter under the bookshelves into a well-stocked, completely illegal (alcohol was forbidden everywhere in the Hall of Justice) wet bar complete with a minifridge, sink, and hot plate, and with spirits, wine, beers, a high-end espresso machine, and an assortment of teas. A few weeks into his administration, Treya had convinced him to bring in some real chairs, a couch, and a coffee table to create two well-defined seating areas—one in chrome and one in leather—in the event that guests wanted to sit down at any point.

  When Hardy entered, Farrell was drying his face over the sink. He was wearing brown slacks over worn-down, scuffed-looking brogues, no jacket, and no tie. His white dress shirt had its top buttons undone over his T-shirt, and this Hardy took as a cue. “Drum roll, please, for today’s secret message,” he said by way of hello.

  Farrell hesitated only a moment before he put down his towel, nodded agreeably, undid two more buttons, and opened his shirt, under which his T-shirt read: SMITH & WESSON: THE ORIGINAL POINT-AND-CLICK.

  Hardy, a longtime fan of Wes’s T-shirt fetish, nodded in appreciation. “What happens when you run out of those things?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Couldn’t happen. The themed T-shirt market is unending. I get six or eight a day from my legions of fans. If it stops tomorrow, I’m good till I’m seventy-five.” He started buttoning up his dress shirt. “So how’ve you been? How’re things at the old office?”

  “Good and good. Phyllis sends her love.”

  “Ah, Phyllis. The things we never thought we’d miss.”

  “You miss Phyllis?”

  “Actually, no, not specifically. I think I was talking about those carefree days of yesteryear back when Phyllis was the worst thing we were likely to encounter on any given day. Here, every fifteen minutes, we get people who make Phyllis look like Mother Teresa.”

  “So you take naps to avoid them?”

  “Hey.” Farrell pointed a warning finger. “I deserve some rest when I get up at four-fifteen, as I did today. And even with the nap, trust me, I’ve already filled the asshole quotient for the whole day.”

  “Having to do, by any chance, with the bar busts last night?”

  Farrell squinted. “As a matter of fact, exactly. Are you on that?”

  Hardy nodded. “Ed Benson called me a few hours ago, begging for conflicts attorneys. Naturally, I volunteered to do my public duty.”

  “For which I, public servant extraordinaire, am deeply grateful.”

  “But really. You charged these turkeys? Underage drinking?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, trust me.”

  “So who do we both have to thank, then?”

  “You are aware, I presume, of our esteemed supervisor, Liam Goodman?”

  Hardy sat on the arm of the couch. “I thought it might’ve been him. I’m just a little surprised you okayed the warrants.”

  Farrell waved him off. “Don’t get me started on politics. Goodman wanted felony arrests, Diz. I’ll spare you the conversation we had. As for people knowing it was Goodman behind it, there won’t be any doubt by tonight. He’s going to be all over the news, local and national, taking whatever credit he can.” Farrell had come over to the foosball table. He took the ball from its spot under the goal and dropped it on the table, lined up a shot, and viciously spun the handle. Score.

  Farrell looked over at Hardy. “As though the city doesn’t have enough problems. We had three murders last night, you know that? Three. I don’t even know how many assaults and break-ins and drug deals and muggings and random mayhem, all of it more or less serious, and what do I get a call about? The scourge of underage drinking. Are you kidding me?”

  “Twelve arrests,” Hardy said.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’ve already gotten an earful from everybody from the sheriff to the mayor, including my beloved girlfriend. Why was the city moving on this? Why wasn’t there any warning? Wasn’t this a little bit of an overreaction to a nonissue? Was I really going to prosecute all these people? On the other hand, if I wasn’t, why not, since they all broke the law I’m sworn to uphold. Meanwhile, I am as in the dark as anyone except Mr. Goodman about the real reason he wants these warrants. All I know is that he does.”

  “So what did Goodman do? To make all of this happen?”

  “I’ve got a better one: why did I want this job?” Farrell took a chair across from where Hardy sat. “But Goodman? He’s having trouble getting his name in the papers. This is going to fix that, believe me. My guess is he knows somebody high up in Special Ops with the ABC and talked him into these busts. We’re going to find out soon enough.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Farrell dredged up a weary smile. “You mean am I going to prosecute these people to the fullest extent of the law? Shit, no. But I had to go forward. That’s the beauty of all this. Goodman’s got me completely squeezed. If I decline to prosecute, citing the unnecessary cost in dollars and manpower to my already understaffed and underfunded office, then I’m soft on policing these violating premises that not only serve booze to kids but also deal in illegal narcotics and fence stolen property and are hotbeds of other vice and criminal activities. Since I am in fact underfunded and understaffed, I’d like to concentrate my efforts on people who are doing a lot worse things, and which, if I don’t, will affect my job approval rating down the line, I guarantee you. It’s a perfect end run.”

