The Second Chair

by John Lescroart

  Glitsky was standing in the doorway, his own gun drawn, but now held down at his side. He could see that his plan—well, his and Hardy’s—had worked. And they’d managed to pull it off without anyone having to die. Their backs against the wall, Hardy sat next to Wu on the floor, a protective arm around her. Wu’s head was down, her shoulders heaving a little as she cried out some of the tension.

  Fine.

  Glitsky walked over to where his troops had the suspect in righteous custody, and looked down at the now pathetic and restrained figure of the Executioner. They’d only discovered his name in the minutes before Brandt had called to say he knew where they could find him.

  The Youth Guidance Center bailiff, Ray Cottrell.

  The TAC unit police had wasted no time getting Cottrell up and taking him away, and now the room fairly buzzed with the spent energy and the detritus of chaos.

  In the destroyed half of the apartment, Wu, Hardy and Glitsky went to almost robotic wordless motion, getting the shattered door to one side and leaning it up against the wall, setting the table back on its legs, righting the chairs, two of them still unbroken, picking up the larger pieces of plates and pottery.

  At last, Wu sat heavily in one of the chairs. Hardy took the other.

  Glitsky crossed to the dish counter and filled a glass of water from the tap. He went over to the table and handed it to Wu, then went back to the counter, cleared a spot and sat on it. “How did he get here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I had no idea he knew where I lived.”

  “But what did he want with you? You were—what?—twelve years old during his father’s trial. You had nothing to do with it, did you?”

  Seeming to notice the glass in her hand for the first time, Wu drank off half the water. She dropped her head and appeared to gather herself for another minute. Finally, she began to tell them what Cottrell had said he had wanted with her, as best she could explain it—her connection to the system that had mistakenly and tragically convicted his father.

  “No, more than that,” she said. “It wasn’t just that I was another lawyer. He saw me as exactly like Allan Boscacci had been when he’d prosecuted his innocent dad and sent his dad up. I was doing the same thing to Andrew Bartlett, bartering away years of his life when Ray knew Andrew was innocent.” She was coming out of her state of shock, and seemed suddenly to realize the import of what he’d told her. “Because he was the one who’d done what Andrew had been arrested for. Don’t you see? He killed Mooney and Laura.”

  “We’d pretty much gotten to that ourselves,” Glitsky said.

  She raised her voice a notch. “But he told me he did it. He actually told me. He called Mooney by name.” She turned to Hardy. “That’s important,” she said, urgency bleeding out of her. “It makes a difference.”

  “I know.” He put a hand over hers at the table. “I don’t think Abe’s missing it.”

  Glitsky nodded. “We’ll get his statement, then see where we are,” he said. “But unofficially, I don’t think you need to worry. It’ll all come out.”

  “At least enough to clear Andrew,” Hardy said. “Let’s hope.”

  Wu let out a heavy breath. “But how did you know I’d open the door?” she asked. “I almost didn’t.”

  “I didn’t know that for sure,” Hardy said. “That was Plan A. Plan B was the door comes down anyway about five seconds later. Abe and I both thought it was worth a try to get you out of the way first.”

  They heard noises from out on the landing, footfalls and voices on the stairs. “I’m going to want a more complete statement from you tomorrow,” Glitsky said, “but we can let that go tonight.” His eyes went to the shattered door leaning up against the wall, the empty door frame with its hanging hinges. “Are you going to need a place to stay?”

  “She can come to my place,” Hardy said, turning to her. “If you’re good with that? Same spacious quarters and comfortable bed?”

  “Same night chef?” she asked.

  “It might be arranged.”

  At that moment, Jason Brandt broke from the ranks of police that were accompanying him up the stairs and stopped in the open door frame. “Jesus,” he exclaimed at all the damage. Then, seeing her at the table, he closed his eyes and blew out heavily in relief. Hardy and Glitsky might as well not have been there. “Amy, are you all right?”

  Her face lit up. “Jason. What are you doing here?”

  “What’s he doing here?” Hardy asked. “He’s the hero, that’s all.”

