Still, if they were building a case against Treadway, and the case file made it clear that they were, they needed a lot more than they’d gathered to date.
To that end, he suddenly had an idea.
Twenty-five minutes later, he stood at the southern opening to the Stockton tunnel, where Anlya had gone over, cars whizzing by him every few seconds. Stepping just inside the tunnel proper, he turned right, into the stairwell, and walked up to the midway landing. Above his head, in the corner, the surveillance camera kept its silent vigil. Turning left, he continued up the stairs until they let him out on Bush.
For the next hour, he circumnavigated the neighborhood, stopping to chat with every homeless man he ran across. On this atypically warm Saturday afternoon, they were even thicker on the ground than usual, and usual in this zip code was about three or four per block. Out of the twenty-six people he spoke to, none was particularly happy to talk to him when he identified himself as an inspector, but neither was anyone actively hostile. He knew that, in general, the homeless in the city were a blight on the landscape, but a nonviolent one, unless one of their own tried to take over a prime begging site—several times in the past few years, that situation had turned bloody, twice resulting in death.
After his first complete circle of the surrounding five-block area, Glitsky wanted to bludgeon the uniformed officer who had talked to the homeless witness inside the tunnel the previous Thursday morning and neglected to get so much as a name, to say nothing of any contact information (though that might not have been a possibility). Back at the top of the tunnel, he considered taking another round in the opposite quadrant, this time up through Chinatown, but in the end decided that he could come back tomorrow, and he should really get home and see his family.
So he started down the steps again, and right there in front of him, on the landing under the surveillance camera, a husky black man was arranging his bag full of stuff and getting settled on his sleeping bag. Abe stopped a few steps up; he didn’t want to barge down and spook the guy. But a few seconds later he heard footsteps and laughter coming from the tunnel below and moved to one side as a gay couple came around the landing, dropped some coins in the man’s hat, and continued past. The homeless man barely noticed.
Abe pulled out his wallet and badge and walked down the last few steps, introducing himself and getting right to it. “By any chance were you here on this landing when all the trouble was going on last Wednesday night?”
The man was a mountain of hair—over his shoulders, drifting into a waterfall of a beard. He squinted into the light coming in where Glitsky had come down, then brought his clear gaze back to Abe. “Sure was. I’ve been staying here forever. Couple of weeks, at least.”
“So. Wednesday?”
“Got to be a regular madhouse, didn’t it? I don’t think the place cleared up till morning. Anyways, I had to lay down someplace else.”
“Down Bush, was it?”
“I can’t really say. Other places are pretty much all the same. Except here. This place is pretty good. Out of the wind, usually. Warmer.”
“You mind if I ask you some questions?”
“What you been doing up till now?”
Glitsky had to smile. The man was right. “You mind if I see some identification?”
“Some what?”
“An ID.”
The man chuckled. “Tell me where to find one, and I’ll be happy to show it to you.”
Glitsky cocked his head. The city had dozens if not hundreds of social service nonprofits and other similar organizations—food banks, free clinics, various shelters and other overnight accommodations—and the homeless population was supposed to provide identification at these places so the organizations could keep track of whom they were serving.
But, evidently, not always.
Glitsky tried again. “What’s your name?”
“What do you need my name for?”
“Don’t do me like that. I just want to call you something. I’m Abe. Who are you?”
The homeless man considered a moment before answering. “Malibu.”
“Got it. Like the city.”
“No, man. Like the car.”
“Like the car,” Glitsky repeated. “Got it.”
“That’s my street name.”
“Sure,” Glitsky said. “Malibu, the car.”
“Just so you know. ’Cause they got me down as Omar Abdullah over at Glide. But I don’t mostly go by that no more.”
He was referring, Glitsky understood, to the soup kitchen at Glide Cathedral, where Malibu was apparently registered under the other name.
“I got it,” Glitsky said. He reached in and turned on the recorder in his shirt pocket. “So anyway, Malibu, when did you arrive on this landing last Wednesday night?”
“Just about this time, I suppose. Seemed like, somewhere in there. What is it now?”
Glitsky checked his watch. “Quarter to five.”
“Yeah. About this time.”
“And how long did you stay?”
“Until just after all the noise. When I could tell everything was going to get crazy.”
“What was the noise about?”
“Well, first somebody was having an argument up the stairs there.”
“You mean the steps behind me that lead up to Bush Street?”
“Yeah.”
“You heard people arguing?”
“Yelling, more like.”
“How many voices?”
“Two. A man and a woman.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing. I was just waking up. The yelling turned into what sounded like they were struggling with each other. And then the woman screamed and the scream got cut off and there was all kinds of screeching tires and crashing cars down in the tunnel. So I’m like, ‘Jesus.’ ”
“And what happened next?”
Malibu scratched at his scalp, moved down to his beard. “You know, this is pretty much what I told the other cop when he got to me that night. If you want something new, I don’t think I got it for you.”
“That’s all right,” Glitsky said. “There wasn’t any record of what you said last time. Plus, I think I’ve got something new for you in a minute here. Meanwhile, you heard the scream and the crash . . . Then what did you do?”
