The Keeper (8 page)

17

F
RANNIE
H
ARDY MOVED
up the hallway, past the closed doors to three other offices on her right, past the stairway on her left. At the front of the hall, a window looked down onto Clement Street, and she stopped when she got to it, pushing the white gauze curtains to one side.

A steady stream of pedestrians filled the opposite sidewalk, the majority of them Asians. The storefronts across the street mirrored this demographic. Standing in the window, Frannie had within her field of vision a sushi bar, an acupuncture studio, a Thai and a Chinese restaurant, a fishmonger, a corner grocery with crates of fresh vegetables, two massage parlors, and a store featuring lots of camera equipment and electrical gear.

Frannie normally loved not just her work but going to work, since it wasn't quite a mile from her home and she almost always walked. It was like traveling to another country every day. But today she stood at the front window, frowning. She'd seen two clients in the morning, then she'd gone out for sushi, which she found herself unable to eat. She had sipped at her green tea until it was lukewarm, then, exhausted, had walked back home and lay down for an hour and a half. Finally, her mind empty, she had walked back to her building.

This was the regular hour for Katie Chase's weekly appointment. From the minute Frannie had woken up in the morning, she'd found herself more and more upset. Although she'd talked with Dismas about the disappearance a couple of times, the emphasis had fallen upon the criminal case that might be building against Hal. Katie's true situation was something Frannie and Dismas had never discussed. And now the reality of that situation—that Katie might very well be dead—hit her with a crushing force.

Katie was an educated, vibrant, sensitive woman with whom Frannie felt a strong bond. Her issues had been similar to many Frannie had faced many years ago as a young mother—adequacy, attractiveness, purpose. They had both decided to leave their jobs and become stay-at-home mothers. As of last week, Katie was hanging in with that decision, but Frannie knew it was getting to be a close thing. In spite of the spin she'd given Dismas, the couple had been negotiating some serious shoals. True, Katie hadn't started out seeing Frannie to talk about problems in her relationship with Hal, but as the counseling had gone on, the scope of the conversations had widened. And Hal had begun to feature prominently.

Frannie turned from the hallway window and let herself into her ­office at the back of the building. It was a small but warm and comfortable room with one window that overlooked the backs of the neighboring structures. Frannie had her own relatively small leather recliner, and her clients could choose between a quilt-covered love seat or another recliner, larger than Frannie's. A fully loaded bookshelf covered half of one wall, and on the bare wall space, she'd hung some fine-art prints—Picasso, Vermeer, Monet—in simple frames.

She crossed to the file cabinet and removed a manila folder that she brought back to her chair. Leaning back, she sighed and said, “Oh, Katie,” and then pulled the sheaf of pages, about eighty in all, out onto her lap.

FRANNIE HARDY:
So how have things been this week?

KATIE CHASE:
About the same, really. But sometimes I don't know why I bother to come in here every week. Other than it's nice to see you. I seem to be going over the same things again and again, and I don't feel I'm making any progress at all. All of this talking and trying to understand myself and what I'm feeling and why I feel it—I'm supposed to be getting better someday, aren't I? Whatever that means.

FH:
Don't you feel like you're making progress?

KC:
I don't feel particularly better, no. This morning Will got up at four, which meant I got up at four . . .

FH:
I thought you were going to talk to Hal about that, about helping you when the kids get up early.

KC:
I was going to. But I just . . . can't.

FH:
Why not? Katie?

KC:
He's got his job. He can't go in to work exhausted. The people there are . . . well, you can't imagine. And not just the guys in the cells. If he's not sharp, he could literally get himself killed. So that leaves the kids to me. They're my job. I can't let anybody else do it. It's what I signed on for, and I can't . . .

FH:
It's all right.

KC:
Not really. No, it's not. I know I'm a total bitch about it, but it's the only power I've got left with him.

FH:
Who's watching them now?

KC:
My mother. At least she didn't completely mess me up, so for an hour or so once a week, I guess I can trust that she probably won't ruin them, either.

