The First Law dh-8

by John Lescroart

  "Dick, I've been incorporated for thirty years, and my dad before that."

  "I know, I know." Kroll sighed. "But apparently they argued that the corporation is undercapitalized, among some other technical points. Also, since you're the only shareholder and you control the company's day-to-day workings on your own, they said the corporation is being maintained not as a legitimate entity but as an artificial dodge to avoid personal liability."

  "Artificial my ass. I donate to all these charities through the corporation. I pay my guys and my bills with corporate checks. The corporation's as real as a heart attack, Dick."

  "I agree with you, Wade, and certainly that's what I'd argue in front of a jury, and I might even prevail. But the judge ruled that it would have to be decided by a jury, so that's what we're dealing with."

  "And if we lose, then what?"

  "Then you're exposed. Personally."

  Panos seemed to go into another kind of trance.

  "It gets worse, I'm afraid," Kroll said. "It also means you'll be deposed before the jury gets to hear anything. You and me go up to Freeman's office, there's a court reporter taking everything down, and you're under oath."

  Panos opened his eyes again, but didn't respond. Folding his hands in his lap, he took a breath.

  The lawyer continued. "It also means that Freeman and Hardy get to ask you where you get your money, all of it. And how you get it."

  This brought a small rise. "So then you object, right?"

  Kroll nodded. "Yes I do. Except in a depo the objection is noted for the record, but you've got to answer the question anyway. And later the judge rules whether the answer is admissible."

  "Later?"

  "Way later."

  Panos's chest rose and fell, long and slow.

  "The point is," Kroll continued, "once they've got you in a depo, they can ask anything. That's how they finally got Clinton, you know. Not because of anything he did with Paula Jones, but because he said under oath that he hadn't had sex with anybody else. Then when Monica came along…"

  Panos held up a hand. "Spare me the history lesson, Dick. What's this mean to me in the here and now? "

  Kroll picked his words carefully. "It means they're going to be able to look at any bank account you have anywhere. It could be-I'm not saying it will be, but knowing Freeman I'd say it's likely-that it's going to be open season on your books, and not just your corporate books. They want your net worth."

  "Why? What's the big deal with my net worth?"

  "That's largely what they base punitive damages on, Wade. The idea is that punitives are supposed to punish, to hurt. The more you're worth, the more they ask, the more-"

  Panos raised his head, stopping Kroll. His face betrayed no deep concern. In fact, it had a controlled calm that, given the circumstances, Kroll found to be a little scary. A small laugh came from deep in Panos's throat. "You remember when this started? You called it a-what was it?- a nuisance lawsuit?"

  "I remember."

  Again, the frightening smile. "I'd say these two sons of bitches have taken it a little further than that, wouldn't you?" He came forward in the chair. "Okay, you're my lawyer, what's your advice now?"

  Kroll appeared to be thinking, although he'd known all along that it would come to this. "We might want to offer to settle now."

  Panos lived with that notion for a beat. Then, "How much?"

  "A few million, at least. Say three, four."

  Panos shook his head, uttered an obscenity. "You think they'll take it?"

  Kroll shrugged. "I don't think I would, especially after this ruling, but it can't hurt to ask. There's no other option really."

  Panos grunted. "There's always another option," he said. He cast his eyes about the room, then settled them on his lawyer. "But you go ahead. Make the offer."

  9

  Dan Cuneo lived in Alameda, across the Bay from 'San Francisco. He had a dentist appointment at eleven o'clock on Monday morning. Though it killed him to miss a day when they might be able to close in on a murder suspect, he also had a strong aversion to spending the day drooling with a numb lip next to his partner.

  He'd read many, many magazine articles and listened to hundreds of hours of psychobabble nonsense about burnout, and the consensus was that if you wanted to avoid it, you had to keep some perspective on real life. Don't be a cop all the time. If you've got an appointment with a doctor, keep it. If you're really sick, stay home. The job isn't everything. So he had finally talked himself into believing that he wasn't abandoning the Silverman case by taking one day off.

