John Lescroart: The 13th Juror

Bachman pushed the lettuce around. "That's understandable," he said. "But what does Dr. Witt's phone call to me have to do with his death? You're not suggesting that somebody with YBMG killed him, are you?"

"I didn't know. It was a question that wasn't answered. I knew that Witt had called you, and his lawyer in San Francisco told me he was upset about the circular. I wondered if he threatened you somehow-"

"And then I killed him? For what? You just can't be serious."

"Hypothetically, if you're interested, I can explain it." The shrimp, all two ounces of them, were sweet.

Hardy thought it would be instructive to watch Bachman's reaction. He ran it all down to him – from the phone call to Simpson Crane to Restoffer being called off.

When he had fininshed, Bachman nodded, his smile a distant memory. "A lot of lawyers are writing novels these days, Mr. Hardy. Maybe you ought to try your hand at it."

Hardy spread his palms. "This is non-fiction."

"Yes, and so is the fact that nobody is hiding anything here. Everything is completely out in the open."

"Simpson Crane let you trade out your hours for stock?"

This stopped him, momentarily. "Sure."

"Your firm does that often? Takes that kind of risk?"

This had moved nicely from the hypothetical. Bachman rubbed a hand over his upper lip. Maybe he was starting to sweat. "Hey, in these times you take whatever business you can get. It's a buyer's market out there."

"And Simpson had no problem with that?"

Thinking fast, Bachman said, "Of course not. Simpson and I were friends. I wouldn't have done anything to hurt Simpson." Hardy realized he had never directly accused him of that. "We talked about it, of course. At length. We figured there was a more than reasonable chance of downstream recovery. Which, I might add, has materialized. The firm has made two million dollars on my time. It took a risk, sure, but I'd say it was worth it. Wouldn't you?"

Bachman's hand seemed unsteady as he picked up his water glass.

Hardy nodded. "What about the other five million?"

He stopped the glass midway to his mouth, then drank, nearly slamming it back down. "There is no other five million."

Finally, Hardy felt he had forced Bachman into an outright lie. Time to call him on it. "Clarence Stone said the Group paid you fifty thousand shareds. That's seven million dollars. If two went to your firm, where's the other five?"

Bachman swallowed. "That was a personal bonus," he said.

"You just said there wasn't any other five million."

"I mean for the firm. To the firm."

"So there is another five million?"

"How was everything? Are you gentlemen finished?" It was Klaus. "Perhaps a little dessert? Some cappacino, espresso? We've got a marvelous tiramisu."

Bachman had pushed himself back from the table. "Nothing," he said. It was a dismissal. Klaus did not even look at Hardy.

The interruption had given Bachman enough time. He had not gotten to where he was by giving in to panic. This was another hurdle, an obstacle to overcome. "Yes, I made a bundle," he said. "And the last time I looked, that was not a crime."

Hardy leaned forward, trying to regain his momentum. "Witt threatened to call all the other doctors, didn't he? He would've blown the deal."

Bachman's smile returned. "If you're going to be making those kinds of accusations, Mr. Hardy, you'd better have some proof. There are libel and slander laws in this state that could make you a poor man in a heartbeat. You should know that."

"Who did you hire?"

Bachman shook his head, not amused. "I didn't, Mr. Hardy. But if I did, would I be so foolish as to leave a trail? Do you think I might have written the person a check? Now, if you'll excuse me" – he pushed his chair back, standing – "I've got a one o'clock I'm running late for." He nodded one last time, caught Klaus' eye and told him to put lunch on his bill.

Whatever he found out or thought he had uncovered in Los Angeles, the unpalatable truth remained that he still couldn't prove a goddamned word of it. In the plane he scribbled notes on courses of action he ought to take – he would call the FBI and try to have them pursue their RICO investigation into Simpson's death. He thought it might be possible to trace a withdrawal of funds from one of Bachman's accounts if he could get some federal agent interested in his theory.

A big if.

Another possible avenue was getting through to Todd Crane, Simpson's son, now the managing partner. Maybe he'd be interested to learn that Jody Bachman had turned over to them only fifteen thousand or so of the fifty thousand shares he had earned.

Or did Todd already know it? Maybe he was plain thrilled and delighted with two million against seventy-five thousand in billables. It was, Hardy realized, only his personal fantasy – unverifiable, as fantasies tended to be – that Bachman would have traded all of his fifty thousand shares against his time. Who said he would have to do that?

If those two approaches failed, maybe Restoffer…? No, not realistic – Restoffer was out of it.

It was down to Judge Villars, sitting as the thirteenth juror – down to what he could make her believe.

His own theories didn't matter. He couldn't prove them. They weren't going to do Jennifer any good. He had to go another way. He had to be lawyer and make an argument out of whole cloth if need be, even if he hated what he had to do.

But – to be fair – it wasn't whole cloth. At least he'd be starting with one truth, the one that had been denied throughout and yet had remained constant – Jennifer had been battered.

Overriding Jennifer's objections – he wouldn't even ask her again – he was going to lay it out for Villars – Jennifer's intractability, the Freeman affidavit, the defense decisions.

The irony did not escape him. He could not use anything he knew about Jody Bachman and YBMG. And what he could introduce probably had no direct bearing on what had happened in the Witt's bedroom on December 28.

The plane nosed down over the Bay. It was almost four o'clock and he was to face Villars tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.

He was down to his last dart.

"Of course, I'll do anything."

Dr. Lightner sat framed by the glass in his office. His secretary had gone home. The eucalyptus grove behind him was dark, in shadow.

"Good. I want you to tell the judge about Larry beating her."

Lightner sat forward, ramrod stiff at the proposal.

Hardy leaned forward, almost pleading now. "I know what I'm asking, Doctor, but it's really Jennifer's only hope. You've stood by her so long in all this."

But standing by someone and revealing their privileged communications were very different matters.

After a couple of seconds Lightner stood up. He turned his back to Hardy and looked out into the grove. "I can't believe it's come to this."

Hardy came up next to him. "After Larry died, when you were seeing her, she never…?"

Lightner was already shaking his head. "She wouldn't talk about it."

He felt a sudden sinking in his gut, a vertigo. For an instant he thought it was the flu again. Unbidden, the awful thought reoccurred – had she done it after all? Stop it.

Lightner walked back to the window, put an arm against the door jamb, looking out. "This is priest and confession, isn't it?"

Hardy couldn't put a lighter face on it. "Yes, it is."

"Betray the privilege. Betray her trust."

"Save her life."

Lightner turned and faced Hardy, the ruddy face pale and drawn under the beard. "What about the doctors I gave you? Couldn't they help?"

"What are they going to say? Where is there proof?" At this stage statements about her bruises and abrasions weren't enough. He needed her therapist's confirmation.