John Lescroart - Damage

“I don’t think he’d do that himself. But he might in fact hire someone else. No, not even hire. It would be some kind of a favor.”

She put down her cup. “That’s what I mean, Clifford. Why do we have to live with that fear every day? I don’t understand why we can’t have him removed somehow.”

“We tried that before, if you remember. He’s resilient. I was sure he’d quit when they moved him to payroll. But no, here he is again, and again apparently with the support of his chief. These cops and their stupid loyalty. And there’s just no getting rid of our brand-new chief. Not for a while, anyway.”

“So here we are again.” Theresa dabbed at her lifeless lips. “I don’t really understand what’s the point of acquiring influence if we can’t keep ourselves a little bit insulated from this riffraff element? Isn’t this what we work for? Instead, with all the money we hand out to that same element and all the good we try to do, it just doesn’t seem right.”

“It isn’t right, Theresa. But it’s the way this town is. Basically insane.”

She cut another small slice of pineapple and chewed it primly and completely. “And I don’t suppose,” she said, “that our good Mr. Farrell would let us take Ro with us if we went East, would he? Maybe just for an extended vacation?”

“I think not.”

“So why again did we donate all that money to his campaign?”

“He was the lesser of two evils, Theresa. And in his defense, I have to say that he could probably have made a stronger stance against bail and kept Ro in jail, which he did not do. So I think, all in all, the campaign money was well spent. So far, at least. If he doesn’t try to get too cute and fancy pleasing everybody.”

Theresa’s eyes went to the platter of bacon in front of her. She moved it forward a couple of inches before thinking better of it and pushing it back. Reaching for her grapefruit juice, she asked, “Why are they so out to get him?”

“Ro?” He picked up a bite of his own bacon, chewed, swallowed, and sighed.

“I mean,” she asked, “what did he do that was so terrible? Sowed a few wild oats? Show me a young man who hasn’t done that.” Suddenly Theresa’s eyes glistened with the threat of tears. “When I think of the time he’s already lost and now finally they let us have him again… but for how long? I don’t know if I can bear it if they take him away again. I just don’t understand the witch hunt, Clifford. I really don’t. What did he really do? I just don’t understand it.”

“What he did,” Cliff Curtlee began, “was he committed the grave sin of not apologizing for the class he comes from, our class. And in this city, as you know, there is no greater crime. Because we’re all exactly equal, don’t you see?”

“But that’s so patently absurd.”

“Nevertheless, that is precisely what-and I take my share of responsibility for this-that’s precisely what we didn’t take seriously enough at the trial. I mean, yes, he might have gotten a little out of control with some of these girls, and of course that was wrong, but he was young and really, who were they? Did they count in any meaningful way? Would they ever?”

Just at this moment, Linda Salcedo, one of their young and attractive staff, came through the door from the kitchen holding a pitcher filled with freshly made coffee. “Ah,” Cliff said, “here is my savior. Perfect timing. A little more, please, just half a cup. There, that’s good, thanks. You’re a dream, Linda, what would we do without you?”

Linda gave him a thin smile and curtsied politely. “Gracias . ” And turned toward Theresa. “Señora?”

“No thanks, dear, I’m fine.”

Another little bow and the young woman disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Darling girl,” Theresa said.

“Wonderful,” Cliff agreed, then continued on his earlier topic. “Not saying that if Ro in fact hurt one of these girls, there shouldn’t be some punishment, but clearly his sentence was out of all proportion to the damage he did. And our failure-mine as well as his lawyers-was that we didn’t understand how deep the prejudice of those jurors went, that class divide. The jury wasn’t going to forgive him. They were going to make him an example. In retrospect, and I’ve agonized over this a thousand times, we should have played him down market, the way we did last week. That worked pretty well. That judge couldn’t help but see him not as a boy with a little money and maybe a leadership attitude, but as a beaten-down victim.”

“I hated seeing him like that. That’s not who he is.”

“No. But that’s who he may have to be if he wants a lighter sentence next time. Or even no sentence at all.”

“But best would be if there is no next time.”

Cliff nodded. “Of course. I agree. And I know that Tristan and Ro are working on that now. So we’ll just have to wait and see how that turns out. And here again, we still may be able to prevail on Mr. Farrell to hold off scheduling the new trial for quite some time, or even canceling it altogether, especially if none of the earlier witnesses can be found to testify again, which looks like it may in fact be the case.”

“Let’s hope so. But if they do reschedule”-she lowered her voice-“I really think we might want to send Ro someplace safe if we can, where they don’t extradite.”

Cliff sucked in a breath. “Well,” he said, “of course that’s a possibility. But it’s a ten-and-a-half-million-dollar decision, Theresa. We could do it, but let’s exhaust all our other options first.”

Without making a conscious decision to do so, Farrell stopped by his former law offices on Sutter Street. He was still one of the name partners at the firm Freeman, Farrell, Hardy & Roake, even though his private practice had dried up on the not-unreasonable assumption that it was a hard sell to clients seeking a defense attorney if you happened to be the person also charging them with their crimes. Still, he supposed that his name had a certain advertising value to the firm; and in terms of the other shareholders in the firm, the plain fact remained that out of the four name partners, three were essentially uninvolved in the practice: David Freeman was dead, Farrell himself was the DA, and Gina Roake was spending most of her time writing her second novel after the modest success of her first one.

This left as the only practicing name partner Dismas Hardy.

Farrell came up the main staircase into the lobby and strode across to the circular reception area. Behind the low wall, Phyllis sat at her keyboard, multitasking away in her multiple roles as secretary, chief receptionist, and gatekeeper to Hardy’s office. Catching Farrell on approach, her fingers stopped moving as her mouth first pursed in faint distaste, then rearranged itself into an arctic smile.

“Mr. Farrell,” she enthused. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Phyllis. Is Diz in?”

Clearly the question she was hoping he wasn’t going to ask. Her lips reassumed their pained expression and she lifted her arm so that she could consult her wristwatch. “He’s got a scheduled appointment in twenty minutes,” she said, emphasizing the vast difference between that appropriate business moment and Farrell’s unexpected appearance. “Is he expecting you?”

“No. I just thought I’d drop by for a minute. Maybe you could buzz him for me? Or I could just…” He made as if to go around her station and straight to Hardy’s door.

“No! No!” She held up a restraining hand. “Let me just tell him you’re here.” And she lifted her telephone and pushed a number.

One minute later, Dismas Hardy closed his office door behind them both. “She’s armed, you know?” he said.