The Hearing

27

They dropped Nat off at the synagogue, where he liked to spend his mornings. After that, Isaac drove them home, where Glitsky climbed into bed and told the boys they should go out and enjoy the city. They'd have dinner together tonight – maybe Rita could whip up some of her famous enchiladas. As soon as the door closed after them, he was out of bed. He shaved and changed into slightly stylish clothes – pressed slacks, a beige merino collared sweater, tasseled brown loafers. Then he called a cab and took it downtown, arriving at Rand and Jackman well before noon.

At Elaine's office, he knocked. Treya sat behind a stack of files piled high on the desk. Checking her watch, she looked up in surprise. 'It can't be lunchtime already?' Then, apparently concerned for him, 'How are you feeling?'

'I'm moving a little slow, but I'm moving.'

She tilted her head fetchingly to one side. 'Are you sure you're all right, being out like this?'

He made light of it. 'I don't think it's much more strenuous than laying in my bed.' He pulled up a folding chair and sat in it. 'See? I walk a few feet and sit back down. Don't even break a sweat. I could do this all day.' She'd hung the gray jacket to her business suit over the back of her chair. She was wearing a thin gold chain around her neck, gold stud earrings, a sleeveless teal silk blouse and under it, he couldn't help but notice, a black bra. He felt the beating of his heart – under the circumstances both comforting and scary.

Last night on the phone, they had discussed Elaine and the case, both pretending that there was nothing personal in Abe calling her at home at ten o'clock. Then, just before they hung up, Treya had said, 'If you're not feeling well enough tomorrow, promise me you'll stay there. Don't feel like you have to come down to the office just because you said you would.'

'But then I won't see you.'

'I could call and tell you what I've found.'

'That's not what I meant.'

There had been a long pause, after which, in a different tone, she'd whispered, 'I know. I know what you meant. But first you need to take care of yourself.'

'That's my plan.'

'It's a good one. Stick to it.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

Then she'd added, 'Please, Abe. If you need to stay there longer, you can just call me and I'll come, all right?'

Now, a foot away from her, his arm resting on the desk between them, he wanted to say something personal – how nice she looked, how grateful he'd been for her visit, for talking to him last night, the scent she was wearing – but he found he couldn't take the step. It was too soon, too uncertain, too perilous.

Instead, he straightened up, his back against the back of his chair. 'I did connect with Jonas Walsh, by the way. At St Mary's.'

'You talked to him?'

'Two hours ago. He seemed to think he and Elaine were doing fine.'

Her brow clouded. She pursed her lips. 'Well, that's not… he told me… I don't think that's true.'

'I don't either.' Now that they were on his business, talking came more easily. 'But I don't know it means anything. Maybe he's convinced himself they were going to get back together, so nobody needs to know.'

'But he told me.'

'You're different. You were a friend. I'm a cop. Plus, he didn't know I'd talked to you. It might be something, but by itself it isn't much. Not as much, for example, as the fact that he had no alibi for the time of her death. You told me that Elaine had this appointment Sunday night, after which she was going home. Do you remember that?'

'That's what she said.'

'OK. Did you get any idea at all that the appointment might have been with Walsh? That then they would go home together?'

She reflected for only a second. 'No, I don't think so. It was somebody else.'

'Dash Logan maybe?'

She shook her head. 'I doubt it. She really wanted to avoid him. When she got back from his office, she told me how glad she was he had been in better shape than the first time, how the search was so much easier. He still refused to help, but she didn't even have to talk to him.'

Glitsky drummed his fingers on the desk. 'And there's nothing in her calendar?'

'No.' She touched his hand for an instant, then quickly, instantly, pulled hers back. 'I would have told you.' Frustration was written all over her. 'She just said she had a meeting, then she was going home. That's all she said.'

'But when we first talked, you said you thought she was a little detached.'

'Maybe, yes, a little. But I don't know what from. It could have been anything.'

He indicated the mass of stuff on the desk. 'So how's all this coming?'

'I'm only just starting on the g's.'

'G? Maybe she had a file on me.' Meaning it as a joke.

'She did.' She raised her eyebrows and gave him a half-smile, then rummaged for a minute, found what she wanted, and handed over the thin manila folder.

Glitsky opened it up, and was startled to see an eight by ten glossy of himself – a copy of his Police Academy graduation photo. He couldn't believe he'd ever been so young. Where had Elaine ever gotten her hands on this? Glitsky didn't even have one himself.

