The Dismas Hardy Novels

by John Lescroart

  “That was fifty thousand dollars’ worth of—”

  “Stop. Then you go to lunch, have a few drinks, and make a deal for your firm to help elect the DA. Then you have some wine at your partners meeting and try to cut a deal to make poor Gina come back to work when you know that her heart’s gone out of it . . .”

  “Let me ask you this, Frannie—tell me someone whose heart hasn’t gone out of it, especially after . . .” He let it hang.

  Frannie waited until he met her eyes again. “I don’t mean to make you mad. I just don’t believe that the person cutting all these deals is who you really are.”

  “Who I am.” His laugh rang dry and empty. “Who I am is a guy who’s lost faith in the process. But the bills keep on coming, the kids’ college is around the corner. What am I supposed to do? Just stop?”

  “Maybe you could do something you care about.” She moved over toward him, put her arms around his shoulders. “Here,” she said, “lie down with me. Close your eyes. You don’t have to make any decisions right now, tonight. But a blind person can see how unhappy you are, how it’s all frantic and manic and going going going just to keep busy.”

  “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

  She kissed him. “You’re not going to die tomorrow.”

  She felt him growing calmer next to her, his breathing more regular. He put his arm around her and she lay up against him. After another minute, he said, “I think maybe I am drinking a little too much.”

  She noted the repetition of the disclaiming qualifiers—“I think,” “maybe,” “a little.” But it was nevertheless an admission of sorts and, she hoped, a start.

  After another couple of minutes, his body seemed to settle next to her. Sleep trying to claim him. “I’m tired,” he said. Then, “I’m worried about Abe, too.” The words were a barely audible mumble.

  Then he was asleep.

  Back at her apartment, Wu changed out of her lawyer clothes and chose a black leather miniskirt, a diaphanous red shirt over a skin-colored bra, a heavy leather jacket against the cold wind. Fifteen minutes after she’d hung up with Dismas Hardy, she was among the packed bodies at Indigo’s, another bar at the triangle. At a dinner-plate-sized table, twirling her first cosmopolitan of the night with a well-manicured hand, she perched herself on a high stool and showed a lot of leg. The volume of the music—an endless bass and drum loop—made conversation impossible, but she didn’t mind.

  She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think about Jason Brandt, either. Or Andrew Bartlett.

  Wu shrugged out of her jacket, put it across her lap, straightened her back and turned to survey the groups of men who were drinking and laughing all around her. She caught one of the guys—good-looking in a grungy way, long blond hair, couple of earrings—checking the assets she so artfully displayed.

  He was very much interested.

  She smiled, slipped off the stool, got her drink in one hand and her jacket in the other, and moved in to cut him out.

  10

  The wind blew itself out overnight, but it was still unseasonably cold. A high, clear sky, bright sun. A rare city frost bloomed on every patch of green—admittedly not many of them—that Wu passed as she drove up Market Street.

  Her hands shook and her eyes burned, but she was still thankful about the timing of the hearing this morning. The ten o’clock call meant she didn’t have to go by the office and check in before driving to the YGC, and this had allowed her to grab an extra hour or two of sleep, badly needed after all the cocktails that had gone with last night’s adventure. She hadn’t made it back to her apartment until sometime after 3:00 A.M. She hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly dawn, and was jarred awake by the alarm two hours later—disoriented, depleted, wrung out.

  Still, by the time she entered the holding cell behind Arvid Johnson’s courtroom, the mixed jolt from the Dexedrine and the espresso had kicked in. Handcuffed, Andrew sat on a cement bench built against the wall. He seemed subdued and nervous, shrugging a greeting of sorts, then going back to studying the pattern in the floor between his feet.

  Wu put on a brave face, sat up close next to him. He smelled of disinfectant and soap. “Are you holding up all right? Did you get some sleep? How do you feel now? Are you still comfortable with our decision?” To each question, she got a shrug, a nod.

