Authors: John Lescroart
“So what happened here? Dispatch said there was a report of a shooting? You mean right here?” Checking out the tour buses around them, Warren couldn’t quite picture it.
Hardy really couldn’t blame him. “This was about an hour ago, and the place was pea soup with fog. You couldn’t see twenty feet. There was nobody else up here.”
“Nobody?”
“Not a soul.” The two cops looked at each other, but Warren’s expression remained neutral. “Just myself and a client I’d come here to meet.”
Hardy knew this would be tricky, but once he’d decided to call the police, he had to tell them the truth. It was the only way the system worked. So he told them about Holiday.
But the truth wasn’t scoring points. Jakes broke in to ask, “You mean to say that this client of yours, he’s wanted for murder? There’s a warrant out?”
“That’s right.”
“So where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Jakes repeated.
Hardy started to shrug. His ribs stopped him. “When I called you, he thought it would be smart to leave. I couldn’t really argue with him.”
“You didn’t try to make him stay?” Warren asked.
“Of course,” Hardy kept it low-key, “I told him he should turn himself in. He might be safer in jail after all. But he didn’t see it that way.” Hardy met their eyes in turn. “But the point is that he was here earlier with me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to what happened.”
Finally Jakes said, “Okay, shoot.”
Hardy gave it to them succinctly in less than five minutes. “We waited for a while down there at the bottom,” he concluded, “then climbed back up here through the brush . . .”
“Wait a minute,” Jakes said. He walked over to the retaining wall and looked down. “You came back up through that? Why didn’t you use the road?”
Hardy explained, but by now no longer felt they believed him. He walked them over to where the tour buses were parked, describing the gray sedan and its course through the then-empty parking lot. Hardy had distinctly heard the tires squeal, but the pavement had been wet, and now there was no sign of skid marks. Six shots had been fired, but no one had been hit and there were no bullet casings. The chipped cement at the retaining wall could have happened an hour or a week or six years ago.
Back where he’d parked, he said, “I know how weird this sounds. But it happened.” He indicated his own ruined clothes, his face. “I didn’t do this to myself, really. And my partner David Freeman is in the ICU right now, mugged a few days ago. That’s real and verifiable. So is the fact that somebody smashed my windshield a couple of days ago in North Beach. There ought to be a report of that on file.”
“So you’re saying you think you know who did this? All this stuff?” Warren asked.
“Yes, sir. His name is Wade Panos. He’s a Patrol Special. You may know him.”
“And you’re saying you think he’s trying to kill you? And your partner?”
“I do.”
“And what about your client? Holiday? How does he fit in with all this?”
“That,” Hardy said uneasily, “gets a little complicated.”
C
larence Jackman did not normally hold open office hours for defense attorneys, nor for anyone else. After a long and successful career in the private sector, Jackman, a darkly hued African-American sixty-five-year-old, physically imposing and impeccably dressed, had been appointed to his position of District Attorney of San Francisco by the mayor about three years ago. Since then, he’d come to appreciate the power and influence that came with the job, to the extent that he was committed to running for election to his second term. He was now, even more so than when he’d been in the lofty reaches of the private sector, a true august personage.
But Abe as well as Treya Glitsky, who was his personal secretary, considered him something of a friend. So did Dismas Hardy and, for that matter, so did David Freeman. All of these people, along with Gina Roake and a few others, had been regularly meeting at Lou the Greek’s for a couple of years with the DA and serving as his informal kitchen cabinet.
So when Hardy had called requesting a meeting with the DA, saying he
needed a word
with Jackman
right away,
Treya cleared it with her boss and set to work rescheduling the afternoon. When he actually arrived battered, worn and dirty, and gimped his way into the outer office, sans coat, his hands and face scratched and bloody, she ushered him directly in, closing the door behind them.
After expressing his genuine concern and making sure Hardy was comfortable in one of the office’s easy chairs, Jackman listened with his trademark intensity. He sat slumped at the near end of the couch, leaning heavily on an elbow, the thumb of his right hand under his chin, the fingers regularly caressing the side of his mouth.
