The Amazing Harvey (10 page)

“You don't think they'll believe me?”

“That's not the issue. I never put murder defendants on the stand. It opens you up to cross-examination by the district attorney.”

“I don't care. I didn't kill her.”

She shook her head. “It's not about what you did. It's about how you look to a jury when you're under the knife of a prosecutor. On top of that, if there's anything on this device that incriminates you—”

“There won't be. I didn't know her.”

“If there's anything on here that incriminates you, then I'm ethically obliged to give it to the police.”

“Before we spin out thirty-two theories, why don't we stick the damn thing in the computer?” I gestured for her to take the seat in front of the screen.

Hannah sat down and plugged the thumb drive in a USB port. I came around behind and leaned over her shoulder to watch.

The device showed up as
G:
drive. Hannah ran the mouse pointer over it and double-clicked. Only one folder:
Sherry Personal.
Hannah clicked on it. A box popped up, asking for a password. We both said, “Shit.”

I said, “You know anything about computer hacking?”

“I've got a techno weenie who can do it, but he's not cheap. It's worth trying a few guesses. Passwords are usually something people can easily remember. Personal data, like their birthday, Social Security number, or address. Most of that should be in the police report.”

I walked toward the file cabinet. “I'll get it.”

She shook her head. “I can't do this now. I'm on a deadline.”

“Maybe I could—”

“Do your filing.” Hannah took the thumb drive out of the computer and put it on her desk. “You can play with the thumb drive on your own time.”

She started typing.

I said, “Someone took Sherry's computer. Can you find out if the cops have it?”

She answered without looking up. “I'll check. Start punching.” Hannah grabbed her briefcase off the floor, put it on the desk, and clicked the two latches with her thumbs. “I've got to finish my brief in the Oliver Desmond case and file it within the next hour and a half.”

“Oliver Desmond? That rich kid who killed the basketball player's son?”

“
Allegedly
killed him.”

“You're his lawyer?”

“Yes.”

I nodded repeatedly. “Wow, that's a really high-profile case.”

She smiled despite herself. “I have to hurry. There's a press conference in two hours.”

“And you're talking to the press? This really is the big time.”

She picked up her purse. “I wouldn't normally talk to the press at all, but there's so much negative coverage of this case that I have to get our side out there.”

“Cool. Where are we going?”

“
I'm
going to the downtown courthouse. You're staying here and filing.”

*   *   *

As soon as Hannah left for the courthouse, I grabbed Sherry's police report and looked up her personal data. I stuck the thumb drive in Hannah's computer and thought about passwords Sherry might have used.

Let's start with her address.

When the box came up, I typed in the numbers of her address. A line of asterisks crawled across the screen. I hit
ENTER.
Invalid Password.

Maybe the address backward.
Invalid Password.

Phone number.

Backward.

Address with apartment number.

Slices of her Social Security number.

Shit.

I leaned back and rubbed my eyes, telling myself I'd better get some filing done before the dragon returns to her lair.

I took out the thumb drive, shut down the computer, and picked up a stack of loose papers.

*   *   *

Hannah got back around five o'clock, swinging her briefcase.

I said, “How'd it go?”

“Not bad. I'll be on the news at six.”

“Wow. That's really cool.”

She waved the air like it was no big deal, but her mouth had a little grin. I said, “Let's go watch the news.”

She narrowed her eyes, looking annoyed that I was trying to slough off work, but I could tell she was thinking about it.

Hannah said, “I've got a lot to do.”

“C'mon. How often are you on television? We'll go to one of the local bars. Maybe someone will recognize you and we'll get a free drink.”

She set her briefcase on her desk. “Let me see what I can get done in the next half hour.”

As I grabbed a stack of papers, she said, “Harvey?”

I looked over at her.

I said, “Yeah?”

“I have to talk to you about your filing.”

Uh-oh.
“What about it?”

“You've got to be more careful. Misfiled is worse than unfiled.”

