The Second Chair (17 page)

Under “other business,” Hardy mentioned the firm’s upcoming involvement in support of the Jackman campaign, which he considered an opportunity as good as any to broach the one sensitive topic they needed to discuss. Might the Jackman candidacy entice Roake back to work, Hardy wondered. To something approaching regular hours?

Roake straightened up in her chair. Her eyes flicked between the two men. “I resent the hell out of that question, Diz. What I do with my time is my business.”

Hardy’s gaze didn’t flinch. He kept any sign of edge out of his voice. “I’m not arguing with that, Gina. You’ve earned whatever time you feel you need. But as a business matter for the firm, you’re drawing a decent salary for yourself and your own private secretary and you’ve got a big corner office that’s essentially sitting unused.”

Roake clipped off her words. “How about if I just quit and start charging the kind of rent for this building that another firm would have to pay? I could give up my decent salary and I’d still be making more money than I am now. How about that?”

Hardy shook his head. “That’s not what I want. I don’t think it’s what you want. I wasn’t speaking critically. If you don’t want to do any more billing, you’ve got my complete support. Wes’s, too. But when we started up together, we had a business plan that included the three of us bringing in business and billing our own time. And that’s not happening. Even with our otherwise good utilization, we’re struggling to make those original numbers.”

Hardy came forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. His voice was still soft, almost caressing. “I’m just trying to get a sense of your plans, Gina, so I can know what we’re dealing with. As it stands now, you’re an expense item and not a profit center, and we didn’t plan for that. The firm has to come up with the difference, which is not insignificant. I owe it to us all to tell you about it. Times are good now, but if they get tight, we could find ourselves in a heap of trouble.”

Roake scratched at the yellow legal pad on the table in front of her, staring down at her scribblings. “All right,” she said, without looking up. “I’d like to think about this for a few days, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Hardy said, “and Gina? There’s no wrong answer here. The firm needs to know, that’s all. We’ve talked about some capital improvements on the horizon. We’ve got to know if they’re feasible, that kind of thing.”

“I hear you,” Roake said. “Really, I do.” Then, with a crisp smile, she pushed back from the table, gathered her notes and told them both good night.

After the door to the Solarium had closed behind her, Hardy let out a long breath and met his partner’s baleful eye over the table.

“Okay, then.” Farrell drew a palm over his brow. “All in all, I’d say that went pretty well. You want to pour me some of that wine?”

Hardy put his briefcase down by his reading chair, then walked down the long hallway in his house. Before he’d remodeled it, the old Victorian had been in the railroad car style, with all the downstairs rooms opening to the right off the hall. Now a large, recently renovated kitchen opened up in the back, and behind that was a family room and then the bedrooms for the two kids. They didn’t keep the television on much as a general rule, so he was somewhat surprised to hear the low drone. He poked his head into the family room. “What’s on?”

Frannie looked over from where she sat on the couch. “Abe.”

He walked over and joined them. “What’s that loopy guy done now?”

On the tube, Glitsky frowned into a battery of microphones. “No, that’s not true,” he was saying. “I consulted with the Chief and Lieutenant Lanier, but the decision was mine. At the time it seemed the best one. No one could have predicted that Mr. Brodie would escape. And in fact, the capture itself took place without incident.”

The picture flicked back to the pretty anchorwoman, who wore the same cheerful face whether she was reporting on terrorism or bake sales. “But in spite of Deputy Chief Glitsky’s comments, the fact remains that Leshawn Brodie, still considered armed and extremely dangerous, and a suspect in several local murders, remains at large after he allegedly stole one of the officers’ weapon and engaged in a dramatic shoot-out with arresting authorities this morning in Nevada. Critics are calling ill-advised at best Glitsky’s decision not to arrest Brodie while he sat on a bus in the Greyhound terminal in downtown San Francisco early this morning. And considering the suspect’s escape and record of violence, it’s hard to disagree with them.”

“Hard, but not impossible,” Hardy said. When the male anchor appeared and it was clear that the news had moved on to its next sound bite, he grabbed the remote and turned off the set. “You notice she never mentioned who the critics were. Did I miss that? ‘Yet, it’s hard to disagree with them,’ ” he intoned in the anchor’s voice. “What kind of reporting is that?”

