Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘I’m sorry, Dismas. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘It’s all right. What is it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s a mistake.’ She was backing away again, turning. She lifted a hand, a diffident wave, and walked away.

  ‘Who was that?’ Frannie was up next to him, arm in his.

  ‘Celine Nash. Owen Nash’s daughter.’

  ‘God, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  Hardy tightened his arm around her. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  She bumped her hip against him. ‘What did she want?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she heard I got dumped.’

  She was getting in her car, parked halfway down the street. They both watched her.

  ‘So why didn’t she stay?’

  ‘She’s been sort of unstable since the loss of her father.’ They were going back to the porch. He told Frannie about Celine’s explosion at him the other day, her mood swings. He neglected to mention the after-hours meeting at Hardbodies!

  ‘I know after Eddie I was a bat case.’

  Hardy tightened his hand around her waist. ‘You were a mensch,’ Hardy said. ‘She’s not holding up so well.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be too hard on her.’

  Hardy kissed his wife. ‘I’m not going to be anything on her. I’m fired, remember? All that’s over.’

  Part Four

  38

  Hardy did take Frannie and Rebecca to Hawaii, where they stayed for two weeks.

  In San Francisco the Owen Nash case fell out of the headlines. During August and September there was no outward sign of activity, although Peter Struler (not Abe Glitsky) kept himself very busy on the case that Elizabeth Pullios didn’t want to close; the police department, and Abe, had moved along to other, more pressing crimes.

  Now it had been over three months since Hardy had been fired, and Struler and Pullios had put together their case. When they did finally move, they moved very quickly.

  The sealed indictment was passed down by the grand jury on the morning of Tuesday, October 13. Superior Court Judge Marian Braun read the indictment and decreed that there would be no bail on the bench warrant. In an unusual move, the warrant itself was hand-delivered by the district attorney himself, Christopher Locke, accompanied by assistant D.A. Elizabeth Pullios and Police Chief Dan Rigby, to Lieutenant Frank Batiste of the Homicide Division at 11:45 A.M. Reading it, Batiste sucked in a breath.

  Had this case gone to the grand jury in the normal way, after an investigation by an assigned police officer, service of the warrant would have been assigned to that officer, in this case Inspector Sergeant Abraham Glitsky. But Glitsky, along with the rest of Homicide, was unaware of Peter Struler’s work on behalf of the D.A.‘s office. So the service was assigned to Marcel Lanier, who was lounging around the office waiting for something to happen.

  * * * * *

  Judge Fowler had weathered a cyclone of vitriol and criticism, gossip and embarrassment, but, like all storms, this one had passed. The reprimand he received from the Ethics Committee, due to his long and distinguished career stopped far short of having teeth, and the Bar Association told him that had the May Shinn trial gone on, it would have seriously considered suspension or even disbarment. But in the end, three months later, he was back in the business of the law with a spacious corner office at Embarcadero One — a partner in the firm of Strand, Worke & Luzinski.

  When Wanda buzzed him and told him Officer Marcel Lanier was waiting to see him he said of course, he knew Marcel, send him on in. Fowler hadn’t been completely ostracized at the Hall — a lot of the attorneys and staff saw his side of things, the human side. His colleagues on the bench were less understanding but he’d expected that. There was nothing he could do about it.

  To the cops, the Shinn fiasco had been the district attorney’s screwup, not Fowler’s; it hadn’t gone down as a loss for the police department, except for the false arrest, but the grand-jury indictment had de facto corroborated Glitsky’s judgment anyway, so even that wasn’t an issue.

  Fowler came around his desk and extended his hand to Lanier. ‘How are you doing, Marcel? Social call? How can I help you?’

  Lanier remained standing. ‘No… not a social call, Judge.’

  ‘Andy, please.’

  ‘Judge.’ He took the warrant out of his coat pocket, ‘I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve got a warrant here for your arrest.’

  ‘For my arrest?’

  That’s right, sir.‘

  Andy tried to smile. Marcel Lanier wasn’t smiling. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No, sir. The grand jury issued an indictment against you this morning on the murder of Owen Nash.’

