John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

His motive for killing Larry, he said, was that he loved Jennifer. As it turned out, his motive for the confession was that he had decided he loved Jennifer from her picture. It was a spiritual connection he was sure they had, and if he confessed she would of course want to meet him, after which they would fall in love, get married, have more babies to make up for Matt. It was a no-lose plan, because eventually they would find out he, Marko, hadn't really done it, and then he'd be free and they could live happily ever after together.

"I don't think he thought the whole thing through." Hardy was talking to Freeman. The storm had passed and there were pink clouds in an early morning gray sky over the Oakland Hills across the Bay. They were by the door to Hardy's car, standing in a deserted Bryant Street outside the Hall of Justice after the decision had been reached that they weren't going to be charging Marko with Larry Witt's murder.

"It staggers me that it took them five hours to come to it," Freeman said. "The boy's got the IQ of a turnip. Of course, then again, some of the inspectors…"

"He did know a lot of details, David. They had to let him cross himself up."

"Rats in mazes know details. That doesn't make them smart. They should have just asked him when his visa runs out."

"Why would they ask them that?"

"You check. Dollars to donuts his visa runs out in the next month or so. He figured he'd get arrested, get to stay longer over here."

"In jail? On a murder charge?"

Freeman shrugged. "You ever been to Syria, Diz?"

Hardy let it go. Freeman might be right. "I saw you tonight on the tube, by the way. I don't think Dean's going to be too pleased."

Freeman waved it off. "It's good press. I'm doing him a favor."

There was a silence between them, a residual tension that banter wasn't going to camouflage.

Hardy pulled open the door to his car and, in the predawn light, asked if he could drop Freeman at his apartment. He'd taken a cab down. The old attorney said no, he'd walk.

"This time of day through this neighborhood? Come on, David, get in."

Freeman slammed his hand on the roof of the car. "Take off, Diz, I'll see you tomorrow."

"David…"

Freeman spread his hands theatrically. "We've been working together long enough, you ought to know by now. I'm bullet-proof."

At sunrise Hardy was still in his car, waiting on Olympia Way as though he were at a stakeout. If the jogger came by again he was going to get a few words with her if he had to sprint alongside her for six blocks breathing Mace.

She did not appear.

Freeman was wrong. Powell did not take it as a favor.

They were in Judge Villars' chambers again. It was 9:40 on Monday morning and the jury was in the courtroom, waiting. Adrienne, the court reporter, was perched with her portable equipment next to one of the easy chairs, but she was the only one sitting. Her presence was necessary, as no meeting was ever off the record.

Freeman, Hardy, Powell, his young assistant, Justin Morehouse, and Villars were taking up most of the rest of the space in the room. Or maybe it just felt that way. Everyone stood in a knot, too close, an invisible bubble surrounding them, the pressure building within it.

"I've never been more serious, Your Honor." Freeman looked especially wan in a ten-year-old brown suit. "I've given this a lot of thought over the weekend, since your generous granting of my 1118-"

"There was nothing generous about that. Don't put a personal spin on this…"

"The fact remains. I'm convinced this would not be a capital trial if Dean here weren't running for AG."

"Your Honor." Powell wore his substantial self-control on his sleeve, but it was wearing thin. "Mr. Freeman knows full well that we've still got two sets of specials on both remaining counts. This is a death-penalty case."

"It's politically tainted and you know it, Dean."

"There's nothing political about it."

Freeman turned to Villars. "Let him prove that, Your Honor, if he can. Continue this trial until after the election. See how hot our dedicated prosecutor is to fry Jennifer Witt then."

"Your Honor, I resent defense counsel's implication-"

"I'm not implying anything, Your Honor. We've got grounds to appeal right now, and I think we're skating mighty close to another due process violation. I might have to ask for a mistrial after all."

Freeman, though he said the magic word, did not win a hundred dollars. Instead, Villars raised herself up and pointed a finger at him. "On Friday you said you didn't want a mistrial, Mr. Freeman. I am not going to let you take opposite sides of the same issue."

Powell, his temper beginning to show, cracked his knuckles and ran his fingers through his hair. "If he wanted to calendar the case after the election, he could have requested it anytime. Now we have a jury impaneled, we have witnesses who've rearranged their schedules to be here. To continue the trial at this point-"

Villars moved a step toward them both, the color high on her normally gray cheeks. She spoke quietly but her voice had the crack of authority. "All right, now, both of you, listen up. Unless Mr. Freeman requests it right now we're not having a mistrial, we're not having a continuance. I'm going to give some instructions to the jury this morning and then we're going to proceed in an orderly fashion until we get to a verdict." She reached to button her robe, then stopped. "And one more thing – I don't want to see this case on television, or read about it in the newspapers over the next few weeks. Consider this a gag order. My clerk will have a written order by the recess. I trust we're clear on this."

"Ladies and gentlemen."

The judge was still angry – furious at Powell for what she considered the sloppiness of the first half of the case, and at Freeman for at least a half dozen reasons – blurring the mistrial issue, threatening to appeal, attacking Powell personally, going public with his accusations, dressing like a bag man in her courtroom. Hardy wondered if her anger was as obvious to the jury and to the standing-room crowd in the gallery, who had no doubt showed up in response to Freeman's appearance on television followed by the front-page story in yesterday's Chronicle.

Jennifer Witt had become big news again.

Though Villars had more reasons to want to flay Freeman, she appeared to be equally hostile to both sides, and this – Freeman felt – would ultimately help him. Of course, Freeman was of the opinion, Hardy reflected, that a mass murder in the courtroom would ultimately help the defense. His credo was that any disturbance in the steady accretion of incriminating evidence helped the defense. It was why he acted so disruptively.

But in spite of the huge crowd, Villars might as well have been alone with the twelve jurors in a small room. She did not so much as glance in the direction of the gallery, of the attorneys' tables. In a conversational, almost intimate tone, she was giving instructions intended to keep her trial from becoming a reversal – the nightmare of every judge and doubtless the root of her most immediate anger.

"I won't try to deny that this trial has taken an irregular turn. It is highly unusual to dismiss one charge in the middle of the People's case and I won't insult you by pretending it is not. Some of you may feel a little strange that we are going on at all, and I want to address that issue now.

"Mrs. Witt had been charged with three separate counts of murder. On Friday, you will recall, I ruled that there was to sufficient evidence that Jennifer Witt killed her first husband, Ned Hollis."

"However, I want you to understand that this should not in any way prejudice your feelings about the People's case on the remaining two charges on the one hand, or Mrs. Witt's defense on the other."