14

 

Wu awoke at Hardy's house to another hangover of staggering proportions. Stabbing pain wracked every cell and joint in her body. Pinpoints of flashing light hovered in the periphery of her vision. How many drinks had she had at Lou's? She thought she'd counted six, but it might have been seven or eight, even nine. More than one guy was buying, hoping to get lucky, and Lou was famous for his heavy pour.

Nine drinks? Eighteen to twenty ounces of vodka. She weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. She was lucky to be alive.

After Hardy had driven her to the All-Day and she'd picked up her car, he had recommended that she take yet another sick day, go home and sleep. And that's what she'd done. After a six-hour rest, at around three o'clock, she called work and left the message that she'd be back in the office tomorrow.

Then, in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, she walked from her apartment down to the Marina green. The sun sparkled off the Bay, and though the breeze was light, it carried a chill. She crawled over some enormous breakwater boulders and sat invisible down in among the stones, facing the water and hugging herself for warmth. There, she cried herself out.

When she came back to her apartment, she found that Hardy had left a message. Glitsky really for truly did want a statement from her right away. The 707 hearing would be in five days, next Tuesday.

Five days.

She played the message again, thinking she couldn't have heard it right. But it sounded the same the second time. She sat in her chair and stared blankly out her window. Five days was impossible. She couldn't possibly prepare.

But apparently, that's all the time she had. The DA and perhaps the judge were sending a very clear message to her, venting the system's righteous pique. It wasn't going to be a matter of choice anymore, of what she'd prefer, of what she could work out with Brandt or Jackman. With the clock now ticking, she had to meet with the Norths, get together with Hardy, above all find out more about who Andrew really was. If she had only five days, she had to start now on some real defense that would be worthy of the name. Her hangover wasn't forgotten— her head still throbbed with a dull and persistent pain— but she couldn't allow herself the luxury of suffering. She had to go to work. Lifting the phone, she punched in the Norths' number.

Glitsky's demand for her statement, to the extent that it had registered as important at all, was nowhere among her priorities.

*     *     *     *     *

 

Linda North greeted her phone call warmly enough. After all, Wu had partially convinced them that she'd played a significant role in keeping Andrew in the juvenile system for the time being. At least he wasn't going to adult court yet and he still wasn't looking at life in prison. Wu's strategy had been harrowing and tense, but ultimately successful. They still had confidence in her.

But Linda had been just leaving the house to get her hair done when she picked up Wu's call. She told her that this wasn't really a good time. It was her regular weekly hair appointment, and if she missed it, Michael would simply give away the time forever to someone else and she'd have to rearrange her entire schedule. It was a pain, but that was how he was. All these artiste hairdressers were the same. She was sure Wu understood.

In any event, Hal couldn't come home right now anyway. He'd already missed a lot of work because of this whole problem with Andrew. And when he wasn't in the office, Linda told her, there were always problems. But if it was important and time-sensitive, Wu should just call Hal at work and meet with him there. He'd fill Linda in when they got together later.

Wu, trying to be flexible, had suggested that she meet them both at their home when Hal's work was done and she'd finished with her hair. But no. It wasn't a good night for that, either. Hal had some black-tie stag food-and-wine event. Linda was planning to see Andrew later on at the YGC, but if Wu needed to talk to one of them right away, she should really just go to Hal's office and talk with him there. That would work out. There wasn't any real crisis with Andrew or anything, was there? If not, Hal was better at details anyway. He would be the one to talk to. He and Linda had great communication and he'd keep her informed of anything Amy thought was important.

The headquarters of North Cinemas was located on Battery Street near the Embarcadero. The three-story building itself was large— it took up most of the block— with a long and low, modern look, brick and glass. Wu parked on-site under the building, in a reserved spot next to Hal's to which the attendant had directed her.

Still in her jeans and sweater— the Norths might not have been anxious to meet with her, but she'd left her own home in a hurry— she took the elevator to the top floor, then turned right and walked a long hallway covered with a soothing green industrial carpet. The walls were adorned on both sides with framed movie posters, dozens of them. Having checked in and been told by the polite, spike-haired young blond woman at the desk that Mr. North was expecting her and would be able to meet with her shortly, she waited in the cool and spacious reception area, flipping through the pages of Entertainment Weekly. Through the floor-to-ceiling tinted window, she looked across the bay to Treasure Island, then to Berkeley beyond. In the clear afternoon light, under the breeze-swept sky, both looked close enough to touch.

