John Lescroart - Damage

In a hearing today at the Hall of Justice, Superior Court Judge Sam Baretto set bail for the recently remanded Mr. Curtlee at $10 million. Though this figure is on its face exorbitant, the Curtlee family had no serious objections: “Any amount that allows our innocent son to reclaim some of his life as a normal citizen is worth whatever it might cost,” said Mr. Curtlee’s mother, Theresa, after the bail figure was announced. “We are looking forward to his second trial, and are confident that this time, justice will prevail, and Ro will walk away a free man.”

Amanda Jenkins was talking to her lunch partner and boyfriend, an investigator for the DA’s office named Matt Lewis. “Farrell loves to play the aw-shucks-I’m-not-a-politician game, but he knew damn well that if he didn’t put some pressure on Baretto that there was no avoiding bail. Look. I’m not saying he should have back-channeled Baretto and threatened to challenge him out of the building, but we both know elected officials in this town who would have done exactly that. At the very least, Farrell should have been in court and stood on counsel’s table and screamed if he had to so Baretto got the message loud and clear. Instead, it was the Curtlees and all their power against a lowly assistant DA, me. Who did Farrell think was going to win that fight?”

“Still,” Lewis said, “ten mil.”

“It’s ten mil only if Ro skips, and that’s never going to happen. They just put up their house as a property bond, written before they left the building.”

“So Farrell lied to you?”

“At least he deliberately misled me. Also,” Jenkins went on, “Farrell’s leaving out that we’re talking a couple of years here before Ro gets his new trial. If even then.”

“A couple of years ?”

“Who’s going to be pushing for it?” she asked. “Ro’s lawyers don’t want it, for obvious reasons. Farrell isn’t going to press since none of the victim’s family is around anymore. So this way, he can keep the Curtlees happy so they can write nice articles about him. That fucking Sheila Marrenas. Which leaves guess who as the only party interested in putting this scumbag back on trial within the decade? Well, maybe there are two of us.”

“Who’s the other one?”

“Glitsky. Perhaps.”

“Well, if you’ve got to have an ally, you could do worse. Especially with his wife just outside Farrell’s office.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe.”

Lewis reached a hand and rested it palm side up on the white tablecloth. After a moment of silence, Jenkins put her own hand on top of his. “Farrell doesn’t understand how bad they can be,” she said. “These guys, the Curtlees, not just Ro, although he is in a class by himself. They are truly evil. The thought of going up against them again, it scares the shit out of me. And might Glitsky, for that matter.”

“Hey, you both already did it once.”

“And barely survived.” At his skeptical look, she went on, “If that’s an exaggeration, it’s a small one. You know why I got yanked off trying homicides all those many years ago? Was it because I wasn’t good at them? No. It was because I succeeded with Ro. I put him down and his parents spent the next few years trying their damnedest to ruin my reputation. I drank too much. I slept around. I withheld evidence. In the end, Pratt had to send me down ‘for the good of the team.’ You probably read all about it.”

Trying to lighten it up, Lewis asked, “That was you?”

But Jenkins wasn’t laughing. “And Glitsky, too.”

“Amanda, he’s head of homicide and used to be deputy chief. Nobody’s ruined his career.”

“They came close. You know what he was doing before he got appointed deputy chief? This was after he had already been head of homicide. Give up? Payroll. Head of homicide to payroll. The trajectory there isn’t up.”

“So what happened? How’d he get back?”

“Frank Batiste became chief of police, that’s how. He and Glitsky go way back. But without Batiste, Glitsky was done. And he was done because the Curtlees, and Marrenas, never let up behind the scenes. I don’t think even he knows exactly how far they went. But he must have seen at least some of the articles. As head of homicide, Glitsky tolerated sloppy detective work; that was the real reason we had the worst conviction rate in the country. He routinely told his men to plant evidence, his guys kept and/or sold the dope they found serving their warrants. You name it. If it was bad, he did it. Oh, and my favorite, he actually took part in the ambush that killed Barry Gerson.” A previous head of homicide. “Glitsky maybe even killed him himself.”

“Yeah, but nobody believed that.”

“Still, the Courier printed it. And don’t kid yourself. People did believe it. People believe anything. Obama wasn’t born in the U.S. We never landed on the moon.”

“Well,” Lewis said, smiling again, “everybody knows those.”

Jenkins blew out. “Well, you see what I’m saying. The Curtlees print whatever lies they find convenient, and some significant percentage of the lunatic fringe-which in this town is very large, as you know-believes it all. So I’m stuck down in crimes against women instead of homicide and Glitsky works ten years to get back to where he was when he arrested Ro all these many years ago.” She drank off what remained of her cranberry juice. “And so, thanks to Mr. Farrell and the Ninth Circuit, here we are back again with Glitsky and me the only ones trying to get Ro back to trial. I’ll tell you what, Matt, I don’t know if I’m going to have the guts to do it. I don’t know if the Curtlees won’t try to stop me physically. Or Ro himself might.”

“They’ve never done anything like that before, have they?”

“Hey, you don’t have to believe me. Maybe I’m paranoid. But I know what they’re capable of. And I’ll tell you something else.” She lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “I almost hope they try something.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You notice I’m carrying a larger purse? For the first time in my career, since Ro’s out, I am packing heat.”

Amanda Jenkins did not know that she had another ally besides Abe Glitsky in her quest to get Ro Curtlee back behind bars.

Sam Duncan was sitting at her kitchen table at about eight thirty when she heard the front door open and the sound of Farrell’s voice as he entered their house on the periphery of Buena Vista Park. He was talking to their dog, a yellow Labrador named Gert, in a gentle singsong voice that bore no resemblance to the way he talked most of the time. “I know it’s a long, long day, baby, but you’re doing so good. So, so, so good. That’s a good girl. That’s the best girl. Yes, okay, you’re my very favorite girl.”

Man and dog got to the kitchen and Farrell stopped, straightening up. “Actually,” he whispered as Gert jumped across the room to greet Sam, “she’s my second favorite girl. But she gets jealous if I don’t tell her it’s her.” Following the dog, he leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “You’re my very favorite.”

No response.

“Female,” Wes added. “Gert’s only three years old so I call her a girl, which seems appropriate, even if she is a dog, whereas you are a mature and lovely human woman whom I would never under any circumstances call a girl.”

She looked up at him. “I can’t believe you let Ro Curtlee out on bail.”

Farrell stopped halfway to shrugging out of his coat. “ ‘And you’re my favorite male,’ ” he said with a little lilt, meant to mimic Sam. “ ‘Human male, I mean. And how was your day, honey?’ ” He got the coat off and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs. “Actually,” he said, “I didn’t let Ro Curtlee out on bail. Judge Baretto did that.”