John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

"The investigating officer was a Floyd Restoffer. He's with the LAPD. I could subpoena him to come up."

"And they have a suspect?"

"No, but they're certain it was a professional hit."

Villars paused, not liking that very much. "All right, so this Restoffer, what has he found about this Group?"

"The group was represented by Crane's firm, as I've told you."

"By Crane himself?"

Hardy hesitated, but there was no escaping it. "No, by another of the partners."

"Now wait a minute," Powell exploded. "Your Honor, does Mr. Hardy mean to tell us Crane didn't even represent this Group?"

"I hope not," Villars said. "That's not your evidence, is it, Mr. Hardy?"

This was not turning out pretty. "Well, no one's bee charged, if that's what you mean, but-"

Villars' face had clouded, her volume increasing. "That's exactly what I mean. Does Restoffer have a case that relates here, or what?"

"It's an open case down there."

"Ten months and it's still open? What's this man Restoffer doing with a ten-month-old case?"

"Nothing now, Your Honor. He's been taken off it."

Hardy well knew that alleged linkage here came across as pretty farfetched. Perhaps – no, certainly – he was damaging his professional credibility even bringing it up, but what else could he do? Jennifer was going to get sentenced to death if he couldn't pull something out of his hat. Was there really a rabbit in there? He didn't have any idea, but in his desperation he sure as hell would argue it. If the judge would let him.

All Hardy felt he needed was another ten minutes at least to try to explain the latest news he'd received from Restoffer: how he'd been told to drop the case after questioning Bachman; the wealthy woman in San Marino who was both a contributor to Frank Kelso, the LA supervisor, and a member of the YBMG Board. There had to be something there. He needed ten minutes alone with Villars – he had to get her ear.

"Your Honor, I wonder if we might speak in camera."

Villars sat back in her chair. "No," she said. "There is nothing off the record in a capital case. Nobody's going to cut any private deals."

Her irritation with Hardy was palpable.

"Your Honor, I must say something." Powell stepped into the pause, polite but firm. Villars turned to him. "I'd like you to consider another possibility – as Mr. Hardy is having you do. And that is this: Regardless of what you ruled or what the jury might have found had matters progressed differently, let's consider the possibility that Jennifer's first husband, Ned, was is fact killed by this same assassin ten years ago. If we grant that, could it then become, in Mr. Hardy's words, a plausible defense?" Powell squared around, right at Hardy. "It's absurd. It's insulting."

Villars had given every indication she'd reached her limit before, but Powell's reductio ad absurdum hit its mark. The judge nodded, leaning forward. "I agree," she said. "You know, I've been listening hard, Mr. Hardy. I've been paying attention. I've been leaning over backward because, as you point out, this is a capital case. But for the life of me I can't see any reason this should be admitted."

"Your Honor, there's got to be a connection." Did he really believe that? Or was it his own desperation talking? "Give me a continuance for a couple of days, I'll fly down to LA-"

"Your Honor, please!"

She held up a hand, not needing Powell's input. "That's not going to happen. We've already taken more than two months of this jury's lives." She sat, still in her robes, her face set. She lowered her voice, which gave it even more authority, to that she needed it; there was no mistaking who was the boss in Villars' chambers. "You know, Mr. Hardy, I've been trying to figure you out. I hear you were a pretty good lawyer when you worked for the City. You seem like a sincere man. You appear to work hard. But time and again in this trial I've come up against your refusal to deal with the way we do things here in this state, or in any other state that I know of. In the last couple of weeks I've had to listen to how I was personally hostile to you and how that was affecting my decisions. Then we get this specter of the battered-woman syndrome, which you raise once, don't present any evidence of, and then drop. Today, your first real opportunity to bring up something to help your client, some witnesses that might want to argue for her character or her background or something…"

"Your Honor…"

Villars slammed her hand on her desk, but her voice remained low. "Mr. Powell is correct here. The guilt phase of this trial is over. We have played strictly by the rules. Your side lost. That's how we do it. That's why it's fair."

Hardy waited a moment to make sure he wasn't interrupting, that she was finished. "It may be fair, Your Honor, but they got it wrong. Jennifer did not kill her husband and son-"

"Then prove it, when this is over. I guarantee you, if you find another murderer, Mrs. Witt will go free. But in the meantime, your job is to argue mitigation. I want to know if you are prepared to do that or not?"

Hardy let out a breath. "One of the main thrusts of my argument was that somebody else killed them."

"With the evidence you've got, I'd say that was probably ill-advised strategy." Adjusting her robes, Villars checked the clock on the wall and shifted gears. "All right, gentlemen, it's four-fifteen. We'll go outside and adjourn for today." She pointed a finger. "Mr. Hardy, tomorrow I expect witnesses who have something to say to the jury. Evidence talks here, Mr. Hardy. It's all that talks."

She rose and came around the desk, leading the way to the door, five steps ahead of the men. Powell hung back, letting Hardy come up abreast of him, then whispered. "Bullshit walks."

Hardy left the courtroom, head bowed, shoulders hunched, seeing nothing. It had fallen apart. Not only had he let down his client, he had sullied his reputation, such as it was, by misreading the fairest judge he was likely to appear before.

Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Powell in front of the television cameras. He'd get a few seconds of air time looking good, but he wasn't about to defy the gag order, not at this late date and with things going his way. Instead he was carrying on about how crime was a huge problem, all right, he had a lot of thoughts on the subject.

Hardy had had his fill of Dean Powell. He wanted to slink back to his office, but Inspector Walter Terrell suddenly was standing in his way. Mr. Theoretical. But Hardy couldn't very well condemn him for that – he himself had fallen into the same trap. Because something could have happened didn't necessarily mean that it did. Or, in any case, that it could be proved. His job, the trust he'd taken on, was to prove, not speculate. He'd lost track of the obvious.

"They sent me down to get you," Terrell said enigmatically. "There's somebody upstairs asking for you."

He stopped. It never ended. What did Jennifer want now? How did she get upstairs so soon? Then another question popped up: Why was Terrell giving him the message?

"On seven?" he asked, meaning the jail.

"No, four." The fourth floor was homicide. "We're talking to Mrs. Witt's mother. Her dad died a couple of hours ago. She wants her lawyer. Abe Glitsky told her he thought he knew where you might be."

Nancy had volunteered to come down. Homicide lieutenant Frank Batiste as well as Glitsky and Sean Manion were on hand. Nancy was not being charged with anything yet in the death of her husband. No one argued that she had killed him, but they needed her statement, even if it was self-defense.

Nancy was sitting in a yellow leatherette chair at the table in one of the interrogation rooms. Dressed up, with black eyes and a bandage across her nose, she could have passed for thirty-five, much as her daughter on a good day could pass for twenty.