FH:
And you feel like you need power with Hal? Or what? ­Katie?

KC:
I'm sorry.

FH:
There's nothing to be sorry about. Here's some Kleenex. If it's too painful, we don't have to . . .

KC:
No. It's all right. I'll be all right. I just can't believe Hal and I have come to this. We used to be so in love with each other and have so much fun. I can't believe we're the same two people, me talking about power and control. And Hal, he used to be such a great guy.

FH:
He's not anymore?

KC:
How could he be, living with me? I barely let him breathe. And part of me knows I'm wrong . . . I'm just punishing us both.

FH:
For what?

KC:
Well, him, for being who he is. For not making enough money. For not fighting me hard enough when I'm not the me I know I can be, the best me. For being tired. I know that sounds terrible, blaming him for all that is wrong, so I feel guilty for that, too. I'm just such a complete mess. I'm really so sorry, Fran.

FH:
It's all right. You can let it all out. That's why you're here.

KC:
I just need a minute.

FH:
You've got it. All the time you need.

KC:
I should never have had the affair. That's what ruined everything.

FH:
Does Hal know about that?

KC:
No. I could never tell him. It was just a pure mistake. I didn't even love the guy. I was feeling ugly and useless and trapped by my baby and just . . . Well, I did what I did. There's no turning back from that now. Every day I feel like a liar and a fraud. And then I resent Hal because he's a constant reminder of who I really am. The bad person I really am.

FH:
Have you tried to talk to him?

KC:
No. Our deal was if one of us was unfaithful, that would be the end.

FH:
People say that, but it isn't always true.

KC:
I think that for us, it would be.

FH:
So you're living all the time with the fear that Hal will leave you?

KC:
Not so much that. I don't know that he'll ever find out. It's more that I'm living with the guilt of knowing what I've done. That we're still trying to build this life that's so hard and isn't based on the truth anymore.

FH:
That could change, Katie. It really could.

KC:
You mean if I told him?

FH:
It could be a start. You've got a family now. It's different. Would he leave you over a mistake you made almost three years ago?

KC:
I don't know. He might.

FH:
But if things continue the way they're going now, and you don't tell him, what kind of chance would you give yourselves? As a couple, I mean.

KC:
At this point, almost zero.

FH:
So think about it, Katie. What have you got to lose?

18

G
LITSKY LIVED ON
a one-block cul-de-sac north of Lake Boulevard and south of the Presidio. Aside from the occasional neighbor looking, usually in vain, for a parking spot, the road had very little traffic. Over the fall, a few of the grade school children on the street had started coming out in the late afternoon to play on the relatively open expanse of asphalt, at first hopscotch and soccer and then, as more of the local kids showed up, picking up teams for whatever game was on that day. Today was kickball, bases and home plate chalked on the street.

To Glitsky's astonishment, the wildly disparate group of fifteen or more kids seemed to incline naturally toward inclusivity. The ages ranged from Zachary's five to Austin Blake's eleven, and everybody seemed to understand the basic rule that if you showed up and wanted to play, you'd have a place.

Even more amazing was the ethnic and gender mix; it didn't seem a question of anybody's enforced tolerance so much as a complete indifference to skin tones and accents. Glitsky's kids were mostly black (with a little Jewish), but the others ran the gamut from Caucasian and Hispanic to at least three different kinds of Asian and subcontinental Indian.

Every night some parents would wander down to the sidewalk to watch the games, not to organize or supervise but simply to enjoy the spectacle. Two months earlier, enough of the parents had met this way that they decided to throw a block party. It was a beautiful warm September night, the whole block closed off to traffic and the street packed with grills, tables and chairs, and coolers full of drinks and side dishes. Glitsky, who'd lived in his duplex for almost thirty years and who couldn't have picked any of his neighbors out of a lineup a year before, now knew the majority of them by first name. It blew his mind.

