John Lescroart - The Hearing

Cole stared down at the sheet covering him. 'I shot the gun. They tested my hands. I shot the gun.' He brought his eyes up to Hardy. 'So I must have done it. And by then I couldn't hold out any more anyway.'

'Hold out on what?'

This got an exasperated rise out of him. 'Hey, come on, what are we talking about?'

'Elaine Wager's death, Cole. How about that?'

But he was shaking his head. 'No, man. We're talking g. They got me in that room and I'm coming down hard. I'm dying! You understand? Then Banks tells me he'll see he gets me something as soon as I say I did it. So I told him.'

'That you killed her?'

'Yeah.' He shrugged. 'But hell, I would have told him I'd shot Kennedy if that's what he wanted to hear.'

The Chief Assistant District Attorney of the City and County of San Francisco did not have a big office. In fact, Gabriel Torrey's office was the same size as the other third floor offices which were shared two to a room by the rank and file assistant DAs. The big difference was in the furnishings – a sofa and matching armchairs of exquisitely soft leather, built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, plantation shutters, twin original Tiffany lamps, a Persian rug over the hardwood floor Torrey had installed. And, of course, there was also the desk – a large, custom crafted, beautifully finished cross-section of redwood burl from an old-growth stand of trees that had been clear cut in the late 1970s.

The desk had been a gift to Torrey from the CEO of Pac-Ore Timber. In those days, Torrey was a young attorney working as a lobbyist in Washington, DC, representing whatever clients were willing to pay him back then, regardless of their political agenda. The provenance of the Desk was old news by now – it was simply the stunning centerpiece of an intimidating workspace. The old-time DAs, a handful of old white guys who remained from past administrations, remembered the office from the days when Art Drysdale had been the Chief ADA. Back then it had been just like their own – a mess. Battered green files, sagging metal bookshelves that held binders full of active cases, a cork bulletin board, one wall-mounted six-foot length of two-by-four that held Art's baseball memorabilia.

But Gabriel Torrey believed in the trappings of power. The prosecutors who reported to him would never have cause to doubt that he was hugely important, more so than they would ever be. Victims of crimes and their families would be reassured that their cases were being handled at the highest level. Other visitors to the office -personal guests as well as opposing attorneys and political acquaintances – were greeted not by a faceless bureaucrat, but by an affable, self-assured gentleman in total control of his world. The subtext, Torrey thought, was clear – this man didn't get here, in these surroundings, by mistake. He was a winner. You crossed him at your peril.

Now, a half-hour after he'd finished a wonderful lunch at La Felce, he sat behind the Desk, the jacket of his Armani suit draped over the wooden valet behind him. He wore a silk tie in deep maroon with gold threads over a starched shirt with a subtle purple hue. On the sofa opposite him was a mid-thirties attorney named Gina Roake. Next to her on the cherry end table, a cup of freshly brewed Blue Mountain coffee, untouched, was turning tepid – Ms Roake was so angry that she couldn't have swallowed a drop to save her life. She was representing another woman named Abby Oberlin in a will contest between Abby and her brother Jim, and things had gotten beyond ugly.

'But my client loved her mother, Mr Torrey,' she managed to say. 'She's the one who has taken care of her for the past seven years. Jim hasn't so much as visited in, I don't know, forever. Five years, maybe more.'

'Which is why her mother left Abby the lion's share of her estate?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'And it's valued at around eight million dollars?'

'That's right.'

'A lot of money.' Torrey let the words sink in. 'And all of it to your client. Less your fee of course.'

This got Gina's back up. She chose not to respond to the latter comment, but she was going to stick up for her client. 'She took care of her mother and loved her. Jim is just a selfish…' She bit at her lip. 'He is lying, that's all there is to it. There was no abuse. Abby didn't…' The words stopped.

Torrey leaned forward. He was in prosecutor mode and Gina's client stood accused of a serious crime. Gina could protest about her innocence all day. Torrey would listen patiently, conveying that he'd heard all this before from other attorneys in other, similar cases, and in his vast experience most of them had done what the other family members had accused them of. He spoke quietly, but with a firm edge. 'Nevertheless, your client's brother contends that the will is invalid. That his mother signed it under coercion. Additionally, he has reported this criminal conduct of his sister and this office is going to have no option but to pursue a vigorous prosecution.'

'But it makes no sense. There's no evidence of-'

Torrey's expression became even more stern as he interrupted. He tapped a file folder on the desk in front of him. 'Don't play games with me, Ms Roake. There is a real case here-'

'Her mother fell. She broke her hip. Then she tried to get up too soon and fell again. It happens.'

'Yes it does. And after the second fall, she contracted pneumonia and died.'

Gina could not entirely keep the panic out of her voice. 'You're not implying Abby killed her, are you? Or caused her death somehow? Even Jim's not saying that, and he'd stoop to anything to get some of the money.'

Torrey shook his head. 'I'm not accusing your client of anything. What I am saying is that we've got significant resources that we can and will bring to bear in this type of investigation. Prosecuting instances of abuse of the elderly is one of Sharron Pratt's highest priorities. We can and will subpoena your mother's medical records. Jim Oberlin contends that he believes his mother was over-sedated.' He sat back, lawyer to lawyer. 'Look, Ms Roake, you know how it works. Investigators will talk to Abby's friends. If she's ever complained about all the work her mother required-'

'Well of course she did! She's not a saint. I'm sure there were days…' Gina Roake shook her head.

'Even so.' Torrey spread his hands wide as if to tell her that's what he meant – it could look very bad for Abby Oberlin. He let a silence gather and then sighed heavily, a brief wash of compassion coming to his face. 'Ms Roake. Gina. Did I not ask you to come and see me as a courtesy?' She nodded.

'Why do you think that is?' He patted the folder again. 'When based on the accusations your client's brother has brought against her, I would have been justified sending out some officers to place her under arrest?'

'Under arrest?'

'That's right. Her name in the paper with the whole story, everything Jim has accused her of.'

'No, you can't do that. It's not…' Visibly, she brought herself under control. When she spoke after half a minute, her voice was calm, reasonable. 'Jim just wants money, Mr Torrey. He has no career. He'll never hold a job. That's just who he is. He's desperate. Abby didn't do anything he says.'

Torrey crossed his hands on the desk, reapplied the stern visage. 'You didn't answer my question.'

She wrung her hands. 'I'm sorry. What was it again?'

'Why do you think I asked you down here today?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, I'll tell you.' The tone softened again. 'I've prosecuted more cases like this than I'd care to tell you about, and I've developed a good sense, a very good sense if I may say so, of how these things play out. In this case, there was verifiable physical trauma to Abby's mother. A finder of fact will conclude that there are grounds for a hearing, and after that in all likelihood a full-fledged trial. You know this. Your client probably will be arrested…' he held up a hand, stopping her protest, 'although bail will be reasonable. She'll spend, if she's lucky, about half a million dollars in attorneys' fees, experts, investigation, which is good news for you, except that she won't be able to take any of it out of the estate while it's being contested. The process will take a minimum of two or three years out of your client's life and after all that, even if we don't prove she did anything she's charged with, some civil jury might give her brother all the money on the theory that definitely he did no harm and your client might have.'