The Hearing

by John Lescroart

  'Hey, there's an idea. We could call him Honest Abe. I bet he'd love that.'

  'I'm serious. He'd work hard, show up on time, take no abuse from customers-'

  'Because he'd have driven away all the customers?'

  'Why would he drive away customers?'

  'Gee, I don't know. Could it be because he's scary, intimidating, unfriendly…'

  'Abe?'

  'We are talking about Abe Glitsky, aren't we? The guy we're on the way to pick up? Black, mean-looking, scar through his lips, never drinks, never smiles? Him?'

  Moses, atypically, was dressed in a somber brown suit with a black shirt and black tie. Not so atypically, he was having a morning tipple – one of the airplane-issued one-shot bottles of Lagavulin that he was carrying around with him in the pocket of his suit coat. He was drinking early because he'd declared it more or less a holiday – he wasn't opening the bar today. He'd assigned the shift to one of the regular night guys because of the memorial service.

  Not that he had known Elaine Wager. But his wife Susan, a cellist with the symphony, had been hired with several other musicians to play at the service and he wanted to hear her. The acoustics of the cavernous Grace Cathedral were legendary – Art Garfunkel had once sung his vocals for an album there, just him and a microphone and the vibrations off the old stones. Terrific stuff. When he'd heard that his brother-in-law was going to the service too, it cinched it for him. They could make it a road trip, a very short one, true – only thirty blocks or so – but McGuire made it a point to take his fun when he could get it.

  The car moved through the intersection. 'He's a good guy, Mose.'

  McGuire was clean-shaven this month. He hadn't been in a fight since before Christmas. The last broken nose had somehow set straight, and with his salt-and-pepper hair combed back, he looked almost dashing, albeit twenty years older than his chronological age. 'I know he's a good guy,' he said. 'Often I'll say to myself, "That Abe Glitsky, what a good guy." But that doesn't mean he'd be a good bartender. You know why?'

  'Tell me.'

  'Because bartenders, in theory, should have personalities.'

  Hardy threw a glare across the seat. 'Abe's got a personality.'

  'OK, let me rephrase it. Bartenders should have good personalities. Warm, inviting, even charming, much like myself.' He savored a mouthful of Scotch. 'Even you, on a good day in your youth, from time to time would achieve the lower rung of charming. But Glitsky? I don't think so. No.'

  Hardy turned the car onto Lake, pulled to a stop at a once-in-a-decade curb-side opening almost directly in front of Glitsky's duplex. It was nine thirty on a bright, cold and sunny Monday morning, one week after Elaine's murder. Hardy let himself out of the car, then leaned back in, an afterthought. 'I don't think we need to bring it up, OK?'

  'I'll be my usual sensitive self,' McGuire assured him, and tipped up the tiny bottle.

  In spite of his promise to be sensitive, McGuire started providing hot job tips almost as soon as Glitsky got into the car. He'd already opined that maybe Abe could find work selling real estate, setting up web pages on the Internet; he could open a chop house – with all the great gourmet restaurants in the city, the place was crying out for a good, old-fashioned chop house.

  Glitsky, in the back seat, dangerously calm, started rattling them off. 'Alfred's, John's, Jack's, Little Joe's…'

  'OK, then, OK, forget the chop house. How about maybe private investigator for Diz?' It went on and on. Maybe it wasn't too late for Abe to go back to school, become a doctor or lawyer or something. An accountant? Was Abe good with numbers?

  Like McGuire, Glitsky was in a business suit – although he rarely saw the need for it, the lieutenant could dress when he wanted to. Adjusting the knot on his electric blue tie, he squinted out the back window, then reached into an inside pocket, removed some sunglasses, put them on.

  McGuire happened to catch the move. 'I like it,' he said. 'Very Samuel Jackson.' He was twisting the cap on his third little bottle. A thought struck him and he stopped, snapping his fingers. 'Hey, maybe acting…'

  Hardy glanced sideways, wishing his brother-in-law would shut up, but he was shooting more Scotch, oblivious. Until suddenly – Hardy didn't even see it – Glitsky was leaning over the front seat, his gun in his hand, up against McGuire's head. His voice rasped, but the tone was one of exquisite calm. 'I'm going to blow your fuckin' head off,' he said.

