A Plague of Secrets

by John Lescroart

  Chiurco getting physical in the crush, pushing at someone, getting people out of his way.

  “Hey!”

  Now, from Hunt, an actual cry. “ABE!”

  Chiurco was so close to the door, five or six steps, but still others clogged the way before him, blocking him as they were filing out for the bathroom, a smoke, a phone call, gossip.

  He was stuck.

  And so he pushed someone else, took another step, kept moving.

  But the door was open, and one small Asian female bailiff had come in from her post at the metal detector outside and was now standing by it. Chiurco tried to squeeze around a fat man, couldn’t move him, got a sense of some activity in the rows behind him.

  Hunt pushing his own way out? Trying to stop him?

  And then, suddenly, Glitsky was standing on his chair, his voice cutting through it all. “Bailiff! Hold that man! Stop that man!”

  The judge may have ordered Chiurco released, but Glitsky on his own had the power of arrest, and with the support of Clarence Jackman, standing next to him, he had decided he had heard enough to at least hold Chiurco for further questioning.

  But that was not going to happen, not if Chiurco had any say about it, and he did. He was getting out of here. Pushing again now at the heavy body in front of him.

  Glitsky’s rasp again. “Mr. Chiurco! Hold up! Bailiff!”

  She had come in from the hall to intercept Chiurco as he tried to make it out of the courtroom, but now the same fat man was trying to make it through the door before him and suddenly she was directly in front of him, blocking his way.

  Turning around for a glance, Chiurco saw Hunt coming at him out of one eye, Glitsky out of the other, the lieutenant pushing his own way out of his row toward the aisle, pointing at him, desperation in his voice. “That man! The last witness! Hold him there!”

  With the fat man still inside, but pushed out of Chiurco’s way, the bailiff was the last obstruction as she now pulled the door shut. But she was so small it was no contest. Chiurco lashed out, struck her a rabbit punch on the side of the neck, and she would have gone down at once except that the fat man saw what had happened and found himself holding her up.

  There was nothing else Chiurco could do.

  Though San Francisco bailiffs on courtroom duty didn’t carry guns, this particular hallway bailiff was armed because of her duty outside the courtroom by the metal detector. Now, unsnapping her holster, Chiurco grabbed, pulled out her gun, with all of his might tried to push the fat man and the bailiff to one side, then fired a shot into the ceiling.

  Someone yelled out. “Down! Everybody get down!”

  And a woman screamed.

  The fucking fat guy still in his way, Chiurco pushed again, got his hand on the door, and behind him heard a woman’s voice. “Drop it! Drop the gun now!”

  And turning, he saw Schiff by the prosecution table, now with her own weapon drawn, on the far side of the bar rail, taking aim at him over the ducking crowd. No time to think, he brought the gun up, his hands together, and squeezed off two quick shots, textbook. The inspector went down, her gun clattering over the floor.

  Chiurco turned to finally get out, but another blast from by the defense table exploded the wood on the door just over his head. And Chiurco, looking left, opened fired again at the big man in the business suit standing in the front row who’d perhaps just fired, and who fell back over the rail onto the floor by the defense table.

  And revealed the actual second shooter, the other bailiff, standing, holding Schiff’s gun, over where Maya Townshend lay prostrate on top of her shot brother, sheltering him on the tile. The bailiff had his gun extended in a two-handed grip, drawing another bead.

  His hands already up in the classic firing position, Chiurco once again fired twice in rapid succession and the bailiff, too, staggered backward, dropped Schiff’s weapon, and fell.

  And then someone out of nowhere grabbed Chiurco’s gun arm and chopped viciously at it. The female bailiff, trying again to restrain him, took another swing at his face, a glancing blow, and now he swung his gun at her. It went off accidentally as the fat man clutched at his shoulder and spun around and down to the ground next to them.

  Now Chiurco only needed another step and he’d be outside and free, but the damned bailiff woman was holding on to his leg, so he reached down, got an arm around her neck, and pulled her up against him, holding her there, waving his gun threateningly around at the room at anyone who dared raise his or her head.

