John Lescroart - The Hearing

Her administration was going to be known not for enforcing outmoded laws, but for doing what was right. And Sharron Pratt always knew, without doubt, what that was – no matter what, she was on the side of the angels.

But if Torrey wanted to get Sharron elected again, he was going to have to get her to bend, except Torrey knew – to borrow from an old song – that Pratt was an oak, not a willow. She did not bend.

Maybe, though, he could get her to acknowledge that a private moral position did not have to be reflected absolutely in the political arena. Maybe there could be a gray area, although gray areas, too, God knew (or at least Torrey did), were not Pratt's long suit. 'I don't know,' Torrey began again. 'Maybe people didn't realize how the results of your – our – programs would affect them.'

Pratt's nostrils flared and her vibrant eyes flashed. 'What do you mean by that, Gabe?'

'Well, let's take the homeless, for example. Now, being homeless is not a crime in itself.'

'Not a crime at all.' Pratt employed a crisp schoolmarmism correction almost as a verbal tic.

But Torrey was used to her, and her response didn't slow him down. 'And no one's saying it is. But you'll recall one of your campaign issues was that we treat the homeless with respect, and that seemed to strike a positive chord with the voters.'

'Absolutely, as well it should.'

Also, Torrey was thinking, remove the word 'should' from her conversation and his boss would become functionally mute. 'Yes, well, in practice you have to admit the policy caused some problems.'

This, Torrey knew, was a whopper of an understatement. After Pratt had been swept to power on a tide of benevolent humanity, she formed a coalition with the mayor and several supervisors and, to a great deal of positive press, announced to the country that under this administration, San Francisco would be a haven for the homeless. No longer would the police hassle the poor and downtrodden. There would be no more rousting. There would be city-funded programs for free meals. Armies of volunteers would move out from the soup kitchen base and take sandwiches to the hungry where they lived.

In short order, this Utopian policy resulted in a mass migration of many of the nation's chronically unemployed to the City by the Bay. Within months, camps of vagrants, drunks, the psychologically impaired, and drug addicts had essentially taken over Golden Gate Park, Dolores Park, any number of neighborhood green areas. The downtown streets became gauntlets of panhandlers, drunks in doorways, public urinators. And then, as the worst became bolder, polite requests for spare change became belligerent demands and gave way to intimidations, purse snatchings, shakedowns and muggings.

'But those weren't the homeless we were trying to help,' Sharron said. 'They were the criminal element, that's all. People needed to see that. We just need to educate them.'

Torrey was shaking his head. 'No, Sharron. They'll never see it. They think you let the bums in. You ruined the tourist industry.'

Pratt straightened her back and lifted her martini glass to her lips. She sipped contemplatively. 'Is it too late?'

'Let me ask you one, Sharron. Are you sure you want to keep doing this? That you want to run again?'

'That's two.' She smiled half-heartedly, lightly touched Torrey's arm again. 'Do I want to keep doing this?' she repeated. 'We've done a lot of good, Gabe, haven't we?'

Again, Torrey crafted a careful response. 'I think we've changed the agenda in a positive way, Sharron. People are thinking about the office – the District Attorney – in a way they never had before, now more as a force for social, maybe even moral, leadership. And all that's to the good.'

'But…'

Torrey popped a couple of nuts. 'But the fact remains that most of the electorate seems to have returned to the theory that the main role of the District Attorney is to prosecute people who break the laws. And that's never been your forte. You want to help people. That's always been what's driven you. Which is why I ask if you want to keep doing this.'

She sighed, considering. 'It's a bully pulpit, Gabe. We're way ahead of the curve in our thinking. We knew that going in. We can't just keep building more prisons and throwing more people into them. We've got to-'

Torrey put his hand on Pratt's arm, stopping her. They had to educate the masses, and the criminals, and the victims, and do counseling, and rehab, and yada, yada. yada. At some point, before he'd come to work full-time in the Hall of Justice and become immersed in the stupidly hopeless march of crime through the system, he'd even believed a good portion of it. But that day was in the past.

'Let's keep this discussion on point,' he said a little more firmly than he'd planned. But before his boss could react negatively, he pressed on. 'We've tried to raise the moral bar, Sharron. We've done the right thing time and time again. But the polls are telling us that the people aren't getting the message, or it's not the one they want. Now the question is, do you want to go ahead? And if you do, I really think the wise move would be to consider' – he paused – 'refining your position slightly.'

Her mouth twisted in distaste. 'No.'

He almost said, 'Well, that was a delightful exchange of ideas.' But the words that came out were, 'No what? You don't want to go ahead?'

'No. I don't want to quit. I've worked hard for this position, for the people's trust. I am the absolutely best person for District Attorney. And let's not forget that I'm running the office the way it should be run.'

Torrey brought a hand to his mouth to hide the grimace. That old 'should' again. Pratt's vision was at least entirely, self-righteously consistent, he thought; never mind the way things actually were. Pratt had a vision of a better world, and the people who didn't share it were stupid, damned, ignorant, venal, criminal, clueless, or all of the above. Therefore, they didn't count. But her adviser had to try to get Pratt at least to realize that their votes did. 'OK,' he said. 'Then maybe it's just a question of perception.'

Pratt's bright eyes sparked. She liked this direction. 'Of what?'

'That you're soft on crime.'

The spark turned dark. 'That's rubbish. I hate crime. Why do you think I ran for the job in the first place? It's criminals – the people – that I don't hate. I try to understand them, see what happened, how they got-'

He brought some more pressure to her forearm. 'Sharron. Perception, OK?'

A show of reluctance, then she nodded. 'Go on.'

'The killing of Elaine Wager by this vagrant.'

'That is so horrible. I loved Elaine, Gabe.'

'Everybody loved Elaine, Sharron. That's my point. Here's a much loved, well-known community figure, daughter of a popular ex-senator, and African-American to boot. She is brutally murdered by a homeless white man for a few coins in her purse. Are you seeing where I'm going with this?'

To his satisfied surprise, he saw that his idea had clicked with Sharron.

'And one other thing,' he said.

'What's that?'

'If you don't mind, I'd like to try the case myself.'

This did bring a clearly visible reaction, almost a start. 'But I need…' She slowed herself down. 'Why would you want to do that, Gabe?'

Torrey had stopped chewing his nuts. He put down his glass, met Sharron's eyes. 'When she first came up-'

'This is Elaine?'

He nodded. 'When Chris Locke was DA.'

Her mouth tightened. In private, Sharron referred to Locke's administration as 'the Neanderthal years'. Since her own election, she had purged the office of all but a very few of Locke's old prosecutors, and it was no secret that this was part of the reason that now her office couldn't seem to convict anyone. She'd had to let them go for their political incorrectness, to say nothing of the general culture of incorrigibility. Locke had been black but he'd hired, in Pratt's view, far too many white males who'd adopted a macho 'win at all costs' mentality that had infected the office – getting convictions, sure, but at what cost?