Hardy 10 - Second Chair, The

by John Lescroart

  "I hear you, Clarence. I really do. But you're punishing Jamahl in any event. He's going to YA on the robbery. That's appropriate. But you won't win hearts or minds by a reach of a charge like this. You'll just seem unfair and vindictive. Jamahl's only fourteen, Clarence. As you say, he's still walking around, so he's still got a chance. Slim, but real. You don't want to take that away from him on this. And," Hardy was getting to the bottom line, "you and I both know there's no way you'll get any jury in this town to convict him, so why waste the time? You're just pissed off."

  "I am pissed off."

  "That's fine. But take it out on somebody's who's earned it. This one just ain't right, and you know it." Hardy found himself surprised that he'd used these words. He hadn't thought that way in quite some time.

  Jackman rolled the pencil some more. By all indications, he was making his decision on Jamahl, but when he finally spoke, it wasn't about that. "I hear through the grapevine that you're working with your associate on Bartlett. That the hearing is this morning, if I'm not mistaken."

  "That's right. It should start in about an hour."

  "I'm taking your presence on the team to mean that some kind of reason is going to prevail up there."

  "Well, we're playing the cards we got dealt, Clarence, if that's what you mean. Amy should never have tried to make the deal with Allan, that goes without question. But not because she didn't deliver."

  "No, then why not?"

  "Because I'm more than halfway to convinced he's not guilty."

  The quiet voice took on an ominous tone. "You think there was a rush to judgment out of this office? Do you think we weren't fair? That we don't have a case? Your own associate was going to plead him guilty less than a week ago. What's changed? Do you have new evidence?"

  "No, sir. Not really. Maybe a new approach. That's all."

  "Well." Jackman, frowning now, picked up the pencil and tapped the table with its eraser. "I'll let you know my decision on Jamahl, then. When I make it." He looked at his watch. "You don't want to be late for court."

  It was a dismissal.

  * * * * *

  When the meeting ended, Hardy came out into the reception room by Treya Glitsky's desk. So how'd it go?" she asked.

  "The reviews aren't all in yet." But Hardy's face indicated that when they came, they wouldn't be all good, and Treya knew better than to push. His pager had vibrated three times while he'd been speaking with Jackman, and all the calls had come from his office, and now he asked, "Could I borrow your phone for one minute? Local."

  "One? One," she said. Then, after she'd made sure the door to Jackman's office was closed, she added, "Abe called. He asks if you get a chance, stop up."

  Hardy was punching numbers, nodded abstractedly. "He called me? How'd he know I was here?"

  "He didn't. He didn't call you. He called me since I'm his devoted wife and I work here. I told him you were in with his nibs. He's going to want to talk about . . ."

  "Excuse me, one sec." Hardy was holding a finger up, stopping her. He spoke into the phone. "Phyllis, Diz. You don't have to call me three times. You leave the number once, I'll call back, promise." He listened. "Who? Okay. Yes, I know her. I got it. All right, then. I'll be going straight out there. Right. Right. That means I won't stop at the office first. After that I'm up at YGC with Amy. Right, okay. That's it. Thanks." Hanging up, he turned to Treya. "I love that woman," he said. "She makes the rest of humanity look so good by comparison. Was Abe important?"

  "Always," she said, then lowered her voice. "But I think he just wants to pick your brain on this silencer thing with Allan and the others."

  "The others." Hardy leaned over her desk. "You know I think he's a brilliant and fascinating guy, but this is just spinning his wheels until he gets something real."

  "That's what I told him," she said. "He just wants to be back in homicide, and this gives him an excuse. He sent out a couple of inspectors this morning to ask relatives of the Twin Peaks people— if there are any— if either of them had ever served on a murder jury. They weren't too enthusiastic, the inspectors."

  "Wait'll he sends them downstairs to Records to look up all of Allan's cases over the past twenty years. That'll really juice 'em up."

  * * * * *

  At this moment, Anna Salarco was, by any of Hardy's standards, more important than Glitsky. So, for that matter, was the hearing, which would start now before he arrived. But he couldn't ignore the summons from Anna, who had called his office. Wu and he had discussed strategy late yesterday afternoon, and he had no reason to believe she couldn't handle it well herself. But he did ask Treya to call Abe back and send his regrets.

