John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"Now, Dr. Lightner, Jennifer has never admitted to you that she shot Larry or Matt. Correct?"

"Yes. Correct."

"Nevertheless, based on your training and experience, and sitting through this trial, have you formed an opinion as to Mrs. Witt's state of mind at the time of the killing?"

"Yes, I have."

"Incidentally, Doctor, all the information that you have received about this case has come from either Mrs. Witt or from this trial."

"That is correct."

"No one has provided you with any police reports, photographs or information out of court?"

"That's true."

"Tell us then, Doctor, your professional opinion as to Mrs. Witt's state of mind."

"Basically, she was in a panicked state due to battered-wife syndrome. Her husband had beaten her repeatedly. They had just argued. He was running upstairs after her. She was in terror…"

Hardy picked up the pace, keeping the rhythm, setting the stage, bringing Lightner along with him. Larry was running upstairs…

"And what did she do then, Doctor?"

Turning, Matt with the toy gun – the new Christmas present – in the bathroom door…

"And then?"

Matt. Larry's screaming rush toward her. The single shot at point-blank range…

The courtroom was silent. Perhaps ten seconds elapsed without a sound.

"Now, of course, Dr. Lightner, as you've told us, Mrs. Witt categorically and consistently denies any part in these killings. So this is your own reconstruction of events?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"Entirely?"

"Yes, of course."

Hardy let it go until it had sunk in, then stepped closer to the witness box. "Dr. Lightner," he said, "how do you know about the toy gun Matt was holding?"

The silence grew. Lightner, telling his story, had gotten caught up in the emotion of it. Now, drained, he slumped slightly. Finally, he spoke. "I beg your pardon?"

Hardy repeated the question. How did he know about the toy gun?

Lightner blinked. "I'm not sure."

"But this situation you've just described to us. Jennifer didn't describe it that way to you, did she?"

Powell stood up. "Your Honor…"

Villars did not hesitate. "Overruled. I'd like the doctor to answer."

"I must have seen it in the photographs, then. The ones at the trial here."

"Jennifer didn't tell you about it? She told me Matt didn't have any guns. Wasn't allowed to have them."

Powell stood again. Villars shook her head.

"No, that's right. She must not have. It must have been the photographs."

Hardy, nodding, walked back to his table and picked up the thick envelope containing all the forensic and murder-scene shots. "I'd like you to go through these photographs and point out this toy gun if you can find it."

Lightner took the envelope and began slowly turning the pages. Standing over him, Hardy waited. Villars was a sphinx. Halfway through, Lightner suddenly looked up. "But that was just a story. There might not have been a gun. That's just what I thought had happened. It's informed conjecture."

Hardy again walked to the desk. He reached down into his briefcase and removed a zip-loc plastic evidence bag. Back at the witness box, he opened it and removed Terrell's "mistake" – the realistic toy gun that had been found in the same dumpster as the murder weapon. "This is the gun, is it not, doctor? This is the gun Matt was holding, is it not? The gun that you thought was real. The gun that provoked you to shoot him-"

"God!" Hardy heard Jennifer behind him. "Ken?"

Hardy did not trust himself to move but he could still talk. "This was the FedEx package – a Christmas present from Nancy, Matt's grandmother. How did you know, in your story, that it was a Christmas present? It didn't get to the house until 9:30, after Jennifer had left to go running. You had removed it with the murder weapon by the time she got back. Jennifer never knew it had been there. Did she?"

Lightner shifted on the seat, eyes on Hardy, then around the courtroom, as though looking for help. Finally turning to Villars. "I don't have to answer this, do I? I can take the Fifth Amendment," he told Villars. "I'm not saying anything else without an attorney."

It was his only chance, his last chance.

She had called as she increasingly did when they had been fighting. Larry was beating her.

Why wouldn't she leave him? It wouldn't get any better. All the literature, and the facts, agreed on that. He had told her. And still she wouldn't leave him. She believed she had to keep trying.

So he'd listened. And counseled her. And, yes, made love to her.

He lied to Hardy and the court about that, but he'd told the truth to Hardy about his caring for her. Caring? That was putting it mildly. Yes, she loved him, more than transference, he told himself. But she had her family. She just wasn't leaving them. Which meant he could never really have her. The call on Christmas Eve wasn't that she had decided to leave. It was another fight, another beating, another call for help. He had responded, as he always did, and then she went back for more.

And now, again, here Monday morning. Another call, more terrible damage. It had to stop. It was his only chance, her only chance. He could save her and… have her… he would do anything for her. Anything…

Olympia Way. Her beautiful house. The street empty, dead, silent under a cold brittle morning sun. It took him ten minutes, perhaps less. Jennifer was going jogging. There was enough time. She'd be gone…

No one on the street.

He had been here. Three times in the afternoons, Matt and Larry gone, Jennifer meeting him. He knew his way around there. He knew where the gun was. Not that he was really planning on using it. Was he? No. It would never come to that. He would talk to the husband, tell him what he had done, what he was doing, to Jennifer. Now that he was here, it seemed "What is it?"

"Dr. Witt? We've got to talk. May I come in, please? It's about your wife."

The guilty eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?"

"Her psychiatrist." Looking around, scanning the deserted street. "You know what it is, it confidential."

No other sounds. They were alone in the house, the two of them.

"All right, just what is this about?"

"She needs me, Dr. Witt. She called. Is she upstairs?"

"She doesn't need you. What do you mean, she called? When? What are you talking about?

"She told me she would be here. You were hitting her again. I'm taking her out-"

"You're not taking anything. She's not here."

"If I leave I'm calling the police. I'm calling them immediately."

"What the hell… what do you want?"

"I want to see Jennifer. I want her out of here. She's my patient. You should understand that, Doctor."

"She's not here. I told you she's not here."

"I need to see that for myself. I swear to God, I'm calling the police directly. I cannot let here stay here like this-"

"You want some proof? You need the goddamn grand tour." Less confident now, he thought.

Upstairs, at last, in the bedroom.

"There, satisfied? I told you, she's out. Now you get the hell out of my house!"

The gun right where she said he kept it – in the headboard. "I don't think so." He didn't need to think about it. Events were taking over.

"What are you doing with that? Goddamnit…"

Coming toward him, the noise, the other sound… maybe there all along, subliminal… water running into a sink? He hadn't even heard it. No. The noise stopped. That was it. It was the noise stopping. Somebody was in there.

"Don't move." To Witt, stopping him. The blood rushing now.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Who's in there?"

Witt yelling over his shoulder. "Matt, stay in there!" Half-turning, trying to fake him – "Don't come out!" – just as the other gun appeared… a blur really… in the bathroom doorway. Somebody shooting at him! But no one there. Nothing now but panic. A shadow. Things moving too fast.