“I agree.”
“And if Braun does drop Levon, isn’t that saying Maya didn’t do it?”
“Well, not exactly. It means they can’t prove she did it.”
“So what do they do then?”
“Who?”
“The police. The people investigating his murder.”
Hardy’s grin had a sardonic twist to it. “Again, we’re up against theory versus reality. In theory the police should start looking for more proof, but there isn’t any that I’ve seen. So then, still in theory, they should revisit the investigation and see if they might trip over another suspect somewhere along the way. In reality, since the cops believe that Maya in fact did kill Levon-”
“That’s insane,” Harlen interrupted. “I know she didn’t do that.”
This stopped Hardy. “If you do, tell me how.”
The supervisor, too, hesitated for a second. “What I mean is my sister isn’t hitting somebody on the head with a cleaver, Diz. It just flat couldn’t happen.”
“I’m not saying I disagree with you. It’s a stretch for me too. But the cops think that’s what happened, even though she avoided all traces of blood, which is a pretty good party trick if she did. Anyway, the bottom line is that in reality, Braun dismisses Levon and nobody’s going to do a damn thing about it. They figure they’ll get her on Dylan anyway. But the good news-and this really is good, Harlen-is if Levon gets dropped, it’s no longer Specials.” By this Hardy meant special circumstances-mandated by multiple murder-and because of which Maya would be facing life in prison without the possibility of parole. Without Levon, life without was going to be off the table.
But Harlen didn’t take much solace in that. “I don’t want her to go down at all,” he said. “That’s why I turned her on to you in the first place. I never intended for this to happen. You were supposed to stop it from getting to here.”
Hardy had seen this before, the family becoming adversarial to the defense as the trial progressed. Still, Harlen was a long-standing colleague-just short of being a personal friend-and the accusation stung. “Well”-Hardy’s decent mood by now completely leached away-“I hope you know I’m doing all I can to keep that from happening.”
“I know that. I didn’t mean-”
“Yeah, you did. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, Diz.” Harlen swallowed, took a deep breath. “I tell you, these fuckers are killing all of us. Joel and I almost had it out-I mean actual fists-last time we saw each other. He said I was ratting him out with the grand jury. You ever testify for one of those?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t a target.”
“Well, here’s the good news. Neither am I. Or they tell me that’s good news, but you ask me, make me a target anytime.”
“So you can take the Fifth, right?”
“Not that I’ve got anything to hide, really, but it would be a nice option. Instead of letting Glass, last time he got me on the stand, rip me a new one. Then he starts on my tax returns for like ten years ago. And how do I account for this? And how did I really make that? And how do I prove that my sister and I were not actual partners in BBW, and that the dope money isn’t really what got Joel’s real estate stuff started, or at least bailed him out after nine eleven.”
“And you had to answer?”
“Every time or I’m in contempt. I mean, that son of a bitch Glass treated me like I was a major criminal, but I’ve got nothing to tell him. Then after all that Joel busts my ass anyway.” The big man blew out heavily. “And you notice Kathy’s lost about ten pounds. Ten pounds on her, that’s like fifty on me. And it isn’t her new exercise routine, believe me.”
“I hadn’t heard they’d called her yet.”
“No. That’s what’s so awful. They’re keeping the big ax-testifying with the grand jury-over her head. Glass waiting to see what happens down here in court, maybe. I don’t know, but it’s eating her up too. Like literally. I think that’s what more or less got her to come down here. Put the fucker on notice, show him she’s not afraid.” He leaned in closer. “But let me tell you something, Diz, between me and you. She is.”
From his own experiences with Joel-arguing with him over billing, cash flows, trial strategy, his treatment of Maya-Hardy had known that Glass’s campaign against the families was taking a serious psychic toll. Now, though, Harlen’s totally uncharacteristic outburst-the man was a professional politician, after all, he never lost his temper-had made Hardy realize how deep the knife cut, how threatening the grand jury must be, how very real loomed the possibility of ruined careers and even prison time. Now Hardy took his own deep breath. “Well, Harlen,” he said with a mustered calm he didn’t come close to feeling, “we’re still a long way from done here. That’s all I can tell you. We’ve got to let it play out.”
Hardy let Fisk go through the metal detector and then stepped aside out of the line and walked back to the other familiar face he’d noticed in the lobby behind them. Chiurco, in a coat and tie, looked well-rested and clear-eyed as Hardy shook his hand. “Hey, Craig,” he said. “You here with Wyatt?”
“No. Wyatt told me to come down here and see if I could be of some use.”
This wasn’t the most impressive offer Hardy had ever heard. The only thing Craig had to talk about was Maya’s presence outside Levon’s flat just before or after he was murdered. Which meant that if Hardy put him on the stand, all he could do was damage the case further.
But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, an idea surfaced. “Something you could do,” he said. “With all the craziness, you and I never talked about whatever you found out about Levon and Dylan.”
“Sure, but I’ve got to tell you, beyond the robbery and his address, it wasn’t much.”
“Wyatt didn’t ask you to follow up on any of that?”
Craig shook his head. “No. And I don’t really know what it would be. I think you guys know all I know.”
“Probably,” Hardy said, “but maybe you know something you don’t know you know. Stuff you might have seen with Maya at the door.”
This brought a frown. “Tamara kind of hinted that maybe I’d want to mess with my story if-”
But Hardy jumped all over that. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I’m not talking about making up a story. Just if what actually happened might change an argument or something.”
“Well, whatever you’d want.”
“You want to set a time? Give me an hour?”
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight, tomorrow night? Call Phyllis at my office and she can set us up. You okay with that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. So now if you’ll excuse me”-Hardy indicated the courtroom behind him-“Her Highness awaits.”
Upstairs, Glitsky let Bracco and Schiff into his office, closed the door behind them, and walked around his desk to his chair. He had hot tea in his SFPD mug and he pulled it in front of him and cupped his hands around it.
Not that he was cold.
He felt he needed a prop-something immediate and proximately painful-to take the edge off his main emotion at the moment, which was a fine amalgam of embarrassment, disappointment, and fury. As a further subterfuge-to all appearances this was simply a chat about procedures-he’d bought a couple of Starbucks frou-frou coffees downstairs and had put them on the edge of his desk in front of where his inspectors were sitting.
Schiff pretty obviously hungover.
And now, motioning to the coffees, Glitsky said, “I hear those are great. Orange macchiato, or something like that. Treya swears by ’em.”
Bracco reached forward, took a cup, removed the plastic top. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Debra?”
She raised a palm. “Maybe in a minute, thanks.”
The tension among the three of them taut as a wire.
“Are you feeling all right?”
A brisk nod. “Little bit of a rough night is all.”