John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

Rita had her arms folded across her more than ample bosom. She was frowning. Glitsky was frowning. The kitchen windows were steamed with condensation – they'd had spaghetti for dinner and outside it was now dark and blustery. The dishes remained on the table.

Tonight's issue (as though there had never been a riot, as though life outside the windows was blithely proceeding in some kind of reasonable fashion): back in the spring, Glitsky had planned a camping trip for the following weekend in Yosemite. The Glitskys had always camped – it was one of their family 'things.' Flo had favored the wilderness, but they'd also done their share of site camping and the boys, even Orel, had jobs they excelled at, favorite things to do – putting up the tent, tying mantles on the lanterns, the fire, fishing, backpacking, finding edibles, cooking. So they'd called and reserved their spot and sent their deposit.

But one of Isaac's friends had invited him (and Jake, if he wanted to go) up to a cabin on a lake in the Sierras for the same days. Glitsky was hearing about it for the first time and told Isaac he'd have to make it another weekend. Ike countered by proposing that they not cancel the family camping – he'd just go with his friend and the rest of the family could go to Yosemite and do their camping thing.

Glitsky told him he didn't think so.

So here they were having a rules committee meeting because now Jake had been enlisted and he, of course, would rather go up waterskiing with the big kids than sweat and hike and look at waterfalls in Yosemite. And – now, while they were at it – if the two older boys weren't going to Yosemite, why would Orel want to go with just his father, alone?

'Guys,' Glitsky said, 'we reserved a place. We made a commitment.'

'Who cares?' Isaac.

'Somebody gonna fine us or something if we don't show up?' Jacob.

Older than Methuselah, Glitsky persisted. 'The commitment is what it is – they've kept other people out because we're in.'

'So they'll let somebody in at the last minute. Big deal, they always do.' Isaac was leading the charge so Glitsky thought he'd try to defuse him first.

'Look, Ike, we've paid our money. We said we'd be there. That's the end of it. You just tell your friend thanks, you'll do it another weekend. A deal's a deal.'

Jake pushed some spaghetti around on his plate. 'Mom would've let us.'

This was below the belt as well as beside the point. 'Mom isn't here, Jake. We're here. So how about we vote and get it settled?'

Isaac pushed his chair back. That's the other thing.'

'What is?'

Rita spoke up for the first time. 'They don't want me to vote.'

Isaac took the floor. 'It's not wanting , Rita. It's just not fair.'

Glitsky hated 'not fair.' Especially today, he hated people blaming everything but themselves for what was wrong with the world, for the troubles they had. That was Philip Mohandas's platform – in his own kids, it made him crazy. The fuse was burning, but Glitsky kept his voice low. 'What's not fair, Ike?'

At the refrigerator, he turned. 'Rita gets next weekend off, whatever happens, right? I mean, isn't that why we pick the dates when we do things? So she can get some of her own time? She's not going either place with any of us.'

'Okay. So what?'

Jake picked it up – they'd obviously gotten their strategy down. 'So she's not involved.'

'So why should she get to vote?' Ike finished for him, and even Orel chimed in. 'Right.'

Glitsky looked sideways at Rita. She was still frowning. 'What they say is right, I'm not involved.' She didn't even begin to like it, but she was a fair and honest woman, one of the reasons Glitsky was delighted with her. In general.

Isaac jumped right on her admission. 'See!'

Glitsky could do a pretty fair evil eye himself. Beaten, and knowing it, Glitsky threw one around the room at them. 'All right,' Glitsky said, 'Rita doesn't vote this time.'

So they put it to the vote and, no surprise, it came down three to two, the boys over dad. Glitsky lost.

He listened to the telephone ring in his ear, heard the answering machine of his best friend, Dismas Hardy. He thought he could use a few minutes of easy camaraderie with an adult male friend, somebody to talk to, who spoke his language, or he would lose his mind entirely.

The television in the divided living room droned in the background, more news about the fires, the riots, Kevin Shea. Where was Shea? he wondered distractedly. Maybe fled the jurisdiction?

Dismas Hardy, Abe's pal, was informing whoever the caller might be that he and his family had gone away for the weekend to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare Festival, where they would not have access to a telephone. Would the caller please call back after next Monday?

He remembered – the Glitskys and the Hardys had gone up to Ashland together two of the past four years. Camping (that dirty word). Frannie, Hardy's wife, had even begged Abe to bring the boys and come up with them this year. But, somehow, without Flo, Abe hadn't felt right about it. Ashland had been more Flo's thing, he'd told Frannie, although that wasn't really true. Glitsky loved Shakespeare, theatre, had even taken a shot at opera and found it fascinating. He took a lot of grief at work about this stuff – these were supposedly non-cop interests – but he was comfortable with them, with who he was.

Nevertheless, he'd told Frannie they couldn't make this year. So the Hardys were up in Ashland now and he was here in a burning city losing rules committee meetings with his children even after he'd rigged them all to go his way.

Glitsky left his usual terse message on Hardy's machine, then forced himself up, back through the kitchen. Everybody was in the larger bedroom of the two younger brothers, watching the other television, some inanity with a laugh track. Isaac and Jacob were sprawled across the floor. Orel slept open-mouthed, leaning against a sleeping Rita.

'Hey, guys,' he said, and the older boys glanced and said, 'hey,' waiting, resenting the intrusion.

'Nothing. Just checking in.'

They shrugged and went back to the program and Glitsky gave up the effort of making an effort and headed for his bedroom, falling across the bed with his clothes on.

Isaac was shaking him. 'Dad! Dad! Come on!'

He forced an eye – it weighed the proverbial sixteen tons. 'What?'

'The phone.' His son seemed truly concerned over his lack of response.

'Phone didn't ring, Ike.' Glitsky didn't hear the phone, and it was right next to his bed. He always heard the phone. It was his primary wake-up medium. He rolled over again, closed his eyes. He was nearly back asleep.

'Dad!'

God, why wouldn't the kid let it rest? 'What?'

'The phone. Some emergency. They need you. Some senator or something.'

That got through. A shiver of adrenaline got him up, his son handing him the receiver. 'Glitsky,' he said.

He listened a minute. It was Marcel Lanier, pulling a late one. He needed his boss downtown. Immediately or sooner. All hell was breaking loose again. Chris Locke , the district attorney, had been shot. Killed. Someone in another mob. Senator Wager, who was in the same car, had barely escaped herself. She was down at the Hall now, in shock, waiting in one of the interview rooms, asking for Glitsky himself.

Glitsky put a hand to his throbbing head. 'Lord.'

Isaac was still standing there, watching him. 'What, Dad? What?'

Into the phone. 'I'll be right down, Marcel. See if there's a black-and-white nearby, send them here to pick me up. Call me back if you can't.'

The connection went. Abe laid the receiver back down and noticed Isaac striking an I-don't-believe-this pose. The boy said, 'You're not goin' out again?'

Glitsky swung off the bed. 'Got to.' But he softened his voice, reaching a hand to bring the boy nearer, give him a little physical contact. Isaac ducked again, glaring.