'And how exactly does it do that?'
Jenkins held her lips in a tight line. Furious at this inquisition, she held her voice in a monotone. 'Copes pulls the tape' – she was pantomiming his actions – 'and his fingerprint stays on the inside. This means not only was he in the woman's room, but he was in it when the tape got unwound, which was when she was tied up.'
Drysdale nodded. 'I was afraid that was the answer.'
Glitsky spoke again, again wearily. 'It's a good answer, Art. In fact, it's the right answer.'
But Drysdale wasn't hearing it. 'No. Sorry, guys, but how about if our landlord Copes came in to fix some pipes, started undoing this magical tape and left his fingerprint on it. Then he simply forgot to take the tape with him when he left. The next day, our perp comes in to do what he did, and there is the convenient tape. Why couldn't it have happened that way?'
God, it got tiring, Glitsky was thinking. There was always some other way it could have happened. He knew Drysdale was playing the devil's advocate. None of them doubted that Copes had left an incriminating fingerprint on the inside of the duct tape, but – the point – that wasn't good enough. Drysdale sat back, pondering his options. 'The tattoo is what screwed this all up.'
Glitsky, from a deep well: 'The tattoo means he did it, too.'
'Which is where you guys went wrong. You don't start out knowing that.' He held up a hand. 'Hey, I believe with all my heart that Levon Copes is our man. I don't see how in the hell we're going to prove it, though.'
Suddenly, Glitsky let out a heavy sigh and stood up. 'I thought the duct tape was pretty good. You titans let me know how it all comes out. You need me at the trial, if it gets to trial, I'm there.'
The door closed silently behind him as he left the office. His co-workers sat, stunned, in the ensuing vacuum. Finally, Drysdale blew a little gust of air through puffed cheeks. 'Abe's having a hard time.'
'The duct tape is pretty good, you know,' Jenkins responded.
Drysdale started juggling again. 'You're dreaming,' he said.
Glitsky had to get out of the Hall, out on to the street. He checked in at Homicide – no messages – then walked the wind-blown back stairway out to the city lot behind the building. He always had half a dozen witnesses on other cases he could interview. It was the constant in the job.
So he was driving west through the fog, toward his home – vaguely – and the Bush Street projects where…
He didn't know what bothered him the most, that he'd almost lost his temper in the office, or that Drysdale had been right. You really didn't want to start with a certainty about who'd committed what crime. If you did, as Abe had done in this case, there was a temptation to lose sight of the evidentiary chain – that sense of link-by-link accretion which eventually became the working blueprint that a prosecutor would use to build a case that would convince a jury.
It was, by necessity, a slow and tedious process, where you questioned yourself- your own motives, your preconceptions, your work habits, every little thing you did – every step of the way. And it was best if the things you discovered led you to the only possible correct answer.
He slammed his hand, hard, against the steering wheel.
Glitsky couldn't say exactly why he stopped by the Rape Crisis Center.
There really was no official reason. Maybe it was a human one – maybe he needed to talk to somebody. He told himself he was fostering good community
relations, something the men in blue were always encouraged to pursue.
'Ms Carerra said she would like to be kept up on the progress of things.'
'She's not here right now,' Sam Duncan replied. 'But if it's not a secret, I wouldn't mind hearing about it. The progress, I mean. Would you like to sit down?'
He took the folding chair in front of her desk, turned it around, and straddled it backward. 'It doesn't look very good.'
Sam's shoulders sagged an inch. 'Why doesn't this come as a shock? What's the problem this time?'
'You've been through this before?'
It was not quite a laugh. 'I've been around rape and the law for about ten years. Does that answer your question?' She sighed. 'So another creep's gonna walk?'
Glitsky temporized. 'Maybe not. They might still go ahead. The prosecutor wants to put Mr Copes away, the Grand Jury did indict. I'm going to keep looking.' He paused. 'I think the problem was that I did my job backwards.'
She cocked an eye at him. 'That's funny. I thought I just heard a cop admit he might have made a mistake. What do you mean, you went backwards?'
