John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

She reached over and took the card, glanced at it, then at her watch.

"I don't want to keep you, but if you've got time for one question, we might clear up something right now."

She looked again at her watch, took a deep breath. "What is it?"

"Do you run down this street often?"

"Almost every day. I've got a regular route when I'm working out."

"Not the same time, though?"

She shook her head. "Depends when I wake up, how the morning's going. Why? You been waiting around here?"

"A couple of days, early. So sometimes it's later?"

"Sometimes." She was getting leary again. "This is more than one question."

"Yes. It is. Sorry. How about this one: Do you ever remember running by this house here" – Hardy pointed – "and hearing something like shots, something that might have made you stop for a minute? That's the special one question."

She gave it her attention, breathing normally now. She ran the wristband over her forehead, frowning in concentration. "When would this have been?"

"Last winter, right after Christmas."

She gave it another second, then slowly nodded. "Yes… I do remember that. It was like bang, then bang, right together. They were shots? I think I convinced myself that they were just backfires."

"But you did stop?"

"Just for a minute. I'm on a schedule. I like to keep running. I didn't see anything else, or hear anything. I decided it must have been a backfire so I just kept on."

Hardy stayed where he was, just outside his door on the driver's side. He wasn't about to spook her now. "You mind telling me your name?"

There was a last bit of hesitancy but it gave way. She even half-smiled at him. "Lisa Jennings. This is for real, isn't it?"

"As real as it gets, Ms. Jennings."

Hardy came up the gallery aisle – out of the corner of his eye he saw Terrell in the front row on one side and Lightner on the other – and let himself through the swinging gate at the rail. It was almost eleven and Dean Powell had a diminutive Filipino woman on the stand – Florence Barbieto, Jennifer's next-door neighbor.

Hardy sat down next to Jennifer, touched her arm and whispered, "Jackpot. The woman who started running away in front of your house… I found her."

"Where?"

Hardy didn't get a chance to answer. Villars interrupted Powell's questioning with a tap of her gavel, a glare at Hardy. The message got across. He sat back with a gesture of apology. He didn’t feel like incurring a five-hundred dollar fine, and his information, though useful, could wait.

Powell turned back to his witness. Apparently she hadn't been on the stand very long, they were going over the events of last December 28 and hadn't gotten very far.

"To repeat, Mrs. Barbieto, you heard them fighting?"

"Oh yes. The houses aren't far apart. They were yelling at each other and the boy was crying."

"Could you make out any words?"

Mrs. Barbieto brought her finger to her lips. "No," she said at last, "not that morning." Leaving the implication that on other mornings she had. But Powell knew better than to prod there. Freeman would be up if he did and he'd be right. This was the morning they cared about.

"All right. Now, could you tell us about the events leading up to the shots themselves?"

"Well, I was in my kitchen cutting up chicken for adobo. The kitchen is against the wall by the Witt's house, by the window."

"You were standing by the window?"

"I was cutting at the counter. The window is over the sink. There's another window back a ways, which I had open a crack because of the vinegar."

"The vinegar?"

"For the adobo."

Powell nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. "I see. And so you could hear what was happening next door?"

"But not anymore. They had stopped."

"They had stopped yelling, you mean?"

"Yes."

"And for how long was it relatively quiet over there, next door at the Witts?"

"Not too long. A minute maybe. I put away my coffee, I cleaned the cup and put it in the washing machine"… Hardy had a vision of a washing machine full of porcelain chips, no wonder the damn thing wouldn't work – "then took out the chicken and I was cutting it, and suddenly I heard somebody yell out 'No,' and then this awful noise. It had to be a shot. Still, I was thinking about all the fighting this morning and all the weekend and then there is this noise so I go to the window."

"The one that was open a crack?"

"Yes, that one more in the back. When I get to it I hear another shot. It is so loud, I almost feel it hits me."

Freeman nodded some more, then turned around, his eyes taking in the defense table. Jennifer sat forward, hands clenched on the table in front of her. She met his gaze.

"And then what did you do?"

"Well, there's a chair there, by the window. I sat down, trying to think. I didn't know what to think."

"What could you see from this chair?"

"Some of the hedge, then the side of their house to the back?"

"I'm sorry. Do you mean the side of the house or the back?"

"The side, but you know, in the back. Except nothing happens. I don't see anything for a minute or two, I just sit there, trying to think what to do. Then I think maybe I'd better go out, but maybe I should call my husband, I don’t' know." Mrs. Barbieto was reliving the moment, twisting the fabric of her dress in her hands, squirming in the witness chair. "Then I decided I have to go see. If something is wrong, maybe I can help. It is so quiet now, more quiet than before even when they weren't fighting."

Powell was up close to her, soothing but persistent. "And what did you do then?"

Mrs. Barbieto took a breath. "I went next door and rang the bell. Then I wait and then again I ring. But no one is answering, and I now the noise came from inside the house, just a minute before, so somebody must have been in there. But no one answered."

She was shaking her head, stealing glances at Jennifer, clearly afraid to look at her. Perhaps, to the jury's eyes, afraid of her.

Powell brought her back, repeating the safest question there is in a courtroom. "And what did you do then?"

"I waited another minute, and then nobody came, so I tried the door to unlock it but it wouldn't move, and then I became afraid and ran back to my house and call the 911."

"And what did you do then?"

"I sat down by the front window until the police car came, maybe a couple of minutes. I was afraid to stay outside."

Powell continued to walk her through the next hour or two, after the police car had pulled up, Jennifer's return from her run, the arrival of the homicide team, Mrs. Barbieto's actions and impressions. It was a straightforward narrative that Hardy didn't think was very damaging to Jennifer. After all, someone had been in the house and done the killing – but none of Mrs. Barbieto's testimony necessarily convicted Jennifer. It could still be argued that she hadn't been there.

When Powell turned the witness over to the defense, Freeman didn't get up from his chair. Instead he looked up at the judge and then the witness. "I need one minute, Your Honor, if it please the court."

He sat there, unmoving. He didn't look at his notes. His arms were crossed on the table in front of him. After about ten seconds of silence, a ripple began in the courtroom, people moving in their seats, throats being cleared. Freeman seemed oblivious. Hardy looked over to him; so did Jennifer. The seconds went by.

Powell got up after about half a minute. "Your Honor…"

Villars agreed. She pointed her gavel. "Mr. Freeman, are you going to cross-examine Mrs. Barbieto or not? If you are, please get to it."

That exchange took about ten seconds, and Freeman, at last, began grabbing up his yellow pad as a prop. He still hadn't spoken. Sighing, he moved forward, glancing at his watch. "Now!" he exclaimed. Half the jury jumped, as did the witness.