And a penny saved is a penny earned?

Hannah said, “I found three documents out of date order. One document was in the wrong file. Fortunately, I came across it while I was looking for something else. Do you realize I could have wasted hours looking for those papers? All that a lawyer can sell is her time.”

“Sorry.”

“It shakes my confidence in your ability to do things properly.”

Truth is, I thought, I'm not exactly Mr. Anal-Retentive, so putting me in charge of filing was a little like hiring a plumber to do your heart transplant. On the other hand, I can't afford to pay Hannah's bills, so here I am.

I put up my hands. “I filed things in the same order as the piles.”
I think.

She furrowed her brow. “I'm pretty sure things were stacked perfectly. In any event, you've got to double-check. I can't afford to have paperwork out of place.”

“I'll do my best.”

Hannah looked directly at me. “Harvey, this isn't charity. In exchange for reducing my legal fees, I expect you to take this work seriously.”

I nodded, then went back to filing.

*   *   *

A little before six, Hannah and I walked into Captain Jack's Paradise, a bar located in the great seaport of North Hollywood, about twenty miles from the nearest waterfront. The Captain's front door had a round porthole riveted into place, to get you into that nautical mood right away. Inside, the ceiling was hung with rusty lanterns, rope fishnets with gray cork floaters, and a plastic pelican. Behind the bar was a pirate chest dripping with strings of pearls. At least the bartender wasn't wearing an eye patch.

When we sat at the bar, I asked for fizzy water and Hannah ordered a Diet Coke.
Big surprise.
Ms. Control Freak doesn't drink liquor. I grabbed a handful of nuts from the bowl, then pushed it in front of Hannah, saying, “Want some?”

She recoiled, as if I'd thrown a snake at her. Hannah shook her head vigorously and shoved the bowl back at me.

I said, “You okay?”

“I don't eat nuts anymore. If I get started, I can't stop.”

Guess the old Fat Hannah still lives inside.

I ate my handful of nuts, aware of Hannah watching me chew. I dusted the salt off my hands, then pushed the bowl in the opposite direction from Hannah. Her eyes followed it.

I said, “Was it hard to lose all that weight?”

“Yes. It took me almost two years.”

“Good discipline.”

“Not really. It's … well, never mind.”

“Never mind what?”

She tightened her lips and shook her head.

I said, “How long have you had the weight off?”

“Three and a half years.”

I started to reach for the nuts, then pulled my hand back. “Has losing weight changed your life?”

Hannah crossed her legs. “Only in every single respect.”

I turned toward her on the stool. “Like…”

She ticked off each point with a finger. “I can look at a turnstile and not worry about getting through. I can fit in an airline seat, and I no longer need a seat belt extender. Men look at me differently. I get cold more easily. Hard seats hurt my ass, because I lost my padding. I can buy clothes in a normal store. In the beginning, I felt vulnerable because I didn't have a layer of protection around me. I—”

The bartender said, “Here you go, folks.” He clunked the drinks in front of us. Hannah grabbed her Diet Coke, put her lips on the straw, and took a measured sip.

I said to the bartender, “Can you put on one of the local news stations?”

He didn't move. “There's a ball game at six.”

“We only need to watch for a few minutes.”

“Why?”

I almost said “Some people actually care what happens outside this bar.” I settled for “There's a story I have to watch for work.”

The bartender twisted his mouth to the side, then said, “Only a few minutes.” He lumbered over to the TV and turned the round dial by hand.

As he walked back, I said, “Could you turn the sound up a little?” If it was any lower, it'd trigger the closed captioning.

He gave me a “Why are you being such a pain in the ass?” look, then went back and nudged up the volume.

The news logo came on. Hannah sucked down most of her soft drink. She glanced around to see if anyone else was watching the TV. No one was.

Lead story was the President's visit to France. Then a shooting in Monterey Park.

The bartender came over. “You done yet? Some of the regulars want the game.”

