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  “Right. That’s the theory. But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening. There’s evidently still a huge community of people right here in town who get the word somehow while they’re at work or hiding out, lying low, that ICE knows where they are and is on their case. According to Phyllis, we’re talking hundreds of people, maybe thousands, who’ve just slipped through the cracks up to now. They can’t get their green cards; there’s no way they can get to citizenship or even on the road to citizenship. They get picked up on a sweep and there’s nothing they can do.”

  “And Phyllis got herself involved in this? How did that happen?”

  “It’s still not completely clear to me. It seems one day five or six years ago—”

  “Five or six years ago? You mean pre-Trump?”

  “Several years pre-Trump. Obama had a pretty vigorous deportation policy in place, too. Don’t kid yourself.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Lots of people don’t, but it’s true enough. In any event, this one day, Phyllis got off from work early and went home and found her housekeeper, Luisa, sitting crying at her kitchen table. So she asked what was the matter and they started talking and one thing led to another and it turned out a couple of her brother’s co-workers at the restaurant they worked at had gotten picked up by ICE the day before.

  “Her brother had just been coming in for his shift and saw what was happening and managed to get away, but that was the end of that job and, even worse, he knew it was only a matter of time before they found out where he lived and busted him there, with his wife and two kids under five, all of them undocumented. If he didn’t want to have them all deported and wanted to have some kind of life, he had to get out of the country, probably to Canada. But how could he do that without any papers or even ID?

  “Luisa said they could all stay with her for a while, but that only increased the risk for her, too. Because, of course, she was undocumented as well. She didn’t know what any of them were going to do. So Phyllis said, ‘Why don’t you tell them they can stay at my apartment until we can find out where they can go?’ ”

  “Just like that?”

  “Apparently.”

  “That’s an enormously big step out of nowhere.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We’re talking about the same Phyllis McGowan who works for you?”

  Hardy nodded. “I know. It’s hard to imagine. But evidently she did some homework and got in touch with a whole bunch of other people up and down the state who were smuggling these immigrants up to and across the border. Before too long, her place became one of the regular stops for either the locals or people passing through on the way up from LA or San Diego. Three, four, five times a month she’d have people come by for a couple of days, crash at her place, then head up to the next station in Santa Rosa or Ukiah or someplace.”

  “Except this last time she got caught?”

  “She thinks more ratted out than caught.”

  “By who?”

  Hardy spelled out Phyllis’s theory about her brother being the source of the betrayal, although many of the details about that remained vague.

  “So where is he now?” Frannie asked. “Adam.”

  “Not clear. Evidently he’s still in and out of her place. Lately out. But his clothes are still there, so he’ll probably be back.”

  “And how does he fit in with this murder?”

  “That, too, I’m afraid, is unclear.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “In a perfect world, tomorrow morning Phyllis gets arraigned and I get her out of jail with little or no bail. Then we start trying to get our hands on some facts that might explain some of what really happened. I’m tempted to believe that the worst is over, all that crap they pulled on us today, but of course with our new DA there are no guarantees. Jameson seems to be playing by a different rule book, and it ain’t the rule-of-law book, but maybe it feels like that just because of my former access to his office and Wes being my pal.”

  “And partner, don’t forget.”

  “I never would. But the new guy, Jameson, couldn’t pick me out of a lineup, I’m sure. I can’t believe it’s anything personal to do with me.”

  “You hope.”

  Hardy shrugged. “Well, even if, how bad could it be?”

  • • •

  AT 9:00 P.M., Ron Jameson sat behind the oversized cherry desk that he’d had brought in on the day after he took office. He wanted to send a strong message right away, distancing his administration from that of his predecessor. Wes Farrell may have enjoyed not even having a desk, the informality of his two library tables, the foosball and Nerf basketball games, the dartboard and chess table, the framed poster of Che Guevara amid the diplomas and celebrity shots of himself with Tom Hanks, Beyoncé, Madison Bumgarner, and other stars, but these accoutrements didn’t even begin to deliver the impression Jameson wanted to convey—not approachability. Not friendliness. Not competence or efficiency or justice or even simple fairness.