  She tried a few more conversational gambits, telling him that the judge was going to want to hear him admit the petition himelf. All he had to do was follow her lead and it would all be over before he knew it. He nodded some more, then at last shut her up with a curt “I know what I’ve got to do.”

  She had to take that as an assurance. He was going to be okay.

  Hal and Linda North were at their place in the first row, holding hands. Wu nodded to them, got a response from Hal, nothing from Linda but a blank stare. On the opposite side of the room, Jason Brandt directed his complete attention to the contents of some binders that were open in front of him. He avoided any eye contact with Wu. The two “rays of sunshine” had taken their respective positions again, Nelson by the back door to the holding cell, Cottrell in the otherwise-empty jury box. The court reporter and probation officer chatted amiably, and then suddenly the door to Arvid Johnson’s chambers opened and the judge, in his robes, was on the bench.

  Again, there was little sense of ritual. The probation officer simply got a nod from the judge, stood and began. “Good morning. This is Petition JW02-4555, the matter of Andrew Bartlett, who is present in the courtroom. Also present are the minor’s natural mother, Linda Bartlett North, and his stepfather, Hal North. The minor’s attorney is Ms. Amy Wu. Mr. Jason Brandt is the district attorney.”

  Judge Johnson thanked the officer and peered down over his glasses. “Ms. Wu, it’s my understanding that your minor client Mr. Bartlett and the district attorney have agreed to a mutually acceptable disposition in this matter. Is that correct?”

  Wu put a hand under her client’s arm and the two of them rose. “Yes, your honor.”

  Johnson had done this innumerable times, and although Wu was tuned to a high pitch of anxiety, for him it obviously held all the excitement and drama of a quilting bee. “Mr. Bartlett, I want to ask you if you understand the decision that’s been reached here on your behalf.”

  Andrew’s voice was firm. “Yes, your honor, I talked about it with Ms. Wu last night.” He turned halfway around, gave a small nod to his parents, then came back to face the judge.

  Johnson nodded. “And you understand, Mr. Bartlett, that by admitting this petition filed against you by the State of California that you in fact claim full responsibility for the murders of Michael Mooney and Laura Wright? And that immediately following this proceeding, you will begin serving a term at the California Youth Authority, and will remain in custody until your twenty-fifth birthday?”

  Andrew hesitated for an instant and Wu, jumping in, spoke up for him. “Yes, your honor. Mr. Bartlett understands.”

  But Johnson shook his head. “I’d like to hear it from him, Counselor. Mr. Bartlett?”

  Andrew looked at Wu, then up to the judge. When he began the first time, he was almost inaudible, so he cleared his throat and started again. “I understand about the sentence. That’s what we decided I had to agree to.” Clearing his throat again, he went on. “But I’m not really comfortable . . .” He stopped, turned back to his parents again, came back around to Johnson. “But I can’t say that I killed anybody, because I didn’t.”

  Wu had a sense of the world spinning before her. She reached out, put her hand on her client’s arm. “No, wait, Andrew!” Then, addressing the judge: “Your honor, if I may—”

  But Johnson gaveled her to silence. He removed his glasses, squinted out over the podium. “No, Counselor, you may not, not for a minute anyway.” He pointed a finger at Andrew. “Mr. Bartlett, I want to hear you say it yourself one more time. You’re not admitting the petition?”

  “Your honor.” Wu spoke up in a panic. She couldn�
��t let this happen. “I’d like to request a short recess.”

  Over on her right, she heard Brandt close his binder with a sharp snap.

  “Request denied,” Johnson said. “We just got here.” Back at Andrew. “Mr. Bartlett? Repeat your plea.”

  This time Andrew’s voice was much more forceful. “I’m just saying that I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Behind her, Wu could hear the Norths reacting with a muted enthusiasm. Needing to undo what Andrew had done, she turned to him, whispered urgently. “You can’t do this, Andrew. You’re looking at life in prison. Don’t you understand?”

  The judge brought his gavel down again. “Ms. Wu, Mr. Brandt.” He motioned with his head. “Chambers.” And he was up in a swirl of black robes.

