Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  “How do you plead?” Barsotti asked.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.” Freeman spoke for May. After Freeman’s booming oratorio in the interview room on Saturday, Hardy was struck by the modulation of his voice. He was matter-of-fact, conversational. But there was a fist under the glove. Suddenly, he put on his trial voice. “Your Honor, before we continue with this charade I’d like to move to have all charges against my client dismissed due to procedural error.”

  “On a murder charge, Mr. Freeman? And already?”

  “Mr. Hardy of the district attorney’s office interrogatedmy client on Saturday morning without informing her—”

  “I object, Your Honor.” Elizabeth Pullios was up from the D.A.’s desk, where she’d appeared during the recess. “Mr. Hardy informed Ms. Shintaka that she had the right to have an attorney present and Ms. Shintaka waived that right. The prosecution has a tape recording of that meeting.”

  “I think we can establish coercion . . .”

  Barsotti tapped his gavel. He sighed. “Mr. Freeman,” he said, “save it for the hearing. In the meantime, we’ll move on to bail.”

  He adjusted his glasses and double-checked the computer sheet in front of him. The handwritten notation next to the computer line read “No bail.”

  “The prosecution asks that no bail be granted?” he asked Pullios.

  “This is a capital murder case, Your Honor.”

  Freeman turned and looked directly at Pullios. “You’re not serious.”

  Barsotti tapped his gavel again. “Mr. Freeman, please direct your remarks to the bench.”

  “Excuse me, Your Honor, I am shocked and dismayed by this mention of capital murder. I can see that this is alleged as a special-circumstances case, but I can’t believe that the state is asking for death.”

  Pullios stood up. “Murder for profit, Your Honor.”

  “I assume you have some evidence to substantiate this claim, Ms. Pullios.”

  “We do, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor, Ms. Shintaka poses no threat to society.”

  “No threat? She killed somebody last week!”

  The sound of the gavel exploded in the room. “Ms. Pullios, that’s enough of that. Both of you hold your press conferences outside this courtroom.”

  Hardy was impressed. Barsotti might be a bland functionary, but he was in control here.

  Freeman had recovered his cool. “Your Honor, my client has never before been accused of a crime, much less convicted.”

  Pullios wasn’t slowed down by the rebuke. “Your Honor, the defendant was attempting to leave the jurisdiction when she was arrested.”

  “Mr. Freeman, was your client attempting to flee?”

  “She was going to Japan on business, Your Honor. It’s our contention the arresting officer overreacted. She was intending to come back. There had been no warrant issued. She was going about her normal life, which included a previously planned trip to Japan.”

  “She’d only bought the ticket the day before, Your Honor, and she didn’t buy a return. She’d also packed many personal effects.”

  “And she’d left many more. She wasn’t fleeing the jurisdiction. She was going on a trip. She will gladly surrender her passport to the court. There is no risk of flight here.”

  Pullios started to say something more, but Barsotti held up a hand. “I’m going to set bail at five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Pullios leaned over and whispered to Hardy. “Close enough.”

  “A half million dollars is a lot of money, Your Honor.”

  “I believe that’s the point, Mr. Freeman. We’ll set the preliminary hearing for—”

  “Your Honor.” Freeman again.

  Even Hardy the novice knew what was next. Although the defendant had an absolute right to a preliminary hearing within ten court days or sixty calendar days of arraignment, no defense lawyer in his right mind would agree to go to prelim that soon, at least until he’d gotten a chance to see what kind of evidence the prosecution had gathered. “The defense would request three weeks for discovery and to set.”

  “Will the defendant waive time?” Which meant that in exchange for this three-week delay, May would give up her right to a preliminary hearing within ten days.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Barsotti scratched his chin. “Three weeks, hmm.” he looked down at his desk, moved some papers around. “Will counsel approach the bench?”

