John Lescroart (24 page)

The district attorney of San Francisco was hard at work—even Pratt's enemies conceded that she was a tireless workaholic. The complaint, if there was one, was that often her work produced no tangible results. But she put in the hours, no one denied that.

She was sitting at the computer next to her desk, her fingers flying over the keys. Hearing the door, she looked over. Torrey saw the telltale ghost of displeasure and impatience playing on her features, but then it flitted away. She didn't like being interrupted, but since it was him. . .

He closed the door behind him. “Interesting news,” he said.

“I hate that word, interesting.” With a sigh, Pratt pushed back from the computer. “You might as well just say bad. Somebody tells you about a movie and says it was interesting, do you want to go out and see it? Never. And if you do, guess what? It sucks.”

Torrey heard out the tirade. “Is this a bad time?” he asked mildly.

“Not particularly. I'm just trying to get this article written for
American Lawyer
.”

They had discussed this over the weekend—the magazine was getting input from D.A.'s around the state on the question of how various communities were handling the problem of so-called victimless crimes, such as prostitution and drug abuse. Sharron's position was that, basically, you didn't prosecute them, and since the legal community in the state was aware of this, Torrey had been under the impression that he'd convinced her to farm the task out to one of her junior staff people.

“So you
are
writing it yourself.”

There was no defensiveness in her answer. She had made her decision and it was the right one and that was that. “I told you I thought it would be better me . . .”

“. . . than somebody else who couldn't express it as well.”

“Exactly. I'd just wind up doing it over myself anyway. And if my name's going to be on it . . .”

“I know. We've been over this. You're wasting your time with this detail work. That's why you have a staff.”

“I'm wasting my time reading incompetent drafts, Gabe.”

“So hire a good writer.”

“I'm a good writer,” she snapped. “I know what I want to say and I say it well.”

He was never going to win. He nodded with resignation. “We agree to disagree, okay?”

“Fine.” She bit off the word.

This wasn't the best start for what might prove to be an important and controversial meeting. Torrey considered taking her dismissive tone to heart and making his exit. Leave her to her damned article.

He could come back to it tonight, when she'd be more receptive after a drink or two. But he didn't get a chance to move before she said, “So what's the interesting news?”

Torrey had no choice. He willed all trace of the earlier tone out of his voice and delivered it flat. “Dismas Hardy called me ten minutes ago. He wants to deal.”

Pratt looked at him. “Actually,” she said, “that is interesting. What does he want?”

“Murder two.”

“Murder two?” Clearly, it surprised her. She barked a cold laugh. “He wants to go from death to murder two? The man's got a tremendous imagination. What did you tell him?”

“I told him I had to talk to you.”

Pratt fixed him with a hard eye. “That's a nice flattering answer, Gabe. But what did you really tell him?”

“That's really what I told him.” He pulled a chair around and sat. “I said that since you'd made this particular case a campaign issue, it wasn't going to be that simple.”

She frowned. “But it is that simple,” she said. “There's no way.”

In fact, Torrey had told Hardy that they would have to work out the details, but in general he thought a reduced charge in return for a guilty plea was a workable idea. After the election, of course. Hardy could waive time for a few months and then, after the dust had settled on the results, they would do the deal. Pratt's administration had grown infamous for its willingness to plead out cases rather than take them to trial. In this regard, it had by far the most lenient record of any jurisdiction in the state. Torrey saw no reason to let the campaign change the basic policy.

So Pratt's refusal here hit him like a broadside. “There's no way, what?”

“There's no way we cut a deal on this. I've gone on the record saying I want the death penalty in this case.” She came around in front of him and leaned back against her desk. “I can't believe I have to explain this to you. There's no other option, I hope you see that.”

Her adamance here was what surprised him. Perhaps she just needed him to explain a little further. “Well, I told Hardy it couldn't be 'til after the election, of course, but . . .”

“Even then!” She brought her face down directly in front of his. “Gabe, you of all people. You're the one who came up with the idea. I'm expecting our friends at the
Democrat
”—a small, alternative newspaper sympathetic to Pratt—“to start beating the drums for it any day now. People hate the death penalty all right, but I'm confident they'll come to hate this kid more. And this crime.”

“Well, all that's fine, Sharron, but after the election it won't matter anymore.” He still had to try to bend her. If she would allow Cole Burgess to plead guilty on a lesser
charge, then it would be over. And trials, even an apparent no-brainer like this one, were always uncertain. That was their nature. Anything could happen. He got up from his chair, took a half lap of the room. He came to rest and faced her. “But we've still got Hardy. What if he'll take murder one with specials, LWOP?” This was life in prison without parole.