  Johnson was waiting, facing them as they came through his door. No trace of anything avuncular softened his countenance as he reached around and closed the door behind them all. He came right to the point. “I don’t tolerate being trifled with in my courtroom, Ms. Wu. What is this supposed to be, some kind of publicity stunt? Or delaying tactic?”

  She tried to swallow, get a breath. “No, your honor.”

  “No to which?”

  “Neither, your honor. I’m as surprised as you are.”

  Johnson looked to Brandt—who wisely stood at respectful attention—then came back to Wu. “This is unacceptable. What do you expect me to do now?”

  “I’ll go talk to him.”

  “And what good will that do?”

  “I’ll get him . . . He’s just afraid. He was on board with this last night. He just couldn’t go through with it, that’s all.”

  The judge crossed his arms. “Stop wasting my time. As far as I’m concerned, he’s denied the petition. This is really unacceptable, Counselor,” he added. “Wholly unacceptable.” Then, making no effort to hide his anger and disgust, he continued. “All right, let’s get the show back on the road, go back in there and get this done as fast as we can.”

  Brandt spoke. “Your honor, if I may?”

  Johnson turned his glare on him. “What?”

  “I just wanted to say that Ms. Wu isn’t as naive as she’s pretending to be. She knew the conditions when she cut her deal. Andrew admits or he goes up as an adult.”

  “I think we all knew that,” Johnson said. “So now we’re going to have him tried as an adult. Ms. Wu should agree to that.” His stare at her brooked no denial.

  Brandt nodded, satisfied. “Then we want him certified today, your honor, unless the plan all along was to get him to juvenile court by misrepresenting his intention to admit.”

  Wu, holding her temper in check, talked to the judge. “Your honor, I promise you, I don’t know what he’s talking about. I had no such plan. I didn’t want Andrew to have to run the risk of an adult trial. An admission, to me, seemed like the right thing.”

  Johnson’s face remained grave, his color high. “I’m just wondering if it’s possible that you are actually this ill-prepared, Ms. Wu. Agreeing to plead out a case before securing the client’s agreement?” But he didn’t wait for her to answer. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that Mr. Bartlett, as you undoubtedly must be aware, is already in the juvenile system, you see. Now he can’t be tried as an adult without a seven-oh-seven hearing first. Do you expect me to believe you didn’t know that?”

  Suddenly the enormity of her miscalculation came into much clearer focus. Wu had been acting as though she needed Andrew’s admission to secure his place in the juvenile system. But this was not, strictly speaking, the case. What she needed his admission for was merely so that the sentencing could proceed. In fact, Boscacci’s initial filing had assured that, legally, Andrew was already in the juvenile system, and hence protected from LWOP as long as he stayed there. “I didn’t think. . . , ” she stammered.

  “All right,” Johnson snapped at her. “You didn’t think. So can I now assume that you will agree to waive the seven-oh-seven hearing and have Mr. Bartlett recertified an adult today, as Mr. Brandt here has requested?”

  “I . . . I can’t do that, your honor.”

  “No,” Brandt exploded. “No, of course you can’t.” He obviously, justifiably, thought she’d planned to have her client deny the petition all along. This would not only delay Andrew’s eventual trial as an adult, but place another administrative hurdle—the 707 hearing—in the middle of his path. He appealed to Johnson. “I don’t believe for a moment, your honor, that this wasn’t her plan all along.”

  “That’s not true. That’s just not true, your honor.”

  Brandt ignored her. “Your honor, the only way to read this is she set it up so that she could stall down here for months. But I’m certain that the district attorney is going to want to get this matter back into adult court, so I’d like to ask that the seven-oh-seven be calendared at the earliest possible time.”

  Johnson gave a last withering look at Wu, then nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Counselor. Let’s go out and put it on the record.”

  11

  Look at the bright side,” Wes Farrell was saying. “She’s convinced the clients that she did it on purpose. She planned it all along. Now the kid catches a break in the seven-oh-seven, maybe he never has to go to trial as an adult, and everybody wins.”

  “Except the DA never trusts anybody from the firm again.”

