Nothing But The Truth

37

Hardy tasted turpentine in the coffee. At the kitchen table – showered, shaved, and dressed – he added more sugar and turned a page of the morning paper.

It was six a.m. He had returned to the Cochrans’ at a little after eleven. All three of the children and both adults had still been awake. There might have been giggling in the background, but the atmosphere in the house was as carefree as an operating room.

By two, after five increasingly firm visits from the adults, the kids stopped making noise. Hardy, on the couch in the living room, heard the clock chime the hour at least twice after that.

Now he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get the salt out of them. The sugar didn’t improve the java and he set the mug down and massaged his right temple, which throbbed dully.

It was election day. The articles contained few surprises. The MTBE poisoning and resultant scare – as well as his opponent’s lame-brained response to it – had given Damon Kerry a last-minute three-point boost in the polls and he was now truly the front-runner by a nose. The Chronicle recommended him.

Hardy was gratified to see that Baxter Thorne’s libel threats didn’t appear to hold much water with Jeff Elliot. The reporter’s ‘Citytalk’ column didn’t directly accuse Thorne of anything, but did manage to present a litany of facts in a way that led to some unflattering conclusions. The column promised an ongoing investigation.

Suddenly Vincent materialized at his elbow. His pajamas were a replica of Mark McGwire’s Cardinals uniform. His step-cut hair was a shade darker than his sister’s, but still in the general category of strawberry blond. His ears stuck out and the face, except for Frannie’s nose, was Hardy’s exactly. ‘Do you have a headache? You’re rubbing your head.’

Hardy drew him close, mussed the hair. ‘Hey, guy. What are you doing up so early?’

‘It’s not early.’

‘Well, it’s not late, and you didn’t get to sleep till almost two o’clock.’

‘That wasn’t me,’ Vincent said. ‘That was the girls. I went right to sleep after just a little whispering. Dad?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a question.’

Hardy longed for the day when Vincent would simply ask a question without announcing his intention to ask one, but he could only sigh now. ‘Shoot,’ he said.

‘How come Max wasn’t invited, too? How come it’s always the Beck who gets her friends over and I get stuck with all the girls and then they don’t want to play with me?’

‘That was one question?’ But Hardy pushed his chair back and pulled Vincent on to his lap. The sleepy boysmell still clung to his son and Hardy held him close for as long as he thought he could get away with it, maybe two seconds. ‘I’ve been missing you, you know that?’

‘I miss you, too,’ Vincent said perfunctorily. ‘But you’re real busy lately,’ he added, parroting the excuse Frannie had no doubt always supplied. ‘We know that. But Mom, I really miss her. And you said she’s coming back today. It’s today, right?’

Hardy tried to ignore the stab that his son’s answer had given him. ‘That’s the plan,’ he said. Then slipped and added, ‘I hope so.’

Vincent’s face immediately clouded. ‘But she might not? I thought you said it was today.’

‘It is today. Don’t worry.’

‘Then why’d you say you hoped so?’

‘Shh. Let’s not wake up anybody else, OK.’

‘But why’d you say that?’

‘I don’t know, Vin. I guess because I want it so bad, just like you do. It was just a figure of speech. She’ll be home today.’ He almost promised, but thought better of it. A promise, especially to his child, was sacred.

The boy’s eyes brightened. ‘Home? You mean like our real home? How can we do that if it was all burned up?’

Hardy rubbed his son’s back and shook his head, framing his reply carefully. ‘Home isn’t just a house, Vin. It’s where we’re all together.’

‘But so where are we going to live then?’

‘I don’t know for sure, bud. We’ll find a place soon while we get our house fixed up again, and we can stay here with Grandma and Papa Ed in the meantime. You don’t have to worry about that, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Promise?’

Vincent shrugged. ‘Sure.’ If Dad said he didn’t have to worry, that was the end of it. It was going to be all right.

Please God, Hardy prayed, don’t let his trust in me be misplaced.

‘So why couldn’t Max come?’ Vincent was back on his original track.

‘You want to know the real reason? He didn’t sleep enough the night before, so his dad thought it wouldn’t be a good idea.’

Vincent considered this for a moment. ‘His dad’s nice,’ he said simply.

Hardy could only nod dumbly. Just what he needed – another unsolicited testimonial on Ron Beaumont from his innocent, good-hearted son. ‘That’s what I hear,’ he said. ‘How do you know him?’

‘School. He helps in class, sometimes with yard duty. He’s nice,’ he repeated. ‘Is your head hurting?’

‘It must be,’ Hardy said. ‘I keep rubbing it, don’t I?’

Hardy had gotten into the habit of leaving the house before the crazy rush of getting the kids ready for school kicked in. He’d given the alternative a try for several years, but the routine made him nuts. He’d get cranky and take that with him to work. It affected his performance, his job. And without that, where would they be?

For the last couple of years he’d wake up early, have his coffee and read the paper. He’d go in and kiss Frannie awake. Sometimes they’d talk – logistics. Then he’d shake the kids and be out the door.

So he’d missed the rite of passage, but sometime in the past few months, Vincent had learned how to make breakfast. French toast, pancakes – ‘Just the mix, though. I don’t do it from scratch’ – scrambled eggs, oatmeal. ‘You just tell me what and I’ll do it.’

‘You don’t need any help?’

The look. ‘Da-ad.’

He watched his boy adjust the flame under the pan, throw in some butter, expertly crack five eggs into a bowl and whip them up. Hardy tried to remember when he’d begun making his own breakfasts – he must have been about Vincent’s age, but somehow he’d never assumed his younger child could be that competent. Not yet. Not for a long time. He was still a baby.

Vincent lowered the heat a fraction. ‘I like them a little runny, but I can take mine off first if you want them cooked dry. That’s how Mom and the Beck like ’em. Dry. But you know that. Mom says you always used to cook breakfast, so you’d know, wouldn’t you?‘

‘Yeah,’ Hardy said hoarsely. ‘Sure.’

At the stove, Vincent turned at the tone. ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘You OK, Dad?’

As the house started to wake up, Vincent went back to torment the girls and Hardy took his briefcase back to the dining room, where he could spread out a bit. He heard Erin in the kitchen, but she didn’t come around the corner to wish him a good morning.

The photos were not so daunting this morning – the items from Griffin’s back seat in sharp color focus – a Juicy Fruit gum wrapper. Two bullets. A ziploc bag, snack size, crumbs inside. Parking stub, Downtown Center Garage, dated 7/22/95 – three years ago! Assorted coins worth one dollar thirty-two. An Almond Joy, which Hardy bet would be pretty stale by now.

He forced himself to continue, but was getting convinced that there wasn’t going to be anything here. It was a garbage can. He flipped the photos and the rest weren’t any better – more stuff from the body of the car proper. Gilt paper with traces of chocolate – more candy. Several plastic lids from the tops of coffee cups and soft drinks. Sunflower-seed shells.

Glitsky had also thoughtfully provided a copy of the autopsy report on Griffin, as well as a final inventory of the personal belongings he carried on his body – a ring of keys, a Swiss Army knife, a half pack of Life Savers, two ballpoint pens, an empty ziploc bag.

It all looked like nothing to Hardy. Beyond that, he was reasonably confident that the lab had analysed every item listed here for fingerprints, oils, fluids, and whatever other tests they ran to find or eliminate suspects.

The following pages contained the same relative information from Phil Canetta and his vehicle and, aside from demonstrating that he was far more personally fastidious than Carl Griffin had been, provided nothing that Hardy could use.

Rebecca stuck her head out of the kitchen door, lit up in a smile. ‘Oh, there you are. I’m so glad you’re still here.’ She crossed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, snuggled up against him.

He kissed her back. ‘I’m glad I’m still here too. Where’s Cassandra?’

She remained plastered against him. ‘She forgot to bring clothes, you know, but I told her she could borrow some of mine. She wanted to make sure that was OK.’

‘I’m sure that would be fine.’

‘Is she going to school? ’Cause she’s missed the last few days, you know.‘ Rebecca lowered her voice. ’She’s a little nervous, I think.‘

‘About what? Missing school?’

She shook her head. ‘She’s worried she’s going to have to move. She said you were helping them, but she’s still worried.’

‘She told you about that?’

‘Dad,’ Rebecca said seriously. ‘We tell each other everything. She is like my best friend.’ She checked to see that they were still alone. ‘She’s all worried about something else, too. Do you know Marie?’

Hardy nodded. ‘I met her yesterday. She seems like a nice lady.’

‘Well, why’s her dad with her when her mom only died like a month ago?’

‘Maybe they’re just friends.’

Rebecca’s expression was startlingly adult. ‘Dad. I’m sure. Cass thinks maybe her dad was already having an affair, before her mom died. She thinks that would be awful.’

‘Well…’

She whispered urgently. ‘You and Mom aren’t with other people, too, are you?’

Hardy pulled her close to him. ‘No, hon. We’re only with each other. Promise. And we’re going to stay that way.’

‘Cross your heart?’

He made an X on his chest. ‘Hope to die.’ He gave her a pat. ‘OK, now you’d better go tell her she can wear your clothes or you’re all going to be late for school.’

‘Oh!’ She all but ran to deliver the news.

