Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A

by John Lescroart

  But he didn't like this.

  Okay, he'd gotten rid of Neil Young, but these guys were really getting obnoxious now. Nigger this and nigger that. He hated the word – God knew he'd heard it often enough growing up. But it was frightening here. Guys yelling stuff he couldn't believe in modern-day San Francisco. And some jerk standing on the bar going nuts.

  He'd had enough of this. Kevin Shea was leaving, out of here.

  EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee!

  The car alarm was blaring.

  McKay jumped down off the bar and was through the crowd, men – his cousin, Mullen, all the others – falling in behind him. Even the bartender Jamie O'Toole coming over the bar, into it.

  Then McKay was at the front door, yanking it open, out into the twilit street.

  Arthur Wade, embarrassed, turned, his hands spread in a what-can-you-do gesture, trying to be heard above the sound of the screeching alarm.

  McKay was at him before he could be heard, shoving at him, pushing him away from the car. 'What the hell you think you're doing?'

  'Hey!' Wade didn't push back. He didn't like getting pushed but this obviously was just a misunderstanding. He'd explain to this hothead, get it cleared up. 'This is my car. I got locked out—'

  McKay pushed him again, up against the truck parked next to him, both hands in the chest. 'Your car, my ass.' Then, turning – screaming over the noise – 'Nigger says he owns a BMW! I say my ass.'

  The alarm continued to shriek.

  'I say he's stealing the car!'

  Wade straightened up, set himself. A dozen men had come out of the bar, and more kept coming. So did this drunken guy, right at him. These were bad odds. Arthur Wade didn't like it but the better part of valor was to walk away and come back when things cooled here.

  'Hey! Where are you going? Where do you think you're going?'

  One step backward. Two. Hands up, moving away. 'Look, I'm just walking away, I don't want any trouble—'

  The drunk kept at him. 'Hey, you don't want any trouble, you don't try to steal cars.' A rush at him, then another push. And then somebody behind him, blocking him.

  'Hey now, look guys—'

  EEEEeeee!

  A shove from behind now, from the other direction. The drunk guy in his face, screaming. 'You guys get away with murder. Anything you fucking want to do—'

  And then another sound — even over the screech of the alarm – the picture window of the hardware store exploding in a shower of glass. Jamie O'Toole had thrown one of the Cavern's heavy beer mugs into the window of the hardware store. Now he was in the front display area, amid the lawnmowers and power tools, the coiled clotheslines and the sledgehammers, yelling something.

  The violence of the noise, the shrill cacophony, the huge display window smashed, alcohol and testosterone, ratcheting it all up notch by notch.

  EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee!

  O'Toole was in the hardware-store window, grabbing something from where it hung on the wall. What the hell was that, a rope?

  A rope. A heavy, yellow nylon rope.

  Kevin Shea heard the yelling, the screech of the alarm outside. What was happening out there? Whatever it was, the mass of men from the bar continued to stream outside, as though a plug had been pulled.

  Shea, moving toward the door to leave, got caught in it. Men behind him pushing to be part of it, forcing him along, screaming. 'Keep moving, move it along, everybody, now, move it.'

  Then, from the street, out of Shea's vision, chilling him. 'Hold him down! Don't let him go!'

  Arthur Wade was strong and agile. He worked out whenever he could, at least three times a week, at the Nautilus place they had installed upstairs at Rand & Jackman. His percentage of body fat was a lean fourteen, and he still weighed the same one-ninety-one he had maintained at Northwestern, where he had played varsity third base his last two years.

  But this thing had developed too quickly, taking him completely by surprise. Something hit him – hard – in the head behind his ear, knocking him sideways, against the pickup he'd parked next to, slamming the other side of his head.

  'Hey... !'

  A body slammed into him. Another. Fists into his sides.

  What was going on? But there wasn't any time for figuring. He elbowed one man, then another, with his arms free swung at a third.

  But they just kept coming, ten of them, twenty. More.

