John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Nodding, Frannie said that she had to be. "She did not kill Matt, Dismas. She didn't kill Larry, either. I still believe that."

Hardy looked over at his wife. He squeezed both her hands, not knowing what to say.

John Lescroart

Before she had known that the jury would be coming in that day, Frannie had made plans for the weekend. She knew that her husband would probably want to stick around, hang out with Freeman, discuss and analyze and worry. She didn't think that would be wise.

So when they got home from picking up Rebecca and Vincent at Grandma's, although she still felt sick to her stomach, she helped Dismas pack the car and then got him in the passenger seat and drove north for ninety minutes, up to the small town of Occidental, near the Russian River.

She had rented adjoining rooms in the old Union Hotel where there was nothing to do except eat huge plates of home-style Italian food and drink in the bar and dance to country music and, in the soggy daytime, drive around some more looking at redwoods and water and playing with your children.

In spite of her own feelings, she gave Dismas until they got to San Rafael – about thirty-five minutes – to get out all of his frustrations and impressions about the trial and verdict and plans for the upcoming penalty phase.

Right now they were having a family weekend. The penalty phase would take over their lives soon enough. This was an opportunity for some quality in their lives. She had gone to some lengths to arrange it. And she was going to demand it for herself, for her children, for her man.

The rest of the world could wait until Monday.

Hardy knew it was one of the reasons he loved her. She did things like that.

His own inclination was to keep pushing and pushing until something gave, but she had taught him on a couple of occasions that sometimes it didn't hurt to back up a step and look at the direction you were pushing. A different angle of perspective might get more accomplished.

He had originally planned to go right up and talk with Jennifer, but on Monday morning, marginally refreshed from the food and simple beauty of the north coast – although he hadn't slept much – he found that sometime over the weekend he had decided to call on Ken Lightner.

Lightner had been, not exactly a thorn, but a presence since the beginning – in any event his involvement was greater than Hardy had originally suspected and he wanted to get to the bottom of it if he could. Not only that, he was considering the battered wife issue again – he felt he had to. The jury had decided that Jennifer had killed Larry and Matt, but he thought they might be persuaded that she wasn't a cold-blooded killer deserving execution if they knew how often and/or how badly she had been beaten.

It was worth a try. He didn’t have much else.

Lightner had sounded pleased, perhaps relieved, to hear from him. Maybe he felt ostracized since the allegation of the affair had come out and they hadn't wanted to bring him to the fore because his relationship with Jennifer could appear to give her one more reason to get rid of her husband.

The office was across from Stern Grove in a large mixed-use apartment complex called – cleverly – The Grove. It was a glass and brown-shingle contemporary building surrounded by trees, the parking lot on this morning half-filled with a disproportionate sprinkling of high-end German automobiles. Rent here wouldn't be cheap.

In spite of a morning sun, autumn was in the air. After he had parked, Hardy stood a minute by his car, arrested by the scents of eucalyptus and wood smoke, although where the smoke came from was a mystery. No one was supposed to burn anything outdoors anymore – it was illegal.

Lightner's office seemed to take up most of one of the back-corner modules. Hardy rang, waited, was buzzed in. He walked down a long hallway of muted color. There were six or eight non-representational framed things – works of art? – on the walls.

Lightner's bulky frame appeared in the light at the end of the hall. "Mr. Hardy," he said. "Welcome."

Hardy shook hands and was introduced to Helga, Lightner's secretary. The reception area was bigger than it had to be but still, somehow, cozy. The two couches were overstuffed. There was an easy-chair and ottoman in hot orange, yellow, blue and black, the only brightness in the office. Helga herself – she preferred, she said, Helga to Ms. Or Miss Brun – was about forty and wore no rings. She had a low black desk, the surface of which was clean except for a green felt blotter. A low shelf held a typewriter – no computer here – with what Hardy took to be a six-line business phone and intercom set up next to it. Helga asked if they would like coffee and both said they would.

Lightner led the way to his consulting office, a room that was small but warmer than the reception area. It wasn't pastel, for one thing. Done in greens, leathers, carved woods and glass, it was restful, its windows looking out onto one of the older groves, sunlight coming through the trees. Hardy avoided the couch and took one of the two leather armchairs. Lightner left the door to Helga's area open and sat in a chair by the door.

"I'll come right to it," Hardy began. "You went to Costa Rica for a week and stayed with Jennifer." He figured he didn't have to say anything more.

Lightner frowned. "Are we going through this again? I thought I'd covered this with Mr. Freeman."

"Freeman?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hardy figured he must have known this, though he'd never made the overt connection. Yes, Freeman must have talked to Lightner. He had said right after the trial that Lightner had convinced him he hadn't done anything wrong with Jennifer, been intimate with her. At the time, right after the trial and the verdict, it had gone right by him. And, just like Freeman not telling him about Jennifer being guilty of killing Ned, he hadn't reported to him about this interview with Lightner either. Typical David.

The psychiatrist nodded. "So now what, Mr. Hardy? Now you too want some assurance I was not violating every code in the book and having sex with my patient?"

The burden of saving Jennifer had been buiding steadily on Hardy, or probably he wouldn't have resorted to the extreme ply he was now about to try. "Dr. Lightner, your patient and, I gather, friend, Jennifer, told me otherwise." Of course, she hadn't, but if it would smoke out some mitigation for her, some alternative…

Lightner looked shocked, then saddened. "Mr. Hardy, I find it hard to believe that, I really do, I'm sorry. But if, indeed, Jennifer did say this, well, there are psychological reasons, but you would only say they were self-serving. I tell you that I did not have intimate relations with my patient. I testified to that. I believe, I thought, Mr. Freeman believed me."

Hardy shrugged, feeling increasingly uneasy about what he was doing. "So where does that leave us, Dr. Lightner? You've wanted to help Jennifer, and, believe me, I'd love it if you could. So…?"

Lightner stood and crossed the room. He opened a door that led out to a patio, motioning to Hardy, who got up and followed. Outside, Lightner walked a few steps into the grove, then turned. "I'll take a polygraph if you'd like. You know how much I care about Jennifer, but I can't have it said I've been intimate with a patient, taking advantage of the relationship. I'm sorry, but Jennifer is just not telling the truth."

Finally, Hardy relented. "Sorry, it's me who isn't telling the truth. It was a bad try."

"Okay, here's what happened, just as I told Mr. Freeman…"

He and Jennifer had stayed in the same hotel room in Costa Rica because when Lightner had arrived she had become scared all over again, realizing that she hadn't run that far if he could be there on such short notice. She had felt vulnerable, alone, checking out of her own room, thinking she would be leaving no paper trail.