The Fall (8 page)

Fully nine times out of ten, perhaps more often, Hardy replied by saying, “Yo.” He could tell from Phyllis’s exasperated tone,
every single
time
,
that she hated this—it was not the serious tone one expected from a managing partner. And Hardy was just immature enough to keep on saying “Yo” forever, so long as he got that response.

But this afternoon, he pushed the button and said on a wild hair, “Yes, Phyllis, how can I help you?”

Her flustered pause while she dredged up an answer was its own reward. “Um, it’s— I mean, your daughter would like to see you if you have a moment.”

“My daughter, Rebecca? That one?”

“Yes, sir.”

As if Hardy had two or nine daughters. “Well, as it happens, I do have a moment. But Phyllis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe I’ve mentioned that when The Beck wants to come in and see me, except if I’m with somebody else, she gets to knock directly on my door and come on in.”

“I told her that, sir, and she said she wanted to make sure she wasn’t interrupting you.”

“Some would call the intercom itself an interruption.”

“I’m sure they would. Should I send her in?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Even after all that, The Beck knocked twice quickly before she opened the door.

“Come in, for God’s sake,” Hardy all but bellowed. When the door opened, he said, “People have an easier time dropping in on Obama, I bet. Am I that terrifying a personage?”

Rebecca sat herself in one of the nicer chairs at the formal seating area in front of his desk. “People who use the word ‘personage’ instead of ‘person’ when referring to themselves sometimes project an aura of authority that can make them appear frightening.”

Hardy broke a grin. “Well stated. It’s nice to know all that law school money wasn’t wasted. So what’s up?”

“Greg Treadway.”

“Ah, I had a feeling . . .”

The Beck was shaking her head. “Not that.”

“It sure seemed there was some of that.”

Now she shrugged. “The spark kind of went out the night when he learned about Anlya.”

“As well it should have.” But. “He didn’t ask for your number?”

“No. But I gave him my business card, and maybe a good thing I did, too. He was on my voicemail when I got back from lunch. Inspector Waverly and his partner wanted to come by and ask him some more questions.”

“After his taped interview last night? What about?”

“Evidently, stuff Waverly had forgotten to ask.”

Hardy’s hackles went up at the ominous portent.

“What?” his daughter asked.

“Maybe nothing, but Waverly didn’t get to Homicide by forgetting to ask things.”

“You’re saying he thinks Greg might be, what, a person of interest here?”

Hardy shrugged.

“But that’s not possible.” Rebecca’s voice carried an edge of concern. “He was devastated by the whole thing.”

“Could he have been faking that?”

“Daddy, Jesus!”

“No, then?”

“Not a chance in the world. How can you even think that?”

“We’re in the criminal law business, Beck. If you don’t think that, you’re not doing your job. And he called you as a lawyer, I gather. Didn’t you say that?”

“For advice, anyway.”

“That’s as a lawyer, don’t kid yourself. So what did Homicide want? Did the inspectors get to come by to see him?”

“I don’t know. He just left me the message, and nobody answered when I called him back. Maybe I should put my cell number on my business card if people need to reach me outside of hours.”

“You
could do that if you want, of course, but I believe you’d wind up working every waking minute every day for the rest of your life, not counting when clients woke you up in the middle of the night.”

She laughed. “I already work all the time.”

“Yes, but you’d work even more. Maybe better to just write your cell number on your card once you’ve decided the potential client won’t abuse it and call you every fifteen minutes, which some of them will, believe me.”

“You mean physically write it down in ink?”

“Ink, pencil, Magic Marker. Whatever.”

“Daddy, you are so old-fashioned.” Her laugh tinkled again. “Ink? As if.”

•  •  •

B
ACK IN HER
office, Rebecca called Greg’s number again. “I should have said this on my first message,” she said to his voicemail, “but you might want to think about if you really want me there if these inspectors come to interview you again, if they haven’t already. Last night I wasn’t your lawyer. I was just another person you knew from the bar who happened to be an attorney. If I come to be with you, even to hold your hand next time, that’s going to be a more difficult sell.