When she finished a cursory perusal of the magazine, she looked at her watch and frowned. Giving it one more minute, she ran out of patience, got up and walked to the reception desk again. "I'm sorry. Is Mr. North being held up?"

The young woman looked up. "I'm sure he's busy. He said he'd be right out."

"Yes, but I wonder if you would mind checking again. It's been fifteen minutes."

The woman lowered her voice, spoke conspiratorially. "Fifteen minutes is nothing."

Wu forced a tolerant smile. "I'm afraid it is to me. Would you mind trying him again please? Amy Wu."

She popped her gum and shrugged. "Sure. I remember." Pushing a few buttons on the console in front of her, she spoke into her headset. "Hal? Ms. Wu's still waiting." A pause. "Okay. Sure, I'll tell her." She ended the connection, looked at Wu. "He says two more minutes." But she held up her hand, opened and closed it twice slowly— the message clear. It was going to be closer to ten.

*     *     *     *     *

 

It was eight.

Projecting energy and command, Hal appeared from out of nowhere and suddenly was standing in front of where Wu sat. "Amy, sorry to have kept you. All kinds of madness going on back there. As usual. We're supposed to open the new Disney tonight and somehow somebody over in Walnut Creek lost six reels. Tell me where the hell you mislay six reels, I'd like to know. I gotta think somebody's stealin' them." She stood and they shook hands. "Anyway, I'm here now. What's the problem? I thought we were coasting on the legal stuff for a while until we got this next hearing scheduled. Is everything okay with Andrew?"

Wu was somewhat gratified to hear that both parents at least asked about Andrew's welfare. "Yes, sir. I think he's fine. I'm planning to go on up and see him after I leave here."

"Good. He told Linda he thinks you're upset with him, about what he did. He'll be glad to see you."

"So Linda already visited him today? She said she was going tonight, too."

"Did she? I don't know. What's today, Thursday? Thursday is normally her bridge group in the morning, I think, but maybe she went up. You'd have to ask her. Anyway. So what's up you need to see us all the sudden? You want to stay out here, by the way? Go in to my office? Whatever."

"Here is fine. I just wanted to tell you that they have scheduled the next hearing." She paused. "And it's for next Tuesday."

The slab face went into a shock riff. "Next Tuesday?" He counted silently to himself. "Five days. That's like it might as well be tomorrow, isn't it? I thought the courts liked to move slow on this stuff."

"Most of the time they do. In this case, the DA's mad Andrew didn't admit when he thought he was going to. He's expressing his displeasure."

"That's bullshit. Fuck him."

"Yes, sir."

Hal's scowl deepened, his voice suddenly harsh. "And I thought the plea change was part of your strategy all along. Now here we are sandbagged again. What's that about?"

Wu, expecting something like this, had prepared her reply. "It's about Allan Boscacci getting shot, sir. The whole thing would have rolled off his back I'm sure, but now we've got Clarence Jackman himself with his shorts in a twist. He's just asserting his authority. Anyway, I'm going to appeal the date, but my boss says it's not likely to change."

"Your boss?"

She nodded. "Dismas Hardy, you might have heard of him. He's good. And this is really very good news. If the hearing goes ahead on this accelerated time frame, he's going to come aboard to help out."

"And I pay extra for that?"

"No. The firm covers his time and expenses. We didn't make this problem with the DA, but we don't think it's right to ask you to pay for it, either. I'll be putting in a lot of hours, though. Just to let you know. We may be looking at another retainer payment, especially if Andrew goes up to adult."

"Which we're going to fight."

"Tooth and nail. Yes, sir. But on the assumption that the seven-oh-seven is going ahead as scheduled on Tuesday, I wanted to bring you and Linda up to speed on how it's structured so we can be prepared how to proceed."

"Jesus," Hal said. "It never ends." He threw a glance over his shoulder— all the work awaiting him behind one of those doors— then came back to Wu. "Maybe we want to sit down." They did. "All right," he said. "Shoot."

*     *     *     *     *

 

Over the next twenty minutes or so, Wu gave him the short course.

For all of its apparent complexity, a 707 proceeding concerned itself with only one question: is the minor "amenable to treatment" as a juvenile? From the perspective of the courts and the justice system, this determination was critical. Despite the insistence by some that one of the goals of adult incarceration should be rehabilitation of the inmate for an ultimate return to society, in practice, adult jail and prison time was essentially punishment. By contrast, the juvenile system's ethic took on a far more hopeful and optimistic cast. Though incarceration was part of the process, the goal was primarily to rehabilitate, not punish, the minor.