As though reading his mind, Treya said, 'She was pretty good at getting what she wanted.'

He nodded dumbly. Behind the photo, there was an envelope and he removed the letter from it and scanned it quickly. It was from her mother, delivered after her death, informing Elaine of her true paternity. Re-folding the letter, he put it back where it had been.

Then there were twenty or more clippings cut from the newspaper – the few times in his career that Glitsky had been hailed as a hero, his promotion to lieutenant and head of homicide, various community involvement moments, including one featuring Glitsky as a private citizen – standing as the proud father with his arm draped around a beaming Orel when his son was chosen Pop Warner Player of the Month a year ago. Glitsky was the coach of Orel's team – the same picture still hung on the bulletin board in their kitchen. It was more than strange to see it here in this setting.

Here was a picture of himself and Elaine together, seated at the head table at Gino and Carlo's during a 'Champion of the People' roast they'd had when Art Drysdale had left the DA's office a couple of years back. Abe looked up quickly, flashes of that night coming back to him. It had been the closest he'd come to telling her since the first days after her mother had died. He remembered they'd laughed a lot – for Glitsky a rare enough event in itself. Funny, there was Gabe Torrey on the other side of Elaine. Abe had no memory of his presence, but that wasn't really surprising. He'd only just come on as Chief Assistant and Abe had had few dealings with him to that point. Also, with Elaine next to him, he wasn't much aware of anyone else.

Closing the folder, he let out a long breath. 'Well…'

This time when Treya put her hand over his, she left it. 'Let's go have lunch,' she said.

'God. Real food.' They were reading the menu at the window bar at Glitsky's favorite deli – David's, an old no-frills establishment on Geary. He looked at Treya. 'You ever wonder what they do to food in the hospital to give it that special bland quality?'

'It's a secret spice,' she didn't miss a beat, 'that makes everything taste like cardboard. It's really good for you. Promotes healing ten ways.'

'But tastes awful.'

A shrug. 'They tested it on mice,' she said. 'They loved it.'

'And this is why health food tastes like cardboard?'

'Only the real good stuff,' she said. 'The rest is pretty bad.'

Glitsky, chuckling, was back at the menu. 'There's nothing I can eat here anymore. You wouldn't believe the list of what I'm supposed to avoid from now on.'

She looked over at him. 'I would bet the chicken soup here is good.'

And that's what he decided upon, along with a toasted bagel, no butter, and a slice of kosher pickle. She ordered a pastrami and coleslaw on rye.

'And to drink?' the waitress asked.

'I'll have a celery soda,' Treya said.

'Wait a minute.' Sitting back, Glitsky nearly fell off his stool. 'You can't order celery soda. I was going to order celery soda.'

Treya patted his hand. 'I bet they have more than one.'

'No,' Glitsky said, 'what I mean is that nobody I know drinks celery soda.'

'Well, you know somebody now.'

The waitress put in her two cents. 'Actually, it's fairly popular. I've never had one myself, but I'm sure we've got tons in the back.'

'See?' Treya was smiling triumphantly. 'Tons.' Then, to the waitress, 'We're living large today. Can we get a whole bottle each? You might even try one yourself- they're really pretty good.'

By two fifteen, Hardy had left a message with Dash Logan to call him. He'd left another message with Ridley Banks – a callback at any old time would be fine. Glitsky at home. Strout. Even Torrey to ask for further discovery in Burgess, specifically any transcripts that might have come in on the Cullen Alsop interviews with the police or with prosecutors.

Since it appeared that no one was ever going to call him again, he decided to get some work done in his office. He did have other clients, after all. So he reviewed some documents in a few of these cases, reached his party three phone calls in a row, and decided to run a victory lap down the stairs and across the lobby to the coffee machine.

The phone rang, stopping him, before he'd reached the door. He crossed his office in a couple of strides and picked it up before it rang a second time.

'Diz.'

'David,' he said. 'What's up?'

'I wondered if you could spare me a minute.'

'Have you cleared it with Phyllis?'

'She'll be holding the door open for you.'

'I'll be right down.'

Phyllis was not in fact manning the door, but she waved him by the reception area with barely so much as a glance. When Hardy entered the office, he saw that Freeman wasn't alone. There was some kind of associates' meeting in progress. Hardy knew all three of them, although none of them very well. Jon Ingalls, Amy Wu, Curtis Rhodin. Since Freeman didn't offer partnerships in his firm, his associates didn't tend to stick around for long. They did, however, tend to work like slaves and learn a lot of law in very little time.