But the D.A. wasn't budging. “We still ask for death.”

“Sharron.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. You can't ask for death if he pleads guilty and says he's sorry. You'll come across as bloodthirsty. If it gets to there after a trial, it's different. The kid's unrepentant, shows no remorse, okay. Otherwise . . .” He let the word hang.

It was her turn to walk to the window, separate the blinds, look down onto the street. She stood there a long minute. “I want to go to trial on this one, Gabe. The evidence is rock solid and it's all with us. The boy did it and people don't like him. When we send him down, they're with us. Even if we don't get the death penalty, and we probably won't, we still get LWOP and look tough. Your instincts were right.”

He stood in the at-ease position, his head bobbing as though he were in thought. “All right,” he said.

She looked back out the window for an eternity. Setting her mouth, she directed a steely gaze once around the room, then finally over to her chief assistant. Her voice had a raspy quality, but it was firm. “That bastard Hardy has impugned the integrity of this office and accused me personally of playing politics with a man's life. No deals.”

Torrey kept himself from showing any reaction. He knew the look. Argument would be futile. She had made up her mind. Her eyes went back out the window, to the dull-gray afternoon. Torrey looked at her for a moment, then bowed slightly from the waist and turned on his heel.

***

The attorneys' room at the jail was a good deal more pleasant than the general visitors' room, where Cole would meet his mother behind a barrier with a dozen other inmates on either side. At ten by twelve feet, it wasn't exactly spacious, but there was room for a table and two chairs with some floor left over for pacing. The far wall was made of opaque glass block, and this seemed to brighten up the room, although Hardy realized that this was possibly an optical illusion—more likely it was the glaring fluorescents overhead.

Cole sat across from him in his orange jumpsuit. His face was troubled, his brow clouded, his eyes clear. “But I didn't kill her.”

He went through it all, as he had with Jody—the difficulty of getting a not-guilty verdict, the seriousness of the special circumstances allegations, the strong physical evidence against him, his own confession.

His client listened until he'd finished. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn't kill her. I won't plead guilty.”

Hardy started over quietly, hummed along in low for a while before he blew it out and got loud. He paced the room, slammed his fist on the table a few times, damn near threw a chair. He would have done cartwheels if he thought they might have had an effect.

“I'm sorry,” Cole said when he finished. “I can get a public defender if you don't feel you can stay in. But I'm not pleading guilty. I didn't do it.”

For which, ultimately, there was no argument.

 

The events of the day had beaten Hardy down. He told himself that his biorhythms were low now in the early dusk. He'd perk up any minute. When Torrey got here, his adrenaline would kick in, as it had with Rich McNeil this morning, then with Glitsky at the hospital. As it had a couple of times in his grueling session with Jody Burgess, and then again with Cole, to say nothing of each of the three times he'd left increasingly curt messages for
Dash Logan to please get back to him if his busy schedule allowed.

He brought a hand up to his eyes. Had all those disasters occurred during this one day? Did he have any adrenaline left?

And now he had to face Gabriel Torrey and tell him Cole wouldn't plead. He was sitting in front of the chief assistant's power desk in the same old room he used to love back in his own prosecuting days during the Civil War. He'd come in here just at this time of the evening and sit around with his boon colleagues, arguing the law and their strategies with his old mentor Art Drysdale.

The good old days.

This wasn't them anymore.

After Jody, he'd felt cocky. If he could convince her, he could convince anybody. He could just wriggle out of this entire dilemma. Cop a plea for Cole, get the boy in a rehab program in prison, collect a nice fee for his efforts and move on. It was an impossible case to try anyway. So he'd called Torrey and set up this meeting before discussing it with his client. A mistake.

And now he was on the D.A.'s turf, in an entirely different mode than he'd intended.

A side door opened and here was the man himself, professional, even cordial. “Diz,” he began, proffering a hand. “I want to start out by apologizing for the other day in court.” A self-effacing smile. “I've got a short fuse. I was protecting my boss. I'm sorry.”

Hardy was on his feet, shaking the man's hand. “It happens. I got a little emotional myself.”

Sometimes—and this was one of those times—it bothered him when he went along with his natural inclination to be a pleasant person, to adhere to social conventions. He didn't remember this as one of his primary character traits when he'd been younger. Now, he tended to be rude only when it served a purpose. He wasn't sure this was an improvement over the earlier model.

