The Second Chair (15 page)

“So you’re saying it doesn’t matter whether I actually did it or not.”

“Of course it does. It’s critical to who you are, to the person you’ll be when you get out. I’m just asking you to consider your alternatives with great, great care. We’ve got a hearing tomorrow, and I have set it up so you can be done with all this and out of custody with your whole life ahead of you in no more than eight years. I know that seems like forever right now, but you’ll still be a very young man, believe me, with everything to live for.”

“But . . . eight years . . .”

She nodded. “No one’s pretending this is an easy call. I understand that. Talk to your mom and to Hal, if you want, get their opinions.”

“My mom and Hal,” he said with withering dismissal. “My mom and Hal. What are they going to tell me? And whatever it is, why should I listen? They live their own lives, if you haven’t noticed. They’re not interested in mine.”

“That’s not true, Andrew. Your mother’s been in here to visit you every day so far, hasn’t she? She loves you. She wants what’s best for you. I’ve just come from seeing them.”

“Yeah? And what did she say?”

“She said this was your decision.”

Andrew snorted. “See? She’d love it if somebody else took care of me for eight years. It’d leave her and Hal freer to party.”

Wu sat back, shook her head. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said, “but it’s really neither here nor there. What’s important is that you’ve seen how hard it is to control the way evidence comes out, what it looks like. Your friend Lanny, your own . . . mistakes in talking to the police.”

“So you really don’t think you can win?”

Wu empathized with his despair, but it would be a disservice to sugarcoat his predicament. “I will try with everything in me, Andrew. You’re free to get another lawyer if you want, but I promise you that I will live and breathe this case for as long as it takes if you decide to go as an adult. But I want you to have a clear understanding of what we’re looking at. It will be a long haul, with no guarantees.”

“How long?”

She drove in yet another nail. “It might go as long as two years before we can get to trial, maybe eighteen months if we’re extremely lucky. And all that time you’re in custody anyway. There’s no bail, so you’re right here until you’re eighteen and after that probably at the county lockup downtown.”

“Two years?” He swallowed, his eyes pleading. “Two more
years
?”

“I’d try to speed it up, of course, but that’s about the average wait.”

“Even if I didn’t do it? Even if they found me innocent?”

“I’m afraid so. Either way. I’m sorry.”

Bailiff Nelson again picked up Andrew at the door to the visitor’s room. If Judge Johnson had reprimanded him over his conduct in the courtroom after the detention hearing, or even discussed it, Nelson gave no sign of it. Wu watched the two of them trundle off to wherever Andrew’s cell was located back in the confines of the building. She thought that having a goon like Nelson monitor—hell,
shadow
—your every move must be one of the most debilitating things about confinement here.

In the women’s room down in the main admin building, she fixed her makeup, then found she had to gather her emotions for several minutes. Andrew’s disaffection with his parents had bothered her more than she could allow herself to show—it so closely mirrored her now forever unresolved ambivalence about her own father. How much had he really cared about her? Now she would never know. Maybe, she thought, Andrew’s approach was healthier—just go on the accumulated evidence of absenteeism and benign neglect and admit that there is no profound connection. If you really believe that there is no parental love at all, you don’t spend any time searching for it, either in your parents or in surrogate and successive sexual partners. You don’t keep trying to please them, to live off the crumbs of praise or approval that you can then falsely interpret as a proof of their affection for you, their esteem.

Her next stop, Jason Brandt’s office, added to the volatility of the emotional mix. She knew that she had to have a talk with the prosecutor and didn’t want to acknowledge their physical intimacy of the night before in any way. And though she might have preferred to believe for a moment last night that they actually had potential to connect as people, Brandt had put the lie to that by getting up and leaving soon after the sex. Proof positive, she knew—she’d done the same thing herself—that all it had been was physical. Two consenting adults, thank you very much. In fact, rather than signal any kind of openness to see each other again, she thought this might be a good opportunity to score a few professional points, a payback for the grief she’d taken from him in the courtroom yesterday.

