John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Joanie was as bright and cheerful as Heffler had been before this had begun. "It might be. I'd assume so, wouldn't you?"

"I told her I wouldn't treat her unless she let me inform the police. She ought to get some counseling. I saw her the one time and I knew right away."

Hardy was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Helena Zamora's office. Now it was closing time. A tightly strung woman about Hardy's age, Zamora let him in but politely told him she had a dinner appointment in forty-five minutes and could spare him no more than ten. He outlined what he had learned at Dr. Heffler's and what he was trying to find.

"She came in," Dr. Zamora said, "with a large round bruise under one of her breasts an some cock-and-bull about tripping against a knob at the top of her bannister. I got suspicious, checked her sign-in form, sent for her records. Then I called her and never heard from her again."

She pulled her glasses up and balanced them on top of her forehead. "Common story, too common. Does that help you?"

Hardy said it did and thanked her.

Dr. Zamora took her glasses all the way off. "She finally killed the animal that was doing this, did she?"

"She's charged with it."

"Good for her."

From a phone booth in a gas station at 19^th and Kirkham, Hardy called Jennifer at the jail.

In San Francisco it is a myth that prisoners get one phone call. The common areas in the jail have pay telephones on the walls and whenever the inmates want to, they can use them. There had even been significant calling-card fraud that had been traced to both floors of the jail, a thriving black market in phone numbers and the "pins" that go with them.

"Jennifer. Hardy. I've got a quick question. Have you ever lived in Florida?"

There was a longish wait. "This is not a trick question, Jennifer. Have you ever lived in Florida, that's all?"

"No, why?"

"No reason. Just checking something. Talk to you later."

So this Friday afternoon he had caught Jennifer in five lies – the fall down the stairs, the arm broken while she skied, the shelf accident, the know on top of the bannister, the state with Epcot and the Everglades. Lies, yes, except four of them were, apparently, to protect her husband. Sick yes, but mitigation, at least…

Frannie was on top of him, laying long against him, moving like a calm ocean. His arms surrounded her. The covers had been kicked onto the floor at the foot of the bed. She was wearing her new earrings and Hardy took one of them into his mouth.

"Careful," she said.

"Careful yourself."

"I'm being careful."

"You're going a little too fast. This will slow you down some."

She bit into his shoulder. "I'm going to go a lot faster before I'm through."

"Promises, promises."

"Let go then. You'll see."

"I knew this girl in high school," Moses said, "Rachelle Manning. We were in math together and I thought she was okay so I asked her out to some dance or something and she said sure."

They were queued up in a long line at Candlestick Park, having already missed half an inning when the last place Padres had scored four runs off the first-place Giants, waiting to buy two beers each for a mere four bucks a cup before they closed the stand for the day after the seventh inning.

It was the conceit of Giants' management that people who had a beer after the seventh inning would more likely drive under the influence than those other puritan souls who had had two beers early in the game and then stopped.

Frannie had already designated herself the driver, and Moses had had seven so far, and now was feeling every one of them. "So listen," he continued loudly, "word gets around and guys are coming up, putting rubbers in my pockets, patting me on the back, one of the big guys, telling me they've done it with Rachelle in their cars and in her parents' bed and behind the student union and under the goddamn principal's desk on the weekend."

The guy behind them in line tapped McGuire on the shoulder. "I did it under the stands during a basketball game once. Best sex I ever had."

Hardy and Moses told him they thought that must have been great. They moved up a step. Hardy signaled maybe McGuire should tone it down.

"Anyway, I figured it had to be some kind of joke. I mean, Rachelle Manning is not a slut. She's not putting out for the football team. This is a sweet young thing – nice clothes, nice family, clean hair."

"Hair's important." Hardy moved closer to the beer vendor. The stands erupted with more noise, action on the field they were missing. "I was always a hair guy myself."

"So, I take her out, I'm a little nervous, thinking… you know what I'm thinking. We're not out of her driveway and her hand is on me, I swear to God."

"I loved high school. I could do high school again."

"Turned out to be a hell of a night. I don't think we hit the dance. If we did, I don't remember it."

They finally got their beers and starting moving back to the stands.

"It's a truly moving story, Mose, but was there a moral here I missed? I thought we were talking about Jennifer Witt."

"Of course we were talking about Jennifer Witt. You're a lawyer and she's your case, so that's what we talk about, and talk about, and talk about. But" – Moses drank a third of his beer – "and I reiterate, but there's some people – and I hate to say this but women seem better at it than men, you just can't tell anything. This is how Rachelle relates to the fascinating and mysterious Mrs. Witt. Looking at her back then, you would never have had a clue. Talking to her, you'd never know. I mean, I would have bet the horse that this girl was a stone virgin."

"Maybe she was."

Moses couldn't help grinning. "She definitely wasn't the next morning. I have it on the highest authority."

"What?" Susan said. They were back in their seats, ten rows back on the first base side. Great seats.

Moses got himself seated and didn't miss a beat. "Just talking about Jennifer Witt, about how some women lie."

Frannie had her beer and poured some into Moses' lap. "Oh, sorry, dear brother." She made a show of brushing it off. "If I'm not mistaken, men lie too."

"Okay, everybody lies at one time or another, but my point to Diz was that there are some women, and I just say women because in my own private experience I haven't run across this in that many men, who seem to embody conflicting personality traits – I mean they seem to be two completely different people, and still they walk around and act normal and you'd never know."

Frannie leaned over and spoke to Susan. "There's still time. You're not married yet. You can get out of this."

Moses had a Ph. D. in philosophy that he liked to say he'd outgrown. He had not outgrown his love of talk, however. The words flowed, and sometimes Hardy thought he even thought about them before they came out, although this didn't appear to be one of those times. "Frannie, I'm not saying you or Susan. Look at all the literature on it – The Two Faces of Eve, Sybil, all of them.

"All two of them."

"It's well-documented. You don’t have to get so riled up about it. Women just hide things better. They're taught to as kids. Let's face it, if they're liars, they're better liars. It's a compliment!"

"I think I'll cut him off here," Susan said. She lifted what was left of his last beer and held it on her lap. "I still love you but you're getting close. Jesus. Women lie better. It's a compliment?"

"Who's winning?" Hardy asked, trying to end it here, but Frannie wasn't having it.

"What about men who beat their wives, Moses? You think you can tell just by looking at them? You think that's not living some monstrous lie?"