Hardy’s eyes followed her out of the room. Then he glanced down at the pages on the table in front of him. Casually, he flipped through Canetta’s autopsy. All the technical minutiae of violent death, as it had been with Griffin – state of rigor, body temperature, contents of stomach, angle of bullet entry. It was all too familiar and too ugly.

He picked up the pages and tossed them back into his briefcase, and closed it over them. He stood, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen to face the chill.

They all got to Merryvale a few minutes early, and Hardy went in, out of Cassandra’s presence, to explain the situation to Theresa Wilson. Lying, he told her that he expected and had been instructed to tell her that both Beaumont children would be back in school tomorrow. Since she and Hardy had last talked, he’d been retained by Mr Beaumont and they’d been watching Cassandra while a few last-minute legal maneuvers were carried out.

Max was staying with some other friends out of town and should be back in school by the next day. Hardy was sorry for any inconvenience, grateful for her forebearance, but Ron had been afraid of the police jumping to the wrong conclusions – as they had with Hardy’s own wife – and he hadn’t wanted to subject his children to that trauma and upheaval.

‘I understand,’ Mrs Wilson told him from behind the doors of her office. ‘I might have done the same thing myself. How is Frannie holding up, by the way? I read that she might be getting out of… her situation today.’

Hardy, going for the Academy Award for Best Actor, conveyed that he wasn’t happy about what had taken place with his wife, but he was no longer worried. Everything was under control. ‘I’m going down to pick her up right now,’ he said.

‘Well, then, you mustn’t let me keep you. God speed.’

Hardy walked across the parking lot and stopped by the door to his car. Back toward the school, cars were still pulling up and letting out other children. The fog, he realized, had only made a token effort this morning, and now there was even a hint of sunshine in the sky. He made out a small knot of kids standing by a bicycle rack, his daughter was among them. And Cassandra Beaumont.

Hidden in plain sight.

38

An objective observer would have concluded that the two men standing on the curb of Church Street were business associates working out some tedious details in their latest deal. Both were close to the same age, in good physical shape, and conservatively dressed in business suits – one of them an Italian double-breasted with a deep olive tone, the other a Brooks Brothers charcoal with a microscopic maroon pinstripe.

A closer look would uncover a different truth. Both of the strong, perhaps even handsome faces were landscapes of strain and fatigue. And the deal was not going well.

Listen:

‘I want to see her.’

‘Not until after you’ve testified.’

‘How’s this? I won’t testify until I do.’

Pin-stripe smiled coldly. ‘Maybe you’re forgetting that I’ve still got her. It’s pretty straightforward. You want to get your daughter back, I want my wife. We trade. That’s the deal. That’s the only deal.’

‘You son of a bitch.’

‘Maybe. But at least an honest son of a bitch.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I haven’t lied to you.’

‘As though I have?’

‘Do you think I’m an idiot? Are you telling me you wouldn’t have packed them both up and been gone when I got here this morning?’ A pause. ‘That’s what I thought, so don’t shit me. I did what I had to do. Your daughter’s safe.’

‘Except for the trauma you’ve-’

‘Not even that. She’s not even going to know any of this happened. Not unless you force me.’

The Italian suit walked off a few steps and the other followed.

‘I’m the only friend you’ve got. Don’t you understand that by now? Nobody’s going to touch you until you tell your story.’

He whirled around. ‘And after that?’

‘After that, if you’re telling the truth, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘If I’m telling the truth? I am telling the truth.’

A long silence. Finally the man in pin-stripes stepped off the curb, around to the driver’s side door of a late model Honda. ‘Get in the car.’

With over an hour to kill before Marian Braun’s courtroom was called into session, Hardy didn’t want to push his luck by entering the Hall of Justice. If he and his prisoner should run across Scott Randall or Peter Struler, he considered it a dead certainty that somehow they would get Ron into custody. Hardy would be powerless to stop them if they initiated the booking process under whatever guise.

Lou the Greek’s was dark and private enough. Few if any of the morning drinkers were going to look up and recognize anybody. Most of them had personal, more desperate agendas of their own for being there at that hour and one of them – David Freeman – was working. He was on the first stool at the end of the bar, just as he and Hardy had decided the night before.

A couple of steaming mugs of coffee rested untouched on the table between Ron and Hardy.

‘Rita Browning? Where did you get that?’ Ron was shaking his head, apparently mystified. He faced the back wall in the farthest booth from the front door. ‘No,’ he said.

Hardy was across from him, where he could see anyone who entered. ‘You’re asking me to believe she wasn’t one of your credit card names?’

‘I don’t care what you believe, but that’s right. Rita Browning?’ There wasn’t any humor in the moment, but Ron almost chuckled. ‘Look, I might not be the most masculine guy in the world, but do you really think I could pass as a Rita Browning?’

This, Hardy had to say, was a reasonable point.

Ron amplified it. ‘And what was I supposed to use it for?’

‘To pay the mortgage on another apartment in your building.’

An expression of apparently real perplexity. ‘Which one?’

‘Nine oh two.’

Ron thought about it for second, and finally reached for one of the coffee mugs and took a sip. ‘And why would I want to do that – have another apartment in my own building?’

It was a good question, but Hardy believed he had a good answer. ‘So if you had a problem just like the one you’re experiencing now, you’d have a place to hide out for a while, to take the kids until you could relocate.’

‘Well, as you say, I’m having this problem now. You’ll notice I didn’t take them there. Doesn’t that tell you anything?’

Hardy hated to acknowledge it, but it did.

‘This is God’s truth. I’ve never heard of Rita Browning in my life. She owns nine oh two?’

‘Maybe. That’s the name on the mailbox, on her checks. David Glenn – your supe? – he says he’s never seen her.’

‘How long has she been there?’

‘Five years, a couple of months longer than you have as a matter of fact.’

‘David came on after us,’ Ron said helpfully. ‘A couple of years later, I think. It’s not impossible, I suppose, that he hasn’t met her… She makes her mortgage payments for the year every January.’

‘For the year?’ Ron went quiet while he considered this. ‘You think I’ve been paying for two apartments in that building for five years?’

‘Let’s say I don’t think there’s a Rita Browning. All your aka’s have the initials RB-’

‘Yeah, but I’ll tell you something about those accounts, those lines of credit. If you studied them at all, you realized I never carried any balance in them. They were in case things here went to hell. A thirty-day parachute, maybe forty-five, to give me time to start out someplace else. That’s all. Just out of curiosity, though, how in the world did you find out about those?’

‘Bree’s files from Caloco. Somebody over there shipped them to the DA to make it look like you’d premeditated this and planned your escape.’ Hardy noted Ron’s reaction – unfeigned, frightened. ‘I didn’t see any Rita Browning in those records, it’s true. But I don’t think anyone’s living in nine oh two.’

‘Can you find out? Have somebody check it?’

‘Sure, eventually. With a warrant. They could take the place apart and might get lucky if that’s where Bree… if that’s where it happened. But any of that will take time and’ – Hardy consulted his watch – ‘that’s in short supply right about now. We’re in court in forty-five minutes.’

Ron swirled his mug a couple of times. His eyes met Hardy’s. ‘Bree,’ he said.

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

‘She set up my accounts for me. It would have been cake to do one for herself.’

‘Even if this one wasn’t a credit card?’

Ron lifted his shoulders. ‘Same thing, basically. Bogus numbers, false identity. There’s nothing simpler, especially if your base account is a trillion-dollar multinational like Caloco. Banks are lining up to help you out.’

‘But what would she have needed another apartment for?’

The answer came to both of them as Ron spoke. ‘Love.’

‘She met men there?’

‘Why not? It’s perfect when I think about it – discreet, close by, no hassles…’

‘But for this, for the mortgage, there had to be real money somewhere. Did Bree make enough-’

Ron was saying no before Hardy finished. ‘Up until this year, she made a lot, but not enough for that.’

‘How much would it be?’

‘In our building, the one-bedrooms go for like four fifty. Our place was seven and a half.’

Hardy whistled.

‘Tell me about it. But she got enough bonuses to just cover us.’ He hesitated. ‘We’re still house poor, to tell you the truth. And after she left Caloco…’ He stopped, and stalled with the coffee. ‘You might as well know. Maybe you do already. We were going to have to move.’

‘And did you fight about that?’

Ron sighed wearily. ‘I’ll tell you, by the end, we fought about everything. It was terrible.’ He hung his head for a long moment, then looked up. ‘I’m just so tired.’ His voice was almost gone. ‘So incredibly tired.’

Hardy leaned over the table. ‘Did you kill her, Ron? Did you kill Bree, maybe by mistake?’

Ron raised his head, his eyes reflecting the depth of his resignation and loss. ‘You know, I didn’t. She was my sister. I loved her. The kids loved her – she was their mother. I never would have even hit her, much less killed her. I didn’t kill her. I really didn’t. Even by mistake.’ His hands imploringly crossed the table. ‘I wasn’t even there. I wasn’t even there.’

Even with Freeman making sure at the bar, it made Hardy nervous as hell to leave Ron alone at the Greek’s. He told him to have himself another cup of coffee or something and be at the back door to the Hall, by the entrance to the jail, at nine twenty. Hardy was marginally confident that he’d boxed him in adequately. Having come this far, with Cassandra held hostage, Ron wouldn’t run now.

He hoped.

