• • •
GLITSKY HAD DINNER with his family—Treya, eight-year-old Rachel, and five-year-old Zachary—and by eight o’clock he was back at the Hall of Justice, sitting in front of a computer monitor. The camera angle for the surveillance video in the bowels of the tunnel was from high above and captured the steps leading from Bush Street to the landing halfway down, then followed the steps in the opposite direction the rest of the way down to the sidewalk inside the tunnel.
The panoramic lens captured both the up and the down sets of steps and most of the landing, although the homeless man sleeping against the wall wasn’t really visible—and then only his back—until he stood up, gathered his stuff, and walked back up to Bush. Since there was no message to the contrary from the department that had pulled the CD from the camera, Glitsky assumed that the time signature in the screen’s lower right corner was correct.
Glitsky moved the image to begin at ten-thirty and watched for five full minutes before he went back to fast-forwarding because of the lack of activity. In the hour’s worth of video that he watched, only seven people—including the homeless guy, at about the halfway point—used the steps, all of them except the homeless man coming down from Bush Street.
Besides the residence-challenged individual—whom Glitsky assumed was the as-yet-unnamed witness—the first two people coming down from Bush were women. The first one was Asian and appeared to be middle-aged or older, in a long dark coat. The second one, four minutes later, at 10:41, was a white female in her twenties, in jeans and a black jacket. Hands in her pockets, she hesitated slightly as she approached the landing, probably noticing the sleeping homeless man. Then she continued down. To Glitsky, it was probable that Anlya was still alive at this moment, and possibly hadn’t even started the argument that would end in her death, just above and out of the camera’s range.
At 11:04, a white man in a trench coat over what looked to be a suit—he was wearing a tie—descended the stairs in a hurry, almost at a run. He slowed to a full stop at the turnaround, perhaps surprised by the presence of the homeless man there, and Glitsky imagined that this was probably seconds or at most a minute or two after Anlya had hit the street below. This might, he thought, be her killer, coming down to make sure she was dead.
Glitsky stopped the playback and went frame by frame, trying to get a good glimpse of the man’s face. But as he descended, he kept his gaze lowered, eyes on the steps, then down at the homeless guy.
Try as he might, Glitsky couldn’t make out any particular features. The man had a full head of dark hair that he wore fashionably long, just over his ears. He was the approximate height and build of Greg Treadway. Beyond that, he could have been anybody.
Almost immediately after, at 11:05, the homeless man stood up and appeared at the bottom of the picture, although since he trudged up the stairs and therefore away from the camera, his face was never visible, either. At 11:11, a couple—two of the witnesses who’d talked to the police that night?—also in a hurry, as though coming down to look at something specific, entered and then exited the picture. Four minutes later—an eternity!—the next pedestrian appeared on the stairway, a heavyset black man in a kind of a peacoat. He came halfway down, got to the landing, then stopped and seemed to examine the stairway ahead before continuing the rest of the way down.
Finally, at 11:15, a San Francisco patrolman in uniform showed up on the screen. He, too, paused at the landing before heading down the rest of the way.
Much to his frustration, Glitsky was all but certain that he had been watching what was happening during the exact minutes when Anlya and her assailant argued and she was thrown to her death. That reality was right here, just outside the vision of the camera. With the exception of the couple who may have been the ones who stayed around to answer police questions about what they’d seen and heard, Glitsky knew that getting a positive identification of any of these people would probably be an impossible task, since all of them had appeared only briefly, turned the corner, then walked down facing away from the camera. None of them had appeared startled, or looked up, or given any indication they were aware that anything unusual had just happened.
• • •
THE BECK WAS spending that same Friday night out with her client. They were sitting across the table from each other in a booth at a pizza place on Clement, and she had assured him that there would be no bill for her time or services. Because she knew that her father—no joke—would surely disapprove of her decision, she felt uncomfortable about this.
But she also felt like it might be her best chance to get to know more, not just about her client but about some of the background of the general situation. Greg had been filling her in for the past ten minutes on the basic story of Max and Anlya when another name came up and she interrupted him. “Who, again,” she asked, “is Leon?”
“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned him yet,” Greg said. “Leon Copes. Anlya’s mother’s live-in boyfriend for a while. A truly bad guy, nothing but trouble, especially for Anlya. He raped her while he was living with them.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. She was like fourteen at the time, or the first time.”
“There was more than one time? And he was still living with them?”
“I know. It was bad. Eventually, Sharla threw him out, but he scared everybody enough that they never pressed charges. They were just relieved to have him gone.”
“There’s a lovely story. So where is he now?”
“Last I heard, Napa State Hospital.”
This was an unexpected answer. Though it was filled with people who’d been arrested, Napa wasn’t a jail but a secure holding institution for people who’d been found incompetent to face trial.
“What did he do to get in there?” Rebecca asked.
“Got in a bar fight and killed a guy, then got found incompetent.”
