“Then you’ll probably find it.”
“Let’s hope,” Glitsky said. “Even though it’s undoubtedly a complete waste of time for everybody, would you please tell Ms. Wu we want to see her at the Hall, as in now? Could that be arranged?”
“Probably. I really did drop her off down there an hour ago to get her car. She was planning to go home and get some sleep, but she might be in your outer office even as we speak, hoping to chat with your august personage-hood. Though you might want to ask around at Lou the Greek’s first. She was evidently the main event there last night. People will remember her.”
“I’m sure they will.” He took a beat. Then: “Do you think it could have been political?”
Hardy’s mouth went tight. “I don’t know, Abe. It’s a reach. The campaign hasn’t even begun yet. And if you want to take somebody out, you take out the candidate, not his eventual campaign manager, wouldn’t you think?” He put his cup down, looked into Glitsky’s face. “But no physical evidence, huh?”
“One deformed slug.”
“Do you ever wish you’d let yourself swear once in a while?”
Glitsky stood up, brushed some imaginary lint from his uniform. “All the time, Diz,” he said. “All the darned time.”
The pale, polished wood of the door to Hardy’s old office upstairs displayed a patchwork of bumper stickers. “Imagine Whirled Peas,” “Kill Your Television,” “Practice Random Acts of Kindness,” “Wouldn’t It Be Great If Schools Had Everything They Needed and the Government Had to Hold a Bake Sale to Build a Bomb?” “Support the Right to Arm Bears,” “Jesus Is Coming and Boy, Is He Pissed.” Perhaps twenty more in the same vein, all of them to go with Wes Farrell’s collection of T-shirts.
For not the first time, as he stared at this monument to the First Amendment right to freedom of speech and expression, Hardy wondered if they’d been smart to bring Wes Farrell aboard as one of the firm’s founding partners. As a business move, it had seemed defensible enough at the time. Farrell had come up the hard way in the legal profession, taking one bleeding heart case after another, forgiving nonpayments even while he was going broke himself.
But, almost in spite of himself, he’d built a practice with solid referrals, a few retained accounts, lots of estate and trust work. Plus, he practiced good lawyering. He helped his clients, cared about them, found his own motivation in their interests. In many ways, leaving his superficial lack of professionalism aside, he was the perfect attorney. He dressed well in court, deferred to judges, respected the clerical staff. And there was no question that now he more than carried his own weight in the firm.
But if Phyllis thought Hardy was slightly out of the lawyer mode, Farrell was well into the lunatic range, although due to his good manners, Phyllis had not yet caught on. And, fortunately for Wes and perhaps the rest of the firm, Phyllis’s entire range of migration at work consisted of the receptionist’s station and the strip of floor between that and the women’s room. She ate and took breaks in her chair in the lobby, surrounded by her phones and the waist-high, polished mahogany, circular cubby Freeman had built for her back in 1985, when he’d originally bought and renovated the building.
So far as Hardy knew, Phyllis had never walked up the fourteen steps to his old office, now Farrell’s domain. He was sure that if she had, they’d have known it because she’d have screamed in dismay before dying of chagrin and mortification on the spot.
Hardy heard Farrell talking within, a telephone call. He tapped once and opened the door. He’d worked in this space for most of a decade and the move from it had been if not traumatic, then at least portentous. A Rubicon of sorts. He’d jettisoned his old desk, his metal filing cabinets, the Sears furniture. He’d come up once after all the stuff had been taken out and stood in the empty room, turning a page in his life.
Now, with Farrell’s furnishings, the place belonged heart and soul to the new guy, and reflected some sense of who he was. The first change—the desk—was so fundamental that Hardy had never even considered it. To him, a desk obviously went in the middle of the room, facing the door. It was the podium from which you conducted business. You could use it to create a sense of distance or formality. Most simply, it held your work stuff.
Farrell didn’t think so. He had placed his in one of the room’s corners, underneath one of the Sutter Street windows. There was a chair behind it, but Farrell almost never sat in it. At the moment, the chair along with the surface of the desk was cluttered with paper—red folders, three-ring binders, yellow legal pads, mail opened and unopened, a month’s worth of newspapers—everything overflowing onto everything else.
