John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

‘One of the brothers plant that knife on him, did they?’

A sullen nod. ‘But I ain’t do nothing. You got no business taking me in.’

‘I’m not taking you in. I’m talking to you, that’s all. I’m thinking maybe you can help Damon.’

‘Ain’t nothing gonna help Damon. You lyin’ if you think so.‘ The poor mixed-up girl was shaking, biting at her nails. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

Suddenly, Sarah leaned in close, snapping out her words like a drill sergeant. ‘Get your fingers out of your mouth, child, and don’t you dare call me a liar, you hear me?’

A sullen nod. Sarah slapped at the window by Yolanda’s head. ‘I said DO YOU HEAR ME?’

‘I hear you.’

Sarah hated this kind of interview, but she’d done it many times before and knew she would again. Too bad – she was doing Yolanda a favor. But she was going to get what she came for.

‘Now, listen, we got this shooting down here last Thursday, maybe you heard something about it.’ She waited. ‘That’s a question, Yolanda. Maybe you heard something about it ?’

Silence.

‘What I’m thinking, see, if you remembered anything important, anything I can use, like who might have been in the car, something like that, who set it up, what you heard about it, anything, maybe I can do something about Damon.’

The eyes, almost more scared of hope than of anything else, came up. ‘What you mean?’

‘I mean we don’t go for the strike, the third strike. He does some county time, he’s back home for Thanksgiving.’

‘If what?’

‘What I said.’

Yolanda huddled down into herself. ‘I give them brothers up, they come kill me.’

‘What boys, Yolanda? You give me a name, one name , we start looking, maybe get enough evidence on ’em – hardware in the car’s trunk, like that – we don’t even need you to testify at the trial.‘

This last was complete fabrication and Sarah knew it, but she wasn’t lying about cutting a deal involving Damon. The cops would trade a third-striker for a gangbanger any day. As for Yolanda, she was right. If she did someday have to testify, she might very well end up dead. But Sarah was willing to take that risk for her.

It was a tough profession.

Yolanda looked up, waited as though for further guidance. It wasn’t coming. People here in the projects knew that if they didn’t take help when it was offered, it tended to disappear. And Sarah was right here, nodding at her. ‘Just give me a name, Yolanda. One name.’

‘Lionel Borden. He hang the World Gym most days. He was drivin’.‘

Freeman was on the couch, thumbing through one of the Russo folders. Hardy, at his desk, had another half hour of work – he’d decided to try to leave the office at five-thirty so he could see his family - but he was glad enough for the silent company.

After getting back from dropping Graham at the jail, he’d put in two hours on Tryptech. Good work, too, he thought. Tedious as hell, but God was in the details. Checking his newly arrived records of past transom and conveyor failures at the Port of Oakland, he’d hit a vein in which there might be some pay dirt. It seemed that only seven months before the accident with Tryptech, the Port itself had sued the manufacturer who had produced the couplings for its transoms, alleging irregularities in their holding capacities.

It didn’t exactly get him up and dancing, but he did call Dyson Brunei with the news, and spent another forty minutes with Michelle, outlining their follow-up.

Now – more necessary tedium – he was preparing the first of the binders he’d be living with for the duration of Graham’s trial. It was mindless and pleasant work, labeling his tabs: Police Report. Inspector’s Notes. Inspector’s Chronological. Autopsy. Coroner. Witnesses . Beginning to organize the discovery he’d been given for Graham’s defense.

By the time he got to trial, he’d have a dozen binders jammed with everything even remotely connected to his client, the victim, the trial. What he found scary was that he’d have memorized most of it. He looked up. ‘I’m getting to Publicity , David. I’m going to need that folder.’

Freeman had his post-workday glass of wine at his elbow. He spoke calmly. ‘You can’t be considering change of venue?’

Hardy had to give it to his landlord – he was joined at the hip to the issues. But Hardy thought if anyone would want a change of venue in this case, it would be the prosecution. San Francisco, after all, was the town that had elected Sharron Pratt, possibly the only prosecutor in the entire world who was more interested in helping and understanding lawbreakers than in punishing them.

This was still the city that had accepted the notorious diminished-capacity ‘Twinkie’ defense when a supervisor had sneaked into a basement window in City Hall, shot the mayor to death, reloaded , walked down the hallway, and then slain another supervisor.

The jury’s decision in that case? Boy! That shooter must have been pretty upset, and besides, he was on a sugar rush from all those Twinkies and couldn’t really be held responsible for his actions.

So, as Freeman loved to say, it was a banner town for defense attorneys at any time, and now under Pratt even more so. Reasonable doubt had transmogrified here to any doubt at all. The slightest doubt about any issue in the trial would likely result in acquittal.

This was good news for Graham Russo, who would benefit from the city’s knee-jerk liberal bias, so Hardy wanted the trial here. And Graham had an absolute right to be tried where the alleged crime occurred. Here they’d stay .

But Hardy resisted any tendency to feel complacent. The stakes were too high to take anything for granted in a murder case. ‘No,’ he told Freeman, ‘I’m not going to ask for change of venue, but I’d like to file all that stuff and head on home, if you’re finished reading it.’

The accordion folder bulged with newspapers, magazines, Nexis and Lexis printouts, everything Hardy had found in print to date about the case. ‘I’ve got to just cut out the stuff about the case,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be unmanageable if I throw in whole newspapers every day.’

Freeman was only half listening, back with another article. ‘I wouldn’t do that. I’d save it all. You never know.’

‘You never know what?’ Hardy didn’t always agree with the old man, but he was always interested in his opinion. Freeman had forgotten more than many attorneys ever learned, and if he wanted to talk theories, Hardy would listen.

‘Context.’

Hardy repeated the word. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Here’s Time , right, your boy on the cover.’ He started flipping the pages. ‘I count at least eight related stories: assisted suicide, Kevorkian, Supreme Court, Ninth Circuit, states opposed and in favor. Here’s a guy with Lou Gehrig’s disease, wants to live forever. Pulling the plug.’ He closed the magazine. ‘It just goes on and on. Here’s all your research for closing, if you decide to go that way.’

He reached up to the coffee table and grabbed a newspaper. ‘Okay, forget that obvious stuff. Here’s the paper reporting Sal’s death for the first time. I myself noticed something in there, apparently unrelated to your client, that would arouse my curiosity. If you cut out the Graham articles, you’d never run across it.’

Hardy, intrigued, stepped over to the couch. Freeman handed him the newspaper, his eyes challenging. Could Hardy find it?

In a couple of minutes he’d scanned the entire first section. The story on Sal’s death was near the back, but there was nothing remotely relevant there. A follow-up story on the enduring legacy of Hale-Bopp and the Heaven’s Gate crusaders. A painter on the Bay Bridge had fallen to his death. Hardy closed the paper. ‘I give up.’