"I've been going over the discovery, sir, talking with the parents, and negotiating with Allan Boscacci. I've met Andrew before. I defended him for a joyride a couple of years ago, and didn't see any immediate need to go and introduce myself again."
"Okay," Hardy said. "Sorry to jump." But the fact remained that, in his opinion, Wu had slipped again. One of the fundamentals was that you went and talked to the client.
But Wu seemed oblivious. "Anyway, the point is that Boscacci wouldn't have arrested Andrew if his alibi held up. And it doesn't. The eyewitness."
"All right. But if they just hired you on Friday, who'd Andrew have with him all the times when he talked to the homicide guys since February?"
"Nobody. No lawyer anyway. His parents saw it the way he did, and really didn't believe he was a suspect. They just let him talk and talk and talk."
Hardy shook his head. "How deep a hole did he dig?"
"He's pretty well hit China."
"Well, then, it looks like you've got your first bona fide murder case. Congratulations, I think. If you've come to me for my imprimatur, you've got it"- as managing partner, Hardy approved all of the firm's new business-"although I'm not sure you'll wind up thanking me for it. Murder trials can kill you."
"I've heard," she said, "but I'm not planning to take him to trial."
"No? How's that going to happen?"
"I think you'll be happy," Amy said. "My idea is to keep him in the juvie system."
"How old is he, did you say?"
"Seventeen."
Hardy sat back. "Last I heard, seventeen-year-olds got filed adult around here. Mr. Jackman's been a little rigid on the topic." Jackman had very publicly adopted a very tough stance on juvenile crime. A seventeen-year-old who'd killed two people did not elicit much sympathy from the new prosecutors in the DA's office. "You're telling me Boscacci has already filed him juvie?"
"Yes, sir." She paused. "After I told him Andrew would admit."
But Hardy's expression grew perplexed. "He's going to admit? How do you know he's going to do that? You said you hadn't talked to him yet."
"I talked to his stepfather."
"Okay, all well and good, but the one who pays the bills isn't necessarily the client." Hardy scratched behind his ear, interrupted Wu as she started to reply. "No, wait," he said. "And what if in fact he didn't actually do it?"
Wu came forward with some enthusiasm, obviously feeling that this question put her on firmer ground. "He did, though," she said. "Look, we know homicide took two months building the case. They played it slow and steady. He did it, sir, and specials as an adult puts him in prison for the rest of his life. He'll admit to avoid that."
"But you just told me he says he's innocent."
Wu shook her head. "They don't arrest innocent people anymore."
"It's happened to clients of mine."
"Yes, sir. All two of them, I believe, right?"
"Actually, three."
"Well, the exceptions that prove the rule. Three is more than an entire century's allotment right there."
Hardy wasn't really amused, but he broke a small smile. "I hate to mention it, but they were last century's cases. Now we're working on the new one."
"When Andrew sees the evidence against him, he's going to get religion. You watch. I promise. Really, sir. This is a sweet deal for everybody."
"I can't believe Boscacci's going along."
"To avoid the trial? Why not? He gets two convictions out of this, so he wins. Wouldn't you take the deal?"
Hardy thought if he were Boscacci he might, but depending on the evidence, he might not. Though there was always an incentive among administrators to clear docket time, a high-profile murder case often sought its own level and provided potentially positive intangibles, such as name recognition for the politically ambitious. And even if Wu's strategy worked, it wouldn't be without its drawbacks.
Wu sat back, cocked her head, spoke in a measured tone. "What I'm doing here, sir, is making sure that Andrew gets out of custody in eight years instead of never."
Hardy, unsatisfied, glanced at his watch. "All right," he said. Getting up out of his chair, he pulled some papers on his desk together. "I'm hoping you're right in every respect. Meanwhile, I've got another client coming in, so may I be so crass as to inquire about your retainer? This is still criminal law…"
"And you get your money up front."
"Words to live by. How much?"
"Well," she said. "The plea won't take too long to get processed. I figured it was worth about five grand."
At the figure, Hardy stopped his paper gathering, looked up with another question on his face, worry in his eye. Even if everything went exactly according to Wu's plan and she was uncommonly lucky- and Hardy thought neither of these was a lock- then she would certainly spend at least forty hours, and maybe as many as sixty, in the next week or so preparing Andrew, convincing him that it was in his favor to say that he was guilty of murder so that he could avoid being tried as an adult.
Hardy had been doing a lot of math in his head lately, and immediately sensed that five thousand dollars wasn't close to Wu's standard rate of $150 an hour. He punched at the adding machine in front of him. It was worse than he'd thought. "You're only planning on putting in thirty-three hours on this?"
"I figured that was about what it was worth." She fidgeted with her hands opening her purse.
Hardy shook his head. "So you were going to put in the extra time without billing it, which would not only be cheating you, but the client and the firm, and…"
She pulled the check from her purse, interrupted his rebuke. "So I told Mr. North I'd take twenty down. Thousand, that is."
She put the check face up on the desk.
Hardy looked down at it, up at her. Nodded. "Okay, Wu," he said, "you're starting to get it."
Into the phone, Hardy said, "I would have bet your office was a veritable fortress of solitude."
"I would have, too, but I guess not," Glitsky said. "I even thought of dusting for prints, except everybody who works in the Hall was here for the open house when I took office."
"You don't have any idea who it was?"
"I can't imagine anybody who'd take the chance. I mean, I'm the deputy chief. They get caught, they're toast. Who'd risk it?"
Hardy was standing behind the desk in his office. The shades were down, cutting some of the afternoon glare, but his eyes were twinkling, his color high. He'd had a martini and most of a bottle of Pinot Grigio at lunch at Sam's, with a plate of sand dabs. He'd reeled in another client from the bottomless pool of troubled police persons. And now for an unexpected bonus, he was getting to console Glitsky on the terrible breach of security in his office, somebody moving his drawers around. The way it was going, Hardy thought there was some small chance he could talk Abe into paying him to put an private investigator on it.
But then Glitsky said, "Well, it was probably some stupid prank anyway."
The opening was just too wide, and Hardy couldn't resist stepping into it. "I don't know, Abe. There are some bona fide crazies in your building. At least I might send a sample of the peanuts to the lab and throw the rest out."
"You think?"
"Better safe than dead."
"How could I get dead around this?"
"I don't know. Was there any powder in the bottom of the drawer?"
Glitsky snorted. "Yeah, but they're salted in the shell peanuts, so the trained inspector in me thinks the white powder is probably salt. And if it was anthrax, it's too late already."
"Did you taste it?"
"No. Just a minute. Yep. Salt."
Hardy clucked. "Your tongue goes numb in five minutes, do me a favor and call nine one one. And I'd still send some of the goobers to the lab. You never know."