As he turned toward the corner, he noticed patrons lined up in front of Cafe La Maison across the street, queued up men and women dressed in suits and long coats, confined by woven stanchion ropes. Stepping forward, then pausing. Stepping forward, then pausing. Sure that when they arrived inside the wine would be exquisite, the dinners would be satisfying, and the desserts would be just.
Maybe that’s what he needed, Donnally told himself. A series of lines, or perhaps chutes, to organize all those who had unresolved issues with Hamlin-and perhaps even for the one who had resolved his issue through murder.
One for the tricked.
One for the cheated.
One for disappointed crime partners.
One for those denied justice.
And one line labeled “Other.”
He suspected that the last would be the longest.
“Wait” changed to “Walk” and he continued on, arriving at Hamlin’s office five minutes later.
The door lock made the kind of hollow click that sounds when a room is empty, and this was.
And dark. Lit only by the diffused light from the street below and the windows of after-hours workers in the opposite building.
Donnally felt a little foolish doing it, but he pulled the Velcro strap on his holster free and gripped his gun as he flipped on the reception area light switch. The fluorescent flicker and burst of light illuminated nothing but office furniture. He passed through and into Hamlin’s inner office. Nothing there but dead wood. The only thing new was a manila envelope lying in the center of the desk blotter. He secured his gun, then dropped into Hamlin’s chair and slid the contents out. A DVD. He spun it around to read the label.
Frank Lange Investigations
People v. Thule
Interview of John Gordon
Confidential Attorney/Client Material
Donnally knew what the secret recording would show even before he listened to it. John Gordon had not confessed to Lange that it was his idea to use the defective Chinese steel in the mall walkway.
And he suspected it was Jackson who’d left it for him.
Perhaps because of the fresh recollection of the gun at his back, the kind of incident whose lingering memory can transform fear into paranoia, he found himself wondering whether the recording was a bread crumb that would lead him to the reason for the murder or whether it was a form of misdirection to take him down a false trail away from something that might implicate her directly.
At some point, Hamlin’s crimes and professional misconduct would slop back on Jackson and she had to start protecting herself, one way or another, maybe just by diverting his attention to someone else.
Hamlin’s misdeeds were certainly about to slop back on Frank Lange. In his cross-examination, the prosecutor would’ve asked Lange whether he’d taped the interview of Gordon, and Lange would’ve lied. And the proof of his perjury was lying on the blotter and would end Lange’s career.
It was just the kind of leverage Donnally was looking for to get backdoor access to parts of Hamlin’s work that were either hidden from Jackson or that she was afraid to talk about for fear of self-incrimination.
Donnally called Hannah Goldhagen on her cell phone. He could hear background restaurant noises of rumbling conversations and rattling dishes. He then suffered what he knew was an irrational thought, based on an irrational connection, that she was sitting in Cafe La Maison down the block. He suppressed it and asked:
“Hypothetically, if you could prove the defense used forged or fraudulent evidence to get a not guilty verdict in a state court case, could you somehow avoid the double jeopardy problem and get it moved into federal court and retried?”
Goldhagen laughed. “I don’t think you mean hypothetically. You’re just not willing to tell me who did it and what case they did it in.”
“And the answer?”
“No, we couldn’t get it into federal court unless it could be construed as a civil rights case.”
“It can’t. But, hypothetically, you could keep it in state court and pursue obstruction of justice against the defendant if you could prove he was involved.”
She laughed again. “Not hypothetically, actually, and we can ask for penalties as heavy as for the original crime. Hold on.” The restaurant sounds were eclipsed for a few moments, then she asked, “And when am I going to find out which case it is?”
“It may not even be in San Francisco. You may have to find out about it in the newspaper.”
“I think not.” Her voice stiffened. “Be careful, Donnally, I know you’re doing a lot of poking around and have been playing things close, but pretty soon push is going to come to shove and some of this stuff has to come out.”
He threw it back at her. “And the sooner you get Sheldon Galen signed on, the sooner you can get to pushing and shoving.”
“It’ll be done tomorrow. He lawyered up as though he wanted to fight, but then caved. He’s supposed to be in at high noon. I’ll send him your way right afterwards.”
Chapter 31
Donnally looked up Frank Lange’s address on the Internet, located his photo in the San Francisco Chronicle archives, and then headed out. A half hour later he slowed his truck near a three-story Victorian where Castro, Divisadero, and Waller came together, just three blocks east of Buena Vista Park. Mark Hamlin’s apartment was on its opposite side. He verified the address, then drove on until he located a parking spot a couple of streets away, and walked back.
Any thought of confronting Lange with the tape got drowned out by party noises emanating from the house. From the recessed doorway of an apartment building across Divisadero, Donnally watched too many people in a dining room under a too bright chandelier jostle for places near the buffet table.
He didn’t recognize anyone and didn’t see Lange.
Donnally took a couple of photos with his cell phone, then worked his way around the perimeter of the Y intersection until he obtained a view of the Waller side of the house. He spotted Lange standing in the living room looking like a politician surrounded by reporters. The head shot Donnally had found on the Internet disguised Lange’s girth. That, combined with his red sports jacket, made him look like a child’s party balloon. It seemed to Donnally to be the perfect match of ego and physique.
Lange wasn’t an investigator who relied on stealth. And if Jackson was right about the kind of work he did for Hamlin and for other attorneys like him, he didn’t need to be furtive. It didn’t make any difference whether witnesses or victims could see him coming, for he’d either just make up what he wanted victims or witnesses to have said, or try to intimidate them into saying it or into silence.
Lights were off on the upper floors. Donnally imagined Lange’s bedroom and office were on the second story and that he used the angle-roofed third floor as storage. The ceiling seemed too low for regular use.
Donnally watched Lange and a skinny woman at least twenty-five years younger than Lange’s early fifties turn together and walk toward the interior of the house. A minute later a light burst on in a second floor room. The angle of view was such that he couldn’t tell what it was used for.
They faced each other.
She was glaring at him, her thin arms folded across her chest.
He stood with his hands extended.
Soon they were both jabbing fingers and waving hands.
From the violence of her gestures, Donnally guessed she could be angry enough at Lange to disclose some of his secrets, if she was in a position to know any.
Donnally snapped a photo, thinking that Jackson or Navarro might be able to identify her.
Lange reached for her shoulders. She stepped back. He reached again. She slapped him, then spun away. He stood there for a few seconds rubbing his cheek, then followed her out of Donnally’s sight and the light went off.