  He had accrued eleven extra sick days from the past couple of years-times when the exigencies of the job had won out when he'd been sick. But today he had the damned appointment and as a conscious exercise he had decided, albeit before Silverman had been shot, that no matter what came up-and there would always be something that came up-he was going to keep the appointment. Mental health.

  To quell the voice of his conscience before it could change his mind, he called his partner on Saturday morning and gave him the news that he was calling in sick Monday. Russell, who lived in Sunnyvale, forty-five miles south of San Francisco, took this as an opportunity to make plans to go fishing on the Bay. He had three unused sick days in his bank, and like every other city employee he knew except Cuneo, he believed that it was bad luck to let too many of them pile up. So on Monday he went fishing.

  This morning, Tuesday, after three days out of the office, both inspectors had enormous amounts of busywork waiting for them when they checked in at a little after 7:45-a couple of dozen phone calls for each to return, transcripts of the tapes of witness interviews to proofread for accuracy-and they stayed at their desks for three and a half hours before breaking for lunch, which took up most of an hour at the McDonald's next to the Hall.

  At one, they had to be out at the Academy for a mandatory, previously scheduled four-hour sensitivity training class. Every cop in San Francisco made fun of these attempts to create social workers out of law enforcers. But if you didn't go, your pay got docked.

  Today's topic had been transgender issues, timely and relevant because the city had recently decided to extend the insurance of city workers to cover sex-change operations. This change in policy also brought to light some sensitivity shortcomings among city service personnel. Especially the police, who needed guidelines on how to refer to those of questionable gender during the arrest and booking process. The critical element was the person's self-definition-if someone defined herself as a transsexual, officers should refer to her as a female; if she possessed a penis, however, she should be booked as a male.

  But even with all the education, the concepts remained mostly elusive to some people. Drumming "Wipeout" on the steering wheel as he drove back downtown after the class, dusk descending, Cuneo turned to his partner. "So if I don't want 'em to cut off my dick, I can't be a girl."

  Russell threw him a frown. "You've just failed the course. You realize that?" Then, seeing that Cuneo was apparently sincere, he continued, "It's not a matter of wanting, Dan. You can be all the way to a woman in your brain and still have a dick. You might not want to get rid of it anymore, or it might be too expensive…"

  "Not here. It's covered by insurance."

  "Okay, not here. But most places."

  "If it were me," Cuneo said, "I'd just move here, get a job with the city, lop that sucker right off."

  So it went, variations on the theme until they got back to the homicide detail where Cuneo hoped they could put in some time, finally, on Silverman. At least get caught up if there'd been any developments. But by now, the inspectors had each put in ten hours and he knew Russell was going to want to go home to his family. So more or less casually, Cuneo walked over and stood outside the open door to Gerson's office until the lieutenant happened to look up.

  "Dan, there you are. You and Lincoln got a minute?"

  The room had changed since Glitsky's tenure. It wasn't a large space by any definition, but in the ol
d days the big desk in the center of it had kept any meetings, by necessity, small. There had been one uncomfortable wooden chair across from the desk, affording any visitor maybe three feet of room. Anybody else would have to stand.

  Gerson, by contrast, had installed a modular unit that hugged the back wall and turned the corner, where he had his computer, printer, fax machine and telephone. This arrangement left an open area in the middle of the room, made the office seem larger. The lieutenant was a bass fisherman and had brought in and hung on the walls a few of his mounted trophy fish and several framed promotional photos of boats and fishing equipment. On his last birthday, the unit had pitched in and bought him a mounted plastic bass that, when activated, sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy," and he'd hung it over his computer.

  Now Cuneo, Russell and Gerson sat facing one another on their identical ergonomic rolling chairs. No one looked happy; all seemed angry, or at least worried. Gerson was telling them about Glitsky's input. "He thinks Wade Panos is screwing with your investigation."

  Cuneo, paying attention, was whistling a tuneless melody. Russell, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, asked, "Did he say why?"

