Hardy 10 - Second Chair, The

by John Lescroart

  Badly shaken, fighting tears, she'd crossed Bryant, then descended into the dark and ripe-smelling stairway under the bail bondsman's office that led down to Lou the Greek's. She'd taken her stool at the bar and ordered straight vodka.

  No cosmopolitans today. No frou-frou little cocktails. She wasn't here to party. She was drinking.

  By five-thirty, Lou's was jammed and Amy's immediate troubles had mostly been drowned. The bar was Mecca for the lawyers and cops who worked out of the Hall of Justice, and Amy's situation with Andrew Bartlett was as nothing compared with the shit storm that had developed over Deputy Chief Glitsky's handling of the LeShawn Brodie matter.

  During the late morning and early afternoon, Brodie had taken the lives of seven of his hostages, one every twenty minutes while the local cops and the highway patrol argued over who had jurisdiction to provide a helicopter that would take him to the Sacramento airport. There, Brodie evidently had been convinced that authorities would also supply him with a plane to take him to Cuba. In fact, a police sniper shot him in the forehead when he'd gotten one step outside of the diner's entrance, while the helicopter waited, its rotors twirling, in the parking lot.

  Both of the televisions over the bar at Lou's had been carrying nothing else for the past several hours, while the pros and cons of the original police strategy had fueled an endless and passionate debate among the clientele.

  By the time it had gotten dark, Amy had had six vodka martinis and was ready to go home and get some sleep. But an aggressively clever young defense attorney named Barry had outlasted the other hopefuls around her, and now he had his arm around her as they negotiated the doors and came out into the suddenly full-dark night.

  At the top of the stairs, Barry turned to her and she found herself being kissed. Then they were walking together down the alley that ran alongside Lou's. She had herself tucked inside the jacket of his suit against the chill. She'd already told him she didn't think she should drive, but he said he was sober enough and could drive them both.

  He was parked where she had parked. Where every visitor to the Hall parked. In the All-Day just up at the end of the alley.

  The lot was one block wide, bounded by three-story buildings on both sides, closing the place in. Every spot, alley to alley, was filled during business hours every day. Now the place held only three cars— Amy's by the near building, and then Barry's car and another one parked in adjacent spaces on the far side. One light, burning from high on a pole by the deserted pay station, cast its pool over the area, leaving the borders in deep shadow.

  When they got to his car, Barry opened the door for her and she lowered herself, taking care lest she collapse into the seat. As they backed out, the car's headlights raked the building in front of them, then washed over the car in the adjacent parking space.

  Following the beam through heavy-lidded eyes, Amy sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute. Stop!"

  "What?" Barry slammed on the brakes.

  Before the car had fully stopped, Amy opened the door. She was halfway out, staggering. She fell once, cut her knees, then got up and moved forward again.

  "What are you doing?" Barry, still in the car, called from behind her.

  She turned and pointed. "Get your lights next to that car, over by the wall." She kept moving over toward a dark amorphous mound on the pavement up against the building. As the headlights hit it, its shape became obvious.

  Barry came running up next to her. "Jesus Christ!"

  The body was dressed in a business suit under a trenchcoat. It lay skewed on its side, the face visible now in the headlights. A dark pool had formed under the head, but Amy wasn't able to pay any attention to other details. She stood transfixed, unable to tear her eyes from the awful, vacant stare of the victim.

  The dead man was Allan Boscacci.

  Part Two

  12

  "Excuse me, are you a Mr. Hardy?"

  It was all he could do to remain polite with the sweet young waitress. It was Date Night and he was out with his wife, having the world's best chicken at the Zuni Cafe. Everyone in his world orbit knew that Wednesday night with Frannie was the one time he was absolutely not to be disturbed. To further that end, he had taken to leaving his cellphone and pager at home. He put down his fork mid-bite, used his napkin, nodded and forced a polite smile. "I have that distinction," he said.

  "You have a telephone call."

  Frannie, thinking the same thought as Hardy— that it must be one of the kids and if they were interrupting Date Night it was a true emergency— was halfway out of her chair when the waitress added, "An Amy Wu."