  Brandt shook his head in embarrassed denial, spoke to Hardy. “No. From what I hear, you’re the hero. I just—”

  Hardy cut him off. “You just figured it all out and called Chief Glitsky here and got us moving, that’s all. Without which none of this happens.”

  Wu was staring at Brandt. “But I told you to get away, Jason. To get out of here.”

  “I know.” He shrugged. “I snuck back up and listened at the door.”

  “But why? How did you know?”

  “Because I know you, Amy,” he said. “You wouldn’t have just sent me off. Not that way. No matter what. That’s not who you are.”

  Lanier and Ariola appeared from the steps, on the landing behind Brandt. Hardy turned back to Wu and saw that her eyes had brimmed.

  Brandt stepped into the room, out of the cops’ way. He hesitated, then came over behind Amy at the table. He put a hand on her shoulder, and Wu put her hand over his.

  In the door frame, Ariola said, “If we’re sealing this place up, we’re going to want to get to it pretty soon, Chief.”

  “All right,” Glitsky said. He motioned to the civilians. “When they’re ready to go down, let’s get that done.”

  Lanier spoke up. “Also, just a heads up, Abe, but there’s some people waiting for you downstairs,” he said. “Cameras.”

  Glitsky’s face went dark. He took in the scene here one last time, said “Swell” and pushed through to the landing.

  Out in the street, at the impromptu press conference, Glitsky stood in a circle of halogen and uniforms and spoke into a hastily assembled cluster of microphones. As usual at this type of event, he found himself on the defensive. “Well,” he said. “Assuming that our sharpshooter could not take him out, which was always a viable option, there were really two main objections to simply calling him up on the telephone or using a bullhorn to tell him he was surrounded.

  “The first was that we knew that he’d already killed seven people at close range and in cold blood. After some serious discussion downtown, we decided—”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Chief?”

  “Myself, homicide Lieutenant Marcel Lanier and Dismas Hardy.”

  “The lawyer?” A woman’s voice. “What’s a lawyer doing making police decisions?”

  “Mr. Hardy didn’t make the decision, Claudia. He had some detailed knowledge of the situation and it proved useful. In any event, getting back to the original question, in view of Mr. Cottrell’s behavior in the past few weeks, if we announced our presence, we thought it extremely likely that he would simply kill the hostage and then himself. The second objection was that we thought we had a better plan.”

  “But one that exposed civilian lives to danger, isn’t that true?”

  “That’s true, but it was only one civilian and Mr. Hardy volunteered, and his involvement was crucial. Ms. Wu is his business associate and friend. And let’s not forget, if you don’t mind,” Glitsky said, forcing himself, “the operation was a success.”

  Another disembodied voice from out in the darkness: “Yes, but how sure are you that Ray Cottrell is in fact the Executioner?”

  “Close to a hundred percent. He confessed as much to Ms. Wu. But now that he’s in custody, you’ll be hearing lots more about that, I’m sure.”

  “I understand he was an abused child who grew up in a succession of foster homes.”

  “Is that a question?” Glitsky asked. “If so, I have no comment.”

  “Chief? What part of your
decision not to use your sniper in this instance comes from the tragic results of the LeShawn Brodie situation?”

  “Well, first, that LeShawn Brodie decision wasn’t made by me or anybody else in this jurisdiction. Second, as I thought I’d already made clear, Mr. Ralston, we never made the decision not to use our sharpshooter in this case, and in fact that option was on the table throughout the course of the operation, if the opportunity presented itself. Which it didn’t.”

  “In other words, you approved the order to have Cottrell shot out of hand, but by the same token you elected not to give him a chance to surrender by letting him know that his options had run out and he was surrounded?”

  Glitsky brought one hand to his side and pushed in against the spasm there. He raised his other hand up against the bright lights. Trying not to look too menacing, and to possibly even look cooperative and friendly, and failing abysmally, he glared out into the invisible circle in front of him. “As I believe I’ve already explained . . .”