  But to get the door he had no choice. He needed either to release his hostage or lower his weapon.

  He couldn’t let go of the hostage, though. She would attack him again.

  He had to let down the gun.

  Which gave Glitsky, fifteen feet away, and waiting for just such an opportunity, one and only one clear shot.

  It was all he needed.

  39

  CityTalk

  By Jeffrey Elliot

  City officials are still trying to piece together how security procedures in the Hall of Justice could have gone so awry as to allow the series of events that last Friday resulted in the deaths of four people, including two law enforcement personnel and City Supervisor Harlen Fisk, and the wounding of another man in one of the city’s courtrooms.

  This reporter was present during the events that transpired and can relate that even before court was called into session that morning, a palpable tension reigned in Department 25, the courtroom of Judge Marian Braun, scene of the murder trial of Maya Townshend. Both Mayor Kathryn West, Mrs. Townshend’s aunt, and Fisk, her brother, were present in evident support of the defendant, and the attendant media presence as well as rumors of surprise, last-minute witnesses for the defense had packed the gallery.

  Mrs. Townshend had been charged with the murders of Dylan Vogler, the manager of the Bay Beans West coffee shop that she owns, and another past associate of hers, Levon Preslee. The trial to date had focused upon evidence of Mrs. Townshend’s apparent motive for these murders, and experts had opined that it was particularly light on physical evidence implicating the defendant. So when defense attorney Dismas Hardy’s first witness, a fingerprint specialist at the police laboratory, identified one of Hardy’s own investigating team, Craig Chiurco, as having been present at the scene of Preslee’s murder, and perhaps having left a partial fingerprint on the bullet casing at the Vogler murder scene, the gallery grew tense with anticipation of what was to come.

  It didn’t have long to wait, as Mr. Hardy briefly questioned one other witness who established Mr. Chiurco’s earlier and previously undisclosed relationship to both Vogler and Preslee, then called Mr. Chiurco. Apparently, not knowing what was taking place in court, he had been waiting outside in the hallway to take the stand. Mr. Hardy’s questions, and Mr. Chiurco’s responses, grew increasingly heated as Hardy tried to tie his associate to these crimes.

  In the end, with Chiurco invoking his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination, Mr. Hardy accused him point-blank of these murders, and pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. It took Judge Braun several minutes to restore order. Rather than having her bailiffs hold Chiurco for the police, Braun ordered him to consult an attorney and keep himself available for further examination if necessary. At that, the judge and the two lead attorneys left the room to confer in Judge Braun’s chambers, leaving Chiurco unguarded on the witness stand.

  A few moments later the folly of Braun’s decision became apparent as Chiurco rose from the stand and started to make his way through the crowd that by now blocked the aisle of the gallery. He had nearly made it to the back door when Lieutenant Glitsky, chief of the city’s homicide department, called out and ordered one of the courtroom bailiffs, Linda Yang, to restrain Chiurco. But the desperate witness—now suddenly revealed as a murder suspect—struggled with the bailiff and managed not only to disarm her but to gain possession of her service weapon and to fire it into the ceiling.

  As members of the gallery dropped to the fl
oor or took shelter behind their chairs, homicide sergeant inspector Debra Schiff, who’d been seated at the prosecution table, fired a shot at Chiurco, which he returned, fatally wounding her. In the next few seconds another bailiff, Rolfe Hagen, fired at Chiurco again from inside the bar rail, and in response to that, Chiurco got off a flurry of shots that killed both Supervisor Fisk and bailiff Hagen before Lieutenant Glitsky saw an opening and fired one shot into Chiurco’s chest, killing him. Glitsky has been placed on the automatic administrative leave that follows any officer-involved shooting.

