John Lescroart (15 page)

But as soon as he saw Visser, he realized that this was wishful thinking. This beefy hunk of trailer trash couldn't be Hardy's man. Still, McNeil had let him into his office, so he'd be polite. He rose out of his seat, came around his desk, extended his hand. “Mr. Visser. Rich McNeil. What can I do for you?”

The big man's grip crushed his hand. Intimidation with a smile. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. You mind if I sit down a minute?”

McNeil opened and closed his hand, relieved that it still seemed to be working. “Not at all. I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time, but . . .”

“I won't take much, then.” Visser pulled his pants at his thighs, settled back into one of McNeil's leather armchairs, looked around the office. “Nice place,” he said. “I got an office in an old warehouse on Pier 42. Great view, right on the water. Treasure Island, the bridge. But no chairs like this.”

“Well . . .” McNeil didn't have a chitchat answer prepared. He pulled a chair up, put on an expectant expression. “So . . .” He waited.

Visser took another moment appreciating his comfort level, the buildings out the windows. He shifted his shoulders, leaned into the leather, came back to McNeil. “Just so you know,” he began, “so we're clear, I'm working for Dash Logan, Mr. Galt's attorney. He thought it might be . . . helpful if you and me had a discussion about what we're looking at here, kind of off the record.”

But McNeil was shaking his head. “I don't know if that's a good idea. My lawyer told me . . .”

“No, c'mon, hey. Lawyers, I know. I work for one. Dash
talked to your lawyer yesterday, which is why I'm here today, call it a courtesy. Your guy—Hardy, is it?—he seems to think settling this case out of court isn't a good idea, says we've got no criminal case. But I gotta tell you . . .” The squinting eyes shifted around the office.

“What?” McNeil prompted.

With some effort, Visser brought his bulk forward on the chair. “Here's the thing,” he began, all sincerity. His voice dropped a few decibels. “This stuff happens in these cases, the lawyers, they start pissing at each other, pretty soon everybody loses. Mr. Logan, he hates to see that . . .”

“Well.” McNeil wanted no more of this. He started to stand up. “Be that as it may, I really can't—”

“The thing is, Rich,” Visser interrupted, almost coming out of his own chair, intimidating McNeil again back into his. “I used to be a cop a lot of years. I know the kind of things they're looking for and they're going to get it. I mean, everybody's got a skeleton in their closet—tax stuff, couple of times you maybe took cash for rent without receipts. This is stuff your guy Hardy wouldn't know about.”

“I'd be surprised at that,” McNeil said levelly. “He used to be a cop himself.”

“Hardy did?”

McNeil pressed his advantage. “That's right. So I get the feeling he's pretty much on top of what's going on, and he's telling me there's no case. Which is also what I believe, since I know Manny Galt is a liar, especially about giving me cash for rent. That didn't happen. None of it happened. So if that's all”—McNeil started to get up again—“thanks for coming by, but I'm afraid we don't have anything else to discuss.” He braved a smile. “We're just going to have to let the lawyers duke it out.”

But Visser didn't take the hint. Instead, he leaned back again, rubbed a palm against the smooth leather armrest. “Well, okay. It's just a case like this goes forward, it can get ugly. And Mr. Logan doesn't want that.”

“Neither does Mr. Hardy. We'll just have to let the
facts decide.” He gestured with his palms out, forced another smile. “Well, if that's all, I do have a pretty busy morning . . .”

At last, Visser got himself out of the chair. “Okay, but just for an example.”

“What's that?”

“You used to have a secretary named Linda Cook, didn't you?”

McNeil felt his stomach go hollow. “What about her? That was a mistake. A long time ago. My wife knows all about it.”

“Yeah, sure. But the kids, you know, the grandkids. That whole thing comes up, it'd be kind of sad for them, the whole way they think about you.”

A shaky breath, steel now in the voice. “Get the hell out of here.”

The fury and fear had no effect on Visser. He spread his own palms in a reflection of McNeil's earlier dismissal. “All I'm saying is this kind of thing gets around in the public, it doesn't do you any good. You hear what I'm saying? Nobody needs that kind of aggravation, huh? Aren't I right?”