  Fowler found he needed to put his weight back against the corner of his desk. ‘The grand jury,’ he repeated. He had gone pale, poleaxed. ‘Owen Nash?’

  Lanier stood mute.

  Wanda was buzzing again, and Fowler punched the intercom button. ‘It’s your daughter, Judge. Lunch.’

  ‘Just hold her a second —’

  But Jane had already opened the door. ‘Hi, Dad. Oops, sorry. Wanda didn’t say you had a meeting.’ Seeing him so pale, she stopped. ‘Dad? What’s going on?’

  ‘Jane, hon, why don’t you wait outside a minute?’

  ‘Are you all right? What’s happening?’

  ‘I’m fine. Scoot, now. Go.’

  The door closed behind her reluctant retreat. ‘This is ridiculous, Marcel. It’s Locke, isn’t it? Payback time.’

  ‘All I know, sir, is I’ve got to bring you in.’

  ‘Sure, I know, I understand, of course. It’s not you. What in the world do they think they have?’

  ‘Sir, I have to tell you that you have the right to remain silent, and anything you do say…’

  ‘Marcel, please,’ Fowler said, holding up a hand. ‘You have my word I won’t plead Miranda.’

  * * * * *

  ‘It’s got to be pure harassment. Locke swore a thousand times he’d crucify me. Now he thinks he’s got the chance.’

  The crumbs of a hero sandwich littered David Freeman’s desk. The last few bites had been interrupted by Andy Fowler’s telephone call from the Hall of Justice. Fowler hadn’t spoken to him since he’d refused to challenge his department that day last July in the May Shinn matter, but now, in trouble himself, he had called again.

  What Fowler was saying made little sense to Freeman. Christopher Locke might in fact hate Fowler’s guts, but he wasn’t going to take another hit being wrong on a high-profile murder like Owen Nash. They must have found some real evidence. And Freeman knew Fowler had more motive to kill Owen Nash than had ever been even imputed to May Shinn.

  ‘Listen, Andy, I’m not sure I can take this one.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not sure? What would be the problem?’

  ‘Well, two come to mind. I’m not saying no just yet, Andy, but I’m going to have to consider it. Number one, I’m still representing May Shinn in some civil work. I’d want to avoid the appearance of any conflict there.’

  ‘I can’t see how that would apply, David. May and I are totally separate.’

  ‘Yes. Well, the other one is our collusion…’

  ‘Collusion?’

  ‘That’s what it was, Andy, so damn close to conspiracy I still get nightmares. And I believe you know it.’

  ‘There was absolutely nothing illegal about that relationship and you know it.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may, I’m having a little trouble envisioning the two of us together at a defense table and getting anything like reasonable treatment from the bench.’

  ‘So we’ll file for change of venue.’

  Freeman leaned back in his chair and took another bite of his sandwich. Again, he didn’t agree with Andy. Change of venue was called for when you didn’t think you could get a fair trial in a certain locality because of pretrial media coverage or other excessive public awareness of the purported facts in a
case. But it presumed that the prejudice you’d encounter would be on the jury.

  What Fowler was ignoring, and what Freeman knew to be true, was that there wasn’t a judge in the state, perhaps in the country, who didn’t know what he’d done, and wouldn’t be prejudiced against him for it. He was this year’s legal Benedict Arnold.

  Any judge of Freeman’s acquaintance, and he knew most of them, would be far tougher on one of their own — on an Andy Fowler — than they would on other miscreants, all other things being equal. Andy Fowler had, in their official view, befouled their collective cave, and David Freeman understood that. It would be this side of a miracle if Fowler could get a fair trial anywhere, and with Freeman, his colluder, beside him, the chances became more remote.

  ‘Venue is an issue all right, Andy. But I’ll really have to give this some consideration.’

  ‘Meanwhile, David, what do you recommend?’ Freeman was surprised to hear the note of anger in the judge’s voice. There was nothing personal here, and Fowler must know that.