  “Slick.”

  “Fucked.”

  “That, too,” Hardy said. “I picked up a client who’s more than a little freaked out about a felony conviction and going to jail. The guy’s a bartender, right? There’s somebody at the front door checking IDs. You tell me how a bartender is supposed to know how they got the stamp on their hand.”

  “I hear you,” Farrell said. “And we know nothing is really going to happen. But I don’t see how I’m going to go up against the ABC and Goodman and blanket say I’m going to dismiss all of ’em. Best possible outcome, from your perspective, is bide your time and all the bullshit goes away.”

  “Bide your time long enough, everything goes away, Wes.”

  “True. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

  GLITSKY WAS READING a book at his desk. At Hardy’s knock, he looked up, his expression blank almost to the point of nonrecognition. After a slight hesitation, his lips went tight, his shoulders settled, he closed the book, and he leaned back in his chair. “What up, Diz?”

  From the open doorway, Hardy said, “I was just downstairs and saw your wife, which reminded me that you were alive and kicking and maybe I should drop by and brighten up your day.”

  Glitsky cocked his head at the windows high up in the wall to his left. Outside, the sky was gray. “It’s not working.”

  Hardy came forward a few steps. “Sometimes it takes a minute for the full brightening power to take effect. What are you reading here in the middle of the afternoon, which I’m sure is against some regulation or other?”

  Glitsky seemed surprised to find the book on his desk. “Steve Jobs. Totally allowed. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. I just thought I’d say hi. You and I haven’t gotten much quality time in lately, maybe you’ve noticed?”

  Glitsky sat back, then said, “Why don’t you shut the door.”

  Hardy did, then pulled up a folding chair in front of Glitsky’s desk. “You’re still pissed off,” he said.

  “More worried than anything.”

  “Abe,” Hardy whispered, “it was six years ago.”

  Glitsky sat back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach. “That’s what worries me, Diz. The three of you there, thinking, ‘Hey, it’s been six years. We’re cool. Nobody cares anymore. Nobody remembers.’ Guess what?” He let out a breath. “Even you and me, right now. This is a topic that must never come up.”


  “It didn’t. We never talked about it. The actual event.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” Glitsky straightened up. His hands went to the sides of his head. “Diz. Please. Lord.”

  “So that night at Sam’s—”

  Glitsky cut him off. “It shouldn’t be in anybody’s consciousness. It shouldn’t be the kind of thing that has any chance of coming up in casual conversation, because after all, six years have gone by, and this is ancient history. God forbid your brother-in-law falls off the wagon. I can hear him now, letting on to somebody across the bar—”

  “Abe. Mose hasn’t had a drink in years.”

  His voice in tight control, Glitsky said, “He’s an alcoholic, Diz. He admits that himself. Every day at his meetings. You know how nervous it makes me feel to know that my future is a couple of ounces of Scotch away from being destroyed?”

  Hardy crossed an ankle over a knee. “A little dramatic, Abe, don’t you think?”

  “No. I don’t. It’s well within the realm of possibility.”

  Hardy sighed. “I’ll talk to him, not that he needs reminding. Would that help?”

  “Honestly, probably not. I’m not saying it would come out in everyday life if everything stays the same. But if something changes and he stresses out and starts drinking . . .”

  “He’s not going there.”

  “Famous last words.” Glitsky glared at his friend, arms crossed over his chest. “Actually, the last thing you should do is talk to Moses about it, put it in the front of his brainpan as something he has to deal with. We’ve just got to hope he doesn’t leak. For that matter, we have to hope that none of us leaks for the rest of our lives. Gina’s great, but she writes books. What if she wakes up one day and decides this would be a great plot? What if one of us gets religion and feels the need to confess publicly? It’s so easy in the movies—you blow away the bad guys, and they roll the credits and never think about it again. This situation isn’t like that. Not even close.”

  “Well, while I don’t worry about Moses and you do, Frannie bought half a steer and wants me to cook it on Sunday, and we wondered if you guys wanted to come over and help us eat it. Moses won’t be there.”