Hardy 10 - Second Chair, The

by John Lescroart

  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?"

  "Actually, three."

  "Well, the exceptions that prove the rule. Three is more than an entire century's allotment right there."

  Hardy wasn't really amused, but he broke a small smile. "I hate to mention it, but they were last century's cases. Now we're working on the new o
ne."

  "When Andrew sees the evidence against him, he's going to get religion. You watch. I promise. Really, sir. This is a sweet deal for everybody."

  "I can't believe Boscacci's going along."

  "To avoid the trial? Why not? He gets two convictions out of this, so he wins. Wouldn't you take the deal?"

  Hardy thought if he were Boscacci he might, but depending on the evidence, he might not. Though there was always an incentive among administrators to clear docket time, a high-profile murder case often sought its own level and provided potentially positive intangibles, such as name recognition for the politically ambitious. And even if Wu's strategy worked, it wouldn't be without its drawbacks.

  Wu sat back, cocked her head, spoke in a measured tone. "What I'm doing here, sir, is making sure that Andrew gets out of custody in eight years instead of never."

  Hardy, unsatisfied, glanced at his watch. "All right," he said. Getting up out of his chair, he pulled some papers on his desk together. "I'm hoping you're right in every respect. Meanwhile, I've got another client coming in, so may I be so crass as to inquire about your retainer? This is still criminal law . . ."

  "And you get your money up front."

  "Words to live by. How much?"

  "Well," she said. "The plea won't take too long to get processed. I figured it was worth about five grand."

  At the figure, Hardy stopped his paper gathering, looked up with another question on his face, worry in his eye. Even if everything went exactly according to Wu's plan and she was uncommonly lucky— and Hardy thought neither of these was a lock— then she would certainly spend at least forty hours, and maybe as many as sixty, in the next week or so preparing Andrew, convincing him that it was in his favor to say that he was guilty of murder so that he could avoid being tried as an adult.

  Hardy had been doing a lot of math in his head lately, and immediately sensed that five thousand dollars wasn't close to Wu's standard rate of $150 an hour. He punched at the adding machine in front of him. It was worse than he'd thought. "You're only planning on putting in thirty-three hours on this?"

  "I figured that was about what it was worth." She fidgeted with her hands opening her purse.

  Hardy shook his head. "So you were going to put in the extra time without billing it, which would not only be cheating you, but the client and the firm, and . . ."

  She pulled the check from her purse, interrupted his rebuke. "So I told Mr. North I'd take twenty down. Thousand, that is."

  She put the check face up on the desk.

  Hardy looked down at it, up at her. Nodded. "Okay, Wu," he said, "you're starting to get it."

  * * * * *

  Into the phone, Hardy said, "I would have bet your office was a veritable fortress of solitude."

  "I would have, too, but I guess not," Glitsky said. "I even thought of dusting for prints, except everybody who works in the Hall was here for the open house when I took office."

  "You don't have any idea who it was?"

  "I can't imagine anybody who'd take the chance. I mean, I'm the deputy chief. They get caught, they're toast. Who'd risk it?"

  Hardy was standing behind the desk in his office. The shades were down, cutting some of the afternoon glare, but his eyes were twinkling, his color high. He'd had a martini and most of a bottle of Pinot Grigio at lunch at Sam's, with a plate of sand dabs. He'd reeled in another client from the bottomless pool of troubled police persons. And now for an unexpected bonus, he was getting to console Glitsky on the terrible breach of security in his office, somebody moving his drawers around. The way it was going, Hardy thought there was some small chance he could talk Abe into paying him to put an private investigator on it.

  But then Glitsky said, "Well, it was probably some stupid prank anyway."

  The opening was just too wide, and Hardy couldn't resist stepping into it. "I don't know, Abe. There are some bona fide crazies in your building. At least I might send a sample of the peanuts to the lab and throw the rest out."

  "You think?"

  "Better safe than dead."

  "How could I get dead around this?"

  "I don't know. Was there any powder in the bottom of the drawer?"

  Glitsky snorted. "Yeah, but they're salted in the shell peanuts, so the trained inspector in me thinks the white powder is probably salt. And if it was anthrax, it's too late already."

  "Did you taste it?"

  "No. Just a minute. Yep. Salt."

  Hardy clucked. "Your tongue goes numb in five minutes, do me a favor and call nine one one. And I'd still send some of the goobers to the lab. You never know."

  "I'll consider it."

  "You don't sound sincere. You remember the song 'Found a Peanut'? The guy in that song died if you recall. I'm serious."

