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  But to this day, the crime remains officially unsolved—yet another blight on the record of what has to rank as among the most inefficient, unprofessional, and scandal-ridden police departments in the nation.

  (Today’s Our Town column is Part IV of a seven-part series on unsolved major crimes over the past twenty years in San Francisco.)

  * * *

  IN POINT OF fact, after death threats to Hardy, Glitsky, and their children, and the murder of David Freeman, Hardy and Roake had both been participants in the gunfight that the media had dubbed the Dockside Massacre. This had left five dead people—one of them Barry Gerson, then the SFPD head of Homicide—shot up on Pier 70.

  More recently, Gina had provided an alibi, under oath, that may not have been true for Moses McGuire (Hardy’s wife Frannie’s big brother and the last participant in the Dockside Massacre) during his trial for the murder of the young man who’d allegedly raped his daughter. Gina testified that on the day that the murder had taken place, she and Moses had been in bed together. And based on that alibi—which Hardy had made up and supplied to her the night before her testimony—McGuire’s jury had acquitted him.

  And now Hardy, sitting on the corner of Roake’s desk, without ever consciously deciding to do so, found himself making a confession to her of his break-in at Phyllis’s apartment the previous week and the dilemma he faced regarding the facts he was now aware of but could not reveal. “I’m almost certain,” he concluded, “that she’s still, at least potentially, in some kind of trouble; but unless she confides in me, which doesn’t seem to be happening, I can’t really do a thing to help her.”

  “That sounds about right,” Gina said after a slight pause. “I don’t think you have a choice. Unless you want to tell her . . .”

  “No. That’s pretty much out of the picture. I don’t know if she’d forgive me. Hell, I don’t know if I forgive myself.”

  Gina nodded. “It is a little bit outside of the playbook, I’ll give you that.”

  “More than a little bit.” In a defensive tone he added, “For the record, I wasn’t spying. I really was worried about her.”

  Gina held up a palm. “Hey, no judgment here. I believe you. And I’m sure you did what you felt you had to do at the time. But now what you have to do is forget about it. If she gets in trouble again, maybe you can push a little harder, get her to open up. But, for the moment, you’re just going to have to live with it.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Hardy pushed himself off the corner of the desk. “Well,” he said, “back to the grindstone. Good luck on those new clients.”

  “I’ll get ’em, you wait.”

  “I’m sure you will. Anyway, thanks for listening.”

  “Of course.”

  But he hadn’t yet taken a step toward the door when they both heard some commotion out in the hallway, followed by an urgent knocking and the door opening to the usually unflappable Norma wearing a look of panic. “Excuse me,” she blurted, “but there are a couple of investigators from the DA’s office in the lobby who say they’ve got a warrant to arrest Phyllis. You need to come down and . . .”

  5

  INCLUDING THE BRAND-NEW presence of Farrell and Roake, the firm comprised five partners, six associate attorneys, six paralegals, eight secretaries, two mail room guys, three bookkeeper/admins, and Norma, the office manager. Of those thirty-one employees, thirteen were already gathered around Phyllis’s workstation in the lobby, all of them probably obstructing justice if one wanted to get technical, when Hardy got there.

  Also present, in an unusual turn of events, were two DA investigators, whom Hardy recognized as Glitsky’s former office mates, Chet Greene and Terry Simms. Literally surrounded and obviously hostile, they’d already been drawn into some kind of engagement and interaction with the restive crowd. Hardy arrived in time to hear Greene raise his voice and show himself as every bit the asshole Glitsky had often described.

  “All right,” he boomed, “I need all of you people to back off and let us do our job. So we need you to—”

  Hardy raised his own voice, cutting Greene off. “What’s the problem here? You know me. I’m the managing partner of this firm and I need to know what you think you are doing here, disrupting our workday.”

  “We’re here serving a warrant on this woman here. Phyllis McGowan.”

