‘Maybe the fact that it was her gun, that she brought…’ Hardy made a face. ‘Never mind that. What about Powell? Won’t he do anything?’

Freeman shrugged. ‘Why would he? And anyway he can’t. Double jeopardy’s still a no-no. Both crimes – you and Sal – they both happened in Pratt’s jurisdiction and she’s charged and prosecuted them. End of story.’

Fingertips to his temples, Hardy was trying to make his headache go away. ‘So what’s she going to serve, Giotti’s wife?’

Freeman shook his head in commiseration. ‘You haven’t heard the best part. The judge has just stayed her delivery to the prison system, postponed it.’

‘I know what stayed means. But how, for how long?’

‘Indefinitely. She’s going to do her time in the county jail, close to home.’

Hardy finally exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, David! This wasn’t some shoplifting spree! No judge could do that!’

‘Well, this one must know Giotti, and he just did, and since Pratt thinks it’s a swell idea, no one’s going to object.’

‘Well, I damn well object.’

‘But you, my son, are the proverbial person that nobody asked. I hate to mention it, Diz, but you’ve made a few enemies. You’re not even the player to be named later.’

Hardy took it stoically. It wasn’t too great a shock. But he was curious about Pat Giotti’s sentence. ‘So how much time you really think she’ll do?’

‘A couple of years plus or minus…’ Freeman trailed off. ‘She’s going to be a model prisoner, get an early release.’

‘So what about all this?’ Hardy vaguely indicated himself. ‘What did I do this for?’

Freeman took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed awhile thoughtfully. He drank some Pellegrino water. ‘You won your case. Your client’s free. You got yourself a passel of new work.’

This wasn’t much satisfaction. Hardy had to ask. ‘So I’m shot twice and almost killed and the person who did this gets a few months in the country club? That’s it? What happened to justice here?’

Freeman nodded, took another sip of water, shrugged. ‘Justice? I think it went on vacation.’

Stagnola’s was packed with the Thursday lunch crowd.

October was high season for tourists in San Francisco and Fisherman’s Wharf swarmed with them, getting off the ferries, walking up from Pier 39, down from Ghirardelli Square.

Mario Giotti had been overwhelmed with his wife’s legal troubles over the past weeks. It had shocked and dismayed him to learn that she had killed Sal, but certainly once it became clear that she had, the next order of business was damage control. Which, given his influence and connections, hadn’t proved too difficult.

The community, his brethren, had closed ranks around him, as he knew they would. Pat – and thank God she was still alive – had even come to agree with his decision about their story. She’d been under too much stress with the accusations Sal had been making against her husband and had cracked under the pressure.

There had been a fire at the Grotto, certainly, but nothing like a cover-up, nothing that could come back to haunt the judge and mar his reputation. In fact, if anything, the judge’s anonymous contributions over the years to the family of Randall Palmieri were signs of his generosity and beneficence.

Throughout his attorneys’ negotiations with Sharron Pratt, Giotti had feared that Dismas Hardy would step up and ruin everything, but evidently he’d put the fear of God into the man. Should he take it upon himself to abuse the attorney-client privilege, the state bar would rise in righteous indignation and lift his license to practice law. Giotti never considered that Hardy was simply a man of honor – that he had entered into a contract and would keep his word.

Giotti did wonder if Hardy had leaked something of their privileged discussion to the columnist Jeff Elliot, but he had no way to prove it, and no way to accuse Hardy of anything without implicating himself. Elliot had come pretty close to what had happened, but hadn’t gotten it exactly right, and that in turn made Giotti think that Hardy had kept it close to the vest after all.

The reporter had dug and gotten lucky, but didn’t have all the pieces. So the rumors had flown for a few days, but they died down. He hadn’t even deigned to issue any kind of formal denial.

Everything was going to work out fine. This was his city; he belonged here. People loved him and always would.

And now here was his old friend Mauritio at the front door, greeting patrons as they filed in. Because of all the troubles, then having to decide some cases on the circuit in Idaho and then Hawaii, Giotti hadn’t been to his old psychic home, back to his roots, in nearly a month.

Now he arrived at the door.

‘Hey, Mauritio!’ His hale and voluble welcome.

His old friend – his old employee – drew himself up. The smile fled from his face. ‘Good afternoon, Your Honor,’ he said formally.

Giotti cocked his head to one side – a question. He still wore his smile. ‘Mauritio. What’s the matter? You look like you seen a ghost.’

‘Maybe I do, Your Honor.’

Giotti knew it felt wrong, but tried to make a joke of it. ‘Well, invite him in. He can sit at my table with me.’

‘I’m sorry, your table?’

‘Hey, my table.’ He started to push his way by, but Mauritio stepped in front of him.

‘You got a reservation, Your Honor? We got a packed house in here today.’

Giotti raised his voice. ‘What do you mean, you got a packed house? I’m talking my table, what do you…?’

He noticed that people had started to gather behind them, to notice. He couldn’t have that. He calmed himself. ‘No. I don’t have a reservation.’

Mauritio clucked. ‘Hey, I’m sorry, Your Honor, maybe some other day. Maybe you call first, couple of hours ought to hold one. Meanwhile, you might try next door, but they’re pretty crowded too. In fact, Judge, maybe you gonna have trouble finding fish anywhere on the Wharf. Since Sal Russo died, maybe you gonna have trouble finding good fish anywhere around here.’

Stiffly, Giotti stood a moment. Then he nodded and turned away.

Behind him he heard Mauritio barking to a knot of tourists. ‘Hey, how you folks doin’? Come on in, come on in. We’re saving a table just for you.‘

The wind was high off the ocean, rushing up the cliffs and inland across the peninsula, bending the cypresses nearly to the ground. A chill autumn sun was sinking into the water out at the horizon, and a young couple stood before a grave site at the ridge of the Colma cemetery. The man wore a baseball uniform.

Graham had played in the season’s last tournament down in Santa Clara during the day. The Hornets had gotten beaten on their third game, so Graham was finished early. He and Sarah had decided to drive over to the coastal town of Santa Cruz and have a late lunch, then up the coast on Highway One. And then, suddenly in Colma, they’d made the turn into here.

Graham had distributed the proceeds from the sale of the baseball cards and the fifty thousand dollars to Jeanne Walsh and her sister in Eureka, and in spite of the reactions of his brother and sister, felt he’d discharged a debt of honor. He’d gotten a letter from Leland’s lawyer on behalf of the other heirs telling him he couldn’t give away their inheritance and that the Singleterry offspring had no legal claim. Graham had told them to go ahead and sue him and distributed the money in cash anyway.

It was perhaps something neither Debra nor George would understand, but that was going to be their problem and their burden. Afterward, to her credit, Debra had called to tell him it was okay – she wasn’t going to be part of any lawsuit George might bring. Graham saw hope here.

He had no similar illusions about his brother or his mother. George and Helen would live and die in Leland’s camp at a level of physical comfort and social constriction. That was their choice.