Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s about right.’

  ‘That’s exactly right, according to your file. Am I missing something?’

  ‘I hadn’t counted them.’

  ‘Perhaps prelim work isn’t worthy of your time.’

  Hardy stood in the classic at-ease position. ‘This is about the article.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘That’s right. It’s about the article.’

  ‘The quote was out of context.’

  ‘It happens all the time. I’m wondering why you found it proper to be discussing this matter with the press at all.’

  ‘I found the hand. I thought the reporter was going for something a little more human interest.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear he was. It appears you got yourself sandbagged.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it does.’

  ‘So I’ve instructed Mr Drysdale to send a little more prelim work your way. The way we do it, we like to have our attorneys work on the cases they get assigned, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Mr Drysdale will be doing the assigning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And it would be good policy and a good habit to acquire if you prefaced any remarks you ever make to a reporter with the words “This is off the record.” Understood?’

  Hardy nodded and agreed until he was dismissed.

  * * * * *

  Though Hardy didn’t like him, Aaron Jaans was a decent, even well-respected, attorney. In response to what he considered Hardy’s outrageous offer, he had requested that they talk to a judge in superior court rather than municipal court, before there was even a preliminary hearing to determine whether Hardy’s offer would be made to stick. As a courtesy, Hardy had complied with the request.

  Now they were in Judge Andy Fowler’s courtroom and Esme Aiella stood before the bench, next to Aaron Jaans. She was wearing a skin-tight blue tube that began an inch above her nipples and ended four inches below her crotch. Her hair had been straightened and dyed a shade of red that did not occur in nature.

  ‘Ms Aiella,’ the judge was saying, ‘the facts of this case seem to speak for themselves, but before I make any ruling whatever, I want to hear from you that you are not interested in reducing grand theft, the charge against you, from a felony to a misdemeanor.’

  Esme stood silent, her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Ms Aiella!’

  ‘I don’t believe you asked her a question, Your Honor.’

  Fowler glared at Aaron Jaans, threw a glance at Dismas Hardy, who was standing to Jaans’ right, then spoke again, looking directly at Esme. ‘Ms Aiella, the court directs you to speak up. Can you hear me clearly?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Would you please use words? Can you hear me clearly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your Honor, my client —’

  Fowler held up his palm. ‘Mr Jaans, I am speaking to your client directly, is that clear?’ Without waiting for a response, the judge continued. ‘Now, Ms Aiella, you are in a bad situation here. I must tell you that the charge of grand theft is very serious. If you are convicted, there will not just be a fine, there is the possibility — the very real possibility — of going to prison. Do you understand?’

  The hand came away from her mouth. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do you care about that?’

  She shrugged. ‘It don’t matter.’

  ‘Going to prison doesn’t matter?’

  Esme shrugged again.

  Fowler looked over at Hardy. Clearly, it didn’t matter. Lecturing, arguing or threatening wasn’t going to make any difference. The judge’s eyes roamed the back of the courtroom for a moment, then he brought down his gavel. He indicated that Hardy follow him to his chambers. The court will take a brief recess.‘

  * * * * *

  ‘There’s no hope,’ the judge said. It was a statement so atypical of Andrew Bryan Fowler that Hardy couldn’t immediately reply. There was nothing about the judge that suggested he could ever think there was no hope. He looked, as always, terrific. His thick black hair was peppered with enough gray to suggest wisdom, but not at the expense of advanced age. As a teenager he’d modeled for the Sears catalog, and his tanned face still had those fine All-American lines. His gray-blue eyes were penetrating, chin strong, teeth perfect, nose straight.

  Andy’s handmade blue dress shirt was wrinkle-free, even under his robes, and the gold cufflinks customized with his initials, ABF, provided just the right tone for a judge.

  The cufflinks were often visible as Fowler sat on the bench, his fingers templed at his lips, listening to an argument he would later recall nearly verbatim. The cufflinks added to what the Romans had called gravitas —the nearly indescribable quality that rendered a man’s acts and judgments significant. On the bench, His Honor Andy Fowler possessed gravitas in spades.