  “That’s absurd,” Hardy said. “Phyllis is my personal secretary and the firm’s receptionist. She is not involved in any criminal activity. Who issued this warrant, and what for?”

  Greene’s tone hardened. “Yeah, Hardy, I do know you. And I brought extra handcuffs in case you decided to act up, as Mr. Jameson warned me you might. The grand jury has indicted this woman as an accessory to murder. We have a warrant, and she’s coming with us whether you like it or not. Now, one last time: you and your people get out of the way and let us do our job, or, I swear to God, I’ll call a wagon and we’ll bring in the bunch of you.”

  Hardy backed away a step and took a beat. Then, in as calm a voice as he could muster, he said, “Could I take a look at the warrant?”

  Greene’s face was granite. “I don’t need to show you anything. This is an arrest warrant, not a search warrant. I don’t need to have a copy, and if I did, I wouldn’t have to show it to you.”

  “I didn’t say or imply that you needed to show it to me. I’m asking as a matter of courtesy.”

  Greene took his own beat, obviously trying to decide how far he wanted to take this thing. Finally he nodded. “We can do courtesy, too. Terry, show him the warrant.”

  The other inspector pulled some papers from his breast pocket and reached across where Phyllis sat. Greene took them and handed them to Hardy, who scanned them quickly and then said, “Accessory after the fact? On a murder indictment?”

  Greene shrugged. “If that’s what it says, that’s what it is.”

  “It’s ridiculous is what it is. Phyllis, what do you know about this?”

  “Nothing, sir. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “The police didn’t interview you? You didn’t get subpoenaed to appear before the grand jury?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So this woman’s been charged without so much as being asked to tell her side of the story, and with no evidence? Please.” Hardy held on to the warrant and snapped out: “One last courtesy, Inspector. I’d like to put in a call to your boss, get to the bottom of what’s going on here.”

  Greene, now a study in frustration, looked over to his partner, then scanned the hostile faces still pressed in all around them. He decided on the better part of valor. Grabbing the warrant back from Hardy, he barked, “One call.”

  “One ought to do it,” Hardy said. “Phyllis, you know the number. And hand me the headset, please.”

  • • •

  “HELLO, THIS IS Dismas Hardy. May I please speak to Mr. Jameson?”

  “Just a minute. I’ll see if he’s in.”

  Hardy waited for ten seconds until the voice returned. “I’m sorry. Who did you say this was again?”

  “Dismas Hardy. Wes Farrell’s law partner. Regarding the Phyllis McGowan matter. It’s rather urgent.”

  “One moment. Please hold.”

  Another extended silence. Finally, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Jameson has stepped out for a minute and is not available.”

  “Well, excuse me, ma’am, but I got the very distinct impression that he was available until you told him who it was calling him. As a courtesy, I’m trying to save him from a very embarrassing situation. It won’t take more than two minutes of his time.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Mr. Jameson is unavailable.”

  • • •

  HIS KNUCKLES WHITE, Hardy held on to the receiver until he heard the dial tone start up again; then, letting out a lungful of air, he passed the apparatus back down to Phyllis. Turning to Greene, he said, “Mr. Jameson is
n’t able to get to the phone, but I assure you that I’ve found compromises in these kinds of situations dozens of times. And my earlier offer to you stands. There’s no reason to subject Ms. McGowan to this whole arrest procedure. Why don’t I just drive her down to the Hall and you guys follow me and we’ll get all this worked out?”

  With a flat gaze, Greene shook his head. “You got your phone call, Hardy. I don’t want to be forced to call in a backup team, but that’s my next step if there’s any more resistance here with you or your people.” He looked around the assembled employees and raised his voice. “All right. The show’s really and completely over here,” he said. “Let’s everybody break it up, get back to your offices.” He came back to Hardy. “Get your people out of here before this turns ugly. And I mean now.”

