"Like?"
"Like the evidence." Suddenly animated, Wu came forward on the couch. "It might have been the first time he actually realized why they arrested him. So I went through what little discovery I'd seen, which was a good start, since it placed him at the murder scene with the weapon, for example."
"He didn't already know that?"
She shook her head. "He thought he'd gotten rid of the gun without having mentioned it to anybody. Which in fact he did. But- bad luck- a witness saw it first. I surprised him with what he must have done, and sure enough, he admitted it. And this is to say nothing of five or six other evasions and outright lies, or the ID."
"He didn't know he'd been ID'd?"
"Not the specifics. Though by the time I left him I believe he was getting a clue."
Hardy sat back in his chair. "And how, again, is this a silver lining?"
"Well, it is," she said. "It really is."
"I want to believe you, but traditionally it's not good news for the client when the DA's got you nailed."
"It is this time."
"And why is that?"
"Because Andrew finally sees that they can put him away for life."
"And that's good news? Maybe it's semantics," Hardy said. "The meaning of 'good.' "
"It is good. It means Andrew's on his way to admitting."
"I would hope so, given the fact that you've already made a deal to that effect with Mr. Boscacci, haven't you? I didn't imagine that whole thing, did I? Boscacci filing juvie? All of that?" Hardy chewed on the inside of his cheek, added ruminatively, "Although I still can't imagine why Boscacci went for it."
Wu curled a leg under herself on the couch. "Because it's all about numbers. The public understands convictions. Jackman's gearing up for reelection. If Andrew admits, Jackman gets not one, but two murder convictions on the books, instead of a long messy trial with a sympathetic teenage defendant and a wealthy stepfather with ties to the media. You would have done the same thing."
"Maybe, but that's me. And I'm notoriously softhearted."
"Right. Anyway, I reminded Allan how hard it is to get convictions, San Francisco juries, blah, blah, blah. I told him it was possible North might even be monetarily grateful at some time in the future for saving his son the extra fifty years in the slammer, perhaps a slight exaggeration on my part."
"I hope slight," Hardy said.
Wu shrugged that away. "I don't think Allan bought it anyway. But he did buy the fact that this was a young man's crime of passion. By the time Andrew's twenty-five, he'll be a different person, rehabilitated by the juvenile system instead of hardened by the hard time. And so on."
"In other words, you snowed him."
"Maybe I did pile it on a little. But this is such a classically good move. It's actually got some moral underpinnings."
"Alway a plus." Hardy drank from his bottled water. He put the bottle down on his desk, took a deep breath, let it out. A longer silence settled in the space. The plantation shutters over the office windows weren't drawn, and outside the shafts of early evening sun suddenly seemed glaringly bright in contrast to the muted office lighting. Finally Hardy spoke. "I bet you can guess what's going through my mind."
Her face tight with tension, Wu nodded, but answered confidently enough. "I'll be seeing Andrew first thing again tomorrow morning and tie it up tight. Believe me, he definitely got it by the time I left today. He sees it."
"He'll admit?"
"I'm sure he will."
"You're sure he will. But Allan Boscacci thinks he already has? Is that right?"
"No. Not that he already has. Just that he will."
"But Boscacci's acted on that. And he'll expect you to do what you promised in return?"
"And I will. Andrew will. He'll see there's no other real option. He already sees it, I'm sure."
"You're sure." Hardy cast his eyes at his ceiling, brought them down and ran a hand over his cheek. Now he looked over at his young associate. He knew that she was still suffering over the loss of her father, laboring under who knew what other pressures. The last thing Hardy wanted to do was kill her initiative or micromanage her cases to death, but for a moment he was tempted to have her call Boscacci right there from his office. Clear the air with the DA's office, at least. Let the chief assistant know that the deal might not be as solid as he'd been led to believe. Later, privately, Hardy could even plead Wu's pain and suffering to Boscacci, and this might somehow mitigate the consequences if things went wrong, which according to Murphy's Law they must, since they could.
On the other hand, he didn't want to send a no-confidence message to one of his bright young lights. He himself had carved his own niche in San Francisco's legal world by being somewhat of a loose cannon, taking risks beyond those which, he knew, any responsible boss would have approved. He strongly believed in the advice of Admiral Nelson, "Always go right at 'em." Ask permission later. That's what victorious sea captains- and winners in general- always did.
Didn't they?
Hardy gave his associate a last, ambiguous look that mingled worry and hope, and she responded with a quick bob of her head. "Don't worry, sir. It'll happen."
"I tell you what, Wu," he said. "I'm sure hoping you're right."
Hardy parked on Bryant Street across from the Hall of Justice. Traffic was light and curb space, so precious during the workday, was everywhere. Behind him, the sun was going down with a gaudy splash. The usual sunset gale had started up off the Bay and it whistled by the windows of his car, throwing pages of newspapers, candy wrappers, random grit and other debris through the long shadows in front of him.
He checked his watch. Glitsky was ten minutes late.
Hardy had paged him, their signal, before he'd left his office. He wasn't thrilled at having to wait. It gave him too much time to think about what Wu had done. He pushed the knob in his dash, turned up the latest Fleetwood Mac, who'd somehow managed to lift themselves off the oldies heap and get back in the game again.
Wu's situation? It would play the way it played.
"Sorry I'm late." Glitsky opened the door and slid into the seat beside him.
Lost in the music, Hardy hadn't seen him leave the Hall or approach the car. Now he found himself mildly surprised by the sight of his friend in full uniform. In the nearly dozen years during which Glitsky had been the lieutenant in charge of the homicide detail, he hadn't often worn his blues, preferring instead the more informal look of khaki slacks, usually a shirt and tie, and almost invariably a flight jacket, faux fur collar and all.
Now Glitsky was the picture of proper police protocol. He wore the uniform, his shield and decorations, gunbelt and gun. He held his hat in his lap at the moment, and the rest of him and his gear seemed to take up more space than he had when he dressed more like a civilian. Hardy thought it interesting that even the face looked more at home and, ironically, less threatening, with the uniform under it. Law officers were supposed to look authoritative and tough, and Glitsky, with his hatchet nose, cropped graying hair and the distinctive scar that ran through both lips, looked like a working cop, not like a scary citizen.
Now the working cop, fixing his seat belt, shot a look across the seat, saw Hardy's eyes on him and said, "What?"
Hardy turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, started rolling. "Just admiring the fancy figure you cut in your uniform. I can't seem to get used to it. You catch the peanut thief?"
"He wasn't a thief. He just changed the drawers."
"Somebody goofing with you."
"Maybe," Glitsky said, "knowing I'm such a big fan of practical jokes."
"You are? And to think that all this while I understood you favored the death penalty for practical jokes."
"I do." Glitsky squirmed in his seat, getting himself arranged. "These seats are too small for normal people, you know that?"