  ‘I could recommend an interim counsel, Andy. Several, in fact. What did they set bail at?’

  Fowler clipped it. ‘There’s no bail on the bench warrant. They want to be sure I’m here for the arraignment. Look, David, my two minutes are about up and I need some representation here.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Freeman put down the receiver and popped the last bite of his sandwich. There must be something in the San Francisco air, he thought. Dry salami, mortadella, sourdough bread. Any food that sat and fermented picked up something from it, some essence, that enhanced its flavor.

  He put his feet up, chewing. He figured Fowler’s bail would be at least a million, if he got it at all. He could guarantee offhand that three judges out of the six on Superior Court would let the judge rot in jail just to express their displeasure. And it would all be impartial, impersonal, within the bounds of their prerogatives.

  Institutionalized pettiness. Perfectly legal. The law was a many-splendored thing.

  39

  Jane Fowler walked into the Little Shamrock and back to the dart boards, where Dismas Hardy was playing for money. She let him finish his round, let him turn and see her. They hadn’t spoken in three months, since she’d yelled at him about forcing her father to retire. He hadn’t returned her phone calls — four of them altogether, one about every three weeks.

  After seeing her father led from his office wearing handcuffs — that was the drill — she didn’t care what he thought about it, she was going to see him, so she’d driven out to his house. Frannie, obviously pregnant again, had about six other infants and a few other women in their house. Had they opened a daycare center or what? No, this was their playgroup — other new mothers supporting each other. There was a pang. This hadn’t been a feature in Jane’s life during the months she and Hardy had been new parents.

  Frannie had been, as always, polite, and had told her where she could find Dismas, who always left the house on Tuesday afternoons. She explained that Dismas was good around one infant or perhaps even two. But when the number got to four plus their mothers, he reached his critical mass and tended to want to disappear. He was undoubtedly playing darts at the Little Shamrock. She should try there.

  Seeing Jane, Hardy lit up briefly, then frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. She told him in about twenty seconds. Hardy’s dart opponent had finished his turn. ‘Hardy,’ he said.

  He told Jane to give him a minute, went to the chalk line and threw three darts — a twenty, a seventeen and a double six. The other man swore and took out his wallet. Hardy was already pulling the flights from his darts, putting the shafts back in his leather case.

  ‘Double or nothing?’ the other man asked.

  Hardy shook his head. ‘Can’t do it.’ He pocketed the man’s bill and led Jane up to the bar.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Jane?’

  ‘I want you to see him, I want you to help him.’

  ‘How?’

  She didn’t know. Hardy had been unemployed for three months. He had put on thirteen pounds. Under the guise of improving his dart game and preparing to play in some big tournaments, he was drinking about six Guinnesses every day between one, when the Shamrock opened, and about five, when he went home. The latest Guinness arrived.

  ‘Daddy needs you,’ Jane said. ‘It’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t kill anybody, Dismas, you know that.’

  Hardy said nothing. He didn’t know that, nobody knew that.

  ‘Come on,’ she said.

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘You’ll think of something. You’re the lawyer.’

  ‘So’s he, so are all his friends.’ Hardy shook his head. He’d think of something; he liked that. ‘I’m sure he’s already got a lawyer.’

  ‘But he needs somebody he can count on, not just somebody he’s paying.’

  ‘I’m not a lawyer anymore, and even if I were, I’m not a defense lawyer. I’ve never defended anybody in my life.’

  ‘Look, I’m only asking you to see him. He’s done you favors, more than one. You owe him.’

  In a way, maybe so. He still felt bad — justified but bad nonetheless — about Andy’s early retirement, guilty that he’d forced it so quickly when the whole thing had proved unnecessary. Since their meeting at the fern bar, Hardy and Andy hadn’t spoken. ‘I didn’t leak it, Jane.’

  Jane narrowed her eyes. ‘But you were the only one who knew about him and May. It had to be you.’

  Hardy shook his head. ‘From the phone records. I didn’t know anything about the bail. The Chronicle guy, the reporter, he’s the one that found the bail story.’

