The Fall

by John Lescroart

  “Don’t worry, it’ll probably only be the first hundred, assuming you don’t get arrested. I can bring a standard retainer contract with me and make it official.”

  “What if I—it sounds ridiculous even to say it—what if I . . . if they do arrest me? Could that really be possible?”

  “Let’s not worry about that now. All we want now is to be cooperative without saying anything that would incriminate you. Do you have an alibi, by the way, for Wednesday night around eleven o’clock?”

  “An alibi?”

  “You know. Where you were. If you were with somebody else, or in a public place where people could have seen you?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Eleven o’clock on a school night, I was home.”

  “Can you prove it? Did you make any phone calls? Lend a neighbor some sugar, anything like that?”

  “Rebecca. Repeat to yourself: ‘Eleven o’clock on a school night.’ I promise I was in bed. Alone, more’s the pity. And I live by myself.”

  “So ‘no’ would be the alibi answer?”

  “I guess so. And I’ve got to say, you’re worrying me here.”

  “I don’t mean to. We just don’t want to get surprised. What school are you at again?”

  “Everett Middle. It’s down in the Mission.”

  “I’ll find it. What time does school get out?”

  “Three.”

  “Okay, if they get there first—they probably won’t, but if—tell them you’ve brought me aboard, and then don’t say a word until I get there. Not one word, even to be polite, ’cause they’ll try to keep you talking, and you’re not allowed to talk, lawyer’s orders. You think you can do that?”

  “It’ll be a little weird, don’t you think? ‘Hi, guys, come on in, but we can’t talk.’ ”

  “Exactly.”

  “Won’t that make them even more suspicious, especially if they already are?”

  “We don’t care how it makes them feel. How they feel doesn’t matter. I really need you to get this, Greg. It’s serious.”

  “I’m picking that up,” he said.

  “Good. Don’t drop it.”

  •  •  •

  “I DIDN’T KNOW what else to do. It just kind of happened.” Rebecca was standing in front of her father’s desk, her eyes close to overflowing with tears. “But I can’t call him back now and get myself unhired. He’s back in class and wouldn’t get the message until Waverly is already there, and then he really would be screwed. Meanwhile, I’ve got this motion due at four o’clock, and now there’s no chance I can even work on the rest of it, much less get it done, and I just—”

  Hardy held up one hand. “Shh . . . shh . . . easy now.” He came up out of his chair, around the desk, and took his daughter in his arms. “It’s all right. It’s really all right.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “I’m so sorry,” she went on. “I just wasn’t thinking, or thinking clearly, anyway. And now Amy’s going to kill me, either that or never assign me work again . . .”

  “I’ll talk to Amy. She’ll put another associate on it. It’ll be fine.”

  “But if I wasn’t your daughter . . . and by four o’clock . . .”

  “Well, luckily, you are my daughter. And we’ll get an extension. Or not. Either way, it’s not the end of the world. These things happen. You got involved in a client’s real problem, and it has to be dealt with right now. So you do what you have to do. Welcome to criminal law.”

  “I should have gotten Amy’s permission first. I never should have just said I’d be there.”

  “But you did say that. And now you’re committed, and you’d better get moving if you don’t want to be late. Here, why don’t you give me your motion? Maybe I’ll take a crack at it myself, see if I’ve still got the chops. And hey, look at the bright side—you’re bringing aboard your first client.” He added, “I hope he can afford you.”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s another thing.” And told him about their salary negotiations.

  “A hundred bucks?” Hardy asked with a stern glance. “We’re talking three hours, maybe four hours, for a hundred dollars total? Twenty-five an hour? Not finishing your motion is one thing, but charging below your billing rate, now we’re talking problematic.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t ever think he really wanted me there. But I knew somebody needed to be, so I—”

  “Beck. Beck.” He raised her chin and kissed her forehead. “I’m kidding, the old man trying to lighten things up. Really. But no joke. Your instincts are completely right. Get him on retainer to protect him. The guy needs help, and he wants you. So go help him, and we’ll worry about all the other stuff later.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” he said, pointing at the door. “Go!”

