Reston figured he was protecting Loretta, and from the DA's perspective, Glitsky wasn't. Therefore Glitsky was the enemy. For the time being, anyway. Nothing personal in it – he'd even warned Glitsky to keep a low profile to avoid it coming to this. But it had.
Glitsky reminded himself that Loretta didn't know anything about Farrell's information, about Rachel's statement (Shea lifting Wade up, not pulling him down), Colin Devlin, Jamie O'Toole starting to weaken – about any of the reasons Glitsky had now arrived at for a formidable state of doubt regarding Shea's guilt on any level. He and Loretta hadn't spent last night – or any of their time – rapping down the intricacies of Kevin Shea's case. There had been more immediate issues.
But now it had gone too far. He was going to have to bring it up with her, go over Rigby's head, over Reston's. Special Agent Simms, with her sharpshooter, had finally put it over the top for him. He was going to have to talk to Loretta, open those lines of communication between her and Reston, get people back to thinking about how they ought to do their jobs. Pretty basic stuff, not unreasonable.
But what he still couldn't understand was why Farrell hadn't even tried to call him yet. That made no sense unless Shea had gotten some cold feet, which was not, after all, so far-fetched. As far as Farrell knew, Glitsky's offer of a deal still held – that at least Shea would get a listen. In fact, Reston's refusal through Elaine to offer any protection to Kevin had changed all that – the message was that he wasn't going to listen privately to anything Wes Farrell or Kevin Shea had to say. No, Reston was committed – his position was Shea was guilty and that was that.
Now Glitsky had no deal to offer in exchange for Kevin Shea coming in, but Farrell wouldn't yet know that. So why hadn't he called?
He stuck his index finger into the small pan, stirred. Almost ready, and the doorbell rang.
A strip of gauze covered the narrow glass window beside the front door, and he moved it to one side. No one was out on the landing. He opened the door.
'If I were a trained assassin you'd be dead right now. Why are you crying?' His friend Dismas Hardy had pressed himself against the house on the stairway, stepping out when the door had opened.
'I'm not crying, I was cutting onions. I thought you were in Ashland.'
'Rumor had it that Hamlet could be missed this year. I'd just spent a week in the wilderness, camping with a three-year-old and a five-year-old. We got worried about the house with all these fires you mentioned when we talked. Seemed like a good time to come home.'
'Not so good, actually.'
They were inside, halfway to the kitchen. 'Maybe you don't remember the experience of camping with toddlers,' Hardy said. 'You ever do that with your guys?'
'Sure. Lots of times. Peace, tranquility, the experience of nature.'
'Except for the peace and tranquility part.' Hardy leaned over the stove. 'Umm, chili. I don't think I've had chili in a year. Smells great.'
'You're not having it now, either. This is the only can in the house, the first time I get a whole can of chili all to myself in like fifteen years.'
'A whole can? You can't eat a whole can.'
'Watch me.'
'This is cruel and unusual, making me watch this. Fritos even!'
Glitsky was pouring Tapatio sauce over a large serving bowl – a normal soup bowl wouldn't have been nearly big enough to hold the mixture of chili, onions and cheese, covered by a whole bag of Fritos that Glitsky had layered over the top. He stopped long enough to point. 'The door's where you left it. Close it on the way out.' He took a mouthful, providing more sound effects than he would have if he'd been alone.
Hardy sat across the kitchen table. He was wearing his non-lawyer clothes – jeans, a long-sleeved green-and-white rugby shirt, tennis shoes. He had placed another bowl in front of himself, as well as an oversized spoon, but Glitsky had ignored the hint. 'You're turning into a mean person, Abe. I hate to see that.'
Glitsky swallowed. 'You don't know the half of it.' He spooned more chili. 'The promotion's gone to my head,' he said. 'That's probably it.'
Hardy watched his friend eat for another minute, then – when it didn't appear that guilt was going to work its magic – stood up and went back into the kids' hallway.
Presently, Glitsky heard the familiar drone of the news on the boys' television. He poured a little more Tapatio over the chili, picked a Frito off the mass. The name Kevin Shea came through, and when he heard it a second time he picked up his bowl, stuck the spoon in and walked out of the kitchen back into the kids' hallway.
