The Second Chair (26 page)

Some natural light from outside made it through the drawn blinds, but with the electric lights off, the room seemed dim. Glitsky sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He was canted slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head down. He might have been napping. Wu was surprised that he didn’t seem to have heard her approach, and she stood a moment in the doorway, waiting for him to turn and acknowledge her. When that didn’t happen, she tapped lightly on the door.

He didn’t exactly jump, but he’d clearly been somewhere else. Now, back in the present, he stood and came toward Wu, checking his watch as he did so. “You made good time from the YGC,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“No traffic for a change,” she said. “I’m sorry about the mixup around this interview, sir, me not coming down here. It’s all my fault, not Mr. Hardy’s. He called my home and told me you wanted to see me, but I have a client who’s in big trouble and I went to see him first. I didn’t realize that this was so urgent, even though Mr. Hardy said it was.”

Glitsky seemed to find a little humor in her explanation. “Next time I talk to him, I’ll tell him you tried to cover for him. But I know the truth. He forgot to tell you, didn’t he?”

“No, really. He—”

But Glitsky held up a hand and stopped her. “Kidding, just kidding.” He didn’t seem to take much joy in it, though. Awkwardly, he shrugged, half turned. “Well, you’re here now,” he said, pointing. “Why don’t you take that chair and we’ll get going.”

Wu sat while he got his tape recorder out of his desk, tested it, set it down and recited the standard introduction, identifying himself, his badge, the case and event number, his subject, where they were. Three or four years before, in her first year out of law school and before Treya and Abe had gotten married, Wu had played a small role helping Hardy and Treya learn the identity of the person who’d killed Glitsky’s grown daughter. They hadn’t all exactly socialized—last night at Boscacci’s death scene was the first time Glitsky had seen her since—but there was a definite sense of familiarity and even goodwill still between them. Nevertheless, Glitsky was a procedure freak, and this was a formal interview pursuant to the death of an important person. He wasn’t going to phone it in.

“Ms. Wu,” he began, “where and when was the last time you saw Allan Boscacci alive?”

“Yesterday afternoon, here at the Hall of Justice. In his office.”

Pre-supplied with Hardy’s version of events and Jason Brandt’s information conveyed through Treya, he walked her through the history and intricacies of the Bartlett matter. Then: “Mr. Brandt mentioned that there might be some bad blood between you and Allan because of this blown deal.”

“Not really bad blood. I don’t know why he said that. It wasn’t personal.”

“But the meeting was rancorous?”

“A little, yes.”

“Were voices raised?”

“His. Yes, sir. I had been wrong and didn’t do much except sit and take it.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Physically? No. Professionally, he made it clear we wouldn’t be doing many more plea deals together.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“It wasn’t much of a surprise, after what had happened. I just let him vent, and couldn’t really blame him.”

“You had no reaction?”

“No. Of course I was upset. But more at myself than at Allan.”

“All right. And after that, after this heated interview with Mr. Boscacci, what did you do?”

She gave him the details, as much as she remembered them, of the rest of her afternoon and early evening at Lou the Greek’s.

“And you were there continuously? You never left the premises?”

“No, sir. Not until about eight, eight-fifteen, something like that.”

“Accompanied by Mr. Barry Hess, is that right?”

“I think so. I mean, I think that was his name. Whatever it is, he was with me when I walked out of Lou’s and went to the All-Day.”

“So what is your relationship with Mr. Hess?”

“We don’t have one. He picked me up at Lou’s and I may have let him kiss me once or twice on the way to the parking lot. I really don’t remember too clearly.”

“Okay. To get to the place he was killed from the Hall, Mr. Boscacci very probably walked by Lou’s. Did you by any chance notice him walking by?”

“No.”

“Do you recall hearing a gunshot?”

“No.”

“All right. After you discovered the body, what did you do?”

“We called nine one one on Barry’s cellphone, and got the police.”

“And then what? Did you call anyone else?”