  Hardy didn’t like it, but there weren’t a lot of other options. After nodding to Don Peek across from him, and Graham Russo and Amy Wu, all of whom nodded back in tacit agreement, he said, “You heard the man, team. They’ve got a warrant. They’re just doing their job. I’ll be following them downtown and making sure Phyllis has representation. That is”—he looked down at his secretary—“if you want us as your attorneys?”

  “Of course.” She closed her eyes and sighed as a wave of relief seemed to wash over her, almost as though she hadn’t been sure that Hardy would be her lawyer. “Thank you, sir.”

  “All right, then,” Hardy said.

  But it wasn’t all right, because an intimidated Greene had suddenly had enough. Stepping over and reaching out, he grabbed Phyllis by the arm and twisted it behind her back, spinning her around and bringing her other arm up to fit the cuffs.

  She let out a yelp of pain.

  The onlookers reacted almost as a single body, surging, as Hardy pushed himself forward, trying to intervene with Greene’s unexpected and violent manhandling. Terry Simms, who’d been on full alert, jumped forward, stopping Hardy, pushing him backward.

  Hardy pushed back. “You bastards! Let her go.”

  But Simms ignored him, turning to grab Phyllis’s other arm.

  “Let’s go,” he screamed at Greene. “Let’s go! Let’s go! Now!”

  Greene threw a last malevolent look at Hardy and then the two inspectors pushed their way through the gathered mass, knocking people back when they blocked the way.

  They marched Phyllis across the lobby and down the stairs.

  6

  OVER THE PAST eight years—and even though he was technically on the wrong (that is, defense) side—Hardy had gotten used to fairly free access to the district attorney, who had after all been his friend and former partner Wes Farrell. Whenever he felt the need, even when—particularly when—he and Wes had been at significant legal odds with one another, he always felt that he could drop in on the third floor, appointment or no appointment, where he would often pass some pleasant time of day with Treya Glitsky before she would admit him to the sanctum sanctorum if Wes was around. And if he wasn’t, she would tell Hardy where he was and when he was expected to return.

  Under the new Jameson administration, clearly things were going to be different.

  It started outside the main doors that separated the public area from the working offices of the DA and his assistant DAs. Formerly, Hardy would get to the admission window, nod at the clerk, Linda Coelho, who knew him, and wait for her to hit the buzzer that unlocked the door. Today, at the window, a line of more than a dozen people stood waiting to show their IDs and get individually admitted.

  Hardy, already starving from lack of lunch, and in a foul dark humor over the humiliating arrest of Phyllis, then his inability to intervene in any way while they got her processed into the system, did not feel like his most patient self. By the time he got to the window, it was nearly 2:30 and he’d been in the Hall of Justice, knocking on doors and accomplishing nothing, for three hours.

  Nevertheless, Linda Coelho knew him. So when the lawyer in front of him finished her business at the window and turned toward the admission door, Hardy dredged up a smile and pointed after her, indicating that he’d just fall in behind her when she got buzzed in and save them all some time on this bureaucratic nonsense.

  But then Linda Coelho was knocking on the window, shaking a finger at him. She did not buzz through the woman in front of him. Hardy, his smile by now a little bit shaky, pointed again at the door. The clerk shook her head. After a theatrical sigh, which probably didn’t help his case, he came back to Coelho’s window, much to the displeasure of the guy who had finally gotten to it as well. “I’m sorry,” Hardy said.

  “Hey,” the guy said, showing every sign of not being willing to cede his place, “same rules for everybody, pal.”

  “But I know Linda, the clerk here. I thought . . .” Hardy calmed himself down, decided that this was not the hill he wanted to die on. The line at the window was now at least as long or longer than when he’d first arrived twenty minutes before. With an apologetic shrug for the guy at the window, he said, “Excuse me, please. I’ll just be a second.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, and with an ill-disguised disappointed shake of his head, the guy finally backed up a half step and let Hardy lean in to the window. “Linda. What’s up? You know me.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. But I need to see your ID. New rules for the new DA.”

  Hardy, taking care not to sigh again, fished out his wallet and flashed his credentials.

