Hardy 03 - Hard Evidence

by John Lescroart

  ‘Here.’ Hardy moved enough towel out from under him to give her room. He could feel his heart pounding through his t-shirt. Their legs were together.

  She leaned back next to him and took his hand, putting it high on her thigh.

  ‘Celine…’

  ‘Shh…’ Her shoulder came up against him. ‘I’ve been coming here for six months and have never seen another soul in this room.’

  She lifted the elastic on her nylon suit and guided his hand under it. ‘Feel me,’ she said. She was shaved bare, the skin smooth as though it had been oiled, already wet where she was moving him.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Oh dear God.’

  One hand held him in place against her and the other lifted his shirt, found the band of his shorts and reached under them for him.

  Silk and oil. Honey and salt.

  * * * * *

  That proved he had been right. He was no better than anyone else, and worse than most. He tried to tell himself, once, that he hadn’t been technically unfaithful. There had been no penetration, therefore he hadn’t really made love to her. Feeble. Beneath contempt. More honest if he had.

  Now he had proved that the world’s assessment of him was valid. He wouldn’t hire himself to do anything. He could barely look at himself in the mirror.

  He started practicing darts, putting away gallons of Guinness. Avoiding Frannie, avoiding himself. Putting on weight.

  Thank God, Celine hadn’t tried to follow up. That, at least, seemed to be over.

  But he resided in a deep cave, in total darkness.

  * * * * *

  It was ten-thirty. There were four bottles of Rainier Ale on the table now, a rocks glass with mostly water in the bottom, a faint taste of Irish to it. He blinked, wondering where he had been and tried to focus on the clock over the bar. No use. He stood uncertainly.

  Jesus.

  Outside, the night had turned cold and the street came up at him, forcing him against the outer stucco of the building for support. Seventh Street stretched empty for what seemed like miles, shining as though it were wet. Was his car parked up at the Hall of Justice? Even if it was, how could he get it home?

  He tried moving along but everything suddenly seemed to hurt, to throb — his shoulder where he’d been wounded in Vietnam, the foot he’d hurt last year in Acapulco.

  There were noises behind him, laughter, then a skipping, leather on concrete. It finally registered, coming toward him.

  He straightened up, turned around, saw an arm, something, a blur that hit him in the forehead, knocked him to one side. He heard another dull thud — was that him? — and his head cracked back against the stucco and he went down.

  * * * * *

  There were images. The gagging jolt of smelling salts. A light behind his eyes. Something sticky under his hand. The cold concrete.

  ‘Let’s take him down.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Is this him?’

  Hardy forced his eyes open. The flashlight hit him again and he winced. Shadows emerged, recognizable. Cops.

  A lucky break. One of them had found his wallet, less cash, in the curb. Hardy had never given his badge back to Locke. If he wanted it he could come and ask for it.

  ‘Are you Dismas Hardy?’ one of them asked.

  He supposed he nodded, grunted — something.

  ‘He as drunk as he smells?’

  Another whiff of the salts. Hardy brought his hand up to his face, felt a crust. He looked down. His white sweater was matted dark.

  ‘I’m Hardy,’ he said.

  They got him up. Pain, nausea. ‘Watch out, guys.’ He staggered a step or two away and vomited bile and beer. He leaned against the building. ‘Sorry.’

  They stood back a couple of yards. He caught his breath, spat a few times, tried to see what time it was but his watch was gone.

  If they could do it, he told them, he’d rather go home than the hospital. He didn’t think anything was broken. He might have a concussion; his head felt like an anvil attached to his neck by some two-pound test. And someone kept swinging the smith’s hammer.

  They put him in the rear seat.

  He rested his head back. Lights passing overhead, the freeway overpass. He closed his eyes. Nothing to see.

  * * * * *

  It was almost midnight, and Moses had been there for a half hour. To her brother, Frannie looked particularly vulnerable. She was now five months pregnant and showing it. Her arms looked thin, he thought. Her face was too hollow. Maybe it was the contrast with the fullness of her belly and breasts. There were circles under her eyes. She sat forward on the low living-room couch, her elbows on her knees, her hands crossed under the bulge of her stomach.