  * * * * *

  Glitsky, in his uniform and on his way to the ring of police cars in the lot, stopped in his tracks, changed directions and walked over to a subdued group who stood in a knot under the pool of light from the pole lamp by the pay booth. He nodded all around, said to Hardy and Frannie, "What are you two doing here?"

  Hardy motioned to the circle that was now crawling with police. "They asked us not to leave until they'd talked to us. We're waiting." He half-turned. "You remember my associate, Amy Wu." Hardy paused, came out with it. "She discovered the body."

  Wu came forward, still a bit unsteady, and gave Glitsky her hand. "Good to see you again, sir."

  Glitsky held onto her hand, squinted down into her face. "Have you been drinking?"

  "Yes, sir," she said. "A few down at Lou the Greek's. Barry and I. But we're fine now."

  The other man came forward, introduced himself— Barry Hess— said he was who'd called 911. Glitsky took that in, stepped toward the crowd by the body, stopped again. "Anybody get statements from you two yet?" he asked both Hess and Wu. As the people who'd discovered the body, both could probably look forward to a long night in a small interrogation room.

  "No, sir," Hess replied.

  "I'll try to get somebody over here soon," Glitsky said. Then he closed in on Frannie. "I can see your husband, who lives for parties like this one, but why are you here?"

  She forced a weak smile. "It started out as Date Night."

  "Right. Of course. Great timing," Glitsky said. "You okay?"

  Frannie nodded. "But maybe we'd be more comfortable in a car with the heat on."

  Glitsky tossed his head toward Hardy's car. "Go on ahead. I'll send somebody over."

  * * * * *

  After Wu's short interview at the scene with Sergeant Belou— she had promised to come and give a better, more coherent statement at the Hall tomorrow— she didn't want to be with Barry anymore. It was obvious to Frannie that, badly shaken by the murder, and still very drunk, she didn't want to go home alone, either, so she asked Wu to come and stay with them at their house tonight. Then Dismas could take her down here tomorrow, where she could do any more business that needed to be done at the Hall, pick up her car.

  Wu passed out on the drive home. They had to wake her up to let her off at the house with Frannie while Hardy drove around the neighborhood— a constant ritual— and tried to find a parking place. By the time he got back to the house, she was asleep again on the fold-out bed in the family room behind the kitchen.

  * * * * *

  Hardy couldn't sleep. Sometime well after midnight, he swung quietly out of bed, pulled on a pair of drawstring gray sweatpants and went downstairs.

  A bulb over the stove threw out about fifteen watts in the otherwise dark room, and Hardy opened the refrigerator and stared into it. What he craved was some alcohol, get his brain to stop its endless looping. Today there'd been the long nap in the afternoon, no wine with lunch, an interrupted dinner. The drunken condition of Amy Wu, passed out on the fold-a-bed, and Frannie's lack of interest in a nightcap, had somehow constrained him from a drink when they'd gotten home.

  Nightcap. A harmless little old nightcap.

  Maybe he'd have it now— a couple of fingers of gin and peppermint schnapps over crushed ice. It would help him sleep, finally. And God knew he had to get some sleep if he was going to be any good at work tomorrow
. Sleep had to be the first priority. If he had one short one now, the only effect would be sleep. He'd wake up refreshed, strong for whatever challenges the day might bring.

  And with Boscacci's murder, there would be lots of them.

  But something kept him from opening the freezer, from reaching for the crushed ice.

  They kept a three-legged stool in the kitchen because Frannie needed it to reach the higher shelves, and suddenly, the refrigerator still open, Hardy found himself sitting on it, leaning over, elbows on his knees.

  In the dimness— stove light, refrigerator light— he turned his hands over, looked at his palms. There was no shake. Closing his eyes, he dropped his head, sighed audibly.

  "Sir? Are you all right?" Wu was a spectral shape in the doorway. Barefoot, wrapped in the comforter they'd provided, she came into the light.

  He looked up, raised his hand in greeting. "I'm trying to make the critical midnight snack decision. Could you eat something?"

  "Do you have some aspirin first?"