  McGuire swore violently, pulled himself away, banging his head against the passenger window, dropping his Scotch. His face was a mask of terror. Hardy was startled too, slamming on the brakes, tires squealing. He swerved right. 'Jesus, Abe…!'

  But, quick as he'd come forward, Glitsky was leaning back into his seat, getting comfortable, replacing the gun in his shoulder holster. In the rearview, Hardy saw the scar burning white in his lips. Glitsky was actually smiling enough to show a few teeth, which was almost unheard of. 'Acting,' he said, nodding. 'I think I could do that. I had you guys for a minute there, didn't I?'

  The rest of the way downtown, McGuire didn't say a word.

  Parking on a normal day was bad enough, but Elaine's memorial service drew a substantial crowd. Hardy couldn't find anyplace within five blocks. Since Grace Cathedral is at the summit of Nob Hill, they had a long walk, all of it steeply up. When they rounded the last corner and came in sight of the church's steps, they stopped, and McGuire took the opportunity to tell them he wanted to go inside early, make sure he got a spot where he could see his wife.

  Glitsky and Hardy hung back. Hardy didn't think it was because they needed to catch their breaths. 'That was a nice little moment back there. Subtle. Though I did almost crash the car.'

  'I knew you wouldn't. I wasn't worried about it.' Glitsky's mouth lifted a quarter inch.

  'Well,' Hardy said, 'that made one of us.' Hardy felt as though he wanted to say a little more about it, but realized that the subject had been thoroughly covered. All issues resolved, messages delivered.

  They stood together awhile in silence. Glitsky got out his sunglasses again. Put them on, perhaps against the glare of all the people he recognized from his work. Police brass were showing up in significant numbers.

  'You sure you want to do this?' Hardy asked.

  There was no trace of a smile now. 'I've got to do this.'

  This was what he'd told Hardy over the weekend. He hadn't been there for his daughter's birth, or in her life. He was damn well going to be here for this. And this was the only reason Hardy had decided to come – moral support for his pal, who in the wake of recent events could certainly use some. Now, though, catching some sense of the mood of the place, Hardy wondered if it would turn out to be a good idea after all. 'Yeah, but you don't have to be seen here with me.'

  Glitsky shrugged.

  'I mean, you and me together…'

  'I know what you mean,' he said. 'I'll try to keep my hands off you, I promise.'

  There was no impetus to move inside. In the open area by the cathedral's main entrance, people continued arriving on foot, got let out of cars and taxis. Singles, couples, small groups. It was twenty minutes until the service was scheduled to begin and already the forecourt was packed.

  A snatch of narration carried from somewhere. '… expecting close to five hundred mourners from every walk of the city's public life, this charismatic young woman's tragic death has fired the imaginations of…'

  It being San Francisco, of course there were already several groups of demonstrators hanging around – any excuse for a party. They were just starting to get organized. On the periphery of the crowd, Hardy could see placards for and against the death penalty. In the park across the street, he could make out where earnest groups had set up tables giving out literature on drug abuse awareness programs, the Nation of Islam, homeless advocates, gun control lobbyists and their opponents.

  A mime, dressed as a World War I doughboy, had sprayed himself head to toe in bronze paint and gotten himself up on the pillar by the cathedral's door
. He didn't move a muscle, a living statue with his rifle trained down on the crowd.

  Three of the local news vans had scored some primo reserved parking nearby, and teams with their reporters and cameras were unloading and shooting, getting some B-roll local color.

  A limo slowly pulled up through the congestion and stopped behind several others. As the mayor emerged from behind the tinted windows, one of the news crews recognized him and yelled something about it. Around Hardy and Glitsky, the crowd seemed to become more dense, pressing into itself. It no longer seemed cold.

  'Lieutenant?'

  Glitsky turned around, nodding matter-of-factly. 'How you doing, Ridley?'

  The young cop shifted uncomfortably. 'Not too good, I guess.' Tongue-tied.

  It wasn't much Glitsky's nature to give anything away, but he'd considered himself in some ways the boy's mentor in the years since he'd come up to homicide, so he cut him some slack, making conversation, indicating Hardy. 'You know my friend?'