“Bad,” Vincent said. “They weren’t even listening to what Uncle Abe said.”

“How long was he on?” Hardy asked.

“Long enough.” Vincent’s voice was breaking with adolescence. He cleared his throat and went on. “What did they want him to do? Shoot up the whole bus to get the one guy?”

“You got the gist of it, I think.” Frannie put a hand on Hardy’s knee. “Maybe you ought to call him, though. He’s taking a lot of heat. How was your day?”

“Evidently better than Abe’s, though it had its moments.” He glanced at his watch. “You think he’s home?” But he was already punching numbers on the telephone. “This is your best and possibly only true friend,” Hardy said, “and if you get this . . .”

“What?”

“Monitoring your calls, I see.”

“You would, too. It’s been ringing off the hook.”

“TV’ll do that. Instant fame.”

“Great, but I don’t want to be famous.”

“There’s your problem. You’re the only person in America who doesn’t. The media doesn’t know what to do with you. Maybe you ought to get a new makeup guy. Wipe away those frown lines. Did you know you had a scar through your lips? I’m sure they could airbrush that out, too.”

There was a pause. Then Glitsky asked, “Are you calling for any real reason?”

“Not exactly. You were on the news just now. I thought you’d enjoy the sound of a friendly voice. Also, for the record, Vin’s on your side.”

At his side, Hardy’s wife said, “Frannie, too.”

“I heard that,” Glitsky said. “Tell them both thanks.”

Frannie squeezed Hardy’s leg. “Ask him . . . No, wait, let me.” She grabbed the phone. “Abe, what are you and Treya doing tonight? I’ve got a big pot of spaghetti sauce going. Why don’t all of you come over here? Get away from these people who don’t love you like we do.”

Wu had planned all along to get back to Andrew, get the plea locked up, before tomorrow. She wasn’t about to enter Arvid Johnson’s courtroom in the morning with any sort of question still hanging about her client’s disposition. But before she went in to see Andrew again, she found that she still needed some time to gather herself.

She sat at a table in the street window of what had probably once been a nice little boutique espresso shop half a block from the YGC. But the place had been servicing the juvenile hall clientele for so long that it had given up hope and lost whatever charm it may have once possessed. Now the bulletin board by the door bristled with lawyers’ business cards, photos of missing kids, ads for bail bondmen and private investigators. Stacks of assorted newspapers lay piled on a table by the sugar and cream. A pit bull, chained, slept on the floor in the back of the shop. Behind the counter, a young woman with a peg in her tongue and a ring in each eyebrow was wiping down the back counter, putting things away.

Outside, long shadows stretched up the hill, but the faces of buildings across the street glowed in the last blast of blinding evening sunlight. The wind had picked up and was all but howling, flinging any trash that weighed less than a pound along the nearly deserted street.

Wu’s day—from waking up hungover and alone, to her meeting with the Norths, then Andrew, then the fight with Jason Brandt—seemed to have lasted about a week so far, and the hardest few moments were no doubt still ahead of her.

Well, maybe not the hardest. For a combination of guilt, anger and shame, she knew that it would be tough to top the half hour or so after Brandt had stormed away from her. What made it even worse was that she found she couldn’t even blame him. For it was true. Even when she’d first begun flirting with him the night before, she
had
known that her deal with Andrew wasn’t consummated. If she wanted to have any claim to calling herself an ethical attorney, she would have disclosed her conflict about Andrew to Brandt first thing. You simply did not have sex with your courtroom opposite number.

Sipping her coffee, she was still sick with herself, appalled at what she’d done and at the situation in which she and Brandt now found themselves, a situation that she had orchestrated.

She had risked both of their jobs—still risked them, if the truth came out—to satisfy some undefined and pathetic need to connect. It was beneath her, she knew, or at least beneath the person she had been until her father’s death had kicked the foundation out from under her, turned her into the kind of unstable, needy, manipulative,
dangerous
woman she’d always hated and resolved never to become. And the scariest thing was that the lapse with Brandt had completely broadsided her—she’d never even considered discussing Andrew’s case with him. There had been that spark, the attraction, and lubricated by drink, she’d just gone for it.

