The First Law

by John T Lescroart

  THE FIRST LAW

  JOHN LESCROART

  A SIGNET BOOK

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Law, The

  A SIGNET Book published by arrangement with the authorp

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2006 by The Signet Publishing Group.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Signet Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-6368-0

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  SIGNET Books first published by Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  SIGNET and the "S" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: March 2006

  To Lisa

  Nunc et Semper

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'd like to thank my publisher and editor, Carole Baron, not only for her encouragement and support over so much of my career, but for her truly extraordinary interest and efforts from the earliest outlining stages of this book, which is in some ways so different in structure from my other novels. Mitch Hoffman's intelligence and insights likewise contributed importantly to the finished product; beyond that, his good humor and accessibility are as much appreciated as they are rare.

  My friend and agent, Barney Karpfinger, remains an incredible source that I turn to whenever I need an injection of calm, wisdom, or good taste. His receptivity to the idea for this book and his early enthusiasm for it contributed mightily to its creation.

  In San Francisco, the peerless Al Giannini was a great help, as always, from the original concept through the eventual execution. His knowledge of the law world within San Francisco has been a cornerstone of the entire Hardy/Glitsky series of books, and this one is no exception. In the police department, Shawn Ryan shared with me his considerable expertise with a variety of firearms; much more importantly, his description of what it's like to be under fire provided a crucial perspective. Assistant District Attorney Jerry Norman provided some choice nuggets as well.

  Peter J. Diedrich provided much of the background for the very real San Francisco Diamond Center scandals of the late nineties. Peter S. Dietrich, M.D., M.P.H., still makes the best martini in the universe.

  Closer to home, my assistant, Anita Boone, aside from being a creative genius in her own right, is simply terrific.

  Combining a wonderful personality with superhuman efficiency, she is truly one of a kind. I couldn't do what I do without her. The excellent novelist Max Byrd is a great friend and careful reader who was a help many times and at many stages during the writing of this book. Barbara Vohryzek's "good karma" plays a big role in my daily writing environment, and I want to thank her for thinking to include me in such a positive work space.

  My children, Jack and Justine, continue to inspire and hopefully to inform these books, and this one particularly, with a welcome nonadult perspective. Rebecca and Vincent they are not, but Dismas Hardy's children could not exist as fully formed characters without them.

  Finally, I'd like to acknowledge the work of two excellent writers for providing much of the inspiration for this book.

  Loren Estleman's Bloody Season tells the story of the gunfight at the OK Corral better than it's ever been told. I've read the book five times now, and it just keeps getting better. Carsten Stroud's Black Water Transit, though unique in execution, plot, and tone, could nevertheless serve as a primer for the construction of the modern thriller, and in fact did in the creation of this work. The use of language in both of these books reminded this writer again of the power of the unexpected, the original, the inspired word.

  Thanks, guys. You write terrific stuff.

  And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept by confused alarums of struggle and flight Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  —Matthew Arnold

  "Dover Beach"

  PART ONE

  At a little before two o'clock on a chill and overcast Wednesday afternoon, Moses McGuire pulled his old Ford pickup to a grating stop in front of his sister Frannie's house and honked the horn twice.

  He waited, blowing on his hands, which he couldn't get to stay warm. The heater in the truck didn't work worth a damn and the driver-side window was stuck halfway down, but he knew it wasn't the weather. It was nerves. He blew into the cup of his hands again, lay on the horn another time.

  The door opened. His brother-in-law, Dismas Hardy, walked briskly, businesslike, down his porch steps and the path that bisected his small lawn. Normally he was good for a smile or some wiseass greeting, but today his face was set, his eyes cast down. He carried a rope-wrapped package under one arm, wore jeans and hiking boots and a heavy coat into the pockets of which he'd stuffed his hands. The coat, McGuire thought, was a good idea, not so much for the cold as to disguise the fact that he was wearing Kevlar, and packing.

  Hardy, at fifty-two, was two years younger than McGuire.

  The two men had known each other for over thirty years, since they'd been in Vietnam. Over there, Hardy had pulled McGuire to cover and safety in the midst of an intense firefight—both of the men had been hit, both awarded the Purple Heart. But Hardy had saved McGuire's life and that bond had held, would always hold.

  When Hardy's first pass at adult life fell apart, he'd worked for years at the bar Moses owned, the Little Shamrock, and eventually, when Hardy was ready to risk life and commitment again, he became a quarter partner in the bar.

  He'd married McGuire's sister, was godfather to one of McGuire's daughters, as Moses was to his.

  Family.

  Hardy slid in and dumped the package onto the seat between them. "There's your vest. I did have the extra." Saying it aloud seemed to cost him some energy. He drew a deep breath and took a last look back at his house as the truck moved into gear. Turning back to his brother-in-law, he asked, "What are you carrying?"

  McGuire motioned over his shoulder, indicating the truck bed. "I got fifty shells and my over and under wrapped in the tarp back there."

  "Twelve gauge?"