If you were in the juvenile system, the bureaucracy contemplated your eventual redemption. You still had a chance to turn out all right, to be a good citizen and a productive member of society, your youthful sins forgiven. So the system provided not just the stick of incarceration, but the carrots of education, psychological and career counseling, job training and a host of other social welfare programs. Because of these programs and treatments, each minor in the juvenile system would typically interact with an assortment of counselors, educators and social workers, and not just his warden and guards.

But this vast, bureaucratic apparatus of hope was not to be wasted on those it could not help, who were not "amenable to treatment." These were juveniles who, by virtue of their callousness, cruelty, history and crimes, must in justice be viewed as adults. Society would rightfully treat them as incorrigible and not squander its limited resources in a doomed and hopeless bid to try and rehabilitate them. And further, these lost causes wouldn't be permitted to contaminate the salvageable kids by their sophisticated and fixed criminality.

But first, the courts needed an objective formula to identify those who might be helped, and those who must be abandoned.

To that end, for violent crimes, five criteria for amenability had evolved. If in the court's judgment the minor failed the test for any one of these criteria, then that person would be found not amenable to treatment in the juvenile system and handed up to Superior Court to be tried as an adult. These criteria were (1) degree of the minor's criminal sophistication, (2) the likelihood of the minor's rehabilitation prior to the expiration of the juvenile court's jurisdiction (i.e., the minor's twenty-fifth birthday), (3) the minor's previous delinquent history, (4) the success of previous attempts by the juvenile system to rehabilitate the minor and (5) the circumstances and gravity of the offense for which the minor has been charged.

*     *     *     *     *

 

"Okay," North said. "So what's all that mean?"

"It means we're going to have to talk— you and me and Linda— about which if any of these criteria apply to Andrew. I mean, we've got a pretty good idea about number five, the gravity of the offense. It's murder, so it's serious. But we fight that one when we get to it. Meanwhile, I've got to know about all the others, so that if any of them seem to apply to him, we work up a defense, or at least an explanation for the court."

North was frowning deeply, sitting all the way back in the couch, his hands in his lap, his legs straight out and crossed at the ankles. "Haven't we already done that? Remember that second day at the house, I think it was. When you wanted to know all about the blowups, and we talked about his shrink and all that?"

"Sure. I remember. But this is getting down much more to the nuts and bolts. Individual events. Reasons he shouldn't really be considered an adult."

"Character issues?"

"Right."

He turned his head to face her. "But didn't you say the other day that we didn't want to bring up character? Once we did that, then the prosecution could introduce their own stuff and jump all over us?"

"You were listening." Wu didn't seem very happy about it.

"Damn straight. I'm a good listener. So now you're saying we need character?"

"Maybe it's a bit of a risk. Certainly it's a different situation. But the bottom line is we need to defeat all the criteria. Every one of them, or Andrew goes up."

North sighed heavily, cast his gaze out to the view. "I'll talk to Linda. Maybe between us we can come up with something. You got those things, the criteria, written down?"

"Yes. Right here."

"Okay. Leave them with me, and if we can come up with something concrete you don't already know, we'll get back to you. How's that?"

 

*     *     *     *     *

Wu arrived before her client did in the cold and tiny room— the scratched table, the ancient chairs, the antiseptic old-school smell. Suddenly, she noticed the bars of sunlight high on the opposite wall, and she realized that she'd been awake only for a little over three hours total today, and the daylight was already nearly gone.

And wouldn't her father have been proud of her for that? For wasting the day? Or the past weeks? She rested her head in her hands as a fresh wave of nausea and revulsion rolled and broke over her. An unconscious moan escaped.

"Are you all right?"

She hadn't heard the key, hadn't been aware that the door had opened. Now Bailiff Cottrell— the young one with the old eyes— stood in the entrance, holding a restraining hand up for Andrew, waiting for a sign that the interview was still on. It wasn't immediately forthcoming, so he asked, "Are we good here, ma'am?" Eventually she nodded, and the bailiff lowered his hand, let her client come in, closed the door.

Andrew warily kept his eyes on her as he pulled his chair over, sat on the front inch of the seat. "Are you mad at me?" he asked.

Wu's mouth was dry, her face clammy. She closed her eyes for an instant, ran her hand over her forehead. "No. I'm not mad at you, Andrew."

"I thought you would be because I didn't do what you wanted me to." He had his hands clasped together between his knees. "But I couldn't say I did it."

"I know," she said. "I wouldn't worry about it now. It's done. The thing we have to do now is prevail at this hearing, get you mandated in the juvenile system so you stay here."