When Hardy finished, Jackman sat still for a very long while. Hardy knew better than to interrupt his thoughts, or try to prompt him. At length, the DA straightened up slightly and looked Hardy in the face. “Panos?”
A nod. “Yes, sir.” Hardy knew that Jackman couldn’t take this as anything like good news. It was no secret that Panos contributed to every major political campaign in the city so that, no matter who won, he never lost influence.
“You seriously believe he’s behind these attacks?”
“Not personally, probably not. But some of his people, yes.”
“You’ll pardon me for saying so—you’re obviously upset right now, Diz, and I can’t say I blame you—but that seems like just one hell of a reach. Wade’s not a gangster.”
“With respect, Clarence, maybe you’d like to take a look at some of my deposition testimony. He’s not exactly Mr. Clean.”
Jackman shook his head. “Maybe not. He’s in a tough field, where admittedly some of his tactics, especially with, let us say, not the cream of society, might have come close to crossing the line. But here you’re talking attempted murder of regular citizens. There’s a huge difference and frankly, I can’t see Wade going there. Why would he even risk it?”
“Maybe because David and I, we’re threatening to put him out of business.”
“And how would you do that? Do you think he doesn’t have insurance?”
“No, he has insurance.”
“Well, then.” A pause. “You know and I know how it works, Diz. Panos sees this as just another nuisance lawsuit. In all probability, he won’t personally pay a dime, even if it goes to trial, which it probably won’t. All parties will settle. It’s not personal.”
Hardy sat back. “Take a look at me, Clarence. I’d say it’s gotten personal. I’m going to try like hell to shut him down. I want the son of a bitch in jail.”
Jackman sighed. “Well . . . but all right. So then, assuming you’re successful, he’d be out of business. He’s close to retirement age anyway. He might even welcome the break.” He came forward to the edge of the couch and spoke with a quiet intensity. “Look, Diz, there’s no denying that something bad is going on. David and then you today. I’m willing to concede that they’re related. Hell, they’d all but have to be. But related doesn’t mean it has to be Wade.”
“Except that it is.”
Jackman frowned. “If it is, there are two very good and experienced inspectors investigating David’s mugging and they should come up with something.”
“Two?”
“Two.” Jackman played it as a trump. “It may not be clear to you, Diz, but I myself am
really, really
pissed off about David. I don’t think you or anybody else has any idea how angry I am. So I asked Dan Rigby”—the chief of police—“to assign another inspector to assist Hector Blanca. They had the CSI team out all morning combing the site, and you know how often that happens for a simple mugging? Never. But it happened now, and it happened because I wanted it to. And they get anything else they need, too. I’ve even given the investigation an event number.” This was a huge commitment from Jackman. The assignment of an event number meant that all expenses related to the event were paid out of the city’s general fund, and not out of any department’s budget. It essentially meant unlimited resources.
Jackman continued. “So if they find anything that points to Wade Panos—hell, I don’t care if it points to the Pope—I’ll charge him or whoever it is so fast it’ll make your head spin.” In his agitation, Jackman had stood up. He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “So if you’ve got even a small show of proof that Wade’s any part of this, of you or David, I’d like to hear about it right now.”
Hardy sat silent, wrestling with how far he should push this thing. “It’s not just me and David,” he said. “And it’s not attempted murder. It’s murder. And in fact it’s more than one.”
His patience clearly frayed, Jackman nevertheless nodded cautiously. “I’m listening.”
Hardy launched into his conspiracy theory that led through Silverman and Creed, Terry and Wills, and on up to the arrest warrant that had been issued for his client. Jackman’s scowl had grown darker as the recitation progressed. By the time Hardy finished with the suggestion that the DA convene a grand jury to investigate Panos’s company—he was sure they’d find something tying at least his employees to these murders—Jackman finally lost his temper, albeit in his quiet fashion.
