"You mentioned that. I remember." Gerson straightened to his full length in the chair. "And as I believe I told you yesterday, I would inform you as soon as we unearthed anything that moved the case forward."
"Of course. I appreciate that. It's just that my dad and the wife hadn't heard from your department and thought they'd take an inventory. I told my father it wasn't a good idea for him to be involved because of the discussion I had with you. That's what happened."
"I was out yesterday. Cuneo and Russell both had personal time off. That's why nobody called the wife." At Glitsky's look, he added, "Hey, it happens."
"Yes it does." Good, Glitsky thought, I've got him explaining, too.
"So you just went down to Silverman's and found them there?"
"He called me and left a message. And I don't need to answer these questions. I've got no interest."
Gerson displayed a small air of triumph. "And because you've got no interest, you didn't talk to Lanier this morning?"
"So what?" Glitsky pushed his chair back far enough to allow him to cross a leg. "You want to know the truth, Lieutenant, I was trying to do you a favor."
"Goodness of your heart, huh?"
"Believe it or not, I actually have some understanding of the job you've got. I thought I could save you some misery."
"And how would you do that? "
"Do you know Wade Panos?"
"By reputation, sure."
"And what's his reputation?"
"He does a good job. Maybe a little rough, but he keeps the scum factor down in his neighborhoods."
"And that's it?"
A shrug. "What else is there?"
Glitsky came forward again. "Do you know he's being sued?"
"Who isn't? People sue people all the time. What's that mean?"
"Maybe nothing, except when there's something like fourteen plaintiffs asking around thirty million dollars."
"Again, I ask you, what does that prove? Hell, you know. Somebody's always suing us. Brutality, invasion of privacy, stealing candy from schoolkids, you name it."
"True enough," Glitsky said. "You're probably right. Panos is a saint."
"I never said that." But Glitsky still had a look, and Gerson said, "But what?"
"Only that I'd think hard before I gave him point in any homicide investigation."
"He's not point. He had leads, that's all. The poker players."
Glitsky locked his ringers on the desk. Said nothing.
Gerson raised his voice. "And in fact the names he gave us took my boys someplace. You got a problem with that?"
"Not at all."
"So? What, then?"
"So, the usual suspects, huh? Two guys with sheets."
"Three, as it turns out. Randy Wills isn't any choirboy, either. So yeah, the usual suspects. Happens every day."
"No question about it." Glitsky turned a neutral face up at him. "Your boys find any evidence to go with their suspects?"
"They'll be getting warrants."
Glitsky clucked, then nodded, all understanding. "They looking at anybody else in the meanwhile?"
"Why do they want to do that when the guys Panos gave us look good for it?"
"You're right," Glitsky said mildly. "Waste of time. That'd be stupid."
Perhaps correctly, Gerson must have gotten the impression that Glitsky was including him among the less intellectually gifted. He'd burst in here ten minutes ago holding the high moral ground and for the past several minutes had been drifting into the lower regions, and losing territory even there. It didn't appreciably improve his attitude.
He stood up.
"Well, you know," he said, "stupid or not, I'm running the detail now. I'm calling the shots with my troops and what I came up here to tell you still goes. Silverman is my case. I'm controlling the investigation. Yesterday I'm a good guy and bend a little and you take advantage of it, hiding behind your old man. Well, I'm telling you now. You keep you and your father out of it, all the way out, or I'll haul your ass in before the deputy chief. Don't think I won't." His voice was rasping now, low-pitched with anger and the need for control in the cramped room. "In fact, you might want to remember that every homicide in the city is my case now and my guys work for me."
Glitsky knew he could a draw a punch with one sarcastic word and it hovered temptingly on the tip of his tongue. There'd be a great deal of pleasure in it. But he only leaned back, crossed his arms, and nodded. "I got it," he said.
David Freeman had to be at his office at 1:30 p.m. to hold the hand of another of his co-plaintiffs being deposed in the Panos lawsuit. Yesterday they'd started at 10:00 a.m. with a gentle, turbaned professor of Comparative Religion at City College. In his mid-fifties now, soon after the terrorist attacks Casif Yasouf had been walking back to his car, parked at the Downtown Center Garage, from a meeting at the St. Francis Hotel, when he had the bad luck to run into Roy Panos, in uniform. The assistant patrol special was abusing a homeless man in an alley, kicking him and his shopping cart down toward the western border of Thirty-two.