  Meanwhile, Linda buzzed in the woman who had remained waiting at the door, then glanced at Hardy’s driver’s license, nodded, and asked him who he was going to see.

  “Mr. Jameson.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.” Another hopeful smile. “Not specifically, but I thought he’d give me a few minutes.”

  Linda obviously didn’t think that this was a feasible plan, but she simply nodded wearily and told him to hold on. She picked up her phone, punched in some numbers, had a short conversation, then came back to him. “I’m afraid you’ll need to make an appointment. Mr. Jameson’s schedule is completely full this afternoon.”

  “But I’ll only be—”

  “Mr. Hardy, please.”

  From behind him: “C’mon, pal. We don’t have all day.”

  Hardy half turned, noted the line starting to look like it might get proactive against him. Blowing out heavily, he gave up and said, “Okay,” then excused his way past the muttering line and back out into the wide-open hallway.

  • • •

  DEVIN JUHLE WAS a close friend of Hardy’s main investigator, Wyatt Hunt. He was also the head of Homicide and, Hardy was beginning to think, besides a couple of judges, perhaps the only person left in the entire Hall of Justice with whom Hardy did not have an adversarial relationship.

  Or so he hoped. His faith had been pretty badly shaken so far today.

  Still, he thought it was a good sign that he could walk up to the fourth floor and knock right on Juhle’s open door without being molested or hassled for his identification. The lieutenant was sitting at his desk, immersed in some paperwork, and when he looked up at the knock, Hardy asked, “Got a minute?”

  “Hey.” He pushed away the papers. “How you doin’, Diz? Come

  on in.”

  “You’re sure I’m allowed?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Why?”

  “I thought you must not have gotten the ‘Don’t talk to Dismas Hardy’ memo.”

  Juhle sat back, smiling. “Maybe the interoffice mail’s late. But before it gets here, what can I do for you?”

  Hardy had gotten to the closer of one of the small chairs that faced Juhle’s large desk and sat down on it. “I don’t know exactly, to tell you the truth. I’ve been sorting my socks while they get one of my clients—my secretary, as a matter of fact—processed into the jail.”

  “Your secretary? You mean Phyllis?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Processed into the jail?” Juhle did a double-take. “The jail? You mean the jail?”

&nbs
p; “Yeah. The real jail.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll love this.” Hardy spent a minute with the short version of his day so far.

  When he finished, Juhle wasn’t smiling anymore. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why would they want to put her in custody at the jail? She’ll get arraigned tomorrow or Wednesday at the latest anyway, right? Then she makes bail and she’s released.”

  “Correct.”

  “So why wouldn’t they just have called you as a courtesy and let you arrange bail in advance? Then asked you to bring her in to get booked and processed, and then bailed out without a night or two in the slammer?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s another one of Jameson’s new policies. He’s not into the traditional courtesies. Or maybe it’s something to do with Wes. Jameson’s heard the word that he’s coming back to our firm and so, by extension, I’m the enemy, too. And so is Phyllis. Or maybe hassling her is just a way of getting at us.”

  “So what’d she do that they thought they had to put her in jail?”

  “They’ve got her charged with accessory after the fact.”

  “The fact of what?”

  “Well, that’s why I thought I’d come talk to you, as head of Homicide and all. This is all around a murder.”

  This news all but blew Juhle back in his chair. “Phyllis is involved in a murder? Whose?”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me. They had a grand jury about it, since that’s where the indictment came from.”

  “That narrows it down. Seriously. It would have been Tuesday of last week. That’s the only murder grand jury we’ve had in a while.”

  Hardy immediately realized that this was the day that Phyllis had disappeared, but for the moment he kept this to himself.

  “And if it was then,” Juhle went on, “the victim was a major piece of work named Hector Valdez. Shot, apparently, by one of his girls, Celia Montoya, which is who they brought the indictment down against. And who, as far as I’ve heard, has since disappeared. So here’s one for you: Does Phyllis know Celia?”