"But I thought that was already over with." Confusion played itself all over his features. "I mean, that's what everybody is so mad about, right?"

"Not really. They're mad that now they have to go through the hassle of trying to move you back up to adult court."

"So you're saying your deal, even though I didn't agree to it, got me another chance anyway?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly, the look of confusion cleared. Her client tentatively smiled. "Well, then, if your job is my defense, how could it have been wrong? Maybe the guy you made the deal with wasn't as careful as he needed to be, either. You ever think of that? Maybe it wasn't all your fault?"

Wu wouldn't think ill of the dead, especially not today. But Andrew's rationale released some small bit of the tension she felt. "Well," she said, "at least some of it was my fault. But that's very nice of you to say, and I could use a little nice." For the first time with Andrew, she felt something like a connection.

But there was still the business, the five criteria for amenability to the juvenile system. After she had painstakingly gone through the list for him, she sat back with her arms crossed over her chest. "We need to talk about each of these individually, Andrew," she said. "If the court finds you not amenable on any one of them, you go up."

"Any one?"

"That's the rule. And I'm afraid we've got less than a week to prepare."

"But these criteria." Andrew scratched at the tabletop. "Most of them don't apply to me at all. I don't even know what they mean by criminal sophistication, or if I can be rehabilitated. Rehabilitated from what?"

"Your violent criminal past."

He looked a question at her. "I don't have one."

"I know. But I don't think sophistication is the problem. Neither is rehab."

"But gravity is."

Everyone seemed to understand that one immediately. "Yes."

He gestured around the small room. "If it helps me get out of here . . . but I was saying, even on gravity, if I didn't do it . . ." He raised his eyes, hopeful.

But she didn't want to raise those hopes. She came forward and reached across the table, a hand over his forearm. "This hearing isn't about whether you did it, Andrew. I need you to understand that. It's only about whether you go up as an adult or not. They're going to pretty much assume the gravity criteria."

"And they only need the one?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So I'm going to lose?"

"We may lose, yes. For now. But we'll get a real chance in adult court."

"We ought to just go straight there, then. If this hearing is just a formality."

"No," she said. "We've got to try. Anything that keeps you down here even for on extra minute is what we want to do." In his eyes, she saw real worry— perhaps he was starting to realize where his refusal to admit had left him. Left them both. "So we've got to talk about some real issues, Andrew. My partner, Mr. Hardy? He's got a few ideas about gravity. We're not just going to give that to them. But the other criteria, we don't want any surprises with those either."

"I don't know what they'd be."

"No. I don't either, but that's why they call them surprises."

He started with some marginal enthusiasm as they discussed possible witnesses for the various criteria— the psychologist he'd seen for anger management, his school counselor, one of the probation officers up here. But before they'd gone too far, the enormity of what he was facing seemed to drag him down.

His focus wavered, then abandoned him entirely, and Wu— not at peak performance levels herself— found it difficult to humor him. From her perspective, his primary emotion was sorrow for himself. He stopped every few sentences, stared straight ahead or down at the table. He fought back tears a couple of times.

"Why should we bother doing this?" he'd say. "We're never going to win."

Or: "I'm such a loser. This isn't going to make any difference."

Or: "It'd be better for everybody if I just killed myself, wouldn't it?"

That last one stopped Wu. "Why would you want to do that, Andrew? What good would that do?"

"It'd end all this stupidity. If they're going to put me away anyway."

Wu scratched at the table, summoning her patience. "That's what we're trying to avoid."

"It won't work, though, will it?"

"Not if we don't try."

But even to her, the words sounded condescending, the kind of adult pablum he'd been forced to eat a hundred times. "Or even if we do," he said.

She tried to keep him on track, but it was a long, uphill slog until they finally summoned him for dinner. After he left, she felt she had no reserve of strength and remained sitting, elbows on the table, on her papers and notes. She rested her head on her palms, the heels of them pressing into her eyes.

She heard a knock. "Excuse me? Ms. Wu?" Bailiff Cottrell, come to close up the room, stared down at her from the doorway. She must have nearly let herself doze off. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look well. Can I get you something? Some water?"

Moving slowly, she leaned back in her chair. "How about a head transplant? And maybe a new body to go with it."

"You couldn't get a better face," he said, "and you definitely don't need a new body."

At the moment, she felt about as attractive as a garbage truck, and she almost laughed at the compliment. But he was, she thought, just trying to be nice. "Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting while I just sat here. It's been a long day." She started gathering the papers and folders she'd spread out over the table.

