Hardy never even looked at his answering machine until the kids were asleep. He hadn't had a drop to drink since at least Thursday night, and was somewhat surprised to see that he hadn't missed it a bit. Still, now he thought he could use a beer. He opened a Sierra Nevada and, turning off the overhead, finally noticed the blinking light on the far end of the kitchen counter.

Salarco, getting back to him.

It was 11:15 on a Sunday night. The gardener undoubtedly got up at or near daybreak. Hardy wouldn't be doing himself or Salarco any favors by calling back this late.

For a minute, he cursed himself for all he'd absolutely had to do this weekend that he'd left unaccomplished. His client's hearing was now only two days away, and he'd made no progress of any kind. It had been through no fault of his own, true, but he knew that other lawyers might have found a way to proceed on the case even through two such difficult days. They might have called in partners or associates, hired private investigators, even pled hardship to the judge. He might have thought to do something, but all he'd been able to think of was the suffering of his wife, the worries of his children, the needs of his family.

"So sue me," he said aloud. Put down his unfinished beer. Went up to get some rest.

22

Hardy got the phone before it finished its first ring. Next to him, Frannie moaned but did not wake up. It seemed to be sometime in the middle of the night, pitch out the window.

"Hello." His sleep-edged voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said it again. "Hello."

The voice was urgent, yet controlled, the words hastily strung together. "Sorry to wake you up, sir. It's Amy. I just got a call from the YGC. Andrew's tried to kill himself."

"Give me a second." He was up, moving to the bathroom, where he closed the door behind him and turned on the light, blinking in the glare. "What do you mean, tried? Is he alive? What happened?"

"All I know is they called me about ten minutes ago. They said he tried to hang himself in his cell, but the guard heard something and got to him in time to cut him down. Or maybe the shirt he used ripped, it wasn't clear. It doesn't matter."

"So where is he now?"

"They were bringing him to SFGH." San Francisco General Hospital. "I'm on my way down now."

"I'll meet you there."

Dressed now in the same clothes he'd been wearing yesterday, and Saturday before that, down in the kitchen, he stopped to write a note to Rebecca and Vincent, telling them where he was going. They'd been getting themselves ready for school, making their own breakfasts, their bag lunches, for some time now. Beyond that, Hardy didn't know the Monday morning routine, but he was confident they could work it out themselves. He reminded them to check on their mother upstairs, make sure she got some food and liquid and her pain medication. He'd be back home, hopefully, by mid-morning if he could. Again, he'd be on his cellphone. Call with any questions or problems.

He grabbed his briefcase, glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. 4:30.

Outside, he paused in thin fog at the sidewalk just outside his gate, realizing that he didn't know where Rebecca had parked his car last night. Well, fortunately they had two of them. Now if he could only remember where he'd parked the 4Runner. After a minute's reflection, it came to him and he turned up toward Clement. Half-jogging now, he covered the two blocks down to Thirty-second, then turned right- the car was about midway down the block, under a burned-out streetlight.

The front seat was dew-drenched and cold. Inside the car, in fact, it seemed exceptionally cold, but the reason for it didn't really register until he turned to look over his shoulder as he put it in reverse so he could pull out. The backseat window on the passenger side wasn't there anymore. Neither, he suddenly realized, were the skis they'd left the night before.

Now in a flash, his actions last night came back to him. Double parked in the street right out front of his house, he and Vincent had helped get Frannie inside. Then he'd gone on the daily search for a parking place, finding this spot a couple of blocks away- not too bad, considering. In his rush to get back to his wife, he'd locked up, of course, but hadn't unpacked this car, thinking to return soon with his son. But then the Beck hadn't shown up, and…

Knowing what he'd find, he got back out of the car and walked around to where the broken glass covered the sidewalk, crunching under his feet. He opened the door and peered over the backseat into the storage area in the back and verified that they'd not only taken the skis, but the poles and boots and luggage bag they used for the rest of their stuff- gloves, goggles, extra clothes, everything. The deck was bare, cleaned out.

Sick at the world, he got back in behind the wheel, started the engine, put on his lights and pulled out into the still-dark street.

Wu wore a dark blue jogging suit and tennis shoes, a black and orange Giants warm-up jacket, no makeup. Her hair was back in a ponytail. Hardy thought she could have passed for about Andrew's age. "… because it's my fault, that's why," she was saying.

"How could it be your fault?" Hardy had had enough of hospitals over the weekend with Frannie to never want to see one again, and yet here he was now, outside the emergency room at SFGH, aptly nicknamed the San Francisco Gun & Rifle Club by the law community. He and Wu sat on red molded-plastic chairs and he was drinking vending machine coffee from a paper cup.

"I spent almost all day yesterday with him, going over the criteria, ways we might be able to beat them. It wasn't too heartening. By the time I left, he was pretty down."

"Did you tell him about our plan to call witnesses on the crime itself?"

She nodded. "Sure, but by that time we're on number five. He figured we couldn't win on any of the first four, either, not after his short story got out. So he was going up, that was his opinion. We couldn't do anything to stop that." She hung her head wearily, came back up to Hardy. "I keep thinking if only I wouldn't have gone in to talk to him, it wouldn't have come to this. But what was I supposed to do? Who else except Andrew could have…?"

A young Asian woman in bloodstained blue scrubs and a stethoscope was approaching them. Wu stopped talking and they both stood up.

"The officer who brought him in told me you were with the hanging victim," she said. "He's going to have trouble talking for a while, and he'll be in some discomfort, but fortunately whatever he used- evidently his shirt- couldn't hold him and the fall didn't break his neck. He's going to live. The officers want to take him back to the YGC, but I told him we're going to hold him here for observation for at least a day."

"Thank you," Hardy said. "Under the circumstances, I'd make it a close watch."

"We will," the doctor said. "Do you know where his parents are, by the way? Does he have parents?"

"They're in Palm Springs, I believe. At a tennis tournament," Wu said. Then, including Hardy: "But I'm concerned about his sister. The YGC called his home first and there was no answer at all. They called me next."

"So no parents," the doctor said. "And people wonder where kids go wrong." The young woman's face was set in frustration.

"Can we talk to him?" Hardy asked.

She shook her head no. "He can't really talk. Also, I've got him sedated for now. He'll be out for a couple of hours. And he really won't be able to talk normally for at least a few days." A pause, then a gentler tone. "Do you know why he might have tried to do this?"

"He's got a hearing coming up soon," Wu said. "He thinks he's looking at years in prison."

The doctor nodded. "What did he do?"