The Second Chair

Raising the cup to his mouth, though, he hesitated.

Maybe Fra

In fact, seen in that light, drinking had enabled him to function better. He came to work every day, drummed up mega-business with whoever could pay his fees, used his natural talent for schmoozing. He was good with people, that was all. And with a bit of a load on, even more charming.

Like Wu. Charming.

The thought stopped him cold.

Like Wu. Screwing up. Hiding behind that old glib shit. Ultimately failing those who might be counting on you.

Leaving the cup untouched on the counter, he instead walked over to his dart area, opened the cabinets and pulled the three tungsten customs from the board. It wasn't so long ago that he used to throw his darts to clear his mind as a relaxation technique, and now he got to the line in the floor, turned and threw. Threw again. Again. One round.

Before he moved forward to pull the round from the board, he went over to the counter, picked up the coffee cup and poured it down the sink.

It was nearly four o'clock by the time he knocked on Gina Roake's door.

She had the corner office, an altogether different work space than Hardy's. There were a few stuffed chairs and a sofa, an old wooden coffee table, a computer table and chair, but no formal desk to speak of. Instead of hardwood floors, Gina went with wall-to-wall carpet, a shade darker than champagne. Cheaply framed posters of old movies-Giant, Casablanca, Gone With the Wind, Citizen Kane- decorated the one big wall. The other, by the door, mostly held her law books, although there was one shelf of David Freeman memorabilia- an empty bottle of La Grande Dame champagne (from the day he'd proposed to her); a picture of the two of them outside on the deck at the Alta Mira in Sausalito, the bay shimmering in the background; a hand-blown blue and red glass perfume bottle; some erotic if not frankly obscene porcelains from Chinatown; a clean ashtray with an unlit cigar and a book of matches from the Crown Room at the Fairmont. Then there were the windows, six of them to Hardy's two. In the afternoon, now, the light suffused the room with a golden glow.

He stopped just inside, carefully closed the door behind him. "You busy?"

She was at the computer, work showing on the screen. "I decided you were at least a little bit right. If I'm going to have my name on the door, I should pull some of the weight."

He drew around one of the folding chairs, flipped it open and sat on it. "That's fu

She turned to face him. Thought a moment. "I'm all right. I think if I exercised any more, I'd self-destruct. Which is maybe what I was trying to do. I'm damn sure already the strongest woman my age I know, if any man has the guts to want to find out." But the smile faded. "But it wasn't physical strength, though, after all, was it? It was bullets."

"It was bullets," Hardy agreed.

A silence ensued. In only a few seconds, Gina's face tracked through several variations on the themes of grief, revenge and regret. Last year she'd killed a man, and the experience had scarred her. "So what brings you down to this neck of the woods? If it was just your apology- u

"It wasn't just that. It's Amy."

He gave Gina a brief recap of the events leading up to this morning's fiasco in juvenile court, and by the time he finished, Gina had turned and was facing him, her face set with worry. "She made the deal before she had the client's consent?"

"Right." Then he added, "It's possible she thought he had given it."

"How's that? Did she have him sign a statement?"

"I don't think so, no. She called me last night and said it was locked up. Solid."

"But didn't get his John Hancock? And then he went sideways?"

"Last minute, in the courtroom." Hardy shrugged. "It happens."

"Not as often as you might think if you do it right. So. What do you want me to do?"

A pause. "For Amy? Nothing. For me, I could use some guidance. I'm the managing partner, and I've managed this whole thing wrong up until now. I knew her client hadn't signed off. I kept convincing myself that I should trust her judgment that he'd come around. That was irresponsible enough, but it was more than that, really."

Roake cocked her head. "What, though, exactly?"

Hardy took a minute deciding what he should say. "You may remember, Amy's father died a few months ago. Since then she's been… distracted. And her work's been suffering, today's problem being the best of several good examples." Again, he paused. "I can't help but feel that a lot of where this has gotten to is my fault. I should have stepped in at the git-go, and three or four other stops along the way. But the point is, she's been playing fast and loose with this boy's life and it probably feels relatively okay to her because she's playing fast and loose with her own."

Roake leaned back into her chair, let out a heavy breath. "People are going to do what they're going to do, Diz. Do you think she's competent? Legally?"

"I don't know. She's got a good mind. But the only bright spot right now, if you want to call it that, is that she's somehow co

"Which, I take it, isn't true?"

"Right."

"So she's still lying to her clients?"

Hardy tried a weak grin. " 'Spi

Roake crossed her arms over her chest, whirled halfway around in her chair, and stared out toward one of the windows. Finally: "If memory serves, the seven-oh-seven's not about evidence, is it? It's only a question of whether the child can be rehabilitated in the juvenile system or should be punished in the adult. Isn't that about right?"

Hardy nodded.

"Okay, then. And how is Andrew's record otherwise?"

"Nothing to speak of. One joyride, community service and a fine. Expunged."

"Well, then." Roake considered a moment. "In that case, she might have a shot. The court can't say that the boy's already a hardened criminal and needs to spend the rest of his life locked away. She might pull it off."

"Maybe." Hardy had his doubts. He knew perhaps better than Roake that the last of the five criteria in determining whether a defendant was legally a juvenile or an adult was the gravity of the offense, and there was nothing more serious than murder. On that alone, Hardy thought, the 707 hearing was doomed to failure.