John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"I like being here alone."

They were certainly alone. No other houses were visible. Only trees, the pool, the manicured garden and rolling lawn beyond, the mansion behind them, the perfect blue sky. A jet flew high overhead.

"How do you know Jody?" she asked.

Hardy's every bone ached. He could feel sweat gathering between his shoulder blades as the fever began to spike again. He sipped the lemonade and smiled weakly. "I'm afraid I'm another lawyer."

She had, he thought, a great laugh – deep, full-throated, uninhibited. She threw her head back, seemingly delighted. "Lawyers aren't afraid of anything," she said. "That's what Jody tells me."

"This lawyer is."

"What are you afraid of, Mr. Hardy?" She looked directly at him, her deep eyes a shade too dark. "You look pretty much able to take care of yourself."

"Right at this moment, I'm fighting a cold. I feel like an eight-year-old could take me down without too much trouble."

She looked another question at him. Had she been coming on? Had he just turned her down? Whatever, it didn't seem to bother her. She seemed to think it was interesting. It was such a different league here. There must be different rules and maybe he didn't know them.

"So, where were we?" she asked.

"How I knew Jody. I don't."

For a moment, her eyes registered something. Fear? Annoyance? "You're not a policeman, are you?"

"Why? Is Jody in trouble with the police?"

"There's no reason he should be. And you didn't answer me."

"I told you. I'm a lawyer. I'm not a cop."

She sat back and crossed her arms under her halter. Her face remained impassive. "What do you people think he did? You ought to leave him alone."

Hardy nodded. "Yes. That's what Mr. Kelso told Inspector Restoffer. But I'm on my own. I'm not with him and I'm trying to save my client's life." He gave her Jennifer's story in a nutshell. By the time he finished, she had uncrossed her arms. She took a long drink of lemonade.

"But Jody didn't call Frank – Mr. Kelso. I did. Jody knew nothing about it, probably still doesn't."

"Why did you call him?"

"Because, Mr. Hardy" – she leaned forward again – "because Jody doesn't need this. He's very sensitive and he hasn't done anything wrong. And then suddenly out of nowhere this Restoffer person starts questioning him as if he were a criminal. These accusations were tearing him apart and it was ridiculous. Do you know who Jody is?"

"I know he's your fiance. That's about it."

"He's a one-in-a-million person, that's who he is. He spends half his life helping people. He came from nowhere and now he's moving into the city's elite, he raises money for twenty causes – that's where he is now, at a charity golf function. He's a partner at his firm and he makes a good living. He's engaged to me, so as you can see money will not be an issue. He doesn't need to do anything criminal. Money just doesn't drive him."

If Jody were so wonderful, Hardy wanted to ask her, why did she give the impression she would have taken him to bed, maybe still would. It could be that all his goodness didn't satisfy her, which, of course, didn't mean it wasn't there.

It could also be that one-in-a-million Jody didn't love her, didn't find her desirable, had arranged for himself a convenient marriage that would give him still more money, more power. But maybe, in this strata of society, marriages more resembled strategic alliances than love affairs. Connections and loyalty might count for more than sexual attraction. He just didn't know, he was out of his league.

And he was almost out of steam. "Did Jody tell you that Restoffer had accused him of anything?"

"Not specifically, but it became obvious that he thought Jody might have had something to do with Simpson Crane's death, which is simply absurd. Simpson Crane was like his father. He cried when Simpson was killed – I was with him and I saw it. That's not something you fake, Mr. Hardy."

It's been known to happen, Hardy thought.

"Besides," she continued, "everybody knows who killed Simpson. It was the damn union. He was, I guess everybody knows, a union buster. He believed unions were ruining the country – and by the way he was right – so he went after them. He was just too good at it. And one of them killed him, or had him killed. That's just the kind of people they are."

Hardy wanted to ask her if she had ever had a meaningful conversation with a working person but thought he'd save his breath. That wasn't his fight, he wasn't about to become a life influence on Ms. Morency.

Suddenly she pushed herself up from her chair and crossed the flagstones. At the gazebo she grabbed a towel and draped it over her shoulders, covering the halter. It hadn't gotten any cooler – the implied invitation, if that's what it had been, was withdrawn.

Hardy stood up. "I appreciate you seeing me."

She came up to him and laid a hand on his arm. "I really wish you would leave Jody alone," she said. "He doesn't need this."

"Thanks for your time," he said. "I'll find my way out."

The phone was ringing. It was six-thirty on the clock next to the bed, and at first Hardy didn't know where he was, then whether it was morning or night. The last time he had fallen asleep during daylight he'd slept through the dark, and for a moment there he wondered if he'd done it again.

He picked up the telephone. It was Jody Bachman, personable Jody Bachman. "Margaret said you came by. I'm sorry I missed you. Also, listen, the other thing – never calling you back. What can I say? I got busy again. It's been really crazy. So I got your message at the office checking in, but I was late for this event. You know how it is. You want to get together?"

"Tonight's out. I'm fighting a cold here."

"Okay, how about tomorrow? You still in town? If you're free for lunch I've got a table at the City Club. Great food. Better view. Noon okay?"

"Noon's fine," Hardy answered.

"Noon then. You know where it is?"

Hardy said he'd find it. Bachman said he'd see him there.

He collapsed back down on the bed. When he closed his eyes he had a sensation of motion, of the room spinning around him. He forced himself up to a sitting position.

He was forgetting something. It seemed important, maybe crucial, but he couldn't put his finger on it. And the effort at thought was so tiring. Minutes passed. He started to doze sitting up. The telephone rang again.

"Are you still sick?"

"I'm still sick."

Frannie's earlier anger had given way to concern. "Why don't you come home, Dismas? You ought to see a doctor."

He told her about his scheduled meeting the next day with Bachman. One way or the other, that would be the end of it. He had to stay until then.

She stopped pushing. Okay, if that's what he was going to do. The kids, she said, were fine. Rebecca was really missing him – that wasn't a guilt trip, just a fact. She, Frannie – his wife, remember? – missed him, too. Would he please try to take care of himself, be careful?

He told her he would. He didn't have much choice. He wasn't going anywhere feeling like he did. Hermetically sealed in his hotel room, he was going to sleep right now for the night. He'd see her tomorrow.

In the bathroom he took some more aspirin, drank two glasses of water. His face in the mirror was drawn and sallow. Everything ached. He crossed to the window to pull the shade closed. A purple dusk lay on the city streets. Further off, Mount Wilson, up on the crest of the San Gabriels, glowed vermilion, diamond glints of the gasping sunlight sparkling out of the rocky brush. He put an arm up against the window and leaned heavily against it.

Below him in the parking lot a lone man got out of his car, closed the door and went to his trunk. He took out a small carrying case, looked around the lot, closed the trunk, then quickly, without wasted motion, bypassed the lobby entrance and walked directly underneath into Hardy's wing of the building.