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.