John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

It stretched Hardy's belief to the breaking point, but the explanation was plausible, if foolish, from Lightner's point of view. Still, people did foolish things – it could have happened the way Lightner told it. And now Hardy felt he needed Lightner if he was going to have any real chance to save his client's life. And he had to think of it that way… Freeman's appeal working out was not to be counted on.

Between answering the phone Helga had managed to bring the coffee. They were back in their chairs, more relaxed now, though not totally allies. Lightner had not been impressed or pleased with Hardy lying to him, he said. Still, they were on middle ground, working for the same result. They didn't, after all, have to be pals.

Hardy sat with his coffee perched on his knee. "What do you personally think is the situation here, Doctor?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what in your gut do you believe?"

"I believe her, Mr. Hardy. But as I've said, if she did it, she was driven to it. It's not a frivolous defense, you know." Placing his cup and saucer on the low table next to him, Lightner turned toward Hardy and leaned forward in the chair, hands folded. "I've said this all along – I've never understood Mr. Freeman's concept-"

"He was obeying his client's wishes about the abuse, the same thing you'd do." Hardy wasn't about to listen to Lightner criticize anybody. His own judgment, after all, was a long way from exemplary.

"But the fact remains, he lost. And Jennifer loses." He held up a hand. "My point is that he could have called several witnesses – myself included – who might at least have planted the seed. Did you visit any of Jennifer's past physicians?" At Hardy's nod, he continued. "Okay, then you know there was abuse. And there were more people, people I've talked to – her own mother, for example. An abused person as well, as you may know. Even Helga has seen Jennifer come in here, staggering with the pain, limping. It was a classic situation – Larry Witt was literally beating her to death."

"But Jennifer told Freeman – she ordered him – not to get into that."

"He should have overridden her. He was her lawyer. His job was to clear her, not allow her to be convicted. She is a victim, Mr. Hardy."

Hardy raised his voice. "She would have fired him, don't you understand that?"

Lightner sat back, his face working. "And why is that?"

"If she admits she was beaten, to her it's the same as admitting she killed Larry. And if she killed Larry, that's admitting she killed Matt."

"She doesn't have to admit anything, does she?" Lighter said. "You can call all those people as witnesses, can't you? Get them to talk about what they've seen with Jennifer. Maybe nothing overtly even about Larry. I could come on as an expert witness – I've done it before. This kind of denial is common. I wouldn't have to talk specifically about things Jennifer told me. I'd just discuss the syndrome, and then let the jury make the connection."

"That she killed Larry because he beat her?"

"They've already convicted her – it can't hurt her any worse and it might help. Show the jury what she's been through. It might, if nothing else, move them to some sympathy. This woman has done nothing but suffer her whole life. Maybe you can end the cycle."

Lightner shook his head. "God, this is a travesty."

"Yes, it is," Hardy said.

Lightner walked him out to his car. As Hardy opened the door, Lightner reached into his wallet and took out a card. "I expect to talk to her today, as I've been doing, but I want you to feel free to call me anytime if you feel I can help you, if I can come in with you and perhaps try to convince her to agree with a defense, anything at all. I'm always here."

"You don't go home?"

Lightner's face lit in a brittle smile. "My ex-wife and children have the home. I've a space behind the office" – he motioned back to the building – "bedroom, kitchen and whatever I was able to keep. But it's all right, I'm getting along. Shrinks have a notoriously high divorce rate. We're often better with other people's lives than with our own."

"Mr. Hardy?" It was Phyllis on the intercom. "There's an Emmett Kelly down here to see you."

Hardy pushed his files away, smiling. "Send him up."

A minute later Abe Glitsky's form filled the doorway. "I couldn't resist," he said. He walked across the room and looked down onto Sutter Street, then turned back and plumped himself halfway over the couch, laying his head against the armrest. "I think I'll take the afternoon off, get in a nap. Naps are rare among the ranks of homicide inspectors. I should do a study."

"You should," Hardy agreed. "But in the meanwhile…"

Glitsky sat up. "In the meanwhile I have made an ass of myself yet again in your behalf, although I realized on Friday the horse got out of the barn. I thought I'd make sure it all got covered, so I went out to see the Romans, told them we were finishing up some paperwork."

"And you found out?"

Glitsky grinned his horrible grin, the scar through his lips stretched white, the eyes with no mirth in them. "I found out that they have no idea what either or both of them were doing on the Monday after Christmas last year, which is the worst possible news for you."

"Why is that?"

"Because," Glitsky held up a finger, lecturing, "if they had spent any time being guilty and thinking up an alibi, I believe they would have remembered it and trotted it out. That's what guilty folks do. As it was, they just looked at each other." Glitsky stood. "They had no clue, Diz. There's nothing there."

By this time it was getting to be no surprise. "Well, at least I feel like I've covered the bases." Then remembering the other thing he'd been meaning to put to his friend. "You filed a report on that visit to the bank we made, didn't you? The three-minute thing?"

Glitsky had gone over to the dart board and was coming back to Hardy's desk, having pulled out Hardy's near-perfect round. "Sure. I was on duty. I thought Terrell could use it. Why?"

Hardy shrugged. "Just following up."

Glitsky threw and the first dart hit the wall a foot below the board. "These are heavy," he said. "My kids darts don't throw like these."

"Twenty grams." Hardy grimaced at the hollow sound, at the hole in the wall. Another dart flew, smacking the wallboard high and wide of the target. "they're made out of tungsten. They're pretty good darts."

Glitsky fired the last one. It grazed the bottom of the board before sticking, again, in the wall. The inspector headed for the door, stopping when he got there. "I don't know," he said. "I think they might be broke." Then he was gone.

He was almost through the first, and had another four working days – Villars had given everyone a week off before the penalty phase was to begin. Hardy was grateful for the prep time, but the probable reason for it galled him – Powell was in the stretch run for his election and it seemed Villars was cutting him some slack.

He couldn't, of course, prove it, but that didn't make him any less suspicious.

Freeman hadn't been to the office either, which was just as well. He was sick to death of Freeman and his histrionics. He was also sick of himself, of his waffling – every chance he'd got, he'd backed off in the face of the older man's resolve and personality. Half a dozen times he should have just stood his ground. Said this was what was what and take it or leave it. But partly he'd wanted to believe that Freeman was right and would prevail. Partly because if Freeman won he wouldn't have the burden of trying to save Jennifer's life. He had wanted so badly to get out from under the responsibility that he'd convinced himself that Freeman's strategies would likely work.