"Ms. Wu, let me help you," he said.

"No, thanks. I've got it. And you can call me Amy."

"Ray, if you didn't remember," he said, then stood waiting at the door while she finished up, throwing everything into her heavy lawyer's briefcase, snapping it closed. When she stood, then leaned over to pick the briefcase up, he said, "That thing must weigh a ton. At least let me take that."

Exhausted, her head still pounding from her hangover, she finally nodded. "That would be nice."

He stepped into the room, picked up the briefcase, gave her some support with a hand under her elbow. "You're sure you're okay to walk?"

In fact, she had some question about that, but she took a step and then another and in a minute they were outside in the hall and then at the main entrance to the cabins. Cottrell accompanied her outside to the razor-wire gate and opened it for her. They stopped there and he put down her briefcase. Turning to say good-bye, she looked up at him. Their eyes met for an instant, and she thought she caught a glimpse of that earlier wariness she had noticed in the courtroom. Again, his eyes seemed old and somehow empty, but— it was as though he had a switch he could throw— suddenly a bit of life came into them. "Your client seems pretty down," he said.

She blew out heavily. "I don't blame him," she said. "He's screwing himself."

"How's that?"

"I dealt him an eight-year top and he turned it down. Now he's looking at LWOP."

"They're moving him to adult?"

"Not yet, but it's probable. I'm trying to get him to help me, but he doesn't seem to know the word 'cooperate.' "

"Maybe he's just scared."

"I'm sure he is. And he should be. Oh, God!" She brought a hand up to her head, squeezed at her temples. With her other hand, she grabbed the side of the gate for support. Cottrell stepped up, grabbed both of her shoulders. "You look like you're going to faint. Maybe you want to sit down."

She nodded and leaned into him. He put his arm around her and walked her back toward the cabins.

*     *     *     *     *

 

From the lobby of the admin building, down the hill Jason Brandt saw the bailiff carrying her briefcase, walking with her to the gate, where they stopped and spent a minute talking. He didn't want her to see him, at least not until she was alone, and so he remained where he was, pretty much out of sight.

Wu hadn't left his thoughts since the night they'd spent together, and now Brandt was unable to take his eyes off her. He had wanted to get to know her since the first time he'd seen her, back right after his law school days. But one or the other of them had always had other relationships going or big cases and she'd more or less slipped from his consciousness until she showed up in his courtroom last week, when finally— he'd thought— there had been no impediment.

Then he really believed that running into her at the Balboa had been a sign. There had been real chemistry between them that night, something uncommon and, he believed, maybe even a little magical. As a general rule, he didn't do one-night stands. The encounter, like it or not, had seemed as though it meant something. Maybe something important.

Then, this morning, thinking for a moment that because she had been near Boscacci when he'd been shot that she, too, might have been physically hurt, made him realize that he'd been way too harsh with her the other morning. Okay, she'd made a mistake by not telling him right away that Bartlett's case wasn't really settled, but maybe it had been innocent after all, something he'd never really given her a chance to assert. Maybe they'd just started talking at the Balboa and in all the personal stuff they'd shared, including the sex, the professional business between them had receded into the background. It certainly had for him.

So he didn't want this antagonism between them to go on any longer. He wanted to apologize for his overreaction, at least see what she had to say to that. And just now, when he'd first seen her coming out of the cabins, he thought he'd take the opportunity to talk to her. One way or another, he thought that the Bartlett matter was going to be over in a few weeks at the most, at least as far as Wu and he were concerned. If Bartlett went to adult court, they wouldn't be adversaries in the same courtroom anymore. Maybe they could pick up where they'd left off. If he could get her to talk to him.

Although if she had gone off on him as ballistic as he had with her, he wasn't sure if he would talk to her.

But then suddenly, as Brandt was watching them, he saw the bailiff put his hands on her shoulders. Then she leaned into him, her face against his chest, and he put his arm around her, keeping it there until they had both disappeared back into the cabins.

His stomach went hollow. He turned to take the long way out the front door of the admin building, where there was less chance that they would inadvertently run into each other.

*     *     *     *     *

 

Cottrell stayed with Wu until she told him she felt better, and then he told her to take care of herself and went inside, back to work. Still, Wu didn't move for a few minutes. She sat on the bench just outside the entrance door to the cabins, trying to summon enough strength to get up and walk to her car. When the cellphone in her briefcase rang, she considered not answering, but then realized that it might be, in fact probably was, the Norths. After all that had transpired so far, she felt that however exhausted she might be, at least she owed them accessibility. She got it on the third ring.

