The Second Chair

by John Lescroart

  “But then after Christmas, you got back together?”

  “Right.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Again, the lick of pride. “She convinced me there was no reason for me to be jealous.”

  “In other words,” Wu put in, “you started having sex.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “But in the story,” Hardy wasn’t letting this go, “Julie having sex with Trevor didn’t make any difference. In fact, it only fueled his jealousy.”

  “Right. But that’s not what happened with us.” Suddenly, he brightened. “In fact, ask Lanny about that. He’ll tell you.”

  “What?” Wu asked. “About you having sex with Laura?”

  “No.” The question rankled him. “I didn’t tell him about that.” He read doubt in both their faces. “That’s the truth! I didn’t brag about it. Laura and I . . . that was private. It was nothing like in the story at all. That was another reason I didn’t think I could send the thing out—those descriptions, they would have hurt Laura’s feelings. That’s not how we were. That’s how Trevor was. Don’t you guys see that?”

  Hardy prompted him. “We were on Lanny.”

  “I never said a thing to Lanny. I’ve never told anybody about me and Laura, in fact, until right now. Nobody even knows we’d gone that far. It was only between us.”

  “Okay.” Hardy, unimpressed with Andrew’s vision of his own virtue, pressed the inquisition. “So what do we ask Lanny about?”

  “Whether I was jealous anymore after we got back together. I didn’t have to tell him why, about the sex, I mean. But I did tell him that all the jealousy was over.”

  “But you still kept the gun in your backpack? And while we’re at it, you want to tell me how a spent shell casing, I’m assuming from your father’s gun, got into your car?”

  “I think that must have just been bad luck. When I first took the gun, I wanted to see what it felt like to shoot it, so I drove out to the beach one night and fired it a few times.”

  “From inside the car?”

  “Just outside. One casing must have kicked out and gone back in through the window.”

  “It must have,” Hardy said. “But it still leaves you with the gun in your backpack for at least several weeks after you say you had no intention of using it, except of course,” Hardy paused, “for your motivation.”

  “I should have put it back. I see that now. Oh, and another thing I just remembered . . .”

  “You just remembered?” Hardy said. “Don’t start remembering things now, Andrew.”

  “No, about the story, another thing I would have done, definitely, that Trevor did when he went for his walk. He made it a point to talk to the clerk in that store. Remember that?”

  “Vividly,” Hardy said. “What of it?”

  “On my walk, on my real walk that night, I didn’t do that. I didn’t stop in some store and establish where I was. And I would have, don’t you see? Trevor thought of it, so I would have.”

  “Terrific,” Hardy said. “There’s progress. The problem we’re on, though, is still that you didn’t put the gun back in your father’s drawer. And Mr. Salarco happened to see it at Mooney’s.” He paced three steps to the wall, turned around. “Andrew, I promise you I’m a lot gentler than anybody else you’re going to talk to in the courtroom. I want to get your answers down here so we can have an opportunity, perhaps, to . . . give them a more positive slant if and when you get up in front of the judge. Are you with me?”

  “What’s my other option?”

  Hardy snapped his reply. “I’ve already told you that. Your other option is pleading guilty as Amy suggested at the beginning if—and this is a big if—they’ll still do the deal. You want that? No? All right, so here’s my last question. Did Laura in fact wind up staying at Mooney’s once in a while after you left? To your knowledge, did he ever drive her home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just like in your story?”

  “Well, except they didn’t . . .” He hesitated.

  “Have sex? Are you sure about that?” When he didn’t answer immediately, Hardy pounced. “Yes! The answer’s yes, Andrew. You’re sure about that. If you ever get on the stand, there is no doubt at all. Do you understand?”

  Cowed, the client nodded. “If I’m not sure, the jury will think I’ve still got a motive.”

  His mouth a tight line, Hardy nodded. “Good, Andrew. That’s correct. And you know for sure they didn’t have sex because you and Laura talked about that, the way you talked about everything, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right.”

  “And because you talked about everything, you knew everything important about her and her life, isn’t that true?”

  Andrew sat back in his chair, suddenly wary. “Pretty much everything, yeah,” he said. “Everything important.”

  “Andrew.” Wu couldn’t wait any longer. “What Mr. Hardy’s getting at is that Laura was pregnant. Did you know that?”

  “That’s what they told me, after the autopsy.”

  “But before that? Didn’t you know she was carrying your baby?”

  Hardy asked him, “You know that DNA sample they took when they booked you? They called with the results before we came up here today. It was yours.”

  “It had to be,” Andrew said. “I know that.”

  “But you didn’t know it while she was alive?” Wu asked. “That she was pregnant? She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  Andrew’s face went slack and told the whole story. He’d just told his attorneys that he and Laura shared everything—their most intimate secrets—but he’d had no clue she’d been pregnant. Hardy, certain that he’d never had a client who was less inherently credible, cast a quick glance at Wu.

  Andrew must have seen it. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

  Hardy rubbed a hand back and forth across his forehead. “This might be a good time to take a break,” he said.

