John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"And that's what you told the police?"

"That's what happened," she said. She met his eyes. "So when do you want me to testify?"

"When do you get out of here?"

She shook her head defiantly. Echoes of Jennifer. "After this…" Beginning again. "You tell me when Jennifer needs me, I'll be there if I've got to crawl."

The prosecution rested on Wednesday afternoon. For the better part of four days Powell had called solid witnesses, remarkable for their lack of stridency, given that his goal in calling them was to persuade a jury to vote for the death penalty.

The jury had seemed to listen raptly as the psychiatrist that Powell had retained related his professional opinion, after three interviews during which Jennifer had, he said, remained uncooperative, that Jennifer was irredeemably sociopathic, unresponsive, hostile, dangerous.

Such a psychiatric opinion would not have been admissible until after Hardy had raised the subject by calling a psychiatrist of his own, but Jennifer had obliged the prosecution by assaulting their psychiatrist, thereby making his testimony admissible whether Hardy called a psychiatrist to testify or not. In their last interview she had burned him, stubbing out her cigarette on the back of his hand. ("I barely touched him. Besides, he asked me if maybe I'd killed Matt to shut him up agbout my sexually abusing him! Was that a possibility I was repressing? Was I afraid to consider that?")

Then there was Rhea Thompson, the woman from the jail who had exchanged identities with Jennifer back in the spring so that she could escape. Hardy suspected Rhea was a career snitch who had volunteered her information to cut a better deal for herself, but when she told the jury that Jennifer had said she'd "just have to kill" anyone who tried to frustrate her escape, it came across as credible.

"That was just a joke. Anybody could see that," Jennifer had said.

If Jennifer's life at home with her husbands paralleled the way she was with Hardy – equal parts bad attitude and bad judgment – he thought he was getting some notion of how she might have provoked the men. Not, of course, that he forgave them, not that it was for a minute acceptable, but so much of what Jennifer did seemed to involve some sort of self-destruction. She seemed to need to lose, to put herself in a position where she could say, 'See, I told you I was no good.' And proving that was what she seemed to do best.

Hardy decided it was time for a heavy dose of reality talk.

They were in the suite for a fifteen minute recess after which Hardy was going to call Ali Singh and let the chips fall.

"Jennifer, don't you realize people out there are trying to get a handle on who you are? That’s really what this is about. So you call Powell an asshole in front of the whole world, you use the State's shrink for an ashtray, you talk about killing other people if you have to. You're killing yourself here, Jennifer, you know that?"

"What am I supposed to do, put on an act?"

There was a time when he thought that was what she was doing. Not now. "Yes! That would be a beautiful thing. I would love a little act right now. Let them see another Jennifer, some gentleness behind the front. Or rather, maybe drop the tough guy act."

"Why? Why show it to them?"

Hardy put his face down in front of hers. "Please. We've only got a couple more days, Jennifer. Could you try…?" He turned around, away from her. "Goddamn," he said.

"You're mad at me."

Pacing across to the windows, he looked across the short expanse to the freeway, the faded buildings beyond, the gray sky."

"You are."

"Okay, so I'm mad at you. So what?"

He was aware of her moving, coming up behind him. She pressed herself against his back. He felt her hand come around to his stomach, low, and start to descend.

He whirled around, backing against the window. "What the hell are you doing?"

She looked up at him, her eyes surprised. "Don’t be mad at me," she said, whispering.

Hardy tried to back away again but there was no place to go. She took a half step into him, against him.

This wasn't going to happen. For a second there was no room, no light. He gripped her shoulders, pushing her back as hard as he could, away from him. As quickly as it happened, somewhere in the middle of it, a vestige of control kicked in, made him hang on, kept him from throwing her backward across the room.

He held her at arms length. As he came back to himself he realized how tightly he was holding her shoulders. She had her whipped look now. He let her go. "Don't you ever, ever do that again."

She backed away.

He had to turn again, to see something outside the room. The fog, the same freeway, the city beyond. He gulped air, trying to get a breath, to show his blood down.

Behind him, she whispered, "It's just…" she began. "I'm sorry. Forget it."

He stared for a long minute at the nothing out the window. He knew now she wouldn't move. She was waiting. He sucked in another breath, then turned around. "Don't be sorry," he said. His legs still unsteady, weak under him, he walked across the room to the door. He was leaving her alone. The bailiff could watch her until they reconvened.

"Don't be sorry," he repeated. "Change."

Villars had them back in her chambers. Powell had let Hardy question Singh for about ten minutes before he had requested this private conference. Villars had – as usual reluctantly – agreed.

"Your Honor" – Powell was standing next to Hardy in front of Villars' desk – "the People have been patiently listening to Mr. Singh's fascinating story, but I fail to see any relevance at all to these proceedings. We've argued this before and Mr. Hardy keeps saying he's going to tie this into the Witt killings. I don't think he can."

Villars ruminated, then spoke: "Mr. Hardy, I have to agree. Can you tell us where this is going?"

Hardy took a minute, giving them the short version as well as he could – that the victims in both scenarios were killed with their own guns, the amount of money involved, the suspicion in Los Angeles that there had been a paid assassin in the death of Simpson Crane and his wife. When he finished, Villars was still puzzled.

"You're saying this Simpson Crane was killed with Jennifer Witt's gun?"

Hardy said no, Witt was killed with his own gun and Crane had been killed by his.

The judge turned to Powell. "Am I missing it?"

Powell jumped in. "Even if there is-"

Villars motioned him quiet. "Is there an evidentiary connection, Mr. Hardy?"

"This is a plausible alternative theory to these murders that the jury at least ought to hear."

"Perhaps you didn't hear me? I asked you if there was any evidentiary evidence?"

"Yes, of course."

After a beat, Villars asked if Hardy would favor them by telling them what it was.

"Witt was with the Yerba Buena Medical Group, Your Honor. He got wind of this stock scam and was going to go public with it. He was killed for that knowledge."

"By whom?"

"By whoever killed Simpson Crane?"

Villars drummed on her desk. "How do you know that?"

"I think I can make a persuasive argument."

Powell stepped into the breach. "Your Honor, this is ridiculous. This is neither the time nor place for alternative theories. The jury has already found Jennifer Witt guilty. If Mr. Hardy had any evidence, he should have had Freeman bring it up during the guilt phase.

"I didn't find out any of this until last weekend."

Powell threw up his hands. "Well, that's either too damn bad or damn convenient, isn't it?"

Villars held up a finger. "Gentlemen, please. This is a woman's life, and if justice is served, we ought to be able to find a place for it. If there is evidence, I want to hear about it anytime. Mr. Hardy, this Mr. Crane then was killed…"