Nothing but the Truth

by John Lescroart

  As soon as Braun was out of the courtroom, the familiar bedlam began again.

  At this point, all Hardy wanted was a few minutes to talk to his wife, to get Glitsky to one side, but neither of those seemed likely.

  The minute Glitsky left the stand, he paused at Hardy’s desk, opined that he’d rarely had a better time in the witness box, then said the vibrating buzzer had been going off on his belt for the past hour. He’d better go make a few callbacks. He’d passed through the bar rail, back up the center aisle, and out the back doors of the courtroom.

  Meanwhile, Al Valens, apoplectic, was making a racket, demanding that the bailiff let him back to see the judge. All right, he and Damon Kerry—good citizens, respecting their subpoenas—had shown up after voting, but the candidate couldn’t be expected to sit here all day. He had meetings, press conferences, fund-raising . . . there were reporters out in the hallway already writing stories about his appearance here in a courtroom involved in a murder case.

  Baxter Thorne sat in the pew near where he had been standing when they had come in. He was talking to a well-dressed young couple, evidently giving them instructions of some kind, and Hardy was glad that the dapper slimebag had chosen to remain near the back of the room. If he got too close to the man who had set fire to his house, he thought there was still a reasonable chance that he might assault him, and that wouldn’t further his case with Braun.

  A wronged Ron Beaumont wanted to know what Hardy was doing. What was all this witness stuff? How long was this going to take? He’d thought that Hardy’s idea was to argue for Frannie’s release, and Ron would be there to make sure she no longer was bound by her promise to him. Then somehow Hardy was going to get him out of here before Randall or Pratt could stop him. But he’d noticed the guards at the doors and now he’d seen Pratt talking to another one, who had come down to the end of his pew. What was he supposed to do now?

  Hardy calmed him as best he could, explaining that he was laying groundwork for the judge. Glitsky’s testimony, of course, didn’t legally prove that a bullet from the same gun had killed both Griffin and Canetta. This proceeding wasn’t about proof anymore, although Hardy still hoped that that might come later. It was about the DA’s judgment and tactics and Braun’s faith in them or lack thereof.

  “That’s the only thing that’s going to get you out of this courtroom a free man, Ron. If Braun decides that Randall needs a stronger case to even consider you as a suspect. And now at least I’ve got her listening.”

  Ron still didn’t like it, but Hardy had never promised him that he would.

  David Freeman kept Frannie chatting at the defense table. They didn’t want her interacting with Ron Beaumont in any way, and it was Freeman’s role to keep her entertained. By the time Braun reentered the courtroom, he had her laughing quietly at one of his stories. During the recess, Hardy had barely had time to get a word in, but as they rose for the judge’s entrance, he took her hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him and nodded. Confident in him, committed.

  Hardy felt he had to establish a few more facts, and introduced into evidence the autopsy and coroner’s reports on the two policemen. Pratt and Randall had no objections to Dr. Strout’s findings as to the causes and times of the deaths.

  Hardy put it orally into the record. “According to the coroner’s report, Your Honor, Sergeant Griffin was shot between ten-thirty and about noon on Monday, October fifth. Ms. Pratt and Mr. Randall both accept this time frame. For the court’s information, this was the same day of Bree Beaumont’s funeral and burial.”

  “All right, Mr. Hardy. Proceed.”

  “I’d like to call Father Martin Bernardin.”

  The priest was in his cassock and collar. He came through the gallery and up to the stand. Somewhere between forty and fifty years old, Bernardin was a trim, gray man with an ascetic’s face. After the clerk had administered the oath, Hardy spent a minute identifying him as the pastor of St. Catherine’s parish, the church where Bree had been buried. Then. “Father Bernardin, do you know Ron Beaumont?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And do you recognize him here in this courtroom?”

  “Yes.” He pointed. “He’s the gentleman in the green suit in the first row over there.”

  Several members of the gallery strained to look at this key player in all these events. There was a low buzz of comment, but Braun rapped her gavel lightly and put an end to that.

