John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Freeman circled quickly in front of the bench, taking in the whole room. "That was one minute."

He walked directly up to the witness box and smiled. "Now, Mrs. Barbieto, I'm sorry for that little display and if it startled you, I apologize. But we've got some substantial problems with time in your testimony, and I thought it would be helpful to think about what a minute is."

He was out of line. He wasn't questioning the witness. Villars was about to reprimand him but he went right to work. "You've testified that the yelling stopped at the Witt house quote about a minute unquote before you heard the voice shout 'No,' and then the shot, is that correct?"

Mrs. Barbieto was looking at Freeman as if he were possessed, and she could have been at least half-right. She nodded, yes.

The judge looked over and down at her. "Please use words in your responses. A nod doesn't work."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Barbieto said. "What was the question again?"

Freeman repeated it, and this time she said that yes, it had been about a minute.

"Just to be very clear on this, during that time you were sitting there drinking your coffee, you heard them yelling across the way at their house?"

"Yes?"

"Right up until you finished your coffee and got up?"

"Maybe not."

"Maybe not?"

"But during. While I was there, yes."

"About a minute before?"

"Yes, about."

"Okay, and during that minute you got up from drinking your coffee – where were you drinking it, by the way?"

"Just by the window, there, by the back."

"All right, by the back window. You took your cup up front to the sink, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And then what?"

"And then I washed it."

"With soap?"

Powell stood up with an objection, Villars overruled him. She might think Freeman was an ass but he was following a visible trail here, and it might even lead somewhere.

"No, I just rinse and put it in the washing machine."

Freeman smiled, but clearly with her, not at her. "I don't mean this as a criticism, Mrs. Barbieto, but do you mean you put the cup in the automatic dishwasher?"

There, see, he wasn't so bad. Mrs. Barbieto smiled, embarrassed. "Yes, I meant the dishwasher."

"All right." Freeman went on to recap what she'd done so far, walking around pantomiming her actions in the area in front of the witness box. "And what did you do next?"

Powell tried again, saying she'd already answered these questions. Villars overruled him.

"You mean cutting the chicken?"

"If that's what you did next, yes."

She stalled now, her face clouded. "The things I did in the kitchen, that's what I did."

"Did you leave the kitchen during this time?"

She was silent.

"Mrs. Barbieto, did you leave the kitchen during this time?"

The witness looked up at the judge. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Mr. Freeman," Villars said, "are you close to wrapping this up. The witness has to go to the bathroom."

"No, no, no!" Mrs. Barbieto's embarrassment was acute. "That's what I say… said. I've got to… I had to go to the bathroom then."

Freeman stood stock still for a bit. "You went to the bathroom before you cut up the chicken? Do you recall how long you were in there?"

The witness was squirming, clearly uncomfortable with such talk. "Not long, maybe a minute, I don’t know."

In the courtroom there was a low rumble. Freeman, his point made, ignored and tried to bring Mrs. Barbieto back to his side. "All right, let's move along now. You've testified that you began to cut up a chicken. Where was the chicken before this?"

Freeman maddeningly led her through each step – the chicken had been wrapped in the refrigerator, she'd come over across the kitchen from the refrigerator to the sink, unwrapped it, threw away the wet wrapper, washed the chicken in cold water, dried it with a towel.

First she'd cut off the wings, then both leg and thigh quarters. Next she'd separated one leg and thigh portion – and just before she was about to cut the other one she heard the yell and then the shot.

"Now, Mrs. Barbieto," Freeman concluded, still friendly and helpful, "this is why we bagan with my little demonstration of what a minute is. It's not, as you know, just a short amount of time. It's an exact amount of time – sixty seconds. And you've testified that you heard Jennifer fighting with her husband a minute – sixty seconds – before you heard the first shot."

"No, it was more than that."

"It could have been a lot more, couldn't it? Perhaps as much as, say, ten minutes?"

"I don't know. I didn't look. It just seemed like, you know, not too long."

But easily, Hardy thought, long enough for Jennifer to have left the house and "another dude" to come in and commit the murders.

Freeman let the jury take it in, consulting the notes he held in his hand. Reaching his decision, he looked to the bench. "Your Honor, it's almost twelve-thirty. I have a lot more questions for this witness but this is a good breaking point if the People have no objection."

The People did not.

Time-out.

Hardy had a black, cast-iron frying pan that this parents had given him before he went away to college. It was his only artifact from those long-ago days, a relic from his own lost youth. It weighed about five pounds, and its cooking surface was as smooth and black as hematite. After using it he cleaned it with salt and a wipe with a towel, although every couple of years he spent an hour rubbing it down with oil and extra-fine-grade steel wool. So far as he knew, soap had never touched it.

Frannie was reading to Rebecca before putting her down for the night. Hardy had discovered shallots and had cut up four of them and tossed them in the pan with butter and olive oil and some parsley. He took a drink of his Chardonnay and dribbled a few drops of wine into the pan. A small pot of rice was on another burner and he lifted the lid, checking it. Timing was all. He turned the heat off under the cast-iron pan. The prawns would only take two minutes and he wanted to wait until Frannie was finished with the Beck. Leaving his wine, he walked through the bedroom and into what had been his office for ten years.

Now, the walls painted light blue and surrounded with a menagerie of stenciled animals, it was a child's room. Rebecca was wearing her new turquoise silk pajamas. They were Daddy's favorites and so she wore them every night – soon he'd have to get her another pair. She sat surrounded by half a dozen of her "buddies" – a teddy bear and a rabbit and a cabbage-patch doll and some others, all with names – half on Frannie's lap on the rainbow children's loveseat, draped, enthralled by Good Dog Carl. Hardy stood in the doorway, taking it in. He came over and sat with them, and the Beck rearranged herself so as to be lying over both of her parents. Hardy put his arm over Frannie's shoulders and she leaned into him, smelling good.

He didn't particularly like it that Frannie continued talking to Jennifer, but Frannie just didn't feel right about abandoning her and she didn't want to go down to the jail, so she'd talk to her on the phone from time to time.

"She seems confident David's going to pull it out after all."

"I hope so." Hardy picked up a prawn by the tail and took a bite. "I'm getting good," he said. "These are good."

Frannie disagreed. "They aren't good, they're perfect. Anytime you feel like throwing a little something together for dinner like this, you go right ahead." Frannie had finished breast-feeding Vincent. She was having some of the wine now. "You don't sound too sure."

"Well, David does put on a good show. He was something else today. You leave that courtroom feeling like you've got your money's worth."