Never mind that he was a colleague, a good guy, a no-bullshit attorney she felt she could really come to like and admire someday. Maybe more than that. Of course, now all of that possible future was out of the question. And that, too—the waste of it, the sheer stupidity—made her sick.

And now—she looked at her watch—
right now,
she had to face her young client and wrest a final agonizing decision from him, one that shouldn’t have been his to make in the first place. She should have left the original disposition to fall where it would—with Andrew filed as an adult. Then there would have been an adult trial and he’d all but certainly have been convicted of some degree of murder, but it all would have been according to the system. Now, because of her arrogance, stupidity, blindness, she had placed the entire burden of choice on an unhappy, miserable kid. She wondered if it was a burden he would have the strength to bear. Earlier, when he’d broken down, she’d even viewed that as a positive thing—he’d be persuaded to do what she wanted. But what if he simply couldn’t deal with it?

She shook her head, finished the last of her coffee and left the mug on the table.

As was the case with Jason Brandt, this was yet another example of where she’d acted—committed herself, really—before she’d considered the implications of what she was setting in motion. She could only pray that Andrew was in fact guilty, as she’d assumed and believed all along. As she’d convinced his parents. That would make Andrew’s admission, though still difficult, acceptable, even preferable, as a strategy.

As she turned up the walkway to the cabins, she stopped and looked up at the razor-wire fence. After she got Andrew’s admission sewed up tonight, she vowed she would change and never put a client in such a position again. But first she had to get his admission. First that. Then begin work on fixing herself.

But she couldn’t lose sight of her objective in the short term. Too much was already riding on Andrew’s admission. She couldn’t let the accumulation of this day’s terrible events weaken her resolve or blind her to her first duty.

“Don’t wimp out now,” she said aloud to herself, and started up to the cabins.

“Who was that?”

Frannie took off her reading glasses and put down her P.D. James. She was in bed, propped against her reading pillow. She had let her red hair down and now it hung to her shoulders and shone in the room’s light.

Hardy turned from his desk by the room’s door. “Amy.”

Frannie checked the clock by the bed. “At eleven-fifteen?”

“She didn’t want me to worry and lose any of those precious minutes of sleep that are so important to men of a certain age.”

“What were you going to be worried about? That now you’re not, I presume.”

He spent a minute filling her in on his concern that Wu might find herself having to renege with Boscacci. “But she just got back home from what must have been a marathon session with Andrew down at YGC. She wanted me to know that she had nailed down the plea.”

“Well, there’s a relief. I would have tossed all night.” Frannie went to pick up her book, stopped. “It took her twenty minutes to tell you that?”

“To do it justice.”

“And how old is this boy?”

“Seventeen.”

Frannie made a sad face. “Seventeen.”

A nod. “And, unfortunately, a killer. A double killer, actually. Eventually, apparently, he gave that up to Amy.”

“Confessed, you mean?”

“Well, agreed to admit the petition, which is pleading guilty. And since that’s the deal Amy cut with Boscacci, I’m glad he finally got religion around it.”

“So what was the deal with Boscacci?”

Hardy filled in the particulars for his wife, concluding with the comment that Amy had been smart to keep Andrew’s parents away while she put the pressure on the kid.

“Why is that?” Frannie asked.

“Because he’d been telling Mom and Dad he didn’t do it.”

“But he did?”

“Yep, if he’s pleading, which he is.”

“So then tell me again why he wouldn’t agree to plead guilty if his parents were there.”

Hardy stopped and turned by the closet. “Because, my love, he continues to scam them. The dad’s paying the bills. First he can be a good boy and assure them to their face that he’s innocent, then he can save his own skin by telling Amy the truth. And—the real beauty of it all—he can then go back to his parents and tell them that Amy talked him into the whole thing. She coerced him. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t really kill anybody. He’s a good boy.”

A long moment passed, his wife staring into the empty space in front of her. “You are so cynical.”