John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

After leaving the jail and making sure Nancy was okay to get herself home in a cab, he had come directly here. Freeman, of course, was working late, already on a new murder as well as prepearing Jennifer's appeal.

Now Freeman was listening to his tenant and sometime partner, who had swept half his files off his desk and was raving out of frustration and fatigue. "You know how many people I've talked to these six months? And what do I have to show for it? I've got Jennifer's mother and Jennifer's shrink, and the jury won't believe her shrink. That's it. That's my case to save the woman's life."

"You've got Jennifer herself." Leave it to Freeman – he had eye for detail.

"Oh, there's a good idea." Hardy, pacing, stepped over a stack of folders. "Call Jennifer so she can look the jury in the eye and say, If you vote to execute me, then you can go fuck yourselves. That'll soften 'em right up."

Freeman had gone around to sit behind Hardy's desk, in his chair. "That's really all you've got."

Hardy stopped. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, David. She's totally separated from the world. As if you didn't know. She's too pretty to have other women trust her, and she's not the platonic type with me. Except for her son she didn't seem to give kids the time of day. After Ned killed her cat, she never even had another pet. Juries love cat lovers. Why didn't she get another one? The fact is I haven't found a soul who's got anything good to say about Jennifer Witt." Hardy leaned over and started picking up the files he'd thrown. "I really think I'm right, David. I know Simpson Crane found someone there screwing up."

"Do you also really think they killed Larry, or had him killed?"

"At least it's a reason."

"So is the abortion. Remember. We've been all through this, Dismas. Didn't Jennifer's brother hate Larry, too? And isn't the union squabble with Simpson Crane just as good as your scan idea? Might he in fact have been killed over that?"

"I don't know, I have no idea what Restoffer found there."

"It doesn't really matter, but obviously it was enough to keep him interested all throughout the primary investigation, wasn't it?"

Freeman's point was clear enough, though Hardy wasn't in the mood to hear it. He knew that any event in life could support an almost infinite number of possibilities, even plausible scenarios to explain them if imagination were the only criterion. Trials would never end so long as attorneys were allowed to introduce another way something might have happened without regard to evidence. Which was why, overworked as they were, courts were intolerant of hearsay, fabrication, unsupported theories.

At a trial, somebody had to see it, smell it, touch it or taste it, then swear to it. Because, in real life, it had only happened one way. And the court's job, perhaps more than justice, was making sure the story was righteous, in synch with the evidence.

Hardy sat on the floor picking up folders. "What am I going to do, David?"

"I wasn't entirely kidding before," Freeman told him. "First I'd let her mother get up, but then I'd call Jennifer…"

"But you didn't even do that!"

"That was a different situation. I had the luxury or thought I did. You don't. This is the last card. The jury has got to get a chance to know her, see who she is beyond-"

"Powell will eat her."

"He well may. She may condemn herself. It's a risk." He brightened. "But then, life's a risk, my boy. Besides, what's your option?"

John Lescroart

Hardy 04 – 13th Juror, The

The kids weren't awake yet – a miracle. It was just past six and Frannie was reading the morning paper, in the middle of the story. Even though charges weren't being filed, the mother of the convicted killer had killed her husband and that was hot news. So Powell, in spite of Hardy's efforts, had achieved his goals – not only was his name and picture again on the front page, the jury would get a glimpse of how the DiStephano/Witt women solved their problems – they killed their husbands.

"They make it sound almost Biblical," Frannie said, "like some curse through the generations."

Hardy nodded wearily. In his life he had probably been more tired but he couldn't remember when. He hadn't gotten home last night until after midnight, hadn't been able to get to sleep for at least an hour after that. "I just hope the jury doesn't see it that way."

Frannie put the paper down. Something in her husband's voice… "Are you going to lose?"

"It’s a possibility." The prince of understatement.

Frannie wrestled with the awful thought. "Can I do anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, help you in some way, any way…" She reached across the table and took his hand. "I feel real bad about this, you know. Like I've deserted Jennifer. They convicted her. What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do? I just couldn't keep on denying-"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Frannie. She's one difficult woman. She drives people away."

Frannie bit her lip, squeezed her hand. "What will happen? I mean, if you lose?"

"If Powell get elected and stays on the case, her odds on appeal go way down. He'll be the Attorney General and she's his baby. I mean, even if he wanted to, which he doesn't, it would be hard for him, politically, to do anything but keep pushing."

"This is just so wrong."

Hardy covered Frannie's hand. "It's not over yet."

He was going to have Nancy take the stand, then Jennifer.

A society reporter named Lucy Pratt was in the newsroom at the Los Angeles Times when Hardy called from Sutter Street an hour later. That early in the morning, the place was deserted and she was happy to talk to somebody about her work. A lot of people wanted to move on to hard news, but she loved being a society reporter. She loved people. She didn't like violence, world problems, all that stuff. She told Hardy that sure, she knew who Margaret Morency was. In fact, just the last weekend they had run her picture. She and her fiance had hosted a wine-and-cheese auction to benefit the San Marino library.

"For some reason," Hardy said, "I thought she was this old woman. San Marino old money, you know?"

Ms. Pratt laughed over the line. "Old money doesn't mean you're old, at least not with Margaret. I don't think she's thirty yet. I could fax you her picture. She was one of the Rose Court in 1986, you know."

Hardy thought a picture wouldn't be necessary.

"The wedding's going to be at the Huntington in December," Lucy said. "The whole town's talking about it."

Hardy doubted whether the folks, say, in South Central, were as excited about the upcoming nuptials as Lucy was, but she seemed to be a nice kid so he listened. It seemed the polite question before he said good-bye so he asked it. "Who's the fiance?"

"It's a real Cinderella story," she said. "Jody's from the west side, but down in the flats, not exactly Brentwood. But now…"

"Is that Jody Bachman, the lawyer?"

"That's the lucky man. Do you know him?"

"Sure," Hardy said. "All lawyers know each other. It's like a big fraternity."

Lucy laughed again. She sure had good manners, though he doubted she got the joke.

He left a message with Restoffer. Even with the cold he wanted time to think, so he walked across Market, a block out of his way down 5^th (you took your life in your hands on 6^th), to the Hall. He rounded up Powell and they caught Villars alone in her chambers.

In that, he was fortunate, although she was less than delighted to see them.

"I hope you've got something prepared for today, Mr. Hardy," She began. "I'm not entertaining any continuance motions. You still want to see me?"

Hardy said he did, and she turned her back to him, going back to the slingback chair where she had been reading the paper, having her morning coffee. But she didn't settle. Instead, she lowered herself onto the outside of the chair and pointed a finger. "The time for personal appeal is after the jury's decision."