The Hunt Club (24 page)

Carla obviously had tracked down associates before. She called the firm's night number, got the directory, connected to Sobo, who, of course, as a young associate was on permanent call, never off the clock.

Wu punched in her pager number, and they all waited in a kind of suspension for about three minutes. And then Wu's cell phone rang.

“This is Betsy Sobo,”
the voice said. “Can I help you?”

“Betsy, hi. This is Amy Wu. You don't know me, and I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I'm an attorney with Freeman Farrell and I'm over here now at Carla Shapiro's apartment. Andrea Parisi's secretary?”

If Sobo had been angry at Parisi on Monday, there was no sign of it now in her voice. “Oh, God. Have they found her?”

“No. Not yet. That's what I'm working on. You had an appointment with Andrea on Monday afternoon, is that right?”

“Yes. I said I'd give her a half hour, but she…she got busy and couldn't make it.”

“So here's my question. Did you reschedule or anything? For Monday night by any chance?”

“No.”

In the cold, humid kitchen, Wu's shoulders fell. “So you didn't see her Monday night?”

“No. What would I have seen her about?”

“That's the other thing I wanted to ask. Why she wanted to meet with you.”

“I didn't know that, either, specifically. She just asked me if I could spare some time while she picked my brain, and I said sure, she being such a star and all.”

“Did she say what she wanted to pick your brain about?”

“Again, not specifically. She was rushing out to a meeting with Mr. Piersall.”

“So she called you after her appearance before Judge Palmer?”

“I don't know about that.” Suddenly, it hit her. “Wait a minute. You mean
the
Judge Palmer? Who got shot? You're saying Andrea was with him on Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God.” The voice took on a desperate edge. “You're saying she's probably dead, too, then, isn't she?”

“We don't know. We hope not. We're trying to find her.” Wu hesitated. “I'm assuming she hasn't gotten in touch with you since Monday, either, is that right?”

“Yes. I mean yes, that's right. No, I haven't heard from her.”

“And you have no idea what she wanted to talk to you about?”

“Well, some idea, of course. I figured it must have been something about some kind of family benefits with the union. That's what she worked on.”

“But Carla tells us you weren't on the union team?”

“Right, I know. We're the poor stepchildren of the firm. But still, I guess I'm kind of the house whiz kid on family law.”

“Family law?”

“You know—divorce, annulments, adoption, custody, restraining orders—where those good times just keep on comin'.”

Checking his calls
driving back from Juhle's, Hunt got the message from his answering machine at work. “Wyatt Hunt, this is Gary Piersall. I'd like to talk to you as soon as you can get back to me. No matter what time. It's about Andrea Parisi, and it could be very important.” He left three telephone numbers.

He got him on the first one. Piersall was still at the office and told him to come on down as soon as he could get there. He should just park in one of the partners' spaces under the building. They were marked.

Hunt checked his watch. It was closing in on ten thirty. “Do you want to tell me about it on the phone?” he asked.

“Are you on a cell?” Piersall asked.

“Yeah. In my car.”

A pause. “No. I don't think so.”

Hunt rang off, intrigued. Piersall was a smooth and experienced attorney, used to going up against some big boys. If he was suddenly paranoid, that in itself was instructive. But if Hunt was going to be meeting with Piersall now and maybe learning something he'd have to move on, there was a very good chance he wasn't going to be able to stick with his original plan. Which had been to talk to Mary Mahoney, the witness who'd identified Staci Rosalier, during her nighttime shift at MoMo's. A minute later, he was back on the phone, talking to Tamara, turning her and Craig loose on it.

His sense of urgency was increasing with each passing hour. If Andrea were already dead, time would not matter. Maybe this was his way of putting off that ultimate acceptance, but whatever this need to move was, he was not remotely inclined to fight it. He would find out as much as he could as quickly as he could, from whatever source he could tap. It was the only thing—if, in fact, there were any hope left at all—that could possibly, possibly make any difference. More, it was the only thing he could do.

The garage elevator in Piersall's building automatically stopped on the ground floor, and Hunt got out there and jogged to the guard's station in the vast, glass-enclosed lobby. Piersall had already called down and told them to expect him, and as he signed in, the guard called up and announced that he'd arrived. Jogging back to another of the four banks of elevators—floors 11–22—Hunt almost allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope. Clearly, Piersall had something.

