Hardy 05 - Mercy Rule, The (39 page)

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ Cutler repeated.

‘I don’t know about that. You did the right thing. The morphine helped Sal while he was alive, didn’t it?’

Hardy could see he wanted to accept this, but still had doubts. He leaned forward and patted the young man’s knee. ‘This legal stuff, forget it. Nobody’s going to bust you for what you did. You tried to ease someone’s suffering. That’s what doctors ought to do, don’t you think?’

A sip of beer, a lopsided grin. ‘I don’t remember anymore. I used to think so when I had a life.’

Hardy patted his knee again. ‘Believe it,’ he said. ‘Now enjoy your beer, then go get some sleep. And thanks.’

*
    
*
    
*
    
*
    
*

Hardy and Frannie stayed in the Avenues at the Purple Yet Wah, a Chinese restaurant not fifteen blocks from their house. Eating their way through the appetizers — pot sticker, calamari, egg rolls, paper-wrap chicken, barbecue pork rib, deep-fry shrimp, and half a dozen more dishes — they were back home by ten-fifteen.

Hardy had five messages waiting. Glitsky left his name.

Michelle was really sorry she’d snapped at him and left so abruptly. They had a lot of work to catch up on tomorrow. Maybe he could set aside a little Tryptech time?

Graham Russo had understood that Hardy would come by every day. What was going on? Why hadn’t he come in? Was everything all right? His only visitor that whole day had been his mother. He’d been thinking, and maybe Hardy’s decision not to mention Joan Singleterry — the phantom woman from Sal’s past — was a mistake. Graham wasn’t making her up. Sal had really wanted to give her the money. Please call. Jail is hell.

Graham again. Same thing. Going nuts.

The last call was from Sarah Evans. Ten minutes ago. She had talked to Graham again and gotten an idea and thought maybe she was on to something.

25

There was a muted tone even in the public areas of Baywest Bank. This would have been noticeable even if the building weren’t located on such a blighted and vulgar thoroughfare. Since it was on Market Street, though, with its bums and garbage, its debris and stench, its fumes and pornography, the contrast was especially striking.

The other day when he’d come to lunch here with the Taylors, Hardy had passed right through the lobby to the elevators and had scarcely looked at the surroundings. Now his business was here and he took them in: polished floors, burnished dark wood, tinted windows to the outside.

There was nothing so obviously crass as a waiting line in the lobby here at Baywest. When you entered through the revolving front doors, you were greeted by a young man in a business suit and asked your business. If you needed to see a teller, of which there were only three, you were given a number and asked to have a seat in one of the upholstered chairs tastefully arranged around the lobby.

Hardy identified himself as Graham Russo’s lawyer and said he would appreciate a few minutes with George, although he didn’t have an appointment. It was nine-fifteen A.M. Mr Russo was at a meeting. Hardy said he would wait and was directed to another armchair in the back of the lobby.

The bank’s officers lived in cages, as they do almost everywhere. The burnished-wood motif from the public area was carried over here in the back, creating half-high walls around each unit. The upper half was glass, and Hardy, getting to his wingback chair, looked into George’s office for a quick glimpse.

Without the nameplate he could have picked him out from a hundred people. Dressed in a different style than Graham, sitting in a posture behind his desk that Hardy had never seen in Graham, George still bore a remarkable resemblance to his older brother.

As he waited, Hardy made a few notations on the yellow legal pad he’d begun carrying with him everywhere he went. There was so much to remember, so much to organize, and he only had three months before the trial — an absurdly short lead time that he’d argued bitterly against at the Calendar hearing. But his old colleague Tim Manion — the judge — though inclined to sympathy on the bail issue, had proved intractable in scheduling the trial.

After Hardy had argued for a couple of minutes, Manion had summoned him up to the bench and given him a little lecture. ‘I understand you turned down a very reasonable settlement offer, Mr Hardy’ — no ‘Diz’ on this topic — ‘so I assumed your client would be anxious to tell his story and clear his name.’

‘But, Your Honor, three months—’

The gavel. A tight smile. ‘Unless you’d like to start in sixty days as the law provides.’