  "No, not really, nothing substantive. Just that Panos doesn't have a great rep."

  Cuneo stopped whistling. "The guy's a major philanthropist. What's he talking about?"

  "I think he's talking about some of his guys, the beat patrolmen."

  "What about them?" Russell asked.

  A shrug. "Some of them, sometimes, get a little enthusiastic, it seems. Play a little rough with the residentially challenged, roust 'em out of their neighborhoods."

  "Good for them," Russell said. "Somebody needs to."

  "It's probably because they don't get the sensitivity training we real cops get."

  "You're joking, Dan," Gerson said, "but you're not all wrong. Evidently it's a legitimate problem, at least enough so Panos is getting sued. He could probably run a tighter ship. But you ask me, the real problem is that Glitsky's old school and Panos isn't a righteous cop, simple as that. He doesn't like the patrols."

  "So Glitsky's take is that Wade Panos himself is personally screwing with our investigation?" Cuneo asked. "Why would he do that?"

  "No idea," Gerson said. "But Glitsky's all over it. He went to Silverman's, you know. And yesterday morning he talked to Lanier."

  "Lanier?" Cuneo straightened up. "What about? What's Lanier got to do with anything? You mean with Silverman?"

  "I don't know." Gerson shrugged. "This Panos thing."

  "What Panos thing?" Russell shot a look at his partner, came back to Gerson. "Are we missing something here, Barry?"

  "I guess Glitsky's wondering why Panos got into it at all."

  "Why?" Russell raised his voice. "I'll tell you why! He came down to Silverman's because one of his employees discovered the body, that's why. Then it turned out he happened to know about this poker game, which was the source of Silverman's stolen money. Next day he gives us names of the players in the game and one of them looks like he's with the guys who did it. What's the problem with that? Tell me that isn't good police work."

  "I can't. It is. I don't have a problem, not with you. Not with the investigation either."

  "I got another one for you, Barry," Cuneo said. "What's any of this to Glitsky anyway? Why would he give any kind of a shit?"

  Gerson pressed his lips together, reluctant to diss a fellow lieutenant. Finally, though, he decided his inspectors needed to know. "My gut feeling is I believe he wants to get back into homicide, though God knows why. His dad knew Silverman. I guess he thought it gave him a wedge."

  "And this helps him how?" Cuneo asked.

  "I don't know, to tell you the truth. The kindest thing I can think is he's really trying to make himself useful somehow. I mean to us, to you. I've been trying to figure it out, but it baffles me." He shook his head. "Or maybe… no."

  "What?" Cuneo asked.

  "Nothing."

  "You were going to say something," Russell said.

  Gerson looked at each of them in turn, considered another moment. "Well, I don't really think this is too likely, but if Glitsky starts to make you guys doubt your sources, maybe you get tentative, don't make the arrests you need to. You look bad, which makes me look bad, and pretty soon they want a new lieutenant up here."

  "And they pick Glitsky out of a hat?" Cuneo asked. "I don't think so."

  "Are you really worried, sir?" Russell asked.

  Gerson was matter of fact. "I can't say I'm losing sleep. But if you guys could bring in a quick collar here, it wouldn't break my heart. I…" He went silent again.

  The inspectors waited. Finally Cuneo said, "What?"

  He sighed with resignation. "When I mentioned this to Batiste, he said there might be something else in play. With Glitsky."

  "What's that?" Russell asked.

  Gerson paused again, lowered his voice. "I'd really like to keep this in this room, between us. All right?" Both inspectors nodded. "Well, it seems Lieutenant Glitsky has a couple of lawyer friends, we're talking good friends, defense lawyers, and they're the guys who are suing WGP. They can't very well have Panos get a lot of press for helping us solve a murder case right now-it'd make him look too good in front of the jury."

  Russell came forward. "And you're saying Glitsky's working for these guys?"

