The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  “I completely understand,” Hardy said when she’d finished.

  “I don’t know if you can. I realize it sounds ridiculous. I mean, a box of baby wipes.” She smiled almost apologetically at the absurdity of the words. But the reality was too serious to allow that. She’d called police alleging that James had gotten angry during a scheduled visitation with their one-year-old, Amanda. From a distance of less than five feet he had thrown a full box of baby wipes at his estranged wife. The force and surprise of the thing had knocked Mrs. Oliva down, broken her nose, blackened both eyes. Hardy thought he could still detect halos of bluish bruise under her foundation.

  “The issue isn’t what may or may not have been in the box. The issue is that he threw it in anger at you.”

  As though curious, she cocked her head to one side. “You’re not trying to defend it?”

  “Call me old-fashioned,” Hardy said, breaking a small grin, “but I’m opposed to guys hitting girls. Throwing things at them, too, if you want to get technical.” His voice went dead sober. “I’m acting on behalf of your husband, Mrs. Oliva, but not trying to defend what he did. I’ve suggested he get himself into an anger management program and he’s done that, but what he did to you, he and I both agree, is completely inexcusable. He wants you to know that that’s how he feels.”

  Mrs. Oliva digested this unexpected viewpoint for a short moment. She seemed to remember the demitasse on the table and reached down, picked it up, took a sip. “So, if that’s the case, why are we having this meeting?” she asked. “Why are you defending him?”

  “Well, as I’ve indicated, I’m really not there yet. Defending him, I mean, in the legal sense. At this point, he’s retained me and I’m representing him. If this case eventually comes to trial, I’ll probably advise him to seek other counsel.”

  She carefully put her coffee cup back down and faced Hardy, her lips now tight. “What do you mean, if this case goes to trial? The DA’s charged it and they’re planning to go forward.”

  “I know that. Of course.” Hardy sat back, crossed one leg over the other. “But I wanted to talk to you in person and ask you if in your heart you really wanted Jim to go to jail over this. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about what happens to cops when they go to jail.”

  Her mouth worked, but she didn’t speak.

  Hardy pressed her moment of hesitancy. “I’m not suggesting that Jim not be punished, or that if he does go to jail he wouldn’t deserve whatever happened to him there. What I am saying is that I’d like you to consider what that type of punishment for him would do to you.” He uncrossed his legs and came forward. “If Jim gets convicted, Mrs. Oliva, he loses his job, which in the here and now means no income for you and no child support. I understand he’s been good about those payments up until now.”

  She nodded. Her face showed that this was something she hadn’t considered. The possibility of losing that precious income clearly struck a nerve.

  Hardy continued. “He’s not trying to duck his responsibility to you, Mrs. Oliva, or even his punishment, which he knows he deserves.” He lowered his voice to near inaudibility. “I doubt if he would want anyone to know about this, but I sat across from him in this very seat two days ago and watched him break down in remorse for what he’d done to you. He’d never harmed you physically before this one incident, had he?”

  “No.” Suddenly one of Mrs. Oliva’s eyes overflowed. She made no effort to wipe the tear away.

  Hardy handed her a Kleenex from the box on the table beside him, his voice a caressing whisper. “He lost his temper, Mrs. Oliva. He never meant to hurt you, and certainly not so badly. He says he thinks you know that. Is that true?”

  “No. I mean yes. I don’t think he meant to do it. But it was so . . . so violent. And in front of Amanda.”

  “I know. Amanda. She’s his main concern, too. What’s going to happen to her if Jim’s in jail and you’ve got to be working to support the both of you? What’s that going to do to her, living in a succession of daycare places, as opposed to her having her own mother . . .” He stopped.

  Her tears flowed over her cheeks and she dabbed at them with the Kleenex. She sat straight-backed, under rigid control.