  18

  Hardy left for a lunch meeting, and Wu stayed with Andrew, preparing her witness list, revisiting his alibi, playing devil’s advocate for what she guessed would be Brandt’s attack at the 707 hearing. It continued to be dispiriting work. Getting information and/or cooperation from Andrew was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. It was early afternoon by the time they finished.

  Ray Cottrell was coming up the hill to the cabins when Wu walked out into the sunshine. He got to the gate a few steps before she did, and held it open for her.

  When she thanked him, he took it as an opening. “So how’d it go today?” he asked.

  She made a face, shrugged. “All right, I guess.”

  “Curb your enthusiasm.”

  “You really want to know, he’s pretty depressed.”

  “He’s looking at life in the joint. You’d be depressed, too.”

  “I guess so.” She paused. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You were in court when Andrew wouldn’t plead. When he said he didn’t do it? Well, that’s what’s got him looking at life without.”

  “Okay. What’s the question?”

  She considered her phrasing. “You pretty much know how things work up here. You’ve seen a lot of these kids. I’m thinking Andrew’s got a lock on an eight-year top; he’s got to take it. He doesn’t understand that whatever the actual truth is, it looks like he did it. Almost any jury is going to find him guilty. I don’t understand why he can’t see he can still get out of this. Johnson might still take a plea. Andrew doesn’t have to be looking at life.”

  “He probably thinks it matters that he’s innocent. If he is.”

  She shook her head, frustrated. “That’s so not the point.”

  “He probably thinks it is.”

  “Well, that’s my question. Why can’t he see it isn’t? What matters is playing it to your best advantage. There’s a system here, a way that it works, and it’s not going to work to let him out. So
he should take the best deal they offer, right? Is it only because I’m a lawyer that I see that so clearly?”

  Cottrell stared off somewhere behind her. “Maybe.”

  “Okay. But look,” she said, “even if he’s in fact innocent, he could take the plea and his dad could buy a team of private investigators who might find something that could get him out.”

  “ ‘Might’ and ‘could.’ Not exactly a lock. Eight years, a kid his age, it’s the rest of his life. You ask how he feels, he just wants to get back out. He doesn’t care how it works.”

  She set her jaw. “Here’s how it works, Ray. There’s one rule. Maybe you could help Andrew with it if you two talk.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You listen to your lawyer. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you’re better off.”

  “But there’s that one,” Cottrell said. “If you think the one chance where you’re not better off happens to be you, it’s hard to take.”

  “You still play the odds. You deal with it.”

  For a second, he seemed almost angry with her view of it. But then he shrugged. “Or not,” he said. “Anyway, it looks like you’re feeling better today.”

  The reference took her a minute. “Oh. Than yesterday?” She broke a smile. “I always feel better than I did yesterday. That was the low point of my life.”

  “That’s good news then.”

  “The low point of my life? How’s that?”

  “It’s behind you. Everything’s better from now on.”

  “That’s a nice way to look at it.” She paused, then added, “Though I may never drink again.”

  “Darn,” he clucked with disappointment. “I was going to ask if I could buy you a drink sometime.”

  The comment stopped her cold. Glancing quickly up into the pockmarked face, she cocked her head, sighed as though she meant it. “I’m flattered, Ray,” she said, “I really am. But I’ve got a policy about seeing people with whom I have a professional relationship. I’ve found it’s just not a good idea.”

  “Sure,” he said, “No sweat. It’s cool.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. It’s nothing personal at all.”

  “No,” he said. “Why would it be?” He pointed at the cabins. “Well, I’ve got to get in to work. See you around.”

  If she thought cabs were few and far between downtown, they were an endangered species up here on the hill. Now she waited at the corner of Market, berating herself for more stupidity, being friendly to the bailiff. But again, her actions had been misinterpreted. This was becoming a goddamn trend. She was tired of it.

  No cab.

  She checked her watch. Quarter to two. She’d been standing here for nearly fifteen minutes. She should have called and ordered one. Now she reached down into her briefcase, pulled out her cellphone, flipped it open. Suddenly a purple PT Cruiser pulled up to the curb. She stepped back as the window came down. Brandt was leaning over. “I couldn’t help but notice you standing here when I left the building five minutes ago. Are you waiting for somebody? Where are you going?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Me, too. You want a lift?” He pushed open the passenger door. “Professional courtesy,” he said.

  She started to hesitate, then realized she was being foolish. She could take a ride downtown with him.

  Ray Cottrell was outside on guard duty, watching an inmate basketball game. The court was on the far side of the cabins, at the highest point of the grounds. The fence, topped with more razor wire, ran along a ridge that fell off in about a hundred-foot cliff to Market Street, just below.

  He turned around for a minute and happened to see something familiar in the woman standing on the corner down there. Squinting in the bright sun, he moved to the closest spot on the court for a better look. It was her, all right.

  Uptight lawyers. He should have known.

  “I don’t see people with whom I have a professional relationship.”

  But still, he watched her. Even at this distance, she was a lot easier to look at than anything else he was likely to see today. All dressed up today, but yesterday with the jeans and sweater, he’d seen what she packed under that business suit.

