The Second Chair (24 page)

“You don’t want to let him get there.”

“No,” Hardy said. “I’ve got that part figured out. The rest of it’s a little murky.”

Farrell got to his feet, tucked in his shirt, buttoned up and grabbed his tie. “So. Are we still throwing that campaign kickoff party for our good friend Clarence?”

Hardy wasn’t laughing. “Nothing’s easy,” he said.

“Stop the presses. You’re onto something.”

Phyllis buzzed, telling him his client was here, on his way up. “Sorry, but you’ve got to go,” Farrell said. “This guy—my client?—he really hates lawyers.”

14

W
u awoke at Hardy’s house to another hangover of staggering proportions. Stabbing pain wracked every cell and joint in her body. Pinpoints of flashing light hovered in the periphery of her vision. How many drinks had she had at Lou’s? She thought she’d counted six, but it might have been seven or eight, even nine. More than one guy was buying, hoping to get lucky, and Lou was famous for his heavy pour.

Nine drinks? Eighteen to twenty ounces of vodka. She weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. She was lucky to be alive.

After Hardy had driven her to the All-Day and she’d picked up her car, he had recommended that she take yet another sick day, go home and sleep. And that’s what she’d done. After a six-hour rest, at around three o’clock, she called work and left the message that she’d be back in the office tomorrow.

Then, in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, she walked from her apartment down to the Marina green. The sun sparkled off the Bay, and though the breeze was light, it carried a chill. She crawled over some enormous breakwater boulders and sat invisible down in among the stones, facing the water and hugging herself for warmth. There, she cried herself out.

When she came back to her apartment, she found that Hardy had left a message. Glitsky really for truly did want a statement from her right away. The 707 hearing would be in five days, next Tuesday.

Five days.

She played the message again, thinking she couldn’t have heard it right. But it sounded the same the second time. She sat in her chair and stared blankly out her window. Five days was impossible. She couldn’t possibly prepare.

But apparently, that’s all the time she had. The DA and perhaps the judge were sending a very clear message to her, venting the system’s righteous pique. It wasn’t going to be a matter of choice anymore, of what she’d prefer, of what she could work out with Brandt or Jackman. With the clock now ticking, she had to meet with the Norths, get together with Hardy, above all find out more about who Andrew really was. If she had only five days, she had to start
now
on some real defense that would be worthy of the name. Her hangover wasn’t forgotten—her head still throbbed with a dull and persistent pain—but she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of suffering. She had to go to work. Lifting the phone, she punched in the Norths’ number.

Glitsky’s demand for her statement, to the extent that it had registered as important at all, was nowhere among her priorities.

Linda North greeted her phone call warmly enough. After all, Wu had partially convinced them that she’d played a significant role in keeping Andrew in the juvenile system for the time being. At least he wasn’t going to adult court yet and he still wasn’t looking at life in prison. Wu’s strategy had been harrowing and tense, but ultimately successful. They still had confidence in her.

But Linda had been just leaving the house to get her hair done when she picked up Wu’s call. She told her that this wasn’t really a good time. It was her regular weekly hair appointment, and if she missed it, Michael would simply give away the time forever to someone else and she’d have to rearrange her entire schedule. It was a pain, but that was how he was. All these
artiste
hairdressers were the same. She was sure Wu understood.

In any event, Hal couldn’t come home right now anyway. He’d already missed a lot of work because of this whole problem with Andrew. And when he wasn’t in the office, Linda told her, there were always problems. But if it was important and time-sensitive, Wu should just call Hal at work and meet with him there. He’d fill Linda in when they got together later.

Wu, trying to be flexible, had suggested that she meet them both at their home when Hal’s work was done and she’d finished with her hair. But no. It wasn’t a good night for that, either. Hal had some black-tie stag food-and-wine event. Linda was planning to see Andrew later on at the YGC, but if Wu needed to talk to one of them right away, she should really just go to Hal’s office and talk with him there. That would work out. There wasn’t any real crisis with Andrew or anything, was there? If not, Hal was better at details anyway. He would be the one to talk to. He and Linda had great communication and he’d keep her informed of anything Amy thought was important.