Hardy was lounging on Isaac's bed, hands crossed behind his head, catching up on all he had missed. A commentator was talking about the effect Mr Shea's tape was going to have… 'What tape?'
'They're going to play it again. They just said.'
'When?'
'Soon. Wait.'
Glitsky came into the room, pulled around a wooden chair, sat on it backward and put his chili down onto the floor, by which time Kevin Shea's face had filled the screen.
'… and I didn't do any part of this. I was in the bar, and when everybody started moving I got kind of propelled outside. I saw what was happening to Arthur Wade and I tried to push myself through the crowd. I took out my Swiss Army knife and cut a few people who were in my way. The police should be looking for people with knife cuts, not for me…
'Mr Wade was already off the ground when I got to him, and I swear to God I was trying to hold him up, not pull him down. I gave him my knife so he could cut himself down. But then they… the crowd… they knocked that away, and then somebody hit me and I went down. Then I got kicked in the head. I don't remember after that, except when I looked up, Arthur Wade was dead. Some guys came and threw me into a pickup truck and got me away from there. They said they'd kill me if I said anything about what happened.'
There was a pause in the tape. Hardy said 'southerner,' and Glitsky responded 'Texas.'
Shea was continuing. 'I have not left the city. I want to tell what really happened, but every time I've tried to contact the police and get some protection they have… they have betrayed my trust.'
'That's b.s.,' Glitsky said.
'Just now – it is Thursday night – my lawyer told me that he had been followed home by the police after going downtown and trying to arrange my surrender. I don't want to run away – that would make me look guilty, and I haven't done anything wrong. I don't know what else to do, so I'm making this video. I hope someone listens to it. I did not do this. You have to believe me.'
As soon as the tape went blank, Hardy answered it. 'I don't.'
The station broke for a commercial and Glitsky muted the screen. Hardy was sitting up. 'Good strategic idea, though, to get the heat off himself. But it's going to backfire. Who's the lawyer?'
'Wes Farrell,' Glitsky told him.
'I heard he'd retired. He hangs out sometimes at the Shamrock, doesn't he? I should ask Moses. I'd never let a client of mine do that.'
'Why not?'
"Cause it reeks of guilt, that's why. It's going to blow up in his face.'
'It might be true, though.'
Hardy shot him a glance. His friend Abe the cop did not often come down on the side of suspects. 'What do you mean?'
'Well, the part about Farrell being followed home is bullshit, but the rest of it.'
'Hello? If one part of it is false, you can bet the rest of it is. Typical client mistake. They put in too much and then can't take it out.' He picked up the bowl of chili and got it grabbed away from him. He scowled. 'So how come you think it might be true?'
Glitsky was punching Fritos down with the spoon. 'The knife wounds he mentioned – his version is about the only explanation for them. Other things.'
Hardy nodded. 'Secret police business, no doubt.'
'Secret enough.'
In the living room now, Glitsky threw Hardy another bag of Fritos. 'But,' he said, 'that's all it said.'
The conversation, with a few hairpins, had gotten around to the
cryptic note about Mo-Mo House. 'So what's the "watch this" part?'
'It was a joke Ridley Banks told me.'
Glitsky repeated the joke and when he had finished Hardy pulled a Frito from the bag and chewed on it. 'That's it? That's the whole thing?'
'It's also an IQ test,' Glitsky said. 'If you don't think it's funny you're dumb. Try it on your friends, you'll see.'
But Hardy was pondering it – the note, not the joke. 'I'd wait and ask Banks.'
'I would, too, but he's not around. I get the feeling it's not a coincidence.'
'So what could it be?'
'Well, you know, I've asked myself that question.'
Hardy got up and walked to the window, the early afternoon rays of sunlight beginning to come through. Hands in his pockets, he stood still. 'Whatever it was, he didn't want anybody who might read the note on your desk to recognize what it was about. You guys have an office business going on between just the two of you? Maybe whatever you were talking about – you and Banks – when he told you the joke, if you call that a joke? Kind of a memory jog?'
