Hardy didn’t even feel safe at the Hall of Justice.
He’d been there since before noon, trying to get his gun back. He had called Moses McGuire at home and asked him to trade shifts at the Shamrock. He had looked in at Judge Andy Fowler’s-Jane’s father’s-courtroom, but they had been in recess and the judge was not in his chambers.
They were being pissy about the gun. Glitsky was not above giving his friend a little object lesson in the letter of the law, and he had taken the weapon downtown so that Hardy could sign for its proper return, so the registration could be validated. Thank you, Abe.
But the gun had not even been logged in yet, and no one seemed in a hurry to get it done so Hardy could retrieve it.
Finally, realizing he probably wasn’t going to have much luck, he took the elevator upstairs to the third floor, where the assistant D.A.s had their offices.
He found himself breathing more easily as he walked the long halls, hoping to recognize someone and give himself an excuse to stay inside and off the street. Up here, almost everyone wore a coat and tie or a uniform and most were white. Hardy did not suppose Louis Baker would get up in costume to blow him away. Downstairs, every black man Hardy saw had been turning before his eyes into Louis Baker, walking around free as a breeze, carrying a bullet with Hardy’s name on it. If he felt that way in the Hall of Justice, where they had metal detectors at all entrances, Hardy did not want to think about what he would feel like outside.
There were about one hundred assistant district attorneys in San Francisco. Almost all of them-except a few political appointees who worked for the man himself, District Attorney Christopher Locke-plied their trade, two to a room, in ten-by-twelve offices equipped with two desks and whatever files, bookcases, posters, plants, mementos, and bits of evidence might have accumulated in the course of two busy people working on too many cases with not enough time.
There were no names on doors, no indication of rank or personality. Most of the doors into the hallway were closed, and a significant number of rooms with open doors were empty. Hardy did not remember if it had been like that when he had worked here. Probably, since nothing else seemed to have changed very much.
He passed the case-file library and leaned across the counter, looking in at the banks of color-tagged folders.
“What you want, Hardy?”
It was still Touva-a tiny round woman with Brillo hair who had already been an institution when Hardy started out. She forgot nothing and filed with a fanatical precision -if nothing else went right in a case, you could at least always get your files when you needed them. She looked at Hardy impatiently, by all signs unaware that he had not worked there in almost a decade.
“How you been, Touva?”
“I been busy, of course. You got a case number, Hardy? I got no time to chat.”
“No case.”
“Okay, then. Later.”
Dismissed, he kept walking. A couple of faces looked familiar to him, but he was surprised that he saw no one he actually knew to talk to. Had it been that long? He felt like he’d gone back to his old high school.
Finally he stopped near a doorway where a studious young man was sitting in a chair studying blowups of photographs that Hardy did not want to look at too carefully. He had seen enough of that stuff firsthand this morning. He had already decided who he had to talk to.
“I’m trying to find Art Drysdale’s office,” he said.
The kid tore himself away. “Probably a good idea anyway,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, sorry. Talking to myself. Probably a good idea to get away from this for a minute. Drysdale, you said?”
They walked back past the file library. Drysdale’s office was two doors beyond it on the other side of the hall. As Hardy knocked, the kid, into his work, was already halfway back to his room.
“It’s open.”
Drysdale was turned away from the door, his feet propped up on the windowsill, talking on the telephone. There was no one at the other desk. Hardy moved some folders from a chair to the floor and sat to wait.
“No,” he was saying. “No, we don’t know that.”
He listened. Hardy noticed his knuckles white on the receiver.
“You want my opinion, it’s not even likely. I think it’s a big mistake.”
He said ‘uh huh’ and ‘right’ a few times, loosening his collar with one hand, the knuckles on the other one staying white. “All right. It’s your decision.” A beat, then loudly, “Course I’ll do it. It’s what we do, isn’t it? But it sucks, Chris. Sir. It really sucks.” He slammed the phone down. “Son of a bitch.”
He swiveled in his chair. “Yeah?” he began. Then, recognizing Hardy, “Hey!” He stood up, extended a hand. “Here’s a sight for sore eyes. What brings you downtown?”
Pushing sixty, Drysdale still looked like he could put on a uniform and be right at home on the ballfield. Before turning to law he had been a star for USC and then played three years of pro ball, including forty-two games as a utility infielder in 1964 for the San Francisco Giants. A framed newspaper article on the wall of his office was headlined ‘Drysdale No Relation to Dodger Don,’ which was an important point to make in a town that hated the Bums. Don Drysdale, the Dodger pitcher, had a last name in common with Art, but no genes.
Art had been with the D.A.’s office for over thirty years. At one time or another he’d been in charge of Misdemeanors, Vice, White Collar and Homicide, and now served as a kind of minister without portfolio, unofficially doing much of the work that the citizens elected Christopher Locke to do.
Drysdale himself wasn’t the District Attorney because his pragmatic view of life was out of sync with the political structure in San Francisco. He did not favor affirmative action in the District Attorney’s office, and he had once been foolish enough to make the point to a group of reporters and editors who had been doing profiles on potential candidates for public office.
“If you were elected D.A.-”
“But I’m not running for D.A., or anything else.”
The early denial being part of every campaign, that didn’t slow anybody down. “If you were the D.A., what percentage of new hires would be-substitute one-gay, black, Hispanic, female?”
Drysdale’s answer, now famous in the lore of the city, was “If they could do the job, I’d hire chimpanzees. If they can’t, they’re worthless to me.”
Of course, the media played this to mean that Drysdale thought women, gays, and other minorities of all stripes were worthless. He had followed his aphorism with the more balanced statement that some jobs-airline pilot, brain surgeon, prosecuting attorney-ought to be filled by qualified candidates, not by quota, but San Francisco reporters know news when they hear it, and calling chimpanzees smarter than minorities was good copy, even if that wasn’t what he said, much less meant.
Now it was old news either way. Art Drysdale didn’t worry about it. He coached his inner-city baseball team that had finished second the previous year in the city’s Police Athletic League playoffs, went home to his wife, who had her own design firm, and otherwise counseled the young female, gay, black, Hispanic, Caucasian, or (he sometimes felt) simian attorneys who weren’t succeeding in putting bad people behind bars, which was their job. He was the most popular man in the office.
“So to what do we owe this surprise, Diz?”
“I think the big surprise is hearing you yell at someone.”
Drysdale waved it off. “Aw, that’s just Locke. Sometimes the old seniority isn’t the blessing it’s cracked up to be.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Somebody’s got to investigate a couple of cops.”
“That’s ugly.”
“Yeah. Plus it’s nothing we’d ever charge on our own. But we’re showing our continued sensitivity to the plight of harassed gays by the fascist police force. Subtle stuff like that.”