It wasn't the Norths. It was her boss. "Amy? So you're up and about. Where are you?"

"Up at the YGC. I just talked to Andrew."

"Good for you. How's he doing?"

"He's depressed. We talked about starting a club. Not really. That was a joke."

"Well, this isn't. Did you get the message I left at your house about talking to Glitsky?" It came back to her in a flash. "Oh, shit."

"Right," Hardy said. "He's still at his office and he called me at home just now, which I really try to discourage. He was wondering how he could get in contact with you, like immediately. Since I had more or less promised him that you'd see him today, he wondered what was going on. You want his direct number?"

"I guess I'd better."

"Good guess."

*     *     *     *     *

 

By now it was nearly 7:00 P.M. There was no one at any of the desks in Glitsky's reception area at the Hall of Justice, so Wu walked back through the conference room and down the small hallway to the deputy chief's door, which stood ajar.

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.

She considered taking thirty extra seconds and putting on a bra— she didn't want to send any kind of sexual signal— but if it was going to be two minutes, she might as well hear it and then get back in bed. Besides, she wore no makeup, her hair was still damp, her eyes must be ravaged. She was a train wreck.

She opened the door.

In a gray business suit, white shirt, rep tie, Brandt stood awkwardly. Hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat. "Can I come in?"

Stepping back without a word, she let him pass, closed the door behind them.

He crossed over to her all-purpose table, pulled a chair around and sat in it, looking around, getting his bearings, really seeing the room for the first time. The other night they hadn't paused for the grand tour before dragging each other into bed. Afterward she didn't think he'd even turned on the lights, just pulled his clothes on and let himself out.

Arms crossed, waiting, she leaned against the counter by the sink.

"I was down in the street for a while and saw your shadow moving up here, then the lights went out. I thought if I was going to get you, it had to be now."

"Okay, you got me." Then his phrase caught her. "You were down in the street for a while? Doing what?"

"Just standing there." He shrugged again. "Deciding whether to come up and try to talk to you."

Something in his tone stopped what would have been another harsh reply. She cocked her head. "All right. Talk."

"First," he began, "I wanted to apologize."

"Okay."

"But beyond that, I guess I'm having trouble figuring you out." He took a breath, pushed on. "I don't understand what's happening exactly, first the other night with us, then the next morning at my office—"

She cut him off. "Then you accuse me of murder. Talk about not understanding what's happening."

"Amy, I swear to God. I never accused you of anything like murder. I didn't accuse you of anything at all."

"That's funny. I just got back from the Hall of Justice, where Abe Glitsky said you told him there was bad blood between me and Allan. He seemed to think I was some kind of a suspect."

"That couldn't have been me."

"You're saying you didn't talk to him?"

"No. I talked to him. But just telling him about what's happened with Bartlett—"

"And me and Allan."

"Okay. But never even implying . . . I mean, come on. If Glitsky came to that on his own . . . If you want, I'll call him tomorrow. I never meant anything like that. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean . . ." He looked up at her. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Her tone softened. She was too exhausted for another round. "All right, apology accepted, okay? Now if you don't mind, I'm exhausted and your two minutes are up."

But he didn't move. "I didn't just want to apologize." He scratched at the table, took a quick breath. "I wanted to ask you about you and me."

"You and me?" She pulled a chair around and sat on it. "First you accuse me of screwing you for advantage in a case, then you go to Glitsky and somehow give him the idea I might have killed Allan. I don't see any 'you and me' in this picture." She paused, let out a breath. "Look, I don't expect anything from you, Jason. That night was that night. I'm not telling anybody about it, so our jobs are both safe. So now you can go. In fact, you really should go now."

"That's not it," he said.

"No? Then tell me what it is." Sighing again, she shook her head. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I thought it was a game to you, too."

"No. Okay, maybe it started that way at first." He walked over to one of the windows, turned back to her. "For a minute, I thought we had something going. I mean personally." He tapped his chest. "In here." He waited, eyes on her. "I guess not."

She didn't contradict him. Did he really think she was going to fall for this line now? If he would have said something that night, maybe. Because he was right. There had been a real moment between them. They'd both realized it. Beyond the physical stuff, something that had felt to her like a deeper connection. Then in the morning, he'd been gone.

Fool me once, okay. But twice? She didn't think so.

A tense silence gathered, until she finally broke it. "I think you'd better get out of here right now. I mean it."