A half hour later, when Glitsky knocked at the door, they were still talking quietly, sitting at the two desks as though they shared the cubicle and were working. Drysdale stood and walked the six feet around the desk to the door, opening it a few inches. Seeing who it was, he turned and gestured a question to Elaine, who nodded, let him in. The lieutenant was wearing a jacket, as though he were going out somewhere, and he had some file folders in his hands.
'If I'm interrupting ...' His eyes went to Elaine.
'Come on in, Abe. Pull a chair.' Drysdale closed the door behind them.
'They're looking all over for you, Art. I think you've been paged a dozen times in the last half hour.'
'Yes, I imagine they have. I seem to have taken a powder.'
'You heard, then, about Reston?'
Elaine came to life. 'Alan Reston? What about him?'
Drysdale looked over at her. Their discussion had evolved into a personal one and he hadn't gotten around to the new office hierarchy. 'Oh, that's right, I—'
'You know him?' Glitsky interrupted.
She nodded. 'He's a .. .he's one of Mom's people. His daddy's rich...'
'He's also,' Drysdale said, 'your new boss.'
That stopped her for a beat. 'What do you mean?'
They played a few rounds of 'what do you mean?' until things became clearer, after which Glitsky looked at his watch and said he had an appointment, but Loretta was worried about her, would Elaine give her a call? She was down at City Hall.
Elaine nodded.
Glitsky said, 'I also wanted to apologize to you.'
'What for?'
'Evidently our little news interviews got played back-to-back and it came across that I was saying you were wrong, which isn't what I meant.' He paused. 'I meant what we had talked about earlier this morning – that we just didn't know yet.'
'That's all right,' she said. 'Everything I've done today seems to have been wrong anyway. Isn't that right, Art?'
Shrugging, Drysdale said maybe so, and then added enigmatically, 'Not that you don't have a reason.'
'I don't care about reasons too much anymore. They're all just excuses for doing what you shouldn't have done if you'd thought about it a little longer, which I didn't, or been a little stronger. I'm sorry.'
Glitsky bobbed his head. 'If you say so.'
Drysdale took the ball. 'We were talking about... about extenuating circumstances. About why people do things, have a bad day. Why Kevin Shea did what he did, all the environmental crap in his background
'Everybody's got environmental crap.'
Elaine was almost pleading. 'That's what I'm saying, Abe. I got both of you guys in trouble today and I don't care about any excuses – I just plain screwed up.'
'I thought this was my apology,' Glitsky said, and it loosened things up a bit. 'And I do have to go, but listen ...' He handed her the folders he'd been holding, motioning down to them. 'This is exactly the kind of thing I was telling you about earlier, that's going to kill you at trial if you're not ready for it. I don't even know what it means at this point, but Strout's forensic report shows that Wade died of asphyxiation – that's his ruling.'
'Okay. We knew that. That's what happens when you hang, when you get pulled up.' Elaine had the folder open, and Drysdale got up and was looking with some intensity at the second picture.
'Yeah, that's what Strout said.'
Drysdale straightened up. 'So what are you getting at, Abe?'
'I'm getting at the story you guys have developed for Kevin Shea, that these pictures seem to show so clearly. That he repeatedly pulled down on the body'
They both got it at the same time. A moment's silence. '... which would have broken his neck.'
Glitsky nodded. 'Right. Not strangled him, and strangulation is what Strout says he died of. You can bet Shea's attorney is going to mention that when it goes to court and you'd better have an answer for him. That's all I'm saying. As both of you know, niggling facts can, you should pardon the phrase, hang you.'
Drysdale had the second picture out, studying it more closely. 'And what's this?'
Elaine was ready with her answer. She launched into her first explanation, that Shea had pulled out his knife to stab Arthur Wade, who had been trying to grab it from him in self-defense.
Glitsky and Drysdale gave it a courteous listen, which led her to go on to her knife-in-Wade's-own-pocket theory, where Arthur had pulled it out in an effort to try to cut himself down. This time impatience took over. Glitsky didn't want to, but felt he had no choice. He had to speak up.