  No. His office and its formality would reflect what he was about, and that was power.

  Now, behind his desk, he sat upon his red leather throne—$12,000 from Gump’s—and surveyed the space in front of him. The two Queen Anne chairs on the Persian rug; the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled now with leather-bound law books rather than the hodgepodge collection of mostly paperback fiction that Farrell had collected; the three-foot-diameter $4,500 globe. In all, the space was nearly flawless and sufficiently intimidating. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and nodded with satisfaction.

  A knock on his door, which then opened to reveal the shapely form of his secretary Andrea O’Riordan, in Jameson’s opinion the most beautiful woman in the building. His own wife, Kate, was another world-class beauty, in some ways Andrea’s superior in that realm, but that did not necessarily mean that he could not appreciate both of them equally as objects. Men defined themselves, he believed, by the objects with which they surrounded themselves. These things made a difference.

  He came forward in his chair, hands on his desk, and nodded pleasantly. “Ah, the lovely Andrea,” he said. “Time to go?”

  “If you have nothing else. The decks are cleared for the morning. You did get another call from Dismas Hardy, who was hoping to either talk with you or make an appointment for tomorrow before the McGowan arraignment.”

  “But I still wasn’t in, was I?”

  “No, sir, as you instructed. And I informed him that your morning calendar was already filled.”

  “Nice. Thank you. That guy’s got some balls, doesn’t he? How many times did he try to get me today?”

  “Three times by phone. Once dropping by outside with no appointment.”

  “You’d think he’d be starting to get the message by now. Wes Farrell’s friends aren’t any friends of mine. You think we haven’t made that clear enough?”

  “I think we must be getting there.”

  “I mean, the guy lobbied everybody he knew against me. He thinks I wouldn’t have heard about that? And I’m going to forget? Is he dreaming?” He paused for a moment, quickly gave Andrea what he thought was a subtle once-over, thinking anew that she was one magnificent hunk of womanhood, and the plain fact was that he wanted to keep talking to her for another minute or two, bask in her glow. “And speaking of McGowan,” he said, “we’ve got her locked up for tonight in the jail, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Hardy talked to her until nearly seven o’clock, but she’s back in her cell now.”

  “Where she belongs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Andrea briskly looked around the corners of the room, came back to her boss. “Is there anything else?”

  Jameson hesitated and finally shook his head. “No. I think that’ll do it.” He pushed himself back and up out of his chair. “And I’ve got a big day tomorrow myself. The DA shows up in court. That ought to make a headline or two, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right
,” he said. “Let’s get going while the getting’s good.”

  8

  ON REFLECTION, IN spite of telling Dismas Hardy that he’d put in a good word with the homicide inspectors who were working the Valdez case, to increase the odds that they’d talk to him, Devin Juhle decided to speak with them himself, give them a heads-up about what might be in store.

  This was why, at a few minutes past 8:30 on Tuesday morning, Beth Tully and Ike McCaffrey sat across from Juhle in one of the booths at Lou the Greek’s, a bar-restaurant directly across Bryant Street from the doors of the Hall of Justice. They could have all been either in Juhle’s office or at the inspectors’ desk area in the Homicide Detail’s bullpen, but since Ron Jameson’s election to DA, rumors had swept through the Hall that many of the private offices—and even seating areas—were either bugged or in the process of getting there. Although not exactly believing the truth of this, Juhle didn’t want to take the chance, and so had invited his inspectors across the street for their little chat.

  Three untouched mugs of coffee sat on the table, one in front of each of them. Ike hunched all the way back, expressionless, his eyes heavy-lidded, almost reptilian, as if he were only a spectator to these proceedings.