So Hardy had until September. He knew he had to explain this to Michelle pretty soon too. He moved her to the top of his list. He owed her that much. He’d worked for bosses who didn’t tell him what they expected or what he could expect in terms of their support, and he had thought them cruel. He didn’t wish to leave Michelle with that impression of himself.

But he didn’t dwell on Tryptech. The grand jury indictment notwithstanding, he was actually going to file a nine-nine-five motion for dismissal that he would lose, but he felt he had to get on the boards with the fact that there was not enough evidence to justify holding Graham at all. There were signs that Sal had been murdered, perhaps, but no reasonable attempt to connect that murder to Graham by physical evidence.

So he’d try, make the point, get laughed at.

He made another note. Today he must remember to place ads to run for a month or more in the local newspapers, in the
L.A. Times
, the
San Jose Mercury
, and also — being thorough — in the various regional editions of
The Wall Street Journal
, maybe in
The New York Times Book Review
, asking anyone with information on a Joan Singleterry to come forward. He wouldn’t risk introducing her before a jury. Graham’s story about her, even if true in all respects, smelled bogus. But Graham was right: they would be unwise to abandon the search for her if she could shed some light on Sal, or on the money. If any part of Graham’s story was true and Hardy could verify it, it could destroy the prosecution case, as least insofar as the special circumstances.

Then there was Sarah Evans and her pursuit of the gamblers and fishmongers. He had to coordinate that more closely. It wasn’t merely a matter of his SODDIT defense. He didn’t need Sarah’s information so much for the jury as he might to get to the truth.

Which was why he was here now…

He raised his eyes. The door had opened and George was saying his name, a concerned look on his face. Hardy threw his legal pad into his open briefcase and stood up, tried a smile. ‘Mr Russo, how are you? I’m representing your brother—’

‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘And how I am is busy. What does my brother have to do with me?’

The tone made it even ruder than the words. Hardy cocked his head, trying to get a read on George, but it didn’t look like he was going to get much of an opening. ‘I haven’t seen my father in ten years. I don’t talk to my brother. I’m not interested.’ But his color was high. Like it or not, his emotions were engaged.

Hardy retained an even tone of his own. ‘I understood you saw Sal when he came to your mother’s house a month ago.’

‘So what?’

‘So you just said you hadn’t seen him in ten years.’

George’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t clear whether it was with fear or rage. He pointed a finger at Hardy. ‘That’s a lawyer’s trick, turning my words.’

Hardy made the snap decision that he wasn’t going to score any points here with sweet talk. ‘Here’s another one,’ he said, ‘— where were you on the afternoon your father was killed?’

This stopped him dead. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it again. He glanced toward the lobby. Some customers had turned their heads, noticed the confrontation. Hardy pressed what he took to be his advantage. ‘It might be more comfortable in your office.’

They were inside. Hardy pulled the door to behind them while George retreated behind his desk. He’d obviously had enough time to think by the time he got seated. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions, do I? You’re not with the police.’

‘No, that’s right. Of course, I could go to the police and tell them you were uncooperative and acting suspicious, that you didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder and you had a great motive. Plus you look enough like Graham that anyone who thought they had seen him at Sal’s might have been confused.’ Hardy sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Then you
would
have to answer them.’

‘I had nothing to do with my father’s death.’

‘I didn’t say you did.’

‘You just said I had a motive and no alibi.’

Hardy shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m wrong.’ He waited.

George’s tone shifted. Suddenly the arrogant banker gave way to a frightened child. ‘What made you come here? I don’t even know why you’re talking to me.’

Sitting back, Hardy decided he’d played enough hardball. He could ease up a little. ‘Your mother.’

A confused, betrayed look. ‘What about my mother? She told you to talk to me?’

Hardy walked him through it, leaving out any reference to Sarah, his secret agent who’d been the conduit. ‘Your mother went to see your brother in jail yesterday and told him, among other things, that she was worried about you. You’d blown up at some family gathering a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you? You were so hateful to your father.’

‘He was hateful to us. He just walked out on us.’

‘Yes, he did. And you could never forgive him, could you?’

