“I’m not mad at him! Ken’s the same way.”
Hardy leaned back, slowing down, wanting to make the point and not get in a fight over it. “Your father controlled people, Celine. Ken too. Maybe that’s why he was so successful.”
“My father did not control me.”
She clearly didn’t want to hear it. Time to back off. “Okay, okay.”
“And who are you to talk? What makes you such an expert?”
Hardy held up a hand, trying to slow her down. “Whoa, I didn’t say—”
“I know what you were saying. That my daddy was this control freak who was ruining my life because he loved his daughter and wanted to see her. Well, that’s all it was. We loved each other. We had the best times. You didn’t know him. We loved each other!”
She was starting to cry now, punctuating her speech by punching her glass into the table. Other people were looking over at the commotion.
“Celine . . .”
“Just go away. I don’t need your help. Go away. Leave me alone.” Hardy leaned forward in the chair, put his hand again on the table. “Celine.”
She slammed her glass down on the table, the drink spilling out over her hands, over the glass. “Get out of here! Now! Get out of here!”
“I think she’s nuts.”
“She’s bereaved, Diz. The girl’s father dies, you don’t pick that moment to point out to her he was a prick.”
“I didn’t say he was a prick. I was trying to give her something to help her break away, give her a little insight—”
“Insight comes in its own sweet time.”
“That’s beautiful, Mose. I’ll remember that. Give me another hit, would you?”
Hardy was drinking Bushmills at the Shamrock. It was Wednesday, date night, and he was meeting Frannie at seven, in another half hour. There weren’t more than twenty patrons in the place and only two others sat at the bar, nursing beers.
The Little Shamrock had been in existence since 1893. Moses McGuire had bought it in 1977 and pretty much left it the way it had been. The place was only fifteen feet wide, wall to wall, and about forty-five feet deep. The bar itself—mahogany—extended halfway to the back along the left side. Twelve tables, with four chairs each, filled the area in front of the bar on the linoleum floor. Over that area hung an assortment of bric-a-brac—bicycles, antique fishing rods, an upside-down sailfish and the pièce de résistance, a clock that had stopped ticking during the Great Earthquake of 1906.
The back of the place had an old wall-to-wall maroon Berber carpet and several couches, armchairs, coffee tables, a fireplace. It wasn’t designed to seat the maximum amount of bodies, but to make it comfortable for what bodies there were. The bathrooms had stained glass in the doors. There were two dartboards against the side wall in the back by an old-fashioned jukebox.
The entire front of the bar was comprised of two picture windows and a set of swinging doors. Out of the windows was Lincoln Boulevard. Across the street was Golden Gate Park, evergreen and eucalyptus. Three years ago, after working as a bartender there for nearly a decade, Hardy had acquired a quarter-interest in the place. It was almost as much his home as his house was.
McGuire walked down to the taps and came back with a pint of stout. “And what I am supposed to do with this? I see you come through the door, I start a Guinness. It’s automatic. So now I got a Guinness poured and tonight you’re drinking Irish.”
“It’s that element of surprise that makes me such a fascinating guy to know. Tonight I needed a real drink.”
“My father told me that the secret to controlling alcohol is never to take a drink when you feel like you need one.”
“Those are noble words,” Hardy said. “Aphorism night has come to the Shamrock. Hit me again, though, would you?”
Moses sighed, turned and grabbed the Bushmills from the back bar and poured. “We’re never heeded in our own countries, you know. It’s the tragedy of genius.”
“Leave the Guinness,” Hardy said. “I’ll drink it, too.”
Moses pulled over his stool. Hardy had often said that Moses’ face probably resembled the way God’s would look after He got old. His brother-in-law was only a few years older than Hardy, but they had been heavy-weather years. He had long, brown hair with some gray, ponytailed in the back, an oft-broken nose. There were character lines everywhere—laugh lines, worry lines, crow’s-feet. He was clean-shaven this month, although that varied. “So why’d she want to see you in the first place—Celine?”
Hardy shrugged. “Hold her hand, I don’t know. She seemed to be hurting. I thought I might be able to help her out. Now I’m thinking we ought to get some protection for May Shinn.”
“You don’t really think she’d do anything to her, do you?”
“I don’t know what she’ll do. I don’t think she knows what she’ll do.”
Moses took a sip of his own Scotch, a fixture in the bar’s gutter. “She’s upset, can’t exactly blame her. She probably won’t do anything,” he said.
“It’s the ‘probably’ that worries me.” He took his dart case out of his jacket pocket and started fitting his hand-tooled flights into the shafts. “I think I’ll go shoot a few bull’s-eyes,” he said. “Do something I’m good at.”
David Freeman picked up his telephone. It was after work hours, but he was still at his desk, back after dinner to the place he loved best. He didn’t have any particular work to do, so he was doing some light reading—catching up on recent California appellate court decisions for fun.
“Mr. Freeman, this is Nick Strauss. I got your card from a neighbor of mine, Mrs. Streletski. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Strauss, it’s good of you to call. As Mrs. Streletski may have mentioned, I’m working for a client who needs to establish what she was doing during the daytime on Saturday, June twentieth. The woman in question happens to live directly across the street from you on the same level—that other turreted apartment?”
