"I love and miss you, too. But it can't be helped. I'm going to make hash and eggs."
She gave him her arch look, held up three fingers, then turned her hand sideways. Still three fingers out.
Hardy, translating the sign language, effortlessly picked up the "W" and the "E" and, proud of himself, said, "Whatever."
An approving glance. "Not bad," she said.
Hardy shrugged. "For an adult."
While breakfast cooked in his black pan, he went out to the front porch, down the front steps and out into a steady dark rain. He picked up the Chronicle out by the gate, then hurried to get back inside. In the kitchen, he shook the paper out of its plastic wrap and checked under the lid of his pan, where the eggs hadn't quite set.
Thinking he'd give them another minute or two, he dropped the paper on the counter and opened it up. Though the trial had provided a great deal of sleazoid fodder for the tabloid press, as well as a steady if less-than-sensational flow of ink as local hard news, it hadn't been getting front-page play to date in the local newspaper, so the headline on the front page stopped him cold: conspiracy alleged in Hanover trial. Then, in smaller but still bold type: mayor's ties to defense team questioned.
Leaning on the counter with his hands on either side of the paper, Hardy read: "The double homicide trial of Catherine Hanover took an unexpected turn yesterday when one of the prosecution's chief witnesses and the lead inspector on the case, homicide sergeant Dan Cuneo, testified that Mayor Kathy West personally enlisted the aid of Deputy Chief of Inspectors Abraham Glitsky to direct and perhaps obstruct the police department's investigation of the murders of lobbyist/socialite Paul Hanover and his fiancee, Missy D'Amiens.
"Questioned after his appearance in the courtroom yesterday, Sergeant Cuneo expanded on the conspiracy theme, saying that Glitsky and, by extension, Mayor West herself had repeatedly undermined his efforts to apprehend his chief suspect, Catherine Hanover, in the slay-ings last May. 'They cooked up sexual harassment charges against me, they told me to keep away from her, told me not to do any more interviews, tried to direct me to other potential suspects. It was a full-court press.'
"Several groups in the city have already expressed outrage over the allegation, although the mayor herself has thus far declined to comment. Marvin Allred, spokesperson for the Urban Justice Project, a police watchdog group, has called for a full-scale investigation into the mayor's relations with senior police officials. 'The mayor's arrogance and sense of entitlement undermine the very basis of our system of justice. This peddling and trading of influence in our political leaders is a cancer on the body politic of this city and has to stop,' he said."
Another half dozen quotes spun the story the same way. It wasn't just an accusation anymore. Strongly implied was proof of a conspiracy.
"Cuneo's allegations also implicate Catherine Hanover's defense attorney Dismas Hardy, whose cozy relationship with top cop Glitsky and the mayor has long been a subject of conjecture and discussion among Hall of Justice regulars. Cuneo went on to say that 'Everybody knows that he dated Catherine Hanover when they were both in high school. They've been friends since they were kids. When it was obvious that she would be my chief suspect, he went to his friend the mayor and asked her and their friend Glitsky to use all of her influence to keep me away from her. Luckily, it didn't work.'
"Deputy Chief Glitsky has not been at work for two days and did not return calls to his office, and Hardy, likewise, could not be reached for comment."
"Dad? Are you all right?"
Still leaning on his hands, the paper spread open under him, Hardy stood immobile. "If any of the jury saw this or heard about it, we're going to ask for a mistrial. I've got to or I'm incompetent." Now he straightened up, pressed a hand to his eyes. "I'm going to have to do this all over again. And Catherine in jail all that time. Lord."
His daughter moved up next to him, put an arm around his waist. He turned back to the front page so she could read the article from the top. When she finished, she rested her head against him. "But none of it is remotely true."
"No. What makes it so effective is that most of it is true. The mayor and Abe and I are friends. She asked Abe to look into the investigation. I used to date Catherine. The facts are fine. It's just all twisted. I especially love where it says that Abe hasn't been in the office for two days, implying that he's ducking questions, when in fact he had a baby born with a hole in his heart. You think that might account for it?"
"How about your relationship with Uncle Abe being a source of discussion…"
"My cozy relationship. And it's discussion and conjecture. Don't forget conjecture."
"I never would. But what's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we're somehow up to no good."
They both stood over the paper, staring down at it. "So what are you going to do?" Rebecca finally asked.
"Well, first, let's see if I can get the judge to ask if any of the jurors saw this or heard about it."
"Do you really want that?"
"I don't have a choice. It's too big to ignore. I think I can convince Braun." "To declare a mistrial?"
He nodded. "If any of the jurors read this, and I'm almost certain at least three of them can read, then it's extremely prejudicial. They get kicked off just for ignoring Braun's instructions. If they discussed it with the other jurors, the whole panel goes." Suddenly, he let out a little yelp of alarm and reached over to uncover his black pan and flick the heat off under it.
"I like a nice crust on hash." Rebecca squeezed his waist. "Don't worry about that."
But Hardy's lapse in timing bothered him. "I've never ruined anything I cooked in this pan before," he said miserably.
"And still haven't," his daughter responded. "Besides, it's not ruined. It's well done."
"Same thing. It's got to be an omen."
"No, it's a sign. Besides, I hate runny eggs."
Hardy stuck the corner of his spatula into one of the hard yolks. "Well, they're not that. And what would it be a sign of?"
She gave it a second. "Perseverance. Staying in the frying pan even when it's too hot."
The lighthearted, feel-good words resonated on some level, although Hardy couldn't put his finger on it. "You think?" he asked.
"Positive," she said.
In the "Passion Pit" two hours later, the attorney and his client sat on either end of the library table that served as the room's only furnishing. "This is unbelievable," Catherine said as she put down the paper. "What's it going to mean?"
"It means we might be able to start over if you want."
She threw a terrified glance across at him. "You don't mean from the beginning?"
"Pretty close."
"I can't do that, Dismas. I couldn't live here that long."
Hardy wasn't so sure that she was exaggerating. He'd known a lot of people who'd gone to jail-including some who more or less called it home-and most of them went through the original denial of their situation, hating every second of the experience, but then came to accept the surroundings as the reality of their life. Over these eight months, if anything, Catherine had come to hate her incarceration more and more each day. She'd lost the weight because she'd all but stopped eating. Another eight months, or more, preparing and waiting for another trial, might in fact kill her. If she didn't kill herself first. The year before Hardy had had another client try to do that very thing.
"Well, Catherine, after we find out if any of the jury has seen this, and they have, then if I don't move for a mistrial-regardless what Braun rules-it's damn close to malpractice."
"I'd never sue you for that."
"No. But an appellate court might find me incompetent."
She couldn't argue with that. "I don't want to stop, though. I think we're doing okay." "That's heartening."