'No. Nothing.'
But of course there had been. He wasn't going to tell Hardy about it – he hadn't mentioned his new relationship with Loretta to a soul and wasn't about to start now. But suddenly he recalled the exact moment yesterday with Ridley, the look between them when he'd been about to mention something else about Loretta, something to warn his lieutenant about, but Glitsky had cut him off – he hadn't wanted to hear more slander about Loretta.
Could that have been what the 'watch this' was all about? It was way beyond cryptic – that Ridley wanted Abe to reflect not on the joke itself but on what they'd been about to discuss when he referred to it. On the other hand, the Byzantine logic seemed to be in the realm of acceptable to Hardy.
Glitsky chewed his cheek. Last night Loretta had quite plausibly explained the reality behind Ridley's whole Pacific Moon scenario. And Ridley's reference to Mo-Mo House in the ambiguous note had to be about Jerohm Reese. Didn't it?
And yet if Hardy's theory held – the hidden meaning behind 'watch this' – Ridley was in reality advising Glitsky to go see Mo-Mo House about something to do with Loretta Wager. And if that were even the implication, Glitsky didn't think he ought to ignore it.
Glitsky was on his feet, moving to the door.
'Let's go, Diz. Back to work.'
'I'm not working today.'
He stopped at the door, opening it. 'I am. Let's go.'
On the way down the steps, Hardy told him he was turning into a really lousy host, and Glitsky told him that next time he should maybe wait until he got an invitation before he came over.
58
Jerohm Reese, sitting within the thirty square feet of the attorney's visiting room on the Sixth floor, thought his lawyer Gina Roake was looking pretty fine lately. Lost some weight, maybe put some highlights in her dark hair where he'd noticed her getting some gray strands. She looked good with the makeup looking fresh. Woman must be near forty – time to get serious she wants to get herself fixed up with some man. She doing okay.
It was after lunchtime at the jail and people could say what they wanted, but Jerohm, he'd take meals on the county anytime – today breakfast he got eggs, sausage, potatoes, three slices of bread, juice, cup of fruit. Then, not four hours later, they were bringing up his tray with two thick slabs that good meat loaf, mashed potatoes, country gravy, green beans, three slices bread (they always did the three slices bread), big old square carrot cake with that maple-syrup icing, couple cartons milk. No complaints 'bout the jail food – most times better than what Carrie put out.
'Damn, girl,' he was grinning at his lawyer, 'you lookin' good.'
Gina Roake had already placed her briefcase on the floor beside the tiny table. She had been with the public defender's office for eight years and had represented Jerohm three times since his early days at the Youth Academy. She was the one who had gotten him leniency on his 'first offense' (as an adult) and who had argued successfully with the late Chris Locke on the insurmountable evidence problems the prosecution faced regarding the murder charge on Mike Mullen.
Seem like every time Gina show up Jerohm walk out of the slam, so she lately Jerohm's favorite – Gina didn't quite share the feeling.
'Sit down, Jerohm.'
'Hey, I'm sittin', but I tell you, I like that new thing, the hair… wachu doin' with color…'
She leaned back as far as she could, arms crossed over her suit jacket. 'What are you doing with your brains, Jerohm?'
'Huh? Hey, what?' It hurt him when she came down on him like this. Girl got no call…
But she was going on. 'Not even one week ago we get you out of here, you remember that? We talk and say maybe it be a good idea' – Gina slipped into the jargon like an old pair of shoes – 'be a good idea if you stayed inside, watch a lot of television, like that. You remember that?'
She got no call talkin' like that at him. He sat back now, mimicking her, arms crossed, sullen. He shrugged. 'They giving everybody else tickets. Me they lock up.'
She pointed at him. 'You,' she said, 'had two thousand dollars worth of assorted merchandise which didn't belong to you in the trunk of your stolen car, Jerohm. You see any difference here?'
Another shrug. 'They just out to get me. Looking for me, is all. Hasslin'.'
She was forward now, halfway across the table, trying to keep her temper in check. 'Hey, listen up, Jerohm. Hasslin' is like when they're following you around, bust your chops for jay-walking, you hear what I'm saying?'