  Pullios, Hardy and Freeman moved around their respective tables and up before the judge. Barsotti’s eyes were milk-watery. The drama hadn’t lasted long. “We’re getting ourselves into the beginning of vacation season here. Would there be any objection to, say, the day after Labor Day?”

  “None here, Your Honor,” Freeman said.

  “Your Honor, Labor Day is over two months away. The defendant has a right to a speedy trial, but the people have no less a right to speedy justice.”

  “I don’t need a lecture, Counselor.”

  “Of course not, Your Honor. But the prosecution is ready to proceed in ten days. Two months is a rather lengthy delay.”

  This was not close to true, and everyone knew it. Barsotti looked at Pullios over his glasses. “Not for this time of year, it isn’t. We got a full docket, and you know as well as I do it can go six months, a year, before we get to a hearing.” Barsotti clearly didn’t expect to get any argument, and it put his back up. He shuffled some papers, looked down at something on his desk. “We’ll schedule the prelim for Wednesday, September sixth, nine-thirty a.m., in this department.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Freeman said.

  Pullios had her jaw set. “That’d be fine, Your Honor.”

  “That’s all now.” He brushed all counsel away and looked over to the bailiff. “Call the next line,” he said.

  Prelim courtrooms were on the first and second floors. The hallway outside the courtrooms on both floors was about twenty feet wide, the ceilings fifteen feet high, the floors linoleum. But except for the sound of falling pins, it had all the ambience, volume and charm of a low-rent bowling alley.

  During the hours court was in session there were seldom less than two hundred people moving to and fro— witnesses, lawyers, clerks, spectators, families and friends. People chatted on the floors against the walls. Mothers breast-fed their babies. Folks ate lunch, kissed, cried, cut deals. On Monday and Thursday mornings, after the janitors had cleaned up, the hallway smelled like the first day of school. By now, seven hours into the workday, it just smelled.

  Hardy, Glitsky and Jeff Elliot stood in a knot outside Department 11. All of them were watching Pullios’s rear end as it disappeared around the corner down near the elevators. “Good thing justice is blind,” Glitsky said, “or Freeman wouldn’t have a chance.”

  “I don’t know,” Elliot said. “He’s got May.”

  “Yeah, her dress though, that baggy yellow thing doesn’t show it off like old Betsy.” Hardy liked calling her Betsy. He knew he was going to get used to it and slip someday. He kind of looked forward to it. He pointed at Elliot. “That was off the record.”

  Jeff was happy to be included again. “Of course.”

  “Just making sure.”

  “So what do you think?” Glitsky asked. “Christmas for the trial? Next Easter?”

  Hardy said he didn’t know how long Freeman could delay if he wasn’t going to make bail. He wouldn’t want to leave May in jail for a year, awaiting trial.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll make bail,” Glitsky said.

  “How’s she gonna make bail?” Elliot asked. “Half a million dollars?”

  “How much does David Freeman charge? Half a million dollars? If it goes a year, it could easily come to that.”

  “How’d she get Freeman anyway?” Hardy asked.

  Glitsky shrugged. “If we only knew an investigative reporter or something . . .”

  “She’s got to have some money. What’s her house look like?” Hardy asked.

  “Apartmen
t,” Glitsky answered. “Small. Nice, but small.”

  “Maybe Freeman is one of her clients.” Elliot clearly liked the idea, was warming to it. “That’s it! Freeman is one of her clients. Nash was another.”

  Glitsky held down his enthusiasm. “And the will is collateral on the come after he gets her off.”

  “What will?”

  Glitsky stopped short. He took a beat, then smiled down at the reporter. “Did I say ‘will’? I don’t think I said ‘will.’ ”

  Hardy shook his head. “No, I’m sure I would’ve heard it. I was right here and I didn’t hear anything like ‘will.’ ”

  “Are we on the record here or what?” Elliot leaned into his crutches. “Come on, guys.”

  Hardy glanced at Abe. “What do you think?”