He explained it all to her – Christina and the tattoo, the evidence that really wasn't admissible. Finally he wound down.
'So this Copes? There's no doubt he did it?'
'Not to me, but that's never the point, as you probably know. The tattoo can't be mentioned. It's hearsay.'
'This sucks. And of course he's got a million-dollar lawyer who's going to make a million more?'
'He's got Wes Farrell. He's good enough, but-'
She interrupted him. 'I don't understand these defense lawyers. I'm serious. I don't understand how any human being can take a case like this. I mean, this man Farrell, he's got to know his client did it, raped and killed this poor woman. Doesn't he? He knows about the tattoo, all of that…'
'Sure.'
'And he still-'
'Best defense the law allows. It's what makes our country great.' Glitsky shrugged. 'Maybe he needs the money. Maybe it's just a job. Murder cases pay.'
'But if he knows … I mean, if you really, truly know for sure, how can you…?'
'It's amazing, isn't it?'
'It blows my mind, Sergeant, it truly does.'
Whistling, Wes Farrell took off his white shirt and tie in the cramped unisex bathroom down the hall from his law office. Farrell often thought he was too easily amused by stupid things, such as the T-shirt he had been wearing under his suit all day – green with gold lettering that read: Take me drunk, I'm home.
Okay. So he was getting divorced, his kids didn't see him much, his career generally sucked, but his life wasn't all bad. He had his health, and that was number one, right? Give or take a few pounds, he still had his body. Lots of acquaintances. And at least one true and great friend, Mark Dooher. How many people could say that much?
Plus attitude. He had attitude in spades, and that's what pulled him through in the here-and-now – that positive attitude, the vision that day-to-day life itself was okay, even fun.
And now, thank God, he had Levon Copes. He loved Levon Copes. Levon was a lank-haired, slack-jawed, sallow-fleshed, hollow-chested, low-life, weak-willed, in-bred and brain-dead sociopath, for sure, but…
'All together now,' he said aloud into the mirror. 'DOESN'T MEAN HE ISN'T A NICE PERSON!!'
Except that Levon really wasn't a nice person.
But Wes Farrell was going to forgive him for that. He wasn't going to forget about the heinous crime he'd undoubtedly committed. But he had to admire one thing about Mr Copes – the man had a serious bank account.
Art Drysdale had not given up on the case, at least not yet. He'd told Farrell this morning that the District Attorney's office was planning a vigorous prosecution, as it did with all indictments, unless of course Farrell wanted to cop a plea.
No, Farrell had responded, he would go to trial on this one, thanks. Because this one was a winner. Farrell knew juries and he knew San Francisco, and you needed a lot more than they had on Levon Copes to convict anybody of murder here.
So he might be going to trial, to a trial that he could win, and a drawn-out murder trial meant that he was going to wind up billing his client a minimum of $ 150,000 before it was all over. And his client would pay it, gladly; it was the price of freedom.
God, he loved Levon!
So now – tonight – Wes was going to celebrate, maybe even get himself some horizontal female companionship for the first time since his separation. There was no denying it: he felt some spark tonight, some sense of life. H
e wasn't sure where it had come from, but he wasn't going to jinx it by worrying it to death. The ride's here, boys! Get on it or get out of the way!
He was going to start at Ghirardelli Square, for the view, to remind himself of where he lived, of why San Francisco was the greatest city in the Western World. Heading downtown, he'd hit Lefty O'Doul's, put himself on the outside of some corned beef. Then perhaps a stop by Lou the Greek's, the eclectic subterranean bar/restaurant that served the Hall of Justice community, the watering hole for the criminal legal community, of which he was – thanks to Levon Copes – a member in good standing.
What a city on this night! The possibilities were endless. Flush as he was – out of Levon's $45,000 retainer, he had kept $2,000 in cash out of his checking account, before Lydia could even see it to grab – he was going to cab it everywhere he went, bar-hopping – the Abbey Tavern, the little Shamrock…
By 10:15, he'd had himself half a yard of ale, some outstanding mega-cholesterol food, three extended discussions with interesting people about subjects which had been totally engrossing even if now somewhat vague in his memory. His cabbie, Ahmal, was turning into his best friend – Ahmal had already cleared $140. He had parked the cab just around the corner from the Little Shamrock and would wait all night for Farrell's return.
