In his own office, Glitsky strode in and grabbed the phone from Hardy. "Warden Fischer," he said. "This is Glitsky. Thanks for getting back to me. I don't know if you're familiar with these Executioner killings we've been having… Okay, great. In the last hour or so, we've developed a tentative ID on the suspect and believe he was staying at your place until recently. We're going to need all the information you have on him immediately- last known address, next of kin, the works. He went up in '86, LWOP. I know. I wondered about that, too. Welding. W-E-L-D-I-N-G. Lucas. Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"
Hardy watched Glitsky's face, already hard, turn to stone. The eyes narrowed, the lips went tight, the jaw muscle by his ear quivered. His hand went to his side and he pushed in as though trying to reposition his intestines. Then, for a long frozen moment, he ceased to move entirely. Finally, he asked, "You're sure?" Then, "Yes, of course, I see. Thank you."
He hung up, raised his head, saw Hardy standing there. "Lucas Welding is dead," he said.
For the next half hour, Glitsky was a dervish. Other people might still be at risk. Knowing that there had to be a connection between the Executioner and Lucas Welding, he sent people to find the names of all of Welding's visitors at Corcoran; correspondents, cell mates, people who put money on his book; everyone who had ever met the guy. He assigned the other half of his volunteers in pairs to track down the other jurors from Welding's trial. Check phone books and reverse listings. Get unlisted numbers from the phone company. Go online- somebody had to know how to locate individuals by name and get their address. Be aware of the maiden name issue. Leave messages with DMV and any federal agency they could think of. Wake up anybody they needed to, the jury records people. He didn't know precisely how the connection fit yet, but he knew that it did.
He ran down the hall to homicide and stopped Lanier from issuing the APB.
Back in his office, he briefed Batiste on the general situation and told him he wanted to assign protection officers to the jury people- to have teams of two standing by to deploy as soon as he could locate the jurors. Then they had to reschedule other officers to fill the affected shifts. Everyone's time would be on the Boscacci event number, if that met with the Chief's approval, which it did.
Hardy listened in, picking up the information secondhand. "He died two months ago in the infirmary in Corcoran," Glitsky told the Chief. "Fischer remembered specifically because it was a bit of a deal- he'd just been cleared on appeal. DNA. It looks like he really didn't do it. But then the cancer got him first."
"If that's true, it's ugly," Hardy said as he hung up. "They put away an innocent man?"
"Looks like." From the expression on his face, Glitsky wasn't happy about it either. "The Executioner seems pretty upset about it, too."
"I can't say I blame him."
Glitsky's look went black. "You don't?"
Hardy held up a palm. "Easy. For what he feels. Not for what he's doing."
"He does what he's doing, I don't care how he feels."
This certainly wasn't the time to discuss it, and Hardy wasn't sure he disagreed so much anyway. Injustice happened, he knew, and sometimes- perhaps with Welding- even innocently. Revenge and violence wasn't going to make anything better. At least, that was the theory. "So who is it?" Hardy asked. "Did he have a kid maybe? Some other relative?"
Glitsky, still in "do something" mode, snapped his fingers and picked up his desk telephone again. "Fischer"- the warden-"will know that. Where are you going?"
"Home." Hardy looked at his watch. "It's twelve-thirty and I've got a hearing this morning."
"You don't want to know how this comes out?"
"I know how this comes out, Abe. For my client."
Glitsky had certainly already known this on some level- Hardy had given him the first inkling of it the night before on the telephone, and tonight the Mooney connection through Catherine Bass had all but cinched it- but suddenly it hit him fresh. He put the phone down on the desk. "And the girl, too."
Hardy nodded. "Laura Wright. She just happened to be there."
32
At 9:40 on Wednesday morning, Dismas Hardy stood up at his place at the defense table and addressed the juvenile court for the first time In the Matter of Minor: Andrew Bartlett.
"Your honor," he said. "Before we begin argument and witnesses today, I think it will save the court considerable time and trouble if counsel meet in camera for a few minutes."
Johnson, perhaps sensing shenanigans, considered for a long moment. "We just got out here, Mr. Hardy. I'd like to get a little work done before we take a break."
"We may not need to do the work, your honor. There is new and pertinent information about this case, critical evidence that will, I believe, be persuasive to the court and perhaps even lead to dismissal of all charges against Mr. Bartlett."
The courtroom, as always, was nearly empty, but his words still created an audible buzz from the Norths, who sat behind Hardy, and even from the bailiffs, the clerk and the recorder. Brandt, who sat to Hardy's right, at the prosecution table, pushed his chair back and stared with frank amazement.
Johnson pulled himself up to his full height in his chair behind the bench. "As I mentioned to you at the outset, Mr. Hardy, we're not here to consider the criminal charges against Mr. Bartlett. The purpose of this hearing, and it's only purpose, is to determine where Mr. Bartlett gets tried- here or in adult court. Not whether."
"Of course, your honor, I understand that. Nevertheless, the import of this new information is rather extraordinary and I believe the court will want to have heard it."
"To save the time that is obviously so important to you?"
"To prevent a grave injustice, your honor. I'm talking perhaps ten minutes, maybe less."
Johnson wore his reluctance like a shroud, but finally, shaking his head in disgust, he turned to Brandt. "Does the petitioner have any objection?"
"Nothing substantive, your honor."
"All right. I'll see counsel in my chambers." Johnson stood. "Ten minutes." And he left the courtroom by the back door.
Johnson, his arms crossed over his chest, stood in his robes in the middle of his room, so that when the three lawyers trooped in behind him, there really wasn't anyplace for them to go. After Brandt closed the door behind them, they stood with their backs to the wall, their faces to the intractable judge. "All right, Mr. Hardy, we're in chambers. As you can probably tell, I'm not in much of a trifling mood, so let's hear what's so important."
Hardy nodded. "Thank you, your honor. I'll cut to the chase. Andrew Bartlett didn't kill Mike Mooney and I have information which I believe rises to the level of proof, and I think you'll agree."
But Johnson was already shaking his head no. "I won't agree because I won't hear it."
"Pardon?"
"I can't imagine, Mr. Hardy, how I could have made it more clear to you that this seven-oh-seven is not about Mr. Bartlett's guilt or innocence."
Hardy, striving for equanimity, inclined his head an inch in deference. "Yes, your honor, I understand, but this-"
"You say you understand, and follow it with a 'but.' That sounds like an argument coming up. Do you hear yourself?"
"Your honor, forgive me. I'm not trying to be argumentative. I'm trying to present information that you will, I'm sure, find compelling."
"About your client's guilt or innocence?"
Hardy knew the wrong answer, and tried to avoid it. "About the circumstances of the crime. Which would make it fall under criteria five."
"All right, but be careful." Johnson cocked his head. "We're getting a little obscure here, Counselor."
"I'm talking about the person they're calling the Executioner."
"What about him?"
Brandt got on the boards. "Excuse me, but wait a minute. This sounds to me like we're getting back to who committed these murders."