The Second Chair

by John Lescroart

  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.

  The Second Chair

  A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by The Lescroart Corporation

  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 Berkley 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: 978-1-1012-0994-3

  A SIGNET BOOK®

  Signet Books first published by The Signet 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

  ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART

  The First Law

  The Oath

  The Hearing

  Nothing but the Truth

  The Mercy Rule

  Guilt

  A Certain Justice

  The 13th Juror

  Hard Evidence

  The Vig

  Dead Irish

  Rasputin’s Revenge

  Son of Holmes

  Sunburn

  To Jack Sawyer Lescroart

  Contents

  PART ONE

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  PART TWO

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  PART THREE

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Almost all our faults are more pardonable than the methods we think up to hide them.

  —François de la Rochefoucauld

  PART ONE

  PROLOGUE

  Only four minutes remained in sixteen-year-old Laura Wright’s life as she came out of the bathroom of the small apartment on Beaumont Street in San Francisco. Her eyes glistened with the residue of recent tears. But in the bathroom she’d splashed water over her face and washed away the smeared mascara and makeup, and now her skin glowed. A damp tendril of blond hair hung over a broad, unlined forehead.

  She walked through the tiny living room and over to where Mr. Mooney, her drama coach, leaned over the kitchen table, making some notes in his neat hand in the margins of the script they were rehearsing. At her approach, he straightened up. In the brighter light of the kitchen, Laura’s eyes picked up some of the turquoise in her blouse.

  Mooney wore a kind face, projected an easy manner. Ten years before he’d been leading man material and now, though still trim and good-looking in a conventional way, his hair had thinned and gone slightly gray, a hint of jowl marred his jawline. He smiled down at her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded, still too emotional to trust herself with her voice.

  The two stood facing each other for a moment, and then Laura reached out her hands and stepped into him. After a minute, her shoulders began to shake and Mooney, holding her, moved his hands over her back, the smooth fabric of the silk. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “I know. I know it will be.” Her face was buried into the hollow of his neck.

  “It is now,” Mooney said.

  She nodded again. “I know. Just. . . just thank you.” She stepped back, a little away, and looked up at him. “I didn’t mean to get this way.”

  “The way you are is fine. I’m just glad you found the courage to tell somebody. Holding that inside can be so hard.”

  “I figured I could trust you.”

  “You figured right.”

  “I know, but . . . what was that?”

  Mooney crossed to the window, looked out to the street. “Nobody. Nothing.”

  Laura sighed, a deep exhalation. “I didn’t think Andrew could be back already. I don’t know if I’m ready to face him. He’ll be upset if he finds out I told you first. I mean, it’s his baby, too. Maybe I can just say I started crying right after he left and you asked what was wrong . . .”

  “Which is exactly what happened.”

  She nodded. “I know. But Andrew’s been a little funny about you and me.”

  “You and me? What about you and me?”

  “Our relationship. Yours and mine. We actually broke up about it once.”

  Mooney had to suppress a laugh. “About what, exactly?”

  “He thought I had a crush on you. I did, in fact.”

  “You had a crush on me?”

  “When we started the play, yeah, rehearsing here. A little. He was just so jealous, and then I got so mad when he accused me.”

  “Of what?”

  “You know. Having a thing with you.”

  Now Mooney did allow a small chuckle. “Well, by now I hope he knows that didn’t happen. And besides, this is about you. It’s your body. You get to decide what to do.” A pause. “And you know, it might not be the worst idea in the world to talk to your parents.”

  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “They’d kill me. They wouldn’t want to be bothered. Trust me, this I know.” Her eyes began to well up again.

  Mooney stepped near to her and brushed a tear where it had fallen onto her cheek. “It’s okay,” he said. “In a few months this will all be behind you. It’s just getting through the tough part.”

  “I so hope you’re right. I feel like such a fool for letting this happen. I mean, it was just the one time.”

  “It only takes once.” Mooney spoke gently. “You might want to keep that in mind, though, in the future.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s locked in.” But again her composure slipped. Tears still threatening, she stood looking helplessly up at him. “Do you think I could get one more hug?”

  “As a special request, one short one.” He put his arms around her.

  She pressed herself against him, squeezed hard, then all but jumped back out of his embrace as a knock came on the door. “Oh God,” she said. “There’s my great timing again. That’s got to be Andrew. What if he saw us?”

  Mooney held her at arm’s length. “Laura,” he said, “Andrew’s a great guy. You don’t have to worry about him, and even if he saw us, he knows you love him. Really. You just take care of yourself and do what you have to do and everything will be fine. I promise.”