  But the violence that could and did erupt with such tragic results even in a guarded courtroom leaves officials pondering a host of questions: Shouldn’t courtroom bailiffs in San Francisco be armed, as they are in every other jurisdiction in California? Or, on the other hand, should guns, even in the hands of police personnel, ever be allowed in courtrooms at all? Is there an adequate number of bailiffs in San Francisco courtrooms? Was Judge Braun negligent in affording a potential murder suspect the opportunity to escape and/or take hostages?

  Above all, how was an innocent woman arrested and brought to trial for two murders in a San Francisco courtroom, based on an investigation that could be described, at best, as incompetent, and at worst, as grotesquely negligent?

  The evidence of Maya Townshend’s innocence was right in front of the police and the prosecution during this entire investigation. Yet they chose to ignore it in what the unkind might describe as the pursuit of a political vendetta. In this reporter’s opinion it is a travesty that this case was ever allowed to be brought to trial at all.

  40

  “Actually,” Glitsky said, “I’m enjoying the time off. Getting quality time with my little rat here.” Zachary, the rat in question, still wore his helmet but otherwise looked and acted as healthy as any normal kid as he played with his sister in the sandbox in Glitsky’s backyard. “Rebonding.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You never unbonded.”

  “Maybe not, but it felt like it. Unbonded from the world.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” They sat on the top step, their usual spot, looking down over the backyard and the greenery of the Presidio beyond. “You came back just in time, so I wouldn’t beat myself up over it.”

  “I won’t. I thought I told you. I’m done with beating myself up.”

  Hardy threw him a sideways glance. “If that’s true, how will I recognize you? You’ll find something else to beat yourself up over, you watch. It’s just who you are. Screwed up, but probably worth saving. Marginally. In the long run.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But, in fact,” Hardy added, “not that I don’t have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon, but you did call.”

  “I did.”

  “And you’re going to make me guess again?”

  “If you want, or I could just tell you what we found at Chiurco’s.”

  “You mean besides blood spatter on what . . . his shoes?”

  “Shoes, check.”

  “And a Glock .40 hexagonal-barrel semi?”

  “Nope, but three live rounds and a cleaning kit that would fit that gun. Besides those?”

  “I give up. No, wait. Weed.”

  “You’re good. You want to guess how much?”

  “Nope. I quit when I’m ahead. Weed is good enough. But what else?”

  “You’re going to like it. You want another few seconds?”

  “Okay.” A companionable silence settled for the better part of a minute, until finally Hardy said, “What else?”

  “Newspaper clippings. Old ones.”

  “Julio Gomez.”

  “Right.”

  “I could have got that if I’d have thought a little more.”

  “Just like you got Chiurco knowing Preslee.”

  “No. I should have seen that long before I did. I mean, Wyatt told me all about Dylan not being on Google until recently, so how could Craig have found Levon? The answer was that he couldn’t have. No way, no how. Especially when I realized that they’d gone to trial separately. So he must have known Levon before. And I even knew Craig had been at USF and knew Dylan and was on his weed list. I mean, flags everywhere and I couldn’t see them.”

  “Yeah,” Glitsky said, “you’re a little slow. It’s amazing you keep getting clients.”

  “I marvel at it myself. Still, though”—Hardy let out a sigh—“what a fiasco at the end there.”

  “I hear you. Though that’s one of the things I’m not going to beat myself up over. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Probably smart. You had no choice.”

  “Really. None.”

  “I know. I believe you. You just wonder sometimes how things get to where they are. I mean, why did Maya even get charged? And because of that Harlen’s dead? And Schiff? And even Ruiz. To say nothing of Chiurco and those poor bailiffs. What’s that about? All those victims.”

  “And everybody still goes on calling it a victimless crime, don’t they?”

  “It’s the crime part,” Hardy said. “Take away the crime, make the stuff legal . . .” He looked at his friend. “But you being a cop and all, I don’t suppose that’s going to be your issue, is it?”

  “Good guess.” Glitsky chewed at his cheek. “But as to how things got to where they did, part of that, you want to be honest, was me. Bailing on the job. Worrying about Zack.”