The old man cleared his throat. 'I've made a decision about the Burgess matter,' he began in a gruff tone, 'but I'll need your permission before I proceed.'

Hardy glanced at the associates, back to his landlord. 'I'm listening.'

'Here's the situation. I'm beginning to believe that this case is going to dominate the news once it gets to court. I know that after the hearing, you'll be handling the guilt phase.' In California, a capital case such as this had two components – a guilt phase and a penalty phase. Typically, each phase had its own, different lawyer. The lawyer in the penalty phase was termed Keenan counsel after the appeals decision that had created the precedent. Freeman was going on. 'I want to offer my services as Keenan counsel. With the profile the case has already achieved, the advertising value alone is priceless. I want to be involved.'

Hardy's fondest dream had been to ask Freeman to fill this role all along if it came to it. He'd hesitated up to this point because of money – Jody Burgess had retained him, not Freeman, to represent Cole. And Freeman's standard rates were nearly double his own, nearly triple for courtroom time. Jody could never afford him. And now the city's most famous lawyer was volunteering for the case's advertising value.

Not that Hardy for a minute believed advertising was the reason. But he'd certainly accept it. 'That's a generous offer, David,' he said. 'I'll take it under advisement.'

Freeman kept up the charade. 'I do have one demand. I will insist on using my own able associates to help investigate Factor K elements, if any.' This included other potential suspects or anything else that might produce lingering doubt in a sentencing jury. 'They can be under your immediate supervision and direction, but their time will be charged to the firm, for my administrative oversight.' He kept it up straight-faced, a sales pitch. 'I really believe this partnership could be beneficial to both of us, Diz. It's just too good a business opportunity to pass up. I hope you agree.'

Hardy glanced at the young and eager associates, the three musketeers, apparently ready to go to work immediately. He nodded. 'I think I could live with it,' he said.

Glitsky went back to Rand and Jackman with Treya after their lunch and spent the afternoon looking through miles of files. Near the end of the day, he checked his messages at home, got Hardy's, and called him at his office. Treya had a meeting with Jackman planned for after close of business, and Hardy volunteered to swing by and drive Glitsky home, which he was doing now.

Abe wasn't in high spirits. 'I am such a horse's ass.'

'I've been telling you that for years.'

But he didn't come back at him with some clever riposte, and this was worrisome. Whatever it was, it had gotten under Abe's skin. At the moment, though, it was difficult for Hardy to feel anything but pumped up – if not elated, then at least thoroughly heartened. 'But enough about you,' he said cheerily, 'I want to talk about this incredible offer. Do you realize if we need to now we can interrogate half the state?'

'I don't think half the state hated Elaine.'

Hardy stopped at a red light and looked across the seat. 'OK, what?'

'Nothing.'

'Oh, right, nothing. Let's see why this doesn't scan. You're trying to carry on your own investigation without manpower, money, or time. We just get given about a hundred grand worth of our own damn dream team. And yet, and yet – you're even less than your usual cheerful self, which isn't much to begin with.'

Glitsky looked over at him. 'It bothers you so much, you can let me out here. I'll get a cab.'

'I'm not asking you to be wildly enthusiastic. But you've got to admit that this is a positive development.'

'I'm thrilled,' Abe said. 'Honest.'

The light changed and Hardy moved ahead. 'It's the woman, isn't it?'

'Her name's Treya.' He could barely say it. 'She's with Jackman. Idiot that I am.'

'I thought he was married.'

'Oh, then it couldn't be. Married men don't have affairs, I forgot.'

Abe was brooding and Hardy, tired of it, decided to let him. But after a few blocks, he spoke again. 'How do you know? Did you ask her?'

'I didn't have to. It was obvious.'

'So one of them was wearing a sign? One of those sandwich board things, maybe?'

Glitsky nodded. 'Might as well have.' He paused. 'We're sitting in the window at David's and Jackman comes walking by down Geary. He sees her and they both light up like Christmas trees. He comes inside, she's off her stool, next to him… then it's like, oh yeah, this is that cop I was telling you about. Jackman sticks around, orders a sandwich. Then after I leave tonight, she's off to his office.'

'Obvious,' Hardy said.

Another shrug. 'You had to be there.'

'I was at the hospital the other night. I thought that was obvious, too.'