Sometimes confused by laymen with a ruling of insanity, legal incompetence was an entirely different concept: It applied when a defendant could not participate in a trial because of a mental disorder or developmental disability, as a result of which the defendant was not able to understand the nature of the criminal proceedings or assist counsel in the conduct of a defense.
“And when was this?”
Greg chewed pizza. “After he moved out but while the kids were still with Sharla, maybe a year and a half before they were removed from her custody.”
“So—what?—three years ago?”
“That sounds about right. Why?”
“I’d have to check to make sure of the law on this, but I think there’s a maximum of three years you can be held if you’re Thirteen Sixty-eight.”
“Thirteen Sixty-eight?”
“Sorry. Legalese. That’s the penal code section when you’re incompetent to stand trial.”
“After three years, then what?”
“They either let you go or, if you’re a complete batshit loonball and you meet certain criteria, you can be institutionalized longer, under what I think they call a Murphy Conservatorship, but don’t quote me on it. Two years out of law school and the details are already fuzzy. It’s one of the reasons I don’t feel right charging you for tonight. But once I get back up to speed and know most of these answers for sure, watch out.”
“I’ll consider myself warned. But I still don’t get your point about Leon.”
“Well, if it’s been three years, my question is whether he’s still at Napa, if maybe they’ve let him out.”
“Could they let him out and not bring him to trial? I mean, he was charged with killing somebody. They wouldn’t just declare him competent and then not have a trial, would they?”
She put her beer glass down. “Good point. You’re right. He’d either be Murphy’d or found fit for trial. Either way he’s still in custody somewhere.”
“And that matters because . . . ?”
She brushed a lock of hair back off her forehead. “Only that if he were out, he
would definitely be a threat to Anlya, wouldn’t he? If she accused him of raping her . . . Except that’s moot if he’s still in custody and charged with murder.” She picked up her beer glass and drank. “Are you good if we keep going a little more?”
“Sure, but I do have a question.”
“Hit me.”
“If you believe I’m innocent, and I am, why do we need to keep going over any of this?”
Rebecca put her glass down and straightened up. “It’s not a question of whether I think you’re innocent. You’re my client, and my job is to protect you. That doesn’t mean I think you’re guilty.”
His expression went decidedly cold. “Well, thanks all the hell for that.”
She shook off his objection. “Hey! Listen up, Greg. Until I’m convinced that you’re no longer on Homicide’s radar, I feel obligated to know as much as I can about all of this stuff, okay? Anlya, her family, the other players in her life. And you’re right—all of that might not matter. None of it might matter. But what if it turned out that part of it did, and I just wasn’t aware or missed it? Or didn’t think to ask about it?”
“But I’m not—”
Holding up her hand, she stopped him. “The other thing is that I screwed up with you last night. I had lots of time before Waverly showed up to give you a primer on what to do when you’re innocent and you talk to the police, the main thing being tell the whole truth, no matter what. Because if you tell them up front, the worse they do is go, ‘Hm, that’s a little weird, but he knew it was, too, and even though it made him come across as squirrelly, he told us.’ But I didn’t do that. And now you’re paying for it, and that’s my fault.”
“You’re being a little hard on yourself. You weren’t my lawyer at the time.”
“It doesn’t matter. I screwed up, and you’re still not in the clear here, don’t kid yourself.”
He shook his head. “I’m not worried.”
“Good for you. You don’t have to be. I do. Until they get themselves another suspect, anyway. You still might not see it, but this is all dead serious, and until it goes away, I’m the only one standing between you and at least a very bad few months. Really.”
“Okay. I give up. You’re right, and I should take this more seriously. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She blew out some of her pent-up adrenaline. “How did they wind up in foster care in the first place? I mean the actual event that got CPS involved?”
“Long story short is that Sharla had a new boyfriend—after Leon—who’d gotten hold of some ecstasy, and they were partying loud enough that somebody called the police. By the time the cops arrived, the partying had turned into a fight. Anlya and Max had locked themselves in their mom’s bedroom to be out of harm’s way, and when the cops found them there, they called CPS.”
“Is that boyfriend still in the picture?”
“No. But there’s probably another new one in the wings. You hate to say it about anybody, but Sharla’s pretty much a lost cause. Max won’t even go see her anymore.”
“What about him? Max?”
Greg shrugged. “What do you want me to say? He’s a great kid. Smart and somehow motivated in spite of everything he’s been through. Ripped up over this, though. I was planning to hang with him tomorrow, not that I’ll be able to do much, if anything. I mean, twins, you know. Together from birth.”
“They were close?”
“Very.”
“Was she like him?”
“In what way?”
“Motivated and smart?”
“Not exactly.” He rotated his beer mug. “She was intelligent enough but much more idealistic and dreamy than Max, who’s got some good street smarts. She wasn’t that way—maybe, ironically, because of the bad stuff she’d been through. She just wasn’t going to let that defeat her. Everything was going to work out all right for her. Her grades were good. She was going to get into college. All of that.” He let out a sigh. “Except not, as it turns out.”