“Sure, I know it, but I can’t say I’d know any particular person who lives there.”
“She’s an Oriental woman. Quite attractive.”
“I’d like to meet her. I could use a little attractive in my life.” A little manly chuckle, then Strauss was quiet a moment. “Sorry. June twentieth, you say?”
“That’s the date. I know it’s a while ago now.”
“No, it’s not that. Normally I probably wouldn’t remember. It’s just that’s the day I picked up my kids. They’d been traveling in Europe with their mother— we’re divorced—and I picked them up at the crack of dawn at the airport.”
“And they didn’t mention anything, seeing anything?”
“I don’t know how they could. They’d slept on the plane and were ready to go, so we just stopped in to have a bite and drop their luggage. Then we took off, exploring the city. It was a great day really, they’re good kids.”
“I’m sure. But you saw nothing?”
“No, sorry. What did she do, this attractive Oriental woman?”
“She’s being charged with killing someone, although the case is weak. If anyone saw her at home during that day, we can make a case that there is no case.”
“I’ll talk to the boys, double-check, but I really doubt it. Who’d she kill, by the way?”
Freeman kept himself in check. This was the natural question. “She didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Strauss.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Thanks for the call.”
“Sure.”
Freeman sat back with his hands crossed behind his head. So the alibi wouldn’t hold up. It was no great surprise.
27
The grand jury convened at ten a.m., Thursday, July 2, 1992. It was Hardy’s first appearance there. He wore a brand-new dark suit with nearly invisible maroon pinstripes, a maroon silk tie, black shoes. When Pullios saw him outside the grand-jury room door, she whistled, looked him up and down. “You’ll do.”
Hardy thought she did
n’t look so bad herself in a tailored red suit of conservative cut. Instead of a briefcase, she carried a black sling purse.
“No notes?”
She tapped her temple. “Right here.”
At her knock, the door was opened by a uniformed policeman. This was light-years from the bustling informality of one of the Municipal or Superior Court courtrooms.
The grand jury was a deck so heavily stacked in favor of the prosecution that Hardy thought a case could be made against its constitutionality. The fact that no one had brought such an appeal was probably a reflection on the reality that nobody representing the accused was allowed in the room. He thought the prosecution winning on an indictment before the grand jury was kind of like a Buick winning the Buick Economy Run.
Hardy sat next to Pullios at the prosecution desk and studied the faces of the twenty jurors arranged in three ascending rows behind long tables.
He couldn’t remember ever having seen such a balanced jury of twelve. These twenty were comprised of ten men and ten women. Three of them—two women and a man—were probably over sixty. Four more—two and two—were, he guessed, under twenty-five. There were six blacks, two Orientals, he thought two Hispanics. Most were decently dressed—sports coats and a few ties for the men, dresses or skirts for the women. But one of the white guys looked like a biker—short sleeves, tattoos on his forearms, long unkempt hair. One woman was knitting. Three people were reading paperbacks and one of the young women appeared to be reading a comic book.
The room wasn’t large. It smelled like coffee. At what would have been the defense table—if there had been one—was a large box full of donuts and sweet rolls that about half the jurors had dipped into.
The grand jury wasn’t chosen like a regular jury—if a trial jury was a time commitment and minor inconvenience for the average taxpayer, selection to the grand jury was more like a vocation. You sat one day a week for six months, essentially cloistered, and the only kinds of crimes you discussed were felonies. And if you mentioned anything about the proceedings outside of this room, you were committing a felony yourself. There were stories—impossible to verify—that D.A.s had come in and said, “Off the record, I don’t believe our eyewitness either. We’ve got no credible evidence at this time. But I’ve been doing homicides now for twenty years and I tell you unequivocally that John Doe, on the afternoon of whatever it is, did kill four Jane Does. Now we’ve got to get this guy off the street before he kills someone else. And he will, ladies and gentlemen, he will. You can count on it. I will stake my reputation and career upon a conviction, but we’ve got to get this man indicted and behind bars and we’ve got to do it now.” Of course they were only stories. Whatever, the grand jury was a corner-stone of the criminal system, and it behooved prosecutors to take it seriously, which Elizabeth did, in spite of her “ham sandwich” rhetoric. She stood up, greeted the jurors pleasantly and began her attack.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this morning the people of the State of California present the most serious charge in the matter of the capital murder of Owen Nash. You may have read in the newspapers something about this case, and specifically you may be aware that the defendant, May Shintaka, has already been scheduled for a preliminary hearing in Municipal Court in this jurisdiction. However, the delay proposed by the Municipal Court is, in the opinion of the district attorney, terribly excessive. No doubt many of you are aware of the legal axiom that justice delayed is justice denied. It is the contention of the people in this instance that the proposed delay would in fact constitute a denial of justice for this most heinous crime—the crime of cold-blooded, premeditated murder for financial gain, a crime that calls for the death penalty in the State of California.”
Pullios paused and walked stone-faced back toward Hardy, to where he sat at the table. She picked up a glass of water, took a small sip. Her eyes were bright—she was flying. Immediately she was back to business. Hardy couldn’t help but admire the show.
