Turning back, he saw his partner lying flat on the sidewalk, and he knew where he had to be and headed back there.
A
FTER LUNCH WITH
his client, Hardy had called Glitsky and asked him what he was doing with this Friday afternoon yawning emptily ahead of him.
“I’m contemplating the unfairness of life.”
“Always a fruitful endeavor. What brought this about?”
“You know about Posey last night, right? Of course you do, and if you say it was awesome, I’ll kill you.”
“It was sure at least pretty good. When’s the last time that happened, four homers in one game?”
“Josh Hamilton, 2012, with the Rangers. I looked it up.”
“Good for you, and now I know it, too. I bet I could win money with a fact like that. But how does Buster Posey figure into your thoughts on the unfairness of life?”
“I bet against him.”
“What? When? Last night?”
“At the game with Wes. When he only had two.”
“Only two’s a good start.”
“Yeah, but still a long way to go to get four.”
“And why would you bet Wes on this?”
“He was giving five to one. How could I miss? I mean, had Posey ever done it before? No. What were the odds? So I took the bet.”
“For how much?”
“Fifty.”
Hardy whistled. “If I were you, I’d be contemplating the unfairness of life. That and where I was going to get the extra two-fifty that I’d lost.”
“It wasn’t a stupid bet. It was, in fact, a smart bet. It just didn’t come up.”
“Yep,” Hardy said. “That sure is unfair. I feel bad for you.”
“I feel
bad for myself. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all day. How these things happen to me.”
“What do you mean, these things? What things?”
“You know. Bad stuff. Here’s Buster Posey, whom I would normally love to see hit four home runs in one game, and the night he does it, I happen to be sitting next to Wes, and he happens to want to bet on it, and get this,
I make the smart bet,
and I still lose. So ask me if I’m happy about Posey’s four homers.”
“I already know the answer.”
“Well, there you go. It’s like I’m cursed somehow. I’m not kidding. Truly cursed. Voodoo. Maybe Santería. Actually, literally, cursed.”
“Don’t get too wound up over it, Abe. You might have another heart attack.”
“See? That’s what I mean. I’m in basically good health, and next thing you know, I get a heart attack.”
“Six or seven years ago, let’s remember.”
“What’s your point? It doesn’t count?”
“Dude,
you didn’t die
. Some people would call that lucky, not cursed.”
“They’d be wrong. Or getting shot, how about that? And all the complications from that. Plus—and while I’m on this, I’ve got to tell you—I pull up to the tollbooth on the bridge . . .”
“What bridge?”
“Any bridge, it doesn’t matter. My point is that every time I get behind the guy who doesn’t have the right change or stalls his car. I mean it, this is an automatic.”
“You ought to bet that it happens.”
“No, because then it wouldn’t. And let’s not even talk about cell phones cutting out in the middle of every call.”
“I wish this one would.”
“Stick with me. It’ll happen.” After a beat or two of silence, Glitsky spoke in a different tone. “Okay, that’s out of my system. What’d you call me about?”
“Damned if I remember. Oh yeah, I suddenly had the afternoon free and thought we could do something fun.”
“I thought you were at the trial.”
“Not
today. I had some actual billable hours with a client, so I let one of my paralegals go in my place.”
“Okay, what’s your fun idea?”
“I think you’ll like it,” Hardy said.
• • •
L
IAM
G
OODMAN HAD
led his two dozen shock troops into the courtroom for the beginning of the trial, but once he’d established his own place in that firmament, he went back to his day job. All eleven of the city’s supervisors, as well as the mayor, worked out of their offices in City Hall, which was about as far removed from the rough-and-tumble ambience and architecture of the Bryant Street Hall of Justice as was possible to imagine.
The beaux arts City Hall was a magnificent structure, inside and out. Its exterior was done in Madera County granite; its dome, modeled on Mansart’s baroque dome of Les Invalides in Paris, was the fifth largest in the world, forty-two feet taller than the dome of the U.S. Capitol. The enormous rotunda, its walls faced with Indiana sandstone and finished with marble from Alabama, Colorado, Vermont, and Italy, was a favorite setting for weddings; hundreds of couples a year tied the knot there. Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe were married in the rotunda.