“I sat up. Now I’m wide-awake. And decide it would be a good idea to get out of there.”
“Did you go downstairs to see what was going on?”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t run toward trouble. I was going up and out of here.”
“Okay, Malibu. This is the new part I was telling you about. Before you went up the stairs, did anybody else come down from Bush Street?” Glitsky knew the answer because he’d seen the surveillance footage. When he’d been brooding in his office earlier, it had occurred to him that the homeless man on the landing—Malibu—had undoubtedly been sitting right there as the man who perhaps killed Anlya came barreling down the stairs to see what had transpired below, if he had to make sure she was dead.
Malibu scratched at his beard, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Now that you mention it. A young white guy, a business guy . . . in a raincoat or some kind of overcoat.”
“Why do you think he was a business guy?”
“He had a necktie on.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Malibu paused, considering. “Pretty damn good, I’d say. He came down the steps and stopped when he saw me sitting here, and looked right at me, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe I was there, and kept moving around and down.”
“You saw his face?”
“I just said, we looked right at each other.”
“And how was the lighting down here?” Glitsky indicated the spot above, where a bulb behind a wire mesh covering was dark, either turned off or broken. “Does that thing work?”
“Yeah. It was on,” Malibu said. “You watch. It’ll light up in a couple of hours. It’s always on after dar
k, automatic or something.” He pointed up to the corner. “They need it for the camera. It’s the problem with sleeping here. You gotta cover your head up completely.”
“Do you think you could identify him again, this guy?”
“I don’t know. Young white guy, you know. He looked like a lot of people.”
Before he’d left the Hall of Justice, Glitsky had put together a “six-pack,” printing out the picture of Greg Treadway from his California driver’s license and inserting it into a six-pocket plastic sleeve with CDL pictures of five other young white males who were neither balding nor bearded. Glitsky took the six-pack from his pants pocket and read Malibu the admonition on the back that said, among other things, that he was not obliged to identify anyone, he was not to assume the suspect’s photo was there, and that it was just as important to free innocent people from suspicion as to identify guilty ones. Then he handed the six-pack to Malibu. “Can you see these faces? Would you rather go up on the street?”
“No. It’s good here.”
“So what do you think? Could any one of those pictures be of the man you saw here on this landing just after you heard the woman scream and the cars crash on last Wednesday night?”
Malibu didn’t take long, and when he looked up, he spoke with finality. “It’s this guy on the lower left, no doubt. I mean, absolutely, that’s the guy. Couldn’t be anybody else.”
Glitsky had Malibu sign and date the six-pack and circle the person he’d identified.
Greg Treadway.
PART
* * *
TWO
19
ALLIE JENSEN KNOCKED at their bathroom door. “Beck? How are you feeling?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“I’ve got some tea brewing, and I’ve made some dry toast. When you come out.”
“I don’t know if that will help, but thanks. I’m not sick. It’s nerves. I’ve just got to get myself together.”
“You’ll do it, don’t worry.”
“I am worried. That’s the problem. What if I get into court and this is still going on? ‘Excuse me, Your Honor, let’s put the trial off for a while until I get so I can be here and represent my client without barfing.’ How much time do I have?”
“You’re fine. It’s only seven-thirty. You’ve got all the time in the world. The tea’s waiting.”
“I’ll be out in a minute. I hope.”
• • •
“DIZ,” FRANNIE ASKED through their bathroom door, “are you all right?”
“Not perfect, no. I feel like I’m going to be sick again. Except that I’ve already been sick enough for one day. This is worse than my own first day in court.”
“I doubt that. If memory serves, you sometimes get a little uptight when you’re about to start a trial. Even after all the ones you’ve done.”
“But not physically. Not like this.”
“True. You actually get the real flu or whatever else is floating around in the ether.”
“It’s a stressful business.”
“Over time, I’ve figured that out.”
The toilet flushed and the door opened. Hardy had splashed his face and was drying it with a towel. “I don’t know how she’s going to do this. Should I call her?”
“Maybe not now, first thing in the morning. Give her a chance to wake up.” Frannie took the towel and touched it to his face in a few places. “Besides, I think the four calls last night might be enough to give her a general idea of what she can expect.”
“A general idea isn’t going to do it.”
“I bet it will. It doesn’t get specific until it starts. I remember you telling me your legs went out on you just before your first opening statement.”
“They did.”
“But then there you were, standing on them, and they came back, didn’t they?”
“Don’t try to confuse me with facts.” Hardy checked himself in the mirror. “I’m pale as a ghost, and all of my blood is in my face. How can that be?”
“Magic?”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Actually, I’m taking it just seriously enough. This isn’t your trial. It’s Beck’s. You’ll be there in case she starts to fly off the rails, which she will not do. She’s smart and well prepared. She’ll be fine.”
“So’s Phil Braden. Smart and well prepared, I mean, which is why Wes assigned the case to him. Plus, he’s experienced. You know how many cases our assistant district attorney has done in his first two years in Homicide?”
“Unless he did another one since Friday, when you mentioned it last, that would still be six. Right?”