  Banks said sure, nodded again, didn't offer a handshake, though. He kept his attention on Abe. 'I thought you'd be here,' he said awkwardly.

  'Looks like you were right.' Glitsky could throw him a bone, but he wasn't about to spoon-feed him. If Ridley wanted to say something, he'd have to figure out how.

  It took him a minute. 'The thing is,' he began, 'OK, I'm not blaming anybody else. It was completely my fault, but you should know that Torrey sandbagged me.'

  No response. None.

  The sergeant continued. 'When the arraignment got over, we were standing around outside in the hallway afterward, you know, talking about it, all of us pretty pissed off, mostly at… uh…' He made a gesture.

  'Let me guess,' Hardy put in. 'That would have been me.'

  Banks seemed grateful for the help. 'Yeah. So anyway… I knew you had problems with the tape, I knew you and Hardy here, you went back. So Torrey is all bitching and moaning about how'd Hardy know so much about everything so soon. And I just blurted out that I wouldn't be surprised if you showed him the tape.'

  'Sometimes blurting out is a strategic error.'

  Banks looked directly at Hardy. 'Yeah, but in court you made it pretty clear you'd seen it.' Back to Glitsky. 'Torrey didn't seem to remember that, but I did. So I figured it had to be you, Abe.'

  Glitsky finally was moved to speak. 'Deduction's a great tool.' It didn't come out as a compliment.

  Ridley kept on. 'But I didn't think he'd… I mean, I didn't know it was going to go this way. That wasn't why I brought up the tape, to get at you. I know we disagreed about it, you and me, and I didn't want you to think… What it was, was we were just all talking, wondering out loud, and I guess I got caught up in it…' The rambling narrative wound down. Ridley looked as though he'd been having a miserable few days worrying about all this.

  Glitsky couldn't say that the boy's malaise bothered him too much – maybe Ridley would pick up a useful lesson about politics that would serve him well in his dotage. But in the here and now, the sergeant had messed up his lieutenant's life pretty good. Now he was saying he hadn't meant to do it. Which helped exactly zero. Glitsky removed his sunglasses and folded his arms over his chest. His voice, when he spoke, had a resigned quality to it, the anger all leached out. 'Well, I guess we both got caught up in it then, didn't we, Rid?'

  After a moment, Banks realized that this was about all he was going to get from Glitsky in the way of absolution. He took in a breath, let it out heavily. 'So what are you going to do now?'

  'I'm waiting until somebody in Rigby's office decides something.' A shrug, a glance at Hardy. 'Meanwhile, I'm exploring some other career opportunities.'

  'He's thinking of opening a chop house.' Hardy, poker-faced.

  'Not really?' Banks asked.

  'It could happen,' Glitsky replied, equally deadpan. 'You never know.'

  The church bells began to peal, cutting off the riff. It was a quarter to ten, still fifteen minutes until the service, but at the signal, the crowd shifted, began to move.

  Ridley wasn't ready for that, yet. He still wanted some more resolution. 'Anyway, Abe, listen, if there's anything I can do…'

  Glitsky raised a hand, a farewell. He was going inside now. 'Rid, listen, it's done. Don't worry about it.' He turned for the cathedral, leaving Banks out where he'd found them.

  Hardy hustled a step or two and fell in beside him. 'You know what I can't believe?' he asked.

  'What's that?'

  'My brother-in-law doesn't think you have a sense of humor.'

  Glitsky threw him a sideways glance. 'He's not paying close enough attention.'

  It was the day that Treya was supposed to begin on the Grayson project for Mr Jackman, but he and Mr Rand had closed down the firm for the morning so that all of Elaine's co-workers could attend the memorial. Treya had arrived early to pay her own private respects.

  She found Grace to be an odd sort of cathedral. With its classic lines, stained glass and cavernous open space, in some ways it almost seemed to fit the medieval mold – an imposing edifice calculated to reflect the majesty and glory of God. But this church, for the past twenty years or so, had also been the locus of compassion, support, and empathy for the victims of AIDS. And now the heartbreaking quilts hanging over her seemed to fill all the open space, humanizing the cold stone. In a tragic way, yes, but Treya found it strangely comforting.

  She felt it strongly – this was no longer the home of some harsh and angry deity, but a true community center, with an almost palpable sense of forgiveness, acceptance, serenity. Outside the large crowd might be milling uneasily, but in here there was only peace.

