John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"So how did you do the inventory for Terrell?"

"Well, that's why I messed it up," she said. "Nothing was gone from downstairs, they hadn't taken my jewelry. I didn't even think about the gun." She held up a hand. "I know. A big mistake."

"She might at other times not be telling the truth, Hardy thought, but this, he decided, wasn't one of them.

"Might there have been another gun?" Hardy asked.

"What other gun? Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. Maybe Matt had a gun? A toy?"

She shook her head. "No. We wouldn't let him own one. It was something Larry and I agreed on. When he was an intern he said he saw too many accidents."

"So no gun?"

"No gun. Why do you ask that?"

"Trick question. The dog that barked in the nighttime."

This time she sighed. "This can make a girl tired, Mr. Hardy."

"Just one more, a straight one. Okay?"

She nodded.

"Crane amp; Crane?"

Her face skewed up. "I don't know. Chess and checkers? Is this a quiz or something?"

"It's a law firm. Have you ever heard of it?"

"Why?"

"You tell me first."

She shook her head again. "It's not familiar, no. Now why?"

Hardy was putting his notes away. "Larry might have called them about something."

Jennifer gave it another minute. The female guards came back to their station. They passed a bag of Fritos back and forth.

"I don't know what it could be," Jennifer said. "Just some more nothing."

Hardy was feeling better about his office – the dart board was in place, moved in and nailed up over the weekend. It was early afternoon and he was getting back into the groove, throwing some "20 Down," trying to hit all the numbers on the board in descending order, ending with a bull's-eye. In his glory days Hardy had often done it in under ten rounds – thirty darts – and his all-time record was twenty-four. Now he'd already thrown eight rounds and was hung up on "11," which was normally his easiest shot, his "in and out" number in a wide range of money games.

Freeman entered without knocking. Hardy missed again.

"This is not billable," Freeman said.

"I'm thinking," Hardy replied. "Thinking counts."

The older man closed the door, then walked over and sat on a corner of Hardy's desk. "I'm thinking, too. I'm thinking that we get a trial in two months so Dean Powell can get free ink in time to get elected, and I can't object because my client wont' let me."

Hardy pegged another dart, finally hitting the "11." He held a last dart and threw it randomly – or thought it was random until it smacked into the middle of the "10." He was getting it back.

"And then," Freeman was continuing, "I come in to check on the progress made by my hand-chosen ace investigator and he is throwing darts. Am I the only one that feels some pressure here? I think that's a fair question. Two months for a capital case. It's unheard of."

It's been five months since the original arraignment."

"So what? Who knew she was going to get found in Costa Rica? Does Thomasino think we were preparing for trial all that time? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"As always, I'm on the side of justice and truth, but it's not going to trial in two months. It's just beginning jury selection."

Freeman, of course, knew this, but Jennifer's trial was going to begin more quickly than he wanted it to and there wasn't anything he could do about it. Hands jammed into his pockets, he stood near the window and studied buildings across the street. "I need a lever. Christ, Diz, I need something."

"Just this morning didn't I hear you tell some reporters that this thing was such a turkey it wouldn't even make it to trial?"

"You could write a book on what I've told reporters. You'd be surprised."

"I doubt it."

"I've had it work. Some rookie Assistant DA reads in the papers that I've got this blockbuster secret evidence that'll blow the trial wide open and next day I'm down at the Hall pleading a manslaughter on what should have been a righteous Murder Two. But in this case…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "In this case, we've got Jennifer and Jennifer's weapon and Jennifer's presumed motives. We're very much going to need somebody else to point at."

"The famous other dude." Hardy came around his desk and flipped through some pages of his yellow pad. "That's all I've been doing, David. The problem is, there hasn't been what you'd call a run on them. In the meantime, maybe it'll ease your mind to know I'm not just shooting darts to pass the time. I have an appointment on another matter. Actually the appointment was for about fifteen minutes ago, but Mr. Frankl is late."

At the window, Freeman half-turned. "Who's Frankl?"

"My DUI. Wants to go to trial."

"The guy with the 1.6?" In California, a blood alcohol level of. 08 got you convicted for drunk driving. If that fact was undisputed you were guilty.

Hardy nodded. "He says he's thought up a defense."

"To a DUI? I'd like to hear it. It could make us rich."

The telephone buzzed on Hardy's desk. "That's him now. I'll keep you informed."

Freeman was at the door, going out, when Hardy picked it up. But it wasn't Mr. Frankl. It was Sam Bronkman from the Mission Hills Clinic and he had just remembered something personal regarding Larry Witt that Hardy might be interested in.

Late in the day Hardy parked in the long shadow of the Mission Hills Clinic. The evening breeze whipped at his jacket as he got out of his car and prepared to cross the picket lines again. Same people, same building, same wind.

There was no one in the darkened waiting room at OB-GYN, and the blinds behind the window at the reception area had been pulled. Hardy felt all his muscles go tight, almost turned to walk out, then made himself knock on the glass. He was here. Might as well make sure.

There was a slit in the blinds and they blinked open. Sam smiled, waved, pointed at the door to the inner offices and closed the blinds down again. Hardy crossed the room.

The door cracked and Sam's head appeared, a turtle poking out of its shell. Grabbing Hardy's arm, he pulled him through. "All clear," he said. "You wouldn't believe. We close at four-thirty. People come here at five, expect to waltz right in. Keep the desk open and you're here all night."

Sam, chattering, led the way to an employee's lounge – plastic yellow chairs, white metal tables, vending machines, a microwave. It was an inside room with no windows, and it was empty. They sat at one of the tables.

"I should have remembered when you were here last time, especially when you mentioned the personal stuff, but" – Sam snapped his fingers in the air – "the brain, sometimes it goes on hold. One minute you're there, the next" – the hands described a mushroom cloud – "woosh, nobody home."

"That's all right, Sam. I really appreciate you calling, whenever you remembered, and you did remember something?"

Sam nodded elaborately. "Over the weekend. Did you read that article about that senator who wouldn't let his daughter have the abortion? Well, anyway… I was at Jason's – he's my friend, Jason – and I was reading it and suddenly, it was like, I don't know, a vision or something, just" – again the hands fluttered – "whammo, there it was."

Hardy smiled. "There what was, Sam?"

"Dr. Witt. The same thing."

"Dr. Witt had a daughter?"

"No. No way." Sam reached over and slapped Hardy's arm. "No, listen, the personal thing, the connection, is this – there was this girl, Melissa Roman, whose parents told her she couldn't have an abortion, forbade it, you know." He rolled his eyes. "Smart, right? These people, I'll never understand…" A deep sigh. "Anyway, she tried one on herself – an abortion – and it didn't turn out so good."