  One of the men he'd elbowed came back, hitting low, jamming his genitals and he half-crumbled. There was no winning this one. He turned, kneeing up, connecting with a jaw. He kicked at the man, broke for the street.

  But they'd come around parking spaces, spilling over from the sidewalk. Cars honking now in the street but pulling around the crowd, no one stopping. He straight-armed the first guy he ran into, but the guy was big and didn't go down. Somebody caught the back of his collar and pulled back at him, choking him.

  'Get him! Hold him.'

  His legs got hit. They had him from both sides now, between his car and the truck. He turned back, chopped at the arm that held his neck and heard a crack. The surge abated for an instant. He raised a leg onto the truck's running board and hurled himself over the roof of his car, rolling and coming down kicking by the street, twisting his ankle.

  But there was a hole. He could get through. He punched another man, straight-armed again and had a clear break. A couple of steps, the ankle giving under him, but he could force it. He had to.

  But then a car, turning onto 2nd Avenue, out of nowhere, was blocking his way.

  He slammed up against it – more honks now, and the squealing of brakes – was somebody finally going to help him? Panting, he broke left, up 2nd, but the crowd had overflowed onto the street, screaming 'Get him, get him!'

  There was a crushing hit from the side of his knees – somebody who had been trained to tackle – and he went down, skidding five feet on the pavement, ripping the leg of his suit and the skin off his leg. A bunch of the beer-smelling men were pinning his hands and feet. He couldn't get any movement.

  With disbelieving horror, he realized that somebody was forcing a rope over his head.

  At the periphery of the mob, Kevin Shea decided he couldn't let this happen.

  The jerk, the lunatic – he guessed it was still him – had thrown one end of the yellow rope – almost glowing in its brightness – over the arm of the first streetlight up 2nd Avenue. Now some of the men were jumping underneath the free end, trying to grab it, while the rest of them were chanting, 'pull him up, string him up!' He had to move.

  He put a shoulder down and pushed. He got pushed back but everybody's attention was on the scuffle on the street and he kept pressing into the tight mob.

  But it kept getting tighter the closer in he got. Pulsing, almost. Pushing toward the center.

  He raised his head. Someone had gotten on some shoulders and as Shea watched, he gained the rope and pulled it. Both sides, which had been dangling, came straight. Taut.

  'Yeah! Do it! Do it now!'

  The unbelievable bedlam rose around Shea and he used his elbows and knees, pushing, now within ten feet. He got his first glimpse of the man – bleeding from the head now, still struggling, in what looked like a white shirt and tie.

  He dug in again with his elbows, and somebody jabbed him back. With all his strength he threw the back of his arm into the man's face, pushing forward.

  'Hey! Come on!' Was that him, yelling? Screaming at the top of his lungs. 'Wait a minute. Don't do this!' But whatever he was saying was getting lost in the rest of the din.

  He was hit again. And again. On the mouth. His sides.

  He kept pushing. The Swiss Army knife he always carried – it was out, opened. He slashed at the legs of the man in front of him, and he went down, yelling. Shea stepped on him, pushing forward.

  But he wasn't any closer. The mob holding the black man had moved closer to the light, everyone else parting before them.

  The noise, the noise. Unlike anything Shea had ever he
ard or imagined – a kind of sustained moan, tension wound to the nth, like the last minute of a close basketball game, except with this inhuman, animal quality. There was a guy next to him in the streetlight's glow, spittle coming from his mouth, yelling non-words. Others had started moo'ing, the way they used to do in the halls of high school. And always the teeth-on-edge screech of the car alarm, underscoring it all.

  He kept fighting, using the flow now to help him, getting closer, his knife still out. He jabbed again, randomly, in front of him, striking out with his other hand, getting people out of the way.

  But not enough of them.

  Suddenly, the tension released itself with what almost sounded like a cheer. The black man, only four feet in front of him, was off the ground, above the crowd, the rope tight. At the rope's other end half a dozen of the men kept pulling, raising him up, higher – now his waist at the height of Shea's head.

