Hardy 05 - Mercy Rule, The

by John Lescroart

  But he didn’t dwell on Tryptech. The grand jury indictment notwithstanding, he was actually going to file a nine-nine-five motion for dismissal that he would lose, but he felt he had to get on the boards with the fact that there was not enough evidence to justify holding Graham at all. There were signs that Sal had been murdered, perhaps, but no reasonable attempt to connect that murder to Graham by physical evidence.

  So he’d try, make the point, get laughed at.

  He made another note. Today he must remember to place ads to run for a month or more in the local newspapers, in the L.A. Times, the San Jose Mercury, and also — being thorough — in the various regional editions of The Wall Street Journal, maybe in The New York Times Book Review, asking anyone with information on a Joan Singleterry to come forward. He wouldn’t risk introducing her before a jury. Graham’s story about her, even if true in all respects, smelled bogus. But Graham was right: they would be unwise to abandon the search for her if she could shed some light on Sal, or on the money. If any part of Graham’s story was true and Hardy could verify it, it could destroy the prosecution case, as least insofar as the special circumstances.

  Then there was Sarah Evans and her pursuit of the gamblers and fishmongers. He had to coordinate that more closely. It wasn’t merely a matter of his SODDIT defense. He didn’t need Sarah’s information so much for the jury as he might to get to the truth.

  Which was why he was here now…

  He raised his eyes. The door had opened and George was saying his name, a concerned look on his face. Hardy threw his legal pad into his open briefcase and stood up, tried a smile. ‘Mr Russo, how are you? I’m representing your brother—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘And how I am is busy. What does my brother have to do with me?’

  The tone made it even ruder than the words. Hardy cocked his head, trying to get a read on George, but it didn’t look like he was going to get much of an opening. ‘I haven’t seen my father in ten years. I don’t talk to my brother. I’m not interested.’ But his color was high. Like it or not, his emotions were engaged.

  Hardy retained an even tone of his own. ‘I understood you saw Sal when he came to your mother’s house a month ago.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So you just said you hadn’t seen him in ten years.’

  George’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t clear whether it was with fear or rage. He pointed a finger at Hardy. ‘That’s a lawyer’s trick, turning my words.’

  Hardy made the snap decision that he wasn’t going to score any points here with sweet talk. ‘Here’s another one,’ he said, ‘— where were you on the afternoon your father was killed?’

  This stopped him dead. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it again. He glanced toward the lobby. Some customers had turned their heads, noticed the confrontation. Hardy pressed what he took to be his advantage. ‘It might be more comfortable in your office.’

  They were inside. Hardy pulled the door to behind them while George retreated behind his desk. He’d obviously had enough time to think by the time he got seated. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions, do I? You’re not with the police.’

  ‘No, that’s right. Of course, I could go to the police and tell them you were uncooperative and acting suspicious, that you didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder and you had a great motive. Plus you look enough like Graham that anyone who thought they had seen him at Sal’s might have been confused.’ Hardy sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Then you would have to answer them.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with my father’s death.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did.’

  ‘You just said I had a motive and no alibi.’

  Hardy shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m wrong.’ He waited.

  George’s tone shifted. Suddenly the arrogant banker gave way to a frightened child. ‘What made you come here? I don’t even know why you’re talking to me.’

  Sitting back, Hardy decided he’d played enough hardball. He could ease up a little. ‘Your mother.’

  A confused, betrayed look. ‘What about my mother? She told you to talk to me?’

  Hardy walked him through it, leaving out any reference to Sarah, his secret agent who’d been the conduit. ‘Your mother went to see your brother in jail yesterday and told him, among other things, that she was worried about you. You’d blown up at some family gathering a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you? You were so hateful to your father.’

  ‘He was hateful to us. He just walked out on us.’

  ‘Yes, he did. And you could never forgive him, could you?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Hardy let that question lie. Instead, ‘Your mother thinks it’s possible that you killed Sal.’

  ‘Jesus, what are you saying?’ George took a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wiped his forehead.

  ‘You told your father you went to some client’s but you didn’t go there, did you?’

  ‘How do you… how can you say that?’

  ‘Your mother said it. She told Graham. He told me.’

  ‘He’s a liar.’

  ‘Maybe it runs in the family. Where were you?’

  George ran a hand around under his collar. Gradually, though, over ten seconds or so, he got himself back under control. ‘I was at a client’s on a confidential matter.’ He checked his watch. ‘And I am very busy. This interview is over.’

  Hardy didn’t move. ‘Do you want me to go to the police with this? You think I ask hard questions, you should see them.’

  But the younger brother had made his decision. ‘I don’t think you ask hard questions. And you can inform the police or not. I didn’t see my father. I didn’t even know where he lived.’ He picked up the phone. ‘If you’re not ready to leave, I can call security.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy was sitting in the jail’s visiting room and Graham was in his orange jumpsuit, standing by the window. Hardy had just told him about Helen and Leland’s offer of financial help.

  ‘Graham?’

  Finally, he turned around. ‘They want something, but I don’t see how I can tell you no.’

  ‘Maybe they want to help you.’

  ‘No, they want to buy me.’