  “Now, Father Bernardin. On October fifth, the day of Bree Beaumont’s funeral, did you have occasion to spend any time with Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Yes, sir. I spent most of the whole day with him.”

  This brought the gallery to life again, but this time Braun let the noise die of its own accord.

  Bernardin had already said it, but Hardy walked the priest through the day—the breakfast, mass, burial, lunch at the Cliff House. “In other words, Father,” he concluded, “it is your sworn testimony that you were continuously in the presence of Mr. Beaumont from before seven in the morning until at least two-thirty in the afternoon on October fifth of this year?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Every minute?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And were there other people who you believe could testify to this as well?”

  “Well, yes. His children, some friends. It was a long day, as funerals often are.”

  Hardy stood a minute to let the import of the priest’s words sink in, then whirled and faced Pratt and Randall. “Your witness,” he said.

  What could they do? Here was an absolutely credible man of the cloth providing an unimpeachable alibi for their main suspect. They conferred for a long moment at their table, then Pratt stood. “No questions, Your Honor.”

  Braun told Bernardin that he could step down, took off her glasses, put them back on and looked from Hardy, in the center of the courtroom, to Pratt and Randall at their table.

  “Mr. Hardy?” she said.

  “Your Honor, it’s clear from the testimony of Father Bernardin—and there evidently are several other witnesses who can corroborate his statements—that Mr. Beaumont could not have killed Sergeant Griffin. If that is the case, it follows that he did not kill Sergeant Canetta and, based on our earlier discussion, it can then be assumed that, for the purposes of this hearing, he did not kill Bree Beaumont.”

  Braun’s face was set. “Counsel, approach the bench,” she said.

  When they got there, she turned a hard glare onto Pratt and Randall. “It seems to me, Counsellors, that you have wasted a great deal of this court’s time—to say nothing of Mrs. Hardy’s—when any reasonably thoroughinvestigation into Sergeant Griffin’s death should have turned up this rather obvious alibi.”

  “Your Honor.” Randall was ready with an excuse. “At the time I pursued the contempt charge against Mrs. Hardy, we were unaware of any connection between Bree Beaumont and Sergeant Griffin’s death.”

  Hardy had to get it in. He worked to keep the gloat out of his voice. “A connection provided by Lieutenant Glitsky, I might add, Your Honor.”

  But Braun wasn’t interested in excuses. She was furious. “Turn around and look at this courtroom, Mr. Randall. I said turn around! Ms. Pratt, you might, too.”

  They both halfheartedly did so, and Hardy did, too, noticing that Abe Glitsky had returned to the courtroom. There were other very welcome additions to the gallery as well. Mr. Lee from Heritage Cleaners, even though Hardy hadn’t subpoenaed him, had told Hardy when he’d called this morning that he’d try to make it to the courtroom, and now he had. So, too, at last, had Jim Pierce. He was even now edging his way into one of the rows of seats, accompanied by another of the city’s well-known attorneys, Jared Wright.

  And not a moment too soon, Hardy thought.

  Pratt and Randall came back to facing the judge. “Look at the number of people you have seriously inconvenienced by this irresponsible pursuit not, apparently, of a murderer, but merely of one person whom the police had not yet s
een fit to charge because they had not yet built a case. And now it appears that we know why that was, don’t we?” She shook her head in disgust. “This is appallingly irresponsible behavior.”

  Randall stood silent. Pratt mumbled something.

  As the gallery hummed, Braun dismissed them all back to their tables, then raised her voice. “Mr. Hardy,” Braun said, “I believe I am ready now to rule on your habeas motion.”

  Hardy was rummaging in his briefcase, arranging more papers in front of him on his table. He looked up and spoke in measured tones. “If we can just take a few more minutes?”

  This brought a perplexed frown to the judge’s visage, another rumbling in the gallery. “And do what, Mr. Hardy?”