“So in a sense,” she said, “the indictment the people seek today is simply an administrative stratagem to move the trial for this crime to Superior Court, where it can be heard in a timely fashion. But in a greater sense, an indictment before this body will reinforce the state’s contention that, based on real and true evidence, there is indeed just cause for issuance of a warrant for the arrest of May Shintaka and a compelling need for a fair and speedy trial in pursuance of the interests of the people of this state.”
Hardy thought it was getting a little thick, but he also realized that Elizabeth Pullios, looking like she did and fired up as she was, could probably read the telephone book to these people and keep their attention. She went on to describe the witnesses she would call: Glitsky, Strout, the cab driver, the ballistics expert, the two guards from the Marina, a handwriting analyst. Then she got to Celine Nash. Hardy remembered the other giant lapse in evidentiary rules before the grand jury—hearsay was technically inadmissible, but there was no judge or defense lawyer there to keep it out.
How could Celine not have mentioned to him yesterday that she was testifying today? Well, they hadn’t had much time to get to it before she went off on him. It could have been that the initial reason she called him was nerves over this appearance today, testifying against Shinn. She’d even said something about it.
Hardy found himself unhappy in a hurry, wishing he’d reviewed the witness list before they’d come down here— he still did have a lot to learn. Pullios had been doing her homework while Hardy pursued his own agenda. They were going to nail May Shinn six ways from Sunday.
Then, at lunch, Pullios told him she wanted him to take Celine Nash.
“No way, Elizabeth. She’s mad at me.” He explained and she thought it over for a moment, then overruled him. “No, you’re better. Just get her confidence back.”
“You’ve already got her confidence.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve never met her personally, but Sergeant Glitsky tells me she’s stunning.”
“I guess.”
Pullios shook her head. “Then it’s not a good match. The jurors will see something between us. It might even be there.”
“What’s to see? What are they looking for?”
“This will maybe sound arrogant, but it’s true that people don’t identify with two attractive women on the same side. Right now I’ve got the jury on my side—our side. If Celine comes in, human nature is going to tell the jurors that we—she and I—are natural enemies. Somebody’s credibility is going to suffer. Whoever’s, it’s bad for our side. If you question her there’s no conflict. It’s only natural she’d want to cooperate, especially looking all spiffy like you do today.”
Hardy shrugged.
Pullios put her straw in her mouth and sucked up some iced tea. “You’d better believe those jurors are a fairly good representation of the average man, or average woman. I couldn’t care less if I sound enlightened or liberated or anything else. I’m playing to win, and I’m telling you that if I depose Celine Nash it’s a weak move. We can probably afford a weak move, okay, but it’s a bad tactic. You don’t give anything away. Even to grand juries. You still take your best chance every time. And you’re our best chance with Celine.”
She whispered she was sorry—more mouthed it—as soon as she sat down. She was elegant in cool blue. She’d put on extra eyeshadow, and Hardy wondered if she’d slept last night. Or cried.
It wasn’t supposed to be lengthy. All she was supposed to do was nail down what Owen had said to her about going out with May on the day he was killed.
It had been the Tuesday before—the sixteenth, in the morning. She had called him at his office. Celine had intended to go away the upcoming weekend and wanted to make sure her father hadn’t made plans that included her.
“Don’t you think thirty-nine’s a little old to be at his beck and call?”
“I wasn’t at his beck and call. My father didn’t control me!”
He put that out of his mind. That was last night. This w
as today. He had a limited role and he’d better keep to it. “And Ms. Nash, tell us what your father said regarding the day in question, June twentieth.”
She kept trying to catch his eye, give him a look that promised forgiveness, but he kept himself focused on individual jurors. He would look at her as she answered questions.
“He said he was planning on going over to the Farralons on Saturday with his girlfriend, with May.”
“Had he told you of such plans in the past?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“And in your experience, did your father tend to follow through on these types of things?”
This was shooting fish in a barrel. He kept expecting to hear somebody object to the nature and thrust of his questions, but since there was neither a defense attorney nor a judge in the room he could ask what he liked.
“Always. If Daddy said he was going to do something he did it.”
“All right, but just for the sake of argument, what if, for example, Ms. Shinn had gotten sick Saturday morning?”
“Daddy would have done something else. He wouldn’t have wasted a day. He wouldn’t have done that.”
“He wouldn’t have gone out alone, perhaps, since he’d already made those plans?”
Celine gave it a moment, chewing on her thumbnail. “No. I don’t think so. He wasn’t a solitary man. Besides, we know he didn’t go out alone, don’t we?”
“You’re right, Ms. Nash, we do. Indeed we do.”
It took until three-thirty, but they got the indictment.
There was no immediate flurry of activity. The bail was still in effect. There would be no immediate arrest of May Shinn, but the fur would really begin to fly when David Freeman got the news, which would be very soon.
Meanwhile, Hardy packed his briefcase, hoping that Celine Nash had decided not to wait around until the jury adjourned.
Celine fell in beside him just outside the door.
Hard Evidence Page 22