John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Hardy braced his foot back against the door. "Have you talked to her? One on one?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Maybe to get a handle on the fact that she's a human being."

Powell sat back. "Let me ask you one – have you tried to visualize the crime? Can you imagine the kind of person who takes out a gun and shoots her husband at point-blank range and then turns and" – Powell exploded in righteous anger – "and blows away her own child? Can you imagine that?"

"She didn't do that, it wasn't like that-"

Powell slammed his desk, coming halfway up onto his feet. "Bullshit! That's just what it was like. The jury says that's what she did. I proved it. Beyond a damned reasonable doubt." Gathering his control, he sat himself down, lowered his voice. "If you want to call such a person a human being, you're welcome to, but don’t expect any tears from me. Or any mercy, either."

There was a knock on the door and Hardy stepped aside, pulling it open. It was Art Drysdale, Hardy's old mentor, the ex-officio administrative boss of the office. "Everything all right in here? How you doin', Dismas?"

"We're fine, Art," Powell said evenly. "Everything's fine. Just a little disagreement among professionals."

Drysdale looked from one man to the other, raised a hand and closed the door again.

"You really think she did it, don’t you? You know her husband – Larry – was beating her?"

"So what? Nobody's talking battered wife here. Freeman never did."

"We should have. I should have. Jennifer wouldn't allow it but she was wrong." He almost said dead wrong. "She thought it would prejudice the jury, make them think she was suing it as an excuse." Sitting down, he gave Powell as much as he could of the short version. "I'd just like you to consider if it was self-defense."

"Bring it up in the penalty-phase, I'll consider it. I'm not a monster, Hardy."

"I can't bring it up. I've just told you why."

"You can't bring it up?" Powell went all the way back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, running his fingers through his mane the way he did. He took a long moment, running it around different ways. Finally he came down. "This is pretty goddamn sleazy."

"I'm not-"

"Don’t try to lay this human-being guilt trip on me now, Hardy. To tell the truth, it was heavy enough deciding to go capital on this, but I've played by the rules from the get-go. I don't give a shit what spin you put on it, we're sitting here talking about circumventing the system, and as far as I'm concerned this is an unethical conversation and it's over right now."

Powell was up out of his desk, around it, to the door. He pulled it open. I'll see you in court," he said. "Not until."

Hardy's first reaction was that he needed a drink. His stomach was in knots, his breathing coming shallow. He stayed thirsty until he got inside the door of Lou's, then abruptly decided not. It was still early in the afternoon, and a drink or two now would end his day. And he needed all the time he could get.

He was at his desk, going over his options.

Lightner's motion to introduce de facto witnesses to Jennifer's pain and suffering at the hands of her husband wasn't bad – might well garner some sympathy for her. But as soon as Jennifer saw the way the wind was blowing there – and it wouldn't take long – she would either go berserk in the courtroom or insist on testifying that no beatings took place.

So given that, what was he going to do next Monday? If Powell's reaction was any indication, Jennifer hadn't won many hearts in the courtroom. Dressed in a way that separated her from the commoners, for the most part sitting without expression at the defense table, she hadn't testified on her own behalf. Another of Freeman's questionable decisions.

The package arrived, messengered over from Donna Bellows. Grateful for the distraction, Hardy opened it, little more than an envelope, depressingly thin.

There was the letter from Larry Witt to Donna Bellows. There was a covering letter to go with the offering circular. Finally, there was the circular itself.

Dear Donna:

I wonder if you could take a look at the enclosed. As you will see, the YBMG is offering all doctors (we are called "providers" in the brochure) an option to buy into the new for-profit plan. The shares are a nickel each, and the tone of both the covering letter and the brochure is very negative – there's slim to no chance that this is a worthwhile investment.

So why did they bother sending the thing out?

My concern is that the Board has only given us three weeks to exercise the option, and that they sent this circular now, over Christmas, when so many providers are either on vacation or swamped with personal business at home.

I realize that most shares any individual can buy is 368, so potentially the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40, but Hardy abruptly stopped reading.

Larry Witt, control freak extraordinaire, was asking his two-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer to look into a maximum exposure issue of less than twenty dollars?

He must have read it wrong, got the decimal misplaced. He looked at the last line again. "… the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40…"

Shaking his head, thinking what an absolute pain in the ass Larry Witt must have been, Hardy stood, stretched, and gave up for the day. He went downstairs to watch the World Series in the conference room. Maybe his side would win.

Frannie had her feet up on the couch, a book face down on her chest. Her eyes were on her husband and she was trying not to nod off.

"No, listen, this is really interesting."

His wife shook her head. "Anytime you've got to say that, it isn't."

Hardy put his paper down. "You used to be more fun."

She raised her eyebrows. "Let me get this straight – you're sitting in our living room on a balmy October night, you didn't taste the fantastic dinner I made, you didn't even want wine with it, and for the last ten minutes you are reading to me along from some stock proposal that isn't worth anything anyway, and I'm the one who used to be more fun?"

He nodded. "A lot more. I remember. I know it can't be me."

Frannie swung her feet to the ground, patting her lap. "Okay, come here."

Hardy crossed the room. "What am I going to do, Fran? She still won't let me use the only thing that might save her."

"I don't think you're right, about it being the only thing that can save her. It's not just the beatings… Jennifer's life with her husband was terrible, but she didn't kill him, Dismas. She never lied to me, not even about Ned. She never denied to me, about him. She just didn't say she did it. But she absolutely denied killing Larry. She had no reason to lie to me, she avoided it in the case of Ned.

Hardy could think of at least one reason why Jennifer might want to lie to Frannie. Frannie was his wife, he was Jennifer's lawyer. It would be better if he believed she didn't kill Larry and Matt.

Frannie went on. "This is not just an instinct, you know. Or woman's intuition, although I wouldn't put that down if I were you. You're forgetting what you proved. Never mind if she could have done it or not, Jennifer in fact did not run through the Medical Center. It did take her probably fifteen minutes to get to her bank, to five. And that means she didn't kill anybody. She had left her house. She ran to the bank the way she told you she did. Talking about that morning, telling me about it, she volunteered the way she'd come – down Clarendon, through the Victorians, the old Haight, she talked about that, how the neighborhood calmed her down. You don't make that stuff up." Sometimes you do, Hardy thought. But it wasn't a bad point. "So what you – Dismas Hardy the person – forget the lawyer, what you've got to do if you really want to save her is to stop doubting her, stop even considering that she might be guilty."