He took his seat while the chief assistant went around
the Desk and got himself settled. “So,” Torrey began without any more preamble, “I was in with Sharron after our phone call.”

“Well, about that . . .” Hardy didn't want to waste any more time on this. Cole wasn't dealing. There was nothing to talk about. If Torrey hadn't appeared cooperative as he made the appointment, he'd have phoned it in. Now, though, he felt as if he at least owed him a personal explanation.

But before he could say anything else, Torrey kept on. “I'm afraid she wasn't inclined to deal.”

This was a far cry from what he'd been led to believe. Torrey had told him he was sure they could work something out, and he had to wonder what had happened. He cocked his head. “At all?”

Torrey shook his head.

“She won't even go to life without?”

No response.

“This from an administration that has never even asked for LWOP before, much less death?”

“Right.”

Hardy brought a finger to his jawline and scratched at it. “That's pretty raw.” The offer didn't matter at all, of course—Cole wasn't going to take anything that involved a guilty plea—but Hardy felt his blood beginning to boil. He turned down the volume on his voice. “So me coming here to see you tonight, this was in the line of a joke? I'm supposed to go back to my client with that?”

Torrey spread his hands. Hardy found himself thinking of the William H. Macy character, the slimy car salesman in
Fargo
. “Sharron has strong feelings about this case. She said it was a matter of principle.”

Hardy's bile continued to rise. His pulse pounded in his ears. He knew that if he remained seated here across the desk from this liar, his commitment to
la politesse
was going to be tested. And found wanting.

He didn't believe he could endure any more conflict today.

He knew where they were coming from. It didn't matter anyway. He noticed that his knuckles were white on the sides of the chair as he stood up. “Well,” he said, “as long as it's a matter of principle . . .”

G
litsky thought they certainly liked to keep those beds empty in the ICU in case somebody got admitted who needed one.

He hadn't had a heart attack in all of about a day and a half, so by hospital lights he guessed he was out of immediate danger, although it didn't seem so to him. They moved him to a semiprivate room at a little before five in the afternoon. He had been sharing his thoughts about this with his new roommate, Roy, an elderly gentleman who was getting over pneumonia—trying not to sound too querulous, but voicing the opinion that maybe it was a little soon to be off the monitors.

Roy chuckled drily. “Last time I was here—I got COPD,” he explained, tapping his chest, “bad lungs, so I'm in here all the time now. But last time, I passed out at home just after I punched 911. It took the paramedics a while to pick me up, and so anyway by the time I got admitted to the emergency room, I was DOA. Dead, right?”

“Dead?”

“Right. So they slapped me around with some CPR, got me breathing again and gave me a new oxygen bottle. So I called my brother to tell him where I was, and by the time he got down here, they told me to go on home. Home! I'm dead an hour ago and they send me home. What's that about?”

This was all new to Abe, but he was getting the hang of it—bemused resignation seemed to carry the day. “Managed care. That's my guess.”

Roy shook his head. “My brother wouldn't let them do it. Made a big fuss, wondered if anybody thought it
possible I might stop breathing again, since I just had. Eventually they let me stay overnight.”

“One night?”

A shrug. “Hey, I lived through it. No hard feelings, because what would be the point? Is anybody going to care? So my doc comes in and says, ‘See?' I could have gone home after all.”

“Nice of him.”

“Hell of a guy,” Roy agreed. “Probably figured a little guilt never hurts. Maybe next time I get admitted dead I wouldn't push so hard for a bed.”

“You were actually DOA?”

“Yeah, I saw it on my chart. Admitted two-nineteen. DOA. I love that, telling people I died.” He broke a smile. “I'm in my resurrection phase now, though I've been disappointed to discover it's pretty much the same as last time around.”

They fell into a silence for a while, until Glitsky shifted in his bed and sat up straighter. “You mind if I ask you something, Roy?”

“Shoot.”

“Did you see any white light or anything like that while you were dead?”

He thought about it briefly. “You know, I can't say I did. One minute I'm dialing 911 and then I'm in the ER here with a tube down my throat and somebody pushing on my chest. How about you?”

“No. I wasn't dead. Heart attack,” he explained. “I didn't see anything either, though.”