  "That's what worries me, that you're serious." Glitsky sighed. "Can we leave the peanuts, please? I didn't call about the peanuts anyway."

  "All right. It's your funeral. So what do you want?"

  "I wondered what time you might be going home. I've got a five o'clock meeting with Batiste that just came up and Treya's got to be home at the regular time because Rita's . . . never mind. The point is if you're staying a little late, maybe I could bum a ride with you."

  "Your driver ought to take you to and from work."

  "My driver works the day shift. I come in too early and go home too late. I think I've mentioned this to you before."

  "I probably didn't pay attention. So what time?"

  Glitsky said six-thirty or so and Hardy told him it was his lucky day. He had his own meeting after close of business with Amy Wu about this double homicide she was handling.

  "That would be Andrew Bartlett," Glitsky said. It wasn't a question.

  "Doesn't it get boring when you already know everything?" Hardy asked. "But I bet you haven't heard that Boscacci's filed him juvie."

  "Sure he did. And next year I'm quarterback for the Forty-Niners."

  "I'll expect great tickets. But it's true. Boscacci, I mean."

  Silence. Then. "How did that happen?"

  "Wu is having him cop a guilty plea in exchange for juvenile sentencing."

  "And Jackman agreed? Jackman who likes to say if you're old enough to kill somebody, you're an adult? That Jackman?"

  "The very same. And I've heard him say the same thing. But Wu says it's a done deal."

  "I'd make sure before I go real large telling anybody. Like the newspapers."

  "Well, that's what Wu and I are going to be talking about, so I'll let you know."

  4

  The name Youth Guidance Center, or YGC, had an avuncular ring to it, as though the juvenile detention facility were some kind of a counseling haven for wayward children, a rest stop filled with soft stuffed chairs and couches, pastel colors, New Age music in the background. And in reality, in simpler times when the place was new, it had pretty much been like that. Kids who stole hubcaps, or smoked a joint, or played hooky from school, would wind up at the YGC and receive counseling, maybe a day or so of lockup to impress upon them the serious consequences of breaking the law.

  Nowadays these relatively petty crimes never hit the radar of the police department. Juvenile felonies were commonly every bit as serious as crimes committed by adults, so in today's San Francisco, the YGC's primary function was, mostly, to lock up seriously dangerous criminals who happened to be under the age of eighteen. True, the center had a suicide-prevention watch. It also held a few dozen abandoned or abused children while they awaited suitable outplacement to foster homes. But in the main, "the cottages," as the jail facility was called, housed murderers, rapists and a varied assortment of vandals, robbers, muggers and burglars. Most of the inmates were awaiting or in the middle of their respective trials or hearings, which occurred in courtrooms on the premises, just adjacent in the administrative wing.

  Wu hated being late. This morning between Boscacci and Hardy, she had also talked to Hal North, told him about her success with Boscacci, and scheduled what she tho
ught might be a relatively lengthy appointment with the North family before the detention hearing— they had a lot they had to go over. She particularly wanted to hear more about the results of Hal's discussions on the admission issue with his wife and stepson, about which he'd been disconcertedly vague, telling her that he and Linda hadn't had as much time as he would have liked to talk because of an event they had to attend at the yacht club. Wu shouldn't worry, though, he told her. He'd have it all worked out with Andrew and Linda by the time they got to court.

  This was Wu's first formal court appearance at the YGC, and she had gotten lost on the way up, then caught in traffic. After the uphill half-jog from down the street where she'd managed to find a parking place, through the admin building and up the steep walk to the cottages, she fought to catch her breath for a minute just outside the gate in the razor-wire-topped Cyclone fence. A bailiff appeared in response to her ring and escorted her without a word into the building proper— a one-story structure that reminded her of a cross between a military barracks and an inner-city high school. Drab and institutional and depressing as hell, she thought.

  The bailiff led her to a pocked wooden door in the hallway and opened it. Sitting in an old-fashioned school desk in the opposite corner of the tiny room, next to the one outside window, Andrew Bartlett lifted a hand about an inch in a halfhearted greeting.

  "Here she is." Hal stood to Wu's right, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed and clearly unhappy. "At last."

  "Hal." Linda shot a frustrated look at her husband, then turned and smiled at Wu. "It's all right. You're here."

  "I'm sorry. Terrrible traffic. I even gave myself an extra half hour," she lied, then showed some more teeth, took a breath, turned to her client. "It's good to see you again, Andrew. How are you holding up?"