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Authors: John Lescroart
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hubcaps, or smoked a joint, or played hooky from school, would wind up at the YGC and receive counseling, maybe a day or so of lockup to impress upon them the serious consequences of breaking the law.
Nowadays these relatively petty crimes never hit the radar of the police department. Juvenile felonies were commonly every bit as serious as crimes committed by adults, so in today’s San Francisco, the YGC’s primary function was, mostly, to lock up seriously dangerous criminals who happened to be under the age of eighteen. True, the center had a suicide-prevention watch. It also held a few dozen abandoned or abused children while they awaited suitable outplacement to foster homes. But in the main, “the cottages,” as the jail facility was called, housed murderers, rapists and a varied assortment of vandals, robbers, muggers and burglars. Most of the inmates were awaiting or in the middle of their respective trials or hearings, which occurred in courtrooms on the premises, just adjacent in the administrative wing.
Wu hated being late. This morning between Boscacci and Hardy, she had also talked to Hal North, told him about her success with Boscacci, and scheduled what she thought might be a relatively lengthy appointment with the North family before the detention hearing—they had a lot they had to go over. She particularly wanted to hear more about the results of Hal’s discussions on the admission issue with his wife and stepson, about which he’d been disconcertedly vague, telling her that he and Linda hadn’t had as much time as he would have liked to talk because of an event they had to attend at the yacht club. Wu shouldn’t worry, though, he told her. He’d have it all worked out with Andrew and Linda by the time they got to court.
This was Wu’s first formal court appearance at the YGC, and she had gotten lost on the way up, then caught in traffic. After the uphill half-jog from down the street where she’d managed to find a parking place, through the admin building and up the steep walk to the cottages, she fought to catch her breath for a minute just outside the gate in the razor-wire-topped Cyclone fence. A bailiff appeared in response to her ring and escorted her without a word into the building proper—a one-story structure that reminded her of a cross between a military barracks and an inner-city high school. Drab and institutional and depressing as hell, she thought.
The bailiff led her to a pocked wooden door in the hallway and opened it. Sitting in an old-fashioned school desk in the opposite corner of the tiny room, next to the one outside window, Andrew Bartlett lifted a hand about an inch in a halfhearted greeting.
“Here she is.” Hal stood to Wu’s right, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed and clearly unhappy. “At last.”
“Hal.” Linda shot a frustrated look at her husband, then turned and smiled at Wu. “It’s all right. You’re here.”
“I’m sorry. Terrrible traffic. I even gave myself an extra half hour,” she lied, then showed some more teeth, took a breath, turned to her client. “It’s good to see you again, Andrew. How are you holding up?”
The boy dropped his head, lifted it, shrugged. “ ’kay.”
Confident and prepared, Wu smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here today.”
Linda piped in. “You think we can do that?”
“Oh, I think so.”
“Really?” Hal asked.
“Probably,” she said. “The hearing today is about whether they keep Andrew here until he’s sentenced, and I don’t see why they’ll need to do that.”
“So what happens?” he asked. “What about bail?”
Wu shook her head. “No. I thought I’d explained that. Juveniles don’t get bail. The judge either lets Andrew go home with you and Linda, or he orders him kept here—detained.”
“Just like that?” Linda shot a hopeful glance at her son. “One way or the other.”
“Yes. And in this case, look what we’ve
Nowadays these relatively petty crimes never hit the radar of the police department. Juvenile felonies were commonly every bit as serious as crimes committed by adults, so in today’s San Francisco, the YGC’s primary function was, mostly, to lock up seriously dangerous criminals who happened to be under the age of eighteen. True, the center had a suicide-prevention watch. It also held a few dozen abandoned or abused children while they awaited suitable outplacement to foster homes. But in the main, “the cottages,” as the jail facility was called, housed murderers, rapists and a varied assortment of vandals, robbers, muggers and burglars. Most of the inmates were awaiting or in the middle of their respective trials or hearings, which occurred in courtrooms on the premises, just adjacent in the administrative wing.
Wu hated being late. This morning between Boscacci and Hardy, she had also talked to Hal North, told him about her success with Boscacci, and scheduled what she thought might be a relatively lengthy appointment with the North family before the detention hearing—they had a lot they had to go over. She particularly wanted to hear more about the results of Hal’s discussions on the admission issue with his wife and stepson, about which he’d been disconcertedly vague, telling her that he and Linda hadn’t had as much time as he would have liked to talk because of an event they had to attend at the yacht club. Wu shouldn’t worry, though, he told her. He’d have it all worked out with Andrew and Linda by the time they got to court.
This was Wu’s first formal court appearance at the YGC, and she had gotten lost on the way up, then caught in traffic. After the uphill half-jog from down the street where she’d managed to find a parking place, through the admin building and up the steep walk to the cottages, she fought to catch her breath for a minute just outside the gate in the razor-wire-topped Cyclone fence. A bailiff appeared in response to her ring and escorted her without a word into the building proper—a one-story structure that reminded her of a cross between a military barracks and an inner-city high school. Drab and institutional and depressing as hell, she thought.
The bailiff led her to a pocked wooden door in the hallway and opened it. Sitting in an old-fashioned school desk in the opposite corner of the tiny room, next to the one outside window, Andrew Bartlett lifted a hand about an inch in a halfhearted greeting.
“Here she is.” Hal stood to Wu’s right, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed and clearly unhappy. “At last.”
“Hal.” Linda shot a frustrated look at her husband, then turned and smiled at Wu. “It’s all right. You’re here.”
“I’m sorry. Terrrible traffic. I even gave myself an extra half hour,” she lied, then showed some more teeth, took a breath, turned to her client. “It’s good to see you again, Andrew. How are you holding up?”
The boy dropped his head, lifted it, shrugged. “ ’kay.”
Confident and prepared, Wu smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here today.”
Linda piped in. “You think we can do that?”
“Oh, I think so.”
“Really?” Hal asked.
“Probably,” she said. “The hearing today is about whether they keep Andrew here until he’s sentenced, and I don’t see why they’ll need to do that.”
“So what happens?” he asked. “What about bail?”
Wu shook her head. “No. I thought I’d explained that. Juveniles don’t get bail. The judge either lets Andrew go home with you and Linda, or he orders him kept here—detained.”
“Just like that?” Linda shot a hopeful glance at her son. “One way or the other.”
“Yes. And in this case, look what we’ve
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