Hardy explained a little about the system. Normally, cases stayed in Department 22 until the day of trial, when they were sent at random to other courtrooms and the judges who would actually preside over the case. This one was important, however, and got assigned now for trial in three months to Judge Jordan Salter in Department 27. That way the judge, who knew it was coming – as well as the lawyers – could prepare for unusual or unique issues that might arise.

Hardy did not view the choice of Salter, a Republican appointee and an old buddy of Dean Powell, as propitious.

Taylor put a hand over his wife’s. ‘Do we know him?’

Helen shook her head prettily. Everything she did was done prettily. She was very attractive, Hardy thought, nothing like what he’d imagined a wife of Sal Russo could have been. Not that he imagined Graham’s mother would be unattractive. It was more a matter of style. This woman fit her husband, Leland, to a T. Poised, confident, insincere.

‘Anyway,’ Hardy said, ‘the judge can have some influence, of course, but it boils down to the case against Graham, which fortunately has a lot of holes.’

There was no immediate response to this, although glances were exchanged, some message conveyed. Finally, Helen spoke. ‘Do you think Graham did this, Mr Hardy?’

‘Killed Sal for money? No, I don’t.’

‘It’s absurd,’ Leland said. ‘He could have all the money he wants by simply asking for it.’

‘Which of course he won’t do,’ Helen added. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t want to feel in our debt, which is I suppose noble enough, but I’m his mother. It would not be debt. Leland and I have discussed this.’

‘But the fact remains,’ Hardy said, ‘he didn’t feel comfortable asking, did he?’ The dynamic, he saw, was transparent enough. There might not be monetary payback, but there would be strings. Lots and lots of strings. Behavior issues, how one acted. And if Hardy knew anything at all about Graham, he wasn’t a string kind of guy.

‘We did help him with law school.’ These petty details seemed distasteful to Leland, but he wanted them on the table. ‘Although that would appear to have been money ill spent.’ A tepid smile. ‘Well’ – he brought his hands together – ‘but that’s not the point, either, is it? We were just rather wondering how Graham was intending to pay you. You’re not doing this, what’s the word, pro bono, I assume?’

Hardy smiled. ‘No. Graham’s paying me. But I can’t really talk about those arrangements without his consent.’

‘Of course not,’ Leland said. ‘I wouldn’t suggest-’

A discreet knock on the door was immediately followed by a waiter bearing a tureen, from which he ladled a dark, clear consommé into their bowls.

After the waiter had gone, Leland tasted the soup to no comment or reaction. It was perfect – dark, intense, rich, perfectly balanced – perhaps the best soup Hardy had ever tasted in his life, and he had to say something.

‘Thank you,’ Leland said in response to the compliment. ‘Yes, it’s quite nice.’ Conveying an air of ‘What else could it be?’ Then he went back to Graham, precisely where they had left off, on the money. ‘But Helen would like to’ – another glance at his wife – ‘actually, we’d like to help out, monetarily.’

‘I don’t know,’ Hardy began, only to have Leland cut him off.

‘I have spoken to some of our attorneys here at the bank,’ he said, ‘and they tell me there’s no ethical question. My understanding is that you would be free to accept remuneration from any source, so long as it was understood that Graham was your client, that you represented his interests, not ours. Is that correct?’

Hardy had to laugh. ‘This question doesn’t exactly come up every day. What you say sounds right, though. I’ll check and make sure. I’d still want to talk to Graham about it.’

Helen reached over and this time put her hand over Leland’s. This was evidently some preemptive-strike code they’d worked out. ‘We’d expect that, wouldn’t we, Leland?’

‘Of course.’ A pause. ‘Sure.’

Leland Taylor wasn’t a man who said sure very often, and from Hardy’s perspective it came out stilted. But maybe not. Maybe everything just seemed a little bit skewed up here.

‘Good,’ Helen said. ‘Now, Mr Hardy, if we may, can we ask how you plan to proceed?’

Hardy nodded. ‘You can ask,’ he said, ‘but it’s pretty early. I’ve barely begun looking at the evidence, so anything I say now wouldn’t be set in stone.’

‘We understand that,’ Leland said. They were definitely two-teaming him. ‘But certainly the general plan will be to play up Sal’s illness, Graham’s closeness to him, particularly at the end? You’re shaking your head. You don’t agree?’

‘Actually, I do. Graham doesn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ Helen asked.

‘He tells me he wasn’t there. He wasn’t any part of it.’

The waiter entered again during the ensuing silence, removed the tureen and the soup bowls, then set in front of each of them a little work of art featuring seared scallops, angel’s hair pasta, some zucchini blossoms. A limpid bright orange pool of sauce. A bottle of Kistler Reserve Chardonnay appeared, was poured.

Hardy thought he might swoon from the first taste, but again, to Leland it was just grub. As soon as the door closed, he continued as though there had been no interruption. ‘But isn’t that Graham’s best defense? That the killing was out of mercy?’

‘It might be, sir, but he wouldn’t even plead to that last week. Legally, that’s still murder.’

Helen spoke. ‘He’s afraid he won’t be able to practice law.’

Hardy nodded. ‘That’s right. That’s what he tells me too.’

‘He wasn’t exactly tearing up the field to this point, though, was he, Helen?’

This seemed to invite some response from Graham’s mother, and Hardy waited until it was clear none would be coming. ‘The problem is,’ he said, ‘there are certain… irregularities. Somebody else may have been there. There might have been another motive. Sal might in fact have been murdered.’

‘But not by Graham.’ Helen was certain about this.

‘No, but that’s who’s going to trial for it.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Leland said. ‘I’m hearing all kinds of conflicting reports here, Mr Hardy. Do you believe Graham killed his father or not?’

Hardy thought for a minute. ‘I guess I don’t think he did.’

‘Even out of mercy?’

‘No.’

Helen blurted out, ‘But all those articles, all this…’ Winding down, she stopped.

Leland picked up the thread. ‘That means you think someone else did it?’

Shaking his head, Hardy grabbed for his wineglass. A sip during the daytime wouldn’t kill him and he wanted the extra second to think. ‘I don’t think it’s out of the question Sal killed himself. The coroner didn’t even rule it out. I might go that way.’

‘I see.’ Leland busied himself with another bite, thinking ‘What would happen, though, if you argued for assisted suicide and the jury believed you?’

‘Graham wouldn’t let me do that.’

‘But if he would…’

‘No one can predict what a jury is going to do.’

‘I’m not trying to. I’m asking you a simple factual question. What would be the result if a jury decided Graham had assisted Sal’s suicide, or helped him die in some compassionate way?’

This was in many ways a fascinating turn, and Hardy considered it a minute. ‘That’s not a technical defense,’ he said carefully, trying to be precise. ‘A jury that followed the law should convict on murder.’

‘Should?’ Helen picked up the nuance, the wrinkle.

Hardy nodded. ‘Except that this is San Francisco. Here you never know. Even a judge like Salter might not instruct the way the prosecution wants. Any given jury – if the defense can guide them right – might do anything.’

‘If they concluded it was an assisted suicide?’

‘They might.’

‘You mean they’d find him simply not guilty?’ Helen wanted to be sure she understood.