Damage by John Lescroart

objective people handle the situation. At the very least, I’d have had him notify his superiors and apply for a warrant. I’d have had him follow the goddamn rules!”
    “And how about while he’s following the goddamn rules, his family gets goddamn dead, sir?” Jenkins asked. “Then what?”
    “That’s melodramatic horseshit.” Crawford showed off a lot of his teeth. “And frankly I’m just a little bit annoyed that we’re all having a discussion about this convenient threat when it’s entirely clear to me—and don’t kid yourselves, it will be clear to most of the rest of the city tomorrow—that this is just an end run around the real issue here, which is that you, Ms. Jenkins,” and here he pointed at her, “and you, Lieutenant,” another point at Glitsky, “decided unilaterally between yourselves to subvert the court’s decision to release Ro on bail after he got released on appeal.”
    Jenkins raised her chin. “With all respect, that’s just purely untrue, Your Honor.”
    Crawford drew himself up straight. “It is hardly that, Ms. Jenkins. What it is, in my opinion, is prosecutorial and police excess in its most blatant form. It’s a classic denial of due process and harassment, and I’m not going to stand for it. Not in my city. Do you know how much the Curtlees are threatening to sue the city for? Anybody want to take a guess?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Jenkins said. “They won’t get whatever it is.”
    “Would you like to bet your job on that, Ms. Jenkins? Because that’s what I have to do here. That’s the position you’ve put me in. Now I have to bet we can beat a lawsuit for a hundred million dollars! Do any of you have any idea how much money that is?”
    After a moment of silence, Glitsky found his voice. “The man’s a convicted killer, Your Honor, and he threatened my family. He needs to be in jail.”
    “Well, that’s sure as hell where you’ve got him now, Lieutenant. Against the express decision of the court. And given that, how long do you honestly think you’re going to be able to keep him there?” Suddenly the mayor shifted his focus and settled on Farrell. “Wes, you’ve been curiously silent throughout all this. Are you really planning to charge this thing?”
    Farrell, still in his raincoat, seething for his own reasons, was sitting back with his arms and feet crossed. After a small hesitation, he said, “I read Ro’s visit to Abe’s house as a threat. I think the court will agree with us at the arraignment on Monday. Abe did what he had to do. If Ro wasn’t a Curtlee . . .”
    Crawford could no longer restrain himself. “But he is a Curtlee, goddamn it! That’s kind of the point here, don’t you see?” He looked around the semicircle, face by unyielding face, then started back and stopped at his new chief of police. “At the very least, Chief, I’d expect that you’d want to remove Lieutenant Glitsky from an active investigating role in this latest murder, this Nuñez woman. Clearly he’s far from objective on anything that’s got to do with Ro Curtlee.”
    Lapeer drew in a quick breath, then released it. She was thinking she might be the shortest-lived chief of police in San Francisco history, but she really had no choice about what to say. “The lieutenant is head of the homicide detail, sir. I respect his decisions to assign investigators to cases, including himself, as he sees fit.”
    Now, stymied, Crawford turned back to Farrell. “And if they let Ro off on Monday, Wes, then what?”
    “Then the courts will have spoken,” Farrell said.
    “And what about his injuries? Ro’s?” Crawford asked.
    Glitsky jumped in with the answer. “He resisted arrest,” he said. “Strenuously. He also injured two of our patrolmen. We’re charging him on that, too.”
    “Wonderful,” Crawford said. “Just wonderful.”

    Farrell, Glitsky, and Jenkins had all come to the meeting in their separate cars and parked in the underground lot just