The Hearing

Visser had once been handsome, with a full head of sandy-colored hair, chiseled cheekbones, a well-trimmed goatee.

In the decade since he'd had his own business, though, he'd gained forty pounds and two inches of forehead. He'd also lost the facial hair that had hid his chins. Now the skin of his face stretched tightly over too much flesh through which smallish eyes perpetually seemed to squint.

Right now he was on his way to see Dismas Hardy's client Rich McNeil at Terranew Industries. He didn't have an appointment; that wasn't his style.

McNeil's office was on one of the upper floors of the company's headquarters on California Street halfway up to Nob Hill. The room was of reasonable size, with modern furnishings, built-in bookshelves, windows on two of the walls looking out over downtown. When his secretary buzzed him and said a private investigator with the Manny Gait case was outside, McNeil let himself hope that maybe Hardy had hired a p.i., and maybe he had come up with some good news about something and couldn't wait to tell McNeil directly.

But as soon as he saw Visser, he realized that this was wishful thinking. This beefy hunk of trailer trash couldn't be Hardy's man. Still, McNeil had let him into his office, so he'd be polite. He rose out of his seat, came around his desk, extended his hand. 'Mr Visser. Rich McNeil. What can I do for you?'

The big man's grip crushed his hand. Intimidation with a smile. 'Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. You mind if I sit down a minute?'

McNeil opened and closed his hand, relieved that it still seemed to be working. 'Not at all. I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time, but…'

'I won't take much, then.' Visser pulled his pants at his thighs, settled back into one of McNeil's leather armchairs, looked around the office. 'Nice place,' he said. 'I got an office in an old warehouse on Pier 42. Great view, right on the water. Treasure Island, the Bridge. But no chairs like this.'

'Well…' McNeil didn't have a chit-chat answer prepared. He pulled a chair up, put on an expectant expression. 'So…' He waited.

Visser took another moment appreciating his comfort level, the buildings out the windows. He shifted his shoulders, leaned into the leather, came back to McNeil. 'Just so you know,' he began, 'so we're clear, I'm working for Dash Logan, Mr Gait's attorney. He thought it might be… helpful if you and me had a discussion about what we're looking at here, kind of off the record.'

But McNeil was shaking his head. 'I don't know if that's a good idea. My lawyer told me-'

'No, c'mon, hey. Lawyers, I know. I work for one. Dash talked to your lawyer yesterday, which is why I'm here today, call it a courtesy. Your guy – Hardy, is it? – he seems to think settling this case out of court isn't a good idea, says we've got no criminal case. But I gotta tell you…' The squinting eyes shifted around the office.

'What?' McNeil prompted.

With some effort, Visser brought his bulk forward on the chair. 'Here's the thing,' he began, all sincerity. His voice dropped a few decibels. 'This stuff happens in these cases, the lawyers, they start pissing at each other, pretty soon everybody loses. Mr Logan, he hates to see that…'

'Well.' McNeil wanted no more of this. He started to stand up. 'Be that as it may, I really can't-'

'The thing is, Rich,' Visser interrupted, almost coming out of his own chair, intimidating McNeil again back into his. 'I used to be a cop a lot of years. I know the kind of things they're looking for and they're going to get it. I mean, everybody's got a skeleton in their closet – tax stuff, couple of times you maybe took cash for rent without receipts. This is stuff your guy Hardy wouldn't know about.'

'I'd be surprised at that,' McNeil said levelly. 'He used to be a cop himself.'

'Hardy did?'

McNeil pressed his advantage. 'That's right. So I get the feeling he's pretty much on top of what's going on, and he's telling me there's no case. Which is also what I believe, since I know Manny Gait is a liar, especially about giving me cash for rent. That didn't happen. None of it happened. So if that's all,' McNeil started to get up again, 'thanks for coming by, but I'm afraid we don't have anything else to discuss.' He braved a smile. 'We're just going to have to let the lawyers duke it out.'

But Visser didn't take the hint. Instead, he leaned back again, rubbed a palm against the smooth leather armrest. 'Well, OK. It's just a case like this goes forward, it can get ugly. And Mr Logan doesn't want that.'

'Neither does Mr Hardy. We'll just have to let the facts decide.' He gestured with his palms out, forced another smile. 'Well, if that's all, I do have a pretty busy morning…'

At last, Visser got himself out of the chair. 'OK, but just for an example.'

'What's that?'

'You used to have a secretary named Linda Cook, didn't you?'

McNeil felt his stomach go hollow. 'What about her? That was a mistake. A long time ago. My wife knows all about it.'

'Yeah, sure. But the kids, you know, the grandkids. That whole thing comes up, it'd be kind of sad for them, the whole way they think about you.'

A shaky breath, steel now in the voice. 'Get the hell out of here.'

The fury and fear had no effect on Visser. He spread his own palms in a reflection of McNeil's earlier dismissal. 'All I'm saying is this kind of thing gets around in the public, it doesn't do you any good. You hear what I'm saying? Nobody needs that kind of aggravation, huh? Aren't I right?'

They were in the front window of a tony little lunch place on Union, and Jody Burgess had given up even picking at her salad. Instead, she glared across the table at her daughter, who had just told her after a meal full of preamble that she and Jeff were not going to contribute to the payment for Cole's defense. 'I don't see how you can be so unfeeling,' she said. 'This is your own brother.'

Dorothy hadn't even touched her sandwich, and it was her favorite – foccacio, goat's cheese, sun-dried tomatoes. She had no problem understanding how she could be so unfeeling – she'd had lots of practice, that was how. Every time she'd been tempted to feel something like compassion or sorrow or simple pity for her brother over the past half dozen years, she'd regretted it, and now the temptation wasn't all that great any longer. In fact, it was no longer a temptation at all.

But she told herself that this was her mother, and although they'd had similar discussions hundreds of times before, she felt she still owed her somehow. Damn it.

So she answered with her trademark enforced calm. 'My own brother,' she said, 'desperately needed a place to stay and because I felt something for him, I let him live in my house with my rather seriously handicapped husband and my own children. And Mom, you may remember this, you know what his thanks was? He stole from us. Repeatedly. From the kids' own piggy banks even. Can you believe that one? That was my reward for being nice to him, that the kids now will always remember Uncle Cole as a thief, if not a murderer. And isn't that a special thing for them to carry around for the rest of their lives?'

Jody nodded, swallowed. She'd heard all of this before. And, because it was her nature, she was ready with a response. 'He's not a murderer.'

'Well, he damn well is a thief.'

'He can't help himself, Dorothy. He's in the grip of something bigger than he is.'

'Oh, please.'

'It's true. You know it's true.'

'It may be, Mom, but I just don't care anymore. I don't care. Do you hear me?'

Jody stared into the face across the table, reached out her hand, touched her daughter's. 'Honey-'

'No!' Dorothy pulled her hand away. 'No. Not this time.'

'So what are we going to do?'

'I'm not going to do anything.'

'You'll just let him go?'

Dorothy nodded, her jaw set. 'Yep.'

'They're asking for the death penalty, Dorothy. You can't want him to die?'

A sigh. 'This is San Francisco, Mom. No jury is going to give him the death penalty. He's not going to die.'