The corner desk placement left a relatively vast open space that Farrell had essentially made into an informal living room. When Hardy came in, Farrell was stretched out—tie and shoes off—on the longer couch portion of his green, matching sectional set. In one corner, an overgrown rubber tree draped itself over an arm of his wing chair. A brass and bamboo magazine table held a small television in the other corner. On the wall, where Hardy’s dartboard had presided, Farrell had mounted a smallish hoop for his Nerf balls. Over by the bar/counter, there was still lots of room behind the couch for up to four people to play at the foosball table. On the other wall, by the desk, Farrell tended to use butcher paper on which he would draw flowcharts to track his various cases.
Farrell held up a finger, indicating he’d be a minute. Hardy crossed over behind the couch, picked up two Nerf basketballs from the floor, and took a shot, then another. He retrieved the balls, did it again. After a few rounds, Farrell said good-bye to whoever it was and sat up. “What’s up?” he asked. “Though you’ve got to be quick. I’ve got a client coming up here in ten minutes.”
“So you cleaned up for him?”
Farrell checked all around, looking for a problem, couldn’t find one. “The guy’s been in jail ten of the last twelve years and I’m afraid that in spite of my best efforts, he’s going back soon. This will be the nicest room he’s seen. I like my clients to feel comfortable. So how can I help you?”
Hardy tossed him the ball he was holding. “I can’t find my darts. I wonder if you might have carried them out inadvertently.”
Farrell shot, patted his pockets. “I don’t think so.” He went over and grabbed his jacket, made a show of a search. “Nope, not here either. When did you miss them?”
“Just now. A few minutes ago. I was going to meditate, as I like to do . . .”
“You check your desk?”
“Everywhere. I can’t understand it. I don’t know where they’d go.”
Farrell looked at his watch. “I’m sure they’ll turn up. What were you meditating on?”
Hardy rested a haunch on the back of the sectional. “Allan Boscacci, mostly. Amy a little bit. I’ve hooked up with her on this juvenile case she’s been handling, and not a minute too soon, either.”
“How’s she connected to Boscacci?” Farrell had sat down and was tying his shoes. “Hell of a thing, though, wasn’t it? I think I’m in the minority—I usually am—but I kind of liked the guy. Straight shooter, no bullshit.”
Hardy nodded soberly. “I know. I felt the same way.”
“Anybody have a clue who did it? Or why? Or anything?”
“Not yet. Abe was by here this morning. We exchanged a few bon mots.” Hardy hesitated. “He seemed to entertain the thought that it might have been Amy.”
Farrell stopped with his shoes, snapped his head up. “Get out.”
“That’s what I told him. You know the deal that went south? Allan yelled at her and people heard. But, fortunately or not, Amy was at Lou the Greek’s getting picked up and pasted about the time Allan must have walked by outside.”
“So she’s clear now, right?”
“I don’t think she ever wasn’t. But Abe will get her statement on tape anyway because that’s what he does.” He was still holding one of the Nerf balls and dropped it onto the couch. “But still, on Amy, Clarence also called. He was
his usual low-key and polite self, but said that given the history of this Bartlett affair to date with Amy and Allan and all that, he was sure I’d understand why he was pushing for the seven-oh-seven to get Bartlett back into adult court as soon as possible. He couldn’t let people—even my good, well-meaning associates—get away with manipulating his office. Think of the precedent.”
“Think of it,” Farrell said. “How soon?”
“What’s today? Thursday?” Hardy asked. “Next Tuesday. Five days.”
“Five days?”
“That’s what I said.”
“He can’t do that. He’ll hand us an appeal.”
“I said that, too, but I just now checked and there’s no rule says he can’t. So he can. On the appeal, he says there can’t be one since he could have filed on the kid directly as an adult to begin with. He’s taking the position that we can’t base an appeal on some inadequacy in a hearing we should never have had to begin with.”
