The Hearing

When he got there, force of habit made his first stop the homicide detail but without an appointment with Banks and in Glitsky's absence, the reception he got was a little bit cool. Inspector Sergeant Marcel Lanier knew Hardy fairly well, but he was handling the administrative overflow left in Glitsky's wake, and, stuck at his desk, he was neither a happy camper nor inclined to chat. No, he didn't know what was happening with Abe, but he hoped whatever it was wouldn't take too long. No, he hadn't heard from Banks. So what? No doubt he'd check in when he got far enough behind on his paperwork.

John Strout, the coroner, was in the middle of an autopsy, 'up to his elbows', and couldn't see him either. Hardy left a message, asking him to call when he could, and walked across the corridor to the jail's entrance, where he couldn't make himself go inside. He still tasted a kind of bitter residue from his ruined date night with Frannie. Although he was certain that his client would be thrilled to have any visitor, Cole Burgess was the last person he wanted to see.

He walked back through the Hall, out the other side, and jaywalked across Bryant Street. Lou the Greek's was a bar located there in the basement of a bailbondsman's building. Lou's served food, too, for lunch. Since Lou's wife hailed from Hong Kong, these were mostly Chinese-Greek combinations – hot and sour lemon egg-drop soup, egg rolls stuffed with hummus – the culinary equivalent of colors not found in nature.

It was a dark and somber bar, pure and simple, its popularity now on the wane due to the young, hip legal crowd's attraction to loud, jumping, music-filled meat markets such as Jupiter and, just down the street, the Circus. Today, though, still early in the morning and deserted except for Lou behind the bar, the place fitted Hardy's mood perfectly.

'Hey, Diz.' The bartender slid a napkin across the pitted wood.

Hardy nodded. 'I've got a question for you, Lou.'

'You want a drink while you're asking it?'

'No. I'm good. Maybe some coffee.'

He waited while the Greek turned and poured a cup into an old ceramic mug, came back and placed it on the napkin. Even in the dim light, Hardy could make out a faint lipstick stain on the rim – cleanliness was never a big issue at Lou's. He turned the cup around to drink from its pristine side, nearly burned himself on the bitter brew. 'Let's say you're a lawyer…'

Lou crossed himself backwards, smiling. He said something, but it was Greek to Hardy, who pressed on, 'You've got a client you think is guilty. The evidence says he's guilty. He – the client – even starts out by saying he's guilty. He confesses to the cops. Now, get this, the cop who arrests him comes to you and says, "No wait, I don't think the confession's any good." Then the other cop, the one who took his confession, he starts to have doubts-'

'This guy, your client – is he a hypnotist or something?'

'He's a heroin addict. He's been known to take a drink, too.'

Lou nodded. 'My kind of guy – not the heroin part, though. So what's your question?'

'Wait. I'm not there yet.'

Lou raised his eyes and scanned his dark and empty bar. He raised his voice. 'Anybody need another round?' He came back to Hardy. 'OK, I've got a couple more minutes, but my rates are going up fast.'

'Here's the problem. My client is charged with robbery and murder. I believe I've got a better than decent chance to get him off by arguing to a jury that he was too drunk or stoned or both to have planned to tie his shoes, much less rob or kill anybody. You with me?'

Lou guessed that he was.

'Okay, but if I argue that, best case he gets years in prison. Whereas if I argue that he didn't do it at all, and the jury believes that, he gets off completely. The problem is, no jury is going to believe it, since I've got no alternative suspects. Hell, I don't believe it myself.'

Lou, a lifelong bartender, knew that Hardy wasn't drinking alcohol, but he also knew that any conversation with even a sober customer that lasted over five minutes was somehow bad for business. He cut back to the chase. 'I hope we're closing in on the question.'

'Almost. So I'm supposed to do what's best for my client, give him the best defense the law allows. Now, the question is, what do I do?'

Lou cocked his head. 'You're kidding me? That's the question? What's best for your client – prison or walk out the door?' He jerked a thumb. 'Out the door, no contest.'

'But I've got no chance to win. I can't prove he didn't do it.'

Lou hadn't worked in the Hall's watering hole for a lifetime without picking up some rudimentary knowledge of the law. 'I thought they had to prove he did do it.'

'They do.'

'Well, don't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you believe. Besides, ask your client. He's not going to think prison is winning.' Lou thought another minute, picked up a glass from the counter under the bar and began to wipe it with his rag. For the first time in the conversation, Hardy had the feeling that he'd engaged his mind. 'You got any idea what you're going to be doing in ten years, Diz? If you're even going to be alive? Ten years.'

'Nope.'

Lou nodded. 'Same with most people, I bet.'

Hardy worked as a defense attorney, but as he walked the second floor hallway in the Public Defender's office, he felt very much out of place. Although it had been nearly a decade since he'd been a young assistant DA, in his heart he still considered himself very much in favor of the prosecution. If it wasn't for the politically misguided and extra-legal idiocy of Sharron Pratt and her administration, he had no trouble envisioning himself working hard and long to put bad people behind bars.

Here in the Public Defender's building, however, two blocks from the Hall of Justice, the ethic was the diametrical opposite. Just walking to Saul Westbrook's office gave Hardy a strong sense of unreality, as though he'd suddenly made a turn into an alternative universe. It seemed to extrude from the very plaster in the walls. It shouted from every bumper sticker, cartoon, or poster on the doors and bulletin boards – 'He's NOT GUILTY until you prove it!!' '3 Strikes = Bad Law!!!' 'No Victim, No Crime!!!' 'Alternative Sentencing Works!!'

The vibe, Hardy thought, so different from his own. It was disorienting.

From Lou's, he'd gone back to the Hall and discovered the name of Cullen Alsop's lawyer. Saul Westbrook had been in his office when he called him and said, 'Sure. Come on up.'

Now he knocked at the open door. The office was about the same size as those of his prosecutorial counterparts over in the Hall of Justice – ten by twelve feet crammed with two desks, overflowing file cabinets, cardboard boxes bulging with three-ring binders, metal bookshelves to the ceiling.

'Mr Westbrook?'

He was the only person in the room. The other desk was empty. Westbrook didn't look as though he was old enough yet to shave. He wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, a white shirt with a collar but no tie, and either had just won the Masters Golf Tournament or had his own Green Jacket from another source. He looked up, stood, extended his hand. 'Saul.'

'Dismas Hardy.'

'Dismas? So we're both named after a couple of early Christian saints, huh?'

Hardy cracked a grin. 'I think my guy was first.'

'I think you're right.' Saul had an open, angular face with a sincere smile. A shock of surfer-length blond hair flopped across his forehead. The smile faded briefly. 'Maybe between us we can try to put a word in to God about poor Cullen.'

Hardy was tempted to like him right away, but he couldn't duck the truth. 'I'll need to wait until I find out if poor Cullen screwed my client before he died.'

'Cole Burgess,' Westbrook said, and it wasn't a question. The expressive face seemed to sadden. 'I don't think he did.'

'You think he had the gun?'

'I don't know. Why would he make it up? Burgess was a friend of his.'