“In other words, your client didn’t kill these people. Panos did. Now he’s a murderer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what about the police, about the evidence they’ve collected, the witnesses they’ve talked to?” The DA kept talking. “If I’m not mistaken, Diz, when you defend people, it’s often not because they didn’t do
something,
but because no one can prove what they did do, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“. . . but without proof of any kind, you’re telling me you
know
your client is innocent and that in his place Wade Panos is guilty. Am I stating your position accurately?”
Hardy spread his hands. “I’m saying it’s worth looking into, that’s all.”
“No, that’s not all, as a matter of fact. You want me to use the power of this office to investigate a private citizen who happens to be your opponent in a lawsuit . . .”
“Clarence, that’s neither here—”
But Jackman raised a finger. “Please, let me finish. And at the same time you accuse this same private citizen of the very crimes your own client stands accused of. And all in the name of what? Of David’s mugging, is what it comes down to, and the rage I feel about that. If I didn’t believe I knew you so well, I might be tempted to think you were a cynical lawyer trying to manipulate the DA to harm his adversaries.”
“That’s not any—”
But again, Jackman stopped him. “Let me tell you something, Diz. If one of your clients suggested you try something like this to me, you’d laugh at him. If you were Wade’s lawyer and I called you in to talk about any of these charges, you’d laugh at me. Where’s the proof? Where’s any
sign
of proof?”
“I’m betting it’s out there.”
“Well, if it is, apparently neither you nor the police have found it. And what they have found seems to implicate your client. Rather strongly, from what I hear.” He crossed back and took the chair next to Hardy, where he leaned forward with some intimacy. The vitriol seemed to have passed. “Diz, look what’s happened to you today. It’s got you shook up. What you’re telling me is that sometimes the process doesn’t work—you and I both know that.”
“No one’s looking in the right direction, Clarence.”
“I’m sure the police are looking where the evidence leads. That’s what they do.”
“And they’re never wrong, are they?”
And this, finally, was the wrong note.
Jackman’s shoulders fell and, sighing heavily, he stood up and went over behind his desk. “I encourage you to make sure the report on what happened to you and your client today is complete. I will talk to Chief Rigby and try to make sure that Inspector Blanca gets a team out to Coit Tower before every trace of what happened to you is gone.”
“Thank you.” He was standing up. The meeting was over.
But Jackman stopped him a last time before he got to the door. “Diz.”
Hardy turned back. Jackman was pointing a finger for emphasis. “I want to be crystal clear here. If we ever do get to the point where we can charge Panos with something, and there’s any suggestion that the criminal charges were brought because you’re my friend rather than because there’s evidence sufficient to convict, this case won’t just go down the tubes, it’ll embarrass us both.
Capisce?
”
“Capisce.”
“So we won’t ever have to talk about this again, right?”
More than anything else, Hardy wanted to go home. He knew he looked a mess; his ribs ached; his whole left hand throbbed anew. But it was already early Friday afternoon, and though he might get lucky with Blanca deciding to pull weekend work, his luck wasn’t something he wanted to count on. Not today.
Again, the inspector for General Work was in. When Hardy gave his name and they called Blanca, he said to bring Hardy back to his area. But when Hardy got there, Blanca looked right through him until Hardy spoke. “Sergeant Blanca.”
Blanca’s eyes settled on him. Recognition dawned. “Mr. Hardy? Sorry. I thought I was waiting for a man in a business suit. What the hell happened to you?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Well.” Blanca got halfway out of his chair. “Come on back where we can talk.”
He got Hardy settled, brought him some water, picking up some of the details as he did so. The smashed windshield. The report he’d be getting from the responding officers on the Coit Tower shooting today. Blanca wrote the names down, made a note to look them up. Finally the sergeant got seated in his chair. “So you’re thinking it was the same person who shot at you . . .”
“Two people, at least,” Hardy said.
“Okay, two, maybe three. And you say these might be the same people who beat up Mr. Freeman?”
Hardy nodded. “I’ve got no proof, none at all, as Mr. Jackman just reminded me. But yes, I’m let’s say morally certain it’s the same guys.”
“Last time you didn’t want to give me a name.”
“But I did tell you about a lawsuit we were preparing . . .”