  “That would have been a very small part. But I’m proud to see you’re already back on the road to beating yourself up.” Hardy glanced at his watch. “You made it about forty-five seconds, a new record, I think.”

  “No. I know it was mostly Schiff, and God knows she paid for it.”

  “What about Bracco? You talk to him?”

  “Not since right after.”

  “How is he?”

  Glitsky let out a breath. “Talk about beating yourself up. He said he knew he should have stepped up, said something, but he wanted to be loyal to his partner.”

  “Cops and loyalty, huh?”

  “Don’t I know? I just hope he can talk himself into staying on, but I’m not betting on it. On the other hand, Treya had some fun news the other night you might not have heard about.”

  “She’s pregnant again.”

  Glitsky gave him the bad eye. “Don’t even kid. Think DA’s office.”

  “Clarence is stepping down and she’s taking over.”

  “Incorrect. Think Paul Stier.”

  “The Big Ugly?”

  Glitsky nodded. “The big, now-between-jobs ugly. At least until he can hook on with Glass or somebody.”

  “I don’t know. I think Mr. Glass might be having his own problems lately. Having taken on the mayor, stirring up all this shit, and really coming up with squat. Rumors abound. And speaking of which, the word is that you’re back in the saddle next week.”

  “Might be. Might not.”

  “Let me guess. You’re not beating yourself up over it?”

  Glitsky nodded. “Close enough.”

  Tamara Dade knew that Craig Chiurco’s shell-shocked and disbelieving parents had taken his ashes and scattered them under the Golden Gate Bridge. She hadn’t wanted to intrude on them in their own hours of grief; and besides, she did not come close to forgetting that she and Craig had broken up. A serious and, she had felt, irrevocable breakup. So she wasn’t with the family and didn’t want to be.

  But she had her own grieving to deal with.

  Now, four days after the memorial service, she found herself at the pier behind the Ferry Building, waiting in line again for the boat to Sausalito. She hadn’t come in to work, nor had she called, since the day of the shootings. Instead, four days ago she’d started to come out here after her mostly sleepless and crying nights, and she’d ride across the bay, sit alone on the Sausalito jetty and watch the water, then take the ferry back by about noon. She’d then repeat the round trip in the afternoon, getting back to the city after darkness had descended.

  Today was bleak, windy, and
bitter cold. As the ferry left the protection of the shore, whitecaps piled up and flung their foam across the open front deck. This was where Tamara had taken to standing, but on this day, even with her raincoat, it was too wet, too miserable. She turned and went back inside, bought a hot chocolate, and found a seat at one of the bolted-in tables by a window, where she could look out and . . .

  What?

  Imagine what life would have been like with Craig? Wonder why they had never progressed to a committed relationship? Try to understand what he’d done, and why? And what, simply, had happened in the courtroom?

  None of it made any sense to her. She found it nearly impossible to get her mind around the stark reality that he’d murdered Dylan Vogler and Levon Preslee, and apparently another liquor store clerk years ago. That he had been able to live with letting Maya Townshend get all the way to trial.

  Who had he been all this time, and how had she not seen it?

  She didn’t have any answers. Except that it would be a long while before she would trust her romantic instincts, or even her fundamental human instincts, again. Maybe forever, she thought. She stared out into the windswept, gray-green, white-capped chop.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  The familiar voice startled her and she turned her head quickly to verify the presence of her boss, Wyatt Hunt. After doing so she turned back to the window and her shoulders rose and fell as she blew out a long breath. “How’d you find me?”

  “I’m a private eye, Tam. Finding people is what I do. If you don’t want me to sit down, I’ll go find another spot.”

  She turned back to him. “No. It’s fine. You can sit here.” Then, when he had, “I don’t know if I can come back to work.”

  “Okay. That’s not why I’m here. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Her lips turned up fractionally and she let out a dry, one-note, half-laugh half-sob. “I don’t know what that means, all right. Not anymore. I can’t believe Craig’s gone. Even more, maybe, I can’t believe what Craig was.”