  ‘Daddy thought it was you.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t. And if he did, why would he want to see me now?’

  ‘He didn’t exactly say he did. I’m saying it. I think it would be good for him, for both of you.’

  Hardy sighed. Jane wasn’t going to go away. Besides, he wasn’t doing anything else. How could it hurt?

  * * * * *

  Hardy followed Jane in his own car.

  It was a warm October day, Indian summer in San Francisco. The top was down and there was plenty of time to ponder. He found it nearly impossible to imagine that they had arrested Andy Fowler for the murder of Owen Nash. He knew that Locke personally disliked the man and that Pullios was capable of carrying a grudge of impressive proportions, but all that aside, you needed evidence to indict a man, a former judge, for murder, even more to convict. Hardy hadn’t heard about any new evidence turning up, and he was sure he would have.

  He still saw Glitsky once a week or so, talked to him every few days. By the time he and Frannie had gotten back from Hawaii, the Nash case had faded from the newspapers, but Glitsky had come by the house, filling Hardy in.

  * * * * *

  Apparently Ken Farris had made an honest mistake about the last time he had seen Nash. In fact, it had been on Thursday. People made mistakes. He had flown to Taos on Friday, ate out in restaurants in Taos on both Friday and Saturday nights, flown back Monday morning.

  Austin Brucker, Mr Silicon Valley, had vacated the presidency of the company Owen Nash had set him up in and started a new venture of his own — something to do with ceramic fibers — down in San José. With a staff of five engineers he’d been in his shop all day every day for the months of April, May and June, and according to all sources, would remain there until next Groundhog Day at the earliest.

  Glitsky, being thorough, had even looked into Celine. Her fingerprints had been all over the Eloise, which was to be expected — she said that she had often gone sailing with her father. The friends she had visited in Santa Cruz were an unlikely trio of two gay bodybuilders and one of their mothers, all of whom verified that Celine had spent the weekend with them, helping with the remodeling of their old Victorian house.

  The one surprise was that Celine’s fingerprints had shown up in the arrest database. If you had never been arrested, your finge
rprints might be on file with the Department of Motor Vehicles, but by far the most accessible record to the police, and thus the first place they looked, was the database of people who had been arrested.

  ‘Celine was arrested?’

  ‘Twice. Shoplifting when she was twenty, reduced to reckless trespass, dismissed. And prostitution.’

  ‘Prostitution?’

  ‘I know, like she needed the money, right. Anyway, it was fifteen years ago. I questioned her on it. It’s not what you would call one of her favorite memories. She says it was a misunderstanding. She also says it was just after her first marriage ended, and she was having a bad time.’

  ‘Which was it, a bad time or a misunderstanding?’

  ‘I know, that was a little iffy. Either way, it never got charged. When your father’s Owen Nash…’

  ‘Money keeps talking, doesn’t it,’ Hardy had said, and Glitsky said he believed it did.

  So with Farris, Brucker and Celine accounted for, only one righteous suspect was left, and that was Andy Fowler. But — and what had plagued this case from every angle since it began — Glitsky could find no evidence linking him to Owen Nash, or to the Eloise.

  Andy had been out of town, hiking in the Sierras, though apparently he had seen no one. But he hadn’t known Owen Nash — there was no record of their having met. While Hardy was in Hawaii, it had come out that Andy Fowler had had a long-term relationship with May Shinn but that it had ended about the time she met Nash.

  ‘I don’t think that was a coincidence, Abe.’

  ‘No. I don’t either. So what? Fowler swears he never heard of Nash until he read about him in the papers.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘There’s nothing to contradict it. Nothing to put him on the boat. What’s the motive? Eliminate a rival, get her back. Oldest one in the world. You’ve got to understand, Diz. People do think Fowler might have done it. Locke wants his ass in a big way. But if he did do it, he did it right. There’s no way Locke or Rigby or anybody else is going to make a move until we’ve got more than we had with Shinn, which we sure as hell do not.’