'You're saying that Arthur Wade is being chased by a crazed mob, they get a rope around his neck, they're pulling him up, and he goes hey, I remember now, I've got a Swiss Army knife in my pocket, I'll just cut myself down. I don't think so. I don't think a jury will think so. Plus I just talked to a witness not an hour ago – a sweet elderly woman from Lithuania with no reason to lie about it – who says it looked to her like Kevin Shea was lifting Wade up, not pulling him down. That he had gotten out his knife and handed it to Wade, trying to get the guy to cut himself down, he just couldn't keep at it long enough.'
'That's not possible,' Elaine said.
'It's inconvenient if it is.' Drysdale was in the business of putting on successful trials, and strategically this was a case-breaker. That the argument could even be made ...
'If I were you,' Glitsky said to Elaine, 'I'd get that photographer down here again and find out for sure what order he took those pictures in, if he can remember.'
Drysdale swore quietly.
Glitsky looked at his watch again. 'I've really got to go.'
'There are probably twenty witnesses out there who could testify to Shea pulling down ...' Elaine was back in a challenge-mode, her eyes hard on him, not giving up on anything.
'But they haven't come forward and we haven't found them. And if they were in the mob, they're accessories. Which is why we haven't found them.' Glitsky held up his hands, avoiding further confrontation. 'Look, folks, I'm on your side, but you better know your cards, that's all I'm saying.' One last look at his watch. 'Besides good-bye.'
'Alan Reston isn't going to like this.' Drysdale was back at the desk next to Elaine's. 'Maybe I ought to get back and make the man's acquaintance. You say you know him?'
'I met him through Mom. I don't think you can tell him anything about this.'
'It's trial strategy. That's my job. I've got to bring it up.'
'He won't listen to you.'
'So you do know him?'
She shrugged. 'I've seen things like this enough. If he's got this job already, my mom is somewhere in the picture, and Kevin Shea is her program, so it's going to be Alan's.'
'Not if it can't hold up.'
'Who says it can't hold up? Any argument you make to Alan is going to come out like a rationalization, not a trial strategy. I still don't think there's any doubt Shea did it, but Abe's right – it's going to be a little harder to prove at trial.'
'Which is what I should tell Reston, which is what I'm going to—'
'Art, please. Let me. When we know a little more. Maybe my mom ...'
She let it hang, and Drysdale subsided back into his chair. 'We present evidence to a court, Elaine, you know that. That's what we do.'
'I know that, Art.'
'Whether or not the shit heads get off...'
'I know.'
'If you don't think that's Reston's primary commitment – and say what you will about Chris Locke, that was his – then somebody ought to know about it real soon. I don't care if he's black or in your mother's hip pocket. Pardon my lack of circumlocution.'
She waved it off. 'I don't know what his agenda is, Art. I don't.'
Drysdale got his long frame up out of his chair. 'You know, about the only thing I'm more tired of than the word "agenda" is the fact that so many people seem to have one. How we gonna all work together, much less live together, with this shit going on?'
'I don't—'
&nbs
p; 'I don't either, Elaine. I just pray to God you don't look at me and see a white man first, 'cause I'm not any more a white male first than you're a black lady first. What I am first is just a plain old human person.' He stood at the door. 'Now, I hope you're feeling better than you were, and I know you've got some phone calls to make, and I've got to go do what I do.'
'Art...'
'It's all right. I'll let you take it up with Mr Reston. Just remember, this is your case. It's not your mother's. That's all.'
Elaine placed a call to the photographer Paul Westberg and left a message on his machine that she would like to see him again at his earliest convenience.
She sat and stared at the second picture, then suddenly realized what had not registered when she had heard it. And found herself grappling with the question of how Lieutenant Glitsky knew her mother well enough for her to ask him to pass along the message to Elaine that she was worried about her.
'We were together in college.'
'What do you mean, together?'