  “Picky, picky.” Farrell, on the couch across the room, shrugged. “They probably didn’t trust us all that much anyway. Remember, we’re defense attorneys, a bare evolutionary step above pond scum.”

  “That much, you think?” Hardy could joke, but he wasn’t amused.

  “Maybe not, if you want to get technical. The thing is, though, we’re going to help get Jackman elected again, so we’re his pals, or will be again soon. It’ll all blow over in a few months, and they’ll be trusting us as much as they ever did, which—don’t kid yourself—is not close to the world record anyway. Meanwhile, Amy’s got the Norths thinking she’s a latter-day Clara Darrow, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.”

  “Swell.” Hardy pushed his chair back from his desk. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, fingers templed at his lips. “So she spins it to deceive the people who are paying her?”

  “Paying us, you mean. Just keep repeating the paying part and you’ll feel better.”

  “I won’t feel better. I don’t want to get paid to lie to my clients.”

  “Well, fortunately, they’re not your clients, they’re Amy’s.”

  Hardy straightened himself up in his chair. “Precisely the opposite point you made about one sentence ago, you notice. When the Norths were paying, they were our clients; when they’re being lied to, they’re Amy’s.”

  “You’ve stumbled upon my specialty, honed in years of debate. Answers tailored to justify any course of action.” Farrell broke a smile. “It’s a modest enough talent, but it’s seen me through some dark days. And what do you mean, you don’t want to get paid to lie? I thought that’s what we got paid for.”

  But Hardy held up a hand. “Wes. Enough. Okay?”

  The smile faded. “Okay. So what’s she going to do? Amy?”

  “First thing, I had her go down to Boscacci and apologize in person. Tell him the truth, which is that the kid decided on his own not to admit.”

  Farrell sat back and crossed a leg. “And why do you think he did that?”

  Hardy gave it a minute. “He’s young. Eight years sounds like the rest of his life. But for now, I guess he’d rather take bad odds at pulling life than no odds at eight years.” He sighed. “He’s going to find out.”

  Inspector Sergeant Pat Belou stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. She had ridden up from the lobby with her partner Lincoln Russell, a well-dressed mid-thirties black inspector. Also in the small enclosed elevator had been about ten other citizens, at least one of whom badly needed a shower, some new clothes, a toothbrush, maybe industrial disinfectant and certainly deodorant. Lots of deodorant
.

  “That was the longest elevator ride I’ve ever taken,” Belou said when the door closed behind her. “We ought to arrest that guy as a health hazard.”

  “Not till he kills somebody,” Russell said. “We’re homicide. He’s got to kill somebody first. Those are the rules.”

  “Well, he almost killed me. That ought to count. Anybody goes with him all the way to the top, their life’s in danger.”

  “Maybe we catch him on the way down,” Russell said.

  Belou blew out through her mouth, waving the air in front of her nose. She was a thirty-year-old, tall and rangy woman with an outdoorsy look, a bit of a heavy jaw, some old, faded acne scars on her face. But her large mouth smiled easily, she laughed as though she meant it, and her shoulder-length hair, a shade lighter than dirty blond and with a perennially windblown look, set off lovely blue eyes.

  The inspectors turned into the hallway, and Belou stopped suddenly, hit her partner on the arm. “Glitsky,” she said. “Good a time as any.”

  Russell said he’d see her in the homicide detail, and she turned around and came back to the double doors by the elevator lobby that led to the admin offices. She was just asking the receptionist at the outside desk if she could have a word with the deputy chief when the man himself appeared from somewhere in the back. He wore a deep frown and was accompanied by a sergeant in uniform, Paganucci by his name tag.

  She spoke right up. “Sir? Sergeant Belou. Homicide.”

  Glitsky, obvious frazzled, came to a full stop. “I’m running to a meeting,” he told her. “If you’d like to leave a message with Melissa here, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, sir. But this is short. Ted Reed.”

  “Ted Reed?”

  “Elizabeth Cary’s brother. Lake Elsinore.”

  “What about him?”