Hardy and Glitsky, largely immune to the building’s charms, climbed the grand staircase and found themselves outside Liam Goodman’s office. Hardy had called for an appointment to make sure Goodman would be in, before he called Abe, before he decided that Abe’s presence as a member of the DA’s Investigations Unit would add a certain gravitas to the proceedings. As they got to the door, Hardy was explaining to Glitsky that he may have inadvertently conveyed the impression to Goodman’s secretary that he was thinking about making a political donation.
Glitsky broke what he probably thought was a smile, a tiny uptick at the corner of his scar-slashed mouth. “When he finds out you’re not giving him anything, he’s going to kick us right out.”
“I’m betting he won’t.”
“Don’t say ‘bet,’ ” Glitsky snapped. “Betting is off-limits today.”
They opened the door and passed a small outer office where three well-dressed interns, who might have been in their teens, sat doing what looked like massive amounts of paperwork around a small conference
table. A short hallway beyond that office brought them to the receptionist’s station, where an attractive black woman—Diane, according to the carved knickknack on her desk—sat behind a computer terminal at an uncluttered desk with empty “in” and “out” basket. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Hardy gave her a nod and a smile. “Dismas Hardy to see Mr. Goodman. I believe he’s expecting me.” He didn’t introduce Glitsky, whose unusual and distinctive name as well as his professional background would have been familiar to the supervisor.
The omission didn’t seem to bother Diane, who got up from her desk, turned, and walked a few steps back to another door, where she tapped gently, then stuck her head in. They heard Goodman’s voice, nearly booming from inside. “Send him in, send him in.”
Goodman was standing in front of an empire desk that matched the rest of the general high-toned decor of the room—bookshelves with law books and hardbacks, a large globe, dark wood, and burgundy leather couches and seats. “Dismas Hardy,” he said by way of greeting, shaking hands. “The famous lawyer. I thought I recognized the name. I confess I Googled you after Diane made this appointment.”
Hardy knew that this was complete bullshit. When Hardy had subpoenaed Goodman to appear at the murder trial a little over a year before, he had responded to Hardy—albeit through his lawyer—that he would come to court but under no circumstances would he testify about anything. Hardy never got to call him, but he’d been there in the courtroom, as he’d been with Treadway. So he unquestionably knew who Hardy was, though he might not guess what he wanted today. For the moment, he wasn’t giving anything away. “Didn’t I see you at the Treadway trial yesterday? That’s still going on, isn’t it?”
“As far as I know. It’s my daughter’s case, and as a courtesy, she was letting me sit in on opening day.”
“I’m hoping that she doesn’t prevail in getting Mr. Treadway off, though I don’t suppose there’s much chance of that. Still, I’m a lawyer myself, and I must say I greatly admire defense attorneys like your daughter and yourself, who take on these hopeless cases. The best defense the law allows, and all that. Isn’t that right? Everyone deserves that. People don’t always realize it, but if I had to say one thing that makes our coun
try great, that would be it, the unassailable right to an attorney. I’m sure you’d agree.”
“It’s what I do for a living,” Hardy said.
“A noble calling. Sometimes thankless, I’m sure, but noble. I’m not kidding you.” After his politician’s prologue, he turned to Glitsky, a silent question in his eyes. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? Sometimes I get caught up talking philosophy and get carried away.” He reached out his hand to shake Abe’s. “Liam Goodman.”
“Abe Glitsky. Nice to meet you.”
Hardy noticed a flicker of concern, perhaps of recognition, in the supervisor’s face. Goodman’s brow creased for an instant, then went smooth again, accompanied by a smile that struck Hardy as slightly uncertain. “So. What can I do for you gentlemen? Do you want to take a seat? Can I offer you some coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
“I think we’re good,” Hardy said. “Abe?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,” Glitsky said. “Plain, no sugar or milk.”
“Have a seat. I’ll get Diane right on it.” Goodman strode over to the door, made the request, then came back inside, crossed around his desk, and sat at it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“Well,” Hardy said, “it’s a little sensitive.”
“I can do sensitive,” Goodman replied.
“Good.” Hardy came forward in his chair. “This is really about what I believe you used to refer to as ‘the Army Business.’ ”
It was as though a small electric current shot through Goodman’s face. His lips twitched and his eyes closed a fraction, although he maintained a neutral, interested posture, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him.