Mr. Yasouf's version of events was that he'd simply tried to intervene as a citizen, telling the policeman that he didn't have to use such tactics. Panos, he said, had then abandoned his pursuit of the bum and turned on him, lifted him easily by his shirt, slapped his face hard twice and told him to take his rag-head ass back to Arabia. Frightened and bleeding, Mr. Yasouf finally fled. He reported the incident to the regular police the next morning, complete with Panos's name from his tag. Two days later he abandoned the complaint. Again-his version-because someone had set fire to his car.
That deposition hadn't finished up until twelve-thirty the next morning and by the time Freeman had gotten back, walking as always, to his apartment at the foot of Nob Hill, it was after 1:00 a.m. and Gina Roake was asleep in his bed. It had been their bed now, since a few weeks after his physical confrontation with Nick Sephia.
About a year ago, things had started to change with Freeman and Roake. Before that, Freeman had maintained a discreet and rotating harem of up to a dozen women. He was, after all, a wealthy and successful old man with an established, urban, sophisticated lifestyle that did not include the sort of entanglements that he believed were the unvarying attendants of exclusive physical relationships. He had always kept an armoire of women's robes for his visitors. The medicine chest was well-stocked-toothbrushes, creams and so on.
Roake was, at forty-eight, not exactly a babe in the woods herself. She, like Freeman, had had several longstanding but essentially casual relationships, and had never been married. They had seen each other in professional and social settings-courtrooms, fund-raisers, restaurants, even the occasional judge's chambers-for years, but had never shared more than pleasantries.
Freeman had a long-standing tradition that whenever he won a large case, he would celebrate alone-a fine meal at one of the city's restaurant treasures with an old and noble wine, then a final cognac or two at the Top of the Mark, or one of the other towers-the St. Francis, the Fairmont. That night, at the Crown Room in the Fairmont, he sat savoring his Paradis at a small table by the window overlooking the Bay side. He appreciated the walk of the shapely, grown-up woman as she got off the elevator, unavoidably registering that she appeared to be alone. It didn't matter, he told himself. This was not how he met women, ever.
He'd been playing the case over and over again in his mind throughout the night, all the high points up to and including the glorious moment of the "Not Guilty" verdict. People had no idea what a rare and lovely thing it was, even in San Francisco, to get a defense verdict. The best defense lawyers in the world won maybe five percent of their cases-Freeman himself hovered around fourteen percent, but he believed himself to be an almost unparalleled genius. And he was right.
Except now the case was over. There would be no need, even, of an appeal. His mind, consumed by its strategies for most of a year, was suddenly empty. He felt a mild euphoria and with the meal and wine, a deep physical contentment. The cognac w
as the essence of perfection. He stared out the window, over the sparkling lights.
He turned back to the room. The woman had materialized in front of him.
"David? I thought that was you."
Still half in reverie, he smiled. "Gina. Hello. What a pleasant surprise."
"I don't want to bother you if you're busy," she said.
"Not at all, at all. Please, join me if you'd like."
She'd sat and they had talked until last call, after which she took a cab home. In the next month, he asked her to lunch nine times-he preferred lunch dates because there was less expectation of automatic intimacy than with dinner. Either party, in the get-to-know stage, could back out without embarrassment or loss of face. In that way friendship, which in Freeman's opinion was always preferable to physical attraction, could be preserved.
In Roake's case, though, a strange thing happened. By the time it became obvious that they'd be sleeping together, he'd stopped seeing anyone else. Before he asked her to his apartment for the first time, and without any kind of agonizing analysis, he got rid of the contents of his armoire, the other feminine accoutrements. Then slowly, over time, she'd started leaving articles of clothing of her own at his place until she had her own drawer in his bureau and the entire armoire all to herself. She hadn't spent the night at her own apartment now for three months.
