The Second Chair
Authors: John Lescroart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Second Chair
A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2004
by
The Lescroart Corporation
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN:
978-1-1012-0994-3
A
SIGNET
BOOK®
Signet
Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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Electronic edition: March, 2006
ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART
The First Law
The Oath
The Hearing
Nothing but the Truth
The Mercy Rule
Guilt
A Certain Justice
The 13th Juror
Hard Evidence
The Vig
Dead Irish
Rasputin’s Revenge
Son of Holmes
Sunburn
To Jack Sawyer Lescroart
Contents
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
Almost all our faults are more pardonable than the methods we think up to hide them.
—François de la Rochefoucauld
O
nly four minutes remained in sixteen-year-old Laura Wright’s life as she came out of the bathroom of the small apartment on Beaumont Street in San Francisco. Her eyes glistened with the residue of recent tears. But in the bathroom she’d splashed water over her face and washed away the smeared mascara and makeup, and now her skin glowed. A damp tendril of blond hair hung over a broad, unlined forehead.
She walked through the tiny living room and over to where Mr. Mooney, her drama coach, leaned over the kitchen table, making some notes in his neat hand in the margins of the script they were rehearsing. At her approach, he straightened up. In the brighter light of the kitchen, Laura’s eyes picked up some of the turquoise in her blouse.
Mooney wore a kind face, projected an easy manner. Ten years before he’d been leading man material and now, though still trim and good-looking in a conventional way, his hair had thinned and gone slightly gray, a hint of jowl marred his jawline. He smiled down at her.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, still too emotional to trust herself with her voice.
The two stood facing each other for a moment, and then Laura reached out her hands and stepped into him. After a minute, her shoulders began to shake and Mooney, holding her, moved his hands over her back, the smooth fabric of the silk. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
“I know. I know it will be.” Her face was buried into the hollow of his neck.
“It is now,” Mooney said.
She nodded again. “I know. Just. . . just thank you.” She stepped back, a little away, and looked up at him. “I didn’t mean to get this way.”
“The way you are is fine. I’m just glad you found the courage to tell somebody. Holding that inside can be so hard.”
“I figured I could trust you.”
“You figured right.”
“I know, but . . . what was that?”
Mooney crossed to the window, looked out to the street. “Nobody. Nothing.”
Laura sighed, a deep exhalation. “I didn’t think Andrew could be back already. I don’t know if I’m ready to face him. He’ll be upset if he finds out I told you first. I mean, it’s his baby, too. Maybe I can just say I started crying right after he left and you asked what was wrong . . .”
“Which is exactly what happened.”
She nodded. “I know. But Andrew’s been a little funny about you and me.”
“You and me? What about you and me?”
“Our relationship. Yours and mine. We actually broke up about it once.”
Mooney had to suppress a laugh. “About what, exactly?”
“He thought I had a crush on you. I did, in fact.”
“You had a crush on me?”
“When we started the play, yeah, rehearsing here. A little. He was just so jealous, and then I got so mad when he accused me.”
“Of what?”
“You know. Having a thing with you.”
Now Mooney did allow a small chuckle. “Well, by now I hope he knows that didn’t happen. And besides, this is about you. It’s your body. You get to decide what to do.” A pause. “And you know, it might not be the worst idea in the world to talk to your parents.”
“No way,” she said, shaking her head. “They’d kill me. They wouldn’t want to be bothered. Trust me, this I know.” Her eyes began to well up again.
Mooney stepped near to her and brushed a tear where it had fallen onto her cheek. “It’s okay,” he said. “In a few months this will all be behind you. It’s just getting through the tough part.”
“I so hope you’re right. I feel like such a fool for letting this happen. I mean, it was just the one time.”
“It only takes once.” Mooney spoke gently. “You might want to keep that in mind, though, in the future.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s locked in.” But again her composure slipped. Tears still threatening, she stood looking helplessly up at him. “Do you think I could get one more hug?”
“As a special request, one short one.” He put his arms around her.
She pressed herself against him, squeezed hard, then all but jumped back out of his embrace as a knock came on the door. “Oh God,” she said. “There’s my great timing again. That’s got to be Andrew. What if he saw us?”
Mooney held her at arm’s length. “Laura,” he said, “Andrew’s a great guy. You don’t have to worry about him, and even if he saw us, he knows you love him. Really. You just take care of yourself and do what you have to do and everything will be fine. I promise.”
Mooney didn’t know it, but his last words were a lie. Another knock sounded, and he moved to get the door.
H
ello.”
“Amy Wu, please.”
“This is Amy.”
“You sleeping? I wake you up?”
“No. Just lying down for a minute.”
“So Friday afternoon, you’re not at work?”
“No. Right. I’m not feeling too well. Who is this anyway?”
“Hal North. You remember me.”
“Of course, Mr. North. How are you? How’d you get my home number?”
“You gave it to us last time, remember?”
“Right. That’s right. I gave it to you. So how can I help you?”
“Andrew’s in trouble again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What kind of trouble?”
“Big trouble. The police just came and arrested him for murder. You still there?”
“Yeah. Did you say murder? Andrew?”
“Yeah, I know. But right. Two of ’em, actually.”
“I’m sorry. Two of what?”
“What did I just say? You paying attention? Murders. His teacher and his girlfriend.”
“Where is he now?”
“They took him to jail. I mean, to the Youth Guidance Center. He’s still not eighteen, or it would have been the jail.”
“Is that where you’re calling from, the YGC?”
“No. Me and Linda, we got a benefit tonight, so we’re still home for another two hours at least. We could probably be late to the thing and make it three if you . . .”
“I could be over in, say, a half hour.”
“Good. We’ll be looking for you.”
Wu checked herself in the bathroom mirror. No amount of makeup was going to camouflage the swollen bags under her eyes. Half-Chinese and half-black, Wu had a complexion that was dark enough as it was, and when exhaustion got the better of her, the hollows around her eyes deepened. Now, between the crying jags, the lack of sleep and the hangover, Wu thought she looked positively haggard, at least a decade older than her thirty years. Why guys would hit on her looking like this, she didn’t know, but there didn’t seem to be a shortage of them, not since she’d started going out almost every night to find whatever the hell she was seeking in the four months since her father died.
Still, prepping herself to visit Hal North, she did her best to make herself presentable. It wouldn’t do to look unprofessional. This was a legal matter, and she knew the potential client had made millions from his chain of multiplex movie theaters. At least he had been worth millions a couple of years ago, when Hal North’s corporate attorney—a classmate from law school—had recommended Wu for criminal work and she’d represented his stepson Andrew for a minor joyride beef. She’d gotten him off with a fine and some community service. The fees at her hourly rate had come to a little under two thousand dollars, but when the judge came down with his wrist-slap judgment, North wrote her a check for ten grand. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or insulted that he assumed he should tip his lawyer.
From now on, North had said in his forceful manner, she was
his
lawyer, that was all there was to it. Andrew, who’d been sullen and distant throughout the entire proceeding, even broke a rare smile and concurred. She’d told them both that though she was flattered that they liked her work, all in all it would be better if the family wouldn’t need a criminal lawyer ever again. They both conceded that she probably had a point.
She lay down on the bed for two minutes, timed, with ice wrapped in a dish towel over her eyes. When she got up, she dried her face and started applying eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick. Her hand was steady enough, which was a nice surprise. This morning, brushing her teeth after she’d gotten home from whatever-his-name’s place a little after dawn, she’d dropped the toothbrush twice before she’d given up, called work for the fouth time in four months—very bad—to say she was sick, and crashed.
