– Locke, Batiste, Powell, Terrell, Manion, Nancy, Hardy, three other homicide guys who happened to be there when it began. Locke for the first time looked at Nancy DiStephano, who was leaning wearily against the doorjamb to the interrogation room, her arms crossed, protecting her broken ribs.
'I haven't read the arresting officer's report,' Locke said. 'I was under the impression…' He stopped. 'After I read it, I'll make my decision.'
Powell followed him out, 'no commenting' all the way down the hall. In the homicide room there was a long silence. Finally Batiste spoke to Terrell. 'The District Attorney's office hires its own investigators, Walt. You want to be one, go apply. I'll expedite the paperwork.' He walked into his office.
Hardy walked back over to Nancy, who by now looked to be on the verge of fainting. Hardy got her to the chair, helped her down. She was panting from the exertion. Glitsky joined them. 'She could have called Freeman or you. I told her you were probably closer.'
Hardy put a hand on Glitsky's shoulder, squeezing it, a thank you. 'How about I take you home, Nancy?'
She was obviously in pain but she looked up at him, shaking her head. 'Would you mind? I'd like to see Jennifer if that's okay.'
After a short rest she felt she could handle the walk to the elevators, the short ride to the seventh floor.
When she got out of the elevator into the barred bullpen outside the heavy doors of the jail, Nancy put her hand to her mouth, a caricature of shock, except Hardy was certain it was genuine. There was the liniment of sweat smell – familiar to him. The way the sounds rang if they were close by – the elevator, the lock in the bullpen door, keys jangling. Far off, half-heard, haunting, voices were muffled yet the low hum was constant. They heard somebody scream, the crash of something being thrown. It was dinnertime.
Nancy clutched at his arm. 'I didn't know it was…' She didn't finish. She didn't have to. Nobody knew what it was like until they'd been there. 'I should have come down, but Phil…' Hardy knew that one too – Phil wouldn't let her.
He'd gotten permission for Nancy to enter the tiny attorney's room at the women's jail. He was by the door as it opened when they led Jennifer in.
Nancy was sitting across the small room. She bit her lip, her face tilted up. The door closed. 'Did they tell you about your father?'
Jennifer nodded, her hands flat against her sides. Nancy stood up, took a tentative step forward toward her daughter.
'Jenn…'
She barely whispered it. 'Oh, Mom…'
They stood there, unmoving. Nancy held her hands out and Jennifer moved to her uncertainly. They came together, embracing, Nancy's arms around her daughter's neck, her face twisted with the agony of her broken ribs but not letting go, squeezing, from Hardy's perspective, as tight as she could.
'I have to find it.'
'No,' Freeman said, 'you've got to drop it.'
'I don't have anything else. The woman doesn't have any friends. She's got a mother, but that's the only trace of her past. She's legally as sane as you or me. This is the only chance. I've got to pursue it.'
They were in Hardy's office. It was closing on eleven. He had remained in the interview room, a fly on the wall, for the hour that mother and daughter had talked or, more precisely, tried to reestablish some connection. It had been strained a lot of the time, with long silences and frequent tears, but they had held hands throughout and everything was personal – they never mentioned Jennifer's case.
After leaving the jail and making sure Nancy was okay to get herself home in a cab, he had come directly here. Freeman, of course, was working late, already on a new murder as well as prepearing Jennifer's appeal.
Now Freeman was listening to his tenant and sometime partner, who had swept half his files off his desk and was raving out of frustration and fatigue. 'You know how many people I've talked to these six months? And what do I have to show for it? I've got Jennifer's mother and Jennifer's shrink, and the jury won't believe her shrink. That's it. That's my case to save the woman's life.'
'You've got Jennifer herself.' Leave it to Freeman – he had eye for detail.
'Oh, there's a good idea.' Hardy, pacing, stepped over a stack of folders. 'Call Jennifer so she can look the jury in the eye and say, If you vote to execute me, then you can go fuck yourselves. That'll soften 'em right up.'
Freeman had gone around to sit behind Hardy's desk, in his chair. 'That's really all you've got.'
Hardy stopped. 'That's what I've been trying to tell you, David. She's totally separated from the world. As if you didn't know. She's too pretty to have other women trust her, and she's not the platonic type with me. Except for her son she didn't seem to give kids the time of day. After Ned killed her cat, she never even had another pet. Juries love cat lovers. Why didn't she get another one? The fact is I haven't found a soul who's got anything good to say about Jennifer Witt.' Hardy leaned over and started picking up the files he'd thrown. 'I really think I'm right, David. I know Simpson Crane found someone there screwing up.'
'Do you also really think they killed Larry, or had him killed?'
'At least it's a reason.'
'So is the abortion. Remember. We've been all through this, Dismas. Didn't Jennifer's brother hate Larry, too? And isn't the union squabble with Simpson Crane just as good as your scan idea? Might he in fact have been killed over that?'
'I don't know, I have no idea what Restoffer found there.'
'It doesn't really matter, but obviously it was enough to keep him interested all throughout the primary investigation, wasn't it?'
Freeman's point was clear enough, though Hardy wasn't in the mood to hear it. He knew that any event in life could support an almost infinite number of possibilities, even plausible scenarios to explain them if imagination were the only criterion. Trials would never end so long as attorneys were allowed to introduce another way something might have happened without regard to evidence. Which was why, overworked as they were, courts were intolerant of hearsay, fabrication, unsupported theories.
At a trial, somebody had to see it, smell it, touch it or taste it, then swear to it. Because, in real life, it had only happened one way. And the court's job, perhaps more than justice, was making sure the story was righteous, in synch with the evidence.
Hardy sat on the floor picking up folders. 'What am I going to do, David?'
'I wasn't entirely kidding before,' Freeman told him. 'First I'd let her mother get up, but then I'd call Jennifer…'
'But you didn't even do that!'
'That was a different situation. I had the luxury or thought I did. You don't. This is the last card. The jury has got to get a chance to know her, see who she is beyond-'
'Powell will eat her.'
'He well may. She may condemn herself. It's a risk.' He brightened. 'But then, life's a risk, my boy. Besides, what's your option?'
John Lescroart
Hardy 04 – 13th Juror, The
47
The kids weren't awake yet – a miracle. It was just past six and Frannie was reading the morning paper, in the middle of the story. Even though charges weren't being filed, the mother of the convicted killer had killed her
