John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Hardy would have bet a lot that the money for all this had come from Dean Powell's campaign fund. There was no way that the San Francisco Police Department would pay the freight to fly an officer down to Costa Rica to investigate some alleged hanky-panky.

Hardy realized that he had for too long let himself be diverted by Freeman's theatrics and boundless confidence. This case was far from won – in fact, it might now be lost. It was one thing that Lightner had gone down to Costa Rica, although that was bad enough. But Terrell's testimony that she and Lightner had shared a room! The fact that there had been another man in the picture all along – and who knew for how long? – would work against Jennifer with the jury. Now in their eyes she also had a personal motive for killing Larry – it had not just been the money. She was cheating, too!

Hardy understood what the jury would feel – Jennifer was a woman who did what she wanted, took what she wanted and the world be damned. She would seem exactly the kind of person one would expect to do what she had been accused of.

He knew now that whether or not Freeman chose to address this Costa Rica business in the defense's case-in-chief, they were going to need to distract the jury by presenting their other dudes – someone else who might have had a plausible motive and an opportunity to have killed Larry Witt and the means to have done it. Hardy had his briefcase open, the files on his desk. Forcing himself – he had to start somewhere – he looked up the number of Jody Bachman, the Los Angeles-based attorney for the Yerba Buena Medical Group.

Since it was eight-thirty, after hours, he wasn't surprised to get one of those automated answering devices that asked if you knew your quarry's last name or extension. Dutifully, he punched in the first four letters – B. A. C. H.

The phone rang once.

"Jody Bachman." A youngish voice, not exactly squeaky but enthusiastic peppy.

"Mr. Bachman, my name is Dismas Hardy. I'm an attorney in San Francisco and left a message for you several weeks ago. I'm following up." Tardily, he added to himself.

There was a longish pause. "I didn't call you back?"

Hardy had to smile. They ground down these guys so far in the corporate mills they had to look up to see down. "You might have," Hardy admitted. "I didn't get any message, that's all."

"I'm sorry. It's been crazy here. Maybe you know."

They schmoozed for a moment, non-billable lawyer talk about the rat race and working until all hours, then Hardy go to it, saying that Todd Crane recommended talking to Bachman about YBMG. "Sure, I represent them. If I can help you – but you said this was a murder trial."

Hardy explained.

"Witt? Witt? I can't say it rings any kind of bell, but I've been awake for four days running now and sometimes I don’t recognize my own name." He laughed weakly. "The glamour of the LBO."

"What's that?" said Hardy, the innocent.

"What? LBO? Leveraged buyout. Where have you been, Mr. Hardy? The wave of the past, or future, depending on your politics. Or your money."

"Same thing, aren't they?"

"Not exactly but that's often a good guess. So listen, about this Dr. Witt…"

"I'm pretty sure he called your offices last December. I don't know who he would have talked to."

"Probably me," Bachman admitted, "but I really don't remember. I'll have my secretary look it up and get back to you, how's that?"

"That'd be good. Thanks."

"Sure. No problem."

"It's the real you at last," Hardy said to his friend Abe Glitsky, who stood in the doorway to his apartment wearing a clown costume – big floppy feet, white pancake make-up, a cute little red nose. "Let me guess…"

Glitsky cut him off. "It's Jacob's birthday party." He turned back into the apartment, Hardy tagging behind. Flo came up, bussed him on the cheek and asked if he wanted some cake or ice cream. There were about fifteen ten-year-olds in the cramped kitchen, none of them meditating.

"Abe looks good."

Flo gave him a look. "You wait. You'll do it too."

Hardy thought that she was probably right. He couldn't, at this moment, though, imagine himself as a future reincarnation of Bozo the Clown, but he had to admit it was possible. "Is he going to be done soon?"

"Ten minutes," Flo said, "maybe a little more. He just does a little act."

"I'd love to see it."

She moved closer to him, a hand on his arm. "I think you'd cramp his style. You can wait in the boys' room."

All three of the Glitsky boys had the same bedroom, and it wasn't a big one. Jacob and Isaac shared the bunk bed, and OJ, now almost five, used a little daybed against the opposite wall. Hardy sat on it listening to the laughter from the kitchen a his friend the homicide inspector did his clown tricks. He took the opportunity to rest his head for just a second on the pillow.

"I hate to wake you but my kid needs to go to sleep."

Hardy looked at his watch. He had crashed for nearly an hour. Glitsky was back in normal clothes, holding out a cup of hot coffee. Hardy took it, sitting up, rubbing a crick in his neck with his free hand. "I had a dream about you in a clown suit," he said. "It was horrible."

Glitsky shook his head and turned around. Hardy followed him into the kitchen, sat down at the table with his coffee cup. Glitsky poured some boiling water into a cup and started fiddling with the chain at the end of his silver tea strainer. In the back rooms they could hear Flo finishing up with the boys, supervising the washing up, getting them into their pajamas, ready for the sack.

"But enough small talk," Hardy began. "What did you ever find out about the Romans?"

Over by the stove Glitsky dipped the strainer up and down in his cup and watched the steam rise. "I know they were after the Greeks but beyond that it gets a little fuzzy." He picked up his cup, holding the tea chain in his other hand, crossed to the table and sat. "Latin wasn't my thing or I'd probably know more."

Hardy drank coffee. "Cecil Roman, father of Melissa Roman, deceased patient of Larry Witt. Mr. Roman accused Witt of performing an abortion and killing his daughter."

The tea was by now as dark as Hardy's coffee and still Glitsky kept dipping the strainer. "Oh, those Romans. No. I haven't found out anything. I probably would have told you if I had." He finally took the strainer out and took a cautious sip. "You really going to need it?"

"I'd like to know if Roman, or his wife for that matter, has an alibi."

Glitsky nodded. "The case falling apart?"

Hardy told him about the events of the afternoon, the allegation about Lightner, how it would be helpful if they had at least one other person who might have had some good motive and opportunity to kill Dr. Witt.

"It sounds like this guy Lightner kind of sticks up. He was sleeping with the lady and he could have-"

"They both deny they were lovers."

Glitsky gave him the eye. "I'm sure."

Hardy shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. The jury's going to believe it."

"So there's a motive for him."

"Except he was working that morning. At his office. With secretary in attendance. Terrell already checked it out."

Glitsky slurped some tea, his eyes out of focus somewhere behind Hardy. "I'm not sure I understand why I want to help you point the finger away from a murder suspect who looks to me like she's guilty. You want to explain that part to me again? I'm a cop, remember? I'm on the other side."

"I could say to serve the ends of justice but I sense you'd gag or something."

"Or something."

"Okay, I won't say that. How about we're such good friends and I'd do the same thing for you?"

"Nope. No good."

Hardy got up for more coffee. At the counter he turned back around. "I've got it – you might get the collar on the real killer."