  14

  THE INSPECTORS AND the lawyer were the first ones into the conference room, and they took their places on opposite sides of the table, which mostly filled the space. The Beck started out introducing herself to Yamashiro, adding a courteous enough greeting to Waverly, asking if he’d had a chance to catch up on his sleep. But the sense of low-key camaraderie with the inspector that she’d imagined from their previous night’s interaction wasn’t much in evidence today.

  The inspectors couldn’t hide their displeasure over the fact that Greg Treadway had lawyered up, though of course they didn’t say anything about it. The object was to get him talking and then keep him talking, and Rebecca knew that. She was already on her guard.

  Greg had struck her as a pretty trusting guy last night—almost dangerously so on the phone earlier—and she knew that the inspectors were under a great deal of pressure to come up with a plausible suspect in Anlya’s murder. Put those two facts together and Greg’s need for a lawyer was all but absolute, even if the evidence hadn’t changed.

  Except that the inspectors wanting to talk to him again meant that something had changed.

  She was willing to see how this would go, but it was her job to keep her client on a short leash.

  Greg opened the door. He entered with a smile, extending a hand for Waverly to shake. “Hey, Inspector, how are you? Sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier, but if I miss my classes, they fire me. Not really, but still.” He turned to Yamashiro, again with his hand out. “How you doin’? I’m Greg Treadway.”

  A friendly nod and a polite shake. “Ken Yamashiro.”

  “So I gather,” Greg said, including Rebecca while he cluelessly played host, “you’ve all met one another.” He turned to her. “Okay, what else do you need to know?”

  Rebecca wondered if he could really be so unattuned to the basic reality he was facing. If not, it was a damn convincing display of disingenuousness. After an awkward moment of silence, Greg’s gaze went around the room, his smile cooling by degrees, awareness dawning. But then, his inner jokester resurfacing, he came back to Rebecca with a sly personal look. “So should I be talking to these guys?”

  She realized with an almost physical start that he’d saved her not just from embarrassment but possibly from legal malpractice, and that this was the right answer. She didn’t want him talking at all to these guys, not under these conditions, period. She hadn’t even asked him about any of the details he’d disclosed in his taped interview the night before.

  “Now that you mention it, maybe we should confer further before you make any other statements.” Turning to the inspectors, she said, “Gentlemen, sorry to waste your trip out here, but I’ll need time to talk to my client before he speaks with you. Meanwhile, let’s remember that he initiated this communication with you. He’s been nothing if not a cooperative witness, sharing whatever information he knows, and I anticipate that once we’ve had a chance to confer, he’ll be happy to supply any further information that you may need.”

  “And we appreciate that,” Waverly said. “But we had just one or two quick questions come up that we thought he’d be able to clarify for us now.”

  “All right,” Rebecca said
. “Let’s try one.”

  Waverly looked over at his partner, and Yamashiro nodded. “Last night you said you left the Imperial Palace with Anlya at around eight o’clock. You gave her a hug and went and got your car. Thinking back on those moments now, is there anything you’d like to add?”

  A lightning bolt of concern creased Greg’s brow. It cleared as quickly as it had appeared, but it was all Rebecca needed to see to convince her that something about his story wasn’t completely as he’d recounted it, and that the inspectors had come upon some new information. She spoke up, cutting off whatever might have been Greg’s reply. “You’ve got his statement from last night, Inspector. Have you talked to someone who’s contradicted him?”

  Waverly brushed her inquiry aside. “Do you think you forgot something last night?”

  Greg started to say something. “Well, I—”

  Rebecca held up a hand, stopping him. “Uh-uh-uh. That’s enough.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” She turned to the inspectors. “I’m afraid that my client will not be able to answer any more questions today.”