  The hanging man reached above his own head, grabbing at the rope. A second's reprieve. Maybe a minute's. How long could he hold out? Somebody yelled that Shea should grab the feet, pull down on his feet.

  God. Animals.

  Suddenly, pushing all the time, Shea got himself there – to the man's feet. He was still holding the rope above his head with his hands. Shea hugged the legs and lifted up, trying to relieve the pressure.

  He pushed his right hand up. 'The knife,' he screamed above him. 'Take the knife.'

  Maybe he could cut himself down. He seemed to hear him. There was a shift in the weight and the knife was grabbed from Shea's hand. There were flashes of light – somebody taking photographs? Drops of something wet splattered against his jacket.

  Someone in the crowd yelled, 'That's it, pull down! Pull!' The rest of the crowd took up the word in a chant. 'Pull, pull, pull, pull...'

  The hanging man was struggling above him trying to slash the rope with the knife, but with only one arm, even partially held up by Shea, it took an immense and sustained effort. He was not getting it done.

  4

  Paul Westberg was the photographer.

  He was a twenty-three-year-old freelancer trying to break into the small time, the free presses, some ad sheets, boudoir shots of housewives a couple of times a week. He'd been walking, taking the occasional art shot, heading east on the north side of Geary near 2nd a couple of blocks from his home as the dusk snuck up behind him. The light was terrific, casting a burnished glow over the city.

  And then he heard the crowd over the hum of six lanes of traffic on Geary. News! And – astoundingly – he was here. Prepared. Hooey!

  But the light – the fantastic light – had changed. With the sun now just under the rim of the horizon he'd need his flash on the north-south street, where the action was. He had to get it attached, change his stops. All almost automatic, but taking time.

  He did it all before crossing to the south side. But something was really happening over there, like a rally or something. He made his way, jay-running, through the eastbound lanes, waited on the center strip, darted forward.

  Cars were stopped in the right lane, swerving around, causing a slowdown. He squeezed off one shot, figured it was a waste, got to the other side. There was no chance of seeing above the crowd so he stood on the hood of the nearest car. You had to take some chances if you wanted to get ahead.

  Finally he saw what was happening.

  The mob around him pulsed back and forth, rocking the car he stood on, then moving away from it. He didn't know how long he'd get. If anybody saw him . . .

  But there was some guy, his arms around a hanging man, holding a knife to his throat. God, what a shot! The shot of a lifetime.

  His hands were shaking but he had to get the focus, he had to take the time.

  There! One.

  Snap. Another.

  Someone below was grabbing at him, yelling. 'Hey! Get this guy!'

  He kicked out, jumped off the back of the car and ran like hell. He was home in three minutes.

  5

  The crowd closed in. Someone hit Shea at the knees. The knife fell, clattering to the street. Above him, he heard a creak and a guttural sound – a deep hnnh as the rope took the man's full weight again.

  The men who held the other end of the rope were coming toward Shea now. There was a fire hydrant he saw for the first time. They were looping the rope around it.

  Shea grabbed up the knife from the street, lunged at the first man, cutting at the arm that held the rope. The man cried out and, for an instant, let it go.

  Somebody hit Shea again. Fists. He struck out with his knife, then someone kicked it. He heard it clatter away. A kick in the head. Then another one. Then darkness.

  Helter-skelter before the distant wail of the first sirens, and still the closer, unending alarm klaxon that had been shrieking for half of eternity, the mob was disappearing around the corner onto Geary, down 2nd Avenue into alleys and doorways, over dump-sters and back fences. Coming to, Shea heard panicky voices, the scrambling of feet, men running.

  On his knees, he struggled to clear his vision. Whoever had beaten him had done some damage – his face was crusted and it felt like some ribs had been broken and perhaps his left arm, too. He tried to lift it but it hung dangling from his side.

  The rope was still there, tied to the hydrant.

