John Lescroart - Hard Evidence

When Drysdale had finished, Fowler opened his eyes. ‘Let me tell you a story, Art. This kid is sitting on his front lawn, minding his own business, and one of his neighbors comes by and tells him there’s a warehouse down the street paying top dollar for any goods brought to it, no questions asked. The neighbor shows him a roll he just got for a car stereo and two bicycles. Another neighbor comes by, flashes another wad of dough. This goes on for a week, and pretty soon our boy is thinking he’d be some kind of fool not to take advantage of this opportunity like all of his neighbors.

‘See? There’s two parts to stealing – taking and fencing – and both are risky, but now one half the risk is eliminated. So, and this is important’ – Fowler leaned forward over his desk, out of the flow of air from the fan -‘it is the impetus of this sting operation that causes our boy to go and commit a crime.’

‘Excuse me, Your Honor, but these people are already committing crimes. They’re going to fence them somewhere.’

‘But by making it easy to fence them, Counselor, we are encouraging them to steal more.’

Drysdale sat back. He knew Fowler’s argument. He just didn’t agree with it. But he was only the running footman. ‘Mr Locke doesn’t agree with you, Judge. Neither does Mr Rigby.’

Fowler allowed himself a tight smile. ‘Well, now, that’s what makes this country great, isn’t it?’

Drysdale leaned forward himself. ‘The cops have put in a lot of time and money on this already, Judge. So have we. We’re taking these guys off the street -’

‘Shooting them would also take them off the street. Art. And shooting them is also illegal.

‘This isn’t illegal.’

Fowler finally sat back, breaking the eye contact. ‘You know, it’s funny, but I’m the judge. It’s my courtroom and if I say it’s illegal, you and Mr Locke and Mr Rigby and anybody else will just have to live with it.’

Now Drysdale sat back. He realized that he was sweating and wiped a hand across his forehead. ‘I’d like to at least leave the brief,’ he said.

‘Fine, leave the brief. I’ll read it if I get the chance.’

‘The son of a bitch! The arrogant, pompous, liberal son of a bitch!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Drysdale stood by the window in Locke’s office, hands held behind his back. The air conditioner seemed to be working better on the third floor.

‘This was a righteous bust. We didn’t take Hendrix in dumping the goods – we caught him in the act.’

Drysdale turned around. ‘An act he would not have been drawn to commit had we not set up our fence.’

‘Oh bullshit!’

Art shrugged. ‘It’s not my argument.’

‘Hendrix does this for a fucking living . He steals things. You know that as well as I do. He breaks into your house or my house or his fucking Honor Andy Fowler’s house and takes things that aren’t fucking his. He is not coerced into doing this by finding a good place to unload it.’

‘Yes, sir, I know.’

The warehouse was an ongoing operation that had been in business for about four months. The police department had already brought in over forty suspects and had collected some $2.5 million worth of contraband, a good portion of which they had returned to its owners. It was a successful tool that they felt was working. Arrests were up, convictions should follow. And Locke was damned if he was going to let some commie judge screw it up for everybody.

He sat down now, played drums with a pencil on his desk. Shave and a haircut, six bits. Shave and a haircut, six bits . ‘Who’s on Calendar this month? Maybe we’ll get lucky in another department.’

‘I think Leo Chomorro’s taken up permanent residence.’

‘Poor bastard.’

Art lifted his shoulders. ‘He asked for it. If he rides with us, maybe we can ease him out of there. Maybe he’s ready.’

‘Find out, would you? Find out if he’ll play, keep any of these away from Fowler. Rigby’s going to have a shit-fit.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Art said.

Locke looked at his watch. ‘God, how could it be lunchtime already? I just got here. I’ve got an appointment in ten minutes, Art. You want to fill Rigby in? No, I’ll do it. He’s gonna shit! What are we going to do about Fowler?’

Drysdale shrugged. ‘He’s a judge, Chris. He’s in for the duration, I’m afraid.’

Locke was moving around his desk, straightening his tie. ‘I’d like to get a crack at him, I’ll tell you that. Son of a bitch could ruin my career.’

Drysdale, who’d been around and seen it all, was about to tell his boss that Andy Fowler was an okay guy, good on a lot of other issues. It was just his interpretation of the law, nothing personal. But he bit his tongue – he knew better.

It was personal. If it didn’t start personal, it got that way in a hurry. To the people who practiced it – even a seasoned veteran like Art Drysdale – everything about the law was personal. There were egos, careers, and lives wrapped up in every yea or nay, every objection sustained or overruled, every conviction, every reversal. If you didn’t take it personally you didn’t belong there.

Andy Fowler wasn’t just interpreting the law. He was stepping on toes, big toes. Although he was loyal to Locke, Drysdale had always gotten along well with Fowler, and he hoped like hell the judge knew what he was doing. If he slipped up, he was going to get squished.

‘You love this, don’t you?’ Frannie asked.

Hardy hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d told the cops in the elevator to rebook Rane Brown. He had just told his wife the story. ‘It has its moments, I must admit.’

‘So who are you nailing this afternoon?’

Hardy looked at the folders on his desk, still a formidable pile. ‘The afternoon looms large before me,’ he said. He noticed Andy Fowler’s jade paperweight and picked it up, cool and heavy in his hand. ‘Maybe I’ll shoot some darts, eat lunch…’ His feet were up on his desk, his tie loosened. Abe Glitsky appeared in his doorway, knocked once and sat down across the desk from him. ‘On the other hand, I’m sure Abe says hi. He just walked in.

‘I’ll let you go then.’

‘Okay, but guess what?’

‘I know. Me, too.’

‘Okay.’ Saying they loved each other in code.

Glitsky had come directly to Hardy’s office from the evidence-locker room. The telephone receiver wasn’t out of Hardy’s hand yet when Glitsky said, ‘As you astutely predicted, Diz, the Eloise was clean.’

Hardy was tossing the jade from hand to hand. ‘Well, I didn’t think -’

‘Except for a gun, a slug, a bunch of blood, some other stuff.’

Hardy put the jade down, swinging his feet to the floor. ‘I’m listening.’

Glitsky filled him in. He had bagged the Beretta for evidence. You could still smell the cordite. He would bet a lot it was the murder weapon, although Ballistics would tell them for sure by Monday. On deck, they had found what looked like blood on the railing where Nash might have gone overboard. ‘Whoever shot him, whoever brought the boat back in, must have washed down the deck, but they missed the rail.’

‘The gun registered?’

‘I’m running it now. We’ll know by tonight.’

‘Any word on May Shinn?’

‘I was thinking you might have something there. Maybe Farris?’

Hardy shook his head, told him a little about how he’d spent his morning, about Rane Brown. Glitsky nodded. ‘You ever notice how just plain dumb these guys are?’

It had crossed Hardy’s mind. ‘So what’s my excuse to talk to Farris again? Maybe you want to talk to him. Till you give me a suspect, I’m not really in it.’