Getting inside the door through the crush of people was a bit of a trial, but Wes persevered. He knew the place well. It was on his way home. Small, well kept, without discernible ferns of any kind, it was the oldest bar in the city – established in 1893! There was often a crowd up front or at the bar, but he knew that in the back there was a mellower area, furnished with rugs and couches and easy chairs – just like a living room, though not just like/us living room.
So he moved steadily, in no hurry, toward the back. They had waitresses working, which was unusual on a weekday – normally you ordered at the bar – and he had a pint of Bass in his hand before he'd gone twenty steps. The jukebox didn't drown out the people here, and especially tonight it didn't. The place was bedlam. Only now could he make out What A Fool Believes over the crowd noise. He thought it was fitting.
And there she was.
Through the jockeying mass of humanity, he saw her sitting on the arm of one of the couches, leaning forward on her arms, sensual curves everywhere, and one leg curled under her. She was a grown-up, which was about as close as he could guess for her age – beyond that it didn't matter.
Something about her was knocking him out.
He looked away, took another sip of beer, checked for signs of how drunk he was and decided not very, then looked back at her. Yep, she still looked good – medium-length dark hair with red highlights, great skin. Her face was alive, that was what it was. Her smile lit up all around her.
He got himself a little closer. She was in conversation with a couple on the couch next to her, and suddenly the woman who was half of the couple got up – it was magic – and went into the adjacent bathroom. Wes moseyed on over.
She slid off the arm of the couch, into the empty place next to the other half of the couple, a good-looking man. Put an arm around him. Uh oh, maybe not… then she looked right at Wes.
'I love your shirt,' she said. Then, 'This is my oldest brother, Larry. He was fun when he was younger.' She patted the arm of the couch and Wes moved up a step and sat where she'd been. 'Wes,' he said, sticking out his hand, which she took and shook. Over her head, he asked, 'How you doin', Larry?'
'Larry's loaded. Sally's taking him home. Sally's his wife. She just went
to the bathroom. I'm Sam. I'm staying.'
As it turned out, she didn't stay all that long. Sam had apparently been waiting at the Shamrock for someone who looked just like Wes to walk through the door and save her from a night of aimless drinking. So another beer later for each of them, they were arm-in-arm outside, and there was Ahmal, parked on 9th where Wes had left him. This made an impression on Sam.
He paid Ahmal fifty more at her place, a downstairs flat on Upper Ashbury, and while Sam was getting out, told his good buddy the cab driver to wait an hour more and if Wes didn't come back out, he could take off, and thanks for the memories.
The door closed behind them on a cosy space – a large open room with a low ceiling, old-fashioned brick walls, built-in and seemingly organized bookshelves, a wood-burning stove.
'You have a dog,' he said.
A cocker spaniel was waking up, stretching in a padded basket next to the stove. 'You're not allergic or anything, are you?'
'As a matter of fact, I myself own a dog.'
'I knew there was something about you…'
'His name's Bart. He's a boxer.'
She leaned over to pet her little darling. 'This is Quayle,' Sam said, 'with a "y", just like Dan. You know, the brains of a cocker spaniel, so I thought, why not? Do you want another drink?'
'Not really. Would you like to come over here?' He held out his arms, and she gave Quayle one last pet, hesitated a moment, smiled, then walked to him.
She came naked through the door of the bedroom, a glass of Irish whiskey in each hand. The funny thing,' she said, 'is I don't normally do this.'
There was a blue liquid lava lamp from the 1960s or 1970s next to the bed. The windows were horizontal, high in the brick wall, at ground-level outdoors.
Wes was under a thick down comforter, hands behind his head. He reached out for one of the glasses. 'I don't, either.'