Brandt’s work space was a reconverted closet that held his desk and chair, a bookshelf and nothing else. The door could only be closed because somebody had sawed several inches off the corner of the desk. One window, high up and tiny, provided neither light nor view. A bare lightbulb hung from a cord four feet above his desk.

Brandt was behind the desk, crammed amid his books and filing cabinets. The place was literally overflowing with binders, case files, periodicals. For a moment while Wu stood in the doorway, he didn’t look up. When he finally did, in the first two seconds his face contorted through several iterations of arrangement—he was glad to see her; he wasn’t sure why she was here; some kind of hope that they might get together again?

If it was that, Wu moved to quash it immediately. “Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I was just up visiting my client and wanted to ask you if you thought I could get a little more time to plead him out.”

Brandt’s face instantly grew stern. “Why?”

Wu had decided upon a plausible explanation. “I’m having a slight problem with the parents. I doubt Boscacci would mind.”

“He would. I talked to him just before the hearing yesterday and he was the soul of inflexibility.”

“Really? That’s funny, because when I talked with him, he didn’t seem awfully concerned about timing.”

“Provided Andrew admits.”

“Right. Which he will.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘has’?”

“Tomorrow. That’s ‘will.’ Beyond that, I’m talking only a few days’ grace.”

“Grace?”

“Courtesy. Whatever word you want.”

Brandt leveled his gaze at her. “The word I want is ‘now,’ Amy. Anything beyond now—meaning tomorrow at the hearing, first thing, he admits—anything else makes me nervous as hell.”

“Why?”

“You’re kidding, right?” He stood up abruptly, coming out from behind his desk. “Excuse me,” he said, squeezing past her, looking both ways down the hallway.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was quiet yet urgent. “I’m making sure nobody’s out here to hear us, that’s what.” He turned and faced her. “You ask me why I’m nervous if we get delayed? Do you remember anything about last night?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He lowered his voice still further. “It means that when I walked into the Balboa last night and saw you sitting at the bar, you were a woman I had wanted to get to know for a long time. The case we were both handling was settled, so we wouldn’t be squaring off in court anymore. We could do whatever we wanted. Now you’re telling me it might not be settled? And you knew this last night? And still you let us go ahead?”

“It wasn’t just me, if you remember, Jason.”

“No, it wasn’t. But you’re the one who knew we might not be finished in court. If what happened with you and me gets out at all, and/or if this thing with Bartlett gets delayed, it’s my
ass.
Don’t you realize that? It’s my job. And you knew it all along?”

The strength of Brandt’s reaction caught Wu off guard. “No, but if I did, could you blame me, after how you treated me in court . . .”

He stared at her in shock. “I don’t believe this. You’re telling me you set me up on purpose? What’s next? You blackmail me for your silence about us?”

“Come on, Jason. You’re overreacting. It wasn’t like that.”

Brandt said aloud to himself, “I’ve got to call Boscacci. I’m out of this right now.” Then he looked at her with a new flash of insight. “But if I do that, then you win, too, don’t you? You get your delay. You knew this going in, didn’t you? You’ve just been playing me.”

“No, that’s not true. I . . .”

But he wasn’t going to be listening to any more excuses. In a fury, he put a finger to her face. “Don’t you dare try and sell me on what’s true or not, not after last night. You may have gotten me, okay, you win one. But that’s the last time, I swear to God. The last fucking time.”

He stepped back into his office and closed the door in her face.

8

G
litsky had meetings all morning.

The first was the bureau lieutenants’ meeting, held in Department 19, a courtroom on the second floor of the Hall of Justice that happened to be dark for the day. Since there were thirty-two lieutenants within the Investigations Bureau and each was expected to present a short report on highlights in their respective bureaus since last week’s meeting, this one tended to run long.

Glitsky sat up at the judge’s bench, and after his initial remarks reiterating his stand in favor of quantifiable progress in police duties—arrests made, citations issued, investigations instigated, victim assistance and follow-up, and so on—for almost two full hours he listened and took notes on everything from the auto detail and home burglaries to homicide and hate crimes, from arson and the general work detail to bomb investigations and the gang task force, from narcotics and vice to sexual assault, domestic violence and psychiatric liaison.