  Twenty-five minutes later he was back in the Salarcos' bright yellow kitchen. Carla was in her playpen watching Barney on television. Clearly nervous, her head darting this way and that, her hands pushing her hair around, Anna offered him a seat at the kitchen table. He took out his tape recorder, held it up and got a nod from her, and put it on the table between them. She sat where she could keep an eye both on her baby and on the front door. Reading the signs, Hardy asked her if her husband knew that she'd called him.

  "No, but I had to. I think about it all the night. The boy. Andrew. The one Juan pick out of the lineup." She threw a look at the door, took a breath, came back to him. "I was there, too. At the lineup. With Juan. But afterward, they only talk to him."

  "Because he'd seen Andrew and he'd told them that he could identify him?"

  "Sí. But they did not . . ." She snapped her fingers, cast her eyes about the room, searching for the right word. "No sais." Then: "They did not make it different, the times Juan saw him, like you did."

  "Differentiate," Hardy said.

  "Sí. Differentiate. Between when he went down first and when he came back later, after. Or the other one."

  "The one you saw? Outside in front?"

  "Sí. I don't know what . . . how . . . if Juan saw something that time." She'd gripped her hands, intertwining her fingers in her lap, and now she turned them over on themselves. "But I went over it last night a hundred times, what I remembered, and it was as you say, as Juan said when he . . . described how we went to the window. Me in front of him."

  "You're doing fine," Hardy said. "I'm listening. It's all right."

  She gave him a darting, empty smile, turned her head toward the door again.

  "You were at the window . . ."

  "Sí. I look out, and I am angry, too, at waking up the baby. I am slapping, you know, at the window. This is why the boy turn around. He look up at me and then he's gone, running."

  "And that man, that time, was it Andrew?"

  "No." She shook her head. "I don't say Juan is not telling the truth. Maybe he saw different. Maybe I . . . It was too far and I don't see everything just perfect."

  "All right. Maybe all that. Listen, Anna. No one's going to accuse Juan of anything because of what you tell me now. It could have been an honest mistake. He'd already seen Andrew twice that night, so who else could it have been? Right? And when was the lineup? A month later? Six weeks?"

  "Sí. Something like that much. But they bring out the boys, and Juan and I are both there, you know, watching from back in the dark. They keep us apart and we're not supposed to talk, you know. They give us a card and we make an 'X' if we know somebody. But I see nobody I know, and later I find out Juan said it was number two. He knows. I tell him I don't think this is who I saw from the window."

  "It was not Andrew?"

  Shaking her head from side to side, she said, "No. Not if he was in that lineup." Then, with the confession out, she stopped all the frenetic movement. Her shoulders settled almost imperceptibly. "Juan, he takes my arm and asks me do I know what am I saying. He tells me that there is no doubt. This is who he saw."

  "He did," Hardy said. "That's who he did see. Just not that one time."

  "Sí. But he is . . . angry at me. Very angry. Do I think he does not know who he saw? Don't I know the police will help us with la migra
if we help them?"

  "They can't," Hardy said. "They won't."

  "I think that, too. But Juan still hopes, you know. If we go to the trial and he says it was Andrew . . ." She trailed off. "Anyway, I don't fight him anymore." Her head was down, but she raised her eyes to him. "Not until yesterday. When I understand."

  29

  By the time Hardy arrived at the YGC at 10:15 and got himself admitted to the courtroom and then the defense table in the bullpen, all under the disapproving eyes of Judge Johnson, they appeared to have cleared all the motions, including the continuance request, and now were apparently in the middle of what Hardy supposed was their first witness.

  But before they could get back to that, Johnson took off his glasses and spoke up. "For the record, the court notes the arrival of . . . ?"

  Hardy stood. "I'm sorry I'm late, your honor. Dismas Hardy, second chair for the minor."

  Johnson's lips went tight, his eyes narrowed. "All right, Mr. Hardy. Would you care to approach the bench, please? Ms. Wu? You, too."