“I called Mr. Hardy at his home, but he wasn’t there. His kids told me where he was, and I reached him at a restaurant.”

“And why did you call him?”

“Because he’s my boss and I thought he’d want to know about Allan right away.”

“Is he also acting as your personal attorney in this matter?”

“My personal attorney?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. In what matter?”

“Mr. Boscacci’s death.”

“No. Why would I need . . .” She stopped.

“He pretty effectively protected you from having to do this interview with me or someone else last night. Did you discuss that between you?”

“No. I was drunk. That’s why I didn’t talk last night. You were there. I talked to you, remember? We said today would be fine.”

“Right. Did you talk to Mr. Hardy about your statement today?”

“Just that I ought to get down here and give it.”

“Nothing about its substance?”

“No.”

“So last night, you didn’t call Mr. Hardy to come down to the crime scene to act as your attorney?”

“No. No, of course not. I didn’t need an attorney.”

“All right, Ms. Wu. Thanks for your cooperation.”

The bailiff wanted Linda to meet Andrew in the general visitors’ room, which was much larger than the other room they’d used the last couple of times, but far less private. She told the bailiff that she’d really prefer the smaller room, as she wanted to have a sensitive conversation with her son. But there was nothing the bailiff could do. The smaller attorneys’ visiting room was currently in use. There were a lot of kids here, and all of them had lawyers and parents.

So she waited, and waited—there were only twelve stations—until she got to the front of the line in the gymnasium, and then until a chair cleared. Sitting between two other women, one Hispanic and one African-American, she was hyper-aware of being the only Caucasian visitor.

Eyes down, Andrew entered in his protective shuffling teen gait, exaggerated shoulder movement, his feet kind of sliding along. She wondered why teenage guys considered it so cool to be sullen and silent, then tried to remember when Andrew had begun to adopt that walk. She thought it was about the time he’d stopped talking to her—to anyone in the family, really—three or four years ago.

But what could she do? It wasn’t as though parents could control their children or exert any discipline. Not in today’s world when everyone grew up so fast, when between television, the movies and the internet all kids were plugged into the same culture, the same clothes, the same slang, even the same walk. Linda believed that there was no way that she could have any impact against such a relentless and ubiquitous force. If you tried to teach them manners, discipline them, influence their behavior at all, they just shut you out. It didn’t even make sense to try; they’d just resent you for it. The thing to do was be their friend when they let you and otherwise leave them alone. The best you could hope for is that they’d eventually grow out of it, and somehow turn out okay. But that sure wasn’t anything over which she had any control.

The partition prevented her from giving him a hug. She missed the contact. It might embarrass him, but thank God he still let her hug him sometimes. Not that it wasn’t somehow grudging, not that he hugged her back with any enthusiasm. But he was still her baby, and she didn’t know any other way to reach him.

Andrew pulled out his chair and sat down across from her. They didn’t have him in handcuffs. They could reach across the counter and hold hands if they wanted, although she knew that Andrew probably wouldn’t go there.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

Silence.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Sure.” A pause. “Thanks for coming down.”

“Hal and Alicia say hi.”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t you want to tell them hi back?”

His eyes were flat. “Sure.”

For a minute, she feared that neither of them would find anything else to say.

She forced herself to keep trying. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

A shrug.

Another silence.

“You look a little tired. Are they feeding you all right?”

“Yeah.” He drew a heavy breath, finally said something. “My lawyer was by earlier.”

“I know. She called us, too.”

“What’d she tell you?”

Linda tried to sound upbeat, but the news didn’t lend itself much to that. “That she was bringing on another lawyer from her firm to help with your case. Supposedly he’s really good.”

“What else is she going to say? That he’s shit?”

“Well.” She wished he wouldn’t use that kind of language, but she wasn’t going to say anything he might take as a reprimand. Not with everything else he was going through. “She also told Hal about these criteria to keep you here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “The Ritz.”

Linda sighed. “Do you like her?”

“Who?”

