"Hey, come on!" Juhle put some humor in it, but not all that much. "Give a poor cop a break. Besides, he gets lawyered up, I'm really going to think he's guilty."
"Having a lawyer means he's guilty?" Gina asked.
"No. Of course not. How silly of me." Juhle remained genial. "You're absolutely correct. Perish the thought."
"Don't be fooled," Hunt said. "He doesn't agree with you."
"I'm picking that up, Wyatt."
Juhle stabbed one of the awful pot stickers with his fork and picked it up. Staring at it for a second, he again put it back down on his plate. Gina's casual dig at him had obviously struck a nerve. "Let's put it this way. He hasn't been charged with anything yet. If the autopsy comes back looking like someone murdered his wife, I would hope that he'd want to cooperate in every way he could to help us find the killer. If he's got a lawyer there with him, running a screen every time I ask him a question, I'm going to wonder about what's going on with him a lot more than I would if he just sat and talked to me."
"But you admit you're trying to get him to implicate himself." "No." Then patiently, "I'm trying to get at the truth. If he's innocent, the truth-pardon the phrase-the truth will set him free."
"Only in a perfect world, Inspector. You know that."
"Okay, granted," Juhle said. "But an innocent guy doesn't call a lawyer before he's even charged with anything."
Gina thought this was turning into a ridiculous discussion for two old pros to be having. She'd started out totally goofing with Juhle, and now she was enjoying the rise she was getting out of him, so she went on. "He does if he's going to talk to cops and say things that could get misconstrued. That's all I'm saying."
"And all I'm saying," Juhle responded, "is that to us cop types, that happens and we're going to think the guy's got something to hide."
"Well, to quote the Beatles," Hunt said, trying to lighten everybody up, " 'everybody's got something to hide 'cept for me and my monkey.' "
"Thanks, Wyatt," Gina said. "That was helpful." Self-effacing, Hunt said, "I try to contribute."
"I think I got your friend mad at me."
"Naw. That's just Devin. He's a cop, so he thinks like a cop. It's a whole mind-set they test you on at the Academy. First question is whether you think if a guy's got a lawyer, is he guilty? If you say, 'Not necessarily,' you flunk out."
"How heartening."
They were crossing Bryant Street at the light. "So," Hunt asked, "what brings you down here? I haven't seen you near the Hall in forever."
"At least. Maybe longer. I don't even remember the last time I was down here."
Reaching the opposite curb, they turned right together and started up the block. In front of them, unmarked as well as black-and-white police cars and taxicabs were double-parked in the street all the way up to the front steps of the Hall. Someone had chained a large Doberman to one of the handrails in the middle of the wide and shallow stairs, and his barking competed with the Jamaican in dreads who was exhorting all and sundry to embrace Rasta as their salvation and Haile Selassie as the one true God. A homeless man wrapped in newspaper slept just beyond the hedge that bounded the steps. A full dozen attorney types stood talking with clients or cops in the bright sunshine while regular citizens kept up a stream in and out of the glass doors. "Can you believe? I think I've actually missed the place," Roake said.
"You get inside, I predict you'll get over that pretty quick. You meeting a client?"
"No. I'm hoping to latch on to a conflicts case." These cases were very common; the Public Defender's Office would in the normal course of events be assigned to an indigent client who had been accused of a crime. If that suspect committed the crime with a partner, the PD could not also defend the accomplice-it was a conflict of interest. So the court would assign a private defense attorney such as Gina, whose fees the city would pay, to represent the accomplice.
They reached the steps. Gina stopped, hesitated, gestured to the door. "You going inside?"
"No. I was just doing some computer searches at home and Devin called to have lunch and I took pity on him. I live just around the corner."
Again, Gina showed a slight hesitation.
"What?" Hunt asked.
She lay a hand on his arm. "I was just wondering if Inspector Juhle happened to mention the name of the husband we were talking about back in there."
"Sure. It's Stuart Gorman. The writer?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know the name. What does he write?"
"Outdoors books. Fishing, mostly. I've read a couple of 'em. He's pretty good."
"A couple of them?" "Maybe three by now."
"I hate him already," Gina said. "I've been trying to finish my one damn book for almost four years, and he's already finished three?" "Maybe he started earlier than you." "Maybe he's just better at it."
"Could be that, I suppose. Though you're probably a better lawyer than he'd be." "If he were a lawyer."
"Which, based on Devin's talk with him, he's not," Hunt said. "And that in turn leaves you wondering if he's got himself legal representation yet, doesn't it?"
Now Roake smiled. "No flies on you, Wyatt. The thought did occur to me."
"You want me to call him and find out for sure?"
Gina shook her head. "Thanks. I can chase my own ambulances. The man's just lost his wife. Let's go wildly out on a limb and presume for a minute that he had nothing to do with killing her, in which case he's probably-no, undoubtedly-devastated. But I kind of think he'd be better off if he gets somebody before your Devin gets another shot at him."
"Well," Hunt said. "If I know Dev like I think I do, he'd better hurry."
Four
At a few minutes after one o'clock, a haggard Stuart Gorman, collapsed in a wing chair next to the television in his hotel room, hung up the telephone. "I can't believe these people."
Sitting across from him on the front two inches of his bed, his longtime friend and ex-college roommate, Jedd Conley, raised his head. Conley was the first call Stuart made after the police had chased him out of his own house that morning. In spite of being the State Assemblyman representing San Francisco, Conley had cleared his entire calendar for the day and met Stuart at the Travelodge within twenty minutes of checking in.
Conley had a good face, closely shaved. Both his nose and his six-foot bearing were strong, straight, aristocratic. The broad, unlined forehead under his dark hair could have belonged to a man twenty years his junior, but the youthful look was somewhat mitigated by the lines around a mouth that had perhaps been forced to smile more than it wanted to. Today Conley was wearing a tan business suit with a white shirt and light gold tie. "Who was that?" he asked.
"Some guy capping for a lawyer, wanting to know if I'd retained legal representation yet. The distinguished citizen had somebody he wanted to recommend. What a sleazeball. I got rid of him."
"I heard you."
"Fucking shysters. How'd they find me here so fast?"
Conley shrugged. "Word gets out. It's already been on TV. They probably called the cops and asked. It's just business."
"Just business." Stuart Gorman blew some of his anger into the dim room. "It sucks."
"I don't know." Conley stood up and crossed to the window, where he pulled a cord on the blinds and let in more light. Turning, he said, "You're going to need a lawyer, after all. You can't blame them."
"I wasn't here, Jedd. I wasn't physically present when she died," Stuart said evenly, his mouth tightening up. "How am I going to be a suspect?"
"I didn't say you were a suspect. I said you're going to need a lawyer. The cops, the press, the estate. It's an automatic."