  Mooney didn’t know it, but his last words were a lie. Another knock sounded, and he moved to get the door.

  1

  Hello.”

  “Amy Wu, please.”

  “This is Amy.”

  “You sleeping? I wake you up?”

  “No. Just lying down for a minute.”

  “So Friday a
fternoon, you’re not at work?”

  “No. Right. I’m not feeling too well. Who is this anyway?”

  “Hal North. You remember me.”

  “Of course, Mr. North. How are you? How’d you get my home number?”

  “You gave it to us last time, remember?”

  “Right. That’s right. I gave it to you. So how can I help you?”

  “Andrew’s in trouble again.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What kind of trouble?”

  “Big trouble. The police just came and arrested him for murder. You still there?”

  “Yeah. Did you say murder? Andrew?”

  “Yeah, I know. But right. Two of ’em, actually.”

  “I’m sorry. Two of what?”

  “What did I just say? You paying attention? Murders. His teacher and his girlfriend.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “They took him to jail. I mean, to the Youth Guidance Center. He’s still not eighteen, or it would have been the jail.”

  “Is that where you’re calling from, the YGC?”

  “No. Me and Linda, we got a benefit tonight, so we’re still home for another two hours at least. We could probably be late to the thing and make it three if you . . .”

  “I could be over in, say, a half hour.”

  “Good. We’ll be looking for you.”

  Wu checked herself in the bathroom mirror. No amount of makeup was going to camouflage the swollen bags under her eyes. Half-Chinese and half-black, Wu had a complexion that was dark enough as it was, and when exhaustion got the better of her, the hollows around her eyes deepened. Now, between the crying jags, the lack of sleep and the hangover, Wu thought she looked positively haggard, at least a decade older than her thirty years. Why guys would hit on her looking like this, she didn’t know, but there didn’t seem to be a shortage of them, not since she’d started going out almost every night to find whatever the hell she was seeking in the four months since her father died.

  Still, prepping herself to visit Hal North, she did her best to make herself presentable. It wouldn’t do to look unprofessional. This was a legal matter, and she knew the potential client had made millions from his chain of multiplex movie theaters. At least he had been worth millions a couple of years ago, when Hal North’s corporate attorney—a classmate from law school—had recommended Wu for criminal work and she’d represented his stepson Andrew for a minor joyride beef. She’d gotten him off with a fine and some community service. The fees at her hourly rate had come to a little under two thousand dollars, but when the judge came down with his wrist-slap judgment, North wrote her a check for ten grand. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or insulted that he assumed he should tip his lawyer.

  From now on, North had said in his forceful manner, she was his lawyer, that was all there was to it. Andrew, who’d been sullen and distant throughout the entire proceeding, even broke a rare smile and concurred. She’d told them both that though she was flattered that they liked her work, all in all it would be better if the family wouldn’t need a criminal lawyer ever again. They both conceded that she probably had a point.

  She lay down on the bed for two minutes, timed, with ice wrapped in a dish towel over her eyes. When she got up, she dried her face and started applying eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick. Her hand was steady enough, which was a nice surprise. This morning, brushing her teeth after she’d gotten home from whatever-his-name’s place a little after dawn, she’d dropped the toothbrush twice before she’d given up, called work for the fouth time in four months—very bad—to say she was sick, and crashed.

  For a moment she considered calling North back and making another appointment for tomorrow. After all, the Norths had a benefit tonight—it came back to her now, they always had something going on—and they’d be in a rush. And she really did feel horrible. She wouldn’t be as sharp as she liked. But hell, that was getting to be the norm, wasn’t it? No sleep, no focus.

  She hated herself for it, but she couldn’t seem to stop feeling that it didn’t matter anyway. Of course it mattered, she told herself. As her old boss David Freeman never tired of saying, the law was a sacred and beautiful thing. And Wu hadn’t dreamt of a career in it for five years, then studied it for three, and now have worked in it for five only to lose her faith and become cynical about it. That wasn’t who she was, not at her core. But it was who she acted like—and felt like—all too often lately.

  The truth was—her bad angels kept telling her—that you didn’t really have to be as much on your game as she’d always taken as gospel, since law school. She’d proven that clearly enough in the past four months, when she’d essentially sleepwalked through no fewer than ten court appearances. No one—not even her see-all boss Dismas Hardy—had alluded to any problems with her work. She could mail it in, which was lucky, since that’s what she had been doing.