“My wife died of a heart attack,” Roy said. “They gave her all the tests and everything and told her it hadn't been a bad one. She was fine. She ought to come get another checkup in a week, but meanwhile she didn't need to be in a hospital. She should stop smoking and lose a little weight, change her lifestyle, which she didn't get much of a chance to do, seeing as she died about two hours after she got home.”

“I'm sorry,” Abe said.

“Hey.” Roy lifted his shoulders. “Mangled care.”

***

Glitsky hadn't seen his oldest boy, Isaac, for the winter break. With a group of his friends, he was skiing at Mammoth for the first week, then they were all going to the Grand Canyon until school started again. He told his father he'd try to make it back up for spring break, but everybody was talking about a road trip up to Chico State, a college in the northern foothills of California which was getting itself something of a reputation for throwing a weeklong revelry—Lauderdale West. Naked chicks, loud music! Dancing and fights and all-night raves. Vandalism, riots, rivers of beer!

Or Isaac could come home to the spring fog and watch TV in their duplex while his dad went to work.

Tough choice.

But now, no planning for it, here he was coming through the door to Abe's room. He seemed bigger somehow, but then he always did after an absence. His head was shaved—a shock—but Glitsky realized at a glance that it looked powerful and terrific. There was a lot of his mother in the face, though without her coloring—Isaac was a few shades darker than Abe or the other boys. The words came without warning, as did the gloss over his eyes. “Oh my beautiful boy.”

Isaac either didn't hear or chose to ignore the remark. The handsome face wore a smile, concern all over it, a completely adult expression. A tiny gold Star of David glittered in one ear. The black body shirt said he'd been working out a lot. Abe almost felt whiplashed by the impressions—but above them all rode the flood of emotion and relief. He and Flo had raised a fully formed, civilized, wonderful person. Isaac might not be a finished product, but he was certainly no longer any kind of a child.

He leaned over the bed and rested his head a long moment on his father's chest, gripping him tightly. Abe kept an arm over him, patted a few times, hugged him closely a last second. Then Isaac pulled up and looked in his dad's face. “What is this bullshit?” he asked.

***

By the time Hardy arrived with Frannie and the kids at a little before eight, it was a full-fledged party. Orel and Isaac were on chairs on either side of Abe's bed. Rita, his housekeeper and Orel's daytime guardian, hovered near his head, ready at any opportunity to get him more ice or refill his cup of tea. Nat, Roy and Roy's brother Fred had struck up their own conversation about forming an Infirm Old Men unit for the Bay to Breakers race in May.

Glitsky was all the way up to a full seated position. He'd removed the morning's plastic tube from his nose. To Hardy, it appeared that he'd been up out of bed. There was a gloss to his hair as though he'd washed it. Any trace of the morning's pallor was gone—beyond that, he simply looked good, talking with some animation to his boys.

“Dr. Diz,” he said by way of greeting. Then to Frannie, “Mrs. Dr. Diz.” Because Abe's own children had been trained that it was proper to stand when a woman entered the room, they stood up. If Hardy didn't know from years of experience that it was physically impossible, he would have sworn his friend was smiling. “And these would be the young children of Dr. and Mrs. Diz.”

“Uncle Abe!” The ever-flamboyant Rebecca ran to his bedside, put her arms around him. “I've been so worried.”

“There's nothing to worry about.” He gave her arm a welcoming squeeze. “People have heart attacks all the time.”

Orel snorted a laugh. “Good one, Dad. Pretty reassuring.”

The glare. Watch it, junior. “I mean they have heart attacks and get better.”

Frannie had moved up behind her daughter. “Completely better, Beck.”

“Sometimes even better than when they started,” the older son said from the other side of the bed.

Hardy took the opening. “That wouldn't be too hard.”

Frannie was staring over Abe's bed. She put a hand to her face. “Oh my God. Isaac?”

A smile played at his mouth. “That's me.”

“I wouldn't have recognized you.”

The smile broadened. “I think you just did.” When Flo Glitsky had died, Abe's boys had lived with the Hardys for a month. Isaac and Frannie had become especially close, even if they hadn't seen each other now in three or four years.

“Isaac!” Beck shrieked, coming around the bed, hugging him. “I didn't know who you were.”

“Just me, girlfriend, same old me.”

“Like . . . not,” she said.

“Okay, maybe stylin' a bit more.” He picked her up with one arm, kissed her on the cheek, put her back down, then narrowed his eyes at Hardy's son. “Yo, Vin.”

“Cool hair, Isaac.” Vincent, eleven years old and the quiet one in the family, finally logged in.