The headquarters of North Cinemas was located on Battery Street near the Embarcadero. The three-story building itself was large—it took up most of the block—with a long and low, modern look, brick and glass. Wu parked on-site under the building, in a reserved spot next to Hal’s to which the attendant had directed her.

Still in her jeans and sweater—the Norths might not have been anxious to meet with her, but she’d left her own home in a hurry—she took the elevator to the top floor, then turned right and walked a long hallway covered with a soothing green industrial carpet. The walls were adorned on both sides with framed movie posters, dozens of them. Having checked in and been told by the polite, spike-haired young blond woman at the desk that Mr. North was expecting her and would be able to meet with her shortly, she waited in the cool and spacious reception area, flipping through the pages of
Entertainment Weekly.
Through the floor-to-ceiling tinted window, she looked across the bay to Treasure Island, then to Berkeley beyond. In the clear afternoon light, under the breeze-swept sky, both looked close enough to touch.

When she finished a cursory perusal of the magazine, she looked at her watch and frowned. Giving it one more minute, she ran out of patience, got up and walked to the reception desk again. “I’m sorry. Is Mr. North being held up?”

The young woman looked up. “I’m sure he’s busy. He said he’d be right out.”

“Yes, but I wonder if you would mind checking again. It’s been fifteen minutes.”

The woman lowered her voice, spoke conspiratorially. “Fifteen minutes is
nothing.
”

Wu forced a tolerant smile. “I’m afraid it is to me. Would you mind trying him again please? Amy Wu.”

She popped her gum and shrugged. “Sure. I remember.” Pushing a few buttons on the console in front of her, she spoke into her headset. “Hal? Ms. Wu’s still waiting.” A pause. “Okay. Sure, I’ll tell her.” She ended the connection, looked at Wu. “He says two more minutes.” But she held up her hand, opened and closed it twice slowly—the message clear. It was going to be closer to ten.

It was eight.

Projecting energy and command, Hal appeared from out of nowhere and suddenly was standing in front of where Wu sat. “Amy, sorry to have kept you. All kinds of madness going on back there. As usual. We’re supposed to open the new Disney tonight and somehow somebody over in Walnut Creek lost six reels. Tell me where the hell you mislay six reels, I’d like to know. I gotta think somebody’s stealin’ them.” She stood and they shook hands. “Anyway, I’m here now. What’s the problem? I thought we were coasting on the legal stuff for a while until we got this next hearing scheduled. Is everything okay with Andrew?”

Wu was somewhat gratified to hear that both parents at least asked about Andrew’s welfare. “Yes, sir. I think he’s fine. I’m planning to go on up and see him after I leave here.”

“Good. He told Linda he thinks you’re upset with him, about what he did. He’ll be glad to see you.”

“So Linda already visited him today? She said she was going tonight, too.”

“Did she? I don’t know. What’s today, Thursday? Thursday is normally her bridge group in the morning, I think, but maybe she went up. You’d have to ask her. Anyway. So what’s up you need to see us all the sudden? You want to stay out here, by the way? Go in to my office? Whatever.”

“Here is fine. I just wanted to tell you that they have scheduled the next hearing.” She paused. “And it’s for next Tuesday.”

The slab face went into a shock riff. “Next Tuesday?” He counted silently to himself. “Five days. That’s like it might as well be tomorrow, isn’t it? I thought the courts liked to move slow on this stuff.”

“Most of the time they do. In this case, the DA’s mad Andrew didn’t admit when he thought he was going to. He’s expressing his displeasure.”

“That’s bullshit. Fuck him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hal’s scowl deepened, his voice suddenly harsh. “And I thought the plea change was part of your strategy all along. Now here we are sandbagged again. What’s that about?”

Wu, expecting something like this, had prepared her reply. “It’s about Allan Boscacci getting shot, sir. The whole thing would have rolled off his back I’m sure, but now we’ve got Clarence Jackman himself with his shorts in a twist. He’s just asserting his authority. Anyway, I’m going to appeal the date, but my boss says it’s not likely to change.”

“Your boss?”