  "Sure." Hardy reached into the top drawer right next to the refrigerator, where he'd taken to storing the bottle so he could get it with his coffee, so he wouldn't have to walk the extra steps to the bathroom. "How many you need?"

  "What's the legal limit?" she asked.

  * * * * *

  "I'm impressed, sir. I didn't know you could cook."

  "I can't, really. If it's not in that one black pan, I'm hopeless. But that pan, I know all its secrets. I treasure it, for what that's worth. No soap, just salt and a wipe. Nothing ever sticks. It's magic."

  Hardy had grabbed one of his daughter's bathrobes and Wu had put it on to come and eat. Now they sat kitty-corner to each other at the dining room table, splitting a very runny four-egg omelette of fried salami, artichoke hearts, cheddar cheese. Sourdough bread. They both had cups of hot Ovaltine.

  Hardy had closed the connecting door to the kitchen so his family wouldn't wake up, but still he whispered. "And you can drop the 'sir' if you want. I realize that my august personage is intimidating, but somewhere beneath the awesome authority figure beats what Mr. Buffett calls a schoolboy heart."

  "Warren Buffett talks about a schoolboy heart?"

  Hardy shook his head. "No. But Jimmy does."

  Wu couldn't quite get to a smile. "I've got a searing headache and you've got a schoolboy heart. Want to trade?"

  "No, thanks. But they can remain our little secrets." Hardy tore a piece of the bread and sopped up some melted cheese. "Anyway, that pan. My mother got it from her mother and gave it to me when I went away to college."

  "I bet she missed it."

  "Not for long." Hardy pushed some egg around. "My folks both died my freshman year of college. Plane crash."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know that."

  "Well, it was a long time ago. I'm over it by now."

  Wu squeezed her eyes shut, fighting her hangover, then put down her fork. "You are? Really?"

  "Pretty much. Sometimes I have to concentrate to remember them at all. Even what they looked like. And their voices, forget it. That's what I wish the most I had some memory for, their voices. But I can't hear them."

  "Do you mind if I ask you how long that took? Before you felt, I don't know, normal again?"

  "It was a while." He met her eyes. "Certainly more than four months."

  Wu blinked a couple of times. "I keep wishing I'd done something more, somehow. Something my dad would have approved of."

  "He didn't approve of your being a lawyer?"

  "I don't know. More, I think, he didn't approve of how I lived. You know?"

  "No. I don't."

  "I mean, being almost thirty, not married, no kids. Oh God, I hurt." She pressed her hands up against her temples. "And the great irony is that one of the reasons I stayed in school and became a lawyer was to make him happy. Even if he didn't like me, I could always be a good student, and I thought that pleased him, so I kept at it. But it really didn't matter."

  "Why do you think he didn't like you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I was too much like my mom. She left him— left us both, really— when I was thirteen. Another guy she divorced a year later. Then a few after that." She fell silent, pushed again at her temples, drew a pained breath.

  "Eat some eggs," Hardy said. "Nothing's worse than cold eggs. Is your mom still around?"

  Wu took a bite, shook her head. "No. She got emphysema. She died about ten years ago, but really she hadn't been in the picture for so long, her dying wasn't so hard for me, even though that sounds bad. But my dad . . ." She swallowed, took another bite, drank some chocolate. "Oh, man," she said.

  Hardy waited while she ate and gathered some strength.

  "Anyway, my dad. He regretted that he didn't marry a pure Chinese. Instead, he marries Mom, you know, a black woman, and his family just hates her, and then I come along and look like her, at least color-wise . . ." She stopped. "And it wasn't like he didn't try to be nice to me, but you can tell if your parent doesn't like you, you really can. Nothing you do is right. And I guess I lost patience with trying all the time and getting nothing back in return and so then I got mad at him, and then . . ." She swiped a finger under one eye. "And then he dies before you can fix it up." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to dump on you."

  "It's all right. I knew something was bothering you. I thought it might be something like this. You lose your dad, it's not trivial. Then with the extra baggage. Have you thought about maybe taking some time off, letting some of this settle out?"

  "From work? God, no. Work's the thing that's keeping me sane."

