Nothing but the Truth (68 page)
So he started where he’d left off—Canetta’s autopsy.
And this time, he saw it. Went back and reviewed Griffin. Crossed the corridor to the coroner’s and made sure. And then, finally, knowing where else to look, went back and found it.
Glitsky was in his office when Hardy called upstairs. He had sent his task forces out on Thorne’s search warrant, which left him free until after the hearing, which he would be attending.
Hardy didn’t want to say anything over the phone. He’d see Glitsky in five minutes and if they could get any privacy, he’d tell him then. In the meanwhile, they’d meet at the back door to the Hall.
As Hardy came out of the jail he gave a surreptitious nod to Freeman, now loitering in the corridor that led to the morgue, and continued to the employee’s back door to the Hall. The plan was that Ron and Hardy were going to take the little-used rear stairway to the second floor and make a break for Braun’s courtroom, Department 24, when they got out into the hallway.
Glitsky opened the door for them. When Hardy introduced whom they would be escorting, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. But the lieutenant seemed to accept the situation, silently leading the way up the stairs until they reached the landing before the door into the main hallway. When they got there, though, he turned and faced them both. “You guys just run into each other out front? Was that it?”
“Not exactly.” Unruffled, Hardy had guessed this moment was coming. He was ready. “This time yesterday I had no idea where he was.”
“How about when I came to your office last night as a courtesy? The last time we talked, say?”
“Was he a suspect then?”
“Close enough, and you—”
“By the time you left, though? Honestly?”
The scar was tight on Glitsky’s face, but Hardy had him. He kept pushing. “Okay, he’s not a suspect. Had you ever seen him before now, a minute ago? Talked to him?”
“You know I haven’t,” he growled.
“Right. Listen to me. And you had no idea that I had had any communication with him, ever, did you?”
“So what?”
“So when our dear pal Scott Randall asks you, maybe under oath, whether you have colluded with me and/or Ron here in any way, what are you going to be able to say?”
A vein stood out on the side of Glitsky’s forehead, but gradually his expression relaxed, though not quite into calm serenity. “For the record, I still don’t like it.”
“Okay, noted,” Hardy responded crisply. “But also for the record, you’re going to thank me.”
Glitsky glared another second or two, then turned and pulled open the door. The three men stepped out into the open hallway together just as Randall, Struler, Pratt, and several of her minions rounded the corner from the elevator in a phalanx. The two groups nearly ran into each other.
“Well, well, well.” Randall made no effort to disguise his reaction. In a voice dripping with disdain, he adopted a theatrical tone. “Lieutenant Glitsky, Mr. Hardy, the elusive Mr. Beaumont. How interesting that you should all be arriving together here at court.” He turned to Pratt, a portrait of smug satisfaction. “Case study, Sharron,” he said. “Exactly what we expected.”
Normally, in the minutes before the ascension of the judge to the bench, courtrooms pulse with a certain energy—attorneys and clients are getting settled at their tables, the clerks and bailiffs knot up, talking shop and trading banter, the court recorder warms up. If there is a jury, its members read the newspapers or study their notes.
In the gallery beyond the bar rail, the spectators and media types, if any, jockey for space with potential witnesses, with friends and relatives of victims or alleged perpetrators. There is a constant, low hum of many unconnected conversations.
But generally, above it all hovers some small but palpable sense of restraint. Outside in the public hallways, hordes of unwashed and unruly animals would often put on their raucous circuses, but once they were inside the courtroom doors, order often seemed to impose itself over those assembled within.
Not this morning, though.
Many of the witnesses Hardy had summoned to this hearing had brought with them reinforcements, and they’d all apparently had time to get to know each other a little, to talk, to vent, finally to boil over.
As soon as Glitsky pushed the door open—Scott Randall and his team of prosecutors sniping behind them all the way—a wave of boisterous anger seemed to break over them. For the first time in his career, Hardy physically had to push his way through a mass of hostile humanity clogging the central aisle. Glitsky stayed with him, holding Ron Beaumont’s arm above the elbow, moving them all forward.
Hardy pressed his way through, feeling no need to respond to any of the barbs he was hearing. He was sure that this was a staged demonstration either from Baxter Thorne, whom he recognized leaning against the side wall, or from the Kerry camp. Possibly both.
Scott Randall was a different story. He wasn’t anybody’s paid actor, and he was angry in his own right for having to put up with this frivolous hearing, for being jerked around by an arrogant defense attorney who was probably a criminal himself.
Well, Hardy would deal with Scott Randall when the time came. He’d deal with all of them. He wasn’t being drawn into a shouting match with a bunch of enraged witnesses and their friends.
Glitsky got them all through the bar rail and gave the high sign to the bailiffs, who came forward to ensure that the inviolability of the courtroom proper remained intact. David Freeman had somehow already gotten himself seated at the defense table and was watching the proceedings behind him with an amused and tolerant expression. The theater of the law! He loved it.
