John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

Hardy identified himself as Graham Russo’s lawyer and said he would appreciate a few minutes with George, although he didn’t have an appointment. It was nine-fifteen A.M. Mr Russo was at a meeting. Hardy said he would wait and was directed to another armchair in the back of the lobby.

The bank’s officers lived in cages, as they do almost everywhere. The burnished-wood motif from the public area was carried over here in the back, creating half-high walls around each unit. The upper half was glass, and Hardy, getting to his wingback chair, looked into George’s office for a quick glimpse.

Without the nameplate he could have picked him out from a hundred people. Dressed in a different style than Graham, sitting in a posture behind his desk that Hardy had never seen in Graham, George still bore a remarkable resemblance to his older brother.

As he waited, Hardy made a few notations on the yellow legal pad he’d begun carrying with him everywhere he went. There was so much to remember, so much to organize, and he only had three months before the trial – an absurdly short lead time that he’d argued bitterly against at the Calendar hearing. But his old colleague Tim Manion – the judge – though inclined to sympathy on the bail issue, had proved intractable in scheduling the trial.

After Hardy had argued for a couple of minutes, Manion had summoned him up to the bench and given him a little lecture. ‘I understand you turned down a very reasonable settlement offer, Mr Hardy’ – no ‘Diz’ on this topic – ‘so I assumed your client would be anxious to tell his story and clear his name.’

‘But, Your Honor, three months-’

The gavel. A tight smile. ‘Unless you’d like to start in sixty days as the law provides.’

So Hardy had until September. He knew he had to explain this to Michelle pretty soon too. He moved her to the top of his list. He owed her that much. He’d worked for bosses who didn’t tell him what they expected or what he could expect in terms of their support, and he had thought them cruel. He didn’t wish to leave Michelle with that impression of himself.

But he didn’t dwell on Tryptech. The grand jury indictment notwithstanding, he was actually going to file a nine-nine-five motion for dismissal that he would lose, but he felt he had to get on the boards with the fact that there was not enough evidence to justify holding Graham at all. There were signs that Sal had been murdered, perhaps, but no reasonable attempt to connect that murder to Graham by physical evidence.

So he’d try, make the point, get laughed at.

He made another note. Today he must remember to place ads to run for a month or more in the local newspapers, in the L.A. Times , the San Jose Mercury , and also – being thorough – in the various regional editions of The Wall Street Journal , maybe in The New York Times Book Review , asking anyone with information on a Joan Singleterry to come forward. He wouldn’t risk introducing her before a jury. Graham’s story about her, even if true in all respects, smelled bogus. But Graham was right: they would be unwise to abandon the search for her if she could shed some light on Sal, or on the money. If any part of Graham’s story was true and Hardy could verify it, it could destroy the prosecution case, as least insofar as the special circumstances.

Then there was Sarah Evans and her pursuit of the gamblers and fishmongers. He had to coordinate that more closely. It wasn’t merely a matter of his SODDIT defense. He didn’t need Sarah’s information so much for the jury as he might to get to the truth.

Which was why he was here now…

He raised his eyes. The door had opened and George was saying his name, a concerned look on his face. Hardy threw his legal pad into his open briefcase and stood up, tried a smile. ‘Mr Russo, how are you? I’m representing your brother-’

‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘And how I am is busy. What does my brother have to do with me?’

The tone made it even ruder than the words. Hardy cocked his head, trying to get a read on George, but it didn’t look like he was going to get much of an opening. ‘I haven’t seen my father in ten years. I don’t talk to my brother. I’m not interested.’ But his color was high. Like it or not, his emotions were engaged.

Hardy retained an even tone of his own. ‘I understood you saw Sal when he came to your mother’s house a month ago.’

‘So what?’

‘So you just said you hadn’t seen him in ten years.’

George’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t clear whether it was with fear or rage. He pointed a finger at Hardy. ‘That’s a lawyer’s trick, turning my words.’

Hardy made the snap decision that he wasn’t going to score any points here with sweet talk. ‘Here’s another one,’ he said, ‘- where were you on the afternoon your father was killed?’

This stopped him dead. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, closed it again. He glanced toward the lobby. Some customers had turned their heads, noticed the confrontation. Hardy pressed what he took to be his advantage. ‘It might be more comfortable in your office.’

They were inside. Hardy pulled the door to behind them while George retreated behind his desk. He’d obviously had enough time to think by the time he got seated. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions, do I? You’re not with the police.’

‘No, that’s right. Of course, I could go to the police and tell them you were uncooperative and acting suspicious, that you didn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder and you had a great motive. Plus you look enough like Graham that anyone who thought they had seen him at Sal’s might have been confused.’ Hardy sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Then you would have to answer them.’

‘I had nothing to do with my father’s death.’

‘I didn’t say you did.’

‘You just said I had a motive and no alibi.’

Hardy shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m wrong.’ He waited.

George’s tone shifted. Suddenly the arrogant banker gave way to a frightened child. ‘What made you come here? I don’t even know why you’re talking to me.’

Sitting back, Hardy decided he’d played enough hardball. He could ease up a little. ‘Your mother.’

A confused, betrayed look. ‘What about my mother? She told you to talk to me?’

Hardy walked him through it, leaving out any reference to Sarah, his secret agent who’d been the conduit. ‘Your mother went to see your brother in jail yesterday and told him, among other things, that she was worried about you. You’d blown up at some family gathering a couple of weeks ago, didn’t you? You were so hateful to your father.’

‘He was hateful to us. He just walked out on us.’

‘Yes, he did. And you could never forgive him, could you?’

‘Why should I?’

Hardy let that question lie. Instead, ‘Your mother thinks it’s possible that you killed Sal.’

‘Jesus, what are you saying?’ George took a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and wiped his forehead.

‘You told your father you went to some client’s but you didn’t go there, did you?’

‘How do you… how can you say that?’

‘Your mother said it. She told Graham. He told me.’

‘He’s a liar.’

‘Maybe it runs in the family. Where were you?’

George ran a hand around under his collar. Gradually, though, over ten seconds or so, he got himself back under control. ‘I was at a client’s on a confidential matter.’ He checked his watch. ‘And I am very busy. This interview is over.’

Hardy didn’t move. ‘Do you want me to go to the police with this? You think I ask hard questions, you should see them.’