The Second Chair (22 page)

He came forward, intent now. “But you’ve got to
commit,
Wu. Whether or not he actually did it, your job is to get him off, any legal way you can. If he’d have copped the plea, okay then, you got him a deal he could live with. But he didn’t. He couldn’t live with it. Have you asked yourself why that might have been?”

“He’s got to think he can get off.”

“And why, looking at all the evidence arrayed against him, would he think that? Is he stupid? Does he think a jury won’t convict him somehow?”

“No. I don’t think he’s stupid.”

“Well? Could it be that he believes the system will work because he’s innocent? I mean, is that even a possibility?”

“If it is, then he’s a very unlucky guy.”

“Okay. And if he’s unlucky, what does that mean?”

She frowned, shrugged. “I give up, what?”

“It means someone else killed these victims.”

She rolled her eyes. “The famous other dude. But—”

“Don’t say it. It doesn’t have to be a real person. It just has to be a
believable
story that a jury can take as an alternative. Let’s say the teacher, what’s his name?”

“Mooney.”

“Okay, Mooney had another girlfriend before Andrew’s, Laura is it?”

“Yes, Laura.”

“Right. So this other girlfriend might have been jealous, too. As jealous as Andrew was. And maybe she also told a friend of hers. And, lo and behold, her father also owns a gun, and she had no alibi that night.” Wu started to reply, but Hardy held up a hand. “I’m not saying there’s any of this. But there’s something out there somewhere, I guarantee it. There’s always something.” He paused, looked directly into her face. “At any rate, Wu, that’s what I’m going to be looking for.”

It took her a minute for the message to sink in, but then Wu sat up straight. “You? What do you mean, you?”

“Me. Your boss. I’m going to sit second chair with you on this.”

“But . . .”

“No. No ‘but,’ I’m afraid.”

Her mouth hung open for an instant. She swallowed hard, looked down then up. “If you don’t think I can do the job, sir, then you might as well fire me.”

“No. Although honestly, we considered it. You realize that nearly every decision you’ve made with this client from the beginning has been dead wrong, don’t you? That you’ve compromised the firm’s reputation to a significant degree?”

Unable to deny it, she could only nod.

He let her live with the harsh reality for a minute, then softened it somewhat. “But everyone makes mistakes, Amy. Everyone. And we don’t want the firm to lose you. Beyond that, on a personal note, I’ve got to bear my own share of the blame for where this has all gotten to. I didn’t do my job.”

“And what was that?”

“Supervising you. Advising against your deal right from the first minute I heard about it. Letting you go ahead afterwards. You want more? I’ve got ’em, believe me. But now we’ve got an opportunity to right those wrongs, both of us.” He leaned in toward her. “Listen, by turning down the plea, Andrew basically bet us that he didn’t do it. Whether or not we believe him, the firm signed on to keep the DA from proving he did. I still like to think that we can get this kid off.”

“You and me, together?”

“Yes.”

“Get him off completely?”

“Maybe even that. It happens sometimes. You prepare the seven-oh-seven hearing on the kind of person Andrew is, whether he was temporarily insane or had a lousy childhood or organic brain damage from braces that didn’t fit right. Or if he’s got uncontrollable rage that should put him in a program instead of jail. Me, I try to find a good alternative story. Time the trial comes around, we’ve already seen the DA’s case at the hearing, so we choose the best option and run with it.”

“So he goes to trial after all? I was hoping there was some chance with the seven-oh-seven that I could at least keep him down as a juvenile.”

“Not likely,” Hardy said. “Murder one with specials goes to adult court every time.”

“Well, then, why wouldn’t
every
murder go adult?”

“Murder one does. Some homicides don’t, but they’ve got to be really close to an accident, or a retarded kid, or an abused kid who kills his dad, something like those. A righteous one-eighty-seven”—the code section for first degree murder—“the kid goes up, I don’t care if he’s fourteen years old.”

“So why are they having this hearing in the first place, if the outcome is foreordained?”

Hardy broke a sad smile. “Because you made them, Wu. It might not have been your original plan, but you made them.”