The elevator opened onto a reception area that was designed to impress. The fog hadn't made it this far inland, and the city glittered all around and below out the floor-to-ceiling glass. A massive, shining waist-high bar of finished redwood, probably thirty feet long, gleamed even in the dim pinpoint after-hours lights. Several trees grew from their enormous urns and threw subtle shade patterns across the redwood, over the cushy wall-to-wall carpet.

Keyed up as he was, Hunt almost jumped as Piersall slid off the plain desktop where he'd been sitting in the semidarkness.

“Thanks for coming down on so little notice. I appreciate it. And let me make this clear: You are working for this firm on some CCPOA matters, and what I am telling you now, I tell you as my investigator, so it's all covered by the attorney-client privilege.”

The man exuded tension. Hunt had never before seen him without his tailored suit precisely arranged. Now he wore neither coat nor tie, and he'd unbuttoned the shirt at his throat, both sleeves at the wrists, and rolled them up. “You want to sit down?” Piersall walked back over to one of the waiting couches and plopped his long, lean frame down into it. Without waiting for Hunt to settle, he began to talk. “I don't know exactly how to put this in a favorable light, but by now you've done enough work for us, you know how it is sometimes.” He inhaled, then blew out a stream of air. “I had to lie to the police this afternoon.”

“What about? Andrea?”

“Not directly, no.” He hesitated. “About our main client, which as you know is the prison guards' union. I told the inspectors looking into Judge Palmer's murder that they didn't have an enforcement arm. Which, of course, they do.”

“The cops suspect that anyway, sir. Your telling them one way or another isn't going to change anything.”

“No, but you see the position I'm in. I represent these people. I can't very well sic the cops on them. That's what they pay us all—and very handsomely as you know—to keep from happening. Look around us here, all of this comes from CCPOA money, all of it.”

Silence. Hunt didn't need to look and verify what he already knew. He said, “You think they've done something to Andrea.”

Another lengthy silence. Piersall exhaled. “Have you ever heard of Porter Anderton?”

“No.”

Piersall clucked in frustration. “Doesn't seem anybody has. Porter Anderton was the DA in Kings County up for reelection last year. But he'd made the mistake of investigating some allegations of prisoner abuse by some guards at Corcoran, then moving forward with the cases. Twenty-six guys.”

“Twenty-six guys? All prison guards. What'd they do?”

A weak smile. “You mean what did they
allegedly
do, remember. These are our boys. We defend them. These particular guys evidently had a tough day out with their work crew, so when the crew were getting off the bus back at the yard, they needed to let off a little steam and choked and punched and beat up their prisoners, who by the way were still apparently shackled.”

“Cute story,” Hunt commented.

“Yeah.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Hunt said, “how many cases like that do you get every year?”

“This firm? Against all prison employees? About a thousand.”

Hunt whistled. “That's every year?”

“Ballpark. Of course, most of those don't get beyond the investigation stage. For obvious reasons,” Piersall added, “like cons as witnesses deciding they couldn't exactly remember what they'd seen after all.”

“So what about this Anderton?”

“Ah, well, Porter went all gung ho on these guys, the guards. He decided they had a huge problem with the whole correctional system at Corcoran, which was in his jurisdiction, and he was the one who was going to stop it. He got in touch with George Palmer, too.”

“And something bad happened to Porter.” Not a question.

Piersall nodded. “Huge coincidence, isn't it? He had a hunting accident. Shooter never found. Just one of those things.”

“Imagine that. And what about his prosecutions?”

“Well, we're their attorneys. We did our job. The cases fell apart.”

“Yeah, but a bus full of victims? Didn't any of the other guards see this happen, too?”

Piersall shrugged. “The other guards, no. You ask any prison guard if he's ever seen one of his colleagues cross the line into brutality, you get a categorical denial every time. It never happens. And in their defense, I must say that if your job is making some three-hundred-pound gorilla get in his cell when he doesn't want to, you might have to get a little creative from time to time. But the inmates? They all eventually decided it was really in their best interests to just let the matter slide.”

“All of them?”

For a response, all Piersall could manage was a thin, tight smile.

“So you're thinking,” Hunt said, “that Palmer, and maybe Andrea…?”

“I don't know. I don't know. I almost can't bear to think about it, to tell you the truth.” Piersall's head hung as though by a single thread in his neck. “I've worked with and built a career around these people for the past fifteen years. My family has gone on vacations with Jim Pine's family. I don't want to believe he'd order what I can't help but think he might have.”