  Man.

  The basketball slammed into the fence a foot in front of him, rattling the chain link, maybe one of the players noticing he didn’t have his eye on them, taking the opportunity to shake him up a little. He shot a glance at the court, everybody getting a kick out of making him jump.

  He ignored them, looked back down for another glimpse of Wu. Still there.

  Then suddenly, he saw Jason Brandt’s car—no mistaking it, that yup-pie piece of shit—pull up from around the corner, come to a stop in front of her. Cottrell watching as she steps back, talks into the passenger-ride window. The door opens, she gets in.

  She doesn’t see people with whom she has a professional relationship, does she?

  Cunt, he thought.

  For the first several blocks, neither of them spoke. Finally, Brandt said, “So where’s your car?”

  “Back at the office. I drove up this morning with Mr. Hardy, but he had a meeting. I told him I’d get a cab.”

  “We don’t see too many cabs up here.”

  “I noticed.”

  They went another block in silence.

  Brandt finally broke it. “So what did your boss want?”

  “To meet Andrew. He’s coming on second chair.”

  Brandt threw a look across the seat. “You okay with that?”

  “We didn’t vote on it.” She forced a small laugh. “I haven’t exactly impressed him at every turn, you must admit.”

  He didn’t comment.

  After a minute, she said, “Anyway, I’ve been distracted.”

  Again, he looked over. She was looking straight ahead, her big briefcase lying flat on her lap, her hand clasped and resting on it. “You might as well know that my dad died a few months ago. I guess I haven’t been myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You should have told me when . . .” The words stopped.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s not the kind of thing you talk about when you’re getting picked up. Especially if you think it’s why you’re letting yourself get picked up.”

  He let that thought hang in the air between them for a minute. “You could have told me,” he repeated.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I didn’t want to find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “If you’d want to deal with baggage.”

  “Yeah, I try to avoid that at all costs.”

  “Me, too.”

  “As you said, we’re the same.” After a moment, he reached out his hand across the seat. “Friends?” he said. “Tentatively.”

  She gave it a second, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I guess so.”

  They shook on it.

  19

  During the previous administration, the preferred firing method for the DA’s office had been a pink slip on your chair while you were out at lunch, or even making a quick court appearance. Just so long as there was no direct confrontation or discussion. You’ve had your job for sixteen years and you’ve got three kids, two just starting college, and you go down to department 22 for fifteen minutes and come back and surprise! You’re an “at will” employee and now you’re fired. Thanks for the memories. The terminated tended to take this so badly that for a period of time the DA actually had an armed investigator posted outside the office in case somebody wanted to lodge a violent, personal protest.

  Boscacci’s more straightforward management style in this regard was making it easier for Glitsky and Lanier. He had held exit interviews for every assistant district attorney he laid off under Jackman, and he’d filed the records of those interviews, as well as other personal data, alphabetically in his secretary’s credenza. This narrowed the list of truly disgruntled ex–assistant district attorneys down from seventeen to three, and Glitsky had assigned those three to the homicide inspectors Belou and Russell.
>
  The other fourteen would be interviewed and otherwise checked out by the General Work officers, although hopes were not high that these interrogations would lead to a break in the case. The last of the Boscacci layoffs had been nearly a year ago. In a back booth under the windows at Lou the Greek’s, Glitsky was telling Marcel Lanier that he didn’t consider it likely that at this remove in time, someone would suddenly get mad enough to kill Allan for it. “ . . . but I think we’ve got to look there anyway. Eliminate the obvious, then move down the list.”

  Lanier chewed at today’s special—pot-stickers cooked up in some kind of yogurt sauce with garlic and paprika over rice. “I’m not sure that these guys are even the most obvious anymore,” Lanier said. “Although yesterday they seemed like a good place to start. If nobody heard the shot, it probably was silenced. And if it was silenced, it was a pro.”

  Glitsky sipped iced tea. “The lab says the Boscacci bullet has scuff marks that could be from a silencer. Not certain, but possible. And if it was a pro, I agree, we lose. But since that’s out of our control . . .”

  For years, Lanier had been a homicide inspector under Glitsky’s supervision, and now they fell into an old and familiar routine. “It wasn’t a robbery,” Lanier said. “So it’s someone he knew. So it’s about motive.”

  “Right. And we eliminate the family?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I agree. And no caseload to speak of. Just one murder, and that one kind of self-enclosed. He mostly assigned cases. That’s the job.”

  “True. But he might’ve been riding herd on some actives. He was also pulling guys to trial who’d been waiting around in the system for a while. He was ramrod for that program.”

  Lanier had a small notebook out and jotted. “That’s real,” he said.

  Glitsky nodded. “Maybe we want to look at who’s coming up the pipeline. Somebody with mob connections—Russian, Chinese, Vietnamese, regular Mafia. I’m not up on the latest. Do any one of them use suppressors more than the others?”

  “Any of them would. Simple business.”

  “All right. Speaking of business, what about the union stuff?”