  35

  On the Wednesday of that week, at a little before one o’clock in the afternoon, Wu walked up the hall from her office and turned right toward Hardy’s, passing directly behind Phyllis’s workstation. The elderly receptionist obviously had eyes in the back of her head, because as Wu came abreast of her, she whirled in her ergonomic chair and actually held a hand up. “He’s busy and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Did you make an appointment?”

  Wu stopped, forced a polite smile. “I just opened my mail,” she said, holding up a yellowish manila envelope, “and he’ll want to see this. I promise.”

  “That’s what everyone says. All of you associates believe he’ll want to see you, which of course he does. He and I have discussed this. He’s happy to make time for the associates, but he’d really prefer that those times are convenient to him, not necessarily to them.” Phyllis possibly actually thought she was softening the message with her schoolteacher smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, as one of the phones in her bank rang behind her and she whirled around again to get it.

  Wu didn’t hesitate for a moment, but broke right as quietly as she could, got to Hardy’s door and knocked.

  “Ms. Wu!”—from behind her, as from the other side of the door she heard, “Yo!” and got herself inside.

  Her boss, coat off, tie loosened, was rummaging through the drawers of his desk. He greeted her arrival with a smile that seemed more or less welcoming behind the more obvious fluster of his demeanor. “How did you. . . ?” he began, and was interrupted by the sharp buzz of his intercom.

  He reached over, pushed the button and said “Yo!” again, this time into the speaker. He knew that of all the things hated by Phyllis, and in his experience this included nearly all forms of human interaction, his cavalier telephone greeting ranked near the top. He winked at Wu during the short, distinctive pause while Phyllis bit back her natural reprimand. “Mr. Hardy! I told Ms. Wu you weren’t to be disturbed, and she went ahead.”

  “I can see that, and I assure you that I’m already disturbed, Phyllis. It’s not your fault. I intend to have a word with her right away. Thank you.”

  He left his speaker on for a second or so while he began in a firm voice. “Ms. Wu, when I tell Phyllis I don’t want to be disturbed, I expect you and all the associates to . . .” Then he pushed the button, breaking the connection. “Charging the door isn’t very subtle, Wu. I need that woman, believe it or not. She’s very good at what she does, none better.”

  “Maybe, but she’s not very nice.”

  “She’s not supposed to be. If she were nice, people would walk all over her. As it is, some of your colleagues are afraid to go to the bathroom if they have to pass her station. So they stay at their desks, working all day. This is good for the firm.”

  Wu allowed a smile. “You really are becoming more and more like Mr. Freeman.”

  Hardy inclined his head an inch. “I’ll take that as a compliment of the highest order. Have you seen my darts?”

  “Your darts? When would I have seen your darts?”

  “I don’t know. But they were here yesterday or the day before, and now I’ve mislaid them. Second time in two months. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Maybe you’re just saving it for bigger things.”

  Hardy stopped his rummaging through his drawers, slammed the latest one closed. “Unfortunately, there’s not much sign of that either.” Scanning the room one last time for obvious places where he might have left them, he finally gave up and sat down in the big leather chair behind his desk. “So what’s important enough to risk the wrath of Phyllis?”

  She held up the envelope. “This is very cool.”

  “What is it?”

  She handed it to him and he pulled out the pages.

  Dear Ms. Wu,

  I’ve been meaning to write to thank you and Mr. Hardy for all that you did for me, but I had so much work to make up at school, I never got the time. As I think you might have heard from my mom, Sutro took me back—some combination of Hal’s money and Mr. Wagner making me sign a paper promising that I wouldn’t bring a loaded gun to school again.

  Oh. Okay. Or what? I get expelled?

  Forgetting that we don’t own a gun anymore, and as if that would stop me if I decided to. But don’t worry, I agree that it’s a bad idea.

  The other reason I haven’t had time is that I’ve been doing some more writing—I started almost the day I got out, totally different stuff than “Perfect Killer.” Working with the narrative voice, wondering if maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have it be accessible, even friendly. Anyway, maybe I’m getting somewhere, since just today I heard back from McSweeney’s. They say they want to publish my latest story. I thought you’d be glad to hear about that, and maybe also to hear that I’m so glad I didn’t die when I tried to kill myself. So glad.