  ‘They wouldn’t even be buying me, only some of my hours. I made it clear: I’d be working only for your interests, not theirs.’

  Graham eased himself onto the corner of the table. He wore a weary smile and was shaking his head. ‘That’s not how it works. Leland pays you and then eventually you come to see where your interests lie. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.’

  His hands crossed in front of him, Hardy met his client’s gaze. ‘I’ll rise above the temptation.’ Then, more seriously, ‘I’ve thought a lot about this, Graham. A lot, believe me. It’s the only way I defend you and not go broke, which of course I’d gladly do on your behalf, although not if I didn’t have to. But I leave it up to you.’

  Hardy watched the young man wrestle with it, family ties and financial bonds. He sighed. ‘My mom sure puts the “fun” in dysfunctional, doesn’t she?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s dysfunctional. Confused, maybe. You interested in my call on this, really?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She sees your dad in you. Apparently a lot of people do. It’s her second chance that way. She wants to give you a chance to make your life turn out all right, to save yourself, and the only language she has is money. You don’t do things her way, Leland’s way, but something in her wishes that that way — your way — could work. She wants to help.’

  ‘And what about Leland?’

  ‘He doesn’t have to matter if you don’t let him.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take the damn money.’

  Carefully keeping any elation out of his voice — this really was a critical decision that would keep them both afloat — Hardy felt his shoulders relax. He turned to his legal pad. ‘Oh, by the way, I had a nice talk with your friend Russ Cu
tler last night. Funny how you forgot to mention him.’

  Graham didn’t shrink from it. Caught again, oh, well. ‘I had other things on my mind. I tried to go off the record and tell Sarah. She wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘It’s going to come out as more lies.’

  Graham shrugged. ‘I promised him I wouldn’t bring him in. What was I supposed to do, betray the guy?’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d characterize it as betrayal, maybe telling your attorney, trust that he could keep a lid on it.’

  Graham accepted the rebuke. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’

  Hardy smiled. ‘You gotta love a guy who’s so consistent, but last night I passed a few pleasant moments plotting to kill you after I get you off.’ He shrugged. ‘It passed, but I really would love it if you had any other little secrets you’ve been keeping up to now. If you wanted to share them, this would be a good time.’

  Still sitting on the table, Graham swung his legs under it like a child. ‘Craig Ising’s holding ten grand for me. My money.’

  Hardy had to laugh. ‘You are a piece of work.’

  Embarrassed, Graham remained matter of fact. ‘One way or the other, this thing’s over in six months, I figure. I didn’t want to lose my apartment, so Craig’s keeping up on the rent. If I’m in jail, it doesn’t matter. But if I win, then what?’

  In spite of himself Hardy thought he had a point. In fact, he had wondered what Graham’s plans might be regarding his wonderful place. It was human nature to protect his own hearth before he worried about Hardy’s home and family, not that it didn’t rankle just a bit.

  ‘So that’s it?’ he asked. ‘I realize we’ve got the proverbial loaves and fishes of falsehoods here, but maybe we keep at this long enough we’ll run out. You didn’t run off on your lost weekend and get married to Evans, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about your father’s money except what you’ve already told me about Joan Singleterry, whoever the hell she is?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you don’t know who she is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And if I catch you in even the smallest fib, I get to stick an icepick under your kneecap?’

  ‘Both of ’em.‘

  ‘You swear on your father’s grave?’

  This sobered him, as Hardy had meant it to. ‘I swear,’ he intoned.

  This would have to be good enough and Hardy took it. ‘Okay. Now let’s talk some matters of law.’

  Without naming Graham’s stepfather as one source of the idea, Hardy outlined in some detail the suggestion that both Leland and Giotti had proposed as a defense. As a lawyer himself, Graham seemed to appreciate the distinction between admitting he’d done something and having a jury conclude he’d done the same thing. If he never admitted it, ever, to anyone, he would be legally blameless. He could resume his life with a clean slate.

  They discussed the strategy until the lunch bell. Graham’s acquiescence was a nice surprise, especially after his earlier refusal to plead to essentially the same thing. But, as Graham pointed out, they weren’t the same thing at all.

  Not in the eyes of the law.

  Of course, there were great risks. Graham was charged with first-degree murder and, if convicted with special circumstances, would spend the rest of his life in prison. But Giotti’s offer seriously mitigated that risk.

  They left it unresolved, but kept the door open.

  Driving back uptown, Hardy was going around with it. It was starting to look as though his defense would be to admit that Graham, who couldn’t admit it himself, had committed a murder that in fact he hadn’t committed. For a reason that he didn’t have.

  And this, if it worked, might set his client free.

  The law, he thought, was a sublime and terrible thing.

  * * * * *

  Sarah Evans planned to take full advantage of yet another beautiful wrinkle in the system.

  The city and county of San Francisco were physically coterminous; they shared the same geographic boundaries. This created interesting possibilities in the always complicated world of legal jurisdiction.

  Practically, one of the results of this arrangement was that the jail was controlled by the county sheriff’s office, not by the city’s police department. Although it was directly behind the Hall of Justice, in what used to be part of the Hall’s parking lot, the jail might as well have been on the moon for all of its official connection to police events at Southern Station, which was the city’s name for the police presence at the Hall.