 

They were in the front window of a tiny little lunch place on Union, and Jody Burgess had given up even picking at her salad. Instead, she glared across the table at her daughter, who had just told her after a meal full of preamble that she and Jeff were not going to contribute to the payment for Cole's defense. “I don't see how you can be so unfeeling,” she said. “This is your own brother.”

Dorothy hadn't even touched her sandwich, and it was her favorite—focaccia, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes. She had no problem understanding how she could be so unfeeling—she'd had lots of practice, that was how. Every time she'd been tempted to feel something like compassion or sorrow or simple pity for her brother over the past half dozen years, she'd regretted it, and now the temptation wasn't all that great any longer. In fact, it was no longer a temptation at all.

But she told herself that this was her mother, and although they'd had similar discussions hundreds of times before, she felt she still owed her somehow. Damn it.

So she answered with her trademark enforced calm. “My own brother,” she said, “desperately needed a place to stay and because I
felt
something for him, I let him live in my house with my rather seriously handicapped husband and
my own children
. And Mom, you may remember this, you know what his thanks was? He stole from us. Repeatedly. From the kids' own piggy banks even. Can you believe that one? That was my reward for being nice to him, that the kids now will always remember Uncle Cole as a thief, if not a murderer. And isn't that a special thing for them to carry around for the rest of their lives?”

Jody nodded, swallowed. She'd heard all of this before. And, because it was her nature, she was ready with a response. “He's not a murderer.”

“Well, he damn well is a thief.”

“He can't help himself, Dorothy. He's in the grip of something bigger than he is.”

“Oh, please.”

“It's true. You know it's true.”

“It may be, Mom, but
I just don't care anymore
. I don't care. Do you hear me?”

Jody stared into the face across the table, reached out her hand, touched her daughter's. “Honey . . .”

“No!” Dorothy pulled her hand away. “No. Not this time.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I'm not going to do anything.”

“You'll just let him go?”

Dorothy nodded, her jaw set. “Yep.”

“They're asking for the death penalty, Dorothy. You can't want him to die?”

A sigh. “This is San Francisco, Mom. No jury is going to give him the death penalty. He's not going to die.”

“Well, the district attorney sure doesn't agree with you.”

“The district attorney . . .” Dorothy's gaze was flat. “He's gone anyway, Mom. He's not coming back.”

“I don't believe that.”

“I know, but you should. Because it's true.”

Another silence.

Jody often thought that she was beyond tears. Certainly, only a few years ago if she'd heard Dorothy say that her only son Cole wasn't ever coming back, wasn't ever going to be her wonderful boy again, she would have welled up. But now there was nothing like that—only a deep weariness, but one that somehow didn't threaten her resolve. “Look, how about if we just talk to Mr. Hardy and . . .”

Dorothy was shaking her head. “Mom, we've got three children to send to college if we can. Jeff's medical expenses are sure not going to go down. We just can't help here, even if we wanted to, which we don't. And frankly, Mom—I've got to say this—I don't know why you do.”

“He's my only son, Dorothy. That's why.”

“That's not a good answer, Mom. Cole's ruined your life. Don't you see that?”

“He hasn't.”

“Oh no, that's right. He's enriched it, I suppose?” Dorothy picked up her napkin, wiped her mouth nervously, took a deep breath. “He's ruined your life.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true, that's why. Come on, Mom, look what he's done. He's forced you to move out here—”

Jody held up her hand, stopping her. “No! There! That's a good example. He didn't force me.”

“You sold the house we both grew up in, where you'd planned to live the rest of your life—you told me this, remember?—because after we threw him out, you wanted a place near Cole in case he couldn't make it on his own. Tell me that isn't true!”

Jody couldn't say that, since it was.

“So now you're living in some dreary little apartment,
uprooted from all your friends, everybody you've known your whole life, all alone . . .”

“I get to see my grandchildren.”

“Which wasn't an issue until Cole moved out here. That's not why you're here, Mom. You know that. It's Cole. It's always Cole, all the sacrifices, and you know what? He doesn't care. They haven't done any good.”

Jody cast her eyes around the restaurant, to the street outside, back to her daughter. “He has stayed with me. He needs a place.”

“So let him get one, Mom. Christ, he's twenty-seven years old.”

“I can't let him die.”

“You can't save him. Don't you see that? He'll never grow up if you don't let him. You're letting him go on the way he does.”

