Judge Johnson would be nervous that the defense had only been given five days to prepare for the hearing. No doubt feeling angry and abused himself, he would be inclined to grant the DA's wish to get Andrew moved downtown- he'd want to slap Wu as badly as either Brandt or Jackman did- but Hardy and Wu would file motions by Monday making sure the judge knew that the defense considered this unseemly hurry an appealable issue. After that, if Johnson let the hearing proceed as planned, he'd be extra sensitive to the threat of appeal, and might let the defense get away with calling witnesses related to the case in chief as a function of the fifth amenability criterion- the gravity of the offense.
If Hardy and Wu could make that happen, then Andrew would get himself not just an administrative hearing, but a de facto juvenile trial. If he lost at the 707, then worst case Hardy and Wu would get two chances to hear the prosecution's case. And to beat it. And even if Andrew then lost again in adult court, Hardy might still be able to appeal, saying that they'd been forced to go to the 707 before they could adequately prepare.
Hardy knew this wasn't just a long shot, it was a full-court bomb at the buzzer. But occasionally, he knew, they went in.
So as he turned into Beaumont Avenue, in the first block off Geary Boulevard, he felt some small grounds for enthusiasm. Twenty feet of free, legal curb space yawned open on his right, and he pulled over and parked. He'd driven out with the top down on his convertible- there was no fog and the last days' winds had finally abated- and now he sat, headlights off, letting a sense of the crime scene seep into him. He forced himself to wait, to observe, to listen. There was no hurry. If his coming out here was going to do any good at all, he had to slow down and take time.
It was a short block. Eleven relatively small two-story housing units squatted between the major thoroughfare of Geary and the next street south, which was Anza. The address he sought was the fourth building down from Anza, and, at least from the outside, by far the smallest residence on the block. Set back a little from the street, it was also the only building with a lawn in front and a driveway with a separate garage on the side. Lights shone from the upstairs windows while the bottom unit- Mooney's old place- was dark.
Finally, he put up the hood on his car, grabbed his legal pad from the seat next to him, got out of the car and went to lean against one of the streetlights on his side of the street. With six of these, all miraculously functioning, the area was surprisingly well lit. This wasn't the most unusual thing in the world, Hardy thought, but it almost never happened on his own block, which was in a similar suburban, high-density neighborhood.
He made a note to check and see if Public Works had come out to install new lights since Mooney's murder. Sometimes a station captain or one of the beat cops, called to a crime scene in one of these nice neighborhoods, would take the opportunity to check the city's housekeeping and let somebody know. If the street had been significantly darker two months ago, it might make a difference to eyewitness testimony.
Standing there on the curb, Hardy became aware of a subtle rhythm. He timed it out of curiosity- he didn't think it was really worth writing down. About every forty seconds, the street noise from Geary, less than two hundred feet away, increased dramatically as eastbound traffic, released from its last red light, sped past on the way to the next one. The sound wasn't anywhere near deafening, but once Hardy became aware of it, he waited through a few cycles, trying to determine how loud it could get.
Loud enough to cover gunshots? He didn't think so. Certainly not for the closer neighbors. And it would be quieter as it got later.
The gunshots were a question and he jotted it down.
Andrew's walk was critical to his story and Hardy wanted to see if it made sense, so he checked the time and started moving south a few blocks to Turk, where he then turned east along the periphery of Lone Mountain College. This time of night, the road was quiet enough and might be conducive to memorizing lines. Certainly, this was a better route for that purpose than anything along Geary would have been. There was also quite a bit of street parking- it was where Andrew said he had parked on the night of the murders.
Rather than go all the way to another busy street, Masonic, Andrew said he had turned south again, crossed the campus of the University of San Francisco by the baseball diamond, then come out through a little cul-de-sac. Andrew hadn't known the name of this street when he'd traced his route for the detectives, but Hardy was glad to see that it fit his description- a paved walkway allowed foot access to the campus at the end of the street.
When he turned back west at Fulton, Hardy found the uphill going a little slower. There was also a significant increase in traffic- it might have been more difficult for Andrew to concentrate or memorize his lines on this part of the walk, but maybe not. There simply was no way to tell.
He passed St. Ignatius Church at the top of the hill, continued down a couple of blocks to Stanyan, then turned right and made it back to his car. He checked his watch. He hadn't been particularly pushing himself, and he'd made the circuit in eighteen minutes- rather far from the half hour it had supposedly taken Andrew. Although Andrew might have stopped once, twice, several times, to set a line or perhaps just to think, he'd never specifically mentioned stopping. Hardy didn't feel comfortable with the twelve-minute difference. He made another note.
Crossing the street, he stood under the streetlight and looked up at the Salarcos' unit. From reading the police reports, Hardy knew that the involvement of this critical witness had been reluctant at first. Salarco was a mow-blow-and-go gardener with an INS problem- no green card. Ironically, the Salarcos were only involved in the case because Andrew himself had told the detectives about them. Sergeant Taylor had asked him if he had any idea who might have called nine one one before he had- that person had had a thick Mexican accent.
Andrew had volunteered that he bet it was the people upstairs- they had definitely been home that night. Their baby had been crying incessantly, and it had been distracting to the max. Andrew had told Sergeant Taylor that it was one of the reasons he couldn't just go into one of Mooney's back bedrooms to work on memorizing his lines. He'd had to get out where it was quiet enough to concentrate.
So Taylor had asked Salarco if he'd seen or heard anything, or had called nine one one. At first the neighbor had said no. He and his wife had a sick baby. That's all they were concerned with. But Taylor had a hunch and asked about Salarco's immigration status, then explained that he was not with the INS, that Salarco's testimony might be crucial to a murder investigation and might in fact mitigate in his favor with la migra. Hardy knew this was probably a cynical lie on Taylor's part, but it did accomplish its goal- Salarco talked.
At the sidewalk in front of the house, Hardy took a deep breath, hoping he could make the man talk again.
The door to the Salarcos' upstairs unit was around the driveway side in the back. A small flatbed truck took up most of the space between this building and its neighbor. There was no light over the door, and Hardy heard nothing when he pushed the doorbell, but after few seconds, he heard footfalls within, coming downstairs. Then, "Sí? Qué es?"
"Señora Salarco?"
"Sí. Policia?"
"No. Habla inglés?" Hardy dug for some words that he hoped were close enough. "Soy abogado de Señor Bartlett."
"Momento."