“The basic rule is the same: If you’re being questioned about your involvement in a crime, even if you didn’t have any part in it, you generally don’t want to talk to the police without a lawyer in the room. Of course, I’m a lawyer. That’s my perspective, and I would say that. But the plain fact is that the police agenda is almost never going to be the same as yours, and it’s smarter to cover your bases. The foregoing advice,” she added in a lighter tone, “is given gratis and should in no way be construed as an advertisement for my legal services. If you’d like to talk more before you make any decisions, I’m here.”

Hanging up, she pulled over the hard copy of the motion she was working on, booted up her computer, and was about to get back to her daily work—to be filed today by four o’clock!—when her telephone rang. She gave it a ring, then two, unsure whether she should pick up or let it go to voicemail so she could actually do something billable. God! the pressure! “Shit,” she said matter-of-factly, and grabbed at the receiver. “Rebecca Hardy.”

“Hey.
This is Greg Treadway. Thanks for getting back to me. I’m on my afternoon break at school and just now got your messages.”

“So did you talk to Waverly again?”

“No. I told them I was at work. We made an appointment for after school.”

“At school?”

“Sure. We’ve got a conference room. It’s private.”

“Did they say what it was about?”

“No. They just had a few more questions. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Maybe I know something more than I’m aware of. If it’ll help them find who killed Anlya . . .”

This was pure naïveté on the hoof, Rebecca thought. “Have you thought of anything that you didn’t mention last night?”

“Not really. But maybe something new will come up and prove to be important.”

Or maybe, she thought, you’ll tell them something that will hang you. “So, not to be aggressive, but what I said on my message, it’s the truth. We know from Liam Goodman’s little speech on TV yesterday that they’re looking for a suspect—”

“They can’t think that I’m—”

“They absolutely could, Greg. That’s what I’m saying. My father just brought up the same point ten minutes ago in his office. If nothing else, they can use you as a placeholder until they focus on the real guy, but in the meantime, in the eyes of the public, you’re the real guy. You will not enjoy that experience, I promise you.”

He hesitated. “You’re telling me I shouldn’t talk to the inspectors?”

“Not necessarily. Then you’re not being cooperative, and why would that be if you have nothing to hide?”

“So what am I supposed to do? What do you suggest?”

“I suggest,” she said, “that you get yourself a lawyer and have him or her there with you.”

“How about ‘her’ as in ‘you’?”

“I’m not pushing for the job here, Greg. I’m swamped with my regular work, though I appreciate your confidence in me. I could recommend—”

“But to whoever that is, I’d be a bona fide suspect, wouldn’t I? I mean, a regular client who probably did it.”

This, Rebecca knew, was the unvarnished truth.

“I don’t think I’d like to start off on that foot,” he said.

She sighed and said, “You’d really want me?”

“You might not have been trying, but you sold me. How expensive are you, by the way?”

“Too. Meaning too expensive, not two hundred an hour. But I’d cut you a deal just to be a presence, at least until they decide they’re going to leave you alone and move on. Say a hundred for this first interview, maybe two-fifty an hour if it goes any further.”

“Two-fifty an hour. I can’t do two-fifty for an hour.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll probably only be the first hundred, assuming you don’t get arrested. I can bring a standard retainer contract with me and make it official.”

“What if I—it sounds ridiculous even to say it—what if I . . . if they do arrest me? Could that really be possible?”

“Let’s not worry about that now. All we want now is to be cooperative without saying anything that would incriminate you. Do you have an alibi, by the way, for Wednesday night around eleven o’clock?”

“An alibi?”

“You know. Where you were. If you were with somebody else, or in a public place where people could have seen you?”

“That’s ridiculous. Eleven o’clock on a school night, I was home.”

“Can you prove it? Did you make any phone calls? Lend a neighbor some sugar, anything like that?”

“Rebecca. Repeat to yourself: ‘Eleven o’clock on a school night.’ I promise I was in bed. Alone, more’s the pity. And I live by myself.”

“So ‘no’ would be the alibi answer?”

“I guess so. And I’ve got to say, you’re worrying me here.”

“I don’t mean to. We just don’t want to get surprised. What school are you at again?”

“Everett Middle. It’s down in the Mission.”

“I’ll find it. What time does school get out?”

“Three.”