“But nobody can prepare for any kind of hearing in five days. It’s just not doable.”
“That was more or less his point, Wes. Clarence wants the boy back upstairs where he belongs, and he wants him there now, to remove the taint, as he so delicately phrased it. After that, we can waive time for the Px”—the preliminary hearing—“and take as long as we want preparing for trial. But Andrew’s out of juvenile next week if Clarence has anything to say about it. And then he’s looking at life without.”
“You don’t want to let him get there.”
“No,” Hardy said. “I’ve got that part figured out. The rest of it’s a little murky.”
Farrell got to his feet, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up and grabbed his tie. “So. Are we still throwing that campaign kickoff party for our good friend Clarence?”
Hardy wasn’t laughing. “Nothing’s easy,” he said.
“Stop the presses. You’re onto something.”
Phyllis buzzed, telling him his client was here, on his way up. “Sorry, but you’ve got to go,” Farrell said. “This guy—my client?—he really hates lawyers.”
14
Wu awoke at Hardy’s house to another hangover of staggering proportions. Stabbing pain wracked every cell and joint in her body. Pinpoints of flashing light hovered in the periphery of her vision. How many drinks had she had at Lou’s? She thought she’d counted six, but it might have been seven or eight, even nine. More than one guy was buying, hoping to get lucky, and Lou was famous for his heavy pour.
Nine drinks? Eighteen to twenty ounces of vodka. She weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. She was lucky to be alive.
After Hardy had driven her to the All-Day and she’d picked up her car, he had recommended that she take yet another sick day, go home and sleep. And that’s what she’d done. After a six-hour rest, at around three o’clock, she called work and left the message that she’d be back in the office tomorrow.
Then, in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, she walked from her apartment down to the Marina green. The sun sparkled off the Bay, and though the breeze was light, it carried a chill. She crawled over some enormous breakwater boulders and sat invisible down in among the stones, facing the water and hugging herself for warmth. There, she cried herself out.
When she came back to her apartment, she found that Hardy had left a message. Glitsky really for truly did want a statement from her right away. The 707 hearing would be in five days, next Tuesday.
Five days.
She played the message again, thinking she couldn’t have heard it right. But it sounded the same the second time. She sat in her chair and stared blankly out her window. Five days was impossible. She couldn’t possibly prepare.
But apparently, that’s all the time she had. The DA and perhaps the judge were sending a very clear message to her, venting the system’s righteous pique. It wasn’t going to be a matter of choice anymore, of what she’d prefer, of what she could work out with Brandt or Jackman. With the clock now ticking, she had to meet with the Norths, get together with Hardy, above all find out more about who Andrew really was. If she had only five days, she had to start now on some real defense that would be worthy of the name. Her hangover wasn’t forgotten—her head still throbbed with a dull and persistent pain—but she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of suffering. She had to go to work. Lifting the phone, she punched in the Norths’ number.
Glitsky’s demand for her statement, to the extent that it had registered as important at all, was nowhere among her priorities.
Linda North greeted her phone call warmly enough. After all, Wu had partially convinced them that she’d played a significant role in keeping Andrew in the juvenile system for the time being. At least he wasn’t going to adult court yet and he still wasn’t looking at life in prison. Wu’s strategy had been harrowing and tense, but ultimately successful. They still had confidence in her.
But Linda had been just leaving the house to get her hair done when she picked up Wu’s call. She told her that this wasn’t really a good time. It was her regular weekly hair appointment, and if she missed it, Michael would simply give away the time forever to someone else and she’d have to rearrange her entire schedule. It was a pain, but that was how he was. All these artiste hairdressers were the same. She was sure Wu understood.
In any event, Hal couldn’t come home right now anyway. He’d already missed a lot of work because of this whole problem with Andrew. And when he wasn’t in the office, Linda told her, there were always problems. But if it was important and time-sensitive, Wu should just call Hal at work and meet with him there. He’d fill Linda in when they got together later.