“But,” Rebecca pushed, “she was having some other problem in her life. Something was bothering her. I mean, besides the unrequited crush on you.”
Greg’s face closed down tight. “I wish to hell people would stop talking about that. There wasn’t anything to it. It was a stupid teenage thing, and it makes me look like I was part of it. Which I wasn’t.”
“You don’t feel like you led her on?”
He leveled his gaze at her. “To be honest, that question really pisses me off. Are you trying to get a rise out of me? You just did it.”
Rebecca, startled at the vehemence, pushed herself all the way back in her chair.
The angry moment gave way. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” He blew out heavily. “All our jokes about date nights and secret places where we’d meet up, our places. They weren’t really anything, although in retrospect, I can see I screwed up.” Another sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Rebecca swallowed, grabbed at her own breath. “So what else, besides you, might have been bothering her?”
He shook his head. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s something going on in the home. Estrogen overload. There was a crisis going on with somebody there every week or so. I can’t imagine anything so serious that it might have played a role in her death. You want to know what I think happened?”
“I’d love to hear that.”
“I don’t think it was personal. Somebody saw a woman walking alone late at night, an easy target. He mugged her, grabbed her purse, she fought back, he threw her over.” He waited.
“Well.” Rebecca sipped at her beer. “If only you hadn’t left out some of the details in what you told Waverly last night, that might be the working theory of the case.”
“But now it’s not?”
“I’d be lying if I said I thought it was.”
17
REBECCA HARDY STOOD over the sink in her Laguna Street apartment and tipped up the orange juice, drinking it straight from the mouth of the carton.
Delicious.
She’d just finished her run, nearly four miles, along the track by the bay and out to the end of Crissy Field, almost all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. A solid workout and another reason to love the weekend.
It wasn’t by any stretch a warm day, and though the bright orange shorts and green nylon T-shirt she wore hadn’t given her much thermal relief, the running had kept her cozy enough. Dying of thirst but cozy. She lifted the carton again.
Her roommate, Allie Jensen, appeared in the room’s doorway. She was two years older than Rebecca, three inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier; they’d been roommates their 3L year and graduated from Hastings College of the Law at the same time. “My mom would kill me if she ever caught me drinking right out of the carton.”
“My mom hates it, too, but she can’t kill me because my dad does it all the time, and then she’d have to kill him, too. Anyway.” Rebecca raised the carton again and let it pour.
“Good run?”
“Excellent.” Rebecca looked over and picked up on something. “Is everything okay?”
Allie was still in her pajamas. She stood with one foot on top of the other one, leaning against the door jamb. “Not great.”
Rebecca put down the OJ. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Letting out a breath, Allie said, “You want to sit down?”
“It’s sit-down bad?”
Allie shrugged and turned to take a chair at the table in what they called their breakfast nook, though it was more like a walk-in closet.
Rebecca followed and sat. Somewhat surprised to see that her roommate had tears piling up in her eyes, she reached over and patted her knee. “What?”
Allie couldn’t answer right away. She looked up, stared and then blinked at the ceiling. Wiping away the streak of a tear that had fallen onto her cheek, she took a breath and essayed a weak smile. “I think I’m going to have to give up.”
“What do you mean?” Although Rebecca though
t she might know.
“I got my last two rejections from this round yesterday.”
Rebecca sighed in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. And I know that’s hard, but it’s just another round.”
“It’s, like, the tenth, Beck. Somewhere in there. I don’t think I’m hirable. Nobody wants a law student who can’t pass the bar. Twice.”
“You’ll get it this time. You’ll see.”
“Yeah, but in the meantime . . . I talked to my mom last night and told her. And she was real nice about it, but . . . The bottom line is they said they can’t help do the rent anymore. I’m welcome to come home and live with them until I get something, but they’ve given me a ride as long as they can, and it has to stop. I don’t blame them. I’d feel the same way. I mean, how long do you carry somebody who can’t make it on her own?”
The question didn’t call for an answer. Instead, Rebecca asked her, “You’d consider going back to Carbondale?”
Allie was shaking her head miserably. “I don’t know what choice I have.”
“You’ve always got choices. For starters, you could go for a non-law job.”
“After all my parents spent on law school? That doesn’t seem right.”
“At least it would pay the rent, Al.”
“If I could even get a job that paid enough for that.”
“There’s got to be something that could pay you more. Maybe my dad could bring you on part-time. I could ask him.”
“Then that would be him giving me charity instead of my parents. I don’t want any more charity. I want to work.”
Rebecca chortled. “Oh, he’ll make you work, believe me. And when you pass the bar, you’ll have the inside track on getting hired full-time.”
“If I pass the bar.”
“You will. I know you will.” Rebecca reached out and put her hand over Allie’s. “I really don’t want you to move out, Al. Just selfishly. We’re great roommates, aren’t we? Can you at least give it another month or two? I could lend you—”
“No. I don’t want that.”
“Why not? You can pay me back when you start getting paid. No interest.”
The Fall Page 9