A glance. 'What? Me?'

'And her.'

'Well, we both read it wrong, then.'

'If you say so. But if it were me and it mattered even a little, I'd ask her.' They'd come out along California Street and were getting to the turn for Glitsky's block.

'How am I supposed to do that? What am I supposed to say? She's with him.'

'OK,' Hardy repeated, making the turn. 'Fine.'

'She is.'

'I'm not arguing with you. I hope they're happy.' He pulled up in front of Abe's duplex, turned in his seat. 'You pick up the telephone, dial her number, asks if she wants to go to dinner or something. We call this a date. If she's involved with somebody else, she says no. If she likes you, she says yes. It's a simple concept. Even in your enfeebled state, I think you can grasp it.'

Glitsky shook his head, disagreeing. 'We've got to work together in the next few weeks, Diz. It would be too awkward. She'll say no anyway.'

'And I wouldn't blame her. But you never know, and you won't if you don't ask.' Hardy saw that Abe was suffering with it, and his voice softened. 'You know how you told me the other night how you wished you'd talked to Elaine when you had the chance?'

'That was different.'

'Only in the sense that everything is different from everything else. It's also a lot the same. I know it's not your preferred means of communicating, but talking isn't so bad once in a while. What's she going to do, laugh at you? I don't think so. Worst case, she'll be flattered you asked.' He brought a palm down on the arm rest between them. 'All right, that's my spiel. I'm done. You want me to swing by in the morning?'

For another beat, Glitsky didn't move. Then he bobbed his head and pulled the latch for his door. Out in the street, he leaned back in. 'OK.'

Hardy had a small patch of grass in front of his house. It grew behind a white picket fence and was bordered on the back by a flower garden that they tried to keep up, even during the winter months. A short walkway bisected the lawn and led up to an inviting porch. His house was the only single-family dwelling on the block and its curb appeal, to Hardy, was enormous. Tonight, though, after the four-block walk in the fog-bound darkness from the nearest parking place he'd been able to find, he considered tearing out the whole thing and paving it over.

He really thought he might do it except of course, that the downside – other than loss of his lawn – was that someone someday would park in his own private spot, maybe even by mistake. It wouldn't matter – Hardy would have to kill him.

The porch lights were on, as were those in the front window – their living room. He opened his door, smelled the oak fire burning in his fireplace, put his heavy briefcase down.

'Daddy!'

Rebecca came flying out around the corner and had her arms around him. Then Vincent, nearly knocking him over. He enfolded them both in his arms, dragged them laughing a few steps, rough-housing. Frannie was coming up the hallway with a glass of wine in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a martini in the other. 'What did I do?' he asked.

As it turned out, he'd done nothing special. Frannie had lit the fire and the kids were laying on the floor in front of it writing up their Valentine's Day cards for everyone in each of their classes. She'd called out for Chinese food, which would be there any minute, so she wasn't cooking. She'd like a glass of wine. If her husband got home at his normal time, she thought he'd enjoy a martini, too.

Handing him the glass, she kissed him. 'Sometimes it just works.'

It continued to work. The phone didn't ring once. The dinner arrived punctually and was delicious. Neither Rebecca nor Vincent had any kind of crisis, and they were both in bed by nine thirty. The name Cole Burgess never came up.

In the age of mangled care, Dr Campion proved himself extraordinary. He had called three times during the day and, receiving no answer, finally got worried enough to decide to see for himself. He got to Abe's duplex at a little after dark – it turned out that he made about one house call a week. The three boys and Nat were already home, which made all the Glitskys except the one he wanted to see. The doctor was probably more angry than all of them, but it was close.

Campion couldn't believe his patient wasn't home, but when that message finally made its way through, he reiterated his instructions, underlining them for everyone's benefit. This was no joke. He'd released Abe from the hospital, yes, but he wasn't out of danger. His instructions had been that Glitsky could walk around inside his house, but should take it easy and avoid all stress. There were no circumstances the doctor could imagine that could justify Abe being outside, presumably stressing about a murder case. The walk down his twelve front steps alone…

His heart had been seriously weakened, the muscle damaged – it was still not clear how badly. There was a reasonable chance of another serious, even fatal, attack. He should religiously be taking the blood thinning medication that was on the table next to his bed, its seal unbroken. Campion waited around for half an hour, then finally left his cellphone number and left.