  Gerson backpedaled slightly. "I'm not saying anything. I'm telling you what Batiste mentioned to me as a rumor, nothing more. To the extent it intersects with your investigation here, it's probably worth your knowing, although I don't know how much credence I'd give it. There's also talk that your suspect-Holiday, right?-he's been out working the streets, rounding up witnesses against Panos, too."

  "Why? What would be in it for them?" Cuneo asked.

  "They're asking thirty mil or so, which is ten to the lawyers if they win. Any small percentage of that is a nice payday for whoever was on the team helping them. How's that sound? Plus if we somehow screw up in homicide, maybe Glitsky gets the gig back here."

  "We're not going to screw up, Barry," Russell said. "This one's falling in by the numbers. We brace Holiday in the morning, get him and his partners nervous about each other talking. Then somebody gives somebody up and we bring them all in."

  "You're sure they're it?"

  "The kid, Creed, he basically ID'd them." Russell spread his arms. "Show me anything else, Barry. No, this all fits."

  It was full dark by the time Russell and Cuneo checked out. They planned to arrive at the Ark tomorrow at 10:00. Holiday worked the early shift and they'd catch him there and have a long conversation.

  Cuneo considered trying to talk Russell into going by and leaning on Clint Terry or Randy Wills more that night, but he knew that Lincoln would want to be home, a priority with him. Besides, Cuneo had his own date with Liz from Panos's office, and it made the second date difficult if you blew off the first one at the last minute. Finally, they'd already worked eleven hours today and there'd been nothing but stink about overtime lately. Cuneo knew that everything probably could wait until tomorrow and it wouldn't really make any difference. Certainly, nothing had happened since Friday. Cuneo was always frustrated by the pace of investigations; this case was proceeding as it should.

  The two inspectors had not done any substantive investigative work on the Silverman murder since 8:30 the previous Friday night, when they'd gotten Creed's tentative identification of Terry, Wills and Holiday. It was now 6:30 on Tuesday, ninety-four hours later.

  It was a small but welcome surprise. The attorneys had all finished with Aretha LaBonte's deposition by early evening. Hardy would be home by dinnertime. Up in his office, he called Frannie with the news, then checked his messages-nothing crucial-and packed some file folders into his briefcase. Downstairs, he stopped in the doorway to the old man's office. Dick Kroll, who'd stayed for a little chat, had gone, and Freeman was alone at his desk, lighting the stub of a cigar he'd started early in the afternoon.

  "Do you have any idea
how great it is to be able to walk in here without Phyllis stopping me to ask what I want?" Hardy asked.

  Freeman had the cigar in his mouth and spun it over a wooden match. When he had it going, he drew on it contentedly, then placed it in an ashtray. The firm's longtime receptionist, Phyllis, was a tyrant in the lobby, whose chief role was to block access to Freeman. Hardy's suggestions regarding her termination were a recurring theme that Freeman mostly ignored. "I believe Mr. Kroll is getting concerned," he said with satisfaction, "and not a minute too soon." He gestured ambiguously. "He just offered to settle."

  "How much?"

  "Four million. I must be losing my touch. I had him pegged at three and a half."

  "I remember." Hardy stepped inside the office, sat on one of the chairs. "Still, it seems a long way from thirty."

  Freeman blew smoke. "Yes, it does. Although, as Mr. Kroll points out, it's a mil and change for us right now. He seems to believe that our compensation-yours and mine, the firm's-is the critical factor. He doesn't even consider that it might be about our clients. Or his, really."

  Hardy crossed a leg. "So the four mil, what's that break down to?"

  "Call it almost three hundred grand per plaintiff, which after taxes is a hundred and fifty."

  "Still," Hardy said. "That's real money."

  Freeman waved that off. "Pah! It's gone in a year, maybe two. Besides, it's his first offer. I told him flat no, not even close. But I did learn something."

  "What's that?"

  "Panos has four mil of his own that he's willing to give us, forget the insurance. Where'd he get that kind of money?" He chewed his cigar for a moment. "Anyway, I told him flat out that my intention was to put his client out of business. The man's a common gangster and he knows it."