Wu, trying to be flexible, had suggested that she meet them both at their home when Hal’s work was done and she’d finished with her hair. But no. It wasn’t a good night for that, either. Hal had some black-tie stag food-and-wine event. Linda was planning to see Andrew later on at the YGC, but if Wu needed to talk to one of them right away, she should really just go to Hal’s office and talk with him there. That would work out. There wasn’t any real crisis with Andrew or anything, was there? If not, Hal was better at details anyway. He would be the one to talk to. He and Linda had great communication and he’d keep her informed of anything Amy thought was important.
The headquarters of North Cinemas was located on Battery Street near the Embarcadero. The three-story building itself was large—it took up most of the block—with a long and low, modern look, brick and glass. Wu parked on-site under the building, in a reserved spot next to Hal’s to which the attendant had directed her.
Still in her jeans and sweater—the Norths might not have been anxious to meet with her, but she’d left her own home in a hurry—she took the elevator to the top floor, then turned right and walked a long hallway covered with a soothing green industrial carpet. The walls were adorned on both sides with framed movie posters, dozens of them. Having checked in and been told by the polite, spike-haired young blond woman at the desk that Mr. North was expecting her and would be able to meet with her shortly, she waited in the cool and spacious reception area, flipping through the pages of Entertainment Weekly. Through the floor-to-ceiling tinted window, she looked across the bay to Treasure Island, then to Berkeley beyond. In the clear afternoon light, under the breeze-swept sky, both looked close enough to touch.
When she finished a cursory perusal of the magazine, she looked at her watch and frowned. Giving it one more minute, she ran out of patience, got up and walked to the reception desk again. “I’m sorry. Is Mr. North being held up?”
The young woman looked up. “I’m sure he’s busy. He said he’d be right out.”
“Yes, but I wonder if you would mind checking again. It’s been fifteen minutes.”
The woman lowered her voice, spoke conspiratorially. “Fifteen minutes is nothing.”
Wu forced a tolerant smile. “I’m afraid it is to me. Would you mind trying him again please? Amy Wu.”
She popped her gum and shrugged. “Sure. I remember.” Pushing a few but
tons on the console in front of her, she spoke into her headset. “Hal? Ms. Wu’s still waiting.” A pause. “Okay. Sure, I’ll tell her.” She ended the connection, looked at Wu. “He says two more minutes.” But she held up her hand, opened and closed it twice slowly—the message clear. It was going to be closer to ten.
It was eight.
Projecting energy and command, Hal appeared from out of nowhere and suddenly was standing in front of where Wu sat. “Amy, sorry to have kept you. All kinds of madness going on back there. As usual. We’re supposed to open the new Disney tonight and somehow somebody over in Walnut Creek lost six reels. Tell me where the hell you mislay six reels, I’d like to know. I gotta think somebody’s stealin’ them.” She stood and they shook hands. “Anyway, I’m here now. What’s the problem? I thought we were coasting on the legal stuff for a while until we got this next hearing scheduled. Is everything okay with Andrew?”
Wu was somewhat gratified to hear that both parents at least asked about Andrew’s welfare. “Yes, sir. I think he’s fine. I’m planning to go on up and see him after I leave here.”
“Good. He told Linda he thinks you’re upset with him, about what he did. He’ll be glad to see you.”
“So Linda already visited him today? She said she was going tonight, too.”
“Did she? I don’t know. What’s today, Thursday? Thursday is normally her bridge group in the morning, I think, but maybe she went up. You’d have to ask her. Anyway. So what’s up you need to see us all the sudden? You want to stay out here, by the way? Go in to my office? Whatever.”
“Here is fine. I just wanted to tell you that they have scheduled the next hearing.” She paused. “And it’s for next Tuesday.”
The slab face went into a shock riff. “Next Tuesday?” He counted silently to himself. “Five days. That’s like it might as well be tomorrow, isn’t it? I thought the courts liked to move slow on this stuff.”
“Most of the time they do. In this case, the DA’s mad Andrew didn’t admit when he thought he was going to. He’s expressing his displeasure.”
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 158