It was unusual, but Hardy had persuaded Glitsky to use some juice with the bailiffs so that they would allow Frannie to wear a respectable outfit for the hearing. So he had to get it delivered to her in time for her to change from her jumpsuit. Protocol, appearances, details.

But he couldn’t have it both ways. She could take the time to change into pleasant civilian clothes that would subliminally humanize her to Marian Braun, or they could take a last few tense, private moments together in the attorney’s visiting room.

There was no choice. After she was free, they’d have time to visit. Time for everything.

It left him with nearly a half hour and he was tempted to go back to Lou’s and sit with Ron. But no. He’d worked that through. Ron would be at the back door at the appointed time. He had no other option.

Setting his heavy briefcase on the hard wooden bench just inside the entrance to the jail, he once again unsnapped the clasps, once again lifted his pages into his lap. He’d been through every scrap he carried at least once, except the final pages that Glitsky had delivered last night.

But now, unexpectedly, maybe he had just enough time to get through the rest of it – not that he thought he would discover anything. But if nothing else, he prided himself on his thoroughness. He wouldn’t lose this thing out of sloppiness or fatigue. He would be prepared for his hearing when he walked into the courtroom. Scott Randall wasn’t going to surprise him with something he should have read, should have noticed, should have figured out.

So he started where he’d left off- Canetta’s autopsy.

And this time, he saw it. Went back and reviewed Griffin. Crossed the corridor to the coroner’s and made sure. And then, finally, knowing where else to look, went back and found it.

Glitsky was in his office when Hardy called upstairs. He had sent his task forces out on Thorne’s search warrant, which left him free until after the hearing, which he would be attending. Hardy didn’t want to say anything over the phone. He’d see Glitsky in five minutes and if they could get any privacy, he’d tell him then. In the meanwhile, they’d meet at the back door to the Hall.

As Hardy came out of the jail, he gave a surreptitious nod to Freeman, now loitering in the corridor that led to the morgue, and continued to the employees’ back door to the Hall. The plan was that Ron and Hardy were going to take the little-used rear stairway to the second floor and make a break for Braun’s courtroom, Department 24, when they got out into the hallway.

Glitsky opened the door for them. When Hardy introduced who they would be escorting, however, he could tell that it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. But the lieutenant seemed to accept the situation, silently leading the way up the stairs until they reached the landing before the door into the main hallway. When they got there, though, he turned and faced them both. ‘You guys just run into each other out front? Was that it?’

‘Not exactly.’ Unruffled, Hardy had guessed this moment was coming. He was ready. ‘This time yesterday I had no idea where he was.’

‘How about when I came to your office last night as a courtesy? The last time we talked, say?’

‘Was he a suspect then?’

‘Close enough, and you…’

‘By the time you left, though? Honestly?’

The scar was tight on Glitsky’s face, but Hardy had him. He kept pushing. ‘OK, he’s not a suspect. Had you ever seen him before now, a minute ago? Talked to him?’

‘You know I haven’t,’ he growled.

‘Right. Listen to me. And you had no idea that I had had any communication with him, ever, did you?’

‘So what?’

‘So when our dear pal Scott Randall asks you, maybe under oath, whether you have colluded with me and/or Ron here in any way, what are you going to be able to say?’

A vein stood out on the side of Glitsky’s forehead, but gradually his expression relaxed, though not quite into calm serenity. ‘For the record, I still don’t like it.’

‘OK, noted,’ Hardy responded crisply. ‘But also for the record, you’re going to thank me.’

Glitsky glared another second or two, then turned and pulled open the door. The three men stepped out into the open hallway together just as Randall, Struler, Pratt, and several of her minions rounded the corner from the elevator in a phalanx. The two groups nearly ran into one another.

‘Well, well, well.’ Randall made no effort to disguise his reaction. In a voice dripping with disdain, he adopted a theatrical tone. ‘Lieutenant Glitsky, Mr Hardy, the elusive Mr Beaumont. How interesting that you should all be arriving together here at court.’ He turned to Pratt, a portrait of smug satisfaction. ‘Case study, Sharron,’ he said. ‘Exactly what we expected.’

Normally, in the minutes before the ascension of the judge to the bench, courtrooms pulse with a certain energy – attorneys and clients are getting settled at their tables, the clerks and bailiffs knot up, talking shop and trading banter, the court recorder warms up. If there is a jury, its members read the newspapers or study their notes.

In the gallery beyond the bar rail, the spectators and media types, if any, jockey for space with potential witnesses, with friends and relatives of victims or their alleged perpetrators. There is a constant, low hum of many unconnected conversations.

But generally, above it all hovers some small but palpable sense of restraint. Outside in the public hallways, hordes of unwashed and unruly animals often put on their raucous circuses, but once inside the courtroom doors, order often seems to impose itself over those assembled within.

Not this morning, though.

Many of the witnesses Hardy had summoned to this hearing had brought with them reinforcements, and they’d all apparently had time to get to know each other a little, to talk, to vent, finally to boil over.

As soon as Glitsky pushed the door open – Scott Randall and his team of prosecutors sniping behind them all the way – a wave of boisterous anger seemed to break over them. For the first time in his career, Hardy physically had to push his way through a mass of hostile humanity clogging the central aisle. Glitsky stayed with him, holding Ron Beaumont’s arm above the elbow, moving them all forward.

Hardy pressed his way through, feeling no need to respond to any of the barbs he was hearing. He was sure that this was a staged demonstration either from Baxter Thorne, whom he recognized leaning against the side wall, or from the Kerry camp. Possibly both.

Scott Randall was a different story. He wasn’t anybody’s paid actor, and he was righteously angry for having to put up with this frivolous hearing, for being jerked around by an arrogant defense attorney who was probably a criminal himself.

Well, Hardy would deal with Scott Randall when the time came. He’d deal with all of them. He wasn’t being drawn into a shouting match with a bunch of enraged witnesses and their friends.

Glitsky got them all through the bar rail and gave the high sign to the bailiffs, who came forward to ensure that the inviolability of the courtroom proper remained intact. David Freeman had somehow already gotten himself seated at the defense table and was watching the proceedings behind him with an amused and tolerant expression. The theatre of the law! He loved it.

‘Good morning, Dismas,’ he intoned. ‘Looks to me like you might just have hit a nerve.’

And at that moment, the blessed voice of the clerk rose above the clamorous din.

‘Hear ye, hear ye. Department Twenty-Four of the Superior Court of the city and county of San Francisco, State of California, is now in session, Judge Marian Braun presiding. All rise.’

Since most of the people assembled were already on their feet, the judge’s entrance didn’t do much except provide a break in the hubbub. Braun, catching the tenor of what was transpiring below, refrained from taking the bench, instead preferring to remain standing. She reached for her gavel and slammed it several times until the silence was achieved.

Scowling down at her clerk, she whispered sharply. ‘Mr Drummond. The members of the gallery will find seating in precisely two minutes, after which I shall return to the bench and mete out consequences to those who are unable to do so.’

When she returned, Braun adjusted her robes and sat. Hardy was next to Freeman at the defense table. Glitsky and Ron Beaumont had retired to directly behind them, the first row of the gallery. Turning in his chair, Hardy recognized Valens and Kerry and they recognized him. If looks could kill…

Freeman whispered to Hardy. ‘Are all the players here?’

‘Except one.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Jim Pierce,’ Hardy replied. ‘Caloco.’

‘You think he’ll show?’

Hardy’s face was set. ‘He’d better.’

When Braun returned to the bench, only one person remained standing. Sharron Pratt was in the aisle in the center of the gallery area.

‘Madame District Attorney. Good morning,’ Braun intoned. ‘Do you have business before this court?’

‘Yes, your honor. May I approach?’

‘Mr Hardy has a hearing scheduled. I’m-’

‘May I approach to discuss that hearing, your honor?’

Braun frowned at being interrupted. ‘All right. Mr Hardy?’

Hardy knew exactly where this was going. After the groundwork he’d laid down which he believed would predispose Braun to a favorable ruling, he had gone a long way toward precipitating it himself by serving his papers on Pratt and Randall. Hardy was, in fact, so primed that he had to work to keep his face straight.

He stood up. ‘I have no objection, your honor, but I presume my client is in the holding cell behind your bailiff, and I wonder if the court would call the case and allow her to enter the courtroom at this time, before we take up Ms Pratt’s request at sidebar.’

Frannie wore a tailored pair of tan slacks and a dark brown V-necked sweater. The deep-green malachite necklace and tiny matching earrings heightened the beautiful shade of her eyes, and she had pulled the long red hair back, tied it at her neck, and let the rest hang halfway down her back.

When the bailiff opened the door to the holding cell, she stepped out and gave Hardy a nervous, embarrassed smile, then let the bailiff escort her to the defense table, where she sat next to him. He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I love you. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.’

Then he stood and approached the bench.

Scott Randall got himself insinuated into the proceedings on Pratt’s figurative coat-tails, and the two of them now stood before the bench with Hardy and Freeman. Randall was doing the talking, passionate and persuasive as always, and Hardy was content to let him dig a hole as deep as he wanted. Normally, no one would be permitted to discuss the internal workings of the grand jury, but today Randall would have to put his cards on the table to justify continuing Frannie’s contempt citation.