Probably only fifteen minutes remained before they'd have to call tonight's game because of darkness. Glitsky was standing chatting idly with Natalie Soames, the mother of twin eight-year-old girls from across the street, and Austin's dad, James Blake, another recent retiree. Abe's daughter, Rachel, was setting up to kick with runners on second and third.

“I hear this girl's awesome,” Glitsky heard from behind him. “Big long-ball threat.”

Glitsky looked over his shoulder. Dismas Hardy had managed to walk the entire length of the street and sneak up on him.

Rachel kicked a little blooper to second base, and the kid playing there caught it for the third out. With a minimum of fanfare or confusion, the teams changed positions.

Glitsky turned back to Hardy, introduced him to the neighbors, then said, “You jinxed her. She hasn't made an out all day.”

“It'll keep her humble. Is this what I'm paying you the big bucks for?”

“No. I've been out pounding the pavement all day and have lots to report, but I thought I'd wait till after the game, since it's likely you'll want a drink.”

“That good, huh?”

“You can be the judge of that.”

•  •  •

D
USK HAD FADED
to black. Treya had not yet made it home from work. Rachel and Zachary were glued to a barely audible cartoon in the television room behind the kitchen.

Hardy sat at Glitsky's kitchen table with his hands templed at his mouth. When he took them down, he said, “He ended this affair three weeks ago? In the grand scheme of things, that's, like, yesterday, you realize.”

“Right. He was going to keep on hiding the whole thing and hope nobody would notice, but then he talked to Patti, and she convinced him that it would be better to admit it, at least in terms of PR.”

“He's thinking about PR?”

“It appears so.”

Hardy shook his head wearily. “So they could be an item, planning how they're going to handle this thing together?”

“That idea had occurred to me.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Not yet. I thought I'd wait to see if you wanted me to go ahead. As you know, I've been fighting my natural prejudice against husbands all along. Hal's a pretty good guy, and he'd been shaking my faith in that eternal verity up till I heard about this.”

“And now?”

Glitsky shrugged. “It's definitely gotten more complicated. Though, for the record, he still appears to be coming forth with the truth, even when it makes him look bad. It doesn't much matter what we think anyway. He either did it or he didn't.”

Hardy considered. “So you think he originally came to me . . . why?”

“He's in law enforcement. He knows there's a good chance he'll need a lawyer as things unravel, so he might as well get one on board early. Better to have that covered before they arrest him.”

“They won't do that until they find her body. Even with this affair in the mix.”

“No? How much you want to bet?”

“You really think so?”

Glitsky nodded. “They'll find a way. Trust me.”

19

W
ES
F
ARRELL ATTAINED
his eminent position as the district attorney of San Francisco more or less by chance. As a lifelong defense attorney, he had no record as a prosecutor. In fact, his notoriety stemmed mostly from a high-profile case he had won years before, for the defense, getting—unbeknowst to him at the time—a guilty murderer who happened to be his best friend, off with a clean acquittal. Beyond that, he had gained a certain hip cachet as a lovable oddball because of the themed T-shirts he wore every day under his business suit—and showed off regularly to friends, associates, and reporters. Today's shirt read: “Smiling on the outside, berserk on the inside,” and it was indicative of, albeit slightly less offensive than, most of the others. More typical in terms of general sensitivity had been yesterday's: “I hate being bipolar. It's awesome!”

When friends had persuaded him to seek the office three years before against a heavily favored rival, he'd gone on the ticket, half as a simple acknowledgment of their belief in him, and half to strike a blow for what he called moderation in the face of a super-lenient prosecutorial culture that had essentially given up on trials in favor of plea bargains and counseling in lieu of the most toothless of punishments. At least, Wes had said, he'd put some bite back into the system. In a Farrell administration, violent criminals would be tried and, if convicted, do prison time. (Almost anywhere else, this would not have been considered a particularly aggressive stance for a prosecutor, but in San Francisco, it was considered right-wing extremism, and his nastiest detractors had labeled him Fascist Farrell.) In any event, fate played into his hands when his front-running opponent died the week before the election, and Farrell was swept to victory by a whopping ninety votes out of three hundred and fifty thousand cast.