Hardy didn’t want to give him a chance to respond right away. He had a lot more to say. “About a year ago,” he said, “you may remember getting subpoenaed in one of my cases after having a conversation with a private investigator named Wyatt Hunt, who was trying to get a handle on rumors he’d heard of you being blackmailed by your chief of staff, Rick Jessup. Who’d been murdered.”
“Of course I remember that. It was a horrible time. I don’t think the
office is quite over it yet. Rick was a wonderful person. The idea that he would even think about blackmailing me or anyone else is totally ludicrous. Which is what I believe your Mr. Hunt found.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” Hardy said. “What he found was a conspiracy between you and Rick Jessup to defraud the U.S. government to the tune of several million dollars.”
It had been a slick and lucrative scheme, hatched in the first years of the Afghanistan campaign. Women in the service would return from the war theater pregnant and nearing the end of their term. Here in the U.S., they would have their baby and then, still under enlistment, would have six months postpartum when they would not be deployed back to the war zone. Concurrently, the army had a policy not to send pregnant women to active theaters of war. So if they could just get pregnant again during those six months, they would remain safe.
At the same time, Rick Jessup and Liam Goodman had found an opportunity to make connections with childless wealthy couples looking for a surrogate mother to carry their baby. For a fee of one hundred thousand dollars, Goodman put together these carefully vetted people—servicewomen and wealthy couples. He kept eighty thousand of that money, paid Jessup a finder’s fee of three grand, and gave the remaining twenty thousand to the surrogate mother. Hunt found evidence that in all, over a three-year period, Goodman had brokered no fewer than thirty-two of these deals.
What made the scam a federal crime was the fact that the army was not only paying the active-duty female soldier the whole time but also covering all of her pregnancy-related medical expenses.
Hardy had known about the arrangement for well over a year—as far as he knew, since Jessup was dead, he and Wyatt Hunt and now Glitsky were the only people besides Goodman who did know—but until this morning, when the idea randomly occurred to him, he had seen no advantage to be gained from revealing this knowledge.
That had changed.
“All right,” Goodman said.
“All right? You admit it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Goodman said. “This is
bullshit, and you can’t prove any of it.” He did not, however, tell them to get out.
“And yet,” Hardy said, “here we are, having this discussion.”
“Fine, but so what? Those records are gone. And without them, you have no proof of anything you’re talking about,” Goodman said.
“Oh, I’m sure you got rid of the records. But actually,” Hardy said, “there’s plenty of proof readily available in the persons of thirty or thirty-five kids walking around all over the city. I think if Wyatt Hunt, say, went to talk to the parents of these children, in exchange for immunity for their parts in the conspiracy, several of them might be willing to talk about your role in their children’s birth.”
Goodman glared at him with reptilian coldness. “You’re an asshole,” he said.
“Maybe, but that won’t put me in jail. Whereas you, as a hypocrite who’s defrauded the government, are looking at some serious prison time, I would predict. If someone decides to start telling this story to a federal grand jury. Oh, and I might add, that would be pretty much the end of your political career.”
Goodman’s gaze traveled to the side. “Glitsky,” he said, “you’re with the DA.”
“Not today,” Glitsky said. “Apparently.”
“What’s your part in this?”
Glitsky thought for a long moment. “Today I’m an overworked public servant who wouldn’t dream of thinking up more work to do. Unless my close friend Dismas Hardy were to present me with evidence of a crime that I could not ignore.” He cocked his head. “Sorry,” he said with unmistakable irony.
“Fuck you, too.”
Glitsky shrugged. “Creative,” he said.
“Yeah, well, fuck you again.” To Hardy, Goodman said, “What do you want? Money?”
“That would be blackmail,” Hardy said, “and that would be illegal.”
“So? What?”
“What I’d really like, Liam, is a fair trial for Rebecca’s client Greg Treadway. You could argue that as a rookie defense attorney, she should embrace the shenanigans you’re orchestrating in the courtroom and
chalk it up to experience. Shit happens at trials, and she’s got to learn how to deal with all of it. Maybe I should just let it all play out, but that’s the other thing—I find it pretty offensive as well, the way you’ve got your team of rabble-rousers in the courtroom, poisoning the atmosphere. If Treadway goes down, I know Rebecca could base an appeal on their presence in the gallery, but that could take years, and she wouldn’t want her client to lose all that time out of his life.