  Moses was telling her that the best thing to do was wait. He’d turn up. Moses had had his own lost weekends, or nights.

  ‘This isn’t a lost weekend, Mose.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s with Jane. I know he’s with Jane.’

  Moses shook his head. ‘There’s no way, Frannie.’

  ‘She came here today asking for him.’

  ‘Jane did?’ He mulled that. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘She wanted Dismas. She always wants Dismas. He’s gone back to her before.’

  ‘Frannie. Come on. He wasn’t with you then. He wasn’t with anybody. It probably had to do with her father being arrested. He and Diz were friends, right?’

  ‘Are, I think.’

  ‘Well?’

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? These raging hormones were making her crazy.

  ‘He probably went down to get him out, help get him out, whatever they do down there. Lost track of the time.’

  ‘Diz never loses track of the time. What if he got Jane’s father out, and then they all went out somewhere to celebrate, and then her father left them together… ?’

  ‘What if he was snatched by invading space creatures and dissected alive in the name of intergalactic research?’

  ‘I don’t want to kid about it.’

  ‘I don’t want to play “what if.” He’s probably just hung up. It happens.’

  They sat for a long moment. ‘It’s just he’s been so unhappy lately, like he’s lost.’

  Moses cricked his back, got up slowly and crossed over to the mantel. He rearranged the herd of elephants, something he did differently with every visit. ‘You know, Frannie, I just don’t think anybody’s ever prepared us, guys like me and Diz, for how tough real life is.’ He tried to make a semi-joke of it, but he was serious, and she knew it.

  ‘Life with me isn’t tough, Moses.’

  ‘I’m not saying with you. I’m saying, you know, life in general.’

  She got up and moved some elephants back the way they’d been. ‘You’re just getting old, brother.’

  Moses grabbed her gently and pulled at her hair. He was older than Hardy. He had raised his sister from the time she was eight. Of the ten things he cared about most in the world, he liked to say that eight of them were Frannie. The other two were closely guarded secrets.

  Facing the bay window, Moses saw the police car pull up in front. ‘Here he is, anyway,’ he said. ‘See? He must’ve been doing something with the cops.’

  41

  There was fog everywhere — in his head, out the bedroom window.

  ‘I don’t deserve this.’ Frannie had been up awhile, had taken a shower and gotten dressed. She sat across the room, by the door to the nursery, in her rocking chair. ‘I am very sad that this happened, but it wouldn’t have if you’d come home.’

  ‘Frannie…’

  She stopped him, pressing on. She wasn’t crying but her cheeks were wet. ‘I know this is a hard time for you, although I’m not sure why. And you don’t have to try and tell me. But I don’t deserve you treating me this way. Not calling, letting me sit and worry all night. I won’t have it in my life.’

  Hardy had a walnut-sized lump over his hairline. His left ear was raw and there was a gash in the scalp above it. They must have kicked him when he was down — h
is ribs jabbed at him. His headache was mammoth, his tongue bitten in several places. He still tasted blood.

  ‘I’m sorry —’

  ‘Of course you’re sorry. So am I. Who wouldn’t be sorry? What do you want, Dismas? What do you want? If you don’t want me, I’m out of here, babies and all. I mean it.’

  He didn’t doubt her. Frannie wasn’t a poker player and this wasn’t a bluff.

  ‘I do want you,’ he said. He saw her take a breath. A miracle, he thought, she still wanted him. She was as mad as he’d ever seen her, but at least it wasn’t over between them. ‘I know I’ve been a shit. I can’t tell you the things —’

  She held up a hand. ‘No litany. I just don’t want to live miserable. I don’t want that for any of us. This family doesn’t deserve it. Including you.’

  Hardy held his head in his hands. ‘So why do I feel like that’s exactly what I do deserve?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ve somehow let those idiots make you feel they’re better than you are, which is ridiculous. What’s so hot about them? What have they done? Why does it matter what they think of you?’