  His partner, by contrast, was all attention, ramrod straight, focused on her lieutenant across the table. “I just don’t see what we want to talk about with McGowan’s attorney,” she was saying. “These defense guys . . . well, you know.”

  “I do, of course,” Juhle said. “You don’t have to talk to him at all. He asked me to ask you as a courtesy. And, for the record, I gathered he was only interested in your suspect insofar as his client got implicated with her, what came down with the grand jury that put the McGowan woman into the picture.”

  “In other words, he wants to hear about what happened in the grand jury trial—which, even if we’d been invited, we’re not allowed to disclose?”

  “Wait a minute,” Juhle said. “You’re saying you didn’t testify? Neither of you?”

  “Not for this one, no.”

  “And they still had enough to indict this Montoya person?”

  “Apparently. Ike writes a good report,” Tully said. “Plus, there are three eyewitnesses: Mel Bernardo, the bartender where the shooting went down; his girlfriend, Rita Allegro; and McGowan’s little brother, Adam. Who, you’ll probably not be surprised to hear, is a recent graduate of Avenal U.”

  “Who is? The brother?”

  “Yes.”

  McCaffrey finally bestirred himself. “We didn’t have squat to do with or say about McGowan, Devin. You want our opinion—and here I’m sure I speak for Beth as well—as soon as it became clear that this was going to have elements of a sanctuary case, this was all driven from above. Give it a higher profile.”

  Juhle’s voice took on a lower tone. “I didn’t know it was a sanctuary case.”

  “Yep,” Beth said.

  Juhle waited for explanation or comment. He continued to wait. Between the sanctuary issue and the nonappearance of his inspectors before the grand jury, this was getting interesting, but no questions leapt to his tongue. The inspectors were playing eye tag.

  Finally, Ike picked up his mug, drank, made a face, and cleared his throat. “Celia Montoya is undocumented, Dev. In theory, as you know, we’re not supposed to turn any information we have on her over to ICE. But then she went ahead and allegedly killed her handler, or pimp, or whatever else you want to call Mr. Valdez. And then she had to get away from us fast and that put her in the undocumented pipeline, which apparently connects her to Mr. Hardy’s client. And not only puts ICE in the picture, but . . .” Suddenly out of steam, Ike looked sideways at Beth.

  “What?” Juhle asked. “Not only puts ICE in the picture, but what?”

  “But effectively takes us out,” she said.

  “How’s that? She’s a murder suspect. You guys are homicide inspectors. Whatever happens, you’re in it hip-deep.”

  “Except if we’re not,” Beth said.

  “And how could that be?”

  “Well, if, for example, Mr. Jameson runs the case entirely through the DA’s Bureau of Investigations and freezes us out. Then, win, lose or draw, he turns Montoya over to ICE for deportation.”

  “He’s not going to do that. His whole campaign was based on no deportations ever. And she’s still up for murder. Jameson’s not going to try to get her deported before she goes to trial.”

  “No. She’ll be going to trial all right, if they catch her,” Beth said. “But in spite of the grand jury and the indictment, the case against Celia isn’t all that strong and his backup play is to have her deported, even if he can’t make the criminal charges stick.”

  “Wait. You just told me the case wasn’t that strong, but you said there were three eyewitnesses.”

  “Right,” Ike said. “We questioned these three individuals and all of them told the same story.”

  “Which doesn’t mean that it’s a true story,” Beth put in. “It might be, of course, but we—Ike and I—hadn’t decided yet to press for her arrest, or even to settle on Ms. Montoya as our prime suspect, but Jameson decided he had enough for the grand jury, and I guess he was right.”

  “Enough for the grand jury.” Juhle chuckled. “There’s a high bar.”

  He knew, as did his inspectors, that the grand jury was a blunt instrument. When a DA brought a case to the grand jury, the result was nearly always an indictment. This was because no defense attorney was allowed to cross-examine witnesses, nor was a judge present at the proceedings to rule on techniques or testimony that might not be admissible at trial. The grand jury essentially heard only one side, one version of the story, and, not too surprisingly, they more often than not swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

  Not for nothing was it said that if the DA wanted, he could get the grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.