“Amy. I mean, Hal and I feel she’s doing a really good job, and now she’s brought on this senior partner to help. But if you didn’t feel good about her . . .”

“I don’t really care. She’s all right. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Of course it does, Andrew. Don’t lose hope now.”

“Okay.”

“Really,” she said. “Don’t.”

He shook his head. “Okay, sure, good idea, Mom. Except that it’s starting to look I’m never going to get out of custody.”

“Don’t say that.” She reached out over the counter. “Here, hold my hand,” she said.

“That’s not going to help anything.”

“Please,” she said. “Humor me, okay?”

He sighed again and put his hand in hers. “So there’s this hearing on Tuesday to see if I stay here. Did she tell you it doesn’t look too good?”

“Not really so much that. She said it was kind of like a dress rehearsal for the trial, where we get to see what they’ve got. Which is really an advantage.”

“I bet.”

“It is.”

He shrugged again. “Either way, Mom, I didn’t do this and still they got me in here. If they can do that, I don’t think they’re ever going to let me get out.”

Linda didn’t want to argue with him. “Well,” she said, “let’s just wait for Tuesday and hope for the best.”

“Mom, the best, even if we win on Tuesday, is
eight years
.”

“No. If they have the trial down here, then the
worst
is eight years.”

“Great,” he said, “maybe we should throw a party.”

“Andrew.”

“All right, all right.”

“Let’s just see, okay. Keep your chin up.” She gave him a quick buck-up smile, squeezed his hand.

“Sure.”

A longish silence settled. Finally, she said, “I want to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“And I want to know how you really feel.”

“All right.”

She took in a lungful of air. “Well, you know the Newport Open . . .” This was a tennis tournament in Southern California that they’d attended for the past several years. “It starts tomorrow and—”

He pulled his hand out of hers. “Go.”

“You’re sure?” She searched his face for any sign of wavering, and saw none. “You won’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?”

“It’s just we won’t be able to visit you.”

“That’s all right. I’m going to be working with Amy most of the days anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“You keep saying that.”

“That’s ’cause it’s true. It doesn’t matter.”

“We’d stay here if it made any difference to you at all, you know.
At all, even the tiniest little bit.
No question.”

“I know that.”

“But we’ve had these tickets for months. They’re really expensive, you know, but we’d give them up gladly. We would.”

“You don’t need to.”

“And even if we do go, we’ll be back by Monday, in plenty of time for the hearing. We’d be there for you for that.”

“Mom, I said go. I mean it. It’s no big deal.”

“You’re sure? I mean completely positive?”

“Completely,” he said. “A hundred percent. Go. Have a good time.”

It wasn’t yet completely dark out, but Wu had drawn the blinds in her apartment and turned out the lights. She was completely wrung out and badly shaken by the thought that Glitsky might actually entertain the thought that she could have killed Allan. When she had at last gotten home after the interview, she’d swallowed more aspirin, brushed her teeth twice, then taken a shower.

Her head still throbbed, but she let herself believe that it was marginally better. By the time she woke up in the morning, she might be halfway to human again. Collapsing into bed, she had just pulled the covers up over her head, turned onto her side and closed her eyes when the doorbell sounded. This time she was going to ignore it. She’d already had the day from hell and all she wanted it to do was end, which it would when she slept. Whoever it was would go away.

Another ring.

Leave me alone!
She pulled the covers tighter around her.

The knock, when it came, was authoritative. Three sharp raps. “Amy! Come on, open up.” Brandt.

She threw her blankets off and padded over the hardwood to the door, spoke through it. “What do you want, Jason? I’m trying to sleep. I don’t feel good.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Talk to me in the morning.”

“Two minutes, that’s all.”

“You can apologize through the door.”

“It’s not just that.”

“No? Well, it should be.” She hesitated another moment, then sighed. “All right, let me get some clothes on.” Hitting the light switch by the door, she grabbed her jeans, stepped into them, then tucked in the yellow spaghetti strap cotton blouse she’d gone to bed in.