Ice and Stone

Monday, January 21

3:50 p.m.

Conference room” usually implies a long polished table, comfortable plush chairs, and a minion providing water and coffee. At M&R our conference room is equipped with an old, scarred round oak table that once graced — or disgraced — the kitchen at All Souls Legal Cooperative, and mismatched chairs scrounged from everywhere over the years. No minions; we carry in our own refreshments.

The table means a lot to some of us. It’s a reminder of a simpler time, when the battles we fought were winnable. Now, however, the battles often seem already lost — to greed, stupidity, and out-and-out evil.

Maybe that’s why we cling to this hunk of wood with its innocent carvings: “No More Wars!” “HZ Loves AM.” “Peace, please!” “Feet off table!” “McCone Rules!” “Doesn’t!” “Does too!”

I sat against the wall at the back, listening to Mick do his presentation on the details of the case to the rest of the staff. How Arbritazone could do vast amounts of good but also cause major psychotic breaks in people with long exposure to it. How Paul Harcourt and his father had been determined to corner the market on properties containing large deposits of the mineral and introduce it into the world market. How Paul had become addicted to the drug some years ago, which had led to his accidental strangling of Josie Blue and premeditated murders of Sam Runs Close and Dierdra Two Shoes. His father and brother, to my mind, were equally guilty of his crimes because they had made no effort to control him.

The Harcourts’ “special ops boys,” Gene Byram and Victor Long, had been paid by Paul to set fire to the shack, but in their confessions they claimed that he hadn’t told them I would be inside. They also stated that they’d abducted Sally Bee and Sasha Whitehorse “for kicks.” They’ll get a different kind of kicks in prison.

I thought about the murdered women. Dierdra Two Shoes: unmarried with no children. Samantha Runs Close: the same. Dierdra and Sam had been approached by the Harcourts about selling their allotments but had turned them down.

In the end it all boiled down to money — money and entitlement.

Mick concluded his presentation, then went on to other cases to be investigated: sexual harassment at a Noe Valley dot-com; a rent dispute in the Haight; garbage wars — again — in Inner Richmond; a suit against the owners of a sweatshop in the Mission.

I liked the kinds of cases that came to us: ones that could make a difference in often powerless people’s lives.

I’d asked Mick to chair this conference because, frankly, I didn’t have the heart for it. During most of my career these necessary summations had left me feeling empty: someone had suffered, someone had died, the lives of the friends and family of the victim had been diminished. There was satisfaction in bringing the perpetrators to justice, but the cogs in the legal system mesh imperfectly, and often by the time they do — if they do at all — the original outrage has been forgotten.

I looked across the conference table at Hank, who’d decided to drop in for the meeting. His relatively unlined face was at peace, his Brillo-pad hair as wild as ever. He’d pulled me aside when he arrived and told me that he’d decided to remain in the city at least till Habiba went to college.

“Thank you for reading me the riot act,” he added.

“That was no riot act. I was merely stating that you should follow your conscience. When I read you the riot act, you’ll know it.”

I shifted my gaze to my operatives.

Derek Frye, a young Eurasian man with many fashionable tattoos, who had teamed with Mick in various profitable Internet ventures.

Zoe Anderson, a graduate in computer sciences from USC. She hadn’t had much experience when she’d come in for an interview, but so far her performance had been exceptional.

Natalie Su, also a recent addition to the team. And a great investigator — she’d actually been able to find two pencil sharpeners that had gone astray in the supply closet.

Ted, his arm in a sling, but unfazed. Surprisingly, he was attired in chinos and a dark-blue sweater. Maybe our fashion plate had finally grown up.

Julia Rafael, who had been on leave for two months, after the death of her sister, who’d been the caregiver for her young son, Antonio. We’d found her a good day care provider and she’d been happy to come back.

Patrick Neilan, a single father, who balanced raising his two sons and his job with outstanding ease.

And I remembered the others whose faces had once greeted me across this table:

Rae, of course — but then, she kept reappearing.

Charlotte Keim, once Mick’s love, now married and with a security firm in North Carolina.

Adah Joslyn, good friend and former officer with the SFPD, now in an investigative partnership with Craig Morland, former FBI agent and her husband.

Kendra Williams, who now lives in Washington, D.C., and is an integral part of the Black Lives Matter movement.

Hank and Anne-Marie, of course.

And Hy, frequently.

All of them were members of what we called Team McCone, a bond none of us would ever break. We called each other across the world, from wherever we might be. We commiserated with each other in the bad times, celebrated in the good. We shared photos and news and jokes on the Internet. We enjoyed reunions, usually over some wicked brew.

We were, in the very best sense of the term, a family.