'He didn't believe us.'
'You're the master of insight today, aren't you? First Wes is mad at us, and then Wes doesn't believe us.'
'Maybe we should mend a few fences?'
'I don't think that's a bad idea.'
Mark went over to the window and separated the blinds, looking out over Bryant Street and downtown beyond. 'I'm just not willing to concede,' he said, 'that there's a telescopic-sight camera set up on Nob Hill, trained on this window.'
He crossed back over to her and took her in his arms.
Judge Thomasino's chambers were neither large nor imposing, furnished as they were in functional Danish. Three tall teak bookshelves closed in the walls, and various diplomas, honors, and commendations in wooden frames seemed to have been stuck randomly on the green drywall. A robust ficus sprawled in the corner by a large window. One of Remington's brass cowboys graced a broad teak coffee table, but that was the extent of the decorative touches. The rug was faded brown Berber over the Hall's linoleum.
Jenkins and Glitsky were seated in low leather chairs in front of the Judge's desk and they both turned at the bailiff's knock. It was Farrell, and Glitsky stood, ceding pride of place to the attorneys. He was here because Amanda had asked him to be.
Farrell didn't sit, but walked to the front of Thomasino's desk. 'I'm glad you're here, Amanda,' he began. 'I wanted to apologize for my client. And to you, Judge. I'm sorry.'
Thomasino barely acknowledged the words with an ambiguous gesture, then got right to it. 'I asked you down here, Mr Farrell, to see if you can give me any reason why I shouldn't yank your client's bail. You should know that I already told Ms Jenkins that if she asked, I'd do it. I'm thinking of doing it in any event. If you want a mis-trial, your client can do sixty days next door' – meaning in jail – 'while he waits for his new court date, to contemplate whether he wants to interrupt the proceedings again.'
Glitsky wouldn't have thought Farrell could sag any further than he had when he walked in, but he did. Visibly.
Jenkins took it up. 'I'll be honest with you, Wes,' she said. 'You and I know this is the first murder I've gotten to trial. My colleagues in the DA's office are starting to wonder why I'm on the payroll if I'm never actually in trial. I don't want to wait another sixty days.'
'Minimum,' Thomasino intoned.
'Minimum,' she repeated. 'And I think the argument can be made that the outburst was potentially as prejudicial to your client as it might have been self-serving.'
A rueful nod. 'We were just discussing that,' Farrell said.
'So it's a wash,' Jenkins concluded.
Glitsky admired the way Jenkins delivered it. It sounded genuine enough, although he knew the truth was quite different. As the recess had been called, Jenkins had sent Glitsky upstairs to get Art Drysdale and tell him she was asking to get Dooher's bail revoked.
Drysdale had made a quick phone call – cryptic enough, but it must have been to Chris Locke – and then accompanied Abe back to Department 26, where Jenkins sat, still fuming, at the prosecution table.
From Glitsky's perspective, there was no question that Locke had some personal – political – connection to this case. The DA didn't want to see it postponed, to let it remain unresolved, much as he had asked for the unreasonably low bail. He was doing the Archbishop a favor.
As Drysdale had been explaining that the DA did not want to ask for bail to be revoked, Thomasino had sent word that he wanted to see Jenkins in his chambers and discuss that very thing, and Drysdale had supplied her with the reason she was to give for not wanting it.
Farrell, for his part, was a drowning man who'd just gone down for the third time, opened his eyes underwater, and saw the lifebuoy. He reached for it. 'Your honor, I will not let this kind of thing happen again.'
The glare. Thomasino growled once, settled into his chair. 'All right, now there's one other thing.' The two opposing attorneys looked at each other, wondering. 'I don't know how much control you have over your client's behavior, Mr Farrell – I'd gather not very much. But perhaps you could exert some influence over your second chair. I don't want to sequester this jury, but if we get too many more stories about Mr Dooher and Ms Carrera, I'm not going to have any choice. A man's accused of killing his wife, it's the better part of valor to keep his dick in his pants – excuse me, Amanda – at least until a jury's had a chance to make up its mind.
'Now I've told the jury not to watch television or read newspapers, but we all know what will happen if the defendant keeps getting on the front page. That's not in anyone's interest. Are we in agreement here?'
'Yes, your honor.
'Good.' Thomasino paused for a couple of seconds. He looked at his watch. 'I'm going to adjourn for today, giving you, Mr Farrell, a lot of time to make these points to your client and your associate. I'd use as much of it as you need.'
Farrell could only nod. Whatever the Judge wanted, that's what he wanted, too.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
So Glitsky was off early.
It wasn't yet three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon and no one expected him upstairs, so he signed out a car from the city lot and drove himself home, found a parking spot directly in front of his duplex, and let himself in.
Rita was sleeping on the couch, which was okay. She got up with them all at 6:30, and she kept the place spotless. She also got up with Abe when any of the boys called out in the night, and if she needed to take a nap to catch up, Glitsky was all for it.
In the kitchen, a pot of thick black sauce -mole, he now knew – simmered on the stove, steaming the windows, filling the room with its heady smell. A couple of disjointed chickens were thawing on the counter.
He opened the kitchen window a crack and heard Isaac down in the trees. He was lucky with his backyard. Though he shared it with his downstairs neighbors, there was plenty of room. And along its border, a bicycle path traced the edge of the Presidio.
Back when there had been money for such amenities, the city had built a small playground – a set of swings, parallel bars, a slide – thirty yards down the path.
Glitsky let himself out the back door and down the steps, across the yard through the lengthening shadows, on to the bike path. He'd pushed pretty hard at the idea of the boys playing together, sticking together – the family – and this was one of those miraculous days when it was working.
They were seeing who could sail farthest out of the swing set – one of the activities Glitsky felt better hearing about than actually witnessing. And today they'd added a new wrinkle, a stick that two of them held while the third one sailed, going for height and distance.
And broken legs, he thought. Chipped teeth. Ruined knees.
But he watched from a small distance. Life is risk, he told himself. They're enjoying the moment. Let it happen.
And then Jacob landed sprawled in the tanbark and, rolling over, saw his father. He let out a whoop – 'Dad!' – and came running over, stopping himself a split second before what would have been an embarrassing hug. But he did let his father put his arm around him.
'What are you doing home?'
'Yeah, it's still light out.' Isaac, sauntering up, put in the barb. Glitsky knew he was working all the time, but didn't see a way to change it. And he was home now, wasn't he?
'I thought we'd go get a Christmas tree.'
O.J. stabbed a fist into the air and screamed, 'Yeah!' and was already running back toward the house while the other two tore off after him.