John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"I'm harassing you?"

"No! No, I didn't mean that. I meant him coming to my place, bothering my wife."

It had gone on long enough. Glitsky thought that another of his flaws was that he hadn't sufficiently enjoyed burning up ants under a magnifying glass when he was a kid. He nodded his head, as though he'd taken in all of Phil's information, considered it carefully. "Hardy didn't bother your wife."

"Sure he did. He was there and-"

"Andi if I hear that you've threatened him again, you're going to find life in this town very hard. You're going to get speeding tickets. You're going to get towed whenever you park."

Phil was moving into Righteous Indignation, Act I. "Are you threatening me?"

"It's entirely possible you could even lose your job. Bosses don't like employees who have the cops down on them. It's bad for business."

"I don't have to listen to this. What's your name again? You can't do this."

Glitsky's scar shone bright through a cold smile. "I'll bet I can." He lowered his voice. "The name is Inspector Sergeant Abraham Glitsky – you need me to spell it? I'll give you my badge number if you want."

Phil stood there, the sweat running down his face. Glitsky moved a step closer. "Hardy's a friend of mine. I'd make him a friend of yours, too. In fact, I'd say it's in your best interest to see that nothing bad happens to him – because if it does, I might be tempted to think you were part of it, and that would be unfortunate for you."

He turned and left Phil sweating in the sun. Getting into his car, he heard and ignored the explosion of obscenity. He had expected it and it rolled off. He had delivered his message, put out the word. It was what he'd come down for.

By Friday, in spite of her assurances to the contrary, Donna Bellows had not called back with news of any connection between Crane amp; Crane and Larry Witt. Freeman was chomping for any crumbs he might use at trial, so Hardy, covering the bases, thought that he'd call down to LA again, though he entertained little hope that there was even a tangential link between Simpson Crane's murder in Los Angeles and Larry Witt's in San Francisco.

On reflection, the whole thing was so tenuous that he didn't want to pursue it at all. Which was why he had hoped that Donna Bellows would have called him back – so he wouldn't have to chase this phantom himself. Nevertheless, he was doing his job, following leads that so far led nowhere. Freeman wanted them all to juggle, see how much he could keep in the air – as he'd often done in the past – sufficiently dazzle the jury with his legerdemain so they wouldn't notice it was being done with mirrors.

Look this way, now look at this. What about this? Whoa! There's a neat trick. Anything to distract, to draw attention away from the evidence they both thought had a good chance of damning their client.

Hardy's feet were on his desk. The door out to his hallway was open and so was the window over Sutter Street behind him. Faintly, he smelled the Bay. The cross-ventilation felt good in the room. The phone down in Los Angeles was ringing and he picked up a quick dart and tossed it across at his board – it landed in the "1", a quarter-inch from "20."

He spoke to a monotonic receptionist, who put him on hold. Waiting, he threw another dart, this time hit the "20," and was talking to an extremely formal secretary.

"Mr. Crane is in a meeting right now. May I help you?"

Hardy tended to respect secretaries – even formal ones like Phyllis – but he had a hard time with the Secretary-as-Keeper-of-the-Gate school. He thought that in the long run, for important issues, it wasted far more time than it saved. Principals ought to talk to principals.

He was polite. "If Mr. Crane is in, I'll be glad to hold. It's a matter of some urgency regarding a murder trial."

There was a sigh, another long hold, then a weary man's voice. "Todd Crane."

Hardy raised his victory fist in the air, introducing himself, expressing his condolences. But Crane kept it to the point. "Maxine said this was about a murder trial. How can I help you?"

Hardy explained about the post-it he'd found under Larry Witt's blotter with Crane amp; Crane's number written on it, the word "No" underlined and circled several times.

"I'm afraid I don’t… What was this victim's name again?"

"Larry Witt. Dr. Larry Witt."

"Sorry. I'm drawing a blank on that."

Hardy took a shot. "How about the Yerba Buena Medical Group?

YBMG?"

"Okay, Was Witt with them? We handle their business development. That's Jody Bachman." He spelled it for Hardy. "You want me to connect you?"

The telephone – presumably in Jody Bachman's office – rang ten times before Bachman's voice mail picked it up. Thinking here we go again, Hardy left his name and number and a brief description of what he wanted.

He got up, threw the last dart on his desk and hit the "5" on the other side of "20," then turned around and looked down out the window onto Sutter Street. In spite of Bachman not being in, he found himself somewhat encouraged.

There was, finally, a link between Larry Witt and Crane amp; Crane. Sure, he knew that there would have had to be since the Post-it had had Crane's number on it, but the relationship had proved elusive to establish. And now he'd done that. Like the cross-ventilation, it felt good. Finding out facts felt good.

Of course, what those facts supported – what they even meant – was another issue altogether, and since it was Friday afternoon, Hardy didn't feel much in the mood to pursue that line. Facts related to the "other dudes" line of defense seemed to lead to a fork in the road to the truth that led to a dead end.

He had uncovered a fact. But did it lead anywhere?

The police in Los Angeles thought, although they couldn't prove it, that a hit man had murdered Simpson Crane and his wife. Simpson's firm – one of the partners anyway – handled the business development of the medical group that Larry Witt belonged to. Even a genius like David was going to have a difficult time establishing any provable causality between those two bits of data.

At least Hardy felt like he'd done his job. Bachman would call him back about details before they really got into the trial, which probably wouldn't be for another month or so. Glitsky had consented, reluctantly, to see what he could find out about the Romans on the day of Larry's murder. Over the next weeks he might see Nancy DiStephano again and try to get a line on where Phil and Tom had been on the Monday after Christmas.

So Hardy had "other dudes" by the carload. For the time being, his job would be to assist David Freeman, research legal issues that might come up, prepare for his own phase of the trial, the penalty phase, if Jennifer got convicted.

He was going to see what David Freeman could do with his brains, his showmanship, his fabled, much ballyhooed je ne sais quoi.

On Monday, July 29, Oscar Thomasino had slammed down his gavel and sent the case of The People of The State of California v. Jennifer Lee Witt to Department 25, the courtroom of Judge Joan Villars. That formality was quickly followed by a flurry of motions made and denied. Jury selection would begin as scheduled on August 23.

David Freeman had immediately filed his pro forma Penal Code 995 motion for dismissal, arguing that there was insufficient evidence to proceed and, as expected, Judge Villars had thrown that out. If a grand jury had found sufficient evidence to indict on three counts of murder, it was an unusually brave or foolish judge who would cast aside their decision.

Jennifer's hair had grown out, her bruises had disappeared. When she appeared in the courtroom for the first time flanked by two bailiffs, a buzz went up in the gallery. The defendant looked like a movie star.