John Lescroart - The First Law

At a little before two o'clock on a chill and overcast Wednesday afternoon, Moses McGuire pulled his old Ford pickup to a grating stop in front of his sister Frannie's house and honked the horn twice.

He waited, blowing on his hands, which he couldn't get to stay warm. The heater in the truck didn't work worth a damn and the driver-side window was stuck halfway down, but he knew it wasn't the weather. It was nerves. He blew into the cup of his hands again, lay on the horn another time.

The door opened. His brother-in-law, Dismas Hardy, walked briskly, businesslike, down his porch steps and the path that bisected his small lawn. Normally he was good for a smile or some wiseass greeting, but today his face was set, his eyes cast down. He carried a rope-wrapped package under one arm, wore jeans and hiking boots and a heavy coat into the pockets of which he'd stuffed his hands. The coat, McGuire thought, was a good idea, not so much for the cold as to disguise the fact that he was wearing Kevlar, and packing.

Hardy, at fifty-two, was two years younger than McGuire. The two men had known each other for over thirty years, since they'd been in Vietnam. Over there, Hardy had pulled McGuire to cover and safety in the midst of an intense firefight-both of the men had been hit, both awarded the Purple Heart. But Hardy had saved McGuire's life and that bond had held, would always hold.

When Hardy's first pass at adult life fell apart, he'd worked for years at the bar Moses owned, the Little Shamrock, and eventually, when Hardy was ready to risk life and commitment again, he became a quarter partner in the bar.

He'd married McGuire's sister, was godfather to one of McGuire's daughters, as Moses was to his.

Family.

Hardy slid in and dumped the package onto the seat between them. "There's your vest. I did have the extra." Saying it aloud seemed to cost him some energy. He drew a deep breath and took a last look back at his house as the truck moved into gear. Turning back to his brother-in-law, he asked, "What are you carrying?"

McGuire motioned over his shoulder, indicating the truck bed. "I got fifty shells and my over and under wrapped in the tarp back there."

"Twelve gauge?"

"Yeah, and in there"-McGuire pointed to the glove box-"I got my Sig."

"Automatic?"

He caught Hardy's tone of disapproval. "They don't always jam," he said.

"Only takes once."

"I expect I'll be using the shotgun anyway."

The truck turned a couple of corners, the men riding in silence until they were rolling on Geary. McGuire blew on his hands again. Finally, Hardy spoke. "You okay with this?"

McGuire looked across the seat, his dark eyes flat. "Completely. You not?"

Hardy worked his mouth, shook his head. "I don't see another choice."

"That's 'cause there isn't one."

"I know. I know. It's just…"

"There's always another choice?"

"Usually."

"Not this time." McGuire bit it off, impatient. He accelerated angrily through a yellow light. "You already tried all of them."

"Maybe not all. That's what I worry about. This would be a bad time to get pulled over, don't you think?"

McGuire touched the brake, slowed a hair. He slammed his hand on the dashboard. "Come on, heater, kick in. Fuck."

Hardy ignored the outburst. "I just think," he said, "we do this, then what?"

"Then we're alive, how about that? We don't, we're not. It's that simple." The next light was red and he had to stop, took the moment to make eye contact. "How many people do these guys have to kill, Diz? How many have they already killed?"

"Allegedly…"

"Don't give me that. You have any doubt at all, reasonable or otherwise?"

"No."

"So don't give me 'allegedly.' You don't believe it yourself."

"Okay, but maybe Abe could bring in the feds. Him going in alone to arrest these guys now…"

"He's not going to be alone. We're backing him up."

Hardy chewed at his cheek. "We're not the cops."

"Truer words were never said. There's no time to call in the feds, Diz. There's no time to convince any bureaucracy to move. You of all people should know that."

"I'm just saying if we had a little more time…"

McGuire shook his head. "Time's up, Diz. They decide you're next-the good money bet by the way-they pull up to you maybe today, maybe tomorrow; they're not going to care if Frannie's in the car with you, or the kids. You're just gone. Like the others."

"I know. I know you're right."

"Damn straight." The light changed. McGuire hit the gas and lurched ahead. "Listen, you think I want to be here? I don't want to be here."

"I keep thinking the law…"

McGuire snorted. "The law. Your precious fucking law. It's gonna protect you, right? Like it has everybody else?"

"It's my life, Mose. I've pretty much got to believe that, don't I?"

"The law's not your life. It's your job. Your life is something else entirely. The first law is you protect your life and the people you love."

Hardy stared out the window.

McGuire was riding his adrenaline. "These guys don't give a shit, Diz. Isn't that pretty clear by now? They've got the law-the cops in this town anyway-in their pocket. It's unfair and unlikely, okay, but that's what's happened. So now all that's left is they take out you and your meddling friend Abe and it's all over. They win. Life goes back to normal. Except you guys are both dead, and maybe my sister with you, and I'm not willing to take that chance." His eyes ticked across the seat. "You're telling me after all that's gone down, you don't see this? You don't know for a fact this can happen? Is going to happen?"

"No. I see it all right, Mose. I don't know how we got here, that's all. It's so unreal."

"Yeah, well, remember 'Nam. It was unreal, too, until the bullets started flying. The World Trade Center was pretty unreal, too, if you think about it. You think people are reasonable, you think there are rules. But then, guess what? Suddenly there aren't."

"All right. But we're not going in shooting, Mose. We're backing up Abe, and that's all we're doing."

"If you say so."

"Unless something goes wrong."

McGuire threw him another look, couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Hardy would crack wise at his own execution. The truck turned onto the freeway, going south. Hardy pulled a box from his jacket pocket and set it on his lap, then pulled off the lid. Reaching under his arm, he pulled out the massive, blue steel Colt's Police Special that he'd carried when he'd been a cop years before. He snapped open the cylinder, spun it, and began pulling. 357 copper-jacketed hollow-points from the box one at a time, dropping them into their slots.

When the six bullets were in place, he closed up and reholstered the gun, then pulled a second cylinder from his other pocket. Methodically-click, click, click as they fell into the cylinder-he sat filling the speed loader.

Ten o'clock, a Wednesday morning in the beginning of July.

John Holiday extended one arm over the back of the couch at his lawyer's Sutter Street office. Today he was comfortably dressed in stonewashed blue jeans, hiking boots, and a white, high-collared shirt so heavily starched that it had creaked when he lowered himself into his slouch. His other hand had come to rest on an oversize silver-and-turquoise belt buckle. His long legs stretched out all the way to the floor, his ankles crossed. Nothing about his posture much suggested his possession of a backbone.