His driver, Sergeant Tony Paganucci, nagged him about getting some lunch. Wasn’t he supposed to try and meet up with his wife and Clarence Jackman and some other folks at Lou the Greek’s? But Glitsky had run out of time. He absolutely had to be back at the Hall of Justice for a one o’clock press conference, and that was in twenty-five minutes.
Paganucci dropped him behind the Coroner’s Office. Glitsky came into the Hall through the back door. Taking the stairs two at a time for his only exercise of the day, rather than the elevators where someone would want to talk to him about something, he breezed through the outer office unmolested.
In the office adjacent to his own, the deputy chief of administration, Bryce Jake Longoria, a white-haired, soft-spoken patrician, was in uniform sitting at his desk, working at his computer. Glitsky stopped in the doorway until Longoria looked up, smiled, gestured at his monitor. “Just trying to get some real work done, squeeze it in during lunchtime.”
“I hear you. I’d try the same strategy if I had enough time to boot up my computer, which I don’t.” Glitsky took a step into the room. “But I do have a quick question for you if you can spare a minute.”
“One. Shoot.”
“Say you know the name of somebody who served on a jury fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. Do you know if there’s any database you could access to identify the case?”
Longoria pondered a moment. “You don’t know the date, or the name of the defendant?”
“No. Just that it was a murder trial, and they found the guy guilty.”
A dry chuckle. “Well, if it was during the Pratt administration, you could just go and manually look up every one. There couldn’t have been more than three or four, maybe less.”
“Unfortunately, I think it was way back before her. Maybe late seven-ties, early eighties.”
Longoria clucked. “The Golden Years.” He took another moment, then shook his head. “They may still have the physical records downstairs”—the cavernous basement of the Hall, larger than a Costco, that held many millions of documents, shelf after shelf after shelf, floor to twelve-foot ceiling, from cases stretching back to the city’s earlier days—“but first you’d have to find them by going through every one individually.”
“That’s the other thing,” Glitsky said, “it might not have been here. In San Francisco.”
“Well, tell you what, I’d find that out first. If you had the case number, the defendant, maybe even the judge . . .”
Glitsky pursed his lips. “I know, but I don’t.”
“Well, then I’d say if it was a local case, it might be doable, but it’ll take you most of a couple of years if you do it yourself. It would have to be pretty important, and if it was, I’d assign a good-sized team to it. Still, it wouldn’t be quick.”
“I don’t know why it would be important. At the moment, it’s just a question.”
But Longoria had been a cop all of his life. He knew that any given question could turn into something critical, so he gave it some more time and passed on another thought. “Here’s a real long shot, but maybe if your juror was foreman, he might have gotten his name in the paper. You could check. Other than that . . .” He shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Not a big deal,” Glitsky said. “Thanks.” Closing the door to his own office, Glitsky went behind his desk and sat down. He had eleven messages on his answering machine, six on his Palm Pilot.
His press conference began in fifteen minutes. Its purpose was for him to explain why the police decision to allow a suspect in a gang-related multiple murder to leave the state had been the proper one. When they’d made the decision, Glitsky had had no doubt. LeShawn Brodie, considered armed and dangerous, had already taken his seat on the Greyhound bus to Salt Lake when they’d received the tip on his whereabouts. Rather than storm the crowded bus and possibly provoke a hostage crisis, Batiste, Glitsky and Lanier had decided to alert Nevada and Utah authorities to follow the bus in unmarked cars and have officers pick the suspect up after he got off, either in Salt Lake or en route. As it happened, LeShawn got out to stretch his legs and play a few slots in Elko, and authorities picked him up without incident. But it was now an extradition case, and Glitsky would be explaining all about it to the press.
Having put on dozens of these shows by now, he could imagine the questions already, and none of them improved his humor. Did Glitsky mean to say that the police knowingly allowed a dangerous criminal to ride for several hours with unsuspecting citizens? Did they have any assurance at all that LeShawn wouldn’t take hostages as soon as he’d come aboard? Couldn’t they have simply used a team of plainclothes cops and arrested him here, avoiding all the extradition hassles? Why did they let him get on the bus in the first place? Why couldn’t they have used tear gas? Or a sniper with tranquilizer darts? Or beamed him directly to a jail cell?