  This was unusual, but when the judge called you up, you went.

  "Yes, your honor?"

  Johnson held his glasses in one hand, and it was shaking. His eyes were cold pools of glacier water. He spoke with a crisp clarity, brooking no misunderstanding. "I gathered from your various motions and witness list yesterday that you intended to make this hearing more of a protracted proceeding than I had intended to countenance in this particular case. Now I see a second lawyer at Mr. Bartlett's table. I don't often see two attorneys for one juvenile defendant in the seven-oh-seven. I wanted to give you both fair warning that I'm not going to tolerate any delaying tactics or tag-team mumbo jumbo from either of you. I'll hear from one lawyer per witness— either one of you, but only one. If your witnesses don't speak to particular criteria, I will dismiss them. If you waste this court's time, I will cut you off. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, your honor." Hardy was stunned at not only the force of the warning, but also the severity of the dressing-down. Wu had really ruffled feathers up here, maybe more so even than she had with Boscacci, and Hardy would be well advised to keep it in mind. Still, he wasn't about to roll over. "But as you've no doubt noticed from our motions, your honor, this case has grown in complexity. The—"

  Johnson pointed a finger. "That's exactly my point, Mr. Hardy. Don't get me started. This hearing is not about the complexity of this criminal case. It's about whether Mr. Bartlett should be tried as a minor or not. That's all it's about. I've read your motions about calling witnesses for the gravity criterion and it doesn't take a genius to see what you have in mind on that score, but your witnesses had better be about facts and evidence. I won't tolerate any alternative theory nonsense— you can bring all that up in adult court if some judge will let you." He caught himself. "Assuming, of course, that this case goes to adult court."

  He leaned down over the bench, shot a look at Hardy, over to Wu. He lowered his voice, which in no way diminished its intensity. "I believe we all know that we shouldn't even be here this morning, and wouldn't be, Mr. Hardy, if your firm had played straight with the DA. But now that we are here, I won't let you make a mockery of this proceeding. That's all."

  Summarily dismissed, Hardy returned to the defense table while Wu prepared to continue with her witness. Seated next to Andrew, for several minutes Hardy found that he couldn't get his mind to focus. Johnson's warnings rang in his ears; Anna Salarco's tape burned in his pocket.

  Next to him Andrew sat not in one of the courtroom chairs, but propped and shackled to a wheelchair, his wrists cuffed and resting in his lap. A thick, cotton-wrapped white brace of some kind encircled his neck, bringing visions of Frannie back to him— it was neck brace week on the hacienda. Andrew sat straight up, a ramrod, eyes closed, occasionally emitting tiny moans that Hardy did not believe were faked. Behind them both, in the front row, Hardy felt the hostile eyes of the Norths— they'd watched him enter the courtroom, followed him up the aisle and to their son's table, with ill-disguised displeasure.

  Gradually, he forced himself to put the distractions aside. He reminded himself that this hearing was merely Act I of what looked more and more like it would become a three-act play— with the preliminary hearing in adult court next and then the trial to follow. On the stand next to the judge was an ex-cop private investigator friend of Wes Farrell's named Jane Huron, whom they were paying $350 and who was to have read Andrew's "Perfect Killer" story and picked it apart for criminal veracity. On the surface, Hardy thought, this was a simple and fairly straightforward task, especially since they'd supplied her with many of the objections Andrew himself had voiced for them.

  She'd obviously been on the stand for a good while, and now Wu was apparently in the process of wrapping it all up. "So, Ms. Huron, based on your training and experience, eleven years as a police officer and seven as a private investigator, how would you characterize the criminal sophistication of the author of this story?"

  Huron looked the part: short-cropped, dark hair, a dark blue pants suit. She was a hefty, solid woman with a no-nonsense face. Answering, she turned directly to the judge, as Hardy and Wu had suggested. They'd also told her not to mince her words. "Not at all sophisticated, in terms of the real world," she said.

  "What specifically do you mean by that?"

  "He showed no knowledge of how a real police investigation would treat such a crime."

  "Could you give us one example, please?"

  "Yes. His alibi was extremely naive."