13

B
efore they’d even come close to removing the body, the city’s power elite had descended upon the All-Day Lot—besides Glitsky, his boss and his underling, Police Chief Frank Batiste and Homicide Lieutenant Marcel Lanier appeared within fifteen minutes of each other. Of course Clarence Jackman needed to be on hand—the victim, after all, had been his chief deputy. Even a tuxedo-clad Mayor Washington himself, called from whatever party he’d been attending, showed up in his limo.

Everyone agreed that this was no ordinary homicide—the tendrils of Boscacci’s career extended near and far in half a dozen directions. Over the course of his life, he’d either personally or administratively been involved with the prosecution of a wide range of wrongdoers—gang members, white-collar criminals and drug dealers; scam artists, rapists and murderers. But he’d also been extremely active in the city’s hyperactive and often acrimonious labor negotiations. Politically, he had been slated to run Jackman’s next campaign, and his abrasive, no-nonsense style had not enamored him to any of the DA’s six or eight challengers.

By the time all these heavyweights were ready to go home, they’d unanimously agreed to assign an event number to the investigation. The police department, like all city departments, had a budget and was expected to stay within it. But when something extraordinary happened—an earthquake or a papal visit, say, the mayor would agree that the event would get a number, and extraordinary expenses would come from the General Fund. Practically, this provided nearly limitless funds to allow the work to proceed. Inspectors wouldn’t have to worry about their overtime; the crime lab could run any sophisticated tests it needed beyond the routine; the whole apparatus—for a welcome change—working in unison toward a common goal. Abe Glitsky, not only as deputy chief of inspectors, but as a former head of homicide, was the logical choice to take point.

Now, before the building had come alive, before any other staff had come in, Glitsky sat in his office, door closed, with Jeff Elliot, the influential writer of the “CityTalk” column for the
Chronicle
. Elliot and Glitsky were both members of Jackman’s informal kitchen cabinet, and had a lengthy and decent history between them. Not exactly close personal friends, they nevertheless got along about as well as a cop and a reporter could.

Maybe part of that was because, in spite of Glitsky’s hatred of the reporter’s basic prying function, he couldn’t help but admire Elliot’s essential bravery in the face of his ongoing struggle with multiple sclerosis. The bearded columnist lived and worked without reference to his wheelchair, his crutches, his specially designed car so he could get around. There was no hint of victimhood about Elliot, who had more claim to it than most. He was a true mensch, and Glitsky respected him.

“At least,” Elliot was saying, “we don’t have to talk about LeShawn Brodie, which was the original plan for today’s interview, as you may recall.”

Behind his desk, Glitsky sipped at his tea. “I’d be curious to hear your take on that, though, just as a matter of interest.”

“What’s to take? Your call was the only thing that made any sense. And in fact, until the clowns who picked him up let him escape . . .” He let the statement hang. “What were you supposed to do, storm the bus?”

“Apparently. But what I don’t understand is all the vehemence, the rush to lay blame. Not that I feel anything personally, of course. I’m a cop, and therefore have no feelings.”

“Of course,” Elliot said. “That goes without saying. Why would you need them? But you know as well as anybody how these frenzies develop. It’s lucky for you that you’re not an elected official. Brodie could have done you in.”

“In spite of the fact that it was the right decision? No, don’t answer that. It wasn’t really a question. But off the record, it makes me think I’ve about Peter Principled out. I’m not cut out for spin. I must have the wrong genes or something.”

“I don’t know. Some of us Neanderthals in the media find it quaintly refreshing. You say something, you mean what you say; most of the time it even makes sense. The public can either deal with it or not.” Elliot shifted in his wheelchair. “You don’t watch out, you might become a cultural hero.”

Glitsky ran a finger over the scar in his lips. “Unlikely,” he said, “but give me an event number and a murder to investigate, I may not be totally useless.”

“Which brings us back to Allan.”

A brusque nod. “It does. Although I have to tell you, this is too soon for me to have anything you could use. We’re nowhere. We sent a couple of inspectors out last night to canvass the neighborhood. Nobody heard or saw anything. I was actually hoping you might have something for me.”

Elliot considered for a moment, then shook his head. “He wasn’t everybody’s favorite guy, but I never caught a whiff of anything particular that would make somebody want to kill him. I hope to get a chance to talk to Clarence, who’s got to be devastated by this.”

