In the case Hardy was arguing, his client was Leila Madison, the mother of a fourteen-year-old boy named Jamahl Madison, who'd gone with a gang of four of his homies to rob the apartment of one of their neighbors. Hardy had gotten connected to Leila because she was the cleaning lady of another of his clients. Besides Jamahl, she had three other children under the age of ten, all of whom lived with her own mother in Bayside. It was a horrible, all-too-common situation, now aggravated by Jackman's initial decision to charge Jamahl as an adult with the provocative act murder of his friend Damon. Jamahl had not shot Damon. In fact, the apartment owner, while the gang was fleeing from the robbery, had taken some shots at all of them, and had wounded Jamahl and killed Damon.
And again, as had been his habit lately, Hardy wasn't planning to take the case to trial. He was facilitating. Though his heart didn't go out to poor Jamahl, it did to the boy's mother, and he'd taken five hundred dollars, donated by Leila's boss, to see if he could persuade Jackman that in this case, provocative act murder wasn't the right call.
"… if he were even, say, seventeen, Clarence. But the boy's only fourteen. He's gotten his own stupid ass shot already and lost his best friend. I've got to believe that's going to make an impression that maybe it's not a good idea to rob people."
Jackman, behind his desk, seemed to be enjoying the exchange. "So would thirty or forty in the can, Diz. Time he gets out, I'll bet he's lost his taste for it entirely." He spread his hands on his desk. "My question to you is do you honestly think he's going to change, ever?"
Hardy shook his head. "You ever meet a kid that didn't, Clarence? Age fourteen to forever. He might. He gets the right counselors at YGC, somebody catches a spark with him, he comes out in a few years and he's a stand-up human being. But the real question, the legal question, is the provocative act."
Jackman ran a finger under his shirt collar. Now, his deep voice an almost inaudible rumble, he chuckled. "If you break into somebody's home, you forfeit quite a few of your inalienable rights."
"Granted. But Mr. Parensich"- the robbery victim who'd actually shot Damon and Jamahl-"was never really in danger. The boys didn't even have guns. They didn't even know he was home."
"That's what they say, so it's just more bad luck for them. And let's remember, there were five of them." He held up his hand. "Cinco. This is a substantial amount of gang throw-weight, and you know it. Even if this guy was only fourteen. I believe Mr. Parensich felt legitimately threatened."
"I don't doubt it, but these kids didn't act up that much. They were already fleeing when Parensich fired at them. Self-defense or not, they're the ones that took the shots. Let's call it square."
"If you're suggesting it, let me just say that no way am I going to charge Parensich," Jackman said. "Somebody's got to stand up for the victims in these situations."
Hardy actually broke a grin. "That's a lovely campaign moment, Clarence, but you can't say that running away is inherently likely to cause a violent response, and that's what the boys were doing, hightailing it." Hardy paused, considered, concluded. "Parensich's response was legal, but unnecessary, so the murder can't go under provocative act. That's all there is to it."
Jackman had been listening carefully, rolling a pencil under a finger on his desk. "So how do I get the message out to these people, Diz? You break into some guy's house, you don't understand somebody's likely to get hurt? The tragedy here isn't your boy and his mother, but Damon, who was also fourteen and who won't be getting any older. If these dumb fuck kids, pardon me, wouldn't have decided to knock over Parensich, Damon's still walking around. It's such a goddamn waste."
"I hear you, Clarence. I really do. But you're punishing Jamahl in any event. He's going to YA on the robbery. That's appropriate. But you won't win hearts or minds by a reach of a charge like this. You'll just seem unfair and vindictive. Jamahl's only fourteen, Clarence. As you say, he's still walking around, so he's still got a chance. Slim, but real. You don't want to take that away from him on this. And," Hardy was getting to the bottom line, "you and I both know there's no way you'll get any jury in this town to convict him, so why waste the time? You're just pissed off."
"I am pissed off."
"That's fine. But take it out on somebody's who's earned it. This one just ain't right, and you know it." Hardy found himself surprised that he'd used these words. He hadn't thought that way in quite some time.
Jackman rolled the pencil some more. By all indications, he was making his decision on Jamahl, but when he finally spoke, it wasn't about that. "I hear through the grapevine that you're working with your associate on Bartlett. That the hearing is this morning, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's right. It should start in about an hour."
"I'm taking your presence on the team to mean that some kind of reason is going to prevail up there."
"Well, we're playing the cards we got dealt, Clarence, if that's what you mean. Amy should never have tried to make the deal with Allan, that goes without question. But not because she didn't deliver."
"No, then why not?"
"Because I'm more than halfway to convinced he's not guilty."
The quiet voice took on an ominous tone. "You think there was a rush to judgment out of this office? Do you think we weren't fair? That we don't have a case? Your own associate was going to plead him guilty less than a week ago. What's changed? Do you have new evidence?"
"No, sir. Not really. Maybe a new approach. That's all."
"Well." Jackman, frowning now, picked up the pencil and tapped the table with its eraser. "I'll let you know my decision on Jamahl, then. When I make it." He looked at his watch. "You don't want to be late for court."
It was a dismissal.
When the meeting ended, Hardy came out into the reception room by Treya Glitsky's desk. "So how'd it go?" she asked.
"The reviews aren't all in yet." But Hardy's face indicated that when they came, they wouldn't be all good, and Treya knew better than to push. His pager had vibrated three times while he'd been speaking with Jackman, and all the calls had come from his office, and now he asked, "Could I borrow your phone for one minute? Local."
"One? One," she said. Then, after she'd made sure the door to Jackman's office was closed, she added, "Abe called. He asks if you get a chance, stop up."
Hardy was punching numbers, nodded abstractedly. "He called me? How'd he know I was here?"
"He didn't. He didn't call you. He called me since I'm his devoted wife and I work here. I told him you were in with his nibs. He's going to want to talk about…"
"Excuse me, one sec." Hardy was holding a finger up, stopping her. He spoke into the phone. "Phyllis, Diz. You don't have to call me three times. You leave the number once, I'll call back, promise." He listened. "Who? Okay. Yes, I know her. I got it. All right, then. I'll be going straight out there. Right. Right. That means I won't stop at the office first. After that I'm up at YGC with Amy. Right, okay. That's it. Thanks." Hanging up, he turned to Treya. "I love that woman," he said. "She makes the rest of humanity look so good by comparison. Was Abe important?"
"Always," she said, then lowered her voice. "But I think he just wants to pick your brain on this silencer thing with Allan and the others."
"The others." Hardy leaned over her desk. "You know I think he's a brilliant and fascinating guy, but this is just spinning his wheels until he gets something real."
"That's what I told him," she said. "He just wants to be back in homicide, and this gives him an excuse. He sent out a couple of inspectors this morning to ask relatives of the Twin Peaks people- if there are any- if either of them had ever served on a murder jury. They weren't too enthusiastic, the inspectors."