  “It’s gonna come out anyway,” Abe said, “but it would be sort of nice to find out how Freeman got connected to May. Pullios is really going for capital?”

  Hardy nodded. “You heard her.”

  Glitsky laid it out for Jeff—the $2 million will, the profit motive, Farris tentatively authenticating the handwriting.

  “Well, there’s the money if he gets her off,” Elliot said.

  Glitsky looked at Hardy. “This guy must not know any defense attorneys,” he said. Then, explaining: “Jeff, listen, if there’s one thing all defense attorneys do, they get their money up front.”

  “Think about it,” Hardy said. “You’re found guilty, you don’t pay your attorney ’cause he didn’t do the job. You’re not guilty, you don’t pay him ’cause you don’t need him anymore. Either way, your attorney is stiffed. Maybe you’re grateful, but not a half million dollars’ grateful.”

  “Maybe he just gets the rights up front for the book deal. Maybe that’s his fee.”

  “Pico was telling me that we—him and me—ought to go for a book deal. We found the hand, after all.”

  “Hey!” Rare for him, Glitsky got into it. “I arrested May. I ought to get the book deal.”

  Elliot said, “Somebody is paying Freeman. You still don’t think maybe he’s one of her clients?”

  Glitsky put a look on Jeff. “A half million dollars’ worth of ass?”

  “Not including bail,” Hardy put in.

  Glitsky said, “If she makes bail.”

  “I don’t know,” Hardy said. “I’ve got a feeling here. Freeman’s going for delay. He doesn’t want delay if she’s cooling her heels upstairs. Which means she makes bail.”

  22

  “I think you’re innocent. That’s why.” This was not close to true. David Freeman’s words were tools to produce the effect he desired. That’s all they were.

  May Shinn was drinking Chardonnay in a booth at Tadich’s Grill. David Freeman, her rumpled genius, sat across from her. Before the arraignment, he’d gone down to her bank with power of attorney and withdrawn $50,000, just about cleaning out her life savings. He’d known exactly the amount they’d set bail for. He’d gotten the clothes they’d taken from her and got them pressed before they gave them back to her. He’d brought her new makeup.

  He’d followed the story in the newspaper. When he read of her arrest on Saturday morning, he knew he had to help her, that she would need an attorney, that a Japanese mistress of a well-known and powerful man was going to have a very difficult time making a defense against the arrayed powers. Now, having talked to her, he also had the advantage of believing she was innocent.

  “But I am unable to pay.”

  He lifted his shoulders, sipped lugubriously at his own wine. The curtain was pulled across the booth. They had been through this before. He had started by trying to convince her that he was taking her case pro bono. Once in a while, he had told her, you just had to do something because it was the right thing to do. Which had caused her to smile.

  “If I can’t lie to you, you should not lie to me.”

  “May, why would I lie?”

  She put her glass down, twirled it around, kept her eyes on him. Finally he cracked, laughing at himself. “Okay,” he said, “okay, but it’s not a terrifically flattering motive.”

  “It’s not been a very flattering few days,” she said.

  “No, I guess not.” Freeman drank some wine, then took a breath and began. “Until about ten years ago, attorneys weren’t allowed to advertise, did you know that?”

  She nodded.

  “And even now, when it’s technically legal, it’s still not particularly good for business unless you’re doing divorce or DUI or ambulance chasing. I mean, it kind of puts you in the low-rent market. Good attorneys don’t advertise because they don’t need to, and if they do need to, they’re not good.” He had a good smile, a strong face. Sincere, brown eyes, a full head of dark hair. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

  “And I am advertising?”

  “I’ve got seven associates left. I had to let three go in the last twelve months. Business is terrible. This is a high-profile case. Owen Nash was a well-known man.”

  It didn’t surprise her. She was to the point where she thought nothing could surprise her. At least she knew.

  But at the mention of Owen’s name, a shadow fell within her. She didn’t want to be sitting here, drinking wine, enjoying food. “I didn’t kill him, David.”