“Just a few more minutes.” I fished out five dollars that I couldn't afford to spend and gave it to him. It quickly disappeared into Captain Jack's treasure chest.

The bartender walked away and started wiping a glass with a white towel.

Hannah said, “Let me pay for that.”

I shook my head. “It's okay.” Keep insisting—on the third time, it's okay for me to cave.

“No, really. I know you're a little short.”

“It's okay. I got it.” Once more and it's yours.…

She nodded. “Well … thanks.”

Well … shit.

On the TV, an Asian announcer stood in front of some huge concrete steps, holding a microphone labeled
KABC.
Hannah sat up.

The announcer said, “The attorney for Oliver Desmond, the teenager accused of shooting and killing the son of Lakers forward Alex Hedges, was in court today, attempting to suppress key evidence. The attorney, Hannah Fisher, daughter of famed criminal lawyer Bruce Fisher, had this to say.…”

Hannah came on the screen, surrounded by bunch of hands pointing microphones at her like the rifles of a firing squad. I glanced over at her. She was staring intently at the screen. The bartender didn't seem to notice she was on TV.

On the screen, Hannah blinked heavily and sounded very stilted. “Mr. Desmond is wrongly accused of this crime, as we will prove in court. He is a victim of scapegoating in a case where the police were under public pressure to quickly produce a suspect. So much pressure that the prosecution is trying to introduce illegally obtained evidence. We feel deeply for the victim and his family, but Mr. Desmond is innocent.”

I glanced at Hannah wondering why you try to suppress evidence against someone who's innocent.

Up came a still picture of Desmond. He was an African-American teenager with Mike Tyson–like tattoos over most of his face and mug-shot numbers across his chest. His eyebrows were lowered, his lower lip was plumped, and he stared at the camera like he was on the verge of spitting at it.

I said, “That's the son of a rich guy?”

“Shhh.”

The district attorney came on the screen, standing next to Hedges, the basketball player whose son was killed. Compared to Hedges, the DA looked about four feet tall. The DA started rambling about there being no doubt of Desmond's guilt.

When he finally shut up, the picture went back to an in-studio Hispanic announcer who said, “In other news, the city of Santa Monica has a new park, and an Inglewood man recovers his son's pet turtle from a storm drain. Those stories and more, right after this.”

The station went to commercial. I turned to Hannah. “You were great.”

“I thought my voice sounded weird.”

“It's always weird to hear a recording of your own voice. Everyone sounds different inside their own head. Probably the way it resonates or something.”

“I mean, didn't I sound kind of stiff?”

Pretty much.
“You were great. But I gotta say that kid doesn't look like he comes from a rich family.”

“He's adopted. His father is a real estate entrepreneur and a very kind man. He's given millions to charity. Oliver's been troubled since he was a little boy. When he was six, he climbed on the roof of the garage and wouldn't come down until the fire department dragged him off. When he was nine, he ran away from home on his bicycle for three days. At twelve, he beat up a boy at school so badly that—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” I took a huge gulp of my fizzy water.

Hannah said, “Everyone's entitled to a defense, no matter who you are. And I give Oliver's parents a lot of credit. They've stood by him through everything.”

I wondered if he'd do a little better if he took the consequences of what he did, but I guess no one's interested in my parental advice. I polished off the drink and fought the urge to burp up the bubblies I'd just gulped down. “Won't the jury kinda hate him?”

She nodded. “Yes. That's the challenge here. If I get him off, I've really done something.”

Like let a killer out on the street?
“Why did the newsman mention your father?”

Hannah smiled. “My dad's also a criminal lawyer. He's the reason I decided to practice law. You remember the Mulholland stalker?”

“The guy that chopped up smooching kids while they were parked up on Mulholland?”

“Yes.”

“I remember all right. My parents told me every detail, trying to scare me away from parking up there. Worked pretty well. I took my dates for a romantic outing in the Costco parking lot.”