  "Because it keeps you so busy you don't have to deal with the other personal stuff?"

  She started to say something, then pushed back from the table, pulled the robe close around her. She dropped her head, shook it slowly side to side, side to side.

  * * * * *

  They remained at the dining room table, the dishes pushed to one side. Second cups of Ovaltine, now forgotten, had grown tepid in front of them.

  Hardy didn't want to add to Wu's pain right now by criticizing her performance in the Bartlett case, but she introduced the topic herself, laying it all out in a torrent of words. She had loved the idea of finessing Brandt, of snookering Boscacci. These arrogant men would see that she was good, could hold her own in a fair fight. Take that, Dad! It should have all worked out.

  "Still, you really should have nailed down Andrew's plea before you even tried to make any kind of deal with Allan."

  "I realize that now. I just got caught up in the rush of it. If I could do it. I couldn't believe that once Andrew saw the evidence, he wouldn't realize he had to lose."

  "Except if it wasn't about the evidence, to him."

  "But it's always about the evidence!"

  "No. Not always. O.J. wasn't about the evidence. Patty Hearst. Mark Dooher— you remember Wes's famous case? Ask him if it was about the evidence. No. It was about the passion and commitment of the defense. The vision thing."

  "But you don't need that if you already have an out. And Andrew had an out."

  "You call that an out? An eight-year top?"

  Her arms crossed, she sat back, defiant. "The other alternatives were too risky. I still believe it's madness to let him go to trial."

  "Not if he didn't do it."

  Wu closed her eyes, pushed on the lids with her fingers. "Please, sir. Not you, too. It's not whether he did anything. That's Law I-A. It's whether they can prove it. And they probably can, because he probably did."

  Hardy jumped on that. "Aha. You said 'probably.' At last. Doubt enters."

  Wu shook her head. "Not really. Not reasonable doubt, anyway. Not enough doubt to gamble his life away."

  "Which brings us back full circle. All right," Hardy said. "Let's even go on the assumption that he's guilty. What else do you know about him? I mean, personally."

  "With all respect, who cares? It's not who he is, it's what he did."

  "No. Sometimes it's who h
e is. Who the jury sees. If you can make them believe he's somebody who literally wouldn't hurt a fly, they'll never believe he killed a human being. Or if you gave him a compelling enough reason . . ."

  "It's jealousy, sir. Diz. I mean, he probably thought it was a good enough reason at the time, but no jury in the world, not even in San Francisco, is going to buy it enough to let him off. You don't get to kill people you're jealous of."

  "All right. How about his home life?"

  "He's a spoiled rich kid. Not a good sell."

  "But abandoned by his father long ago, right? And pissed about it. Haven't I heard about him needing anger management therapy? Maybe he did it, but it was literally out of his power to control. You yourself got abandoned by your mother. You can certainly sell a jury on the rage." Hardy saw his cup of chocolate, lifted it and took a drink, made a face. "Look at Dan White. He sneaks into city hall and shoots the mayor and a supervisor dead one fine afternoon, and a jury of his peers basically lets him walk because he ate too many Twinkies that morning."

  "He didn't walk."

  "No. But he got less than the eight years Andrew didn't want to give away. My point is, now you're in it. You've got an opportunity with the seven-oh-seven to get a preview of what the witnesses will say at the trial . . ."

  She stopped him. "How do I do that? That hearing's not about evidence. It's . . ."

  "Wu. Listen to me. It's about whatever you can make it about. You're entitled to call witnesses about the boy's amenability to the juvenile system. The judge isn't going to stop you from calling just about anybody you want. He doesn't want to make a mistake and give you that issue on appeal. So you call Andrew's best friend. You call the guy who identified him in the lineup. You call his school principal, his counselor, his parents, his sister. You call his shrink. You're just trying to find out what happened. Not just that night, but to Andrew. You don't know what happened that night. Andrew doesn't know what happened. He wasn't there for the murder! How could he know? Hell, he called nine one one. Why would he do that?" Hardy sat back himself, crossed his own arms, dared a smile. "At the risk of sounding like David Freeman, you can actually have fun with this."