  "In what way?"

  "Well, primarily because it wouldn't in any way have eliminated him from suspicion. The times of the deaths would have been consistent with his presence at the scene when they occurred, regardless of what he did afterward. It would have just been stupid. And then going back to the scene, and pretending to discover the bodies. Not even the most remotely sophisticated criminal would consider doing something like that."

  "Anything else?"

  Again, Huron looked up at the judge, as though for approval, and he nodded down at her. "Almost everything else, I would say. The author demonstrated little understanding of forensics, ballistics testing, gunshot residue, hair and fiber samples, any of the normal details that crime scene investigators routinely analyze as a matter of course. The kind of precautions outlined in the story— the surgical gloves and fingerprint worries and so on— are what you'd expect to get from watching television and movies. Not from any real-life crime experience."

  This was all Hardy and Wu could have hoped for, and Huron had pulled it off perfectly. Wu inclined her head, thanked her, and said she had no further questions.

  "Mr. Brandt?" Johnson intoned from the bench.

  And Brandt was immediately on his feet, approaching the witness with a light in his eye and a spring in his step. Hardy thought this wasn't a good sign, but didn't see where he could go. He was about to find out, and it wasn't a long journey. "Ms. Huron, you've worked in law enforcement for nearly twenty years, isn't that true?"

  "Yes it is."

  "And you've had a great deal of experience with firearms and forensics, have you not?"

  "Yes."

  "Ballistics studies, matching samples of bullet slugs and so on?"

  "Yes."

  "I see. Let me ask you this, then. Prior to reading this story, did you know that guns made in Israel were fingerprinted ballistically before they were sold, and that this information was embedded with the registration number of the weapon, so that any bullet fired from that gun anywhere in the world could be matched to its owner?"

  Huron smiled as though in appreciation of a bit of fascinating trivia. "No," she said, "to tell you the truth, I didn't know that. That's an interesting fact."

  "Yes, it is," Brandt said, "and you, a sophisticated criminologist, didn't know it." He half-turned back to Wu and Hardy, came back to the judge, nodded genially. "I have no further questions."

  The suddenness of it clearly surprised Wu, but Hardy thought it was a very eff
ective jab, trumping Huron's own undeniable sophistication with an even better example of Andrew's. But he didn't want to risk causing damage to Wu's rhythm or confidence, so he just leaned back, crossed his arms, nodded as though he were enjoying himself.

  Wu stood and called her next witness, this one someone she had known from college— Padraig Harrington, Ph.D., a teacher at San Francisco State University. But just as Bailiff Cottrell got to the back door and opened it to call the witness, Brandt stood again. "Your honor, sidebar?"

  Judge Johnson adjusted his glasses, raised his voice to the back of the room, saying, "One minute, please, Dr. Harrington" and motioned counsel up to the bench. When they were all in front of him, Johnson said, "Yes, Mr. Brandt?"

  "Your honor, before we begin with this witness, I'd like to ask Ms. Wu what it is that Dr. Harrington is a professor of?"

  "I don't see the relevance . . . ," Wu began.

  Johnson cut her off. "I do. Answer the question."

  "English Literature."

  "English Literature?" Brandt raised his eyebrows, clearly a rehearsed gesture. "Your honor, with the court's permission, I'd like to ask Ms. Wu for the general import and relevance of Dr. Harrington's expected testimony."

  "You'll see when I ask him," Wu retorted.

  "Not good enough," Johnson said. "It's a legitimate question. Answer it." Johnson was being just nails on the bench and Hardy longed to raise some objection to protect Wu, but knew that anything he said now would only alienate the judge further, and hurt their client's chances. He'd have to stand and take it.

  Wu swallowed, blinked, looked quickly to Hardy, then threw a glance at Brandt. "He'll be talking about the nature of fiction and the degrees of similarity between an author and a character that the author has created. In other words, is a person capable of making up things that he's incapable of actually doing?"

  Brandt fairly dripped derision. "Your honor, is there some science here that I'm missing? The petitioner is willing to stipulate that fiction authors make things up. If that's the gist of Dr. Harrington's testimony . . ."