  Again, Greg saying, “But—”

  “I’m sorry, Inspectors, but that’s all he’s going to say.”

  “I know what you’re doing,” Waverly tried to schmooze Rebecca, “and I’m sure you believe it’s in Mr. Treadway’s interest, but really, it’s not.” He turned his attention to the client. “We’re all already out here together, sir. You can answer one or two simple questions and help us catch the person who killed Anlya, and then we’ll be out of your hair, and that’ll be the end of it. I’m sure that’s what you want, to catch her killer. How could you not want that?”

  Rebecca moved between Greg and Waverly. “It is his choice to talk to you or not, and he’s made it. Now, unless you’re prepared to arrest him . . .”

  Yamashiro groaned. “We’re talking a little clarification, that’s all. We know he’s cooperative. We just want to get the story right.”

  “I’m sure you do, Inspector. But right now the right story and the only story is on tape, and it’s the one he told last night. We’re leaving it at that.”

  Yamashiro appealed directly to Greg. “Sir? Are you okay with this? This is not helping your situation.”

  Rebecca whirled on him. “That’s really completely enough. I am not joking even a little here. My client isn’t talking. End of story.”

  For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Finally, Waverly shook his head in disgust and turned to grab the doorknob. Yamashiro followed his lead and straightened up. Leaving a flat hostile gaze in his wake, he said, “Big mistake,” then turned and walked out on the heels of his partner.

  •  •  •

  EXUDING FRUSTRATION, REBECCA sat with her hands clasped on the table in front of her. Her client was directly across, his chair pushed away from the table, one leg crossed over the other, his back flat against the chair, as far away from her as he could get in the little, enclosed room.

  “You were with me last night,” he was saying, “when they showed Anlya on TV. You think I knew she was dead before that? You think I had any clue? You think that was an act? I don’t know anything about what she did after she left me, which was like three hours before whatever happened. And by that time, I was home sleeping.”

  Rebecca could hear blood flowing in her ears. She knew that her complexion was flushed. She felt light-headed, maybe near fainting, and the unexpected physical reaction frightened her. Fighting to keep her tone level, she said, “But you didn’t tell them the truth last night, did you? Did you think they wouldn’t check out what you said?”

  “I didn’t—”

  She cut him off. “Never mind. Why don’t we start with you telling me what you said last night and then where it deviates from the truth. No, first tell me why you’d agree to talk to the cops and then lie about anything having to do with a murder.”

  He gave her the short version—the argument in the restaurant, Anlya knocking her chair over as she pushed away from the table. By the time he’d finished, he was completely deflated. “The basics were all true,” he concluded. “We were out from five to eight. I didn’t see her after that. I wasn’t anywhere near where she got killed when it happened. What else matters?”

  “Well, clearly, something seemed to matter enough that you lied about it.”

  He stared into the middle distance between them. “We were holding hands over the table. I didn’t think that would be particularly useful to the inspector.”

  “So what was your relationship?” she asked. “Was it intimate?”

  He nearly jumped. “No. Christ. She was a mixed-up kid, and she was only seventeen. I’m not getting involved with a teenager.”

  “But you were holding hands?”

  He dredged up a frustrated sigh. “I was telling her how I’d try to get her foster extension, either myself or another CASA. But I’d really try to go to bat for her if I could, which was my plan. And she reached out and put her hand on top of mine. So what am I going to do, freak out and pull it away? No, I just decide to let it stay there, and next thing you know, she picks up my hand and kisses it and tells me she’s in love with me.”

  “So why didn’t you tell the inspector that last night?”

  “Because I didn’t want to confuse things with stuff that didn’t matter.”

  “You’ve already said that. It didn’t matter.”

  “I’ll say it again if you want. It didn’t matter. That was the truth. And by the way, if you remember, it wasn’t exactly my idea to call up Homicide and tell them I needed to talk to them. But when your dad was so adamant about it, what was I supposed to say: I don’t want to be involved? Of course I wanted to be involved. If I could help . . . I don’t know . . . somehow . . . it seemed like a reasonable idea.