Loretta Wager let out a sigh over the telephone. Elaine could picture her in the small unmarked office at City Hall, her shoes off, her feet on the ratty old desk. 'I think you can figure that one out, honey. He was ... my boyfriend.'
'Abe Glitsky was your boyfriend? Were you serious about each?'
'For that age, I'd say yes.'
'And what now?'
Her mother hesitated. 'Now we are friends.'
Elaine had some trouble with this. 'Mom, I have been around you just a little bit, and I have never heard you mention his name before.'
'We lost track of each other, hon. That happens, you know. He had family. So did I.'
'But he couldn't have lost track of you – '
'Because I have a public life? Maybe not. But there was no reason for him to look me up. Now, since the other day, with this ... anyway, he interviewed me about Chris ...'
Elaine was silent.
'Are you there, hon? You okay?'
'I don't know what I'm going to do.'
'You haven't told anybody, have you? About you and Chris?'
'No, but I think Art Drysdale kind of has a feeling about it. He was here with me for a long time. We talked.'
The words came out carefully. 'Let him have a feeling, Elaine, but don't ever admit it. Would you promise me that?'
'Mom, I wasn't going to...'
'It will give him too much on you. Anybody, in fact...'
'Not Art. He's not—'
'He's your supervisor. If he needs it he'll use it. That's the way the world works. And you, especially – you're not allowed to have a scandal.'
'Mom, it's you who's not allowed to have a scandal. You're the senator. I'm just—'
'No. This isn't for me. I'm thinking about you.'
'Art Drysdale isn't going to say anything. How did we get on this? I don't even care if he does. What matters is Chris.'
Her mother sighed again. 'Chris is gone, hon. You'll find somebody else.' A pause. 'Somebody better for you.'
'I don't want somebody better for me.' Tears threatened again.
'You will, Elaine, believe me. Someday you will.'
44
It might have been interpreted as a nice domestic scene – the clean-shaven young man with the bandaged leg sitting around the coffee table with his parents and their well-dressed friend, all of them listening politely to the overweight blue-collar guy with the heavy black shoes, perhaps a repairman telling them all about the leaking water heater, the pros and cons of getting a new one.
It was turning into a much more formal police interview than Carl Griffin had ever intended.
Colin Devlin was twenty-four years old and still lived with his parents in a renovated Victorian on Clifford Terrace in the upper Ashbury. Griffin had called from Dr Epps's office and reached the young man, asked a couple of cursory questions and got a minimal response, then wondered if he could call on him, have him make a statement about his injury, keeping it all vague. Colin, sounding nervous on the phone, had said okay. Griffin had reasoned he wouldn't have been able to say anything else without creating suspicion, and he was proved right.
On the way to Devlin's, Griffin ran into an area that had been cordoned off by the National guard and had to detour for half a mile. Then, in spite of the eggplant submarine sandwich he'd wolfed at lunchtime, he also suffered a Mac attack and found he needed a burger. So he set no landspeed marks getting up to Ashbury, and by the time he arrived so had the reinforcements – Colin's parents and their lawyer, a Mr Cohen.
In its own way, this was the most positive thing that had happened to Griffin in three days, since even in today's paranoid world most people did not feel the need to call their attorney to be present at an informal police interview over a self-inflicted shoveling accident.
Given Cohen's presence, Griffin was surprised to be admitted to the house without a warrant. The man was probably the father's business lawyer, not a criminal attorney. If that were the case he wouldn't be up on the rules, which Griffin hoped would prove to be bad luck for Colin.
After a few moments of awkwardness, they got settled in the tastefully appointed front room. A pale mid-afternoon sun came and went through the ancient curved windows that lined the circular room. In spite of a low-burning fire in the grate, the whole place felt cool, and Griffin left his coat on, leading with his best shot. Why, he wondered, had Colin felt the need to invite Mr Cohen to this meeting?