  "Yeah, and in there"—McGuire pointed to the glove box—"I got my Sig."

  "Automatic?"

  He caught Hardy's tone of disapproval. "They don't always jam," he said.

  "Only takes once."

  "I expect I'll be using the shotgun anyway."

  The truck turned a couple of corners, the men riding in silence until they were rolling on Geary. McGuire blew on his hands again. Finally, Hardy spoke. "You okay with this?"

  McGuire looked across the seat, his dark eyes flat. "Completely. You not?"

  Hardy worked his mouth, shook his head. "I don't see another choice."

  "That's 'cause there isn't one."

  "I know. I know. It's just ..."

  "There's always another choice?"

  "Usually."

  "Not this time." McGuire bit it off, impatient. He accelerated angrily through a yellow light. "You already tried all of them."

  "Maybe not all. That's what I worry about. This would be a bad time to get pulled over, don't you think?"

  McGuire touched the brake, slowed a hai
r. He slammed his hand on the dashboard. "Come on, heater, kick in.

  Fuck."

  Hardy ignored the outburst. "I just think," he said, "we do this, then what?"

  "Then we're alive, how about that? We don't, we're not.

  It's that simple." The next light was red and he had to stop, took the moment to make eye contact. "How many people do these guys have to kill, Diz? How many have they already killed?"

  "Allegedly ..."

  "Don't give me that. You have any doubt at all, reasonable or otherwise?"

  "No."

  "So don't give me 'allegedly.' You don't believe it yourself."

  "Okay, but maybe Abe could bring in the feds. Him going in alone to arrest these guys now ..."

  "He's not going to be alone. We're backing him up."

  Hardy chewed at his cheek. "We're not the cops."

  "Truer words were never said. There's no time to call in the feds, Diz. There's no time to convince any bureaucracy to move. You of all people should know that."

  "I'm just saying if we had a little more time ..."

  McGuire shook his head. "Time's up, Diz. They decide you're next—the good money bet by the way—they pull up to you maybe today, maybe tomorrow; they're not going to care if Frannie's in the car with you, or the kids. You're just gone. Like the others."

  "I know. I know you're right."

  "Damn straight." The light changed. McGuire hit the gas and lurched ahead. "Listen, you think I want to be here? I don't want to be here."

  "I keep thinking the law ..."

  McGuire snorted. "The law. Your precious fucking law.

  It's gonna protect you, right? Like it has everybody else?"

  "It's my life, Mose. I've pretty much got to believe that, don't I?"

  "The law's not your life. It's your job. Your life is something else entirely. The first law is you protect your life and the people you love."

  Hardy stared out the window.

  McGuire was riding his adrenaline. "These guys don't give a shit, Diz. Isn't that pretty clear by now? They've got the law—the cops in this town anyway—in their pocket. It's unfair and unlikely, okay, but that's what's happened. So now all that's left is they take out you and your meddling friend Abe and it's all over. They win. Life goes back to normal. Except you guys are both dead, and maybe my sister with you, and I'm not willing to take that chance." His eyes ticked across the seat. "You're telling me after all that's gone down, you don't see this? You don't know for a fact this can happen? Is going to happen?"

  "No. I see it all right, Mose. I don't know how we got here, that's all. It's so unreal."

  "Yeah, well, remember 'Nam. It was unreal, too, until the bullets started flying. The World Trade Center was pretty unreal, too, if you think about it. You think people are reasonable, you think there are rules. But then, guess what?

  Suddenly there aren't."

  "All right. But we're not going in shooting, Mose. We're backing up Abe, and that's all we're doing."

  "If you say so."

  "Unless something goes wrong."

  McGuire threw him another look, couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Hardy would crack wise at his own execution. The truck turned onto the freeway, going south. Hardy pulled a box from his jacket pocket and set it on his lap, then pulled off the lid. Reaching under his arm, he pulled out the massive, blue steel Colt's Police Special that he'd carried when he'd been a cop years before. He snapped open the cylinder, spun it, and began pulling .357 copper-jacketed hollow-points from the box one at a time, dropping them into their slots.

  When the six bullets were in place, he closed up and reholstered the gun, then pulled a second cylinder from his other pocket. Methodically— click, click, click as they fell into the cylinder—he sat filling the speed loader.

  1

  Ten o'clock, a Wednesday morning in the beginning of July.

  John Holiday extended one arm over the back of the couch at his lawyer's Sutter Street office. Today he was comfortably dressed in stonewashed blue jeans, hiking boots, and a white, high-collared shirt so heavily starched that it had creaked when he lowered himself into his slouch.

  His other hand had come to rest on an oversize silver-and-turquoise belt buckle. His long legs stretched out all the way to the floor, his ankles crossed. Nothing about his posture much suggested his possession of a backbone.

