‘LWOP.’ This was Soma, rapping the rap, trying out the sound of the jargon, pretending to be an old pro. Hardy wondered if Soma had given any thought to the reality of life in prison without the possibility of parole for someone very much like himself, as Graham was. If, in fact, Soma had given thought to much except getting high-profile cases and winning them. Hardy guessed not; the boy had all the signs of testosterone poisoning, which meant he wouldn’t do it by the numbers.
Also, the case had a personal edge, which increased the odds – if Soma was smart, which also appeared to be the case – that he’d come up with some tricks in the courtroom.
But here in Belden Alley the attorneys for both sides of this highly publicized case were at the same table, informally, in some kind of free-form mode. From what they’d said, they hadn’t found Graham yet to arrest him. Hardy knew Drysdale well, and thought he’d orchestrated this meeting for some specific purpose. Maybe get another plea in play.
Although – a zing of caution – maybe Art thought he could get information they didn’t have while Hardy’s guard was down. He’d find out. ‘Either of you read the article in Time?’
Cerrone had done a masterful job of creating an impression without ever crossing the line into accusation. The Graham Russo case, he’d written, was a poignant illustration of the many ambiguities facing the country surrounding the entire problem of elderly care/assisted suicide/the right to die.
Woven into the fabric of the legal story of the arrest and subsequent release of Graham Russo was the relationship between him and his father, the desperation of Sal’s condition, Graham’s access to morphine and syringes. Reading the article, Hardy concluded that no reasonable person would assume that Graham had not helped his father die with dignity.
Hardy had his ear to the ground, and as far as he could tell, the article, coupled with Barbara Brandt’s confession, had pretty much settled the question for the public. Even some of the legal public – Freeman, Michelle.
These two lawyers with him now, however, represented something entirely different. A waiter had come and taken their lunch orders and Hardy had decided on a cup of espresso, high octane. After it arrived, he slowly stirred in a spoonful of sugar. ‘I’ve got to say, Art, this is a terrible call. If you read the article-’ True to form, Soma butted in again.
‘The article left out just a few things.’
‘Yes it did.’ Hardy was all agreement. ‘And I know all about them – the money and the so-called struggle? But I’ll tell you something: Graham didn’t kill Sal for the money. You’ll never be able to prove he did.’ He found himself addressing Art again. ‘Powell’s got to know this, Art. It’s damn near frivolous.’
‘We did get the indictment.’ Drysdale shrugged. ‘The grand jury didn’t think it was frivolous.’
Hardy sat back in his chair, amused. ‘Wasn’t it your very self, years ago, who assured me that if the prosecution asked nice enough, the grand jury would indict a ham sandwich?’
Drysdale nodded. ‘I might have said something like that when I was but a callow youth, but I was wrong.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, the ham sandwich might have done it.’
‘So remind me again, why are we having this discussion? You came down here looking for me, remember? Why didn’t you just give me a call and tell me to bring in my man?’
Putting a hand over the arm of Soma, who looked equal parts ready to interrupt again and in sore need of a bathroom break, Drysdale leaned forward. ‘Dean’s made his point getting the indictment, Diz. He’s upholding the law, Pratt isn’t. I don’t think this kid has to spend the rest of his life in jail.’ He threw a quick glance at Soma, shutting him up.
‘So what do you want?’
‘You tell me. The word was you went to manslaughter, no time, with Pratt. I don’t think Dean will go there, but he might bend down from the specials.’
But Hardy was shaking his head. ‘My client didn’t even cop to probation, Art. He says he didn’t do it.’
‘Although the entire country now thinks he did.’
Hardy spread his palms. ‘Be that as it may. And even if that’s true, even if some jury comes to that view, they won’t see murder with specials. They’ll see an assisted suicide.’
Finally, Soma could hold it no longer. ‘Which is murder.’
Drysdale agreed. ‘Forget the legal niceties, Diz. This was a murder. We can prove murder.’
‘Which means Graham did it,’ Soma blurted.
Hardy took a beat. ‘That’s an interesting legal theory,’ he said.
‘The point,’ Drysdale went on, ‘is this: you know Powell, Diz. He’s not immune to public opinion…’ This, Hardy thought, was surely one of the great understatements of Drysdale’s career, but he let him go on. ‘He doesn’t necessarily want to try a case where sixty percent of his constituency thinks his suspect is a good guy who did the right thing.’
‘But-’
Drysdale’s hand went back to Soma’s arm. ‘But Dean is convinced – and I agree – that this was a murder. You will, too, Diz, when you’ve seen all the discovery. So if you plead, it’s win-win. Dean gets a W in his column for upholding the law, you get a W for pleading down. Pratt picks up an L.’
‘I love the sports analogy,’ Hardy said. ‘So Graham gets time in the slammer? My guess is he’d call that one the big L for him. What do you think?’
‘L, for life is the big L,’ Soma said. ‘This would be lower case.’
‘It’s not going to happen,’ Hardy replied, standing up, ‘but I’ll convey your kind offer to my client.’
If I can find him.
Shaking hands, he was effusively friendly. He told Art it was nice seeing him again. They ought to plan a lunch together sometime, catch up on their families, the changes in their jobs, old times.
Turning to the younger man, extending his hand, Hardy broke a practiced smile. ‘It was nice to meet you, Mr Soma. I wish you luck in your career.’
The young man wasn’t blind or stupid. He caught the dismissive tone and served one back to Hardy. ‘We need to see Russo by tomorrow. We don’t mean the day after.’
Hardy nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I guess I hear that message loud and clear. Thank you very much.’
An hour after Soma and Hardy exchanged their pleasantries, Marcel Lanier sat double-parked in front of the office of the attorney general on Fremont Street, drumming his hands on his steering wheel.
This was supposed to have taken five minutes – whip by here and get confirmation that Graham Russo was in the system. He’d sent Sarah up and she’d already been gone for twenty. Marcel sat with his driver’s window down, eyes closed. It was a nice afternoon, smells of coffee roasting and diesel fumes – not altogether unpleasant.
He was half dozing until another cop pulled up behind him. Marcel flashed his badge and explained the situation and tried to go back to dozing. Until two minutes later when another traffic-and parking-enforcement meter-minder tapped him – hard! – on the elbow. ‘Come on, now, move it along.’
Another flash of the buzzer, this one not as effective. ‘I don’t care about the badge, Inspector. You’re blocking the street here. You gotta move it along.’
So Marcel, humoring this bozo, drove in a big circle, hoping Evans would be back down when he returned. But she wasn’t, so he double-parked again in the same spot, closed his eyes again. It couldn’t be long now, he told himself, it just couldn’t be.
But it was long enough for a pair of indigents, one of them wearing a football helmet and the other pushing a stolen shopping cart loaded with recyclables, to stop at his window and ask him for money. Marcel revved the motor and took off again for another tour of the surrounding three blocks.