Authors: John Lescroart
The First Law
Contents
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The First Law
A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2003
by
The Lescroart Corporation
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN:
978-1-1012-0985-1
A
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Electronic edition: March, 2006
ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART
The Oath
The Hearing
Nothing but the Truth
The Mercy Rule
Guilt
A Certain Justice
The 13th Juror
Hard Evidence
The Vig
Dead Irish
Rasputin’s Revenge
Son of Holmes
Sunburn
To Lisa
Nunc et Semper
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my publisher and editor, Carole Baron, not only for her encouragement and support over so much of my career, but for her truly extraordinary interest and efforts from the earliest outlining stages of this book, which is in some ways so different in structure from my other novels. Mitch Hoffman’s intelligence and insights likewise contributed importantly to the finished product; beyond that, his good humor and accessibility are as much appreciated as they are rare.
My friend and agent, Barney Karpfinger, remains an incredible source that I turn to whenever I need an injection of calm, wisdom, or good taste. His receptivity to the idea for this book and his early enthusiasm for it contributed mightily to its creation.
In San Francisco, the peerless Al Giannini was a great help, as always, from the original concept through the eventual execution. His knowledge of the law world within San Francisco has been a cornerstone of the entire Hardy/Glitsky series of books, and this one is no exception. In the police department, Shawn Ryan shared with me his considerable expertise with a variety of firearms; much more importantly, his description of what it’s like to be under fire provided a crucial perspective. Assistant District Attorney Jerry Norman provided some choice nuggets as well.
Peter J. Diedrich provided much of the background for the very real San Francisco Diamond Center scandals of the late nineties. Peter S. Dietrich, M.D., M.P.H., still makes the best martini in the universe.
Closer to home, my assistant, Anita Boone, aside from being a creative genius in her own right, is simply terrific. Combining a wonderful personality with superhuman efficiency, she is truly one of a kind. I couldn’t do what I do without her. The excellent novelist Max Byrd is a great friend and careful reader who was a help many times and at many stages during the writing of this book. Barbara Vohryzek’s “good karma” plays a big role in my daily writing environment, and I want to thank her for thinking to include me in such a positive work space.
My children, Jack and Justine, continue to inspire and hopefully to inform these books, and this one particularly, with a welcome nonadult perspective. Rebecca and Vincent they are not, but Dismas Hardy’s children could not exist as fully formed characters without them.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the work of two excellent writers for providing much of the inspiration for this book. Loren Estleman’s
Bloody Season
tells the story of the gunfight at the OK Corral better than it’s ever been told. I’ve read the book five times now, and it just keeps getting better. Carsten Stroud’s
Black Water Transit,
though unique in execution, plot, and tone, could nevertheless serve as a primer for the construction of the modern thriller, and in fact did in the creation of this work. The use of language in both of these books reminded this writer again of the power of the unexpected, the original, the inspired word. Thanks, guys. You write terrific stuff.
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept by confused alarums of struggle and flight
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
—Matthew Arnold “Dover Beach”
At a little before two o’clock on a chill and overcast Wednesday afternoon, Moses McGuire pulled his old Ford pickup to a grating stop in front of his sister Frannie’s house and honked the horn twice.
He waited, blowing on his hands, which he couldn’t get to stay warm. The heater in the truck didn’t work worth a damn and the driver-side window was stuck halfway down, but he knew it wasn’t the weather. It was nerves. He blew into the cup of his hands again, lay on the horn another time.
The door opened. His brother-in-law, Dismas Hardy, walked briskly, businesslike, down his porch steps and the path that bisected his small lawn. Normally he was good for a smile or some wiseass greeting, but today his face was set, his eyes cast down. He carried a rope-wrapped package under one arm, wore jeans and hiking boots and a heavy coat into the pockets of which he’d stuffed his hands. The coat, McGuire thought, was a good idea, not so much for the cold as to disguise the fact that he was wearing Kevlar, and packing.
Hardy, at fifty-two, was two years younger than McGuire. The two men had known each other for over thirty years, since they’d been in Vietnam. Over there, Hardy had pulled McGuire to cover and safety in the midst of an intense firefight—both of the men had been hit, both awarded the Purple Heart. But Hardy had saved McGuire’s life and that bond had held, would always hold.
When Hardy’s first pass at adult life fell apart, he’d worked for years at the bar Moses owned, the Little Shamrock, and eventually, when Hardy was ready to risk life and commitment again, he became a quarter partner in the bar. He’d married McGuire’s sister, was godfather to one of McGuire’s daughters, as Moses was to his.
Family.
Hardy slid in and dumped the package onto the seat between them. “There’s your vest. I did have the extra.” Saying it aloud seemed to cost him some energy. He drew a deep breath and took a last look back at his house as the truck moved into gear. Turning back to his brother-in-law, he asked, “What are you carrying?”
McGuire motioned over his shoulder, indicating the truck bed. “I got fifty shells and my over and under wrapped in the tarp back there.”
“Twelve gauge?”
“Yeah, and in there”—McGuire pointed to the glove box—“I got my Sig.”
“Automatic?”
He caught Hardy’s tone of disapproval. “They don’t always jam,” he said.
“Only takes once.”
“I expect I’ll be using the shotgun anyway.”
The truck turned a couple of corners, the men riding in silence until they were rolling on Geary. McGuire blew on his hands again. Finally, Hardy spoke. “You okay with this?”
McGuire looked across the seat, his dark eyes flat. “Completely. You not?”
Hardy worked his mouth, shook his head. “I don’t see another choice.”
“That’s ’cause there isn’t one.”
“I know. I know. It’s just . . .”
“There’s always another choice?”
“Usually.”
“Not this time.” McGuire bit it off, impatient. He accelerated angrily through a yellow light. “You already tried all of them.”
“Maybe not all. That’s what I worry about. This would be a bad time to get pulled over, don’t you think?”
McGuire touched the brake, slowed a hair. He slammed his hand on the dashboard. “Come on, heater, kick in. Fuck.”
Hardy ignored the outburst. “I just think,” he said, “we do this, then what?”
“Then we’re alive, how about that? We don’t, we’re not. It’s that simple.” The next light was red and he had to stop, took the moment to make eye contact. “How many people do these guys have to kill, Diz? How many have they already killed?”
“Allegedly . . .”
“Don’t give me that. You have any doubt at all, reasonable or otherwise?”
“No.”
“So don’t give me ‘allegedly.’ You don’t believe it yourself.”
“Okay, but maybe Abe could bring in the feds. Him going in alone to arrest these guys now . . .”
“He’s not going to be alone. We’re backing him up.”
Hardy chewed at his cheek. “We’re not the cops.”
“Truer words were never said. There’s no time to call in the feds, Diz. There’s no time to convince any bureaucracy to move. You of all people should know that.”
“I’m just saying if we had a little more time . . .”
McGuire shook his head. “Time’s up, Diz. They decide you’re next—the good money bet by the way—they pull up to you maybe today, maybe tomorrow; they’re not going to care if Frannie’s in the car with you, or the kids. You’re just gone. Like the others.”
“I know. I know you’re right.”
“Damn straight.” The light changed. McGuire hit the gas and lurched ahead. “Listen, you think I want to be here? I don’t want to be here.”
“I keep thinking the law . . .”
McGuire snorted. “The law. Your precious fucking law. It’s gonna protect you, right? Like it has everybody else?”
“It’s my life, Mose. I’ve pretty much got to believe that, don’t I?”
“The law’s not your life. It’s your job. Your life is something else entirely. The first law is you protect your life and the people you love.”