But if Phyllis thought Hardy was slightly out of the lawyer mode, Farrell was well into the lunatic range, although due to his good manners, Phyllis had not yet caught on. And, fortunately for Wes and perhaps the rest of the firm, Phyllis's entire range of migration at work consisted of the receptionist's station and the strip of floor between that and the women's room. She ate and took breaks in her chair in the lobby, surrounded by her phones and the waist-high, polished mahogany, circular cubby Freeman had built for her back in 1985, when he'd originally bought and renovated the building.
So far as Hardy knew, Phyllis had never walked up the fourteen steps to his old office, now Farrell's domain. He was sure that if she had, they'd have known it because she'd have screamed in dismay before dying of chagrin and mortification on the spot.
Hardy heard Farrell talking within, a telephone call. He tapped once and opened the door. He'd worked in this space for most of a decade and the move from it had been if not traumatic, then at least portentous. A Rubicon of sorts. He'd jettisoned his old desk, his metal filing cabinets, the Sears furniture. He'd come up once after all the stuff had been taken out and stood in the empty room, turning a page in his life.
Now, with Farrell's furnishings, the place belonged heart and soul to the new guy, and reflected some sense of who he was. The first change- the desk- was so fundamental that Hardy had never even considered it. To him, a desk obviously went in the middle of the room, facing the door. It was the podium from which you conducted business. You could use it to create a sense of distance or formality. Most simply, it held your work stuff.
Farrell didn't think so. He had placed his in one of the room's corners, underneath one of the Sutter Street windows. There was a chair behind it, but Farrell almost never sat in it. At the moment, the chair along with the surface of the desk was cluttered with paper- red folders, three-ring binders, yellow legal pads, mail opened and unopened, a month's worth of newspapers- everything overflowing onto everything else.
The corner desk placement left a relatively vast open space that Farrell had essentially made into an informal living room. When Hardy came in, Farrell was stretched out- tie and shoes off- on the longer couch portion of his green, matching sectional set. In one corner, an overgrown rubber tree draped itself over an arm of his wing chair. A brass and bamboo magazine table held a small television in the other corner. On the wall, where Hardy's dartboard had presided, Farrell had mounted a smallish hoop for his Nerf balls. Over by the bar/counter, there was still lots of room behind the couch for up to four people to play at the foosball table. On the other wall, by the desk, Farrell tended to use butcher paper on which he would draw flowcharts to track his various cases.
Farrell held up a finger, indicating he'd be a minute. Hardy crossed over behind the couch, picked up two Nerf basketballs from the floor, and took a shot, then another. He retrieved the balls, did it again. After a few rounds, Farrell said good-bye to whoever it was and sat up. "What's up?" he asked. "Though you've got to be quick. I've got a client coming up here in ten minutes."
"So you cleaned up for him?"
Farrell checked all around, looking for a problem, couldn't find one. "The guy's been in jail ten of the last twelve years and I'm afraid that in spite of my best efforts, he's going back soon. This will be the nicest room he's seen. I like my clients to feel comfortable. So how can I help you?"
Hardy tossed him the ball he was holding. "I can't find my darts. I wonder if you might have carried them out inadvertently."
Farrell shot, patted his pockets. "I don't think so." He went over and grabbed his jacket, made a show of a search. "Nope, not here either. When did you miss them?"
"Just now. A few minutes ago. I was going to meditate, as I like to do…"
"You check your desk?"
"Everywhere. I can't understand it. I don't know where they'd go."
Farrell looked at his watch. "I'm sure they'll turn up. What were you meditating on?"
Hardy rested a haunch on the back of the sectional. "Allan Boscacci, mostly. Amy a little bit. I've hooked up with her on this juvenile case she's been handling, and not a minute too soon, either."
"How's she connected to Boscacci?" Farrell had sat down and was tying his shoes. "Hell of a thing, though, wasn't it? I think I'm in the minority- I usually am- but I kind of liked the guy. Straight shooter, no bullshit."
Hardy nodded soberly. "I know. I felt the same way."
"Anybody have a clue who did it? Or why? Or anything?"
"Not yet. Abe was by here this morning. We exchanged a few bon mots." Hardy hesitated. "He seemed to entertain the thought that it might have been Amy."
Farrell stopped with his shoes, snapped his head up. "Get out."
"That's what I told him. You know the deal that went south? Allan yelled at her and people heard. But, fortunately or not, Amy was at Lou the Greek's getting picked up and pasted about the time Allan must have walked by outside."
"So she's clear now, right?"
"I don't think she ever wasn't. But Abe will get her statement on tape anyway because that's what he does." He was still holding one of the Nerf balls and dropped it onto the couch. "But still, on Amy, Clarence also called. He was his usual low-key and polite self, but said that given the history of this Bartlett affair to date with Amy and Allan and all that, he was sure I'd understand why he was pushing for the seven-oh-seven to get Bartlett back into adult court as soon as possible. He couldn't let people- even my good, well-meaning associates- get away with manipulating his office. Think of the precedent."
"Think of it," Farrell said. "How soon?"
"What's today? Thursday?" Hardy asked. "Next Tuesday. Five days."
"Five days?"
"That's what I said."
"He can't do that. He'll hand us an appeal."
"I said that, too, but I just now checked and there's no rule says he can't. So he can. On the appeal, he says there can't be one since he could have filed on the kid directly as an adult to begin with. He's taking the position that we can't base an appeal on some inadequacy in a hearing we should never have had to begin with."
"But nobody can prepare for any kind of hearing in five days. It's just not doable."
"That was more or less his point, Wes. Clarence wants the boy back upstairs where he belongs, and he wants him there now, to remove the taint, as he so delicately phrased it. After that, we can waive time for the Px"- the preliminary hearing-"and take as long as we want preparing for trial. But Andrew's out of juvenile next week if Clarence has anything to say about it. And then he's looking at life without."
"You don't want to let him get there."
"No," Hardy said. "I've got that part figured out. The rest of it's a little murky."
Farrell got to his feet, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up and grabbed his tie. "So. Are we still throwing that campaign kickoff party for our good friend Clarence?"
Hardy wasn't laughing. "Nothing's easy," he said.
"Stop the presses. You're onto something."
Phyllis buzzed, telling him his client was here, on his way up. "Sorry, but you've got to go," Farrell said. "This guy- my client?- he really hates lawyers."
14
Wu awoke at Hardy's house to another hangover of staggering proportions. Stabbing pain wracked every cell and joint in her body. Pinpoints of flashing light hovered in the periphery of her vision. How many drinks had she had at Lou's? She thought she'd counted six, but it might have been seven or eight, even nine. More than one guy was buying, hoping to get lucky, and Lou was famous for his heavy pour.