“Good morning, Dismas,” he intoned. “Looks to me like you might just have hit a nerve.”
And at that moment, the blessed voice of the clerk rose above the clamorous din.
“Hear ye, hear ye. Department Twenty-four of the Superior Court of the city and county of San Francisco, State of California, is now in session, Judge Marian Braun presiding. All rise.”
Since most of the people assembled were already on their feet, the judge’s entrance didn’t do much except provide a break in the hubbub. Braun, catching the tenor of what was transpiring below, refrained from taking the bench, preferring instead to remain standing. She reached for her gavel and tapped it several times.
Scowling down at her clerk, she whispered sharply, “Mr. Drummond. The members of the gallery will find seating in precisely two minutes, after which I shall return to the bench and mete out consequences to those who are unable to do so.”
When she returned, Braun adjusted her robes and sat. Hardy was next to Freeman at the defense table. Glitsky and Ron Beaumont had found seats directly behind them, in the first row of the gallery. Turning in his chair, Hardy recognized Valens and Kerry and they recognized him. If looks could kill . . .
Freeman whispered to Hardy, “Are all the players here?”
“Except one.”
“Who’s that?”
“Jim Pierce,” Hardy replied. “Caloco.”
“You think he’ll show?”
Hardy’s face was set. “He’d better.”
When Braun returned to the bench, only one person remained standing. Sharron Pratt was in the aisle in the center of the gallery area.
“Madame District Attorney. Good morning,” Braun intoned. “Do you have business before this court?”
“Yes, Your Honor. May I approach?”
“Mr. Hardy has a hearing scheduled. I’m—”
“May I approach to discuss that hearing, Your Honor?”
Braun frowned at being interrupted. “All right. Mr. Hardy?”
Hardy knew exactly where this was going. After the groundwork he’d laid down, which he believed would predispose Braun to a favorable ruling, he had gone a long way toward precipitating it himself by serving his papers on Pratt and Randall. Hardy was, in fact, so primed that he had to work to keep his face straight.
He stood up. “I have no objection, Your Honor, but I presume my client is in the holding cell behind your bailiff, and I wonder if the court would call the case and allow her to enter the courtroom at this time, before we take up Ms. Pratt’s request at sidebar.”
Frannie wore a tailored pair of tan slacks, a dark brown V-necked sweater. The deep green malachite necklace and tiny matching earrings heightened the beautiful shade of her eyes, and she had pulled the long red hair back, tied it at her neck, and let the rest hang halfway down her back.
When the bailiff opened the door to the holding cell, she stepped out and gave Hardy a nervous, embarrassed smile, then let the bailiff escort her to the defense table, where she sat next to him. He kissed her on the cheek. “I love you. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Then he stood and approached the bench.
Scott Randall got himself insinuated into the proceedings on Pratt’s figurative coattails, and the two of them now stood before the bench with Hardy and Freeman. Randall was doing the talking, passionate and persuasive as always, and Hardy was content to let him dig a hole as deep as he wanted. Normally, no one would be permitted to discuss the internal workings of the grand jury, but today Randall would have to put his cards on the table to justify continuing Frannie’s contempt citation.
“The grand jury is in session in this very building as we speak, Your Honor, considering evidence surrounding the death of Bree Beaumont as well as those of two policemen who were involved in the investigation into her murder.”
“Two policemen?” Braun, of course, had heard about the deaths of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta, but the news of their connection to this case was clearly a surprise.
“Yes, Your Honor. The state believes that there are three homicides related to the Bree Beaumont case currently before the grand jury. Because the homicide department under the direction of Lieutenant Glitsky has systematically refused to disclose evidence relevant—”
“Your Honor.” Hardy was mild. “This is a
habeas
hearing whose only purpose is to vacate the contempt citation levied against my client. The homicide department’s handling of what might be other aspects of this case has no place in this proceeding.”
habeas
hearing whose only purpose is to vacate the contempt citation levied against my client. The homicide department’s handling of what might be other aspects of this case has no place in this proceeding.”
But Randall wasn’t buying that. “With respect, Your Honor. No part of this case belongs in this courtroom. This is a matter for the grand jury to decide. We shouldn’t even be discussing it outside of the grand jury room.”
Braun’s eyes were taking on a telltale flash that Hardy liked to see. “If you want me to keep someone in jail, Mr. Randall, you have to give me a better reason than your say-so.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, you need no more reason than the witness refusing to answer material questions.”
Next to Hardy, Freeman’s elbow twitched against him, and he cast a quick acknowledging glance at his old ally. They had maneuvered Randall into this spot and now he had just played into their hands, belittling the jurisdiction of Braun’s courtroom, to which she would surely take offense.
And she did. Her eyes burned down at the young prosecutor. “I’ll decide what issues and what cases get resolved in my courtroom, Mr. Randall. Do you understand that?”
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