  She'd wandered about inside for a while and finally seated herself in the sixth row on the right – she had no need to claim any pride of place.

  People had begun filing in, talking quietly among themselves. It was no surprise to see a lot of her colleagues, if she wanted to use that word, from the firm. It was even less of one that they held mostly to their cliques. None of them sat in her row.

  Clarence Jackman tapped her on the shoulder, said hello, introduced her to his wife Moira, a regal matron in black. Treya recognized some of the students from Hastings who had been to Rand and Jackman for the post-arraignment gathering last week. The mayor, arm-in-arm with the District Attorney. Then her Chief Assistant, Torrey, the prosecutor at the arraignment, someone who was actually trying to do the right thing, to bring Elaine's killer to justice.

  The volume steadily increased, echoing in the open space, and Treya turned in her pew to catch a glimpse of the incoming flow. She had to catch her breath as, almost directly behind her, she recognized Abe Glitsky and -she had a hard time even believing the gall of it – the lawyer, Hardy, who'd been in the courtroom representing Elaine's killer.

  The lieutenant seemed as disconcerted to see her as she was to see him. He put out a hand, stopping Hardy, then nodded. Now abreast of her, he halted. 'Is this pew reserved?'

  In somber and measured strides, Gabriel Torrey walked up the center aisle and slowly mounted the lectern to the left of the altar at the front of the cathedral. The dying strains of the string quartet's powerful arrangement of 'Amazing Grace' still seemed to hang in the air. The Chief Assistant District Attorney wore a charcoal Armani suit, a white shirt with a black silk tie. His left lapel sported a little red AIDS ribbon, his right a tiny red rose.

  For a short while, he gathered himself. When he was ready, he raised his head and looked out over the enormous congregation – more than five hundred souls were seated in the pews and standing behind them and to both sides, filling in all the space to the far walls.

  After adjusting the microphone, he spoke with a quiet, even intimate familiarity, his voice firm and evenly pitched. This is a remembrance,' he began.

  Midway through the service, she couldn't take it anymore. Suddenly, she stood, walked the length of the pew away from Glitsky, and strode for the back door of the cathedral. Outside, the cold sunlight glare stopped her, and she stood on the
steps, blinking, drawing gulps of air.

  'Are you all right?'

  She turned, knowing who it was. He'd followed her out.

  Her hand went to her neck, her hair. She started down the steps before her eyes had adjusted, stumbled. He was right with her and caught her by the arm, preventing her from falling. As soon as she recovered and realized he was still holding her, she all but shook off his hand. Immediately, he let go and stepped back. 'Are you all right?' he repeated.

  'I'm fine. Fine.' She straightened up. 'I don't need your help.'

  'No. It's just that you… I thought you might faint.'

  'I don't faint. I've never fainted in my life.' Shaking her head, she spun for a moment back toward the cathedral's doors, then took another step away from them, toward the park. Getting away. Finally, her breath hitched, and she focused on him. 'I can't believe you came here. I think it's appalling.'

  He backed away a step.

  But she wasn't through yet. 'And your friend, that's a great touch. Elaine's killer's lawyer. What's that all about, him being here? This is supposed to be for her friends, for the people who miss her, not for… not for somebody like him. And you.' Having said her piece, she was done. 'Goodbye, Lieutenant.' She started down the steps again.

  Glitsky didn't know what he was doing. Not exactly. He certainly hadn't planned to move into her row in the church, to sit next to her.

  To follow her out.

  Now she was telling him goodbye again, dismissing him, and he was following after her. 'Ms Ghent. Please.'

  After a few steps, she slowed and came to a stop. Her shoulders heaved in a deep sigh and when she turned to face him, he noticed that her nostrils had flared in anger or frustration or both. Hip-shot, she crossed her arms. 'What?'

  'I'm going to need to look at Elaine's files.'

  He really didn't know what he was doing now. There was no way on earth he could look through Elaine's files. He was on administrative leave. He couldn't get a warrant. It was ridiculous even to suggest it. But suddenly he knew what he had to do. The police – his own police department – weren't going to look. It was going to come to him to lock down this case. And Elaine's files were the best place to begin.