‘The grand jury is in session in this very building as we speak, your honor, considering evidence surrounding the death of Bree Beaumont as well as those of two policemen who were involved in the investigation into her murder.’

‘Two policemen?’ Braun, of course, had heard about the deaths of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta, but the news of their connection to this case was clearly a surprise.

‘Yes, your honor. The state believes that there are three homicides related to the Bree Beaumont case currently before the grand jury. Because the homicide department under the direction of Lieutenant Glitsky has systematically refused to disclose evidence relevant-’

‘Your honor.’ Hardy was mild. ‘This is a habeas hearing whose only purpose is to vacate the contempt citation levied against my client. The homicide department’s handling of what might be other aspects of this case has no place in this proceeding.’

But Randall wasn’t buying that. ‘With respect, your honor. No part of this case belongs in this courtroom. This is a matter for the grand jury to decide. We shouldn’t even be discussing it outside of the grand jury room.’

Braun’s eyes were taking on a telltale flash that Hardy liked to see. ‘If you want me to keep someone in jail, Mr Randall, you have to give me a better reason than your say-so.’

‘With all due respect, your honor, you need no more reason than the witness refusing to answer material questions.’

Next to Hardy, Freeman’s elbow twitched against him, and he cast a quick acknowledging glance at his old ally. They had maneuvered Randall into this spot and now he had just played into their hands, belittling the jurisdiction of Braun’s courtroom, to which she would surely take offense.

And she did. Her eyes burned down at the young prosecutor. ‘I’ll decide what issues and what cases get resolved in my courtroom, Mr Randall. Do you understand that?’

Pratt decided to step in. ‘Your honor, perhaps we could adjourn to chambers?’

The judge directed her displeasure toward the DA. ‘We’ve only just gotten started here, Ms Pratt.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure you noticed that we’ve got several important people out there – among them possibly our next governor – and I’m not inclined to take any more of their time than is absolutely necessary. Anything we could say in chambers, we can say right here.’

But Randall, true to form, couldn’t seem to let it go and after a short non-verbal exchange with his boss, he piped right up. ‘We’ve got a very unusual set of circumstances here, your honor. I am at this very moment preparing grand jury subpoenas for Mr Hardy and Lieutenant Glitsky to testify on matters related to his case. They themselves may be open to criminal charges.’

Hardy shook his head, derision all over his face, but he remained silent.

‘Additionally,’ Randall continued, ‘the DA’s office has repeatedly requested an arrest warrant for Mr Beaumont, who is seated behind us in the courtroom today even as we speak.’

‘It ought to be easy to serve the warrant, then,’ Braun said drily.

‘Except that the warrant is not forthcoming, your honor.’

‘And why is that?’

Hardy finally had to say something. ‘Because there hasn’t been any evidence, your honor.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Randall exploded. ‘We have more than enough evidence for an indictment.’

‘So get one,’ Hardy snapped back.

Braun cast a stern eye. ‘Counsel will address the court, not each other. Is that clear?’ After accepting the nods of apology, Braun softened her tone. ‘Now, Mr Randall, correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr Hardy’s point seems to me to be well taken. If you have the evidence to indict Mr Beaumont, present it to the grand jury and it will order a warrant issued. That’s how it’s done. You should know that.’

Pratt spoke up in her assistant’s defense. ‘He does know it, your honor, but our investigation has been hampered at every turn in this case. Indeed, we believe that Mr Hardy has influenced Lieutenant Glitsky to use his position as head of the homicide department to engage in a systematic coverup of Mr Beaumont’s activities.’

Hardy raised his hands theatrically. ‘Your honor! This is really beyond the pale.’

But Braun, wanting to hear more, pointed him quiet. ‘These are serious charges, Ms Pratt…’

Randall took over again. ‘Which is why, your honor, we wanted to explore them with the grand jury, with the police department’s office of management and control, and with our own department’s investigative staff.’

‘In other words, Mr Randall, it sounds like you want to do all of this investigating except you either haven’t actually done it or you haven’t found anything.’

Blindsided, Randall stammered. ‘Well, no, your honor, of course not. We have strong evidence-’

Hardy cut him off. ‘Your honor, they have nothing.’

‘We are developing a case.’

Eyes on Braun, Hardy nevertheless was arguing with Randall. ‘And bringing accusations before there is anything to support them.’ Now he turned to look up at the judge. ‘If I may, your honor, I have a suggestion that relates specifically to the hearing you have granted today, and will also address the very serious issues and charges raised by the district attorney’ – he paused long enough to make the point – ‘and her staff.’

Braun was getting impatient. She glanced over the lawyers’ heads to the restless gallery beyond. This had already taken too much of the court’s time, of everyone’s time. ‘All right, Mr Hardy, let’s hear it, but make it fast.’

Hardy took a breath. He was in the grip of high emotion, but it would serve little to play to it. When he finally spoke, his was the voice of reason. ‘The gravamen of the contempt charge against my client – the subject of this hearing – is her refusal to disclose to the grand jury information relevant to a murder investigation. I believe we are all in accord here?’

No one objected.

‘Both Mr Randall and Ms Pratt have been clear and unambiguous that the information my client refused to disclose bears upon the motive Mr Beaumont may or may not have had to kill his wife. Isn’t that correct?’

Neither Pratt nor Randall nodded – their defenses had by now come up – so Hardy decided to drive the point home more forcefully. ‘Put another way, if Ron Beaumont didn’t kill Bree, whatever secret shared by my client and himself is not the proper concern of the grand jury or their investigation.’

‘All right,’ Braun said thoughtfully. ‘Where is this leading, Mr Hardy?’

‘It is leading, your honor, to this. Mr Randall has made the point that the deaths of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta were pursuant to their respective investigations into the murder of Bree Beaumont, and I presume by extension that he concludes that all of these killings were committed by the same individual.’

‘That’s exactly our contention.’ Randall was glad to be able to get in a word, and Hardy was happy to let him do it.

‘And it’s a reasonable one to which, for purposes of this hearing, you’d be prepared to stipulate,’ he said.

Pratt saw the trap closing, and moved to stop it. ‘Well, I don’t know, your honor. This is a theory we’ve not yet…’

Braun stopped her cold. ‘Ms Pratt, I’ve just heard Mr Randall say that this is exactly - his word – what your office believes. More importantly, if memory serves this is the theory upon which you both have based, and raised in open court, your accusations against both Lieutenant Glitsky and Mr Hardy. Now which is it? Did one man commit these murders or not?’

The two prosecutors exchanged glances. Pratt answered. ‘That is our belief. Yes, your honor. Subject to contradictory evidence of which we may become aware at a later date.’

‘I would think so,’ Braun declared. ‘Go on, Mr Hardy. You’ve got my attention.’

‘Thank you, your honor. Therefore, it follows that if Mr Beaumont can be shown to be blameless in the deaths of either of the two police officers, it may be assumed that he is likewise blameless in the death of his wife.’

‘That’s a nice syllogism, Mr Hardy.’ Braun remained tolerant, yet unconvinced. ‘But “blameless” is a tall order. Do you mean to say that you can prove he’s absolutely innocent of one or more of these killings? Normally, that’s why we have jury trials.’

‘But we don’t get to jury trials, your honor, until there is a grand jury indictment or preliminary hearing to ensure a threshold of sufficient evidence to where a jury might convict. In this case, we don’t have that, and yet my client’s continued incarceration is based upon Mr Beaumont’s presumed guilt, and not his presumed innocence, as the law demands.’

‘That’s rather elegant, Mr Hardy, but-’

‘Your honor, if new and damning evidence about Bree Beaumont’s murder comes to light after this hearing, then my client will have the opportunity to testify again before the grand jury about Ron Beaumont. If at that time she declines to answer material questions, she will of course be subject to contempt charges again.’

Just when he might have been about to win one on the legal merits, to take the investigation back to the grand jury and hold Frannie until she decided to talk, Randall opened his mouth again. ‘Your honor, with respect, you can’t put Mr Beaumont on trial for murder right now in your courtroom.’

Braun’s visage was terrifyingly benign. The pupils of her eyes were pinpoints, skewering Scott Randall. ‘That’s not what I was contemplating, counsellor. Rather, it seems to me that the question is whether, when faced with what you yourself admit would be compelling evidence of Mr Beaumont’s innocence of the murder of his wife, you will seek to reinstate Mrs Hardy’s incarceration for contempt, which is based upon his guilt. Do I have your argument correctly, Mr Hardy?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘So, Mr Randall?’

‘Yes, your honor?’

‘What is your decision?’

‘I’m not sure I’m clear on what Mr Hardy is proposing.’

‘I presume he is proposing to call some witnesses at this hearing. Am I right, Mr Hardy?’

‘Yes, your honor.’

Sharron Pratt was struggling for whatever face she could save. ‘And I presume that Mr Hardy proposes to show that Ron Beaumont is factually innocent of one or more of these murders? Is that the case?’

Hardy agreed that it was.

Pratt was thinking fast. On the one hand, she didn’t have to reveal what was going on in the grand jury. Since the judge couldn’t know what evidence they had, Hardy could never prove here that Ron Beaumont was actually innocent, only that it might be less likely that he was guilty. She could point that out and terminate Hardy’s end run right here.