  Juhle sat back on his bench. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who wins in this scenario?”

  “Well,” Ike said, “clearly it’s a work in progress, but whatever shakes out, it looks like Jameson is going to be in the middle of it, since he’s gone out of his way to put himself there.”

  “Okay, but what for?”

  “Media,” Beth replied. “Attention. Publicity. This is a seriously hot-button subject, and he gets to play all sides against the middle. And then he starts to set himself up to run for governor. After which the sky’s the limit.”

  “She’s not a fan,” Ike said.

  Juhle flashed a tight smile. “I’m picking that up.” He picked up his mug, looked at it suspiciously, put it back down. “So . . . Jameson’s cut you out. That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “Pretty close,” Ike said.

  “If you want to get back in, Hardy’s client might be a way to go. Just sayin’.”

  “Except that the McGowan woman is not really a part of the homicide case,” Ike said.

  “Well, you never know. From what I’m hearing here, she might be, after all.”

  • • •

  LIKE MOST OF the paired-up partners in Homicide, Ike and Beth had front-to-front adjoining desks. Still, when they wanted to talk about something sensitive or at a little lower volume, Ike tended to come around and sit on the corner of Beth’s desk, which he was doing just now. “You should have told him what you really think about our new DA,” he said as he made himself comfortable. “You came across as reasonably rational about him.”

  “I am reasonably rational.”

  “You think that he actually worked around us so we wouldn’t get to give any of our testimony on Valdez?”

  “Absolutely. And not ‘we.’ Me. He wants to keep me at arm’s length, and that’s generally okay with me. Except, truly, if it could do our case any good, I am beginning to be tempted to talk to this Hardy guy. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. Hard-charging, straight shooter. Sometimes gets outside the box entirely. He and Abe Glitsky and Wes Farrell are all apparently close, which speaks w
ell of him. And then, of course, Devin and he get along. So, for a defense guy, he’s got reasonable cred on our side. He started out a hundred years ago as an assistant DA, so he’s got some kind of clue about how things really work. Let’s not ever forget that he’s a defense guy, but if he wants to talk to us and you, Beth, set the ground rules, I don’t see how it could hurt. Although I think I’d prefer myself not to be there, so we have the lowest possible profile. In any event, maybe he’ll let out something that will help with Celia, if they ever bring her in.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You say ‘maybe,’ but I’m hearing ‘no.’ ”

  Beth pushed her chair back to look up at her partner. Then she pulled in closer so that she could talk in a near whisper. “You want to know the truth, Ike, Jameson scares me a hell of a lot more than I bet I scare him.”

  Ike’s face showed his frustration. “I know that’s what you think, and it’s why I’m not thrilled with the idea of you talking to this guy Hardy. It might stir it all back up. I think what you’ve got to do is let that go. There’s no sign that your job’s in jeopardy.”

  “Except he doesn’t call us to the grand jury.”

  “That’s just politics. Beyond that, the man might be a prick, but he’s not a literal killer.”

  Beth let out a dry little laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “Except that I believe he is. I almost had him two years ago, if you remember.”

  “And if you remember, that turned out to be someone else.”

  “No. Ron and his wife just framed their pal and set him up as the perfect suicide.”

  “His wife, too?”

  “Kate, yeah. My friend since college. Maybe my best friend. Which speaks rather strongly against my judgment, wouldn’t you say?” After a moment’s hesitation she said, “Maybe I should just transfer to another detail—fraud: nine-to-five, paperwork, humans for witnesses, long lunches. What’s not to like?”

  “That’s a bad idea.”

  “Not if I’m so hamstrung that I can’t do my job.”

  “You’re not that.”

  “Maybe not all the time.” She paused again. “Do you really think we shouldn’t talk to this Hardy guy?”