“What hair?” Hardy put in. “He doesn't have any hair.”

Vin ignored him. “Can I shave my head, too, Mom?”

Hardy answered for her. “The next time Uncle Abe smiles, Vin.”

“He's smiling now.” Vincent thought he had him.

“This time doesn't count. In fact, tonight doesn't count.”

“Your father means the next separate time on another day.”

“That's not fair.”

“Why not?” Frannie asked.

“Because Uncle Abe never smiles.”

“He does sometimes,” Hardy said. “And when he does, you can shave your head. Promise.”

“Promise?”

Glitsky joined the discussion. “You remind me, Vin, and I'll make a special effort.”

Hardy turned to him. “It's got to be a sincere smile. Not one of those phony ‘I'm going to rip your legs off in a minute' smiles like cops make.”

“You can't change the rules,” Vincent said. This was serious stuff. “You said a smile, Dad, just a smile.”

“Sometimes he smiles at home.” Orel was a hero to Hardy's kids. “I could call you at home, Vin.”

“This whole discussion is pathetic,” Isaac said. But he was clearly enjoying it. “I go away for a few years and the level of discourse devolves to this point?”

“Discourse?” Hardy said. “Devolves? What is that? Is that college?” He turned to the bed. “Abe, you've got to help us here.”

But suddenly, Glitsky had lost all interest in the conversation. He was staring over Hardy's shoulder. He was wearing his old face, his everyday face. The smile gone. All trace of it gone.

“Abe?” Hardy repeated.

And suddenly everyone else became aware of something, a different vibration. Heads turned. The silence was profound.

Just inside the doorway, Treya Ghent had stopped where she stood. She was holding a large mixed bouquet of winter greenhouse flowers—daisies, daffodils, carnations. Her daughter shifted nervously beside and a half step behind her. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean to interrupt. I just wanted . . . I thought . . .”

Glitsky cleared his throat and the awkwardness held until Frannie turned completely, broke a wide and genuine smile, moved toward her. “Those are beautiful,” she said. “Abe loves flowers. I should have brought some myself.”

 

It was nothing like Treya thought it would be. It hadn't really occurred to her that he had a family, friends, a life. Since he had never functioned as a father to Elaine, she'd assumed he didn't have that gene. Until he'd collapsed yesterday morning, he'd only been a cop to her, not a person.

Now here was Glitsky's father, an old Jewish man of all things, yarmulke and all. Two well-behaved and good-looking boys. That awful attorney Hardy—Elaine's killer's lawyer—from the arraignment, and his pretty wife and sweet children.

She'd heard the conversation about one of them shaving his head before they'd seen her. The obvious, warm connection between everybody. It was the last thing she expected. The tough and heartless Lieutenant Glitsky. Uncle Abe?

People.

And now here she was in the midst of them. Introductions to Frannie, Dismas, Isaac, Nat.

A Hispanic woman, Rita, taking her flowers, exclaiming over them. Raney and Orel checking each other out, but cool about it. Fast eyes.

“We can't really stay,” she said. “I just wanted to see if you were all right.” She felt she had to continue. “About yesterday, Lieutenant.”

“It wasn't you,” he said.

But she shook that off. “I didn't think . . .”

The lieutenant raised a palm. “Please. Stop. Okay? It wasn't you,” he repeated. He turned to Frannie. “Somebody needs to tell Ms. Ghent she didn't make this happen.”

“Yes, sir.” Frannie went with it. “You didn't make this happen,” she said to Treya. She made eye contact, somehow making her feel welcome. Then back to the lieutenant. “What, though?”

“I'm starting to think it didn't happen at all.” Frannie's husband was being inclusive, too. There was none of the anger Treya had seen from him in the courtroom. He spoke matter-of-factly to her, humor in the tone. “Abe will sometimes do this kind of thing to get attention. He lives a sad and lonely existence.”

“We all feel sorry for him,” Frannie added.

The little boy, Vincent, couldn't follow the irony. “We do? I don't. I like Uncle Abe.”

“Thank you,” Glitsky said.

His mother patted him on the head. “We're kidding, Vince. We like him, too. We don't really feel sorry for him.”

“I do,” the attorney said, smiling. He, too, rubbed a hand in his boy's hair, gave him a wink.

Treya could see that no one was going to acknowledge that she'd played a role in the lieutenant's collapse. She realized with some surprise that these were good people, protecting her while supporting him.