John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

She and Larry had agreed that they didn't want Phil and Nancy to be Matt's guardians. So Larry had asked one of his cousins – Laurie something who lived down in Orange County – if she'd take the responsibility if it ever came down to that.

But all that notwithstanding, Jennifer's family – as closest next of kin – in fact would have inherited if Jennifer had been killed along with Larry and Matt.

Still, after all that, and though he'd be happy if it turned out that Tom or Phil or even the Romans had had a hand in Larry Witt's murder, Hardy didn't really believe any of them had. He was reaching.

After his day with her physicians, his gut told him that Jennifer was probably guilty of what she'd been charged with. He'd just about come around to believing, as Freeman did, that she had killed first-husband Ned and second-husband Larry to stop them from beating her. And somehow, tragically, by mistake, Matt had gotten in the way.

Frannie put her hand up against the Plexiglas and Jennifer did the same. They stared at one another for a long moment. Frannie hadn't really planned to visit Jennifer again. She'd left the kids with Erin, intended to go shopping.

Maybe it had been the scene with Jennifer's father and brother, maybe she just wanted reassurance that they weren't really so dangerous. Maybe she felt a little guilty, starting something with Jennifer she wasn't prepared to follow through on. She wasn't sure – it was complicated, but the fact was that she was here now.

Jennifer broke the silence. "You don't look so good. Are you all right?"

Slowly at first, then gradually building into a torrent of words, surprising herself, Frannie told about her fight with her brother Moses, the trouble with Dismas that seemed to be getting a life of its own, her guilt over leaving her children – again – with Erin Cochran, Rebecca's grandmother. Only at the end did she get to Phil and Tom DiStephano and their threat last night.

"My father and brother came to your house? Why did they do that?"

"I think to beat up Dismas. Maybe just threaten him. They were pretty drunk, I think. But it scared me to death."

Jennifer's eyes went to the hands pressed together on either side of the glass. "Those idiots. It never ends." She let out a long breath. What were they threatening him about?"

"Something about molesting your mother. Dismas told me he'd gone and seen her-"

"I know. And my father had beaten her up. He told me that, too."

Silence.

Frannie was scared. She'd been frightened all morning, jumping at little noises, when the telephone rang, imagining the rooms and their house violated, the door broken down, the windows shattered. Angry, or embarrassed, or both, she'd had no heart to discuss it with Dismas before he'd gone out.

"I just talked to him again, you know. Your husband. He wanted to know if… he wanted to know some things about my parents. He didn't mention anything about last night."

"Was he here?"

Jennifer shook her head. "He called me on the phone. It's a hassle getting up here anyway and he just had a couple of questions. No, you and he are… separate." She paused. "Men are separate. That's just the way it is. I tell them what they need to know. They ask me questions and I answer them."

"So what about your father? What do you think he's going to do?"

"I don't know. Against another man? I don't know. Or my brother either."

"Do you think they'd hurt our kids? If they touched…" Frannie stopped, unable to say it.

"You'd kill them?"

Frannie nodded, startled by the sudden realization that she would kill to protect her children. "Is that what happened?" she asked. "Larry started hitting Matt?"

For a moment, she thought Jennifer was just going to nod and say "yes." But there was a withdrawal, something in her posture, her eyes. Her hand came away from the Plexiglas.

"I wouldn't worry," she said finally. "I think it's okay. My father won't do anything. Besides, men only hit when they think you won't hit back." Jennifer sat forward, legs crossed. "I'd kill for a cigarette," she said. And added, "One time Ned, my first husband, decided this dentist was coming on to me and he went over, pounded his chest a couple of times – or at least he said he did – then came back and beat me up." Her face broke into a sad, almost wistful smile. "Same as always."

"What did you do?" Frannie was leaning forward, her hand alone pressed to the glass. "How could you let that go on?"

Jennifer sighed again, crossing her arms and staring into the middle distance above them.

"I'm listening," Frannie said.

Jennifer's hand moved to the Plexiglas. Her face seemed to harden with the memory, whatever it was. She was whispering, intent, eyes on Frannie's. "You don't want to know."

Hardy had mentioned it more or less casually – an annoyance more than anything else – but Abe Glitsky did not like the fact that Phil and Tom DiStephano had gone proactive on his best friend. It wasn't so much the threat itself – after all, nothing had really happened, no serious crime had taken place. Glitsky's view that all but the most heinous acts went uninvestigated and unpunished in San Francisco did not mean, however, that uncivilized behavior was okay by him. His days as a beat cop were not so far behind him that he didn't remember the force a policeman could bring to bear on an individual who needed a lesson in etiquette or control.

Phil DiStephano was a plumber who worked out of a medium-sized shop near the Kezar Pavilion. The dispatcher told Glitsky that Phil and two of the other guys were out to lunch and ought to be back within fifteen minutes, so he decided to wait.

It wasn't that long. Glitsky stood up, the scar through his lips stretching into a white line as he found himself enduring the half-hostile stares of the three rednecks. Half-Caucasian, sometimes he found himself hating white people more than he ever hated all but the most repugnant of blacks. He thought it was probably a flaw in his character. He'd work on it someday, he really would.

The dispatcher said something and the biggest of the three men turned around. He spoke in mannered polite tones, ostensibly cooperative. "I'm Phil DiStephano, is there a problem?"

Glitsky had flashed his badge earlier and no doubt the dispatcher had passed along the information that this casually dressed strapping black man was the law. The other two plumbers flanked Phil but seemed to be waiting for an excuse now to go to the back room or their truck or wherever it was they went while they waited to fix drains and unplug sewer lines. He took out his badge again. "If you could spare a couple of minutes."

He motioned outside – a jog of his head. Opening the door, he didn’t look back, but went halfway across the sidewalk and turned, arranging it so that the sun was behind him. When he turned, Phil had followed him and stood off a few steps, squinting, beginning to sweat.

Glitsky let him.

He took it for about ten seconds, which seemed like a very long time. "We got a problem here, Officer? I've go some calls I've got to-"

"Dismas Hardy." Glitsky wanted it so quiet that Phil would have to listen carefully.

"What's that?"

Glitsky repeated it. "Your daughter's attorney? Guy you visited last night?"

Phil put up a hand. "Hey, now you wait a minute. Hardy came by my house. I don't know what he's telling you but he's the one…"

Phil went on a while longer, the sweat now shining across his forehead. When he wound down, Glitsky asked him if he was all finished.

"I don't know if I am." Phil seemed heartened by Glitsky's tolerance, his quiet patience – arms folded, hearing him out. "I'm thinking maybe I should call in some report on him, you know. He's gonna keep up this kind of harassment-"