The feet came down. ‘Because through secret sources I have discovered what you already knew yesterday when you wouldn’t talk to me about Graham Russo.’
‘Which was?’
‘He was at his father’s place. He shot him up with morphine all the time.’
‘Did I know that yesterday? I don’t think I knew that, if I do, until this morning.’
‘You knew something, though. More than you had last week. You were convinced you had a murder.’
Glitsky moved into the room. ‘No comment.’
‘Has it gone to the grand jury yet? Tell me that.’
‘No comment.’ Then, ‘Sal had a fight.’
Hardy gave them a minute, then shook his head. ‘Not with Graham.’
‘If you say so, and you probably will at the trial.’
Glitsky had just told him what he wanted to know: there was going to be a trial. There was no point in arguing the merits. With the combination of Graham’s presence at Sal’s and the fight, added to the lies and the money, there was a case the attorney general could prosecute, even if the district attorney would not. The lieutenant had one more remark, however. ‘Whoever did it, Diz, this was a murder. You mind if I sit in my chair?’
Hardy got up and they did a little dance moving around each other. Glitsky looked up at him. ‘Why don’t I think you came all the way down here just to have some peanuts?’
‘I needed to know if you had a smoking gun before I did anything else.’
Glitsky considered this. ‘No comment.’ He flashed his terrible smile. ‘What else brought you down to our little garden spot?’
‘No comment.’ Hardy smiled back. ‘Gosh, we’ve turned into some great conversationalists here in our middle years, haven’t we?’ He hesitated, about to say something else, then thought better of it. He checked his watch. ‘Lord, how time flies. Thanks for the peanuts. Later.’
Hardy had tried to make the appointment with Sharron Pratt’s chief assistant, Claude Clark, soon after he’d hung up with Graham. His client might choose to deny it, but Hardy knew that after his admissions to Sergeant Evans, big trouble was brewing. He had a wild idea that might head it off at the pass.
Clark already had a reputation as a trim and officious bully. In his late thirties, he sported a sandy buzz haircut, a clipped mustache with goatee, and an openly fey style that he would exaggerate around people whom he suspected of homophobia.
He had the power now; he controlled access to the district attorney and was very effective at conveying the feeling that if you wanted to see her, then you could very politely kiss his ass. Pratt liked to pretend that she was sensitive to people, that she cared about their personal feelings, and keeping Clark near by to do her hatchet work was, she believed, good politics.
The chief assistant dismissed Hardy’s request to meet with Pratt as ridiculous. The district attorney did not take meetings with defense attorneys on little or no notice. She might be able to set aside some time for him in several weeks if he put his request in writing.
Thinking, It’s bad luck to diss the Diz, Hardy put on the press. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell her I’d like five minutes. It’s about the Sal Russo case. It hasn’t gone away. I’ve got some information that might help her.’
‘Why don’t you just brief me and I’ll pass it along to her?’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Hardy had said. ‘I’ll just call my good buddy Jeff Elliot over at the Chronicle. You know Jeff? Hell of a reporter, writes the “CityTalk” column. Gets his teeth in and never lets go. Sharron can read about it in the morning. Take care now.’
In ten minutes he got the call. Pratt could set aside a few minutes if Hardy could be at the Hall at four o’clock, sharp.
The DA set the rules of engagement. She reigned from her chair, protected and isolated from supplicants behind an expansive slab of polished hardwood. Claude Clark hovered by the windows. Hardy hadn’t been in this room since he’d been fired five years before by the late Christopher Locke. He had been ushered to his spot front and center.
‘Mr Hardy’ – she nodded – ‘nice to meet you, though of course I know you by reputation.’ Hardy doubted whether this was true, but made the appropriate face. ‘I understand you’ve got some information for me.’
He nodded, getting right to it. ‘Yes, ma’am. Graham Russo talked to the police over the weekend. He admitted that he’d been to his father’s and that he’d injected him with morphine.’
She sat forward. ‘He admitted he killed him?’
‘No. I’m sorry. He admitted that he’d earlier injected him with morphine. The point is, he’s contradicted his original story again. Also, apparently there was a struggle.’
‘The chair?’ she asked. Then shook her head. ‘We’ve already seen that. That’s no proof of a struggle.’
‘They have a witness.’ He saw her eyes narrow. She was following him closely. ‘In any event, I’m convinced that they now have a case. The AG is going to make an arrest.’
She nodded. ‘I had assumed they would. Powell wants to make some bones. He won’t win. Assisted suicide shouldn’t be charged as homicide, and every jury that gets picked in this city is going to agree with me. But what does this have to do with you? Or me?’
‘I want you to arrest him again.’
Her eyes went down to slits, then opened as an admiring smile formed. ‘Let me see if I get your meaning here.’
She understood it perfectly. She would simply pull the rug out from under the attorney general. If she charged Graham in Sal’s death, then cut a deal with his attorney, then under double jeopardy, Graham could never be brought to trial again for the same crime.
She locked him in her gaze again. ‘You’re afraid Powell’s going to charge murder one with specials here, aren’t you?’
Hardy nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘And you’re sure he’s not indicted the son yet?’
Thinking of Glitsky, Hardy felt a tug of guilt. They’d played the ‘no comment’ game, but Hardy knew that if they hadn’t been friends off the court, Glitsky wouldn’t even have spoken to him. In fact, Glitsky had as much as confided that the case hadn’t yet been to the grand jury, and now he was telling that to Pratt. It bothered him to do this to Abe; he should have thought about where it might go before he’d come in here, but he’d been psyched on his strategic brilliance, and now was the time. He had to go ahead. ‘No indictment. That’s what I hear.’
‘So what’s your offer?’
‘You charge him tomorrow morning, early. If the grand jury indicts first, we’re dead. I bring Graham down and the next day we plead manslaughter. The deal is probation. No time. Community service negotiable.’
‘And your client’s on board with this?’
He didn’t really see how Graham could disagree. He’d called him back after their early talk to propose it to him but again, maddeningly, there’d been no answer, not even a machine. But Hardy would get to Graham before the morning if he had to camp on his front step. He nodded. ‘He will be.’
This response, though, brought Pratt up short. ‘You don’t have your client’s approval for this?’
‘I wanted to get your take on it first. If you weren’t interested, what was the point?’
Pratt obviously thought this was bass-ackwards – as indeed it was. But the idea itself played beautifully into her hands. As a vehicle for votes she could ride it for miles. Still, ‘I won’t move forward on this until I’ve heard from you.’
‘I understand that.’
She nodded once. ‘Claude, give Mr Hardy one of my cards with my home number. Mr Hardy, I’ll expect to hear from you.’
Since the business day was nearly over, Hardy drove directly from the Hall of Justice. Graham was home and cracked a bottle of beer for each of them, suggesting that they walk up and have their talk outside at the top of the Interior Park Belt, which marked the end of Edgewood.