Mr Drysdale replied: ‘There was also no indication whatsoever that the judge was not lying.’
In a related development, the Chronicle learned from a reliable courthouse source yesterday that Judge Fowler’s fingerprints have been found on the loading chamber of the murder weapon, a.25-caliber Beretta semi-automatic handgun registered to May Shinn, who had been the lover of both Owen Nash and former Judge Fowler.
The case will be scheduled for trial on Monday morning.
Hardy had to learn to hold his comments in front of the jailhouse guards, even though they might be known to the prosecution. He knew who the ‘reliable courthouse source’ must have been about the fingerprints. His good statements to the press notwithstanding, the polygraph was a blow. It was all well and good to tell Jeff Elliot that there had been nothing that showed Andy was lying, but the test, from Hardy’s perspective, had brought up his old doubts about Andy’s innocence. On the other hand, he reminded himself, Andy’s nervousness could have been real – after all, everything about his predicament in jail was strange and scary. And what about Andy’s position that his best shot at proving he didn’t kill Nash was to find out who did? But outside of Glitsky and maybe Jeff, who owed him, where did he go for finding that out? And even with them, a few tenuous leads, some serendipitous snooping by Jeff… none of these were too hopeful.
He stood in front of his desk and threw darts, round after round. There were household noises – Frannie was doing some vacuuming, Rebecca got hungry and cried, Garth Brooks serenaded a CD’s worth from the living room. The sun got higher.
He was due in Master Calendar in two days. Based on the presumption that his client was innocent and being held without bail, he planned to push for an immediate trial. He would not waive time, and this would anger Pullios and whatever judge they got. They would not challenge the judge, whoever it might be. The newspapers were already leaning toward Fowler’s guilt, and Hardy thought it would be easier to find a heterosexual on Castro Street than to find a prospective jury member in this city who didn’t already have an opinion on Andy Fowler and Owen Nash.
Risks. Too many?
Leaving out the biggest – if Andy had in fact done it -Hardy’s doubts came and went. He just didn’t know. Not yet, anyway.
Personally Hardy’s own blackness had lifted – it was gone, vanished like a virulent flu that had done its damage and moved on.
He could think of no better place to be than where he was now – defending Andy Fowler. Since he had discovered Owen Nash’s hand last June, this case had been central to his life – his marriage, his career, his view of himself. He would, by God, see it through – if he had to wring it from some collective necks, he would get to the truth.
47
Superior Court Judge Marian Braun gavelled the room to order. Hardy had been sitting in the jury box to Braun’s right. Twenty minutes before, Elizabeth Pullios had come in with her entourage – the same assistant D.A. she’d had last time and what looked to be a law student/clerk. She sat at the prosecution table, busily conferring, ignoring Hardy completely.
They had called six of the earlier ‘lines,’ and the various defendants had been paraded before the bench. Two of them had been assigned to courtrooms, three were continued, and defense attorneys assigned, one was pled out then and there and ordered to pay a fine.
Hardy tried not to look at the gallery. Celine was there, dressed in black, sitting next to Ken Farris in the second row. He hadn’t seen her since the day at the steam room in Hardbodies! He noticed Jeff Elliot sitting among what Hardy assumed to be a group of other reporters. Jane, of course, was in the front row, opposite Celine. Art Drysdale came through the main doors and stood, arms folded, against the back wall.
He and Andy had discussed it yesterday – Sunday – and decided what he would wear in court. Andy didn’t own a suit that cost less than $700, so Hardy had asked Jane, the I. Magnin buyer, to hit a few lower-price racks and find something in Andy’s size with a little more of a common feel. He wanted Andy to look good – if a jury thought you looked like a criminal you were starting off on the wrong foot – but not too good. Andy Fowler, ex-judge, was going to have a problem with the jury empathizing with him in any event.
As the bailiff was reading in the charge again, Hardy got up from the jury box and met Andy at the podium, fifteen feet in front of where Marian Braun sat. He heard activity behind him. Turning, he saw that the door was open and a larger knot of reporters was pushing in.
Braun brought down her gavel. ‘Let’s get seated out there. While I’m at it, I want to tell you all that I will not allow pictures to be taken in this courtroom. I want order. This isn’t going to take long.’
‘Note that,’ Fowler whispered. ‘This is not going to take long.’
Hardy nodded to Fowler, then addressed the court. ‘Your Honor?’
‘Mr Hardy.’
‘On the matter of bail…’
‘Bail has been decided.’
‘Yes, your Honor, but I understood that you would reconsider your position.’
Braun glared down at him. ‘What made you understand that? What could I have said that brought you to that conclusion?’
Hardy had expected hostility, but on a pro forma request such as this one, Braun’s response still took him aback. ‘Your Honor, Mr Fowler is a respected jurist -’
‘Was, Mr Hardy. Presently he is a defendant in a murder trial. It is not unusual to deny bail in such cases. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear. Ms Pullios, was that clear to you?’
‘Yes, Your Honor.’
‘Mr Hardy somehow understood that I would reconsider.’
No answer was called for. The courtroom was quiet. Marian Braun stared at her former colleague. She looked at the computer sheet in front of her.
‘Bail will be set at one million dollars.’
PART V
48
It was a cold and clear Monday morning, the fifty-first anniversary of Pearl Harbor. Out in the hallway in front of Department 27 Hardy turned from the group that had gathered around Ken Farris and Celine Nash. He pretended to lean down and tie his shoe, wanting to hear what she was saying. Her husky voice cut through the hubbub.
‘I’m here, and I’m going to be here every day to remind the jury that Owen Nash was a real person, not just a statistic, not a quote super-rich financier unquote but my father, a living and breathing person whom I loved and whom I mourn every day.’
Jane was next to him. ‘Chomorro,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that the worst?’
Hardy hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife since finding out she’d slept once – ‘only one night’ – with Owen Nash. ‘Hi, Jane.’ He stood up. He hadn’t seen any reason to burden her with his strategy of the antagonistic bench. In that light, he considered Chomorro was one of the best judges who could have come up.
‘Are we going to challenge him?’
Hardy thought he’d move along down the hallway away from Celine and Farris. He saw Jeff Elliot having a few words with Pullios over to his right. They had about fifteen minutes before Chomorro would call the court to order.
‘Chomorro? No.’
‘You’re kidding.’
Hardy thought he might as well practice for the newspapers. ‘Why would I want to challenge him, Jane? This is his first murder trial. Your dad wouldn’t go to him to recuse himself on the May Shinn matter because Andy thought Chomorro couldn’t keep it confidential. No, your dad and I have discussed it. Chomorro’s ideal because he’s got so much to prove – he’s going to lean over backward to give a fair trial to someone who had perceived him as an enemy. It’s a chance for him to make his good name – in that context he’s probably the best judge we could have drawn.’