John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

It was just the way he had felt at home. Paranoid. Stupid.

But knowing that didn't help. Suddenly he knew he had to get out of here. He had given Jody Bachman his room number, told him he'd be staying in all night.

Jody Bachman, who by Hardy's scenario had hired someone to kill Simpson Crane, Crane's wife, Larry and Matthew Witt. And now Hardy was the only one standing between him and his seven million dollars…

There wasn't much to pack. He gathered his old clothes, still wearing his new ones. There was no one in the hallway when he stepped into it.

The elevator opened and he was facing a thin dark well-dressed man. The man carried the small carrying case he'd seen earlier, or one very much like it. Hardy stepped by him into the elevator as the man got out. He was looking for a room numbers as the door closed.

Jody Bachman was twenty minutes late, and if he was surprised to see Hardy sitting alive at the table he had reserved, he showed no sign.

The fever had broken after another twelve hours of heavy sleep in a motel just outside of Glendale. Hardy, in new loafers, slacks, an indigo sports coat and regimental tie, still hurt. His muscles still ached.

He had given himself a couple of minutes of feeling like an idiot when he woke up. But, after all, he had woken up and that was some consolation, maybe even justification. It had probably been fatigue and fever. Absolutely nothing to it. But it was done. He had changed hotels. In all likelihood it had been foolish and unnecessary. He could live with that. Had, in fact.

He knew who Bachman was before he got to the table. Entering the room as though he owned it, he was one of those southern California ex-surfers whose aging process didn't seem to run on the same battery as that of mere mortals. He had to be thirty-five or so if he was a partner at Crane, but he looked ten years younger – chiseled cheeks, a cleft in his chin, not a worry line anywhere. The hair, which would have been peroxide blond fifteen years before, was now a light chestnut and fell forward in a Kennedy lock. He either used a tanning salon or spent a lot of time at Margaret Morency's pool.

There was no question – it was a power room. Bachman's first stop was where the mayor of Los Angeles sat at a table for six, at least one of whom Hardy recognized as a prominent and much photographed state legislator.

As Bachman worked the room, winding his way back to the window seat, Hardy sipped his club soda. There was no smog. Los Angeles south of downtown sprawled over some warehouses, then expanded to a horizon of oil derricks, rail yards, power lines, freeways, gypsum quarries. It was a view for those who favored expanse over anything pleasant to look at – there were no bridges, islands, bodies of water, distinctive buildings, hills or green patches. Maybe Bachman didn't yet rate the better window tables, where the mayor and the congressman and whomever they ate with could glimpse the ocean, the glittering and verdant west side, the San Gabriels.

"Sorry I'm late. Jody Bachman." Bachman mouthed another greeting to someone he had missed on his first pass through the room, then – finally – sat. "I can't seem to catch up." He laughed. "It never ends. You having a drink?"

Hardy tipped the glass. "Club soda."

"Me, too. How guys have a martini or even a beer in the middle of the day…" He shook his head. "It wipes me out. I might as well take a sleeping pill. So what can I do for you?"

"I'm trying to get to the end of something myself. My client got sentenced to death on Friday."

Bachman, sipping his water, stopped it halfway to his mouth. "Jesus," he said, putting the glass down, "that's a different breed of law."

"It's not exactly boardrooms and bylaws."

"Death, huh? Witt's wife, right?"

"That's right. Jennifer."

Bachman whistled soundlessly. The waiter arrived. He wore a tuxedo and placed a glass of what looked like cranberry juice on the table. "Just the special, Klaus, for me. Whatever it is." He included Hardy.

"Sounds fine." When Klaus was gone, he said, "I'm trying to get the judge to lower it to life."

"I thought you appealed. Forever."

"Eventually," Hardy said. "If it comes to that." He didn’t intend to explain the protocol. "Jennifer says she's innocent and" – Hardy allowed a bemused grin for Bachman's benefit – "I'm still tempted to believe her. So what I've got to do is give the judge some doubt. Doesn't have to be much…"

"And you think Witt's call to me…"

"I don't know, Mr. Bachman. It's the only unturned stone at this point."

Another power broker passed the table, giving Bachman a friendly shake of the shoulder. He nodded absently, then sat back in his chair, reaching for his juice. "If this is your best bet…" He took in the view for a minute. "After we talked, I tried to check the logs last night but I couldn't get into the computer until this morning."

Hardy waited.

Bachman reached into his coat pocket and extracted two pages, stapled and folded. He opened them, handing them across to Hardy. "I went ahead and copied my original timesheet on the back – sometimes they get my writing wrong."

The first page was a section of typed summary of Bachman's billable time. On December 23, beginning at 6:10 p.m., he had billed . 20 to YBMG. Under desc./svs. was typed" Tcon w/Witt.???."

Bachman translated. "It was just a call to answer some questions. I guess I got about ten or so and Witt was one of them."

"Do you remember what his question was?"

"Not a clue. I billed it to the Group, so it must have been something to do with the offering, but it's gone. Sorry."

Hardy looked again at the bill. "But the call lasted twenty minutes? Isn't that a long time to have no memory of at all?"

For the first time Bachman showed an edge of pique – the pleasant smile faded for an instant. He pursed his lips, then drank some juice. By the time he put the glass down he had recovered. "You've got it wrong.. 20 isn't 20 minutes. In its wisdom, the firm's billing is done in tenths of an hour. Two tenths is twelve minutes." He leaned forward, confiding in Hardy. "And even one second more than six minutes counts as twelve – we round off. The call itself might easily have been less than five minutes…" His smile held no warmth now. "But I really don't remember. What more can I say?"

Hardy flipped to the original timesheet on the back. Whatever had been written after "Tcon w/Witt" – about two line worth – had been scratched out.

"I know." Bachman, seeing Hardy on that page, answered before Hardy could put the question. "And the answer is I don't know. Maybe my pen ran, maybe I just wrote an unnecessarily long description. They ask us to keep it simple. You should meet my secretary – she flays me if I get redundant or wordy."

Hardy stared at the scratching for another useless moment. He'd love to get his hands on the original, see if some expert could get something to come up. But even then, what? Whatever Bachman had originally written, it couldn't have been so incriminating that, by itself, it would help Jennifer now.

He looked up. Bachman was studying him. "You know, I'm happy to help you if I can, and I think I've been pretty forthcoming. But I have to wonder when this YBMG inquisition is going to stop. It gets old. I mean, is this what happens when you close a deal? Everybody wants a piece of it."

"I don't want a piece of it."

"Well, I know, that's not what I meant. But all these questions…"

"I've got a young woman who's got a good chance of getting executed unless I can prove somebody else killed her husband. To me, I'm sorry, but that's worth a couple of questions."

Klaus returned with lunch – an avocado stuffed with baby shrimp, three pieces of high-end lettuce, a wedge of pumpernickel bread.