  Sarah told Marcel Lanier she had some reports to catch up on after their shift — she’d hitch a ride home later. He left her working at her desk in the homicide detail.

  At some time between six and seven the coming and going of other homicide inspectors slowed down, and Sarah cleared her desk, took the back steps out of the Hall, and walked around to the entrance to the jail, flashed her ID, and told the admitting deputy that she had to see Russo. She signed in, knowing that her bosses in the PD were unlikely to review the log. Attorney room B would be all right. She checked her weapon at the desk.

  * * * * *

  ‘I can’t come here very often.’

  They sat across the table from each other now, inspector and prisoner. Graham longed for her hands over the table, but knew he couldn’t.

  A silence settled. They simply looked at each other. Graham told her he loved her. She bit at her lip and found she couldn’t respond. ‘What’s it like out there?’ he asked finally. ‘Outside.’

  ‘Windy. I’ve got a game tonight, you know. Thursdays.’ She sighed. ‘How are you holding up?’

  ‘Better now.’ But he couldn’t hide his uncertainty about it. ‘I think I got the right lawyer.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Did he tell you he talked to your brother? George won’t say where he was.’

  A shake of the head. ‘Georgie didn’t kill Sal.’

  ‘Okay.’ She didn’t want to argue about it. She thought it was entirely possible, in fact, that George had killed Sal. Nothing Hardy had told her ruled him out in any way, and her training was to keep pushing until you got to something. ‘But I wish I could talk to him. I’d shake his tree a little harder than he’s used to.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got no case. If I shake him down off duty and he complains, which he would, it’s harassment and there goes my job. Hardy’s trying to get my boss to move on it.’

  ‘Your boss?’

  ‘Lieutenant Glitsky — he and Hardy know each other. But it won’t matter. Glitsky won’t do it. There’s nothing to move on, especially since Glitsky’s already got a suspect in jail.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘I am looking at the other things, Graham. Craig Ising’s friends. The fish stuff.’

  ‘I know.’ Then, quietly. ‘I know you are.’

  She could see him being brave and it was tearing her up. Say what she would about his chances at his trial, the fact remained that he was locked up, a prisoner. He wasn’t going out to play ball tonight the way she was. He was here, alone, scared. She felt like she had to hold him. He needed her. But she couldn’t do that, although if she stayed any longer, she might. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  The headache had been bad this morning and he’d gotten a call near dawn. He came right on down and gave Sal his shot. His father hated to shoot himself up. Hated it!

  After that Sal slept and Graham read for a while, some magazine, passing the time, dozing a little himself. He didn’t have to be in at work until midafternoon and had come to love these times with his dad, even to depend on them, difficult as they sometimes were. In his dad’s presence he felt like he belonged somewhere. He was loved for who he was. He felt important, needed. It was as simple as that. He didn’t feel that way anywhere else.

  He heard Sal stirring in his room down past the kitchen and a minute later he appeared. ‘Good boy,’ he said. ‘Still here. How about I t
ake you down for lunch at the Grotto. I love their cioppino. Nobody makes cioppino better than Bruno Giotti.’

  Halfway out of his chair, Graham sat back down, his stomach churning, and not over the mention of food. Since his father’s headaches had started, the bouts of forgetfulness had become more frequent as well, but this morning was more than forgetfulness. This, to Graham, was new.

  ‘Dad, the Grotto isn’t there anymore. It’s Stagnola’s now, remember?’

  Sal laughed. ‘What kind of boy am I raising here? What are you talking about, you don’t know your own backyard? Come on, get up, fish don’t bite all day.’

  To look at him there was no change. He ‘d even dressed, for Sal, with a degree of proper conservatism: tennis shoes and khaki slacks and a blue workshirt that had been pressed before he ’d taken a nap in it. ‘So we going or not?’

  Graham was going to have to talk to Russ Cutler, he thought. He didn’t know what to do, how to handle this — humor Sal or dig his heels in. He just didn’t know.

  ‘Yeah, we’re going,’ he said.

  He’d stick with him until this passed, if it did.

  In the alley, getting into the truck, Sal had another idea. ‘Hey, why don’t we swing by the Manor, surprise Georgie and Deb, take ’em out with us? They love the Grotto.‘

  ‘They went out with Mom, shopping, remember?’

  Sal didn’t seem entirely sure, but said, ‘Oh, that’s right. Well, we can still go.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll drive, okay?’

  Again, Sal hesitated before accepting this, but finally climbed up into the cab. ‘That fucking Mario,’ he said conversationally.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Giotti.’

  ‘The judge?’

  Sal gave his boy a look. ‘What are you talking about, the judge? No, I’m talking Mario Giotti, Bruno’s kid.’ He gave his son a hard whack on the arm. ‘You been smoking something, bambino?’

  ‘No. Sorry. What about Mario?’ Graham was heading east on Mission, down to the old Embarcadero — now Herb Caen Way. He’d turn north at the Bay and head up along the piers to Fisherman’s Wharf. Maybe by the time they arrived, Sal would know where he was. ‘What about Mario?’ he repeated.