  “And if I said no to your dad, how weird would that look? I’m innocent but I don’t want to say anything about it? I didn’t want to tell the cops what I knew about Anlya’s last night? Why not? So I went along with the basic idea.”

  “Greg, you don’t get to decide what matters. Any time you lie, even tell a half-truth, to the police in a murder investigation, it matters a lot. And you didn’t tell the whole truth.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want the guy thinking there was something personal between me and Anlya when, A, there wasn’t, and, B, even if there was, it had nothing to do with her death.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it didn’t. It couldn’t have.”

  Rebecca’s knuckles were white. She unclasped her hands, met her client’s eyes. “I wish,” she said, “that you’d mentioned this last night. So what was the fight about?”

  “It wasn’t really a fight.”

  “Okay, whatever you call it. You just told me she was upset enough to bolt out of the place, is that right?”

  “When I didn’t come right back and tell her I loved her, too . . . Hell, I told her she was special, you know, and a great person, but I didn’t have those kinds of feelings for her, and I don’t, didn’t . . .” He scratched at the wooden tabletop.

  “What?”

  “Well, you know, so here’s this high-strung, very pretty seventeen-year-old girl who’s been abused as a child by her mother’s boyfriend . . .”

  “I hadn’t heard about that.”

  “It wasn’t something she bragged about, but there’s no doubt it happened, though the asshole never got charged, or even investigated, I don’t think, which happens when the mother is a complete loser and . . .” He let a breath escape. “Anyway, old familiar story. The point is, she felt worthless and rejected, and especially when the rejection is personal, it tends to hit her pretty hard, and she lashes out.”

  “And she lashed out at you?”

  Nodding, he said, “She got a little crazy about how I’d been leading her on . . . I mean, why else have our date nights? And why did I sign my picture to her ‘All my love?’ ”

  “Wait. You did what?”
/>
  He shrugged. “She signed one of her for me. I signed back one of me for her. But it was make-believe.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “she asked me why was I doing all this stuff to help her if I didn’t love her.” He brought his hands to his face and dragged them down over his cheeks. “She got herself into a tizzy. I was a liar and unfair and a horrible human being because I didn’t want to be with her. It was a bad night all around.”

  “It was worse for her, I promise,” Rebecca said. “Way worse.”

  •  •  •

  MAX COULDN’T FACE the day at school. He’d only gotten to sleep around dawn. When he forced himself to roll out of bed after eleven, Juney had already gone off to work, so he rattled around in the apartment for an hour or so, scrambled up some eggs, took a shower.

  Cried some more.

  Without ever making the conscious decision to go there, he found himself down in his mother’s neighborhood near the Daly City border.

  Sharla’s place was a yellowing stucco duplex in a depressing row of similar places—bars on the windows, metal over the doors. The unkempt or nonexistent lawns gave the entire block a deserted feel. The few cars at the curbs were almost uniformly decrepit, older models with bashed fenders, duct-taped windows, and faded paint jobs. A feeble early-afternoon sun shone, and the wind was up, blowing debris like tumbleweeds across the landscape.

  Max stood at the corner, his jacket zipped, collar up, and had no idea why he’d come out here. He tried to remember living on this block and couldn’t dredge up any kind of good feeling for the place. The whole time, they’d lived in fear and confusion—his mama drinking or partying, Leon looming, an unpredictable and terrifying presence to Max and worse for Anlya, a fact she could never bring herself to talk about until after everything terrifying that they’d feared—her own sexual molestation; she and Max separated, relocated; Mama broken down, addicted—had already come to pass.

  The wind at his back seemed to prod him to move forward. He stood for a minute or two on the sidewalk right in front of the duplex, then walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door and rang the bell. He was about to ring again when he heard footsteps. “Who is it?”