Glitsky opened his middle drawer and popped three antacids. Pressing at the side of his stomach, he checked his watch again. He still had twelve minutes. He hadn’t eaten a bite since his bagel at six-fifteen. He opened his peanut drawer, restored to its original position, and pulled out a small handful of shells, placed them on his desk.
The phone rang and, thoughtlessly, he picked it up. His secretary told him to hold for the Chief, and in two seconds Frank Batiste’s tightly controlled voice was on the line. “Abe, I need you up here right away. The shit’s going to hit the fan.”
“What’s up?”
“LeShawn. He’s escaped.”
When Clarence Jackman had first been elevated to the office of district attorney, he came from managing a private law firm and was relatively inexperienced in city politics. In fact, this was one of the reasons the mayor tapped him for the job—Jackman was a proven, results-oriented administrator, and this as opposed to an agenda-driven zealot was what the office required. In his early months, the DA had bridged the gap in his hands-on knowledge by convening an informal kitchen cabinet every Tuesday to get and keep him current on issues he might not otherwise have considered, the political implications of which he might not otherwise have been aware.
Now, gearing up for his first general election later in the year, Jackman had called together many of the original group again to feel out their respective interests in participating in his campaign. He had pretty much decided he would be announcing at the end of the week, and wanted to take the pulse of his core supporters on that timing as well.
The group assembled at the large, round table at the back of Lou the Greek’s, a bar/restaurant across the street from the Hall of Justice, were all well acquainted. Dismas Hardy sat between Jeff Elliot, the wheelchair-mobile reporter for the Chronicle, and Allan Boscacci, relatively new to the group but apparently here to stay. Abe Glitsky’s wife Treya, who had been with Jackman in his old firm and now worked as his personal secretary, sat on the other side of Boscacci to the DA’s left. Glitsky would have been welcome, but obviously his work had kept him. Some of the old players were missing—David Freeman had passed away and Gina Roake had simply lost interest—and they’d been replaced by a couple of city supervisors, the young, ambitious, cheerily overweight Harlan Fisk and his aunt, a birdlike spinster named Kathy West.
But now the business part of the meeting, such as it was, had come to an end. No surprise—Jackman had assurances of undying support from everyone. Hardy was going to host his fund-raising kickoff party—they thought that for the best buzz and food they’d have it at Moose’s—in about six weeks. Fisk and West would begin calling in favors, wheeling and dealing as necessary, to try to get at least a majority coalition of support from the usually divided Board of Supervisors. Boscacci, a political animal himself, was going to hire and oversee the eventual campaign manager, and funnel much of the day-to-day administration of the campaign across the desk of the abundantly capable Treya. As a supposedly objective and nonpartisan columnist, Elliot could only promise that he’d be inclined to continue and possibly even increase his sympathetic coverage of doings in the DA’s office so long as
Jackman maintained the same policies and programs that had been working so well during his first term; Elliot would also do his damnedest to use his considerable popularity and influence to get the Chronicle to support Jackman come November, something the paper would probably do on its own, although it never hurt to have an inside advocate or two.
So everybody was on the same team, and a convivial spirit reigned at the table as people finished their coffee. Hardy had exchanged some easy pleasantries with the chief assistant DA when he’d sat down, but they hadn’t talked to each other much since. Truth to tell, Hardy found Boscacci’s perennially florid countenance somewhat forbidding—the collar at his neck, always buttoned to the top and festooned with a bow tie, seemed a half size too small; this in turn seemed to stretch the closely shaved skin on his face, to make his dark eyes bulge slightly, so that it always appeared that he might be on the verge of a stroke. Fifty-two years old, he wore his thick, black hair slicked with some kind of hair lotion and pulled straight back off his prominent forehead. But Hardy knew he could be an affable enough guy when he was on your side. He took the opportunity, as though he’d just remembered it, to thank Boscacci for the courtesy he’d shown Amy Wu yesterday in the Andrew Bartlett matter.
