But the violence that could and did erupt with such tragic results even in a guarded courtroom leaves officials pondering a host of questions: Shouldn’t courtroom bailiffs in San Francisco be armed, as they are in every other jurisdiction in California? Or, on the other hand, should guns, even in the hands of police personnel, ever be allowed in courtrooms at all? Is there an adequate number of bailiffs in San Francisco courtrooms? Was Judge Braun negligent in affording a potential murder suspect the opportunity to escape and/or take hostages?
Above all, how was an innocent woman arrested and brought to trial for two murders in a San Francisco courtroom, based on an investigation that could be described, at best, as incompetent, and at worst, as grotesquely negligent?
The evidence of Maya Townshend’s innocence was right in front of the police and the prosecution during this entire investigation. Yet they chose to ignore it in what the unkind might describe as the pursuit of a political vendetta. In this reporter’s opinion it is a travesty that this case was ever allowed to be brought to trial at all.
40
“Actually,” Glitsky said, “I’m enjoying the time off. Getting quality time with my little rat here.” Zachary, the rat in question, still wore his helmet but otherwise looked and acted as healthy as any normal kid as he played with his sister in the sandbox in Glitsky’s backyard. “Rebonding.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You never unbonded.”
“Maybe not, but it felt like it. Unbonded from the world.”
“Yeah, well…” They sat on the top step, their usual spot, looking down over the backyard and the greenery of the Presidio beyond. “You came back just in time, so I wouldn’t beat myself up over it.”
“I won’t. I thought I told you. I’m done with beating myself up.”
Hardy threw him a sideways glance. “If that’s true, how will I recognize you? You’ll find something else to beat yourself up over, you watch. It’s just who you are. Screwed up, but probably worth saving. Marginally. In the long run.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But, in fact,” Hardy added, “not that I don’t have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon, but you did call.”
“I did.”
“And you’re going to make me guess again?”
“If you want, or I could just tell you what we found at Chiurco’s.”
“You mean besides blood spatter on what… his shoes?”
“Shoes, check.”
“And a Glock.40 hexagonal-barrel semi?”
“Nope, but three live rounds and a cleaning kit that would fit that gun. Besides those?”
“I give up. No, wait. Weed.”
“You’re good. You want to guess how much?”
“Nope. I quit when I’m ahead. Weed is good enough. But what else?”
“You’re going to like it. You want another few seconds?”
“Okay.” A companionable silence settled for the better part of a minute, until finally Hardy said, “What else?”
“Newspaper clippings. Old ones.”
“Julio Gomez.”
“Right.”
“I could have got that if I’d have thought a little more.”
“Just like you got Chiurco knowing Preslee.”
“No. I should have seen that long before I did. I mean, Wyatt told me all about Dylan not being on Google until recently, so how could Craig have found Levon? The answer was that he couldn’t have. No way, no how. Especially when I realized that they’d gone to trial separately. So he must have known Levon before. And I even knew Craig had been at USF and knew Dylan and was on his weed list. I mean, flags everywhere and I couldn’t see them.”
“Yeah,” Glitsky said, “you’re a little slow. It’s amazing you keep getting clients.”
“I marvel at it myself. Still, though”-Hardy let out a sigh-“what a fiasco at the end there.”
“I hear you. Though that’s one of the things I’m not going to beat myself up over. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Probably smart. You had no choice.”
“Really. None.”
“I know. I believe you. You just wonder sometimes how things get to where they are. I mean, why did Maya even get charged? And because of that Harlen’s dead? And Schiff? And even Ruiz. To say nothing of Chiurco and those poor bailiffs. What’s that about? All those victims.”
“And everybody still goes on calling it a victimless crime, don’t they?”
“It’s the crime part,” Hardy said. “Take away the crime, make the stuff legal…” He looked at his friend. “But you being a cop and all, I don’t suppose that’s going to be your issue, is it?”
“Good guess.” Glitsky chewed at his cheek. “But as to how things got to where they did, part of that, you want to be honest, was me. Bailing on the job. Worrying about Zack.”
“That would have been a very small part. But I’m proud to see you’re already back on the road to beating yourself up.” Hardy glanced at his watch. “You made it about forty-five seconds, a new record, I think.”
“No. I know it was mostly Schiff, and God knows she paid for it.”
“What about Bracco? You talk to him?”
“Not since right after.”
“How is he?”
Glitsky let out a breath. “Talk about beating yourself up. He said he knew he should have stepped up, said something, but he wanted to be loyal to his partner.”
“Cops and loyalty, huh?”
“Don’t I know? I just hope he can talk himself into staying on, but I’m not betting on it. On the other hand, Treya had some fun news the other night you might not have heard about.”
“She’s pregnant again.”
Glitsky gave him the bad eye. “Don’t even kid. Think DA’s office.”
“Clarence is stepping down and she’s taking over.”
“Incorrect. Think Paul Stier.”
“The Big Ugly?”
Glitsky nodded. “The big, now-between-jobs ugly. At least until he can hook on with Glass or somebody.”
“I don’t know. I think Mr. Glass might be having his own problems lately. Having taken on the mayor, stirring up all this shit, and really coming up with squat. Rumors abound. And speaking of which, the word is that you’re back in the saddle next week.”
“Might be. Might not.”
“Let me guess. You’re not beating yourself up over it?”
Glitsky nodded. “Close enough.”
Tamara Dade knew that Craig Chiurco’s shell-shocked and disbelieving parents had taken his ashes and scattered them under the Golden Gate Bridge. She hadn’t wanted to intrude on them in their own hours of grief; and besides, she did not come close to forgetting that she and Craig had broken up. A serious and, she had felt, irrevocable breakup. So she wasn’t with the family and didn’t want to be.
But she had her own grieving to deal with.
Now, four days after the memorial service, she found herself at the pier behind the Ferry Building, waiting in line again for the boat to Sausalito. She hadn’t come in to work, nor had she called, since the day of the shootings. Instead, four days ago she’d started to come out here after her mostly sleepless and crying nights, and she’d ride across the bay, sit alone on the Sausalito jetty and watch the water, then take the ferry back by about noon. She’d then repeat the round trip in the afternoon, getting back to the city after darkness had descended.
Today was bleak, windy, and bitter cold. As the ferry left the protection of the shore, whitecaps piled up and flung their foam across the open front deck. This was where Tamara had taken to standing, but on this day, even with her raincoat, it was too wet, too miserable. She turned and went back inside, bought a hot chocolate, and found a seat at one of the bolted-in tables by a window, where she could look out and…
What?
Imagine what life would have been like with Craig? Wonder why they had never progressed to a committed relationship? Try to understand what he’d done, and why? And what, simply, had happened in the courtroom?