John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Villars was referring to the orchestrated ballet that surrounded death-penalty cases in California. Even after the jury returned with a verdict of death, that was not the end of it. The defense filed an automatic motion for a new trial, on almost any grounds and without any prejudice – in other words, without a mistrial. In the jargon, the judge became the thirteenth juror.

In practice, such motions were seldom granted. If a judge, sitting as the thirteenth juror, did in fact overturn a verdict and a sentence after the time and expense of a jury trial, the DA – by exercising his right to challenge out of any courtroom – would make it hard for that person to find work. Still, Villars was tough, and Superior Court judges, it was true, could amass a great deal of power.

Hardy remained standing. Powell sat down, silent, listening. "I wanted to get a ruling on something," he said, and told her what he had discovered that morning about Jody Bachman and Margaret Morency. She didn't interrupt him. "So, Your Honor, I have a member of the YBMG Board who called off Restoffer's investigation in Los Angeles, who is also engaged to the attorney for the Group. I think the jury should hear about this."

Villars finally sat back. "How did this woman call off the police investigation?"

"She called Kelso, the supervisor. l He passed it along to the chief."

"Do you have proof of that?"

Hardy knew this was the tough sell. "Ms. Morency both contributed to Kelso's campaign and is on the YBMG Board. I know it was Kelso who called the chief after Restoffer interrogated Bachman."

Villars spoke slowly now. "That's not proof."

"The standard is less in this phase, Your Honor. I'm trying to get the jury to lingering doubt."

Villars waited for more.

Hardy gave it to her. "Your Honor, these at least are facts, not conjecture. Simpson Crane was killed with his own gun. There is a connection, the Group – okay, it's tenuous, but it's there – between these men, and a line running through Jody Bachman, and a lot of money unaccounted for. Crane's murder investigation is closed down. The fiance of the Group's attorney has access and leverage over Kelso. Let the jury see all this and maybe they'll start to wonder about it. It's not just my theory. It springs from the facts."

Villars considered another moment. "But it's a house of cards."

"May I, Your Honor?" Villars nodded and Powell stood up. "I took a hard line with you here, yesterday, Mr. Hardy, but in spite of what you may believe, I am not anxious to see anyone condemned to death. So after we adjourned last night, do you know what I did? I called down to Los Angeles and spoke to the head of homicide, who referred me to the chief of police. The homicide department is positive, unquote, that Simpson Crane was assassinated by someone paid by Machinists' Local 47 down there. It's not a closed case, although this Inspector Restoffer isn't on it anymore – it's gone federal with RICO. There is – again I quote – no suspicion that he was killed by someone with the Yerba Buena Medical Group."

"Still, they called Restoffer off." Villars was following it all closely, even taking some notes.

Powell sighed. "Evidently the inspector was a little miffed at the federal intervention. When he thought he saw a way back in – it's a high-profile case – he stepped on a few toes. He was called off because he was hassling people, because he wasn't being a good cop."

Standing up, not in her robes, the judge might have been a friendly grandmother. And her voice had no edge now. "Mr. Hardy, I've listened carefully to you, one last time. Now I'm talking to you and I hope you listen to me. All of what you say may be true as far as it toes. There may be all kinds of financial shenanigans going on down in Los Angeles, but it doesn't concern this case. And where it might appear to intersect, it still falls under coincidence. Larry Witt just wasn't involved in any of this, or if he was there's no evidence of it."

"He called Crane amp; Crane."

"About this? Did he talk to Crane himself, or Bachman? And if so, about what? Is there any telling?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardy, I really am. I can see you are trying your damnedest, as you should, but I'm not going to admit unsubstantiated theories, and that's what this is."

She was moving him with her toward the door. "And now, please excuse me. I've got two hours of brief I've got to wade through in” – she looked at her watch – "forty minutes."

Evidently, a lot of people in the courtroom had read the morning paper, or seen the news on television. When Hardy called Nancy to the stand, the reaction was audible.

She was sitting in the first gallery row, next to Dr. Lightner, directly behind Hardy and Jennifer, and she stood stiffly, the way a person would be expected to stand with taped and broken ribs. She still had the bandage over her nose, her eyes black and swollen.

Reporters were snapping photos as she inched painfully toward the center aisle. Villars was not having this – she had allowed cameras inside the courtroom up to this time, so long as their use was unobtrusive, but this action crossed her line.

She rapped her gavel. "That's enough pictures. All of you sit down. As of this moment I'm forbidding cameras in this courtroom. Anybody who's got one can leave now. Bailiffs, make sure that they do."

The bailiffs moved up to the rail. In the ensuing hubbub, as reporters either left with their own cameras or gave them to assistants to remove, Nancy DiStephano made it through the rail, stopping at the defense table. Jennifer reached over and the two women held hands briefly, wordlessly. Her mother straightened up and forced herself to the front of the courtroom to be sworn in.

Hardy assumed his position about ten feet in front of the witness box. "Mrs. DiStephano, what is your relationship to the defendant?"

"I'm her mother."

Apparently not everyone had known what the earlier commotion surrounding this witness was about because this admission caused another ripple of sound across the back of the courtroom. Villars didn't act so Hardy had to wait for it to subside.

"Mrs. DiStephano, may I call you Nancy?"

"Sure."

Hardy reasoned that his best odds were to face it head-on. "For the jury's benefit, Nancy, I wonder if you could tell us about your injuries?"

Powell jumped up. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant."

Amazingly, Villars asked for an argument before her ruling. "Mr. Hardy?"

"Your Honor, Mrs. Witt grew up in her mother's home. The person she has become was formed there. The jury should be aware of this environment."

Villars said she would allow the line of questioning. Hardy thanked her.

It seemed to him that he and the judge had – perhaps by osmosis – reached some accord. It might be the more relaxed rule governing admissibility in this phase of the trial, but he sensed it was something more.

Hardy approached the witness stand. "Nancy, you've recently been released from the hospital, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Would you tell us the extent of your injuries?"

Nancy described the broken ribs, broken nose, the kidney damage that caused her to urinate blood, the bruises on her breasts, torso, thighs.

"And how did you sustain these injuries?"

"My husband beat me up."

The courtroom was rapt, silent.

"Your husband, Phil DiStephano, the natural father of the defendant?"

"Yes."

"And was this the first time he'd beaten you?"

Talking about it, Nancy was starting to withdraw, to hunch her shoulders, the way her daughter did. Or was it more the other way around? She shook her head and Villars leaned over, speaking quietly. "You'll have to answer with words, please."

"No," Nancy said, "it wasn't the first time."