This morning, Freeman barely woke up in time to catch Roake as she was out the door on her way to work. He reminded her of the depositions that had now begun on Panos, and wondered if she might make it back here for lunch, even a little early if possible, since they wouldn't get dinner together for who knew how long.
Now he checked his watch: 11:20. She should be home any minute. Billy Joel's CD of piano concertos-a Gina find-played almost inaudibly in the background. Rubbing his palms together, he was shocked to find them damp with nerves. He caught a glimpse of himself in a wall mirror and shook his head in amusement. David Freeman hadn't been nervous arguing before the Supreme Court. He couldn't remember his last attack of even minor jitters, but he had to admit he had them now. His eyes left his own image and went to the little eating nook in the cramped and narrow kitchen. Normally the table was a mess, piled high with yellow legal pads, lawbooks, half-empty coffee mugs, wineglasses and sometimes bottles, newspapers, binders and file folders.
Today, it looked perfect and elegant. He'd spent most of an hour removing the usual detritus and what remained were two simple place settings in silver, crystal champagne glasses, one yellow cymbidium in the center of the starched white cloth, echoing the sunlight that just kissed the edge of the table. There was a beaded silver champagne bucket to one side, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot's La Grande Dame, purposely chosen for the name of course, nestled in it in chilled splendor. He'd arranged for Rick, the chef downstairs at the Rue Charmaine, to deliver the light lunch- pike quenelles in a saffron broth and an artichoke-he art-and-pancetta salad-precisely at noon.
One last glance at himself, and he had to smile. Certainly, no one would mistake him for handsome. But he'd done all right, and today he looked as good as he could, which is to say he probably wouldn't scare most small children. He wore the one nice suit, a maroon-and-gold silk tie. He'd managed to shave without cutting his neck and his collar was free of his trademark brown specks of dried blood. It would have to do.
And here she was. On time, cheerful, kissing his cheek. God, he loved her.
"You're looking good today, mister. If I didn't have a meeting in two hours…" She kissed him again, then backed up a step. "I thought clients didn't trust nice clothes."
"This isn't for a client." He realized he had taken her hand when she'd come up to him and hadn't released it. "Come look at something."
She stopped in the doorway to the kitchen and turned to him. "Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?" Then, more seriously, "This is beautiful, David. Is it an occasion? Don't tell me we started seeing each other a year ago today and I didn't remember."
"It might be an occasion someday," he said, "in the future." He drew in a deep breath and came out with it. "I wanted to know if you'd be interested in marrying someone like me."
She looked quickly down to the ground, then back up, staring at him with a startled intensity. "Somebody like you? Do you mean hypothetically?"
"No. I said that wrong. I meant me. Will you marry me?"
For an eternal two seconds-they were still holding hands-she did not move, looking him full in the face. She brought her other hand up and held it over her mouth, obviously stunned. "Oh, David…" Her eyes filled. "I never thought…" She looked at him, hopelessly vulnerable, terrified. A tear spilled out onto her cheek.
But still the word didn't come. "I love you," he said. "Please say yes."
"Oh God, yes. Of course yes." Her arms were around his neck and she was crying openly now, kissing his face, eyes, lips again and again. "Yes yes yes yes yes."
*****
"This Saturday?"
It was mid afternoon and they were taking a break in the deposition of their old friend Aretha LaBonte while she used the ladies' room.
Panos's lawyer Dick Kroll was waiting, taking notes back in the conference room, a large sunlit enclosure resembling a greenhouse that they called the Solarium. Freeman and Hardy were ostensibly filling their coffee cups in the old man's office.
Freeman nodded. "If you're free." "I'll get free. It's not that. I'm flattered that you'd ask me. I'm just a little surprised. No, I'm flabbergasted. I didn't know you were even thinking of it." "Well, there you go. You don't see everything." "And isn't Saturday a little soon if you just got engaged today?"
"Why would we want to wait once we decided?" "I don't know. Most people do, that's all. Send out invitations, plan the party."
Freeman was shaking his head. "None of that, Diz. We don't want a party. Just a best man-that's you-and a maid of honor and a judge. Oh, and Gina's mother." "It's nice you remembered her. Can Frannie come?" "And Frannie, naturally. Goes without saying." Hardy drank some coffee. "You know, I've been a best man twice now in two years. I stood up for Glitsky."