'Hey, now, girl, you listen…'
'AND DON'T YOU GIRL ME ANYMORE.' The outburst felt so good, she forced herself to rein in. 'I'm not your girl. I'm your attorney, and you're putting me in a position where I can not do you any good. Don't you understand that?'
One of the guards who had been standing outside knocked on the door, opened it. 'Everything okay in here?'
Ms Roake nodded. 'Everything's fine, thanks.' The door closed and with an almost visible effort she brought herself back to her client. 'Sometimes, Jerohm, I have to wonder why I want to get you off. I mean what are you doing out there in the middle of the night robbing these stores? This is your 'hood, these are your people.'
Jerohm rolled his eyes. 'Hey shi… they leave the door open, who's problem is that? 'Sides, they got insurance, likely. Ain't nobody gettin' hurt.'
' 'Cept if somebody show up, try to stop you.'
'Well, nobody did. QED. Hey, look, you get me off 'cause that's what they pay you for. Weren't for guys like me, you got no work. Maybe you out on the street yourself.' Smug and secure, a charmer, he broke a toothy smile.
She sucked in some air. The chain reaction that had begun with the negotiated release of Jerohm a few days before had led Gina to question the very nature of what she was doing. In her mind there had been no question that Jerohm had shot Mike Mullen point-blank in cold blood for the temporary use of his car, though of course Jerohm was smart enough (if that word applied) to deny it to his attorney, but that had not been the issue.
The issue had been, as it always was in defense work, does the prosecution have enough evidence to constitute proof beyond a reasonable doubt? And when all the eyewitnesses had gone sideways, she had realized that in this instance there was no case. She had argued that before the late Christopher Locke and she had prevailed.
And look what had happened.
Always before, whenever she'd have these doubts, she'd talked with her fellow public defenders, had a couple of drinks, gotten resold on the idea that her job was to provide the best defense the law allowed. It was the give and take of the law – win some, lose some.
But Jerohm, suddenly and unexpectedly, had made it all more significant, and personal. This was a murderer, a thief, a mugger, a sociopath of the absolutely first rank, and he sits here joking with her as though the whole thing's a lark. She found herself wondering if 'doing her job' fell under the general rubric of 'following orders' that had been the great r
ationalization for so much evil for so long. Gina Roake was Jewish and she was intimately familiar with the parallels. And they were shaking her.
But, for the moment, she was here. She was supposed to represent Jerohm again. She folded her hands together on the table in front of her. 'Okay, so… where do we go now, Jerohm? You're getting arraigned on Tuesday…'
'Tuesday? What's this Tuesday?' With attitude now, a bit of the street push, seeing he was getting to her.
'We got a holiday weekend, Jerohm. The courts are closed on the Fourth of July, which is Monday, so it's Tuesday.'
'Now wait a minute, can't you get me like habeas corpus, something like that?'
It was her experience that a great percentage of the jail's population could spout Latin like Jesuits when they had to. She thought it was a powerful example of motivation being the key to learning.
Gina shook her head. 'No habeas corpus, Jerohm. And I think we're going to have a problem with a not guilty here. We might have to cop a plea.'
'Hey, no way, man. I ain't going down for no jail time on this.' He studied her a minute, trying to figure what game she was playin' on him. He didn't see it. 'Hey, c'mon, Gina, you know, this wasn't nothin'.'
'Well, actually, it was… we got stolen goods, Jerohm, we got presumption of looting, resisting arrest, we got breaking the curfew.'
'Yeah, but we also got the fact that everybody else doin' this shit is walking out with-'
'It's not exactly the same shit.'
'Close enough and you know it is, girl.' At her reaction to the second 'girl' he held up a hand and said he was sorry. 'But you know the truth is it don't matter what I did - if that was it you know I ain't in no county lockup. They have me up to San Quentin. We gotta say I'm bein' prejudiced against. That the shot.'
That was the best shot. Gina knew that. She could go down to the new DA's office and argue passionately for that position. She had done similar things many times and sometimes it worked. But this time she wasn't sure she could do it. She felt that at some point you had to draw the line, and she was at hers.
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