“But why now?”

“That's just it. Just now is why it's suddenly feasible. I don't know if you've been following it, but the prison system's had a bad few weeks. They just indicted eight guards at Avenal for blood sport….”

“What's that?”

“Human cockfights. Gladiator contests to the death.”

While Hunt tried to fit this degree of organized brutality into his worldview, Piersall continued, “On top of that, we had four inmate deaths at Folsom….”

“In one week? How did that happen?”

Again, the tight smile. “One bad fall. One complication from—I'm not joking—a pulled tooth. And two pneumonias that didn't get diagnosed in time, which isn't much of a surprise considering the head physician up there doesn't have a license to practice in hospitals anymore. But, hey,” he added with a bitter laugh, “at least no shootings, so it wasn't the guards.”

“Does that happen a lot? I thought that was mostly the movies, guards shooting prisoners?”

“Depends on where you happen to be locked up. Here in California, happens about once every two months. Rest of the country, maybe once a year, and that's usually only if you're actually about to kill somebody else. In any case, the situation is bad enough that Palmer's already appointed both an investigator and a special master to get a plan going, how to deal with the constitutional issues of prosecuting these things. You want more?”

“I think I'm getting the picture.”

“Well, but you need the last piece, which just came to a head over this last weekend. Palmer had ordered an audit….”

“So he's all over this, isn't he?”

“Oh, yeah. He's the man—or was—no doubt about it. Anyway, a while ago, he got wind of money being laundered through the prisons, so he ordered an audit on the prisoners' books at Pelican Bay.”

“I don't know what they are, prisoners' books.”

“Inmate trust accounts. All prisoners get one so their friends or family can get them money inside to buy stuff—food, bathroom supplies. That stuff's legit at the commissary. Under the table, of course, you've got cigarettes, dope, booze, women, boys, whatever they can score.”

“This is in the prisons?”

“Right.”

“Pelican Bay? Toughest lockup in the country?”

“That's the one.”

“With the guards there?”

“Yeah. Probably cutting half the deals, taking a percentage on all of them.”

Hunt had to break the tension. “You're not making this up?”

It brought back the tight smile. “So what did the audit disclose? Half the guys in the SHU—the Security Housing Unit—meanest place on campus, trust me, half of the books on these guys, had over twenty thousand dollars in them. Two of them had over forty thou.”

“Thousand?”

“Thousand.”

“That'll buy a lot of Snickers,” Hunt said. “How'd they get that kind of money?”

“You'll love this. It's Eme.”

“It's getting so I need a scorecard. Who is Emma?”

“No, no. EME. Mexican Mafia. Bad, bad, bad dudes, the worst. Their guys are all over the state but mostly down south—I'm talking dealers on street corners—they're paying protection to the EME heavyweights in the joint. So it's just another extortion racket, but it seems to bring in big money, which then goes back out to buy more drugs or support the con's family. I don't know, maybe they send their kids to college with it. But the point is it's large, and by the time it goes out, it's clean. Laundered through the prison.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, well, you put all this together. The audit was the last straw, and Palmer finally ran out of patience. He had his office drafting up an emergency order to federalize the entire state prison system, which meant taking the union out of the equation. He had some jurisdiction issues, but it's not impossible he would have had the damn thing signed by now.”

“Except he got killed.”

“Right. Except that.” Laying it all out seemed to have calmed Piersall's nerves to some degree, but now the reality of his situation settled on him heavily again. He came forward on the couch, feet flat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders sagging under the load. “I've been sitting in my office since early today.” He was whispering, perhaps afraid of being heard even up here. “Ever since I heard that Andrea was missing. I just don't know what I'm going to do, except I know I can't go to the police.” He looked up across the space between them. “I'll be honest with you. I'm scared shitless.”

To Hunt, this seemed like a justified response. He'd be scared, too. Perhaps he should be now, though he wasn't. All the prison stuff felt far removed from him. Although if Andrea was involved in it, he knew that this wasn't the case. He was in up to his neck. “I'm assuming,” he said, “that Pine knew about the judge's order.”

Piersall nodded. “We called him from my office, as soon as Andrea told me about it. This was early Monday afternoon. So now look at this.” From his shirt pocket, he took a small newspaper clipping. “Yesterday's
Chronicle
.”

Hunt took it. He had to stand up and move under one of the lights to read it.