“I don't have any option, hon. He just needs—”

“Stop talking about his needs!” Dorothy, suddenly, had heard enough and her string snapped. Her voice had a hoarse quality, but everyone in the restaurant heard it. “He needs to get a life. He needs to beat this thing, okay, but you can't help him. Nobody can. He needs to fail and figure it out or else he needs to die.” She brought the napkin back to her lips, shocked at her own outburst.

But she wasn't really through, not yet. She leaned forward, her voice more modulated. “And now you're going to pay Mr. Hardy by yourself, aren't you? Do you know how much that's going to be? It's going to wipe you out, your savings, and then what? Then what's it all been for?”

“But he didn't kill this woman. He needs a good lawyer.”

“He
confessed,
Mom.”

Which meant nothing to Jody. “Not really, and if Mr. Hardy can get him off, then he can get in some program . . .”

“Oh, Jesus, when will it end? Give me a break.”

“Can I get you ladies some more water?” It was the
waiter, solicitous in his white shirt and black vest. “Some dessert? Coffee?”

Embarrassed, getting the message, Dorothy shook her head. “Just a check, please, thanks.” After he'd nodded—relieved—and gone off, she leaned across the table and whispered, “You know, Mom, I shouldn't even have gone to see Dismas. That was my last mistake for Cole. I should have just let him die then in jail if he was going to. Get the whole thing over with.”

“Don't say that,” her mom implored. “You don't mean that.”

Shaking her head in disgust, Dorothy threw her napkin down on her plate. It was hopeless.

C
larence Jackman was seated at the head of the mammoth mahogany table that filled the center of the conference room at his firm's offices. Assuming correctly that the arraignment of Cole Burgess would attract a number of Elaine's friends and colleagues, Jackman had arranged a catered lunch and had passed the word outside the courtroom that those whose hearts were in the right place were welcome.

This turned out to be a sizable group, nearly two dozen people, although by now—getting on to one-thirty—many had returned to their jobs or classes. The general buzz had subsided and most of the food was gone. Jackman shook hands good-bye with a young law intern who wanted to send in a résumé, then grabbed a bottled water from the sideboard and pulled up a chair near the knot of people—most of them, Jackman gathered, from law school—who remained at the far end of the room, deep in a conversation that had progressively picked up some heat.

“There wasn't any reason, that's the whole point! You admit a reason, you give Hardy his ammunition to get the scumbag off.” This outburst came from Elaine Wager's fiancé, Jonas Walsh. In his mid-thirties, big hair, extraordinarily handsome face, expensive clothes, Walsh was a surgeon who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and maybe he hadn't. He was clearly not in the habit of hearing his opinions questioned, and the wringer he'd been through since Elaine's death probably made him sound testier than he intended.

The current object of his wrath was Peter Nesbitt,
associate dean of Hastings Law School. He was a reedy-voiced logician in bow tie and corduroy sports coat. “All I'm saying,” Nesbitt persisted, “is that if Burgess in fact didn't voluntarily confess—”

“But he did, for Christ's sake.” For corroboration, Walsh turned to the others gathered around. “Am I wrong here? Is this really in dispute?”

“Not really, Jonas.” Treya Ghent sat next to him. It was obvious to Jackman that the two knew each other, perhaps well. Treya didn't really smile, but there was something almost like humor in her attitude and body language as she attempted to pour oil on the waters. She patted Walsh's hand reassuringly. “They're only talking about lawyer strategy.”

“The ever fascinating . . .” One of the female students, to general appreciation.

Jackman again noticed the sense of quiet strength that the Ghent woman exuded. Today, as always, she wore the simplest of outfits—black slacks, a fashionably baggy gray sweater, a thin gold chain necklace, little or no makeup. He had to force himself to take his eyes off her.

Billable hours or not, he resolved, I've got to think hard before I let this one go.

“So what are you saying, Jonas?” Jackman asked, eager to be in on it. “What's the argument?”

“I'm saying that all this shoptalk about maybe somebody having a reason to kill Elaine, it plays right into his lawyer's hands. Hell, you're a lawyer. Don't you think that's right?”

Jackman appeared to ponder, looked over at Peter Nesbitt. “I suppose. But what I hear from Peter is don't let your rage over the act blind you to the facts. If this man Burgess didn't do it, you'd want to know who did, right?”

“Of course. But he did do it.”