  You know the famous line from Anna Karenina? “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Well, my time in my own unhappy family is getting to the end, and maybe when I get to going out and making one of my own, I can form it a little differently. The story McSweeney’s is taking imagines a guy from a happier family, way later on. I hope you like it.

  Just remember one thing, though, would you? I made it all up.

  Brandt and Wu were at a table in the restaurant at the back of the Balboa Cafe. The waiter had brought their drinks, but both of them remained untouched. When Brandt finished reading Andrew’s letter, he handed it gingerly back to Wu. It was a long minute before he said anything. “I don’t like to think that I was trying to send him to prison for the rest of his life.” He paused again. “I’ve never had a defendant be innocent before, you know that? It gives one pause.”

  “You wonder if you’ve sent up somebody who shouldn’t be there?”

  He thought about it for a few seconds. “Not really, no. I don’t think so. I mean, Bartlett was unusual. At least I hope he was. But I don’t know for sure, to tell you the truth. I’m sure Allan Boscacci thought what’s his name, Welding, was guilty. In a funny way,” he said, “it almost makes me feel better about the system. I mean, Andrew Bartlett got off, with me and Johnson both trying to bring him down. Sometimes it works.”

  Hardy and Glitsky hadn’t seen much of each other for six weeks.

  In the aftermath of the Executioner arrest, and in spite of its successful conclusion, the media couldn’t seem to warm to Glitsky’s politically incorrect style. The many published and broadcasted comparisons with his role in the LeShawn Brodie debacle, combined with his alleged insensitivity not only to the legal, but to the basic human, rights of suspects, especially those that came from backgrounds riddled with abuse, prompted several public and private calls for his resignation. Other advocacy groups demanded investigations into the police department’s decision-making procedures, and called for the formation of various committees to oversee (and second-guess) the command structure.

  How had it taken the police so long (nearly twenty hours!) to cri
b together the clues linking Lucas Welding with his son and his current identity? Why, even working with the luxury of an event number, had no one in the police department been able to discover sooner that the Executioner’s victims had all been on the same jury? Surely, the records on these things should be more accessible. How had it taken so long to locate the address of the last victim, Wendy Takahashi? Better police work, quicker and more informed decision-making, would almost certainly have saved her life. How in the world had Glitsky seen fit to allow an unelected civilian to take part in a command decision involving the city’s highly skilled and specialized TAC unit?

  And on and on and on.

  Fortunately, Batiste, Lanier, Jackman and the mayor himself—in a rare and somewhat surprising display of unanimity—had all closed ranks around Glitsky, shouldering their portions of the blame if, in fact, there had been any. Eventually, inevitably, the immediate outcry had died down.

  Although Glitsky knew, and hoped, that his days as deputy chief were probably numbered. He couldn’t say it broke his heart. He’d even spoken to Lanier and Batiste about the possibility of becoming an inspector at large, where he could float between the investigations of different details without being burdened by an administrative portfolio. He wasn’t a politician and everybody knew it, so why not let him work where he could do some good, instead of where, with the best of intentions, a great work ethic and even a record of success, he caused nothing but headaches for the department?

  For his part, Hardy had spent most of his time bringing his associates and partners up to speed on the workload surrounding what he called his “influence clients.” He’d lost his taste for facilitating. What he liked best and did best was trials. Another of his associates, Graham Russo, had asked him if he’d consider another shot at second chair in a local potential death penalty murder case that would need an incredibly strong psychiatric defense to prevail. Russo was planning to argue some variety of mental illness to save his client’s life. And in truth, Hardy had known golden retrievers with more brains than their client, who reminded him of Lenny in Of Mice and Men—“Tell me about the rabbits, George.” The client had done some terrible things, it was true, but Hardy didn’t believe the state should execute him. But whatever the outcome, it was going to be a complex and interesting case. Huge issues. He just wanted to be part of it.