  ‘Okay, but what if they’re right? They might be right —’

  ‘Damn it, Dismas. They’re not right. You’re not a loser. Why? Because I’m smart and I wouldn’t have married a loser. Don’t let them do this to you — to me. If you do they will have won.’

  Why couldn’t she see it? He’d been going around proving it for a couple of months. ‘You have to admit, Frannie, I’m not exactly on a winning streak.’

  Her eyes flashed now. ‘Thanks a lot. What am I? What’s this house and the Beck?’ She gestured down to her stomach. ‘What’s this new guy, anyway? Doesn’t this count as winning something?’

  ‘I don’t mean that.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she slammed a tiny fist hard into her leg and raised her voice. ‘Goddamn it! Don’t say it then.’ She stood up, turned into the nursery. The rocking chair creaked on the hardwood. After a while he heard her talking to Rebecca. ‘It’s okay, it’s not you, sweetie. Back to sleep, now.’

  Hardy, sore and nauseous, forced himself out of bed, hurting everywhere. He stood by the nursery door, stopped the creaking rocker with his foot.

  She turned around. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘whatever it is, just put it behind you. You can’t undo it. Let’s just move on, okay? We’ve got a good life here. But you’ve got to respect me. And you’ve got to respect you. End of sermon.’

  She crossed the room to him, touched his arm lightly. ‘Go take another shower,’ she said. ‘A hot one. I’ll make breakfast.’

  * * * * *

  Hardy sat on the mega-hard bench in the gallery of Department 22, Marian Braun’s courtroom. Elizabeth Pullios in her power red-and-blue never gave him a glance from the prosecution table. Hardy recognized several well-dressed lawyers hanging around, probably sent over by David Freeman for Fowler to choose among — he guessed one of them would wind up representing Andy.

  Jane came and slid in beside him. ‘What happened to you?’

  Hardy was wearing a three-piece suit, white shirt, one of his best conservative ties. He’d gotten his shoes shined downstairs. He looked proper except for the bandage across the top of his forehead, the swelling around his eye.

  He told her it was a long story, Jane’s favorite kind, but didn’t get to go into it because the judge was coming in and they all rose.

  Braun had had chambers next to Andy Fowler for something like a decade. That she had been the presiding judge for the Superior Court — and so the recipient of the grand jury’s indictment — had been a matter of timing. Since Leo Chomorro had moved up to fill Andy Fowler’s seat upon his retirement, the duties of presiding judge were again being rotated. What was ominous was that Braun, who had known Andy well and might be considered to be one of his few allies, had accepted D.A. Chris Locke’s recommendation and decreed that there would be no bail.

  In the normal course of events, for a typical defendant, bail would not be set before arraignment in a murder case because the court wanted to guarantee at least one appearance, at the arraignment, of the accused.

  In this case, though, there would have been little fear that Andy Fowler would not show up — the withholding of bail was a clear signal that there would be no professional courtesies. Andy Fowler was out of the club.

  At least they weren’t making him wait all morning — he was the first line called after the judge sat down. The bailiff escorted him in wearing the yellow jumpsuit.

  His protestations that jail wouldn’t kill him might have been valid, but the stay overnight hadn’t done him any visible good. His skin looked gray, his lion’s mane of hair hung heavy and wet-looking. He stood at attention, alone at the podium in front of the bench.

  Hardy glanced at the jury box. None of the men was rising to stand by their client as, once again, the formula was carried out, the indictment for murder read out in full.

  ‘I presume, Mr Fowler…’ So the honorific wouldn’t be used, either. Andy wasn’t going to be called “judge.” If Marian Braun was any barometer, Hardy decided, Andy was in for some very rough weather. Braun asked if he had an attorney present.

  ‘I do, Your Honor.’ He half turned. ‘Dismas Hardy.’

  A murmur ran through the courtroom. Hardy barely heard it, standing and moving by Jane. But he hadn’t reached the aisle before Elizabeth Pullios was on her feet. ‘Your Honor, I object. Mr Hardy was a member of the prosecution on this case. Aside from that obvious conflict, he has had access to material that falls under the attorney-client privilege. He cannot represent the defendant here.’