She handed him his glass and sat on his side of the bed. He thought she was as comfortable with her nakedness as it was possible to be, and also thought that was as it should be. Her body was toned and lush, nice breasts with tiny pink nipples. He rested his hand on her thigh. 'You can tell me the truth,' she said. 'It won't hurt my feelings. I can take it.'
'That is the truth. I was married for almost thirty years. Now this.'
You mean, this is the first time since you were married?'
'That was it. Am I blowing my cover here as man of the world?'
'No, I'm just surprised.'
'Why? It seemed natural enough to me. Pretty great, actually.'
She gave him her smile again.'That, too. Me, too, I mean. It's supposed to be such a hassle to get it right, especially the first time.'
'Maybe not.'
She put her whiskey glass on the side table and slid in next to him, snuggling into his chest. After a minute, he could feel her begin to laugh.
'What's funny?'
'Well, the name thing…'
He thought a moment. 'Your name isn't Sam?'
This made her laugh. 'No, my name's Sam. I'm talking last names. You are at least Wes, aren't you?'
'Full disclosure coming up.' He patted her back reassuringly. 'Wes Farrell, Attorney at Law, at your service.'
She groaned. 'Oh, you're not a lawyer, not really?'
'Realler than a heart attack. We're everywhere.'
'Wes Farrell…' she said quietly. 'I feel like I…' She stiffened and sat up abruptly.
'What?' he asked.
'Wes Farrell!?'
'Au personne, which means something in French, I think.'
But the good humor seemed to have left her. 'You're Wes Farrell? Oh my God, I can't believe this.'
'This what? What are you-?'
'What am I? What are you?'
'What am I what? Come on, Sam, don't-'
'Don't you don't me.' She was up now, grabbing a robe from a hook behind her on the wall. Pulling it around her – covering up – she turned and faced him. 'You're the Wes Farrell who's defending that scumbag Levon Copes, aren't you?'
'How do you know?'
'Don't worry, I know him.' She was fully engaged now, slamming her fists against her thighs, the bed, whatever was handy. 'I knew it, I just fucking knew it. God, my luck. I should have known.'
'Sam…'
'Don't Sam me either!' Walking around in little circles now. 'I'm sorry, but this just isn't going to work. I want you to go now. Would you please just leave?'
'J
ust leave?' But he was already sitting up, grabbing his pants from the floor.
''Yes. Just leave. Please.'
'Okay, okay. But I don't know why…'
'Because I can't believe you'd do what you're doing with Levon Copes, that's why – trying to get him off. I can't believe this is you. Oh shit!'
'It's my job,' he said. 'I'm a lawyer, it's what I do.'
That reply stopped her dead. Suddenly, the energy left her. She let out a frustrated sigh and whirled around one last time. 'Just go, all right?'
He had his shoes in his hands, his shirt untucked. 'Don't worry, I'm gone.'
It had been more than an hour, and Ahmal had gone, too.
Mark and Sheila Dooher had said no more than a hundred words to each other all night. She had made the traditional New England boiled dinner which he normally loved, but he'd only picked at the food. At dinner, he'd been polite and distracted and then he'd excused himself, saying he felt like hitting a few balls at the driving range – he'd been playing more golf lately, an excuse to stay away from home longer, go out more often. He'd even asked her if she wanted to accompany him, but he really didn't want her to – she could tell – so she said no.
Now, near midnight, he was still up, reading in the downstairs library, a circular room in the turret, under her own office. When he got home from the driving range, he'd come in to say good night, kissed her like a sister, saying he had work to do. Would she mind if he went to the library and got some reading in, some research?
She couldn't take it anymore.
She stood in the doorway in her bathrobe. He'd lit a fire and it crackled faintly. He wasn't reading. He was sitting in his green leather chair, staring at the flames.
'Mark?'
'Yo.' He looked over at her. 'You all right? What's up?'
'You're still up.'
'The old brain just doesn't seem to want to slow down tonight. So I thought I'd just let it purr awhile.'
She took a tentative step or two into the room.
'What's it thinking about?'
'Oh, just things.'
Another step, two more, then she sat sideways on the ottoman near his feet. 'You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.'
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