On the other hand, she knew that her office really had nothing. She wanted badly to know what Hardy knew. And the public appearance of reasonableness was increasingly important as the mayor and the media bashed her office.

She decided to let Hardy have his show. And of course, they could cross-examine whoever Hardy intended to call. ‘We don’t object, your honor, so long as it doesn’t take too long.’

‘All right,’ Braun said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

39

But Hardy found himself in an unexpected bind, convinced the judge and coerced the DA into pushing ahead smartly with his unconventional game plan, now be looked out into the gallery and realized that he had to stall. He had been planning to start with the testimony of Jim Pierce and had assumed that, like the other witnesses he’d served who were now sitting in the gallery, Pierce would show up on time.

While he’d argued with Pratt and Randall during sidebar, he’d expected to turn around when he was finished and see Pierce seated in the gallery. But now it was time to begin and Pierce hadn’t yet arrived.

Having gotten to here, he couldn’t very well ask Judge Braun for short continuance or even so much as a recess. He was going to have to juggle while doing a tap dance, and could only hope he could keep the balls in the air until it was time for the main event.

‘My name is Abraham Glitsky. I hold the rank of Lieutenant in the San Francisco police department, and currently 1 am the head of the homicide unit.’

‘And how long have you held that position?’

‘Five years.’

‘And before that?’

‘Your honor.’ Scott Randall was on his feet. ‘We all know Lieutenant Glitsky.’

‘Is that an objection, counsellor?’ Objections, like so much else in a court of law, were part of the orchestrated ballet of justice, and had to be based on deviations from the evidence code. Telling the court that everyone knew Abe Glitsky didn’t fall anywhere near that category. But, more, Braun’s response reaffirmed Hardy’s belief that Scott Randall no longer had any kind of friend on the bench. ‘But Mr Hardy,’ she added, ‘let’s move it along.’

‘I’m trying to make the court aware of Lieutenant Glitsky’s credentials, your honor.’

‘All right, but briefly, please.’

It took less than two minutes. Five years lieutenant of homicide, twelve years a homicide inspector, steady rise through the ranks from street cop, through vice, robbery, white collar. Four departmental citations, one medal for valor.

People could always turn bad, of course, but Hardy wanted to show Braun that if someone predicted the next one to do so would be Glitsky, it would be a pretty wild – and bad – guess.

Braun had told him to keep it brief, and that was his intention with Glitsky – put him on the stand, establish him as a good and honest cop, and then see if Randall rose to the bait and tried to take him apart, discrediting himself in the process. ‘That’s all for this witness,’ he said. ‘Cross?’

The young prosecutor couldn’t wait. ‘Yes, I’d say so.’ Randall strode up to the witness box and positioned himself squarely in front of Glitsky. ‘In your position as head of homicide, lieutenant, were you originally involved with the investigation into the murder of Bree Beaumont?’

‘Not in a hands-on way. Only in an administrative capacity.’

Comfortable after years of practice in the witness seat, Glitsky quickly took the opening Randall had provided and outlined his job description – he had a staff of inspectors who reported to him and who worked in coordination with a crime scene investigations unit, forensic specialists, lab technicians, and the city and country coroner to gather and collate evidence on homicides in this jurisdiction.

None of this had anything to do with Ron or Bree Beaumont, and Hardy could never have introduced a word of it during his direct question Glitsky. But he’d counted on the fact that Randall had an ax to grind. The young prosecutor wanted to prove to Braun that his unorthodox and even extra-legal tactics had been justified all along because the head of homicide was corrupt. Hardy could have objected all day and been sustained, but he was happy to let Randall hang himself.

‘And when your staff assembles this evidence, lieutenant, and determines that there has in fact been a crime and they’ve identified a suspect, what do they do next?’

‘We go to the DA, who decides if they want to charge the individual, and what the exact charge will be. First-degree murder, manslaughter, that kind of thing.’

‘And how long does it take, roughly, from the commission of a homicide until you make this submission to the DA?’

‘It varies widely. A couple of days to a couple of years.’

‘OK.’ Randall was covering ground familiar to every professional in the courtroom, but obviously he felt he was making his case to Braun. Now he became specific. ‘In the case of Bree Beaumont, it’s been over a month. Can you tell the court why that is?’

‘The original inspector assigned to the case, Carl Griffin, was shot to death five days after Bree was killed. That slowed things down somewhat.’

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the courtroom. Randall seemed oblivious to it and Braun let it pass.

‘And at that point, did you get personally involved in the investigation?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Did you interrogate witnesses?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have occasion to talk to the victim’s husband, Ron Beaumont?’

‘No.’

‘But isn’t it a fact, lieutenant, that this morning you escorted Mr Beaumont and Mr Hardy to this courtroom?’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘But you say you had never before met or talked to Mr Beaumont?’

‘No.’

‘I remind you, lieutenant, you are under oath.’

A small lifting of the mouth. ‘I understand that. The answer’s still no.’

The questions went on rapidly, without interruption, as Randall walked Glitsky through the steps of his eventual personal involvement in the case. The proximity of Griffin’s murder scene to the residences of Bree and the other suspects, and finally to Canetta and the ballistics test proving that both men had been shot with the same gun.

Hardy picked up no sense of impatience from the judge. Finally, Randall got to where he’d been heading all along. ‘Now, lieutenant, after you had determined that Sergeants Griffin and Canetta had been killed with the same gun, did you immediately turn this information over to the district attorney?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Can you tell the court why that was?’

Glitsky turned up to face Marian Braun. ‘It is standard procedure to withhold information from the media so that potential suspects will not be privy to incriminating evidence we might have against them. That way, if they tell us something that hasn’t been released… I think this is probably pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

‘But this wasn’t the media, lieutenant. This was the district attorney’s office, with which you are supposed to cooperate. Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘Two reasons. One, we’ve had a lot of trouble with leaks.’ Everyone in the building knew this was a constant problem, although every department accused every other one of being the source of them. ‘Second, a little more prosaically, I wasn’t sure of any of this until last night. If I didn’t have this hearing this morning, I might have brought the information to the DA already.’

Hardy couldn’t believe that Randall still thought he was scoring points. But evidently he did, and now moved on to another area where Glitsky had allegedly failed in his duties. ‘Lieutenant, do you know a Sergeant Timms?’

‘Yes. He’s a crime scene specialist.’

‘Did he work with you on the cars of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you tell him about your suspicions that the two deaths of these policemen might have been related?’

‘Of course. I’m the one who asked him to check ballistics on the slugs.’

‘And did you tell him not to mention this suspected connection to anyone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was that?’

‘It was premature. I didn’t know if it was true. You have one person killing two policemen, it stirs up the force. I thought maybe we could avoid that if it turned out not to be true.’

Randall threw his hands up theatrically. ‘But it did turn out to be true? Isn’t that the case?’

‘Yes it did.’

‘And both men were investigating the death of Bree Beaumont?’

‘Yes.’

Hardy was just thinking it was going to be too easy when Randall finally hit a nerve. ‘Lieutenant, did Sergeant Canetta work in the homicide detail? Was he a homicide inspector?’

Glitsky threw a neutral look at the defense table, and returned to the prosecutor. ‘No. He worked out of Central Station.’

‘Central Station? Perhaps you can tell the court how he came to be working on a murder case?’

‘He was connected to the case through one of the witnesses we’d interviewed.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Jim Pierce, a vice president for Caloco oil. Mr Pierce used to be Bree Beaumont’s employer, and he’d also employed Sergeant Canetta for security at some conventions and so on.’

‘And so on,’ Randall aped. ‘Isn’t it true that Canetta was in fact working for Mr Hardy?’

‘In what sense?’

‘I mean the sense of working, he was his employer…’

‘On his payroll? Not to my knowledge. No. Ask Mr Hardy.’

Randall had made the cardinal mistake, asking a question in court for which he didn’t already know the answer. It left him speechless for a beat.

And into the silence, Marian Braun finally spoke up. ‘Where are you going with all this, Mr Randall? Do you have any proof that Mr Hardy had hired Sergeant Canetta?’

‘No, your honor, not yet.’

‘Then find another line of questioning, establish this one’s relevance, or sit down. This courtroom is not the old fishin’ hole.‘

It was a little after ten thirty and Braun called for a ten-minute recess. Jim Pierce had not yet arrived, but the way this free-form hearing was developing, Hardy thought that even without the oil company executive’s testimony, there was still some chance that he could succeed in freeing Frannie and keeping Ron and his children out of the system. Randall’s arrogance had played beautifully into his hands, and now Hardy believed that the judge was primed for his next revelation, which should erode the DA’s credibility to the point of extinction.

As soon as Braun was out of the courtroom, the familiar bedlam began again.

At this point, all Hardy wanted was a few minutes to talk to his wife, and to get Glitsky to one side, but neither of those seemed likely.

The minute Glitsky left the stand, he paused at Hardy’s desk, opined that he’d rarely had a better time in the witness box, then said the vibrating buzzer had been going off on his belt for the past hour. He’d better go make a few callbacks. He passed through the bar rail, back up the center aisle and out the back doors of the courtroom.

Meanwhile, Al Valens, apoplectic, was making a racket, demanding that the bailiff let him back to see the judge. All right, he and Damon Kerry – good citizens, respecting their subpoenas – had shown up after voting, but the candidate couldn’t be expected to sit here all day. He had meetings, press conferences, fundraising… there were reporters out in the hallway already writing stories about his appearance here in a courtroom involved in a murder case.