Nesbitt spoke up again, shrugging. “What I'm saying is that this Hardy fellow is just doing his job, trying to create doubt from the outset. It's a good technique.”

“Well, excuse me all to hell if I can't get behind it. What I know is that Elaine's gone. It doesn't leave me much in the mood for all this hypothetical bullshit.”

Treya touched his hand again. “Jonas. They don't mean . . .”

He hung his head. “Okay, I know, I know.” Abruptly he stood up, rubbed a palm down the side of his face. “Sorry,” he blurted. “This just isn't some mind game for me.” He looked around the table. “Down in the courtroom, all of you seemed as disgusted as I was. And now here . . .”

“We're only saying it raises some interesting points,” Nesbitt said.

“I'm not interested in them. It seems to me they caught the guy, now they're figuring out how they're going to let him go.”

“Well,” the woman who'd made the earlier comment said, “if she did have enemies, and we all know she did . . .”

Walsh wasn't having it. “If she did, it wasn't one of them. It was this kid.”

Jackman felt he ought to intervene. The young doctor was in the grip of his emotions. He wasn't used to the endless debate which was the cornerstone of nearly every gathering of law students and which could, Jackman silently agreed, in fact get wearisome. “We all agree with you, Jonas.”

“That's funny. It doesn't sound like that.”

“We were all outraged by the events in court today. I think you heard that during the arraignment. We all walked in there having heard about the confession, wanting blood, believing that Mr. Burgess was guilty. I think we all believe it still.”

Nods from around the table.

Walsh had remained standing, now nodding in acknowledgment. Suddenly a shadow seemed to cross his face. He bit down on his lip, brought a hand up to his mouth. “I'm sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I
can't . . .” He shook his head again, got some composure, managed to speak. “Excuse me.” Then he was out the door.

Treya Ghent excused herself as well, pushed back her chair, got up, followed him.

As her steps receded down the hallway, the room grew silent. Several of the students exchanged glances—an awkward moment. The woman spoke up again. “The grieving man and his comforter.” But this time there was no appreciative chortle from the group.

“If it were me,” Nesbitt began. His voice told it all. He was in debate mode. He addressed the seated students. “I think I'd go along with Mr. Jackman's comments. It's important to nail the case down against every possible doubt. Eliminate every other possible suspect. Disprove every alternative. Do any among you not feel that way?”

There weren't any takers.

The thin voice pressed the point. “And yet Dr. Walsh, apparently, has no interest in that pursuit. Which could mean . . . what?”

Jackman wasn't in the mood to listen to any more theorizing. Nesbitt's hypothetical point was the bloodless logic of the academic. Walsh's genuine emotion was much more real—he was simply too upset to deal rationally with the case. In any event, the table would be cleared soon, and the last of his guests dispersed.

Time was money. He had to go back to work.

 

Treya saw him turn into Elaine's old office, across from her cubicle. He'd closed the door and she knocked, waited, knocked again—no answer. She turned the knob.

“Jonas?” Whispering.

The shades were drawn and the room was dim, but she had no trouble making him out, slumped in Elaine's chair, feet up on her desk, hands over his eyes. Treya quickly checked the hall in both directions, saw no one and slipped inside. She closed the door again behind her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sure. Great.” He drew a deep, audible breath. “I don't want to hear about her enemies.”

“I know.”

She waited, standing by the door. When her eyes had adjusted more to the light, she crossed the small room, removed some of Elaine's files from where they sat on her usual chair, stacked them on the file cabinet next to the desk. Sitting, she waited some more.

He barely lifted his head. “Pretty mature display, huh?”

“Could have been way worse. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.”

“I think I'd have to get some to lose it.”

“Well, when you do.”

She'd known Jonas for a little over three years, since he and Elaine had first become an item, and although over time he had ceased to be among her favorite people, early on they had bonded as coconspirators. This was because in the first few months of dating between her black activist boss and her white doctor boyfriend, the relationship had been extremely clandestine—secret meetings in hotel rooms, daytime trysts where Treya would loan them her apartment, lunch in this room at the firm.

All this was before Elaine had been ready to commit, and Treya hadn't been able to blame her, though at first, before she'd seen his ego and tantrums and selfishness, she did feel for the pressure it put on Jonas.