  He patted her hand across the table. “Of course you didn’t.”

  He didn’t believe her. He’d told her Saturday, before they’d even talked, before he’d reviewed any of the prosecution’s evidence, that it was irrelevant whether or not she’d killed Nash—he was going to get her off.

  “But I didn’t!”

  He shushed her gently, index finger to his lips. “I must say, there is very little evidence that you did.”

  “What about the will?”

  He brushed that away. “The will. Does the will put you on the boat? Did it give you the opportunity to kill Owen? Did it give you the means? You were home, weren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “All right, then. We will prove you were home. The will, like the rest of the so-called evidence, is completely irrelevant. What do they have? The will? The ticket to Japan?”

  “I thought the police would . . .”

  “Of course. Naturally.” He emptied the bottle into their glasses and continued with the litany. “There is nothing physically tying you to the gun, no proof you pulled the trigger”—he held up a finger, stopping her. “Uh, uh. No more denials. They don’t matter, you see? There is nothing that could prove you did it. I don’t even see a case that will get to trial. At the preliminary hearing, we point out the racial discrimination, mixed in with your profession . . . It’s really not going anywhere. There is simply no hard evidence.”

  May Shinn was back in her apartment. David Freeman had driven her home, then walked up and made sure she was safe inside her door.

  She ran a bath and sank into the hot water, letting the memories wash over her. She thought it might have been the closeness to death that brought her and Owen back to life.

  The first couple of weeks they were inseparable— she canceled her appointments with all her clients. She didn’t know who Owen was then, didn’t know that he had money. All she knew was he made her feel things, that there was some connection between her mind and her body that she’d lost touch with long before, and now while it was back, for however short a time, she was going to keep it.

  There was strange behavior—they tied each other up, blindfolded each other, tried every position and every orifice. They went outside at two in the morning and did it on the sidewalk. They shaved each other bare. He ate her with honey and chocolate and, once, garlic, which burned hotter and longer than Spanish fly. Owen had his appetites.

  The man was also in fantastic shape. Big, barrelchested, hard everywhere. He drank scotch and wine and brandy and took pills to get to sleep. Gradually she became aware that he was doing business from her house—phone calls in the middle of whatever they were doing, mention of the Wheel, taking care of his daughter’s problems. He had
a real life somewhere out there, but it wasn’t coming between them.

  She didn’t understand it exactly. She just knew that in some unspoken way they were in this together, finding something out, something essential for them both to go on. It wasn’t the sex, or at least it wasn’t only the sex.

  She’d made her living from sex for fifteen years, and none of it had seriously touched her. Her life, even her professional life, had evolved into something remote. She made love with her clients, but not every time she saw them. When they needed it, predictably missionary after the first few times, then she was there. Often they couldn’t make it. More often they wanted to hug, lie there afterward and talk.

  She made them dinners, too. Scampi in brandy, raw oysters, rare filet and Cabernet. She’d turned into a great cook. She sang for them, played piano while they sat with their bourbon or gin, gave them the companionship or escape or a kind of romance they didn’t find in their homes.

  Owen, though. Owen wasn’t like anyone else. And not just his hungers. He didn’t live a life of quiet desperation. He wasn’t looking for respite, or peace, or a sheen of culture laid on top of the vulgarity of the world. He’d seen it for what it was, or more, he’d seen himself for what he was.

  No games. And she was with him. The oblivion—the sex—the sex was the only way they both knew anymore to get to it, to get underneath the crust. Something was cooking inside each of them, threatening to blow if it didn’t get some release, get through the crust.

  It was morning, early, before dawn. The sky was gray in the east and still dark over the ocean.

  May Shinn had been out of bed for an hour, walking naked in the dark. She moved away from her turret windows and went back through the kitchen to the bedroom, stopping to pick up her razor-sharp boning knife. Owen slept on the bed, breathing regularly, on his back.