John Lescroart - Damage

Obviously surprised at his answer-most of the “regular citizens” she’d quote in tomorrow’s article were ringers, supplied by the Curtlees-she stepped back and looked up at him, studying his face while her own took on a questioning look. “Don’t I know you?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m sure I’d remember.”

She kept looking at him.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m trying to get to the stairs.”

OUR TOWN

By Sheila Marrenas

Tyranny advances by small increments.

Just last week, as recounted in this column, Roland Curtlee, the son of the publishers of this newspaper, was released on bail while he awaits a retrial for a crime that he may or may not have committed over a decade ago. Though convicted in the homicide of a woman with whom he admittedly had an intimate relationship, Mr. Curtlee was recently ordered released from prison, citing prejudice against him in the courtroom during his trial, by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeal. While his lawyers prepare for his new trial, Mr. Curtlee was released on bail. And there matters should have remained, and no doubt would have remained if not for the extra legal efforts of San Francisco’s police department, and in particular its head of homicide, Lieutenant Abraham Glitsky.

Glitsky had been the chief investigator in the original case against Mr. Curtlee and a prosecution witness during the trial. Within days of Mr. Curtlee’s release from jail, another witness in Mr. Curtlee’s trial, Felicia Nuñez, died in a fire in her apartment. Although this death has not been ruled a murder, Glitsky took it upon himself to call upon Mr. Curtlee at his home, ostensibly to verify his alibi for the time of the woman’s death, but in fact Glitsky did not conduct a formal interrogation at all. The visit, then, served no purpose other than to harass Mr. Curtlee.

Wishing to discuss this issue further with Glitsky, Mr. Curtlee called on the lieutenant at his home the next day, an act that Glitsky quickly and spuriously labeled a threat to him and his family. With this “threat” as his pretext, Glitsky again appeared with other policemen at Mr.

Curtlee’s home. Showing no warrant and in complete disregard for Mr. Curtlee’s rights, Glitsky tried to place him under arrest. When Mr. Curtlee demanded an explanation, officers attacked and badly beat him.

In the ensuing melee, the police battered Mr. Curtlee about the head and shoulders, causing multiple lacerations on his scalp and face, and breaking his arm, before they manhandled him into their waiting police car for the trip downtown.

Yesterday, charged with several absurd criminal counts, including attempted murder, this farcical (were it not tragic) travesty of justice came to an end when Judge Erin Donahoe once again released Mr. Curtlee on bail, and this in spite of the show of force orchestrated by police, with the new chief of police, Vi Lapeer, in attendance along with District Attorney Wes Farrell, Assistant Chief DA Amanda Jenkins, and Glitsky himself along with the two other arresting officers.

Rarely have the police in our town so clearly demonstrated their utter disregard for privacy, civil rights, and due process as it has in this case. The fact that Lieutenant Glitsky remains in a position of authority argues strongly that this unconstitutional behavior, and police brutality in general, is condoned by law enforcement and prosecutors at the highest levels. And when the rule of law goes out the window, as it so clearly has in this case, we may be sure that tyranny has taken another step forward, and a true police state is that much closer to becoming reality.

On the following Friday morning, Glitsky came out of his bedroom at a few minutes after seven and stopped a minute at the kitchen door to watch his daughter work on her pancakes. Intent as a sculptor, Rachel was wiping a loaded forkful around her plate, catching every possible drop of syrup, humming quietly to herself. Finally, quick as a mouse, she brought the bite to her mouth and popped it in, only now looking up and seeing her father. Having her mouth full didn’t stop her from breaking into a grin and talking. “Daddy’s up.”

“That he is. How’s my sweetie pie this morning?”

“Good.”

He came over and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll continue after you’ve swallowed, okay?” Walking over to the stove, only a couple of steps in their small kitchen, he poured water from the simmering teakettle into the cup that Treya had waiting for him on the counter. When he turned around, he saw that Rachel had scrunched her face into a question mark. “Is today Saturday?” she asked.

“Nope.”

A pause. “Are you wearing your bathrobe to work?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Really. I thought it would be fun. What do you think?”

“I didn’t think they’d let you.”

“Who?”

“Everybody.”

“You think somebody would try to stop me? What if I gave them my look?”

“What look?”

“This one.” With his scar, his hawklike nose, and jutting brow, Glitsky had a fearsome visage when he frowned, and now he leaned in close and gave his daughter his best shot, accompanied by a threatening growl.

She broke into laughter.

“Hey,” Glitsky said, “that’s supposed to scare you. What kind of a cop would I be if I couldn’t scare people?”

“Maybe you scare other people, but not me. I know when you’re teasing.”

“I wasn’t teasing. I was practicing.”

“You better practice more, then.”

Glitsky sat down, sipped at his tea. “You’re right. Maybe I’d better. Where’s your mom?”

“Back with Zack. I think he wet again.” She went back to her pancakes for a minute, and when her mouth was completely full, she said, “You’re not really wearing your bathrobe to work, are you?”

“Really? No. I’m just a little slow getting dressed this morning.”

“Mom was, too, you know.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“She had on her bathrobe, too.”

“She did? Maybe we’ll start a club.”

Glitsky rarely took a day off. When he’d had his heart attack and then, not so long after that, had been shot, he’d drawn down significantly on his sick leave. His recovery from the shooting featured medical complications too numerous to mention and he’d gone on long-term disability for the better part of two years. In short, during his career the city of San Francisco had already paid him for five hundred and thirty-two days-he’d counted and kept track-when he hadn’t gone in to work. This bothered him. He figured that was more than enough and he generally felt that it wouldn’t be right to take any more, especially when he wasn’t sick.

Likewise, except for the births of Rachel and Zachary, Treya hadn’t taken a day off for the whole time she’d worked for Wes Farrell’s predecessor, Clarence Jackman. Now she was only a few weeks into Farrell’s administration, and she didn’t want to make an unfavorable impression on her new boss by missing work before he clearly understood that she wasn’t the kind of person who took days off when it suited her.

Now Treya came into the kitchen and stopped when she saw her husband, sitting drinking tea in his bathrobe. She only had time to give him a quick questioning look before Zachary barged his way in around her and over to the table. Their son had been hit by a car the year before and now wore a helmet against further brain trauma whenever he was awake and ambulatory. He got into his chair and looked in disbelief at his plate. “Rachel ate my pancakes!”

“You weren’t here.”