Free The Second Chair by John Lescroart Page A

speak to him for any reason.
    “Well, Officer Nelson, this young man doesn’t need to be handcuffed.”
    It didn’t matter to Nelson one way or the other. “That’s up to the judge,” he said. He did take his hand off Andrew, however, and stepped aside a few paces. He stood leaning against the front of the jury box, facing Wu, sublimely indifferent, which was almost more chilling to her than outright antagonism would have been.
    Wu reached over and patted Andrew’s arm. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
    He turned his face to her, then farther around, back to his mother again. “Mom,” he said, then couldn’t continue. Tears threatened to spill, but he blinked them back. Raw vulnerability took years off his age. The idea of this pathetic boy aiming a gun at a person and pulling a trigger not once but twice suddenly struck Wu for the first time as incongruous.
    Her heart went out to him, while at the same time she was a bit relieved to see the depth of his despair. He would probably have to hit bottom and see that there was no hope in pleading not guilty. After they got to talk and she showed him the evidence, he’d realize the futility of pretending he hadn’t done it. When the truth must be clear to him if he dared to look at it objectively. Andrew wasn’t stupid—she glanced over at him one last time, confident that he would come to accept that he had to admit if he wanted to save himself.
    Now in his early sixties, Judge W. Arvid Johnson had built a reputation as a reasonable and fair jurist with no particular ax to grind. Irreverently, secretly and universally called “Warvid” by the city’s legal community, Johnson took the bench today with little fanfare and no formal announcement by the bailiff or court recorder. Suddenly, it seemed, he had materialized up there, seated behind the slightly raised podium—white-haired and faintly jocular, he projected an amiable solidity.
    After a business-like nod to both counsel, he said, “All right” to no one in particular, pulled his glasses down to the end of his patrician nose and asked the probation officer to call the first case. When he’d done this, the officer listed those present in the courtroom, including the gallery, for the record, and then Judge Johnson began. “Mr. Brandt, comments on detention?”
    “Yes, your honor.”
    “Go ahead.”
    Brandt stood up behind his table. His voice sounded clear and relaxed in the small room. “Your honor, as this is a murder case, the petitioner requests that the minor be detained.”
    “He’s here under juvenile jurisdiction,” the judge said sharply. “The district attorney has decided not to file against him directly as an adult. I have to gather that that was done on purpose? Am I wrong?”
    “No, your honor, not at all.” Brandt took the rebuke calmly, probably because he had a ready answer, and a good one. “We anticipate that Mr. Bartlett will admit this petition and receive the maximum commitment to the YA”—the Youth Authority. “He’ll still be confined here at YGC, of course, rather than downtown, for a brief period since he’s under eighteen, but we anticipate a quick disposition on two counts of first degree murder. So naturally the petitioner considers this a detention case.”
    Planted in her seat, Wu was surprised when Brandt thanked the judge and sat down. He’d said what he’d come here to say, short and sweet.
    Judge Johnson nodded and turned. “Ms. Wu?”
    Wu tried to swallow but her mouth had gone dry. She knew that Brandt liked to keep his opponents off-balance and that one way to do this was to mess with their timing. But he’d still surprised her, catching her in mid-thought with such a bare-bones statement. Detained. End of story.
    “Ms. Wu,” Johnson repeated. “Would you care to make a reply?”
    She got to her feet. “I’m sorry, your honor. I was just . . .” She stopped herself, willed her mind clear and started again. “Your