  “Mrs. Oliva,” Hardy said, “Jim is more sorry for this than he can express. He plans to write you a formal apology. Beyond that, he doesn’t want the baby you had together to be brought up by strangers. He understands that you’re not comfortable seeing him for a time, or having him around Amanda. But these anger management classes can work wonders. I’ve seen it happen many times. In the meanwhile, at my suggestion, Jim has agreed to double his monthly child support payments to you, which will be a burden on him, but one that he accepts, would gladly accept if you’d agree to it and ask the DA to to drop these criminal charges.”

  Hardy knew that it was up to the DA to press or drop the charges. Jackman felt continual pressure from women’s groups to go to the max on every case such as this one. Nevertheless, with the victim on board, Hardy thought he had a good shot at getting his client into some kind of program that would result in the charges being dismissed. Jackman might not like these diversion programs, where nothing substantive ever really happened, but he was stuck with them. And sometimes, as in this case, they served a purpose.

  “You know your husband,” Hardy continued. “Basically, he’s a good man. He’ll honor his debts, especially to Amanda. You know he will. But he needs to keep his job. He needs to go back to work, for all of your sakes.”

  Every day, under his dress shirt and tie Wes Farrell wore a T-shirt with a message. He was buttoning up now, having just shown Hardy today’s: “Dyslexics of the world, untie!” Now Farrell, religious in his avoidance of good posture, had gotten himself comfortable sideways and slumped in the loveseat, his legs up over the armrest. He said, “For this twenty minutes you made five thousand dollars?”

  Hardy had his cabinet open and was throwing darts in an abstracted manner. Now he turned to face his partner. “It was grueling work. But it wasn’t any twenty minutes. More like fifteen.”

  “Fifteen minutes. And what’s this, the fifth one this month?”

  “The fifth what?”

  “Whatever you call it. Facilitation?”

  “I love that word.” Hardy threw a dart. “But I don’t keep track of the numbers. It’s bad luck, counting your money at the table.” He threw another dart. “More than a couple anyway.”

  “And this one, she’s calling the DA today?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “And her husband doubles the child support and also pays you five grand?”

  Hardy felt enough guilt about it himself. He didn’t need to get an extra dose from his partner. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s still better off. It’s way cheaper than if he went to trial. I didn’t do anything unethical. Everybody wins here.”

  “If you believe that, I believe you,” Farrell said. “I’m just trying to figure out how I can get some of that action.”

  “Well, I’m not really sure I do believe it, to tell you the truth. But it seems to be what I’m doing lately. Nobody really wants to go to trial anyway. It’s too expensive and time-consuming.”

  “You’re kidding. When did that start?” Farrell stood and walked over to the dart board, from which he extracted Hardy’s last round, all twenties. “Although if memory serves, those pesky trials are the traditional way we establish guilt or innocence.”

  Hardy chortled—short, dry, mirthless. “Uh huh. And I’ve got this bridge . . . I’d think that you, Wes, of all people, might harbor a little skepticism about that issue.” A few years before, in a highly-publicized murder trial, Farrell had made his reputation as a defense attorney by getting an acquittal for his best friend who, as it turned out, and unbeknownst to his lawyer, had been guilty as hell. “I should also think,” Hardy went on, “that instead of this show of unseemly envy, you would pause to admire the finesse with which your friend and partner has mastered the fine art of fatt
ening the firm’s account, and hence your own, without having to resort to the tedium of hourly billing.”

  Farrell threw a dart. “I’m constantly in a state of high awe.”

  Hardy nodded. “There you go.”

  Someone knocked and his door opened. Amy Wu stood for a moment in the doorway, all but gaping. “Partners with darts,” she said.

  “Now you know why Phyllis guards the door,” Hardy said.

  “I waited until she took a break.”

  Farrell threw. “Bull’s-eye.”

  Both Hardy and Wu turned. The dart was nowhere near the center of the board. “Made you look,” Farrell said.

  “You guys are weird, you know that?” Wu looked at Hardy. “I don’t know if you’re still interested in these things, sir, but I’ve got a question about a case. You know, the law?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Hardy said. “Can Wes stay and listen?”