"Good for you." Freeman's enthusiasm was restrained. "You'll be in practice."
"I didn't need it. It was pretty easy. Like Aretha here." Again, Freeman shook his head. "Don't get complacent. Kroll's good, even if he's got no principles. In fact, it might be why he's good."
"I don't know," Hardy said. "I'm not seeing much yet." Freeman opened the door out to the lobby. Aretha was back at her place in the Solarium, and smiling, Freeman waved at Kroll, who was staring angrily in their direction. He pointed at his watch in an impatient gesture. Freeman waved again, turned back to Hardy. "He'll come up with something."
"I'm just saying we've got him on the ropes. I don't see him coming up with a legal something."
"You wait," Freeman said, "you'll see." Then, an afterthought, "What do you mean, legal something? What else is there?"
The law offices of Richard C. Kroll were located in one of the recently built and controversial loft spaces south of Market Street at Third and Folsom. For the past twenty minutes, Kroll had been turned around in his swivel chair, looking out of his second story, floor-to-ceiling window, for the familiar sight of Wade Panos to appear on the street below. It was the day after his latest deposition with Aretha LaBonte at David Freeman's office.
And now here Wade was, half a block down, on foot and in uniform as always, stopping to look into the shops as he passed them, even occasionally raising a hand to acquaintances on the street. An extraordinarily successful man in his element, Panos bestrode the pavement like a parade marshal, confident and unassailable.
Kroll's stomach rumbled, and he clutched at it. Taking a few antacids from a roll in his desk drawer, he stood up. In the mirror over the bar area, he got his face composed so that it wouldn't immediately telegraph the bad news he was about to deliver. By the time his secretary buzzed him with the word that Wade had arrived, he was back at his desk, apparently lost in other work.
When Panos opened the door to the office, he looked up and motioned to the wing chair in front of his desk. He'd be done in just a moment.
Closing the folder, he finally found the nerve to look at his client. Wade, for his part, sat back comfortably, an ankle resting on a knee, his eyes half closed. He was always a patient man, and the small wait until his lawyer gave him his attention didn't seem to rankle in the least. Still, when Kroll closed the folder, he came out of his trance, suddenly all business. "So how bad is it?" he asked.
Kroll tried to smile. "How do you know it's bad?"
"You want to see me in person, Dick, it's bad. It's one reason I like you. Other guys, they get bad news, they give it to you over the phone, or leave a message. You? You got the balls to be here and try to break the fall. I appreciate that. So how bad is it?"
Kroll templed his hands on his desk. "Pretty bad."
Panos nodded. "Tell me."
"We got denied on the summary judgment."
"Which means what?"
"It means the judge decided that this thing's going forward."
Panos showed little reaction. If anything, he settled back a little more into his chair. "Okay," he said, "you said from the beginning that filing the thing was a slim chance. So it didn't work. No real surprise, right?"
"But there is a surprise."
Panos cocked his head, an inquisitive dog. "I'm listening."
Kroll noticed that his knuckles had gone white and he willed himself to loosen his grip. "You remember we decided that since you personally were not alleged to have harmed any of the plaintiffs, that you shouldn't be personally named as one of the defendants?"
"Right. It's just WGP and some of the assistants-" Noticing Kroll's look, he stopped midsentence. "What?"
"That's what Freeman and Hardy decided to hit. They were shooting to pierce the corporate veil, and it looks like they did it."
Still well back in his seat, still in a relaxed posture, Panos frowned. "You lost me, Dick. What's that mean?"
"It means…" Kroll stopped, shook his head, reached for another folder, and opened it. "I'll read the relevant part to you. How's that? 'Plaintiffs have introduced enough evidence to show that there exists a triable issue of fact as to whether WGP Enterprises Incorporated, a California corporation, and Wade Panos, an individual, are in fact alter egos of one another.' " He dared a glance up at Panos. "They're saying that the corporation is a sham and that therefore you should be personally bound in. Apparently the judge bought it."
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