As the daughter of a prominent African-American U.S. senator, Elaine had been informally claimed by the Bay Area black community as one of its new generation of leaders. The political side of her—she did, after all, have her mother's blood—loved it. In the first couple of years after she left the D.A.'s office, she had been squired around to her fund-raising appearances and campaign dinners by a succession of high-visibility black men. Over the years, the
Chronicle
's society column had linked her romantically with not a few of her clients, with a city supervisor, with a running back for the 49ers, with a co-anchor on one of the nightly news programs.

Elaine had liked each of them for various reasons, though none of these or several other boyfriends had
lasted more than a couple of months. This wasn't a matter of much concern to her—she'd been in love once when she was younger and she knew what it felt like, and it wasn't this. She assumed it would only be a matter of time before she met the right man again, and then she would marry him and settle down.

Working at Rand & Jackman, speaking at neighborhood organizations, black business seminars, inner-city development projects, she was leading a full, busy life that only rarely intersected with the white community.

Treya knew that Elaine didn't think much about this segregation. It was simply a fact of her life. She had no strong prejudice against white people—the man who'd raised her, Dana Wager, had been white—but except for formal gatherings, there was little opportunity to meet anyone, socially or otherwise, who wasn't black.

Then she came down with a stomachache that sharpened and deepened—right side, localized—over a two-day period. On the third morning, she was at her desk trying to work when Treya came in with some papers and gently brushed against her. Elaine screamed, nearly blacking out from the pain as her appendix burst. The fever peaked at 104.

Jonas was the emergency room surgeon, and he saved her life.

But in the first months, Elaine didn't trust the feeling. It wasn't at all like the earlier, star-crossed love she'd experienced with Chris Locke, the older, married district attorney. No, Jonas was young, brilliant, sexy. And the feeling, she'd confided to Treya, was like nothing else—it was much better. In fact, she thought, it was too good to last.

And since it would have to end, Elaine was at first afraid to threaten her standing in the community over a few moments of passion. Terrified of losing clients, clout and credibility, she wanted to keep the affair hidden until it blew over, as it surely would.

But it didn't.

They went public, and despite Elaine's concerns, the
whole race thing turned out to be pretty much a nonissue. About the only fallout she'd experienced was that she'd lost a jihad-oriented Islamic student she'd been mentoring, and that Elaine had come to view as a blessing. Finally, a year ago, she and Jonas had announced their engagement.

Treya, for her part, certainly understood the original attraction. Jonas had movie-star looks and projected a superconfident
maleness
that was undeniable. She hadn't been completely immune to it herself on some level. But after she got to know him, she wasn't completely thrilled that this man had been Elaine's life choice.

His world, she discovered, revolved entirely around himself and his work. During the courtship rush, he'd made time for Elaine whenever he could, but when that ended—once he'd won her love and commitment—he reverted to his old schedule and his main passion, which from Treya's perspective was himself.

She told herself that maybe she was being unfair. And to be truthful, Elaine really didn't seem to mind. They both worked long hours under great pressure. Obviously, they had reached some accommodation where stolen late-night hours or a rare weekend when Jonas could get away was enough for both of them. Each was, in their own way, a trophy, a catch—Treya understood that this was no small part of it for either of them. Maybe they were a true match—two narcissists locked in a centrifugal dance around the image each admired. But that really wasn't the Elaine that Treya knew.

Treya couldn't imagine standing for it herself. When Jonas missed a dinner or a movie or a show because he was in surgery, when he never made it home because of some hospital emergency, Elaine seemed to deal with it. But if it was her, if she got hung up at work and had to cancel out on one of his events . . .

Treya remembered the first time she'd seen it. She had left a message for Jonas that Elaine was in a deposition that was running very late. She and Jonas had been due to go to L.A. for some medical convention and Elaine was
going to have to catch a later flight. She would miss the introductions, the cocktail party. She'd try to make it down by the next morning at the latest. Jonas had shown up in front of Treya's desk in a fury. It was as though he'd never met her before, as if they'd never plotted together to find a quiet place he and Elaine could meet. Treya had called and left a message for Jonas. If the deposition had been taking place in one of the offices at Rand & Jackman, she had no doubt he would have broken into the room, interrupting the proceedings. But she'd told him, untruthfully, she really didn't know where Elaine was working. “Well, find her,” he'd snapped at her.