Baxter Thorne sat in the pew under where he had been standing when they had come in. He was talking to a well-dressed young couple, evidently giving them instructions of some kind, and Hardy was glad that the dapper slimebag chose to remain near the back of the room. If he got too close to the man who he believed had set fire to his house, he thought there was still a reasonable chance that he might assault him, and that wouldn’t further his case with Braun.

A wronged Ron Beaumont wanted to know what Hardy was doing. What was all this witness stuff? How long was this going to take? He’d thought that Hardy’s idea was to argue for Frannie’s release, and Ron would be there to make sure she no longer was bound by her promise to him. Then somehow he was going to get him out of here before Randall or Pratt could stop him. But he’d noticed the guards at the doors and now he’d seen Pratt talking to another one, who had come down to the end of his pew. What was he supposed to do now?

Hardy calmed him as best he could, explaining that he was laying groundwork for the judge. Glitsky’s testimony of course didn’t legally prove that a bullet from the same gun had killed both Griffin and Canetta. This proceeding wasn’t about proof anymore, although Hardy still hoped that that might come later. It was about the DA’s judgment and tactics and Braun’s faith in them or lack thereof.

‘That’s the only thing that’s going to get you out of this courtroom a free man, Ron. If Braun decides that Randall needs a stronger case to even consider you as a suspect. And now at least I’ve got her listening.’

Ron still didn’t like it, but Hardy had never promised him that he would.

David Freeman kept Frannie chatting at the defense table. They didn’t want her interacting with Ron Beaumont in any way, and it was Freeman’s role to keep her entertained. By the time Braun re-entered the courtroom, he had her laughing quietly at one of his stories. During the recess, Hardy had barely had time to get a word in, but as they rose for the judge’s entrance, he took her hand and squeezed it. She looked up at him and nodded. Confident in him, committed.

Hardy felt he had to establish a few more facts, and introduced into evidence the autopsy and coroner’s reports on the two policemen. Pratt and Randall had no objections to Dr Strout’s findings as to the causes and times of the deaths.

Hardy put it orally into the record. ‘According to the coroner’s report, your honor, Sergeant Griffin was shot between ten thirty and about noon on Monday, 5 October. Ms Pratt and Mr Randall both accept this timeframe. For the court’s information, this was the same day of Bree Beaumont’s funeral and burial.’

‘All right, Mr Hardy. Proceed.’

‘I’d like to call Father Martin Bernardin.’

The priest was in his cassock and collar. He came through the gallery and up to the stand. Somewhere between forty and fifty years old, Bernardin was a trim, gray man with an ascetic’s face. After the clerk had administered the oath, Hardy spent a minute identifying him as the pastor of St Catherine’s parish, the church where Bree had been buried. Then. ‘Father Bernardin, do you know Ron Beaumont?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘And do you recognize him here in this courtroom?’

‘Yes.’ He pointed. ‘He’s the gentleman in the green suit in the first row over there.’

Several members of the gallery strained to look at this key player in all these events. There was a low buzz of comment, but Braun rapped her gavel lightly and put an end to that.

‘Now, Father Bernardin. On October fifth, the day of Bree Beaumont’s funeral, did you have occasion to spend any time with Mr Beaumont?’

‘Yes, sir. I spent most of the whole day with him.’

This brought the gallery to life again, but this time Braun let the noise die of its own accord.

Bernardin had already said it, but Hardy walked the priest through the day – the breakfast, mass, burial, lunch at the Cliff House. ‘In other words, Father,’ he concluded, ‘it is your sworn testimony that you were continually in the presence of Mr Beaumont from before seven in the morning until at least two thirty in the afternoon on October fifth of this year?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Every minute?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And were there other people who you believe could testify to this as well?’

‘Well, yes. His children, some friends. It was a long day, as funerals often are.’

Hardy stood a minute to let the import of the priest’s words sink in, then whirled and faced Pratt and Randall. ‘Your witness,’ he said.

What could they do? Here was an absolutely credible man of the cloth providing an unimpeachable alibi for their main suspect. They conferred for a long moment at their table, then Pratt stood. ‘No questions, your honor.’

Braun told Bernardin that he could step down, took off her glasses, put them back on, and looked from Hardy, in the center of the courtroom, to Pratt and Randall at their table.

‘Mr Hardy?’ she said.

‘Your honor, it’s clear from the testimony of Father Bernardin – and there evidently are several other witnesses who can corroborate his statements – that Mr Beaumont could not have killed Sergeant Griffin. If that is the case, it follows that he did not kill Sergeant Canetta and, based on our earlier discussion, it can then be assumed that, for the purposes of this hearing, he did not kill Bree Beaumont.’

Braun’s face was set. ‘Counsel approach the bench,’ she said.

When they got there, she turned a hard glare on to Pratt and Randall. ‘It seems to me, counsellors, that you have wasted a great deal of this court’s time – to say nothing of Mrs Hardy’s – when any reasonably thorough investigation into Sergeant Griffin’s death should have turned up this rather obvious alibi.’

‘Your honor.’ Randall was ready with an excuse. ‘At the time I pursued the contempt charge against Mrs Hardy, we were unaware of any connection between Bree Beaumont and Sergeant Griffin’s death.’

Hardy had to get it in. He worked to keep the gloat out of his voice. ‘A connection provided by Lieutenant Glitsky, I might add, your honor.’

But Braun wasn’t interested in excuses. She was furious. ‘Turn around and look at this courtroom, Mr Randall. I said turn around! Ms Pratt, you might, too.’

They both half-heartedly did so, and Hardy did, too, noticing that Abe Glitsky had returned to the courtroom. There were other very welcome additions to the gallery as well. Mr Lee from Heritage Cleaners, even though Hardy hadn’t subpoenaed him, had told Hardy when he’d called this morning that he’d try to make it to the courtroom, and now he had. So, too, at last, had Jim Pierce. He was even now edging his way into one of the rows of seats, accompanied by another of the city’s well-known attorneys, Jared Wright. And not a moment too soon, Hardy thought.

Pratt and Randall came back to facing the judge. ‘Look at the number of people you have seriously inconvenienced by this irresponsible pursuit not, apparently, of a murderer, but merely of one person whom the police had not yet seen fit to charge because they had not yet built a case. And now it appears that we know why that was, don’t we?’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘This is appallingly irresponsible behavior.’

Randall stood silent. Pratt mumbled something.

As the gallery hummed, Braun dismissed them all back to their desks, then raised her voice. ‘Mr Hardy,’ Braun said, ‘I believe I am ready now to rule on your habeas motion.’

Hardy was rummaging in his briefcase, arranging more papers in front of him on his table. He looked up and spoke in measured tones. ‘If we can just take a few more minutes?’

This brought a perplexed frown to the judge’s visage, another rumbling in the gallery. ‘And do what, Mr Hardy?’

He came out from behind his table and stood in front of Braun’s podium. ‘We have been working on a limited assumption provisionally accepted by both the court and the district attorney that the killer of Sergeants Griffin and Canetta is the person responsible for the death of Bree Beaumont.’

‘Yes?’

‘That assumption, however, is not legal proof that Mr Beaumont did not, in fact, either commit the latter act, or contract to accomplish the former. Any suspicion that may one day fall upon Mr Beaumont leaves my client’s future liberty at grave risk. I believe I can eliminate that risk with a few more minutes of the court’s indulgence.’ -

The courtroom was stonily silent behind him. Braun removed her glasses and brought one of the earpieces to her mouth. Finally, she stole a glance at her wristwatch and made her decision. ‘And what do you propose?’

‘I’d like to call one more witness, your honor.’

‘One more?’

‘Yes, your honor. I’d like to call James Pierce.’

40

This is ridiculous!‘ Hardy heard Pierce’s grumbled outburst from the back of the courtroom but as he turned he saw it was Jared Wright now on his feet, objecting. ’Your honor, Mr Pierce has spoken to the police and their representatives at least a half-dozen times. He has cooperated with every investigation related to the Bree Beaumont case, and he…‘ He was out of his pew into the aisle of the gallery, coming forward.

Braun gaveled him quiet. ‘Mr Wright. If Mr Pierce has cooperated all that much before, he surely won’t mind doing it one more time.’

‘This is pure harassment, your honor.’

‘And why would that be, Mr Wright?’

Wright had made it up to the bar rail. ‘Because Mr Pierce’s employer, Caloco Oil, has been a contributor to Ms Pratt’s campaigns and a supporter of her administration. We have seen today the animosity between the police department and Mr Hardy here, and the district attorney’s office. As a good citizen, Mr Pierce responded to Mr Hardy’s high-handed, last-minute subpoena, but now to endure another round of questioning on these events will serve no purpose. He is not implicated. To imply such is reckless at best and criminal at worst.’

Braun heard him out, then eyed Pierce who was standing directly behind his lawyer. ‘Mr Pierce. You’ve been properly subpoenaed to appear and now called as a witness. Come forward. Mr Wright, your objection is noted for the record.’

‘Your honor.’ Wright, not giving up.

‘Yes, counsellor? What now?’