  Women had liked him since he'd outgrown his acne. His deep-set eyes seemed the window to a poet's soul, with the stained glass of that window the odd whitish blue of glacier water. Now, close up, those eyes revealed subtle traces of dissolution and loss. There was complexity here, even mystery. With an easy style and pale features—his jaw had the clean definition of a blade—he'd been making female hearts go pitter-patter for so long now that he took it for granted. He didn't much understand it. To him, the pretti-ness of his face had finally put him off enough that he'd grown a mustache. Full, drooping, and yellow as corn silk, it was two or three shades lighter than the hair on his head and had only made him more handsome. When his face was at rest, Holiday still didn't look thirty, but when he laughed, the lines added a decade, got him up to where he belonged. He still enjoyed a good laugh, though he smiled less than he used to.

  He was smiling now, though, at his lawyer, Dismas Hardy, over by the sink throwing water on his face for the third time in ten minutes.

  "As though that's gonna help." Holiday's voice carried traces of his father's Tennessee accent and the edges of it caressed like a soft Southern breeze.

  "It would help if I could dry off."

  "Didn't the first two times."

  Hardy had used up the last of the paper towels and now stood facing his cupboards in his business suit, his face dripping over the sink. Holiday shrugged himself up from the couch, dug in the wastebasket by the desk, and came up with a handful of used paper, which he handed over.

  "Never let it be said I can't be helpful."

  "It would never cross my mind." Hardy dried his face.

  "So where were we?"

  "You're due in court in forty-five minutes and you're so hungover you don't remember where we were? If you'd behaved this way when you were my lawyer, I'd have fired you."

  Hardy fell into one of his chairs. "I couldn't have behaved this way when I was your lawyer because I didn't know you well enough yet to go out drinking with you.

  Thank God."

  "You're just out of practice. It's like riding a horse.

  You've got to get right back on when it tosses you."

  "I did that last night. Twice."

  "Don't look at me. If memory serves, nobody held a gun to your head. Why don't you call and tell them you're sick?

  Get a what-do-you-call-it ..."

  "Continuance." Hardy shook his head. "Can't. This is a big case."

  "All the more reason if you can't think. But you said it was just dope and some hooker."

  "But with elements," Hardy said.

  In fact, he hadn't done a hooker case for nearly a decade.

  In his days as an assistant DA, the occasional prostitution case would cross his desk. Hardy mostly found these morally questionable, politically suspect, and in any case a waste of taxpayer money. Prostitutes, he thought, while rarely saintlike, were mostly victims themselves, so as a prosecutor, he would often try to use the girls' arrests as some kind of leverage to go after their dope connections or pimps, the true predators. Occasionally, it worked. Since he'd been in private practice, because there was little money in defending working girls, he never saw these cases anymore. As a matter of course, the court appointed the public defender's office or private counsel if that office had a conflict.

  In this way, Aretha LaBonte's case had been assigned to Gina Roake, a mid-forties career defense attorney. But Gina's caseload had suddenly grown so large it was compromising her ability to handle it effectively. If she wanted to do well by the rest, she had to dump some clients, including Aretha. By chance she mentioned the case to her boyfriend, Hardy's la
ndlord, David Freeman, who'd had a good listen and smelled money. With his ear always to the ground, Freeman had run across some similar cases.

  Aretha's arrest had been months ago now. Her case was interesting and from Freeman's perspective potentially lucrative because her arresting officer wasn't a regular San Francisco policeman. Instead, he had been working for a company called WGP, Inc., which provided security services to businesses under a jurisdictional anomaly in San Francisco. In its vigilante heyday a century ago, the city found that its police department couldn't adequately protect the people who did business within its limits. Those folks asked the PD for more patrols, but there was neither budget nor personnel to accommodate them. So the city came up with a unique solution—it created and sold patrol "beats" to individuals who became private security guards for those beats. These beat holders, or Patrol Specials, then and now, were appointed by the police commissioner, trained and licensed by the city. The beat holders could, and did, hire assistants to help them patrol, and in time most Patrol Specials came to control their own autonomous armed force in the middle of the city. On his beat, a Patrol Special tended to be a law unto himself, subject only to the haphazard and indifferent supervision of the San Francisco Police Department. They and their assistants wore uniforms and badges almost exactly like those of the city police; they carried weapons and, like any other citizen, could make arrests.

  Aretha LaBonte's arrest had occurred within the twelve-square-block area just south of Union Square known as Beat Thirty-two, or simply Thirty-two. It was one of six beats in the city owned by WGP, the corporate identity of a philanthropic businessman named Wade Panos. He had a total of perhaps ninety assistants on his payroll, and this, along with the amount of physical territory he patrolled, made him a powerful presence in the city.

  Aretha's case was not the first misconduct that Freeman had run across in Panos's beats. In fact, Freeman's preliminary and cursory legwork, his "sniff test," revealed wide-spread allegations of assistant patrol specials' use of excessive force, planting of incriminating evidence, general bullying. If Hardy could get Aretha off on this one assistant patrol special's misconduct, and several of the other "sniff test" cases could be developed and drafted into legal causes of action, he and Freeman could put together a zillion dollar lawsuit against Panos. They could also include the regular police department as a named defendant for allowing these abuses to continue.