“Okay, if they get there first—they probably won’t, but if—tell them you’ve brought me aboard, and then don’t say a word until I get there. Not one word, even to be polite, ’cause they’ll try to keep you talking, and you’re
not allowed to talk, lawyer’s orders. You think you can do that?”

“It’ll be a little weird, don’t you think? ‘Hi, guys, come on in, but we can’t talk.’ ”

“Exactly.”

“Won’t that make them even more suspicious, especially if they already are?”

“We don’t care how it makes them feel. How they feel doesn’t matter. I really need you to get this, Greg. It’s serious.”

“I’m picking that up,” he said.

“Good. Don’t drop it.”

•  •  •

“I
DIDN’T KNOW
what else to do. It just kind of happened.” Rebecca was standing in front of her father’s desk, her eyes close to overflowing with tears. “But I can’t call him back now and get myself unhired. He’s back in class and wouldn’t get the message until Waverly is already there, and then he really would be screwed. Meanwhile, I’ve got this motion due at four o’clock, and now there’s no chance I can even work on the rest of it, much less get it done, and I just—”

Hardy held up one hand. “Shh . . . shh . . . easy now.” He came up out of his chair, around the desk, and took his daughter in his arms. “It’s all right. It’s really all right.” He kissed the top of her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she went on. “I just wasn’t thinking, or thinking clearly, anyway. And now Amy’s going to kill me, either that or never assign me work again . . .”

“I’ll talk to Amy. She’ll put another associate on it. It’ll be fine.”

“But if I wasn’t your daughter . . . and by
four o’clock
 . . .”

“Well, luckily, you are my daughter. And we’ll get an extension. Or not. Either way, it’s not the end of the world. These things happen. You got involved in a client’s real problem, and it has to be dealt with right now. So you do what you have to do. Welcome to criminal law.”

“I should have gotten Amy’s permission first. I never should have just said I’d be there.”

“But you did say that. And now you’re committed, and you’d better get moving if you don’t want to be late. Here, why don’t you give me your motion? Maybe I’ll take a crack at it myself, see if I’ve still got the chops.
And hey, look at the bright side—you’re bringing aboard your first client.” He added, “I hope he can afford you.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s another thing.” And told him about their salary negotiations.

“A hundred bucks?” Hardy asked with a stern glance. “We’re talking three hours, maybe four hours, for a hundred dollars total? Twenty-five an hour? Not finishing your motion is one thing, but charging below your billing rate, now we’re talking problematic.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t ever think he really wanted me there. But I knew somebody needed to be, so I—”

“Beck. Beck.” He raised her chin and kissed her forehead. “I’m kidding, the old man trying to lighten things up. Really. But no joke. Your instincts are completely right. Get him on retainer to protect him. The guy needs help, and he wants you. So go help him, and we’ll worry about all the other stuff later.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said, pointing at the door. “Go!”

T
HE INSPECTORS AND
the lawyer were the first ones into the conference room, and they took their places on opposite sides of the table, which mostly filled the space. The Beck started out introducing herself to Yamashiro, adding a courteous enough greeting to Waverly, asking if he’d had a chance to catch up on his sleep. But the sense of low-key camaraderie with the inspector that she’d imagined from their previous night’s interaction wasn’t much in evidence today.

The inspectors couldn’t hide their displeasure over the fact that Greg Treadway had lawyered up, though of course they didn’t say anything about it. The object was to get him talking and then keep him talking, and Rebecca knew that. She was already on her guard.

Greg had struck her as a pretty trusting guy last night—almost dangerously so on the phone earlier—and she knew that the inspectors were under a great deal of pressure to come up with a plausible suspect in Anlya’s murder. Put those two facts together and Greg’s need for a lawyer was all but absolute, even if the evidence hadn’t changed.

Except that the inspectors wanting to talk to him again meant that
something
had changed.

She was willing to see how this would go, but it was her job to keep her client on a short leash.

Greg opened the door. He entered with a smile, extending a hand for Waverly to shake. “Hey, Inspector, how are you? Sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier, but if I miss my classes, they fire me. Not really, but still.” He turned to Yamashiro, again with his hand out. “How you doin’? I’m Greg Treadway.”