The father, Mr Devlin, was a friendly looking dark-haired man in a Donegal tweed suit and regimental tie. Clearly, he was in control. Though Griffin had not addressed him, he answered. 'Inspector Griffin, let's cut through the malarkey here. As I'm sure you suspect – it's why you're here – my son did not cut his leg the way he told Dr Epps. We don't want to go through the charade of having to produce the shovel and ... all that nonsense.' He waved a hand.
'All right,' Griffin said. If they were going to give it to him free, he was going to take it. He shifted his bulk in the creaking bentwood chair and leaned forward. 'What happened exactly?'
The wife, a pretty woman with a lot of jewelry, spoke up. 'Colin didn't mean to—'
'Mary, please.' The husband's imperious look stopped Mary Devlin. He went on. 'We would like assurances that Colin's cooperation with the police ...' Unsure of the process he was trying to control, he seemed to run out of steam for a moment, then found his rhythm again.'... that there'll be some quid pro quo.'
Griffin was leaning forward, his hands clasped. 'Cutting deals is up to the DA,' he said. 'Most times, they'll talk about it. How'd you get cut, Colin?'
'I don't even know. Some guy behind me ...' The boy's eyes were hollow, his face pale as though he'd worn a beard for a long time and had recently cut it. Maybe in the last half hour.
'Colin, just a minute ... I don't think we should talk any more unless you can give us some guarantees,' the father said.
Griffin nodded, stalling. 'If Colin here was at the scene of the lynching, his testimony would be very important. I'm sure the DA would recognize that, put it in the mix.'
Mr Devlin chewed on it a moment. 'We're not trying to duck responsibility here – any that might fall to Colin – but I don't want my boy .. .' He faltered again. 'Being there at all, being part of it, was unpardonable, I understand that...'
'Dad, I—'
'Colin!'
The boy shut up.
'... and I'm sure that we've been too lax, letting him live at home, giving him an allowance, not insisting he go to work, get some job, but his mother ... well, that's going to end. The boy has to grow up, take responsibility for what he does, but he has promised us that he did not touch the man, and I absolutely believe him. He never got close to him.'
At last, the lawyer spoke. 'Bren, I think that's enough. Inspector, what do you think?'
'I'll have to talk to someone downtown, but I think they'll be... receptive.'
'What should be our next step?' Mr Devlin asked.
Griffin stood, pul
led down his jacket that had ridden up over his middle. 'I don't want you to take this wrong, sir,' he turned to Cohen, 'or you either, but I think you might want to get yourself an attorney who does this for a living. You might find it makes a difference.'
Jamie O'Toole, jobless due to the loss of his workplace to fire, was bitter and angry. Jamie was a man who had lived in the city his entire life, had gone to Saint Ignatius high school and then done a year at San Francisco State, during which Rhoda (the name alone, he should have known), his girlfriend at the time, had gotten pregnant and he'd married her, which had killed five years dead.
Also, it left him without a college degree, which he would have gotten otherwise, he was smart enough. But the breaks just hadn't worked out for him so he could stay in school. So there he was, needing a job – any job – at the beginning of this recession, and he didn't care what they were saying about it in the newspapers, here in California it wasn't getting any better.
So he'd gotten into bartending – decent tips, most of the money under the table, where he could keep it instead of give it to Uncle Sam or, worse, to Rhoda. Guys had told him, 'Don't get so you're making any money on the books, the ex will just come and get the judgment upped.' And he had listened. Rhoda would do that to him, no question. Same as she wouldn't get married, though she was living with some dweeb in Richmond, because then he'd be allowed to stop his alimony. He supposed the child support would just go on forever, more money out of his pocket, another thing holding him down, keeping him where he was.
They were already giving out some federal emergency money and he had read the guidelines and realized he qualified – government always giving something away to somebody, usually not to him. He'd take it this time.
So he was waiting in a long cold line at the distribution place they had set up on Market Street – place was crawling with low life. Jamie O'Toole hated it, waiting with all those street people, shivering his ass off.
Then some guy, familiar, walks up to one side, and he's got it, he places him – the plainclothes cop, Lanier, that was it.
Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A Page 21