‘Why should I?’

Hardy let that question lie. Instead, ‘Your mother thinks it’s possible that
you
killed Sal.’

‘Jesus, what are you saying?’ George took a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wiped his forehead.

‘You told your father you went to some client’s but you didn’t go there, did you?’

‘How do you… how can you say that?’

‘Your mother said it. She told Graham. He told me.’

‘He’s a liar.’

‘Maybe it runs in the family. Where were you?’

George ran a hand around under his collar. Gradually, though, over ten seconds or so, he got himself back under control. ‘I was at a client’s on a confidential matter.’ He checked his watch. ‘And I am very busy. This interview is over.’

Hardy didn’t move. ‘Do you want me to go to the police with this? You think I ask hard questions, you should see them.’

But the younger brother had made his decision. ‘I don’t think you ask hard questions. And you can inform the police or not. I didn’t see my father. I didn’t even know where he lived.’ He picked up the phone. ‘If you’re not ready to leave, I can call security.’

*
    
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*
    
*
    
*

Hardy was sitting in the jail’s visiting room and Graham was in his orange jumpsuit, standing by the window. Hardy had just told him about Helen and Leland’s offer of financial help.

‘Graham?’

Finally, he turned around. ‘They want something, but I don’t see how I can tell you no.’

‘Maybe they want to help you.’

‘No, they want to buy me.’

‘They wouldn’t even be buying
me
, only some of my hours. I made it clear: I’d be working only for your interests, not theirs.’

Graham eased himself onto the corner of the table. He wore a weary smile and was shaking his head. ‘That’s not how it works. Leland pays you and then eventually you come to see where your interests lie. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.’

His hands crossed in front of him, Hardy met his client’s gaze. ‘I’ll rise above the temptation.’ Then, more seriously, ‘I’ve thought a lot about this, Graham. A lot, believe me. It’s the only way I defend you and not go broke, which of course I’d gladly do on your behalf, although not if I didn’t have to. But I leave it up to you.’

Hardy watched the young man wrestle with it, family ties and financial bonds. He sighed. ‘My mom sure puts the “fun” in
dysfunctional
, doesn’t she?’

‘I don’t think she’s dysfunctional. Confused, maybe. You interested in my call on this, really?’

‘Sure.’

‘She sees your dad in you. Apparently a lot of people do. It’s her second chance that way. She wants to give you a chance to make your life turn out all right, to save yourself, and the only language she has is money. You don’t do things her way, Leland’s way, but something in her wishes that
that
way —
your
way — could work. She wants to help.’

‘And what about Leland?’

‘He doesn’t have to matter if you don’t let him.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take the damn money.’

Carefully keeping any elation out of his voice — this really was a critical decision that would keep them both afloat — Hardy felt his shoulders relax. He turned to his legal pad. ‘Oh, by the way, I had a nice talk with your friend Russ Cutler last night. Funny how you forgot to mention him.’

Graham didn’t shrink from it. Caught again, oh, well. ‘I had other things on my mind. I tried to go off the record and tell Sarah. She wouldn’t let me.’

‘It’s going to come out as more lies.’

Graham shrugged. ‘I promised him I wouldn’t bring him in. What was I supposed to do, betray the guy?’

‘I don’t know if I’d characterize it as betrayal, maybe telling your attorney, trust that he could keep a lid on it.’

Graham accepted the rebuke. ‘You’re right, I’m sorry.’

Hardy smiled. ‘You gotta love a guy who’s so consistent, but last night I passed a few pleasant moments plotting to kill you after I get you off.’ He shrugged. ‘It passed, but I really would love it if you had any other little secrets you’ve been keeping up to now. If you wanted to share them, this would be a good time.’

Still sitting on the table, Graham swung his legs under it like a child. ‘Craig Ising’s holding ten grand for me. My money.’

Hardy had to laugh. ‘You are a piece of work.’

Embarrassed, Graham remained matter of fact. ‘One way or the other, this thing’s over in six months, I figure. I didn’t want to lose my apartment, so Craig’s keeping up on the rent. If I’m in jail, it doesn’t matter. But if I win, then what?’