  Looking up, seeing the man hanging, looking now very much dead, he forced himself to the hydrant. Maybe there was still a chance to save his life if he could get him down. He tried to pull at the mass of knots that had been tied at the hydrant, but with the weight from the man pulling on the rope from the other end, tightening it all down, there was no way, with only one hand, that he could even get a start. The knots wouldn't give.

  His left arm was a throbbing, useless burden. Still, he tried to use it, tried to take some of the pressure off the rope with his good hand and use the bad one to untie one of the knots. Or something – he had to do something.

  He pulled. Something new gave in his arm and, without intending to, he screamed, nearly blacking out for a second, going down to one knee. He hung his head, gritting through the pain, hearing something else.

  A pair of lights came around the corner up at Geary, tires screeching, heading right for him. It pulled in front of him, a door opened and two men jumped out of the open bed of the truck, another from the front seat.

  'Thank God, guys. You gotta—' But they weren't listening. One of them had a hand on his bad arm, pulling. Another grabbed his leg, lifting. 'Hey! What...?' They had him by both legs now and lifted him over the sides of the truck into its bed, the three men holding him down.

  'He in?' the driver yelled, but without waiting for any answer, the tires squealed again.

  One of the men who had grabbed him snapped Shea's head against the metal floor. 'You don't know nothing,' he said. 'You tell anybody anything, you're dead meat. We'll find you.'

  They were gaining speed, taking one corner, then another. He was all turned around, held down, trying to get some bearings, anything. The three men were panting, holding him down.

  Then, he didn't know if there was some signal or what, but the truck screeched, pulled over, stopped. With one last warning that they would kill him if he said a word, they threw him out, then were off in a spray of gravel and the stink of burning rubber.

  Wednesday, June 29

  6

  'What is this about, Chris?'

  'It's about civil war, Elaine. Is your television on?'

  'Almost never.'

  'Well, check it out. Now. I'll wait.'

  'What channel?'

  'Any channel.'

  Elaine Wager had been asleep. The call was from her boss and self-appointed mentor, San Francisco District Attorney Christopher Locke, who took a special interest in Elaine Wager.

  She, like Locke, was black. She was also intelligent and already, though just barely twenty-five, a good lawyer, a tenacious prosecutor. Added to this were her considerable physical charms – mocha-colored skin as finely pored as Italian marbl
e, a leggy, thin-waisted body, an Assyrian face. Of more importance to Chris Locke than any of these attributes, though, was Elaine's mother, Loretta Wager, a United States senator and the first African-American of either sex to be elected to that office from California.

  Elaine Wager swung her bare legs to the floor. On top she wore a man's Warriors T-shirt. Waking up as she walked, she found herself becoming dimly aware of a conceit of sirens down below, out in the city. The digital clock on her dresser read twelve-fourteen. Her apartment was a one-bedroom, twelve stories up, a few blocks north of Geary Street on Franklin near Lafayette Park. She glanced out the window – there seemed to be several fires a few blocks away in the Western Addition. To the south, too, the sky glowed orange.

  Still carrying the phone, she moved quickly now through her sparsely furnished living room.

  'What's going on, Chris?'

  The tiny portable television was on the counter in the kitchen area. She flicked it on.

  'We're in riot mode, Elaine. The projects are on fire. They lynched one of the brothers tonight.' Elaine sat down hard on one of the stools by the counter. 'Arthur Wade.'

  'What about Arthur?' she asked stupidly.

  'You know him?'

  'Of course I know him. He went to Boalt with me. What about him?'

  There was a pause. 'Elaine, Arthur Wade is dead. A mob lynched him.'

  'What do you mean, lynched?' She was babbling, trying to find a context for it, an explanation for the inexplicable.

  On the television, more of the now-familiar visions – already the crowds were out in the streets, already the shop windows were being smashed, buildings were burning. Her eyes left the screen, went out to the real city again.

  'Chris?'

  'I'm here. I was wondering if you'd heard from your mother.'

  'No, not yet. I'm sure I will. Meanwhile, what are we going to do?'