Free The Keeper by John Lescroart

proximity to the courts, the place was always jammed at lunchtime. Cops, lawyers, clients, reporters, jurors, witnesses, all of them needed lunch, and Lou’s was convenient, cheap, fast, and surprisingly and consistently good. This was all the more unexpected considering that it served only one course every day, the famous Special, which was nearly always an original combination of the ethnic foodstuffs of Lou and his wife, the cook, Chui—Greek and Chinese. So you’d get a lot of lamb and pork dishes, squid and octopus and shrimp, meatballs, noodles, rice, grape leaves, and bao dumplings, seasoned heavily with lemon juice, Mae Ploy, or soy sauce. Often weird but always edible, if not downright tasty.
    Its other great advantage was that its popularity tended to produce a noise level comparable to a jet engine’s. This made it convenient not only for privileged communications, say between lawyers and their clients, but for other conversations that might otherwise have to take place behind closed doors.
    Today, at the front of the line that extended up the stairs and out to the sidewalk, Glitsky stood with Treya and her boss, Wes Farrell. Abe had stopped by the Hall to see if he could talk to one of the DA’s investigators or assistant district attorneys who’d looked into some of the irregularities at the jail, and if somehow he could bring the name Hal Chase subtly into the conversation. Basically, nobody knew nothin’.
    Abe was talking to Farrell about it. “It just seems odd that none of these allegations ever got any legs. Jeff Elliot’s got files on every incident—every death in custody, OD, or inmate treated for blunt force trauma—that’s happened at the jail for the past few years, and none of them has gone anywhere.”
    “This surprises you?” Farrell asked.
    “Slightly. Especially when you look at what happens if somebody starts talking abuse or excessive force with regular cops. The whole world jumps all over them. Particularly, if memory serves, your office jumps all over them.”
    “True. And you know why that is?”
    “You guys hate cops?”
    Farrell turned to Glitsky’s wife. “Try to keep him away from stand-up.” To Abe, he went on, “As you know, that was the wrong answer. We love cops. We have a full and free and respectful working relationship with the Police Department. I am the DA himself, and I have personal friends in the PD. The truth is, our good citizens demand that cops be held to a higher standard than normal people. SFPD operates in the community. They interact with criminals, sure, but also with regular people, many of whom have cell phones with those cool video functions. They operate in an open environment and, when they show up, often don’t know what is going on. So they’ve got a much better opportunity to screw something up and a much better chance that a credible person will be there to see when they do it.
    “The sheriff, on the other hand, totally controls the jail, and the inmates are pretty much at his mercy. The only people who are not, by definition, criminals in the jail work for the sheriff, which hardly fosters a transparent environment. So the chances of solving a crime involved in the jail approach zero, and if a guard brutalizes an inmate, nobody’s ever going to know. But if we get a righteous case, we try it. I promise you.”
    “You haven’t gotten one? Not even one?”
    “Sometimes we get one. But the ones we do get tend to fall into the misdemeanor category, the Sheriff’s Department policing itself and making sure that its members adhere to the law and protocol in all cases. The occasional small-fry investigation yields a misdemeanor conviction that allows for plausible deniability on larger matters. Their story is that they investigate every allegation of wrongdoing, and when they find something actionable, then by God they act on it.”
    “None of the larger cases make it upstairs?”
    “Very few, if any. And what do you think that could