  He came out from behind his table and stood in front of Braun’s podium. “We have been working on a limited assumption provisionally accepted by both the court and the district attorney that the killer of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta is the person responsible for the death of Bree Beaumont.”

  “Yes?”

  “That assumption, however, is not legal proof that Mr. Beaumont did not, in fact, either commit the latter act, or contract to accomplish the former. Any suspicion that may one day fall upon Mr. Beaumont leaves my client’s future liberty at grave risk. I believe I can eliminate that risk with a few more minutes of the court’s indulgence.”

  The courtroom was stonily silent behind him. Braun removed her glasses and brought one of the earpieces to her mouth. Finally, she stole a glance at her wristwatch and made her decision. “And what do you propose?”

  “I’d like to call one more witness, Your Honor.”

  “One more?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’d like to call James Pierce.”

  40

  “This is ridiculous!”

  Hardy heard Pierce’s grumbled outburst from the back of the courtroom, but as he turned he saw it was Jared Wright now on his feet, objecting. “Your Honor, Mr. Pierce has spoken to the police and their representatives at least a half-dozen times. He has cooperated with every investigation related to the Bree Beaumont case, and he . . .” He was out of his pew into the aisle of the gallery, coming forward.

  Braun gaveled him quiet. “Mr. Wright. If Mr. Pierce has cooperated all that much before, he surely won’t mind doing it one more time.”

  “This is pure harassment, Your Honor.”

  “And why would that be, Mr. Wright?”

  Wright had made it up to the bar rail. “Because Mr. Pierce’s employer, Caloco Oil, has been a contributor to Ms. Pratt’s campaigns and a supporter of her administration.We have seen today the animosity between the police department and Mr. Hardy here, and the District Attorney’s office. As a good citizen, Mr. Pierce responded to Mr. Hardy’s high-handed, last-minute subpoena, but now to endure another round of questioning on these events will serve no purpose. He is not implicated. To imply that he is is reckless at best and criminal at worst.”

  Braun heard him out, then eyed Pierce, who was standing directly behind his lawyer. “Mr. Pierce. You’ve been properly subpoenaed to appear and now called as a witness. Come forward. Mr. Wright, your objection is noted for the record.”

  “Your Honor.” Wright, not giving up.

  “Yes, Counsellor? What now?”

  “I would ask the court’s permission to accompany my client to the witness stand. He has endured several police interviews without the benefit of his attorney, and I believe—”

  Braun held up a hand, interrupting him. “Mr. Hardy, do you object?”

  Hardy didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to say so. “No objection, Your Honor.”

  The oil man hesitated for another instant, then angrily stood up and marched up the aisle, past Hardy, to the witness stand. Wright met him at the rail and now stood at his side. The clerk held the Bible out for him. “State your name.”

  “James Pierce.”

  “Mr. Pierce, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Please be seated.”

  “Mr. Pierce, have we spoken before?”

  The bailiff had pulled up a chair and now Jared Wright sat in it, next to his client. He wasted no time getting on the boards with an objection. “Immaterial, Your Honor.”

  Braun gaveled him quiet. “Overruled. Mr. Pierce?”

  The witness spoke. “You know we have.”

  Hardy was all business. “Your Honor, would you direct the witness to answer the question?”

  Braun did so, Hardy repeated it, Pierce growled out a yes.

  “And on that occasion, when you and I spoke, did you deny having a personal relationship with Bree Beaumont?”

  “No, of course not. I had been her mentor and friend for several years.”

  “Mr. Pierce, did you have an intimate relationship with Bree Beaumont? Sexually intimate?”

  Jared Wright spoke up again. “My client has answered that question a hundred times, Your Honor. He’s—”

  Bam! “Mr. Wright, legal objections, please.”

  “All right, immaterial.”

  It was immaterial, but Hardy had already pulled a rabbit from his hat with Bernardin, and Braun was inclined at this point to let him go for two. “Overruled.”

  Hardy bowed slightly. “Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Pierce, would you like me to repeat the question?”