All of this was numbing and tedious and, Glitsky suspected, not really necessary in the long run. He thought that within a few more months, he’d be able to let these meetings slide, once he had clearly delivered the message to his bureau chiefs that investigators needed to make arrests, take bad people off the street. That was the basic job. Patrolmen in uniform made the vast majority of arrests. Inspectors followed up to put the finishing touches on these cases. But the real inspectors’ job was to solve cases. To assemble evidence and make arrests based on investigating crimes when no arrest at the scene was possible.

The new policy was showing signs of bearing some fruit, but nine of his bureaus had not made one arrest in the past week. There was still work to be done. Nevertheless, there had been a total of eighty-four arrests in that same period, up from seventy-eight the week before. This, he supposed, could be construed as progress, but mostly the cynical part of him believed it would turn out to be simply the manipulation of numbers, or cleaning out old, solved cases that they hadn’t gotten around to filing yet. Speeding up the pipeline a little to rig the stats.

After the meeting, he stayed behind a moment with Lanier of homicide, passing along the Post-its with the names of Elizabeth Cary’s brothers. Lanier might particularly want to have one of his inspectors on the case, Pat Belou or Lincoln Russell, check out Ted Reed, the crazy brother who lived down at Lake Elsinore. If he’d been in San Francisco last week, it might turn out to be something.

By ten-fifteen, he was up in Chief Batiste’s office for a meeting of the Benefits Board, where he listened for another hour to the city’s director of human resources talk in excruciating detail about the latest proposed improvements to the police department’s pension and retirement plans, and its health and life insurance benefits. Like, what should be the deductible on sex-change operations? Like, should alcoholism automatically be presumed to be a job-related illness, entitling the officer to a full disability retirement for on-the-job injury?

At eleven-thirty, he was driven to the mayor’s office. Smiling was a form of torture for Glitsky, but for most of another hour, that’s all he did, while photographers took his picture with other local VIPs and the members of a Russian delegation here to explore business opportunities in the City by the Bay. As far as he could tell, there was no other reason for him to be present except that the mayor apparently believed that the Russians tended to be impressed by the presence of high-ranking, beribboned officers in uniform.

His driver, Sergeant Tony Paganucci, nagged him about getting some lunch. Wasn’t he supposed to try and meet up with his wife and Clarence Jackman and some other folks at Lou the Greek’s? But Glitsky had run out of time. He absolutely had to be back at the Hall of Justice for a one o’clock press conference, and that was in twenty-five minutes.

Paganucci dropped him behind the Coroner’s Office. Glitsky came into the Hall through the back door. Taking the stairs two at a time for his only exercise of the day, rather than the elevators where someone would want to talk to him about something, he breezed through the outer office unmolested.

In the office adjacent to his own, the deputy chief of administration, Bryce Jake Longoria, a white-haired, soft-spoken patrician, was in uniform sitting at his desk, working at his computer. Glitsky stopped in the doorway until Longoria looked up, smiled, gestured at his monitor. “Just trying to get some real work done, squeeze it in during lunchtime.”

“I hear you. I’d try the same strategy if I had enough time to boot up my computer, which I don’t.” Glitsky took a step into the room. “But I do have a quick question for you if you can spare a minute.”

“One. Shoot.”

“Say you know the name of somebody who served on a jury fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. Do you know if there’s any database you could access to identify the case?”

Longoria pondered a moment. “You don’t know the date, or the name of the defendant?”

“No. Just that it was a murder trial, and they found the guy guilty.”

A dry chuckle. “Well, if it was during the Pratt administration, you could just go and manually look up every one. There couldn’t have been more than three or four, maybe less.”

“Unfortunately, I think it was way back before her. Maybe late seven-ties, early eighties.”

Longoria clucked. “The Golden Years.” He took another moment, then shook his head. “They may still have the physical records downstairs”—the cavernous basement of the Hall, larger than a Costco, that held many millions of documents, shelf after shelf after shelf, floor to twelve-foot ceiling, from cases stretching back to the city’s earlier days—“but first you’d have to find them by going through every one individually.”