‘I would ask the court’s permission to accompany my client to the witness stand. He had endured several police interviews without the benefit of his attorney, and I believe…’

Braun held up a hand, interrupting him. ‘Mr Hardy, do you object?’

Hardy didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to say so. ‘No objection, your honor.’

The oil man hesitated for another instant, then angrily stood up, and marched up the aisle, past Hardy, to the witness stand. Wright met him at the rail and now stood at his side. The clerk held the Bible out for him. ‘State your name.’

‘James Pierce.’

‘Mr Pierce, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?’

‘I do.’

‘Please be seated.’

‘Mr Pierce, have we spoken before?’

The bailiff had pulled up a chair and now Jared Wright sat in it, next to his client. He wasted no time getting on the boards with an objection. ‘Immaterial, your honor.’

Braun gaveled him quiet. ‘Overruled. Mr Pierce?’

The witness spoke. ‘You know we have.’

Hardy was all business. ‘Your honor, would you direct the witness to answer the question?’

Braun did so, Hardy repeated it, and Pierce growled out a yes.

‘And on that occasion, when you and I spoke, did you deny having a personal relationship with Bree Beaumont?’

‘No, of course not. I had been her mentor and friend for several years.’

‘Mr Pierce, did you have an intimate relationship with Bree Beaumont? Sexually intimate?’

Jared Wright spoke up again. ‘My client has answered that question a hundred times, your honor. He’s…’

Bam! ‘Mr Wright, legal objections, please.’

‘All right, immaterial.’

It was immaterial, but Hardy had already pulled a rabbit from his hat with Bernardin, and Braun was inclined at this point to let him go for two. ‘Overruled.’

Hardy bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, your honor. Mr Pierce, would you like me to repeat the question?’

This time, Wright whispered something into his client’s ear, but Pierce brushed him aside. ‘No, I heard it, and the answer, as it’s been every time, is still no.’

‘No, you did not have a sexual relationship with Bree Beaumont?’

That’s right.‘

Arms crossed over his chest and sulking at the mistreatment he’d suffered at the hands of the court and his client alike, Wright sat back in the hard chair. Hardy noted the change in affect and took it as a good sign.

He spun and walked back to his table, fiddled with some papers, and left them where they lay. ‘All right. Did you have a personal relationship with Sergeant Canetta?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘But you did know him, did you not?’

Pierce shifted in his seat, answered impatiently. ‘I gather he helped to provide security at some Caloco events. I may have talked to him at those. I really don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember,’ Hardy repeated. ‘And how about Sergeant Griffin? Did he interview you?’

Pierce hesitated, throwing a quick glance toward his attorney.

This time, no reaction was forthcoming, so Pierce answered. ‘Yes, I believe he did.’

‘You believe he did? Don’t you remember?’

‘All right, then. Yes, he did.’

‘And when was that?’

Another stutter. ‘I’d have to check my calender. I don’t know exactly.’

But Hardy was sure. ‘Perhaps I can help you remember, Mr Pierce. Wasn’t it directly after Bree’s funeral?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so? Do you remember what you did do after the funeral, Mr Pierce?’

‘Your honor!’ Jared Wright’s short fuse had lit up again. ‘Your honor, I must protest. What is Mr Hardy’s basis for any of these questions? Mr Wright isn’t on trial here. He doesn’t have to answer these questions.’

Braun pondered it for a moment. In actual fact, Pierce’s attorney was right. And while she admired Hardy’s point – he was treating this hearing the same way Scott Randall would conduct a grand jury proceeding – she should not allow this interrogation to go forward. The whole line of questioning was suspect.

But before she could even tell Wright that he was correct and make some kind of ruling, David Freeman stood and came to Hardy’s rescue. ‘Your honor, Mr Pierce can always take the Fifth.’

But things here were getting out of control. She tapped her gavel and glared over her podium. ‘Gentlemen, sit down. This is my courtroom and I will instruct in the law.’ She turned to look down on the witness. ‘Mr Pierce, if you feel that your answers will tend to incriminate you, you may invoke the Fifth Amendment. Do you wish to do so?’

Sweat had broken on Pierce’s forehead and seemed to surprise him as he wiped a couple of fingers across it. If he took the Fifth, he knew that his troubles with the law would only be beginning – the police investigation going forward would be relentless.

Everyone had lost track of Wright’s objection that the original question was immaterial.

Hardy felt he could almost see the thoughts playing in the man’s head, deciding to take his chances here and now – to put an end to the accusations and suspicions. It was a joy to watch. Successful, arrogant, insulated by money and position, Pierce’s world view simply didn’t include the notion that mere mortals could best him in a fair fight. This was because there could never be a fair fight.

Pierce assumed a fighting pose – a palm down on the railing to the witness box – and spoke up to the judge. ‘I have nothing to hide, your honor, though I deeply resent these questions.’

And Braun had to admit that by permitting Hardy to continue without any evidentiary base, she was opening herself up to rebuke. But lawyers can ask anything they want unless the other party objects, and Pierce was answering.

‘Your resentment, which is not a legal objection, is noted.’ Braun turned her attention to Pierce’s tormentor. ‘Mr Hardy,’ she said sternly, ‘I will tolerate more questions only if you can provide the court with some kind of evidentiary framework. Otherwise, I’m going to dismiss this witness.’

Hardy stood still for a moment. ‘Of course, your honor.’ He returned to his desk and this time brought a small handful of pages back with him. He first showed them to the judge, then handed a copy of one of them to the witness. ‘Mr Pierce, do you recognize this document?’

Pierce gingerly held the paper out in front of him. His shoulders slumped visibly. Wright grabbed the paper from his client while Hardy kept talking. ‘Would you tell the court what this document is, Mr Pierce?’

Pierce looked down, set his lips, looked back up. Couldn’t find his voice. Nor, apparently, could his attorney.

Hardy kept up his onslaught. ‘Would you please identify this document, Mr Pierce? For the court?’

Pierce seemed not to hear. Eventually, he sighed, seemingly unable to take his eyes off the document, reading the words silently over to himself.

Hardy: ‘It’s a letter written by you to Bree Beaumont, isn’t it?’

More silence.

‘Would you characterize the document as a love letter?’

Pierce did not answer.

‘Mr Pierce, would you like me to read the first couple of lines to the court? Contrary to your earlier testimony, isn’t it a fact you were having an affair with her?’

By now, Wright was whispering furiously to his client, who seemed not to hear.

Hardy had to give it to him. The gears shifted quickly and smoothly. Damning revelation went to damage control in the blink of an eye. Pierce flipped a hand, trying and failing to make the gesture appear casual. ‘It was over long ago.’

‘How long ago? A year? Five years?’

‘Yes. Somewhere in there.’

Wright was beside himself with frustration and anger. ‘Your honor, let the record reflect that anything Mr Pierce says is against my advice.’

But Pierce had decided on his own approach. He broke a cold smile. ‘It was unimportant. A dalliance that I regret.’ He turned again to the judge. ‘Out of respect for my wife, your honor, I tried to keep this from coming out in public. It was mistake.’

But if he thought he’d get some sympathy from Braun, he was barking up the wrong tree. ‘Another mistake is perjury in my courtroom,’ she said coldly.

Hardy kept up the press. ‘Mr Pierce, I ask you again. When did this affair end?’

Perhaps unnerved by Marian Braun’s negative reaction, Pierce took a moment to reply. ‘I said I didn’t know.’

‘Actually, that’s not what you said,’ Hardy replied. ‘You said it was something like one or five years. Would you like the court recorder to read back your earlier answer?’

‘No, that’s not necessary.’ He appeared to be trying to recall, to cooperate. ‘I don’t know when we broke it off. Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly? Isn’t it true, Mr Pierce, that your affair with Bree Beaumont ended only six months ago, about the same time she quit her job with Caloco?’

‘No, it was longer ago than that.’

‘But you don’t remember when?’ he asked. ‘Exactly?’

‘No.’ Pierce was striving to hold his ground. ‘Just because I wanted to keep an affair private does not mean I killed her.’

‘No,’ Hardy agreed. ‘No, it doesn’t, but I haven’t asked if you killed her. Did you kill Bree Beaumont, Mr Pierce?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘But you did lie, under oath, about your relationship with her, isn’t that so?

‘Yes, I suppose I did. But I told you-’

‘Mr Pierce, did you also lie about your relationship with Sergeant Canetta?’

A nerve started to twitch slightly to the side of Pierce’s mouth. Tve told you. I had no relationship with Sergeant Canetta.‘

‘Did you not ask Sergeant Canetta to report to you on Bree Beaumont’s comings and goings after she broke off her relationship with you?’

‘No, I didn’t do that.’

‘And did you not pay him for this service?’

Pierce’s eyes strafed the courtroom, then settled back down. ‘No.’

‘No,’ Hardy repeated. ‘Mr Pierce, did Sergeant Canetta come by your house last Saturday night, the night he was killed?’

Again, the twitch, the recovery. ‘No.’

‘And did he not attempt to get more money out of you for misdirecting the investigation into Bree Beaumont’s death? Away from you?’

‘No.’

‘And did you not then invite him into your house to discuss this, and then…’

Finally, a true rise. Pierce came forward in the box, his eyes ablaze now. ‘No, no, no. I didn’t do any of that. You’re making all this up to discredit me.’