“He is. But we talked last night, and he’s as mystified as anybody. Allan was a rock. Came in early, stayed late, great administrator, loyal as a dog.”

“He fire anybody lately?” Elliot asked.

“A couple. We’re checking them.” The purging of the deadwood from the earlier DA’s administration had been an ongoing, albeit low-key program for the past three years. To the affected parties, though, Glitsky would bet the termination was probably not as low-key as it seemed to others. “But to tell you the truth, Jeff, we’re going to find out about everything in Allan’s life. This is something I know how to do, as opposed to going to meetings and eating lunch with businesspeople. And for a change we’ve got the manpower and budget to do it right. If this killing wasn’t completely random, and I can’t believe that it was, we’ll find who did it.” He looked up, slightly startled. “Did I just say something quotable?”

Because the All-Day parking lot was cordoned off with police tape and he couldn’t park there, Jason Brandt had to find a place nearly six blocks south of the Hall of Justice and walk up. He was standing in the hallway outside of Clarence Jackman’s office at eight-thirty when Treya Glitsky got to the door.

“Can I help you?” she asked, introducing herself unnecessarily. All the assistant DAs, even those who worked mostly off-site, knew who she was.

Brandt pulled his hands from his pockets and introduced himself as well. He feigned an easy smile, but it was clear that he was wound up. “I was hoping to get a minute with Mr. Jackman.”

She made a face of regret. “I don’t remember an appointment . . .”

“It’s about Allan.”

Treya drew a heavy breath. “Well, then.” She put her key into the door. “That poor man,” she said. “It seems so . . . so completely unbelievable.” She shook her head, clearing the thought, then came back to him. “I don’t know when or even if Mr. Jackman will be in this morning. I know he was at the crime scene until well after midnight, then went to Allan’s home after that. So it might be a while, if at all. You’re welcome to wait, if you’d like.”

Brandt thanked her and took the chair next to Jackman’s door. Treya opened the blinds, turned on her computer, checked her voice mail, then the wall clock. The telephone rang and she picked it up. “District attorney’s office.” She lowered her voice. “Hi. No, not yet. I’ll call you as soon as he does. No, really.” A pause, the hint of a smile. “Me, too. Bye.”

When she hung up, Brandt asked. “Was that your husband?”

“So much for subtle.”

“I read that he was in charge of the investigation.”

“I read that, too. He was gone before I was completely awake this morning. I can’t imagine who would have done this. Can you?” She sat up. “Is that what you wanted to see Clarence about?”

Brandt shook his head. “No.” He hesitated. “It’s a little weird to talk about Allan’s work and not his death, but with him gone now . . . I don’t know, it seemed important to tell Mr. Jackman what was going on in this case so it didn’t fall through the cracks. It doesn’t have anything to do with Allan’s murder.”

“What’s the case?”

Slightly embarrassed now, Brandt started to shrug it away, then spoke anyway. “Just up at the YGC . . .” He went on to tell the story—Andrew Bartlett, the juvenile proceedings, the scotched plea bargain deal. Amy.

Treya nearly jumped at the name. “Wait a minute. Amy Wu?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this plea deal, it was between her and Allan?”

“Right. She was coming down here to explain it to him, how the kid—Andrew, her client—had screwed her, or screwed them both. Anyway, Allan probably would have gone ballistic.” Having noticed something in her expression, he stopped. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Then, after another pause, she said, “Did you know that Amy was the one who found his body?”

“Pardon?”

She nodded. “Really. Abe—my husband—mentioned it last night when he got home, only because we both know her a little. They were all down there at the scene.”

Brandt’s eyes went inward while he processed the information. “Was she hurt, too?” he asked with real concern. “Is she all right now?”

“Who?”

“Amy.” From Treya’s expression, she wasn’t following him. “I mean, was she around when Allan got shot? Is she okay?”

“I think she’s fine. I’m sure she is.”

For a moment, Brandt felt light-headed with relief. The feeling surprised him, and it must have showed.

“Is Amy a friend of yours?” Treya asked.

“No,” he answered, perhaps too quickly. “Just a colleague. We’re in this case together, on opposite sides. Anyway, I knew she was planning to talk to Allan yesterday. When you said she found him, I thought she might have been with him when it happened.”