  This time, Wright whispered something into his client’s ear, but Pierce brushed him aside. “No, I heard it, and the answer, as it’s been every time, is still no.”

  “No, you did not have a sexual relationship with Bree Beaumont?”

  “That’s right.”

  Arms crossed over his chest and sulking at the mistreatment he’d suffered at the hands of the court and his client alike, Wright sat back in the hard chair. Hardy noted the change in affect and took it as a good sign.

  He spun and walked back to his table, fiddled with some papers, left them where they lay. “All right. Did you have a personal relationship with Sergeant Canetta?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “But you did know him, did you not?”

  Pierce shifted in his seat, answered impatiently. “I gather he helped to provide security at some Caloco events. I may have talked to him at those. I really don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember,” Hardy repeated. “And how about Sergeant Griffin? Did he interview you?”

  Pierce hesitated, threw a quick glance toward his attorney. This time, no reaction was forthcoming, so Pierce answered. “Yes, I believe he did.”

  “You believe he did? Don’t you remember?”

  “All right, then. Yes, he did.”

  “And when was that?”

  Another stutter. “I—I’d have to check my calendar. I don’t know exactly.”

  But Hardy was sure. “Perhaps I can help you remember, Mr. Pierce. Wasn’t it directly after Bree’s funeral?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? Do you remember what you did do after the funeral, Mr. Pierce?”

  “Your Honor!” Jared Wright’s short fuse had lit up again. “Your Honor, I must protest. What is Mr. Hardy’s basis for any of these questions? Mr. Pierce isn’t on trial here. He doesn’t have to answer these questions.”

  Braun pondered it for a moment. In actual fact, Pierce’s attorney was right. And while she admired Hardy’s point—he was treating this hearing the same way Scott Randall would conduct a grand jury proceeding— she should not allow this interrogation to go forward. The whole line of questioning was suspect.

  But before she could even tell Wright that he was correct and make some kind of ruling, David Freeman stood and came to Hardy’s rescue. “Your Honor, Mr. Pierce can always take the Fifth.”

  But things here were getting out of control. She tapped her gavel and glared over her podium. “Gentlemen, sit down. This is my courtroom and I will instruct in the law.” She turned to look down on the witness. “Mr. Pierce, if
you feel that your answers will tend to incriminate you, you may invoke the Fifth Amendment. Do you wish to do so?”

  Sweat had broken out on Pierce’s forehead and seemed to surprise him as he wiped a couple of fingers across it. If he took the Fifth, he knew that his troubles with the law would only be beginning—the police investigation going forward would be relentless.

  Everyone had lost track of Wright’s objection that the original question was immaterial.

  Hardy felt he could almost see the thoughts playing in the man’s head, deciding to take his chances here and now—put an end to the accusations and suspicions. It was a joy to watch. Pierce was successful, arrogant, insulated by money and position, and his worldview simply didn’t include the notion that mere mortals could best him in a fair fight. This was because there could never be a fair fight.

  Pierce assumed a fighting pose—a palm down on the railing to the witness box—and spoke up to the judge. “I have nothing to hide, Your Honor, though I deeply resent these questions.”

  And Braun had to admit that by permitting Hardy to continue without any evidentiary base, she was opening herself up to rebuke. But lawyers can ask anything they want unless the other party objects, and Pierce was answering.

  “Your resentment, which is not a legal objection, is noted.” Braun turned her attention to Pierce’s tormentor. “Mr. Hardy,” she said sternly, “I will tolerate more questions only if you can provide the court with some kind of evidentiary framework. Otherwise, I’m going to dismiss this witness.”

  Hardy stood still for a moment. “Of course, Your Honor.” He returned to his desk and this time brought a small handful of pages back with him. He first showed them to the judge, then handed a copy of one of them to the witness. “Mr. Pierce, do you recognize this document?”

  Pierce gingerly held the paper out in front of him. His shoulders slumped visibly. Wright grabbed the paper from his client while Hardy kept talking. “Would you tell the court what this document is, Mr. Pierce?”