But first, and in the meanwhile, what he didn’t want was some D.A.‘s investigator, spurred on by Pullios’s zeal, to discover this apparent connection and ruin Andy’s life. And in fact, there might be no connection, or an innocent one. Although Hardy couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Nevertheless, the Boy Scout in him deemed it best to be prepared. He copied the file.
David Freeman thought it had been a long day, but not without its rewards. The trial falling to Andy Fowler had been a godsend, one that he, Freeman, had never given up hope on but one which he couldn’t possibly have counted on.
He had finished a decent meal and a couple of solid drinks at the Buena Vista Bar – not the birthplace but the American foster home of Irish Coffee – and was taking the cable car up toward Nob Hill, named for the Nobs who had originally claimed it as their own: Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, Charles Crocker and Collis P. Huntington. Freeman lived there himself in a penthouse apartment a block from the Fairmont Hotel, just above the Rue Lepic, one of his favorite restaurants.
But tonight he didn’t want to go straight home. It was full dark, surprisingly warm again. He sat on the cable car’s hard bench, cantered against the steep grade, rocking with the motion, surrounded by the tourists. It was all right.
He was a man of the people and yet, somehow, above the people. He looked on them tolerantly, with few illusions. They were capable of anything – thirty-five years practicing criminal law had shown him that – but there was something he sometimes felt in a bustling rush of humanity that brought him back to himself, to who he was.
He remembered why he had chosen defense work – and there hadn’t been much glamor, and even less money, in the beginning. The field had attracted him because he knew that everyone made mistakes, everyone was guilty of something. What the world needed, what people needed, was forgiveness and understanding, at least to have their side heard. He described himself, to himself, as a cynical romantic. And he had to admit he was seldom bored.
He dismounted the cable car at the Fairmont and decided to prolong the night and the mood, take a walk, reflect. May Shinn was constantly referring to Owen Nash and always managed to mention his cigars. Freeman found it had given him the taste for one, and he stopped in at the smoke shop and picked up a Macanudo. Outside, while he was lighting up by the valet station, a well-dressed man tried to sell him a genuine Rolex Presidential watch for three hundred dollars. Freeman declined.
He strolled west, over the crest of the hill, craving another sight of the Bay at night. The cigar was full-flavored, delicious.
After the conference he’d had today with Andy Fowler, he was sure he was going to win.
Fowler shouldn’t have gotten the trial. Certainly, when he’d hired Freeman, that couldn’t have been contemplated. May was in Municipal Court and there was no possible way it could wind up in Andy’s courtroom.
Even after the grand-jury indictment had moved it into Superior Court, the odds were still six to one against Fowler getting it. But, even at those odds, Fowler should have gone to Leo Chomorro, spoken to him privately, and taken himself out of the line.
Except that feelings between Andy Fowler and Leo Chomorro were strained, to say the least. Forgetting their philosophical differences, and they were substantial, on a personal level Fowler had been one of the few judges singled out by name in Chomorro’s report to the governor on the ‘candy-ass’ nature of the San Francisco bench. Fowler, in turn, had been an outspoken critic of Chomorro’s appointment to the court. More, Freeman knew through legal community scuttlebutt that Fowler was the man most responsible for Chomorro’s extended sojourn on Calendar. So, for any and all of these reasons, Fowler hadn’t gone to Chomorro, and that’s when he’d cut himself off at the pass.
Because he’d gone on the assumption that he had a fallback, fail-safe position even if the trial came up in his department. Freeman smiled, thinking of it – not unkindly, it was consistent with his view of the folly of man, even judges. Fowler had thought that of course, without a doubt, there was no question that if the Shinn trial came to his courtroom, David Freeman, defense counsel, would exercise his option to challenge the presiding judge, not having to give a reason, and that would be the end of that – the trial would go to another judge.
But Freeman hadn’t challenged, which, of course, was what had prompted the conference.
Fowler, arms crossed, stood just inside the door to his chambers. ‘David, what the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m defending my client. That’s what you hired me to do.’
‘I certainly didn’t think she would get to this courtroom.’
‘No, neither did I.’
‘Well, you have to challenge. I can’t hear this case.’
Freeman hadn’t answered. His hands were in his pockets. He knew he looked rumpled, mournful, sympathetic. Two weeks before he’d been Andy Fowler’s savior, now he was his enemy.
He loved the drama of it.
Fowler had turned, walking to the window. ‘What am I supposed to do, David?’
‘You could recuse yourself, cite conflict.’
‘I can’t do that now.’
Freeman knew he couldn’t.
‘I can’t have my relationship with her come out.’
Chomorro, even Fowler’s allies, would eat him alive for that. It was bad form for judges to go with prostitutes. But sometimes the best argument was silence. Freeman walked up to the judge’s desk and straightened some pencils.
‘David, you’ve got to challenge.’
Freeman shook his head. ‘You hired me to do the best job defending my client. A trial in your courtroom is clearly to her advantage. I’m sorry if it is inconvenient to you.’
‘Inconvenient? This is a disaster. It’s totally unethical. I can’t let this happen.’
‘That, Judge, is your decision.’ He was matter-of-fact. ‘If it’s any consolation, I have no intention of betraying your confidence.’
Fowler’s eyes seemed glazed. ‘Does May know?’
‘I’d bet against it. I told her it was free advertising for me. It seemed to go down.’
‘Jesus.’ He ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly he looked haggard and old. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He walked around in little circles, then stopped. ‘Do you think I could give her a fair trial, David?’
There it was, the rationality kicking in. That’s what people did, Freeman knew. They made their own actions, however wrong, somehow justified.
Fowler continued, ‘If it ever comes out, I’m truly ruined. Would she say anything?’
‘Why would she, especially since I’m going to get her off? It wouldn’t be to her advantage. Now or ever.’
‘You’re going to get her off?’
‘Of course. There’s no evidence, Andy.’
The judge lowered his voice. ‘But she did it, David.’
‘No one can prove my client killed anybody. If the prosecution can be kept from sexual innuendo and racial slurs, she will be acquitted. It will be essential to control the tone in the courtroom.’
The cigar had gone out and he chewed happily on the butt. It had been a satisfying performance, its outcome so sweet he almost wanted to dance a little jig when he left chambers.
Of course, on the downside, Andy Fowler, with whom he’d always gotten along, had his neck on the block. Andy couldn’t recuse himself without admitting his relationship with May, and he wasn’t going to do that. He was right, it would end his career, and the revelation at this late date in the proceedings would be particularly damning.
But he’d gotten himself in this position. You made your own luck. Good or bad. Andy was a big boy. He should have known better.