Boscacci waved off the comment. “Ah, that was nothing. She’s an easy person to want to do something nice for.” Then, leaning in a bit and lowering his voice, he added, “Besides, she didn’t know it, but she couldn’t have timed it better for us.”
“Us?”
He included the group at the table. “Clarence. All of us. We chalk up the two convictions before the end of the week, when Clarence announces he can say he’s had fifty murder convictions so far this term, not even four years.”
“You’re kidding me. Is that the number?”
“With your associate’s two, it is. And fifty sounds so much bigger than forty-eight, you know what I mean?”
“I don’t know, forty-eight sounds pretty good to me.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Forty-eight is a fine number. But we figure fifty is easier for the man in the street to get his arms around. Pratt’s administration, she didn’t even charge fifty murders.”
“I remember it well,” Hardy said. “I doubt if she charged fifteen.”
Boscacci lowered his voice. “Twelve, if you want to get precise. Which is one of the reasons we’ve got such great numbers. Between you and me, we’re recycling some leftovers.” He grinned in triumph. “So, anyway, your Ms. Wu comes to me with a reasonable and some might even say charitable request, we find a way to make it win-win. She says it’s not even out of the question the kid’s stepfather—you know Hal North? North Cinemas?—will be so grateful for saving the kid thirty plus of hard time, he might want to express his gratitude to Clarence in a more tangible way.”
“She mentioned the same thing to me, but I wouldn’t be expecting that check soon.”
Suddenly the forbidding aspect of Boscacci’s personality appeared. His face darkened perceptibly. Hardy was half-tempted to reach over and undo his bow tie, let him get a breath, but he spoke clearly enough, without any difficulty. “Why? Is there some problem? North should be slobbering in gratitude.”
Thinking fast, and realizing that he’d inadvertently almost tipped Boscacci to his own concerns about Wu’s disposition of the case, Hardy said, “No. I don’t see any problem, Allan. It’s just that eight years is eight years that his stepson is gone. It’s not likely that North’s going to see the deal in quite the same way as you do.”
“Well,” Boscacci said, “somebody ought to go and explain it to him. Given the case against his boy—and it’s a deuce, remember that—it may be the best deal we’ve ever agreed to from a suspect’s point of view. Time we get around to serious fund-raising for Clarence, I’d hope he’d come to understand that. I’d bet your Ms. Wu could even have a little chat with him come fall if she was so inclined, draw the picture a little more clearly.” He paused. “Anybody could do it, she could. She put her mind to it, I believe that woman could charm the skin off a snake. You’re lucky to have her, but you already know that, don’t you?”
Hardy nodded, affable as he could force himself to be. “It’s why we pay her the big bucks, Allan. All that charm and a legal whiz on top of it. If I didn’t believe the cosmic truth that we were always on the side of the angels, I’d say it was close to unfair.”
9
A small jungle of dieffenbachia, rubber trees and other more exotic plants thrived in the corners and against the back wall of the firm’s conference room. Opening to a sheltered outdoor atrium, complete with grass and fountain, the entire outer wall and part of the roof jutted from the line of the building, creating a greenhouse effect, and giving the room its nickname of the Solarium.
Now, at a few minutes after six, Gina Roake, the building’s owner, in a conservative gray business suit, sat with a cup of coffee at the head of the large table that commanded the room. Roake was closing in on fifty years old, but few people would have guessed it. She’d always had good skin and a youthful face. A recent diet and exercise program had accented her chin and cheekbones and slimmed the rest of her down significantly, though she remained a bit zaftig. To her left, Dismas Hardy, emulating his old mentor Freeman, sipped some Baystone Shiraz from an oversized wineglass. Across from him, Wes Farrell was trying to tell what had supposedly just been voted the funniest joke in the world. But he was having some trouble getting to it.
“Who votes on that kind of thing?” Hardy asked. “It’s got to be bogus. Nobody asked me, for example. Gina, anybody ask you?”
