Now, three months later, he had visited eleven firms, riding elevators to plush offices in his only three-piece suit, going out to fine lunches with men and women with whom he felt no connection whatever – nice people, sure; smart, well-turned out, confident, financially secure, socially aware, all of the above. But no one to whom he was drawn as a human being.
Seven of the firms had offered him positions, with salaries ranging from a low of $83,000 to a high (Engle, Matthews amp; Jones) of $115,000. All of the offers put him well onto the partner track, crediting him with up to six years of previous service. This meant that within, at the most, another three years (and at the least, one), he would become a partner in any of the seven firms and could expect annual compensation in the realm of $300,000 to $500,000.
Frannie had brought an insurance settlement to their marriage. Hardy, aside from the fees in the Fowler trial that had run to low six figures, owned a one-quarter interest in the Little Shamrock bar. Their house payment was under six-hundred dollars a month. So Frannie and Hardy were not hurting. Nevertheless, the kind of money the big firms were waving in his face was not pocket change, was even tempting.
Their house in the Avenues was already, with the addition of the two children, starting to feel pinched. The could see moving up; they'd even discussed it casually after Hardy had received the first couple of invitations. It had become more or less understood that Hardy would choose one of the firms, get a linear job, be an adult.
But he just hadn't been ready to commit to any of the firms – something better might come up, some people he felt better about being associated with. So in the interim he borrowed an empty office and paid a nominal rent in the building owned by David Freeman, which was where he had been, essentially twiddling his thumbs, when David Freeman himself had called up with the Jennifer Witt referral.
'It's probably going to be a fair amount of money,' Hardy said.
'But it's another case. It's not a job.'
'And I'm not even really on it. It's Freeman's case.'
'But there's something here for you.'
Hardy's hands, crossed in front of him at the table, came open. 'Maybe. There might be.'
Frannie was trying to understand, and he couldn't blame her for being a little upset. He might argue to himself, and tell her that he wasn't really changing the basic plan they'd discussed, but they both know that wasn't true. Working as a member of a defense team in one potentially lucrative case was not even remotely comparable to going to work as a senior associate in one of the city's prestige law firms, and Frannie wasn't being conned by it.
'It's a case that lasts a year, maybe two. Who knows, that could be as long as any of the jobs last, Frannie. Life's uncertain.'
Frannie rolled her green eyes, as if she had to be told that.
Hardy pressed on. 'Mrs. Witt is worth a couple million dollars, maybe more…'
'Which the insurance company isn't going to release to her now that she's charged with the murders.'
It was a point he had hoped she wouldn't raise. 'Stranger things have happened.' He tried a grin. 'They might.'
'Do me a favor, would you, Dismas? Find out? You owe us that much.'
Dinner finished, both kids asleep, they were sitting across the dining room table from each other, finishing the last of their red wine with chocolate candies on the side – Frannie's latest culinary discovery that had addicted them both. A brace of nearly burned-out candles sputtered with fitful light.
Frannie sighed. 'You don't want to work for anybody, do you?' She held up a hand, cutting off his response. 'If you don't, that's okay, but we shouldn't talk about it as if you do.'
'It's not that.'
'I bet it is. You call all these people who've been interviewing you corporate rats. I think the phrase betrays a certain prejudice.'
Hardy popped a chocolate, sipped some wine. 'I really don't know what it is. This thing with Jennifer Witt just walked into my life this morning. What am I supposed to do? Freeman has asked me to help. He'll take over in the morning.'
'But you are interested, aren't you?'
'No commitments,' he said. 'But yes, it's interesting. I looked at the file.'
'You mean the file you couldn't get your nose out of, that you seem to have memorized?'
Hardy gave up. 'Yeah, that file.'
'And what if she did it?' Frannie was grabbing at straws and knew it.
Hardy sat back. 'She still has the right to an attorney.'
Frannie gave him a look. 'What's that got to do with you?'
'I'm an attorney.'
They both laughed, the tension broken a little. One of the candles gave up the ghost, a wisp of smoke rising straight in the still room.
Frannie reached a hand across the table and took her husband's. 'Look. You know I'm with you. I just want you to be sure you're doing something you'll be happy with. This isn't just one case, you know. If you take this one, that's what you're going to be doing, taking cases. Maybe defending people all the time.'
Hardy had once been a cop, and on two separate occasions he had worked in the District Attorney's office. Frannie was of the opinion that if anyone was born and bred to the prosecution, it was her husband. She had heard his tirades against and/or scornful dismissal of defense attorneys, the 'ambulance chasers,' the 'pond scum who took anybody for their fee up-front.
'It doesn't have to be sleazy,' Hardy said.
Frannie smiled at him. 'I just wonder if that's the life you want.'
'The life I want is with you.'
She squeezed his hand. 'You know what I mean.'
He knew what she meant. It worried him some, too. But he knew if David Freeman asked him to help with Jennifer Witt, in almost any capacity, and off the top of his head he could think of several, he was going to do it. Which meant he wasn't pursuing any of his job possibilities. Which, in turn, meant…
He didn't know.
The other candle went out. 'Let's leave the dishes,' he said.
4
San Francisco's Hall of Justice, located near – almost under – the 101 Freeway at the corner of 7^th and Bryant, is a gray monolith of staggering impersonality. Its lower stories house various City and County departments, including police, coroner, the office of the District Attorney, and courtrooms and jury-selection waiting rooms. The jail on the sixth and seventh floors is administered by the San Francisco County Sheriff, as opposed to the City's police department. Behind the building, a new jail is slowly rising in what used to be a parking lot.
Hardy entered through the back entrance, was cleared through the metal detector and, deciding to bypass the slowest elevator in America, ascended to the third floor by the stairway and into the familiar bedlam that reigned in the wide hallway.
Aside from the usual circus, this morning's sideshow featured a convention of perhaps twenty gypsies. Uniformed policemen were remonstrating with several women about their use of a Butagas container to heat their coffee in the hallway. Hardy first wondered how they had managed to het a portable gas container through the metal detectors, then watched for a while, fascinated as he often was by the raffish melange one encountered almost daily between these institutional green walls.
It seemed to be a reasonable discussion – no one, yet, was raising any voices. But neither had the flame gone out under the coffeepot. While one woman tended to the argument, another was pouring liquid into small porcelain cups and passing it to some men, who put lumps of sugar into their mouths before they began
