not yet charged with any crime, let alone three counts of capital murder. We've got a different situation now, wouldn't you agree?'
'Your Honor, Mrs. Witt did not commit these crimes and she is anxious to clear her name in court.'
Thomasino almost smiled. 'Yes. Well, she will get that opportunity, but I'm inclined to agree with the People that, facing the possibility of the death penalty she might at least be tempted to forgo that opportunity. And without any remaining ties to the community and no immediate family-'
'Your Honor!' Jennifer's voice was a surprise to everyone in the courtroom. Defendants were, after all, usually so intimidated by these proceedings, by being referred to in their own presence in the third person, that it rarely occurred to them that they could actually speak up themselves. Jennifer did. 'I do have family here today.'
Hardy turned around. In the second row a graying man who might have been Thomasino's brother was halfway to his feet. Another younger man looked as though he was thinking about getting up, too. Between the two sat a middle-aged woman.
Hardy also noticed something pass between Jennifer and a well-dressed bearded man a few rows farther back in the gallery. Who was he? And why didn't Jennifer make some kind of friendly gesture to her own father, brother, mother? She pointed them out to Thomasino in hopes that they might help her win bail, but she didn't so much as nod to any of them.
Thomasino recovered quickly. 'All right, thank you. You folks back there, please be seated.'
'If it please the court.' Dean Powell was on his feet. 'I'd like to ask Mrs. Witt about the last time she saw her family.'
'Your Honor, please!' Hardy was sure that, like himself, Freeman had no idea what Powell was talking about, but he wasn't going to let such a request go unchallenged. They were a long way from trial here, and questioning the defendant was out of line.
'What are you getting at, Mr. Powell?'
'Your Honor, in the course of our investigation it's become clear that Mrs. Witt is not at all close to her family. In fact, they have been estranged-'
Freeman, from the hip, shot out. 'And that's why they're here today, Dean?'
The gavel slapped down. 'Mr. Freeman, you will address all your remarks to the court. Clear?'
'Of course, Your Honor, I'm sorry.' Like most of Freeman's moves, this one was calculated. Get off a losing point, direct attention anywhere else, even if it got him a contempt warning. And taking Thomasino's reprimand gave him another few moments to think of something else. 'But Mr. Powell should know better. Mrs. Witt's family is here today, obviously supporting her. What more do we need?'
Thomasino waved him down, cradling his hands over his gavel. 'Mrs. Witt, your family's presence here is noted, but it doesn't change the law. This is a no bail case.'
'Your Honor…' Freeman, one last time.
But Thomasino had had enough. The gavel came up with a judicial glare. He tapped it gently, then intoned, 'Bail is denied.'
5
In the hallway outside of Department 22 the gypsies had disappeared but there was still the usual hum of voices echoing off the bare walls.
'How can they not let her get bail?' Jennifer's father, Phil DiStephano, was saying. He was in Freeman's face, not exactly belligerent but certainly not cordial.
'We could appeal,' Freeman said, 'but I warn you, we'll lose. And even if we won, the judge would set an outrageously high bail.'
The attractive Mrs. DiStephano spoke up quietly from behind her husband. 'How much, Mr. Freeman?'
Phil DiStephano turned on his wife. 'It doesn't matter, Nancy. It's out of our league.' From appearances, it seemed he was right. Regardless of what bail turned out to be, if in fact they won an appeal, the DiStephanos didn't look like they would be able to pay it.
Phil wore a plain black suit that showed no sign of having been recently pressed, a white shirt, ironed but not new, a thin tie. The mother's clothes, though not the rest of her, reminded Hardy of Pat Nixon during the Checkers Speech. She was attractive enough – still, some might say, even beautiful, like her daughter – but something in her bearing, in the pinch of her lips, conveyed that her life hadn't been easy. The son, perhaps twenty-three, wore jeans, work boots, longish hair, a tucked-in Pendleton, and an attitude.
A working-class family, and it surprised Hardy a little. Jennifer had never been portrayed in the media as anything less than upper class, and in Hardy's interviews yesterday she had come across – even in her prison garb and through her grief – as the comfortably off successful doctor's wife. Her family suggested different roots.
When Freeman went on to tell them they could expect bail of a million dollars, or more, if they got it at all, the son exploded. 'Where the fuck she supposed to get that?'
'Tom!'
Freeman held up a calming hand. 'Exactly, son. The point is they don't want her to get out. They think she'll take a long walk and disappear.'
'I don't think she will. She has a very solid defense.' The man who belonged to the new voice moved forward, hand out to Freeman. 'Ken Lightner.' As though the name explained something. He added, 'I'm Jennifer's psychiatrist.'
It was the other man Hardy had noticed in the gallery. Reasonably good-looking, somewhat burly even in his tailored suit, Lightner sported a well-trimmed red beard under a head of dark brown hair. It was a striking combination that Hardy thought might come out of a bottle.
'What's Jenny need a shrink for?' Tom DiStephano said.
Nancy DiStephano put a hand on her son's arm as Lightner stepped in. 'You must be Tom.'
'No. I'm the Queen of England.'
She stepped between them. 'Don't be rude, Tom.'
Hardy wondered if Tom DiStephano was in enough control of himself to be anything – even rude – on purpose. Whatever the source of his anger, it was pretty clearly eating him up. He looked about, around the hallway, as though searching for an exit, an escape. His mother still held onto his arm, but he shook it off and turned to Hardy. 'Are you guys trying to get her off as crazy? Is that the deal? You think she's crazy?'
'No, not at all.' Lightner seemed to be striving for an understanding tone, trying to include everybody.
But this was Freeman's show and he was not about to hand the lead away. 'We haven't decided on a defense,' he said. 'Jennifer is innocent until she's proved guilty. I trust we're all in agreement here?'
It was a multi-layered tableau – anger, positioning, concern, grief, power. Brother Tom was at the center of it, perhaps slightly defused, but Hardy hoped nobody picked that moment to push him further. He would lose it.
Now, though, with no one to direct his anger toward, Tom stood there flexing his hands, feet flat on the floor, breathing hard. 'Well,' he paused, looking for an answer to something in the broad and echoing linoleum hallway, in the high ceilings. 'Well, just shit.'
'We'll all need to handle this,' Lightner said. 'This is a very trying situation and it's certainly okay to get angry, we all get angry…'
Hardy glanced at Freeman. All professions had their jargon. It probably passed for normal conversation in Lightner's set. But Nancy cared neither about anger or jargon. 'They're not really going to ask for the…' she couldn't say death penalty… 'for my daughter, are they?' She was close to tears, gripping her husband's hand.
Hardy thought he would take some of the focus away from Freeman, spread the pressure around. 'We're a long way from even getting to a trial, Mrs. DiStephano, much less a verdict and a penalty. We don't have to worry about that yet-'
'We damn well better worry about it,' Tom said. 'We don't take care of it now, it's going to happen.'
'Tom, you know something I don't?' Hardy said.
Now with a direction, Tom let it go. 'Yeah, I know something. I know people like us don't get a fair trial,