  Here, in his chambers or at home, it was different, but not so very different. Hardy hung out around the house in jeans and a sweatshirt — in his bartending days, he’d been happy in tennis shoes, old corduroys, t-shirts. Even now, in one of his three new suits, Hardy was aware of the knot of his tie at his Adam’s apple. Andy, by contrast, would arrive at a Sunday barbeque in pressed khakis, tasseled cordovan loafers, dress shirt and blazer, sometimes with a tie. When Andy played tennis, which he did well and often at the Olympic Club, he wore whites. Hardy guessed he slept in tailored pyjamas and wore a bathrobe and slippers to have his coffee alone in his kitchen.

  Hardy picked the paperweight off the desk. It was a strange and beautiful piece of light-green jade, nearly translucent, oddly shaped, with sea birds and whales etched in light relief on the highly polished surface.

  Fowler was hanging his robe in the corner. He turned around. ‘I don’t like to do this to you, but even without this girl’s cooperation, we’re not going with felony grand theft on this.’

  ‘We’re not? Why not?’

  ‘Because this kind of entrapment will not wash in my department, Diz. Chris Locke knows this. Art Drysdale knows it. I don’t know why they keep sending these turkeys up here to Superior Court.’

  The judge was getting to be infamous around the Hall for his views on entrapment. His popularity, once very high, had suffered for it, but he was opposed to putting people away for crimes he thought they wouldn’t have committed without a push from the police.

  ‘The woman,’ he said, ‘picks up a John in

  Union Square

  and they go to his hotel room. The television set in the room is, surprise, really a video camera, and when our boy goes out of the room to the bathroom, we get a lovely picture of Esme Aiella taking his wallet, which happens to contain just enough American dollars to constitute what the law calls grand theft.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Because I like you, I run a bluff like I just did. Who knows, maybe she’ll give up her pimp. But she’s not going to give up her pimp — there’s no way. So now this goes back to what it is — a misdemeanor prostitution that should not take up time in my courtroom.’

  ‘She did steal the money, Andy.’

  ‘Diz, they all steal. Why do you think prostitution’s illegal in the first place?’

  ‘So we just fine her and forget it?’

  Fowler’s shoulders sagged. ‘Every single day of the year we fine ’em and forget ‘em. There’s just no hope,’ he repeated.

  The heft and balance of the paperweight felt incredibly good. Hardy sat down with it, passing it back and forth in his hands. The judge walked to one of the two windows behind his desk and crossed his hands behind his back.

  Hardy got up, put the paperweight back in its spot and went and stood next to the man who’d been his father-in-law for five years. ‘Andy, are you all right?’

  The judge sighed. ‘Sure, I’m fine.’ He flicked his smile back on. ‘See?’

  Fowler didn’t talk about there being no hope, but if he didn’t want to talk at the moment, Hardy wasn’t going to push it. ‘So what about next time with Esme Aiella? Don’t we eve
r get the hammer?’

  The judge stared at nothing out his grimy window. ‘Cure her, you mean?’ His laugh was more a bitter snort. Fowler parted the shades of his window as if looking for something. Not seeing it, he moved back to his desk, into his red leather chair. ‘A girl like Esme, all the girls like Esme, they’re turning tricks because nothing matters anyway. Their pimp is their father. He beats them and sleeps with them.’

  ‘You think Esme’s father was sleeping with her?’

  Fowler reached for the paperweight now himself, nodding. ‘Or her brother, or uncle, or all of the above. Women in the trade, they were broken in at home. And on the flip side, if their daddy was screwing them, even if they don’t go into it full-time, they’ll turn a trick or two. It’s cheap psychology, but it’s in every profile.’

  Hardy knew it was true. He remembered the interview he’d read where some reporter had asked a prostitute whether she had been abused as a child. And the woman had laughed. That was her response — laughter that the guy could be so dumb as to even ask that question. ‘Honey,’ she’d replied, ‘not “abused”. Fucked, hit, messed with, and that’s everybody I know. Every single girl in the trade.’