  The clients were always guilty anyway. It wasn’t as though you were trying to get them off, cleanly acquitted. No, what you did was you squeezed a little here, flirted with a DA there, got a tiny bit of a better deal, and everybody was generally happy. That was the business she was in. It was a business, and she’d come to understand how it worked.

  Mr. North had said that his son had been charged with murder, and if this were true, it would be her first. But her experience led her to believe that it probably wouldn’t turn out to be a righteous murder, charged as such. If it wasn’t simply confusion with another person, at worst an accident, it was probably some kind of manslaughter. And of course the Norths would want to get an attorney on board. If Wu went over now, at least she would get a feel for the case, some of the salient details. It would give her the weekend to get her hands on some discovery, if it was available yet.

  And if she could keep herself straight and productive for two whole days in a row.

  The Norths’ home was a beauty near the Embassy Row section of Clay Street in Pacific Heights. Old trees shaded the sidewalks on both sides, and most of the residences hid behind some barrier—a hedge or fence or stucco wall.

  At a few minutes past four o’clock, Wu got out of her car to push the button on the green-tinged brass plate built into the faux-adobe post that held the swinging grille gate to the driveway. When she identified herself, she heard a soft click, then a whirr, and the gate swung open.

  For all of the security, there was very little actual room between the gate and the house. Wu got inside, then turned left before she came to the garage. The driveway was quite narrow as it passed in front of the house, but widened into a larger circle near the entryway, and this was where she parked, the area deep in shadow. Getting out of her car, she could see blue sky above her through the trees and hear a steady shush of April breeze, but here in this small leafy enclosure, it was still. Briefcase in hand, she drew a breath, closed her eyes for an instant to gather herself, then went around her car, up the steps to the semi-enclosed brick porch, and rang the bell.

  Hal North was in his early fifties, a short, wiry man who tended to dress, as he talked, loudly. Today he answered the door in a canary yellow, open-necked shirt that revealed a robust growth of chest hair into which was nestled a thick gold chain; white slacks; penny loafers with no socks. He hadn’t aged one week since Wu had seen him last. He wore his thick black hair short and basically uncombed—the tousled look. His face was not-unattractive, slab-sided with a strong nose and piercing blue eyes that sized Wu up afresh as he crushed her hand. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “You don’t look too sick.” He backed away a step. “You remember Linda.”

  “Sure.” Wu stepped over the threshhold and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. North.”

  Linda North was at least three inches taller than Hal and in another age would have been called a bombshell. Blond, buxom, thin and long-legged, she had always struck Wu as one of those freak-of-nature women over whom age and experience seem to pass without leaving a scar, a line, a trace. Though Wu knew that she was somewhere close to either side of f
orty—she’d delivered Andrew when she was just a year out of high school—in her jeans and tennis shoes and men’s T-shirt, with her hair back in a ponytail, she looked about seventeen herself.

  “Ellie’s got some coffee going.” Hal was already moving, shooing the women before him down the short hallway from the foyer into the dining room. “Ellie!” He pushed open the door to the adjoining kitchen. “In here, okay?” He turned around, motioning to the women. “Sit, sit. She’ll be right in.” He pulled a chair next to his wife and sat in it, threw a last look at the kitchen door where Ellie would presumably soon appear, then came back to Wu. “Really,” he said, “we appreciate you coming out.”

  “We just can’t believe this is happening,” Linda said. “It’s just a total shock. I mean, out of nowhere.”

  “You didn’t expect something like this?”

  “Never,” Linda said.

  “Complete blindside.” Hal was shaking his head, his lips tight. “They kept saying Andrew wasn’t a suspect.”

  “They always say that. You know why? So you might not think you need to have a lawyer with him.” She paused. “So I’m assuming you let him talk to the police?”

  “Of course,” Linda said. “We thought it would help to be as cooperative as we could.”

  The couple exchanged a glance.

  “Why don’t we start by you telling me what has happened,” Wu said, “starting from the beginning, the crime.” She turned to Hal. “You said he’s accused of killing his teacher and his girlfriend?”

  Linda answered for her husband. “Mike Mooney and Laura Wright. They were in the school play and . . .”

  “What school?”

  “Sutro.”

  Wu wasn’t surprised to hear this. Among the city’s private schools, Sutro was a common choice among people with real money. “Okay, they were in the school play . . .”

  “Yes,” Linda said. “Andrew and Laura were the leads, and they’d been rehearsing nights at Mr. Mooney’s house rather than the school. Then, the night it happened, somebody just came and shot them down. Luckily, Andrew had gone out for a walk to memorize his lines and wasn’t there when it happened or he might’ve been shot, too.”