John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"Yes, that's true."

"Thank you. No further questions."

Hardy might have won that round on points, but he was afraid the victory would turn out to be Pyrrhic. The jury had been reminded forcefully of Ned, and regardless of what they were legally instructed to do, he doubted that many people, if convinced of Jennifer's guilt with Larry and Matt, would not come to the conclusion that she had also killed her first husband.

Additionally, Hardy worried that he had probably alienated Villars once and for all, and no good could come of that. And though he had supplied a reasonable motive for Jennifer's outburst, he had not been able to overcome the bare fact that she had gotten physically violent with Poole. Poole might have come across as a user, a wimp and a whiner, but Jennifer's character kept slipping, too – a highly unstable person that you crossed at your serious peril. Wouldn't such a person be likely to repeat her violence on others?

John Lescroart

Hardy 04 – 13th Juror, The

Powell had not relied much on photographs during the guilt phase, but as a courtesy he assigned his young assistant, Justin Morehouse, to inform Hardy as they broke for lunch that the prosecution was going to bring out the pictures in the afternoon – a member of the forensics unit for the color shots from the Witt home, the coroner Dr. Strout with the morgue shots.

It was gruesome but it made sense from the prosecutor's point of view. Powell was out to prove that the killing must have been cold and deliberate. His thrust in this phase was to emphasize the horror of Matt's death and Hardy, having seen the photos, knew that they would be tremendously effective to that end.

Justin was a strapping athletic young man in a well-tailored suit. He had been in Powell's shadow throughout the trial, taking notes, saying nothing, doing the grunt work as most young lawyers did. He had a fresh open face. Giving his message to Hardy, he seemed to be leaning over backward to avoid the appearance of the prosecutorial posturing that some start-up Assistant DAs adopted as their shield.

"This is going to be very rough on Jennifer," Hardy said. "Maybe you could pass that along to Dean."

"What will?"

"Lookiing at the pictures of her dead son."

Justin shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as though he had to go to the bathroom. "Maybe she shouldn't have killed him, then," he said. It seemed to come out reluctantly, as though he didn't want to sound heartless but it happened to be his honest belief, no shadow of doubt in it. It was a good reminder for Hardy.

To many people in the courtroom – perhaps most Hardy believed – Jennifer was an unredeemed multiple murderer who would likely do it again with the right provocation. Even Justin Morehouse – a seemingly nice guy – wasn't losing any sleep about getting her a death sentence. In fact, though he probably wouldn't admit it, he didn't feel too badly about having her suffer a little, too, by the display of pictures.

Hardy was afraid that Justin might be a pretty good litmus for how the jury was feeling, andif that were so, Jennifer was in serious trouble. Because for all the impression that his cross-examinations were having on Morehouse, Hardy figured he might as well not have come to court.

As soon as court was called to order after lunch, Hardy rose and asked if the judge would allow counsel to approach the bench.

"Your Honor," he began, and told Villars about Powell's plans for show-and-tell. "In view of the highly emotional response these photographs are likely to produce, I would like to request that you excuse Jennifer Witt from the courtroom during this testimony."

Villars pulled her half-moon reading glasses further down her nose, looking over them at Hardy. "We don't try murder cases in absentia in this country, Mr. Hardy. Your client stays."

This was the law, but strict adherence to it under these conditions smacked of gratuitous cruelty. However, he couldn't very well argue that. "She may faint, Your Honor. This will be extremely difficult for her."

Villars rearranged her glasses, then took them off altogether. "If she faints, Mr. Hardy, we'll adjourn until she's feeling better."

As it turned out – and this seemed to be the trial's trademark – it was worse than he had feared. An emotional outburst – even a negative one – might at least humanize Jennifer. But she had no reaction at all. Instead, she seemed to Hardy to go into shock, sitting through it all dry-eyed, unmoving, clutching Hardy's arm with her right hand as the succession of photographs – blown up to fit on the easel next to the witness box – showed her and the jury how her boy had looked after he had been shot.

Half the jury reacted with tears or apparent nausea. But Jennifer sat still, her hand on her attorney's arm, looking straight ahead.

Unfeeling.

Dragging from fatigue, Hardy nevertheless forced himself back to Shriner's Hospital after court adjourned. There was still that bleak sunshine at the Hall, but he hit the fog just across Van Ness as he was heading west and had to slow to twenty miles per hour. In San Francisco, the fog didn't creep in on little cat's feet. It was a blitzkrieg that rolled in off the ocean at about a block every three minutes in a wide front that engulfed everything before it. The temperature dropped twenty degrees in a half a mile. The wind whipped and wipers went on. People suddenly decided to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

Hardy's car crept out on Lincoln, the park on his right. He briefly considered stopping at the Shamrock again for a quick one, but last night he had done that and it hadn't improved his life that he'd noticed.

There was no guard outside the door to Nancy's room. These were visiting hours, and Hardy was able to get right in.

Jennifer's mother was half-upright in her bed, her eyes closed. There was a wide bandage over the bridge of her nose and, above that, her eyes were swollen orbs of black and blue.

Hardy cleared his throat and she stirred.

"It's the troublemaker," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed.

She pulled herself higher on her pillow and with some difficulty – grimacing – turned her head to face Hardy. "I told Phil I'd testify, that you'd been by."

Hardy nodded. "I figured that."

"How is he?"

Hardy had asked and been told at the nurse's station. "He's critical."

Nancy exhaled – relief? disappointment? – but then quickly sucked in a breath. Some of her ribs might be broken. "I don't know," she said. "What did I do?"

"It sounds to me like you defended yourself against someone who was hurting you very badly."

"I don't know… I'm scared."

"Of him?"

"Of what I did. Of what's going to happen now?"

"Have you talked to the police?"

She nodded, though every slight move seemed to cost her. "They've been by. I told them what happened." She sighed again. "But after that, what?"

"What do you mean?"

Half a dry laugh turned to a sharp cry of pain. "It does hurt when you laugh," she said. "I mean stabbing your husband. I think it means it's over, the marriage. Now I don't know what I'm going to do. What will happen."

Hardy didn't have an answer for her and beyond that, he thought her best bet was to figure it out on her own. In his opinion, she hadn't done badly so far. "What do the police say?" he asked. "Are they charging you?"

"They say not. Not yet, anyway." She looked down at her body, covered now. "They say Phil might have killed me. I think he just didn't realize…" She stopped herself. "No. I'm not going to do that. Not anymore. He knew what he was doing, he just kept coming. I asked him to stop, I begged him…"