John Lescroart - Damage

“I remember it all too well. What about her?”

“Well, for some reason I couldn’t get the idea of her out of my mind. I mean, here’s this young girl comes up to this country full of hope from Guatemala. She gets raped by her bosses’ son, does the right thing and testifies against him, then goes to work in a dry cleaners, lives alone, probably never has a boyfriend, maybe because of shame about the rape. And finally Ro gets out of jail and basically the first thing he does is kill her and burn her body.” Frannie grabbed Hardy’s napkin and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “It’s just so unfair, so unbearable.”

“Hey.” Hardy got up and came around the table, put his arm around her. “Hey.” More gently. He kissed the top of her head and she leaned into him.

After a minute, she sighed. “I don’t know why, but it just came to me sometime in the middle of last night that Abe said there really was nobody to mourn for her. Nobody even to come and get her body, and it just struck me as so, so sad. So I decided I’d go down to the church and light a candle and say a prayer for her. I know it’s such a small thing and it’s probably just superstitious and silly, but I just thought…”

Hardy said, “It’s a beautiful thing, Fran. You are a beautiful person.”

“Well, not really so much, but… at least it was something for somebody who never had anything, not even a tiny chance. Do you know what I’m saying? I felt like I had to do something. So she could maybe at least, if there is such a thing, rest in peace. You know?”

Hardy tightened his arm across his wife’s shoulders. “Amen,” he said.

Since the present they’d bought for Zachary Glitsky’s fourth birthday was a relatively bulky electric piano keyboard, Hardy wound up dropping Frannie off early that Sunday afternoon at the bottom of the steps to Glitsky’s door, after which he continued to drive around looking for a place to park. When he finally made it to the front door, Hardy rang the doorbell, heard footsteps approaching inside, and then Glitsky’s voice. “Who is it?”

“The Easter Bunny,” Hardy said.

“You’re a few weeks early.”

“I’m getting a jump on the holiday. Get it? Jump?”

“Good one,” Glitsky said.

“Are you going to open the door?”

“If you say please.”

Nearly ten minutes later, Hardy was still sitting on the top step outside when Wes Farrell and Sam Duncan appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Farrell was carrying a small gift-wrapped box. He looked up to see his former partner cooling his heels in jeans and a button-down shirt. “Hey, Diz. What are you doing out here? Isn’t Abe home? Isn’t this where the party’s supposed to be?”

“He’s home all right.” Hardy stood up, shook hands with Farrell, gave Sam a hug. “He’s being immature. Let’s see if he’ll open the door for you.” And Hardy reached out and rang the doorbell. Again he heard the footsteps coming up to the inside of the door. “Who is it?”

“Don’t say the Easter Bunny,” Hardy whispered.

Farrell gave Hardy a quizzical look. “I’ll resist the temptation.” Then, to the door, “Wes Farrell, district attorney,” he said.

“He loves to say that,” Sam said. “Makes him sound like an action hero.”

“Hey!” Farrell said. “I am an action hero.”

The door opened. Smiles and greetings, finally Glitsky looking around Wes and Sam and saying with apparent surprise, “Hey Diz, when did you get here?”

“Just now with the rest of the party.”

Frannie appeared from the kitchen, coming up behind Glitsky. When she saw Hardy, she said, “Hey, babe. I was starting to get worried. How far away did you have to park?”

“Couple of miles,” Hardy said.

Twenty minutes later, the three men stood in a knot over in the far corner of Glitsky’s backyard while six women, Glitsky’s father, Nat, and a gaggle of kids were deeply involved in a cutthroat game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

“You’re damn right there’s no bail on Novio,” Farrell was saying.

“On what possible legal basis?” Hardy asked.

“Lying in wait. Makes it special circumstances.”

“He was lying in wait at her house?”

“That’s my position.”

“For how long was he lying in wait?”

“Long enough,” Glitsky said.

“That’s a perfect cop answer,” Hardy said. “But how do you know he didn’t just knock at the door, knowing Durbin had gone off to work, and come on in like he had a hundred times before?”

“No, this day was different. Abe interrogated him personally and he admitted to lying in wait. Unequivocally.”

“You tricked him.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Glitsky said. “That would have been unethical.”

Hardy looked from one of them to the other. “You gentlemen better be careful you don’t give this guy grounds for appeal. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Duly noted,” Farrell said. “But I’m not going to let a possible appeal affect the vigor of my prosecutions. That’s what the people elected me for, and that’s the way I’m going to run the show from here on out.”

“Spoken like a true DA at last,” Hardy said.

Farrell seemed to consider that for a moment. “Damn straight,” he said. “That’s exactly what I am.”

All the other presents were opened. Farrell picked up his box and crossed the living room where Zachary sat surrounded by the day’s booty-the portable piano, a football, a Game Boy box that Abe was clearly not all that pleased with, several books, the latest Disney DVD. “Here you go, Zack. Uncle Wes saved the best for last.”

Zachary untied the bow, pulled off the ribbon, and ripped off the wrapping paper. Seeing the shape and size of the box underneath, Sam turned to Wes and said, “You didn’t.”

“He’ll love it,” Wes said. “Guaranteed. Go ahead, bud, take it out and wear it proudly.”

Zachary couldn’t read yet, which was probably just as well.

The T-shirt read, LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS .

Some books are more works of the imagination and spirit than are others, and this book falls into that category for me. While I generally have to do a great deal of research to get comfortable with legal details, criminal procedure, and other plot elements of my work, in this novel those elements were reasonably familiar to me from the outset. Accordingly, once I had settled upon the basic idea of this book, I set myself directly to the task of writing it, thinking I would interview acquaintances and sources as problems arose in the text. Much to my surprise, those problems for the most part did not arise. Aside from my usual dependence upon the legal expertise of my great friend Al Giannini, I did not have to seek very much other technical advice to make this story real and believable.

This fortuitous circumstance did not come about purely or even mostly by accident, however. When I first starting flirting with the ideas that would become Damage , I sent a preliminary outline of the proposed book to my agent, Barney Karpfinger, and a copy to my editor at Dutton, Ben Sevier. Both of these gentlemen, keen from the outset on the basic idea for the book, spent the better part of a couple of weeks patiently helping me to iron out potential problems and roadblocks with the plot. In all, I believe I completed four complete iterations of the outline, and through the intelligence and efforts of Barney and Ben, by the time I was ready to start putting words on the page, I had a crystal clear vision of what the book would look and feel like, and how I would try to realize this vision. So a special thanks to you both, Barney and Ben-without your diligence, brains, and enthusiasm, Damage would not exist today.