  ‘So there’s no hope,’ Hardy said.

  ‘I wouldn’t hold my breath.’ The judge absently cupped the paperweight in his hand, bouncing it with a dull thump on the desktop.

  A minute had passed. Fowler continued to tap the paperweight against the desk. Then, as if they’d been talking about it all along, he said. ‘Yeah, something’s eating me, I suppose.’ He put the jade down, swiveled in his chair. ‘I’m not myself, Diz. I feel like an old clock who’s run out of spring.’

  ‘How long’s it been since you’ve had a vacation?’

  Fowler snorted. ‘A real vacation? A year ago August. But I just spent last weekend in the Sierras, put some miles on the hiking boots, didn’t see a soul.’ Fowler put the paperweight down. ‘Here I am back in civilization and it doesn’t seem to have helped a bit.’

  Hardy nodded. ‘Couple of years ago, I was feeling the same way, so I went on the wagon and flew down to Cabo for two weeks.’

  ‘Did that make you feel better?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Fowler smiled. ‘Well, that’s a big help. Thanks.’

  ‘It did pass, though. Other stuff came up.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. The problem is, life keeps going on while you’re waiting for that other stuff.’ Suddenly, almost with a jolt, the judge straightened up. ‘Oh, listen to me. A little case of the blues and His Honor becomes maudlin.’

  ‘His Honor’s allowed to get down just like anybody else. You getting out at all? Having any fun? Want to come over and see my new family, have some dinner?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Diz, but thanks. I’d keep seeing you with Jane, thinking about what might have been.’ Hardy’s first marriage, to the judge’s daughter, had ended in divorce. ‘If you want to play some squash though, I’d be happy to whip you at the Olympic.’ Fowler was up now, going back to his robes.

  Hardy reached over and picked up the paperweight again. ‘Deal,’ he said. Then, ‘Where’d you get this thing?’

  Fowler turned. ‘What —?’ But seeing what, his face darkened, uncontrolled for a second. ‘Why don’t you take it?’ he said.

  Hardy went to put it down. ‘No, I can’t —’

  ‘Diz, take the damn thing. Put it in your pocket. I don’t want to see it anymore.’

  ‘Andy —’

  ‘Come on, Diz, let’s pack it up. I’ve got a courtroom waiting for my august presence.’ He brushed by in a swish of robes. Stopping at the door, he held it open for Hardy. ‘I’ll call you when I get a court. For squash.’

  * * * * *

  True to his word, Locke saw that Hardy got more prelims. Five new special assignments were in his box when he got back from court. He sighed, pulled the paperweight from his pocket and picked up the telephone. The files could wait.

  Jane Fowler worked as a buyer for I. Magnin. She was getting ready to go out to lunch, but she took his call. He hadn’t talked to her since his marriage to Frannie — which he thought was understandable. The idea of platonic friendship with an ex-spouse made them both uncomfortable, and the last time they’d seen each other, before Hardy and Frannie had gotten engaged, they slept together, which also didn’t make things easier.

  Hardy and Jane had loved each other for several years. They had had a lot of good times, then had endured the death of their son together. But after that, Hardy had lost faith in everything, and if a marriage needed anything, it was faith.

  So they’d gotten divorced. Then, after nearly a decade’s separation, they’d reconnected for a few months, long enough for them both to realize that another try at marriage wouldn’t work. They wanted different things out of life now, and if they were still attracted to one another, Hardy thought it would be bad luck to confuse that with what he had with Frannie.

  Jane sounded as she always did — refined and composed. Shades of her father.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you. It’s okay to miss you a little, isn’t it? Are you all right? Is everything okay?’

  Hardy laughed. ‘I’m fine, Jane. Everything’s peachy with me, but I just got out of a meeting with your dad. Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I almost called you about it last week, but I didn’t know how you’d feel about that. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.’

