John Lescroart - Nothing But The Truth

‘Your typical prosecutor, it makes his day to keep mothers from their families. As you know.’

Hardy used to be a prosecutor and he remembered. It wasn’t exactly that he had wanted to separate mothers and children, but he’d never shed a tear over sending someone he’d convicted off to jail, even if a relative or lover was sobbing horribly behind him in the courtroom, which happened quite frequently. So Freeman was right – Hardy shouldn’t put any hope in a media campaign with Scott Randall. ‘But Pratt might be different,’ the old man said. ‘She’s got to care about public reaction, about votes, right? We’ve got an election here in a couple of weeks.’

‘Unfortunately, not Pratt’s. She’s got two more years no matter what we do now. Still, we can try it,’ Freeman conceded, though it was plain he considered it a long shot. ‘Of course, after her night in jail, Frannie might have decided that this precious secret of hers isn’t the hill she wants to die on. Especially when she learns her friend may have left town.’

Hardy was at the jail at six forty-five, and they let him inside at seven sharp. Freeman was going to talk to Marian Braun, and try to make some apology with which Frannie would go along. He hoped. He also knew that Glitsky would light a fire under the homicide inspectors working the Beaumont case to find Ron.

But first there was Frannie. He had to see her again, get some sense of what was happening, and to that end he was here.

The door to the visitors’ room opened and she stood still, as though afraid to move forward, perhaps afraid of him. The guard shot a questioning look at Hardy. ‘This OK? You ready?’

And as the door closed behind her, Frannie took one step into the room.

‘He wasn’t home.’ Hardy was using his ‘I’ve got bad news’ lawyer voice, uninflected and neutral. Reciting facts. ’Ron wasn’t there. He’s moved out.‘

She didn’t look any better than she had the night before, but she didn’t look worse, either. Maybe she’d slept a little. The worst thing was this tension that seemed to keep her from moving forward. Hardy had spent so much time punishing himself for his inability to get her sprung out of jail that it had never occurred to him that she might be harboring similar self-loathing feelings for what she’d put him and the kids through.

Something in her look – and that thought struck him now. He would take the first literal step, reaching for her. With a heart-rending sob, she fell into his arms.

‘I couldn’t tell you last night, Dismas. Abe was there, remember. He came in just as we got to it, or started to.’

‘So tell Abe, too.’

She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do that. I told Ron that I couldn’t promise not to tell you, that I told you everything, but Abe wouldn’t be the same thing at all.’

‘Couldn’t you have just asked him to leave last night, step outside for a minute?’

‘No, not in front of you. Then he would have known I’d told you something, wouldn’t he? And what could that be except Ron’s secret? He wouldn’t have let it go. You know Abe. It’s not a matter of trust, but he’s a cop. He’s always a cop first, even with you.’

Hardy knew she was right. A couple of years before, he’d had a case where he’d gotten confused on that point, and Abe hadn’t talked to him for several months. If Abe knew that Hardy was holding a secret that related to one of Abe’s cases and didn’t tell him about it, it would be tricky at best. Frannie had saved him from having to deal with that.

She sat next to him, her hands holding his on her lap. She was still in jail, but at least they were talking now, man and wife again. What he really wanted to know about was the relationship between her and Ron, but he wouldn’t ask that specifically. It shouldn’t matter. She was his wife and she needed his help. That was today’s issue; when she was out of this situation, he’d deal with the rest of it.

Also, he told himself that if it did matter, if something threatening to their marriage was going on, then she should tell him – she would tell him, wouldn’t she? He knew that the betrayal of failing to tell would be worse than anything she might have done. She would tell him.

But he couldn’t ask directly. He’d go general and see how she went with it. He put on his lawyer face, and asked in his least aggressive tone, ‘So what’s this all about?’

Frannie was using his hands as a pair of worry beads. He noticed she was shaking and took off his nylon jacket. He put it over her shoulders.

The guard knocked and said she was going to miss breakfast if this meeting didn’t end, but Hardy with his vast legal expertise finagled a couple of cups of coffee and this morning’s food unit, biscuits and gravy, for which they waited a few minutes in an uncomfortable silence.

Why doesn’t he ask me? she was thinking. Can he really care so little that he doesn’t even ask? If it were me, that’s the only question I’d have, about me and Ron.

He’s been in this business too long, that’s it. It’s changed him so fundamentally. Now he sits there so cold and clinical and he’s got another case , another problem to solve. Never mind if his wife’s been unfaithful. He just wants to know what happened . Just the facts, ma’am – but it wasn’t a Joe Friday joke with him. It was his essence.

Please, Dismas, would you just care enough about us to ask?

She tried to will him to talk, but he only sat at the table, patient and understanding, waiting for her breakfast to be delivered. Occasionally he would squeeze her hand, the way he might comfort any female client.

She wanted to punch him.

When the tray arrived, Frannie took a few quick bites. She was famished. She had been so upset last night that she’d been unable to get down any of her evening meal. Finally, she put the plastic spoon down and sipped at her coffee. ‘OK.’ She spoke to herself in a near whisper, as though afraid that even in this private room, someone would hear. ‘But this has to stay between us.’

‘This secret that can get you out of jail? You want me to know and not use it?’

‘That’s the only way I can tell you, Dismas. That’s what I promised Ron. I can’t tell you as my lawyer, especially not as my lawyer. Only as my husband. You’ll understand when you hear what it is.’

Hardy wasn’t sure this would prove to be true – he wasn’t understanding much of this as it developed – but he knew he had to know, and to know he had to promise not to tell.

He wasn’t comfortable with any part of the idea. And beyond his own personal reservation, there were two other basic, professional reasons for his reluctance to make this promise. As a licensed attorney, he was an officer of the court, obliged to cooperate with law enforcement in a whole slew of public matters.

The second reason was even more fundamental – if Frannie told her secret to him as her lawyer, it would be protected under the attorney-client privilege. No court could make him reveal it – it was a shield. What Frannie was asking was fraught with danger. As a private citizen, he could very easily find himself called before the grand jury and in the same position as his wife, unable to testify, tossed into the clink. Beyond that, if he got into any investigation about Ron Beaumont, and he couldn’t claim privilege, then he could very easily picture himself having to lie about what he did or didn’t know to the very people – Glitsky, Canetta – who might be helping him. It was ugly in all respects, and he tried to explain it all calmly to Frannie.

But she wasn’t budging. ‘No,’ she still spoke in a near-whisper, but her voice was firm. ‘What will happen is that you’ll trust the privilege.’