“No.”
“See? And we’re both famous for our senses of humor.”
Farrell wasn’t to be denied. “It’s a very prestigious group of joke researchers based in Sweden or someplace. They wouldn’t ask people like you and Gina.”
“So it’s a European joke,” Hardy said, “which strikes me as pretty arrogantly Eurocentric. Okay, so now it’s like, in some Swede’s opinion, the funniest joke in the world. Those wacky Swedes, with the highest suicide rate in the world and all.”
“Can I tell the joke?” Farrell asked. “And then you decide.”
“All right,” Hardy said. “But telling us up front that this is the funniest joke in the world, it’s guaranteed to be forty percent less funny.”
Farrell persisted. “You’ll still get sixty percent of it. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“I can’t wait,” Roake said.
But Hardy wasn’t through yet. “Did you laugh out loud when you heard it, Wes?”
“No, but I never laugh out loud at jokes.”
“You laughed at Dirty Harold.”
Farrell broke a grin. “True. I did.”
“So based on your own response, this new funniest joke in the world isn’t as funny as the Dirty Harold joke.”
“Fucking lawyers,” Farrell said. “Everything’s an argument.”
“What’s the Dirty Harold joke?” Roake asked.
Hardy turned to her. “This little kid with a filthy mouth, so the teacher won’t ever call on him. Then one day they’re going through the alphabet, finding words that start with a given letter and then they use the word in a sentence. They finally get to ‘e’—Harold’s hand has been up the whole time on every letter—but she figures there aren’t any filthy words that start with ‘e,’ so she calls on him . . .”
“Elf!” Roake exclaimed, smiling. “I know an elf with a big prick.”
“That’s it.” Hardy drank some wine.
Farrell seized his chance. “So Holmes and Watson go camping and set up their tent and they go to sleep. Two hours later, Holmes goes, ‘Watson, what do you see?’ and Watson goes, ‘I see millions and millions of stars. And Holmes says, ‘And what do you deduce from that?’ Watson says, ‘I imagine each star has planets around it just like our own, with a chance of life on each one.’ And Holmes goes, ‘Watson, you fool, someone’s stolen our tent.’ ”
“So.” Roake maintained a pok
er face. “Having heard the joke, maybe now we can begin. I’ve got a handball game in forty-five minutes.”
They were gathered for their monthly partners overview—business, after all—and Hardy spent the next twenty minutes going over the firm’s numbers. The associates were all well utilized—the firm was cranking along, racking up substantial fees almost as though it were on automatic pilot. Hardy’s concerns about Wu’s deal with Boscacci might have been a legitimate topic for discussion on another day, but so far nothing had actually gone wrong, and he elected to keep his qualms under his hat.
Under “other business,” Hardy mentioned the firm’s upcoming involvement in support of the Jackman campaign, which he considered an opportunity as good as any to broach the one sensitive topic they needed to discuss. Might the Jackman candidacy entice Roake back to work, Hardy wondered. To something approaching regular hours?
Roake straightened up in her chair. Her eyes flicked between the two men. “I resent the hell out of that question, Diz. What I do with my time is my business.”
Hardy’s gaze didn’t flinch. He kept any sign of edge out of his voice. “I’m not arguing with that, Gina. You’ve earned whatever time you feel you need. But as a business matter for the firm, you’re drawing a decent salary for yourself and your own private secretary and you’ve got a big corner office that’s essentially sitting unused.”
Roake clipped off her words. “How about if I just quit and start charging the kind of rent for this building that another firm would have to pay? I could give up my decent salary and I’d still be making more money than I am now. How about that?”
Hardy shook his head. “That’s not what I want. I don’t think it’s what you want. I wasn’t speaking critically. If you don’t want to do any more billing, you’ve got my complete support. Wes’s, too. But when we started up together, we had a business plan that included the three of us bringing in business and billing our own time. And that’s not happening. Even with our otherwise good utilization, we’re struggling to make those original numbers.”
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 152