  Wu cast a baleful eye at Farrell. “If he can spare the time.”

  “Can’t,” Farrell said. “Duty calls. Well, whispers.” He threw his last dart and headed for the door.

  Hardy closed up his dart closet and went around behind his desk. He stole a glance at Wu as he passed her. She projected at least the illusion of efficient competence, but he wasn’t fooled. Wu’s performance had slipped since her father’s death. She’d also missed a lot of work, really an unconscionable amount for someone in her position. But he believed she’d make it up by the end of the year. She was having a hard time, and understandably.

  All in all, Hardy felt that it was much preferable, and far easier, to pretend that all was well when that’s what it looked like. And Wu certainly still looked the part of hotshot young associate—she wore her hair short and cropped around her ears; her always-crisp business attire couldn’t be faulted. Besides, with an IQ of around one fifty, Wu could be firing on only half of her cylinders and still blow away a great deal of the competition. Or so Hardy chose to believe.

  Certainly he didn’t want to inquire too pointedly about her personal life. That was neither his job nor his inclination. But he was her boss, and at the very least he should be awake to nuances that might affect her performance.

  The real problem, he knew, was that he was having some nuances himself. He’d be damned if he was going to think about those much, either, but Wu had missed another day of work on Friday—if she kept her absences at anything like this rate much longer, she would have some difficulty making the firm’s annual hourly billing minimum. He really felt he had to say something. He sat back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. “You’ve got a law question,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, before we get to that, can I ask you a bit of a personal one?”

  Her face closed up. “Of course.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” she answered automatically.

  “I noticed you were out on Friday.”

  “I saw a client in the afternoon. The case I wanted to ask you about, in fact.”

  “Ah.” He scratched at his desk. “I just thought that if you wanted some time off, you could ask and get it, you know. Even an extended leave if you felt you needed it. Sometimes that’s a better idea than taking a day at a time, piecemeal.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Okay. I’m not meaning to pry. Just making the offer. The firm places a high value on you and your work, and if you feel like you’d be more productive after a bit of a break, we’d be happy to give you one, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think I need that. I’m just working through some stuff, sir.” She tried a game smile. “Getting used to the new world order.”

  “Okay, but if it gets tough and you change your mind, you can come in here. Anytime.”

  “Thank you.” Wu half turned her head to the door behind her. “But maybe you could mention that to Phyllis first, just in case.”

  A ghost of a smile played around Hardy’s mouth. “You said you got by her this time?”

  “Yes. But I cheated and watched from my office until she left her post and went to the bathroom.”

  Hardy nodded, his smile genuine now. “You know,” he said, “when David was still with us, sometimes I used to do that, too. I’d be hiding on the stairs just out of sight and wait for Phyllis to get up off her phones, then I’d zip across the lobby and get inside David’s lair before she could stop me. She hated it. It was great. But I must say,” he went on, “since then I’ve gotten some appreciation of why he kept her around, in spite of that slightly witchlike quality. The gatekeeping does serve a purpose. Me, I’m trying to emulate how David did things. Keep an open door.”

  “But he didn’t keep an open door.”

  “Exactly. Except when he did.” Hardy came forward and linked his hands in front of him on the desk. “He always said that if it was important enough to make me figure out how to get around Phyllis, it was important enough for him.”

  It was a challenge and a question, and Wu nodded. “Seventeen-year-old kid up for double murder. How’s that?”

  “If that’s the case you wanted to ask me about, I’d say it’s good enough.” Hardy sat back, his own face tightening down. “Tell me about it.”

  Wu settled into her leather chair and gave him the short version.

  When she finished, Hardy didn’t move for a while; then he brought himself up to his desk, ready for business. “You say the teacher was with this girl? How old was he?”

  “Forty.”

  “Forty,” Hardy said. “And Laura?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “What a lovely world. And they picked up your client—Andrew?—when?”

  “Last Friday.”