  ‘You can call me, Jane. What’s going on with Andy?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’m really a little worried. He asked me over to his house for dinner last week and he was so distracted or depressed. Slower. I thought maybe he was just showing his age finally.’

  ‘He wasn’t any slower from the bench. It was only back in chambers, on his own time.’

  ‘I thought he might have had a small stroke or something.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  Jane laughed. ‘You know Daddy. The Great Deny-er. He’s picking at his food, hardly talking, and I ask him if he’s all right, and of course he’s just fine, couldn’t be better. And then he got drunk.’

  ‘Andy got drunk?’

  ‘You remember the time you and Moses drank a watermelon full of gin? The answer is no, you don’t remember anything about it.’

  ‘I remember the hangover.’

  ‘Okay, that, but up till the last time I saw Daddy, I’d never seen anybody so drunk since then.’

  Hardy whistled. The watermelon drunk had become part of Moses and Hardy lore. If Andy Fowler had gotten that drunk, he was not himself. Something was seriously wrong.

  ‘Did he give you any idea what was bothering him?’

  ‘No. He just said he deserved a little fun in his life. What was the matter with a judge being human too? Then he started drinking cognac, talking about Mom and when I was a baby and all the decisions he’d made not to have fun while he got to be a lawyer and a judge and now his life was almost over… Anyway, finally he just got all slurry and I put him to bed.’ The line was silent for a second. ‘I’m glad you noticed something, too. It wasn’t just me.’

  ‘No. I don’t think it was just you. Anyway, I’m here to help if something comes up. Just so you know. Maybe I’ll play some squash with him, feel him out a little.’

  There was another pause. ‘Thanks for calling,’ she said. ‘We’re still friends?’

  ‘We’re still friends. We’re always friends, Jane.’

  After they hung up, Hardy took the jade paperweight out of his pocket and put it on his desk. Why would Andy have just given him — hell, not just given, demanded he take — such a beautiful piece?

  Well, enough about Andy Fowler, he thought. Time to go to work. He reached for the new case folders and pulled them in front of him. He opened the first one — a DUI, driving under the influence, the influence in this case being alcohol. Eleventh offense. Level of point nine, which last year wasn’t illegal. Hardy closed the file,
squared the small stack on the middle of his desk, put the paperweight on top of it and decided to go to lunch.

  6

  Art Drysdale was juggling baseballs in his office. In his youth, he’d played a couple of weeks as a utility man for the San Francisco Giants, capping a five-year career in professional baseball before turning to the law. Now he coached a Police Athletic League teenage baseball team and played a little B-League men’s softball at nights.

  He liked juggling. He could do it blindfolded if he had to. It also tended to disarm anyone watching him, such as Dismas Hardy, who was standing in the doorway in the early afternoon.

  ‘Pretty great stuff you threw me there,’ Hardy said. ‘There’s even one guy who might have done something wrong, as opposed to illegal.’

  Art kept juggling, not looking at the balls. ‘Illegal is wrong. D.A.’s Handbook, Chapter One.‘

  ‘I like the woman who didn’t use her pooper scooper. We ought to really throw the book at her.’

  ‘Doggy doo on the street.’ Drysdale gathered the balls in, held them in one huge hand. ‘Heck of a nuisance. We’ve got to enforce those leash laws. Next thing you know packs of wild hounds are destroying our society.’

  Hardy came in and sat down. ‘But seriously, Art —’

  ‘No, but seriously, Diz.’ He moved forward in his chair. ‘You are not making friends here. Friends is how we like to do it. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. It’s a big office, what with the police and the D.A. and the Coroner all here in one big happy building. Now, in one swell foop you have pissed off Rigby, Strout and Locke. This is not good politics.’

  ‘Politics is not —’

  Drysdale held up a hand and three baseballs. ‘I know you’ve been out of the desk-job environment a while now, but any office, I don’t care where, call it what you want, there is politics. Cooperation gets things done. You alienate the chiefs of three departments, I guaran-goddamn-tee you, you will not have job satisfaction.’