Marian Braun finally spoke up. ‘The witness has a point, Mr Hardy. You’re making a lot of accusations without any show of proof.’

Hardy sucked in a lungful of air and let it out. ‘I have proof, your honor,’ he said coolly. ‘Mr Pierce is holding it in his hand.’

Pierce still held his letter to Bree and now, in the suddenly silent courtroom, he held it up again. But this betrayed the shaking in his hands, and he quickly put them down on the railing.

Braun pulled her glasses down on her nose and glared over them. ‘He’s already acknowledged perjury regarding his affair with Ms Beaumont, Mr Hardy. But that is not murder.’

‘No, your honor, it isn’t. But there is evidence in the letters Mr Pierce has identified that directly relate to Bree Beaumont’s murder.’

Braun hesitated – if Pierce hadn’t already perjured himself, she’d have stopped this right now – but she found herself nodding. She wanted to know. ‘But be careful, Mr Hardy.’

He nodded. ‘If I may, your honor, I’d like to read to the court a portion of one of these letters.’ Braun nodded.

‘I live

Longing

Only for you.

Vast love

Eternal.

Young again

Overcome with it all

Untamed.’

Hardy didn’t wait for the treacly words to have any effect. They weren’t his point. ‘Nearly each of these letters has a similar poem in it, your honor.’ He handed the letter he’d just read up to the podium. ‘As the court will note, the first letter of each line of the poem spells another message – in this case “I love you.” As your honor will see, this is consistent with every poem in these letters.’

Braun turned through a couple of the pages, nodding. ‘All right.’

The letter that Mr Pierce now holds in his hand contains another similar poem.‘ He came up to the witness, lifting the paper from his hands. ’May I?‘ He read, breaking the lines.

‘Never have

I touched or felt

Never

Even knew.

Oh, the craving -

Touching

Wanting

Only you.’

Again, he didn’t pause. ‘Mr Pierce, can you tell the court the significance of the phrase nine oh two?’

The sweat had broken heavily now on Pierce’s face. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No.’

This was what Hardy wanted – to get him in a rhythm, saying ‘no’ before he’d considered sufficiently. ‘Isn’t it true, Mr Pierce,’ he continued, ‘that nine oh two was the number of the apartment in Bree Beaumont’s building where you would conduct your trysts?’

‘No, I…’

‘And isn’t it true that you and Bree bought this place together nearly six years ago?’

Pierce cast his eyes out to the gallery. ‘No. She…’ He stopped.

‘She what, Mr Pierce? She bought it herself?’

‘No. I don’t know that.’

‘Your honor!’ Jared Wright couldn’t stand watching his client self-destruct any longer. ‘This is an outrageous…’

Hardy raised his voice over the interruption. ‘But you do know, don’t you, Mr Pierce, that apartment nine oh two is two floors directly below her penthouse?’

‘No. I don’t think it’s…’

But Hardy, at high volume now, couldn’t stop. ‘Are you saying that it’s not directly below her penthouse, Mr Pierce? When you know that to be false?’

Pierce was unable to answer.

Hardy leaned in to Pierce and all but shouted. ‘Mr Pierce, don’t you in fact know that nine oh two is the apartment from which she was thrown to her death?’

‘Your honor! Please!’

Bam! Bam! ‘Mr Wright, sit down. Mr Hardy!’

Fighting to slow his momentum, to regain control, Hardy looked up at the judge. His color was high, his breathing ragged.

Braun’s voice was stern. ‘I have to stop this now, Mr Hardy. It’s gone on long enough. You’ve shown the court no evidence that puts Mr Pierce in apartment nine-oh-two, no evidence for any of these accusations. You said you had proof and presented these letters and this poetry, but neither rises to the level of proof. Mr Pierce hasn’t admitted the truth of anything you’ve said related to Bree Beaumont’s murder. If you have nothing stronger, I’ve got no choice but to let the witness step down.’

Hardy took a deep breath and let it out heavily. ‘I do have physical evidence that places Mr Pierce in apartment nine-oh-two, your honor.’

The judge, too, had reached the end of her patience. This was clear from her tone. ‘If that’s true, the court needs to see it now.’

Hardy walked briskly back to his table and reached into his briefcase, and extracted the xerox copy of Griffin’s note about the Movado watch that he’d picked up from Heritage Cleaners.

Coming back before the bench, he read it aloud and then handed it up to Braun. As she was looking it over, he was talking. ‘Your honor, as you see, this note refers to a specific Movado watch which Inspector Griffin took as evidence in his investigation into the death of Bree Beaumont. I am prepared to call a witness, Mr Lee, who is in this courtroom today. Mr Lee is the manager of a company called Heritage Cleaners, which cleans apartments in Bree Beaumont’s building. Mr Lee will testify that this watch was found by his staff in apartment nine-oh-two of that building on the Thursday following Mrs Beaumont’s murder.’

Braun looked down at Hardy, across to Wright and Pierce, then out over the courtroom. ‘All right, but I don’t see…’ she paused. ‘But where is the watch itself, Mr Hardy. Without the watch-’

Hardy nodded and pointed to the witness. ‘Mr Pierce is wearing it right now.’

Suddenly, finally, there was a deep silence in the room. Hardy spoke into it, almost whispering. ‘Mr Pierce?’

Pierce could not wrangle free. He knew that there was evidence of his presence all over that apartment. And though this wasn’t prima-facie proof that he’d killed Bree, he knew what the police would find there once they started looking – glass of the type imbedded in Bree’s hairline, evidence of the struggle which had ripped Pierce’s watch off.

He fixed Hardy with an empty stare. ‘I didn’t mean-’

Jared Wright’s voice boomed out in the courtroom. ‘For Christ’s sake, Jim, shut up! Don’t say another word!’

And Braun’s gavel pounded again and again over the resulting uproar.

Glitsky was good about it. The court bailiffs took Pierce into custody over Jared Wright’s heated objections. Then there was the bedlam of the courtroom, and all of the wronged witnesses who’d been forced to waste so much of their day. Finally, the Ron Beaumont moment – apologies and thanks. Some not altogether light banter about Beaumont’s daughter, who had gone back to school.

Waiting patiently, Glitsky accompanied Hardy, Frannie, and David Freeman as they walked through the steps, processing her out of the system. David Freeman left them to go back to work, and finally they got five minutes alone in the waiting area of the jail as the female bailiff took Frannie back to reclaim her personal effects.

But Frannie wasn’t three seconds out of sight when Glitsky turned to Hardy. ‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s not like murders are my job or anything.’

Hardy felt bad about the timing of it, but there hadn’t been anything he could do. ‘I only knew this morning, Abe, and I planned to tell you all about it, but you remember we had our little discussion about if you’d known Ron and then Randall and Pratt showed up in the hallway for their moment. I figured you’d survive.’

The lieutenant worked it around for a beat, still not thrilled, but more curious than angry. ‘So what was it? It wasn’t the poems.’

‘No. That was after I already knew. It wasn’t even the watch at first. It was Almond Roca.’

Hardy explained about the bowl of candy by the door to Pierce’s home, the stomach contents of both Griffin and Canetta, and the square gold wrappers in both cars. ‘I’ didn’t see it at first because of that damned Almond Joy in Griffin’s car. So I see almonds and chocolate, and an Almond Joy, I know where they came from, right?‘

‘Sure.’

‘Except there wasn’t any coconut in Griffin’s autopsy, so he hadn’t recently eaten the Almond Joy. I checked with Strout. Just almonds and chocolate. Also almonds and chocolate with Canetta, which made me think. Canetta came by Pierce’s house to squeeze him, grabbed a couple of candies by the door, and ate them just before he got himself shot.’

‘You think Pierce hit him at his own home?’

‘That’s my guess. They were alone. You’ll find something if you look, but I’m also guessing Pierce is going to tell you. Once they start confessing… but you know this.’

Glitsky did know it. What he didn’t understand was why Canetta had waited so long to start blackmailing Pierce. ‘Why then? Why not earlier?’

In truth, Hardy wasn’t sure. But. ‘My guess is that Canetta originally – and marginally, I might add – was willing to buy the idea that the killer had been Ron. When it became clear to him that it hadn’t been, from his perspective there was only one suspect left, and he happened to have deep pockets.’ He shook his head sadly – Canetta might have been crooked and confused, but Hardy had liked him. ‘He picked the wrong guy- ’

Glitsky chewed his cheek for a while. ‘Griffin had the watch when he went to talk to Pierce,’ he said. ‘He showed it to him.’

Hardy nodded. ‘Right. And Pierce thought Griffin himself and not the cleaning people had found the watch. Only Griffin knew about nine oh two and the watch was the only evidence. So Pierce somehow got a hold of his gun and shot him and took the watch back and it almost worked. Except for the Heritage note.’

Glitsky could have gone on and on about the note that Hardy hadn’t shown him, but he realized that he’d just be whining. His friend had done what he thought he had to do and nothing Glitsky said was going to change that. Or influence his future behavior, for that matter. But there was one last issue. ‘So Frannie never had to tell Ron’s big secret, did she?’

A sideways glance. ‘Now that you mention it, I guess not.’

‘And there’s no chance you know what it was, is there?’

‘What?’ Hardy pulled at his ear.

Glitsky started to repeat the question, but Hardy held up a hand, stopping him. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a banana in my ear.’