But a cultural shift had to start at the top, and in spite of his campaign rhetoric, Wes in his heart was a very long way from being a hard-core law-and-order guy. After a lifetime at the defense bar, his sympathies had always instinctively gone to the accused. He believed there were reasons, and usually good ones, why people went bad.

But more and more lately, he found himself not caring about that. His job was prosecuting miscreants. Whether or not he understood them or their upbringing played very little if any role in the process.

In his first months as DA, on a very public stage, he had to figure out who he was, what he really believed. What had begun more or less as a parlor game—what if he humored some of his buddies and actually ran for DA?—had turned into the marrow of his existence. Now he was San Francisco's chief prosecutor. He had a job that the people in the city he loved had elected him—albeit narrowly—to do. And gradually (some said glacially), he began to think and act like a DA, to the point where he often found himself in the middle of a prosecutorial moment without having decided to be there.

In the grip of just such a situation, he walked down the hallway when his official workday was done at a little past six o'clock, pausing just outside the front door to the Office of the District Attorney, Bureau of Investigations. Here fourteen inspectors worked under his nominal supervision, although, like most of the DAs who'd served before, he never exerted direct authority over any of these people.

He continued down to the parking lot, backed his tiny Smart car out of his assigned parking spot, and drove over to Waterbar on the Embarcadero. Leaving his car with the valet, he entered the restaurant and saw Frank Dobbins, his chief of investigations, sitting at the end of the bar next to an attractive Hispanic woman. She was probably around thirty years old, with sleek black hair and sparkling brown eyes, and though he would never use the word around any female of any age, the Neanderthal in him couldn't help but notice that she was just plain cute. Low heels, terrific legs, a short plaid skirt, and a sky-blue cashmere sweater.

His casual talk with Abe Glitsky had gnawed at him all day long. The cases of inmates who had died or been injured in custody were perfect examples, he thought, where the district attorney had a moral obligation to investigate and, if warranted, prosecute—even if that meant prosecuting the sheriff himself. Like everyone else in the greater legal community, Farrell had been aware of the rumors and innuendo surrounding Burt Cushing and his troops, but also like everyone else, he'd found it easier to ignore the whole situation.

Cushing operated within his own little fiefdom. It was well ordered, efficient, and performed several important civic functions. And Cushing kept his nose clean everywhere else, so what would it profit Farrell or anyone else to hassle him? To make waves? Except—and this was the thought that had nagged at Farrell all afternoon—what if it were less about not making waves and more about rooting out ­criminal behavior within his jurisdiction and punishing those responsible for it?

Wes crossed the room to join Dobbins and the young woman. “Yo, Frank,” he said, then turned to the woman. “You must be Ms. Solis-Martinez.”

The woman gave him a bright smile and proffered her hand. “Maria T. Solis-Martinez, at your service, but please call me Maria, if you're comfortable with that.”

“Maria it is,” Farrell said. “And I go by Wes. Have we met before?”

She nodded. “At my preliminary interview six months ago, when I flew up from L.A. We shook hands.” She pouted prettily. “You don't remember?” Before Farrell could answer, she touched him on the arm and fetched another smile. “I'm teasing. Of course you don't remember, and you're forgiven. But next time . . .”

“Maria,” he said. “Got it, now and forever.” But how, Farrell wondered, could Dobbins have reached her so quickly? Wes had talked to his chief investigator about this idea only a few hours ago. “Do you still live in L.A.?” he asked her.

“No. I knew that Frank had me on his short list, and I wanted to get out of L.A. anyway, so I packed up and moved here a couple of months ago. Job or no job. I figured it would happen if it was meant to be.” Her bright smile flashed again. “And here I am.”

Farrell beamed back at her. “Like magic,” he said.

“If I may be so bold . . .” Dobbins leaned in, breaking up the lovefest, and moved things back to business mode. “Maria and I were talking about the job, Wes. She agrees it might be right up her alley, and she's interested, but I told her you could fill her in a little more.”