  Hardy found himself talking. ‘If the court pleases…“ He got ignored.

  Braun pulled her glasses down to the end of her nose, then took them off completely. ‘Write me a motion on that, Counselor, and have it on my desk by tomorrow morning.’ She scribbled something in front of her and raised her eyes. ‘Mr Hardy, would you care to join us on this side of the bar?’

  Hardy came up the aisle and through the gate. ‘Your Honor, I’d like to request a short recess. I’d like a few words with the judge here.’

  ‘I am the only judge in this courtroom, Mr Hardy. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honor.’

  ‘We’ve barely begun and I’ve got an exceptionally full docket today, so let’s forgo the recesses and try to keep things moving. Is that all right with everybody?’ Clearly it was going to have to be all right. ‘Mr Hardy,’ Braun was saying, ‘you might save Ms Pullios a long night if you feel there’s a conflict with you representing the defendant.’

  Hardy wasn’t inclined to save Pullios a long night — it was a small bonus. ‘No, Your Honor, I don’t have a conflict.’

  Pullios got up again. ‘Mr Hardy assembled the files on this case.’

  ‘That wasn’t this case, Your Honor. Ms Pullios perhaps has them confused because it’s the same victim. Mr Fowler wasn’t the defendant.’

  ‘I don’t have anything confused, Your Honor. Mr Hardy was all over that file.’

  ‘If it please the court,’ Hardy said, enjoying this, ‘as Ms Pullios knows full well, she was the People’s attorney of record the last time a defendant was before the court for killing Owen Nash. I was specifically denied an official role.’

  Braun’s gavel came down. ‘All right, all right. I’ll read your motion, Ms Pullios. Tomorrow morning.’ She put her glasses back on, seemed to be deciding something.

  ‘Good work,’ Fowler whispered. ‘What happened to your head?’

  Braun continued. ‘Meanwhile, let’s keep to the business at hand, shall we? You’ve got a plea, Mr Fowler?’

  Hardy would have preferred to leave Andy to his permanent representation at this time — one of the suits in the jury box — but after the run-in with Pullios, thought it would be better to go ahead.

  ‘Your Honor, before entering a plea, the defense would like some time, say two weeks, to review the file in this case.’

  Pullios started to ob
ject again, but Braun tapped her gavel, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think you’ll need two weeks to decide what to plead. We’ll continue this arrangement and take defendant’s plea next week.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honor. Now on the matter of bail…’

  ‘Yes, bail. The state has requested no bail in this case.’

  Hardy asked permission to approach the bench. Braun waved both counsel forward.

  ‘Your Honor,’ Hardy said, ‘isn’t no bail a little unusual?’

  ‘This is an unusual case, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘Granted, Judge, but the last time the state brought a person to trial here for killing Owen Nash, we had a risk-of-flight defendant and even she was given bail. There’s no risk of flight here. The judge isn’t going anywhere.’

  Pullios started to argue, but Braun responded quietly. ‘Mr Fowler has given us an ample indication of the contempt in which he holds the judicial process. I have no faith that he will appear once, or if, he is released.’

  ‘Judge, please, you know that’s ridiculous —’

  Braun sucked in a breath. ‘You’d better brush up on your etiquette, Mr Hardy. If I hear again that my judgments are ridiculous you’ll spend some ridiculous nights in jail for contempt.’

  Hardy studied the floor a moment. ‘I apologize, Your Honor. But I would respectfully ask you to reconsider.’

  Walking back to where Fowler stood, Hardy shook his head. ‘Then plead now,’ Fowler whispered. ‘Not guilty.’

  Hardy met Fowler’s eyes, feeling embarrassed but having to say it. ‘I don’t know you’re not guilty, Andy —’

  ‘Enter the plea,’ Fowler snapped. ‘Does your conscience also require you waste the week?’

  It was a good point, and Hardy made the plea. The judge canceled the continuance and took Hardy’s plea of not guilty. The case was set for Calendar the next Monday, October 18, at 9:30 A.M., in the same department.