She nodded. “Dismas Hardy, you might have heard of him. He’s good. And this is really very good news. If the hearing goes ahead on this accelerated time frame, he’s going to come aboard to help out.”

“And I pay extra for that?”

“No. The firm covers his time and expenses. We didn’t make this problem with the DA, but we don’t think it’s right to ask you to pay for it, either. I’ll be putting in a lot of hours, though. Just to let you know. We may be looking at another retainer payment, especially if Andrew goes up to adult.”

“Which we’re going to fight.”

“Tooth and nail. Yes, sir. But on the assumption that the seven-oh-seven is going ahead as scheduled on Tuesday, I wanted to bring you and Linda up to speed on how it’s structured so we can be prepared how to proceed.”

“Jesus,” Hal said. “It never ends.” He threw a glance over his shoulder—all the work awaiting him behind one of those doors—then came back to Wu. “Maybe we want to sit down.” They did. “All right,” he said. “Shoot.”

Over the next twenty minutes or so, Wu gave him the short course.

For all of its apparent complexity, a 707 proceeding concerned itself with only one question: is the minor “amenable to treatment” as a juvenile? From the perspective of the courts and the justice system, this determination was critical. Despite the insistence by some that one of the goals of adult incarceration should be rehabilitation of the inmate for an ultimate return to society, in practice, adult jail and prison time was essentially punishment. By contrast, the juvenile system’s ethic took on a far more hopeful and optimistic cast. Though incarceration was part of the process, the goal was primarily to rehabilitate, not punish, the minor.

If you were in the juvenile system, the bureaucracy contemplated your eventual redemption. You still had a chance to turn out all right, to be a good citizen and a productive member of society, your youthful sins forgiven. So the system provided not just the stick of incarceration, but the carrots of education, psychological and career counseling, job training and a host of other social welfare programs. Because of these programs and treatments, each minor in the juvenile system would typically interact with an assortment of counselors, educators and social workers, and not just his warden and guards.

But this vast, bureaucratic apparatus of hope was not to be wasted on those it could not help, who were not “amenable to treatment.” These were juveniles who, by virtue of their callousness, cruelty, history and crimes, must in justice be viewed as adults. Society would rightfully treat them as incorrigible and not squander its limited resources in a doomed and hopeless bid to try and rehabilitate them. And further, these lost causes wouldn’t be permitted to contaminate the salvageable kids by their sophisticated and fixed criminality.

But first, the courts needed an objective formula to identify those who might be helped, and those who must be abandoned.

To that end, for violent crimes, five criteria for amenability had evolved. If in the court’s judgment the minor failed the test for any one of these criteria, then that person would be found not amenable to treatment in the juvenile system and handed up to Superior Court to be tried as an adult. These criteria were (1) degree of the minor’s criminal sophistication, (2) the likelihood of the minor’s rehabilitation prior to the expiration of the juvenile court’s jurisdiction (i.e., the minor’s twenty-fifth birthday), (3) the minor’s previous delinquent history, (4) the success of previous attempts by the juvenile system to rehabilitate the minor and (5) the circumstances and gravity of the offense for which the minor has been charged.

“Okay,” North said. “So what’s all that mean?”

“It means we’re going to have to talk—you and me and Linda—about which if any of these criteria apply to Andrew. I mean, we’ve got a pretty good idea about number five, the gravity of the offense. It’s murder, so it’s serious. But we fight that one when we get to it. Meanwhile, I’ve got to know about all the others, so that if any of them seem to apply to him, we work up a defense, or at least an explanation for the court.”

North was frowning deeply, sitting all the way back in the couch, his hands in his lap, his legs straight out and crossed at the ankles. “Haven’t we already done that? Remember that second day at the house, I think it was. When you wanted to know all about the blowups, and we talked about his shrink and all that?”

“Sure. I remember. But this is getting down much more to the nuts and bolts. Individual events. Reasons he shouldn’t really be considered an adult.”

“Character issues?”

“Right.”

He turned his head to face her. “But didn’t you say the other day that we didn’t want to bring up character? Once we did that, then the prosecution could introduce their own stuff and jump all over us?”