“Six wins. No losses.”
Frannie clicked her tongue. “Imagine that. Good for him. Sounds like somebody I know on the defense side. It’s too bad they didn’t give him any of the African-American victims’ cases before. Maybe Wes wouldn’t have been in so much of a hurry to get this one to trial. Which, you’ve said yourself, ought to be to Beck’s advantage.”
“Slightly. Though she never should have caved in to Treadway’s refusal to waive time.” Not waiving time meant that the client had demanded a trial within sixty days of his arraignment on the indictment, which presented all kinds of logistical problems for both sides, although maybe fewer—marginally—for the defense.
“Maybe not,” Frannie said, “but the same thing’s happened to you, and more than once. Innocent people don’t want to stay in jail for a year, waiting for their trial. And you always say it’s to the DA’s disadvantage, having to hurry. Plus, as you also admit, the case against Greg, evidence-wise, is pretty weak, isn’t that true?”
“As far as it goes. Still . . .”
“Still, Diz, really.” She touched his face. “She’s your daughter. Have faith in her.”
“I do.”
“Okay, then I’ve got one last little bit of advice for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Have more.”
• • •
THE BECK WORE a conservative dark business suit, a white blouse, low heels. She’d had her hair cut back to shoulder-length over the weekend. At nine o’clock, she entered Department 24 of the Hall of Justice, Judge Karl Bakhtiari presiding. The door was open, the lights were on, and some of the other courtroom personnel were present, because the judge had a number of other smaller matters to handle before jury selection in Rebecca’s case was scheduled to begin at nine-thirty.
Walking up through the fifteen rows of seats in the gallery, she carried a thick briefcase—a gift from her parents when she’d passed the bar—that now, filled with her notes, binders of discovery material, legal pads, laptop, and other paraphernalia, weighed close to twenty pounds. The room felt surreal to her, the prosaic setting at first hard to reconcile with the roiling emotions she’d experienced back at her apartment. Viewing it objectively, Rebecca was struck by its institutional character. She had been inside the hall and its courtrooms many times, but today everything about it felt different.
She hesitated for half a second before pushing open the gate and stepping into the bullpen. She was now “before the bar” in a murder case, and the realization hit her that all of her law school training, all of the hours and hours of studying, then working at her father’s firm, had finally led her to this. Setting her briefcase down beside her, she drew in a sharp breath and placed her hand on her stomach, hoping she wasn’t going to get sick again. Another minute passed; apparently, she wasn’t. She took a few long, deep breaths to relax. The crisis passed, and she lifted her briefcase and moved over to the right to the defense table, positioned farthest from the jury.
After a couple of minutes during which Rebecca arranged the contents of her briefcase on the table, the door behind the judge’s bench opened, and a middle-aged woman came in. Rebecca came forward and introduced herself to the court reporter, Theresa Shepard. “Hi. I’ve got the trial here,” she said. “Sometimes I talk a little fast, but I take directio
n. If I’m going too quickly, just give me the high sign and I’ll slow down.”
The woman smiled.
“May I ask you a question?” Rebecca asked.
“Sure.” Ms. Shepard was setting up her own workstation, just in front of the judge’s desk. “What’s on your mind?”
“Is there any chance my client is already back in the hallway?” Rebecca was referring to the small holding cell behind each department where defendants were kept before a bailiff came to escort them into the courtroom. “It’s his first time dressing out, and I want to make sure his clothes fit and he’s presentable.”
“I didn’t notice, but there’s no rule against looking, I think, as long as you can get a bailiff to let you in.” She pointed to the table. “I’ll keep an eye on your stuff. And welcome to the show.”
“Thanks.”
• • •
IN THEIR VERY first telephone conversation, Greg had told her there was no way he could afford her regular hourly rate. Now, for every day Rebecca was at trial, she would be billing him at twice that, nearly five hundred dollars for every hour spent in the courtroom. And her father, Dismas, in hard-ass mode, had argued that was too low for a murder trial.
Nevertheless, that was the number they’d come to, and once Greg found himself arrested and charged, he had called his parents, Barry and Donna. After they’d gotten over the shock and disbelief of not only the basic fact of Greg’s position, but what it would cost them to pay for his defense, they’d taken a second mortgage on their Lake Tahoe cabin and written the first check—seventy-five thousand. And that was basically a placeholder until the real bills started to come in.
Another expense was for three conservative business suits, something Greg hadn’t had much need of before. His classroom attire ran to corduroy slacks, four or five ties, and a couple of sport coats that he alternated between daily.
But, as with nearly everything else that occurred in the courtroom environment, there was a precise strategy involved in what the defendant wore at court. By now it was a well-established fact that a defendant showing up at trial in a jail jumpsuit was prejudicial: Jurors tended to equate the jail garb with guilt. So defendants were allowed, if not mandated, to “dress out” in civilian clothes. Different defense attorneys took different approaches to sartorial style, but the norm was a decent, although probably not extravagant, business suit. (Off the clock, Rebecca had gone with Donna to a sale at Jos. A. Bank with Greg’s measurements, and they’d picked up three suits for the price of one.)
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