The waiter came over, and Farrell ordered a beer, then turned his ­attention back to the young woman. “Frank may have already told you that another inmate died in jail the other night. That's the latest in a string of deaths in the jail this year. On top of a large number of overdoses and inmates who appear to have been assaulted. He was number ten this year.”

“This year? Was he autopsied?”

“Absolutely. Cause of death was ‘natural causes.' His heart simply stopped. It's stressful getting arrested. It could have happened.”

“All right.” Maria crossed her arms, her brow furrowed. “But here we are, so something must be bothering you.”

“This latest guy got my attention, but I'm more immediately concerned with a guy named Alanos Tussaint, who died in jail last month. Poor guy fell down and bumped his head.”

“He bumped his head and died? That was a hell of a bump.”

“Right. A significant bump. Anyway, it seems there was some question about Mr. Tussaint's death. In the early stages of the investigation, another inmate told the SFPD cops that a guard had gone off on Mr. Tussaint and beaten him to death. The next time the inmate got interrogated, he changed his story, saying he'd gotten it wrong. The guard had hit Mr. Tussaint a couple of times in self-defense, but it wasn't really a beating. And since there were no other witnesses, the case never got off the ground. It obviously wasn't much of a priority. I'll take responsibility for that, since assigning priorities is my job. But the fact remains. Bad stuff is going on at the jail, and it needs to end. We were hoping to bring in somebody from the outside who's unknown around here. Frank thinks that ought to be you.”

Maria nodded. “I'm flattered and very interested, but I'm a little concerned how the rest of your office is going to take it.”

“How's that?” Farrell asked.

“If I come on, it kind of implies that whoever handled those cases didn't do a thorough job, doesn't it? If somebody like me got ahold of one of these—say Mr. Tussaint—on the rebound, whoever had it first won't be happy. Plus,” she added, “if we're going to question our inmate witness again, he's probably already been talked to, or worse, by the guards. That's why he recanted, obviously. They threatened him. So you'll have to get him protected and out of the population, and as soon as you do that, you're in the sheriff's face. All on the off chance that this guy might have seen something he wants to talk about again, something that might get him beaten or even killed.” She paused. “I'm just saying that this doesn't strike me as a casual decision. You're opening a big can of worms.”

•  •  •

A
NOTHER ROUND OF
drinks later, the conversation turned to the overdoses. “Black heroin in the jail,” Farrell said. “How do you think it got there?”

“How do you think it got there, sir?” asked Maria.

“There had to be guards involved. But as Frank here will tell you, he's already talked to the sheriff about it. Mr. Cushing, too, was appalled by the evidence of drugs in jail, but he was pretty sure it was some of the defense lawyers or shrinks visiting their clients or patients, since it couldn't be any of his guards, and the family and friends didn't get any physical contact with the inmates. The lawyers and psychiatrists, they hide it anywhere—briefcases, pockets, you name it.”

Maria chuckled. “He didn't really say that? Professional people were bringing it in?”

“Sure. They have no respect for the law, those guys. Some of the lawyers—I bet you didn't know this—accept payment from their jailed clients in drugs, then sell it to their other clients out on the street.”

“Sure, I'll bet that happens all the time,” Maria said with heavy irony. She turned to Wes expectantly. “So . . . what do we do now?”

“Well, if you'll take it,” Wes said, “I'm offering you a job as a DA ­investigator. You have a police background, you speak Spanish, and Frank tells me you're perfect for the job, which he never says about anybody. But this first assignment is going to be absolutely confidential and, frankly, damned dangerous. We want to get you inside the jail to find out what's happening to these people. I want to be sure you're okay going after these guys.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “It would make my year. We're the good guys, aren't we? If we don't have the guts to take on the bad guys, who will?”

Wes nodded appreciatively and looked over to Dobbins. “That sounds like the right answer to me, Frank. How about you?”

“It's why I called her in,” Dobbins replied.

“All right, Maria.” Farrell held out his hand. “Welcome aboard.”