When Abe did finally walk in the door, it was to the Riot Act. They all wanted to know what he thought he was doing. Did he want to die?

Nobody considered that what he'd done was even remotely defensible. They spent fifteen minutes repeating all of Dr Campion's horror stories, then marched him into his room, where they watched him take his pills, made him get into bed. Much to everyone's surprise, he admitted to complete exhaustion and fell asleep almost immediately. The rest of the family had a pow-wow in the kitchen and decided that they'd spell each other keeping an eye on him.

He wasn't going anywhere. Not without the doctor's permission.

Frannie kissed him. 'You might not be as good as you once were, but you're as good once as you ever were.'

It was sometime a little after ten. They were in their relatively new upstairs bedroom. It gave them privacy they would have considered unimaginable in the old configuration of rooms – theirs adjoining their two children's downstairs. Now they still might not be able to scream with rapture, but the occasional sound of pleasure could occur without it being followed by one of the kids knocking at the door, asking if they were OK. Did somebody get hurt?

'Thank you, I think.' He took her earlobe between his lips and gave it a tug. 'You're not so bad yourself.' Then, after a moment, quietly, 'You're my one.'

They lay contentedly in spoon fashion for a while, then when her breathing had become regular, he kissed her again, extricated himself, and turned onto his other side. The last embers crackled in the bedroom fireplace. He closed his eyes.

Somewhere far away a siren screamed. It was coming closer.

Abruptly, his heart racing, he sat up and threw off the covers. It wasn't a siren. It was the phone on the desk across the room. Frannie, still asleep, shifted behind him, made some noise. He got to it before it rang again.

'Yo.'

'Mr Hardy? This is Jon Ingalls.'

It took a moment. One of his new team. The clock in front of him read 11:11. 'What's up, Jon?'

'I'm in the car now. I just left Jeff Elliot's.'

'His house?'

'Yeah. He was talking about quitting. He's super pissed.'

'Quitting what? The paper? What for?'

Ingalls told him. This afternoon, the Democrat had come out with a story suggesting that when Cole had been staying with Jeff's family, he had undoubtedly used heroin there in Jeff's presence, if not with him. It was the most crass and unsubstantiated attack – ridiculous to anyone who knew Jeff – but the Chronicle's editor, Parker Whitelaw, had called Jeff right in. He wasn't to write another word on the Burgess case. Jeff had tried to explain that his connection to Cole was above-board and strictly as family. Whitelaw didn't care. Jeff's credibility as an objective reporter, he said, was compromised. With this kind of accusation in the city's political atmosphere, a simple denial wasn't going to be enough – there would have to be some show, at least, of an investigation. The entire future of his column might be in jeopardy.

'Anyway,' Ingalls went on, 'Jeff thinks Pratt set this up.'

'I think I'd agree with him. So what's he going to do?'

'He doesn't know.'

Hardy sat holding the phone. Getting involved with this case seemed to be bad for job security. First Abe, now Jeff. It was intriguing, maybe even a little scary.

'Mr Hardy?' Ingalls asked. 'I didn't wake you up just now or anything, did I?'

Hardy laughed. 'Are you kidding? I was just suiting up for my midnight run.'

Halfway to morning Hardy was still awake.

The DA's interference in what was increasingly becoming every part not just of the Burgess case, but of what seemed like his whole life, had become a real issue.

Now, sitting downstairs at the kitchen table, he was writing names and drawing circles and arrows on a legal pad. McNeil, Torrey, Alsop, Burgess, Logan, Elaine. He wasn't anywhere near yet to taking notes – it was all too ephemeral. Still…

He looked down at the paper and wrote another name. Freeman's girlfriend's client – Abby Oberlin, had definitely received a settlement offer from Torrey, and that settlement would profit Logan. But so what? Lawyers profited from settlements every day. Except that Logan was also connected to Elaine, and therefore to Cole. And since Logan represented Manny Gait, he was involved with McNeil, too.

God! Hardy wished that Logan had been Cullen Alsop's lawyer, but that had been that nice kid this morning, Westbrook. He didn't know what it would mean – Logan knowing Cullen – but the symmetry of it was appealing as hell.

Reluctantly, he drew a line through Cullen's name.

Another thought struck him and he hastily scratched out his own client's name. If, as appeared to be the case, they were working on the assumption that Cole was innocent…

McNeil, Oberlin, Torrey, Elaine, Logan.

It was a small town, circling back on itself. Rather like a noose.