  Hardy nodded. “So nobody’s rushing to judgment. Homicide must have worked the case pretty well.”

  “Looks like.” Wu hesitated. “Also, and you might find this interesting, Andrew Bartlett’s stepfather is Hal North.”

  “Is he now?” Hardy, no stranger to the power players in the city, nodded with approval. “So where are you now?”

  “Well, I’ve talked to Boscacci. They’ve got a witness who picked Andrew out of a lineup. No question, first try. Beyond that, Andrew’s on the record with half a dozen lies, plus he stole his father’s gun—a nine-millimeter automatic, which in this case is bad luck. Oh, and they found a casing in the car. Andrew’s car.”

  “Okay, and the boy’s story?”

  “He didn’t do it. He didn’t even realize he was being considered a suspect until the police came and put the cuffs on him. He liked Mooney. He loved Laura.”

  When she mentioned the alibi, Hardy asked immediately, without inflection, “Anybody see him while he was taking this walk?”

  “No sign of it.”

  “What does he say?”

  Wu shifted in her chair. “Well, I haven’t talked to him yet, gotten his story.”

  Hardy cocked his head. “You haven’t talked to him yet? It’s been, what, four days?”

  “I’ve been going over the discovery, sir, talking with the parents, and negotiating with Allan Boscacci. I’ve met Andrew before. I defended him for a joyride a couple of years ago, and didn’t see any immediate need to go and introduce myself again.”

  “Okay,” Hardy said. “Sorry to jump.” But the fact remained that, in his opinion, Wu had slipped again. One of the fundamentals was that you went and talked to the client.

  But Wu seemed oblivious. “Anyway, the point is that Boscacci wouldn’t have arrested Andrew if his alibi held up. And it doesn’t. The eyewitness.”

  “All right. But if they just hired you on Friday, who’d Andrew have with him all the times when he talked to the homicide guys since February?”

  “Nobody. No lawyer anyway. His parents saw it the way he did, and really didn’t believe he was a suspect. They just let him talk and talk and talk.”

  Hardy shook his head. “How deep a hole did he dig?”

  “He’s pretty well hit China.”

  �
��Well, then, it looks like you’ve got your first bona fide murder case. Congratulations, I think. If you’ve come to me for my imprimatur, you’ve got it”—as managing partner, Hardy approved all of the firm’s new business—“although I’m not sure you’ll wind up thanking me for it. Murder trials can kill you.”

  “I’ve heard,” she said, “but I’m not planning to take him to trial.”

  “No? How’s that going to happen?”

  “I think you’ll be happy,” Amy said. “My idea is to keep him in the juvie system.”

  “How old is he, did you say?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Hardy sat back. “Last I heard, seventeen-year-olds got filed adult around here. Mr. Jackman’s been a little rigid on the topic.” Jackman had very publicly adopted a very tough stance on juvenile crime. A seventeen-year-old who’d killed two people did not elicit much sympathy from the new prosecutors in the DA’s office. “You’re telling me Boscacci has already filed him juvie?”

  “Yes, sir.” She paused. “After I told him Andrew would admit.”

  But Hardy’s expression grew perplexed. “He’s going to admit? How do you know he’s going to do that? You said you hadn’t talked to him yet.”

  “I talked to his stepfather.”

  “Okay, all well and good, but the one who pays the bills isn’t necessarily the client.” Hardy scratched behind his ear, interrupted Wu as she started to reply. “No, wait,” he said. “And what if in fact he didn’t actually do it?”

  Wu came forward with some enthusiasm, obviously feeling that this question put her on firmer ground. “He did, though,” she said. “Look, we know homicide took two months building the case. They played it slow and steady. He did it, sir, and specials as an adult puts him in prison for the rest of his life. He’ll admit to avoid that.”

  “But you just told me he says he’s innocent.”

  Wu shook her head. “They don’t arrest innocent people anymore.”

  “It’s happened to clients of mine.”

  “Yes, sir. All two of them, I believe, right?”