Hardy leaned back against the wall, feverish. This wasn't what happened. It couldn't have been what happened. He had other ideas he had to explore and they made a lot more sense. He was delirious.
'You can't do it today.'
Hardy's fever had leveled at 101, which was also the age he felt. He was on his third cup of black coffee, having forced himself to down some hash, toast and orange juice. 'The appointment's at nine. I've got to go. I've only got three days.'
Three days until Villars, the thirteenth juror, gave the final ruling on the verdict – Tuesday at 9:30 a.m.. Hardy had his automatic motion to set aside the verdict due at that time and, in spite of everything, thought he still at least had a chance to reduce the sentence to life in prison. If oly he could find something to bring Villars to it, something she could find admissible.
After the verdict he had spent half the night with Jennifer talking about options. He held back his trump – on his own he had decided that he would at least lay out the battered-woman issue to Villars if it was the only thing that could mitigate death. But in the meanwhile, he had filled Jennifer in on the YBMG situation and she had authorized him to go wherever he had to and do whatever was needed to get any proof he could. At least she now wanted to live.
His first step – at eight on a Friday night – had been calling the chairman of YBMG. Dr. Clarence Stone lived in San Francisco, and, persuaded by Hardy's urgency, had cleared an hour in his home on a Saturday morning for him. So flu or no, Hardy had to go.
Rebecca and Vincent were playing with Leggo's in the nursery. Frannie said, 'Look, you're sick. You've been working around the clock. You haven't been home in a month. You've got to take care of yourself.'
He tried to smile through the haze. 'That's my plan. I will. Soon. Promise.'
Vincent let out a wail and Frannie rushed to the back of the house. Hardy slowly got up and, more slowly, grabbing handholds as he passed them so he wouldn't fall down, made his way to the nursery door. Vincent had caught his finger in one of the joints of the stroller and Rebecca had sent up a sympathetic wail. Turning his head away from her, he picked her up and bounced her in his arms.
In a minute or so, the kids in their arms, they bundled back to the kitchen. Frannie, holding Vincent, was getting a piece of ice cream from the freezer to put on the pinch. 'Can't you just appeal like everyone else?' she said.
'Peel what?' Rebecca asked. 'Banana peel?'
Vincent looked over Frannie's shoulder for the banana peel, repeating it. They started to chant. 'Banana peel, banana peel.' It continued, getting louder. His kids were some comedians. It was great that they loved each other, had the same sense of humor. This banana peel game was funny funny funny, a real laugh riot.
Hardy thought his head was going to levitate without him attached. Now, of course, the kids wanted bananas and, predictably, they were out of bananas.
'You feel good enough to go out, why don't you take them to the store and buy some?' He knew she was justified to some degree in feeling this way, but that didn't make him appreciate her at the moment. 'Both of them,' she continued. 'Mommy needs a break.'
Clarence Stone live in a mansion in the Seacliff area, geographically less than a mile from Hardy's house and psychologically in another galaxy. The short walk from the head of the circular drive to the front door wiped Hardy out. He took nearly a minute getting his breath before he rang the doorbell.
A bona fide butler admitted him and they walked a long hallway, their footfalls swallowed by the thick Oriental runner. The butler ushered him into a library/office, where a white-haired man with a clipped mustache sat at a desk that rivaled the one in Freeman's office for expanse. He wore a maroon silk robe and was writing with a fountain pen. When Hardy was introduced he finished writing, put down the pen, stood – he was wearing black slacks under the robe – came around the desk and offered his hand.
'You don't look good, son.'
Hardy didn't doubt it – he also didn't feel good. He'd had chills driving over. The thick fog seemed to insulate against any warmth or even light. The heater in the car had been turned up high, blasting him, but it hadn't helped.
'Touch of the flu,' Hardy said. 'That's all.'
Stone the doctor told his butler to bring in some tea with lots of lemon and honey. He had Hardy sit down on a club chair and remove his coat. He asked his permission to look him over. No charge.
'You getting much sleep? You ought to stay in bed with this, you know?'
Through his chattering teeth, Hardy laughed weakly. 'I got my eight hours this week. I'm fine.'
Stone had an old-fashioned black doctor's satchel and he set it on the floor now, taking out some instruments. He listened to Hardy's chest, stuck an instant-read thermometer into his ear, looked in his ears and at his throat. 'Yep, you've got the flu.'
The tea arrived and Stone prepared a couple of glasses. 'This must be important,' he said. 'You really shouldn't be out walking around.'
'It is important,' Hardy said. He had his coat back on and pulled it close around him.
Stone sat kitty-corner to him, turned in. 'Last night you said it concerned YBMG?'
Assuming Stone was familiar with the background, Hardy gave him the short version, concluding with Larry Witt's concern over the timing and tone of the offering circular.
When he had finished, Stone did not answer immediately. 'You know many doctors, Mr. Hardy?'
Hardy nodded. 'Some.'
'You know how many people try to sell them things?' He held up his hand. 'No, I'll tell you. Not a day goes by that the average successful doctor doesn't get ten stock brochures, two or three credit-card applications, offers of lines-of-credit, you name it. Even if you go to the trouble of trying to get the post office to eliminate all this solicitation mail, you're inundated. Believe me, I've tried. It's out of our control.'
'All right.'
'All right. But you seem to think a flashy presentation, high-profile sales pitch is going to matter. It is not. We get them every day. In fact, the Board specifically decided to issue a low-key circular rather than a sensational one. We didn't want to raise hopes in the Group's future success after it went for-profit. It was entirely within the realm of the possible that we could have gone under altogether. No one – certainly no one on the Board – anticipated PacRim's interest, or the windfall.'
'What about the short turnaround time you gave everyone?'
'It wasn't that short.' Stone sat back, apparently relaxed, and crossed his legs. 'Doctors tend to be fairly literate people, Mr. Hardy. They can read. But like everybody else, often they don't act until they have to. So you give people a deadline, it moves things along. Besides, remember that this was a twenty-dollar investment at most. Twenty dollars. Not the kind of decision you'd have to discuss with your wife or lawyer. It was straightforward and everybody had an opportunity.'
'But not everybody bought.'
Stone shrugged, nodded. 'If you see a conspiracy in that, I'm afraid we have to part company there.'
It would have been easier if Stone had shown the slightest sign of defensiveness, but he was sitting so comfortably, speaking so moderately, and, worst of all, making such perfect sense.
Hardy leaned forward. 'Ali Singh said only thirty doctors bought.'
Stone agreed. 'Perhaps forty. I'm not exactly sure. Certainly less than wish they had now.' He spread his arms, palms up, apologetic. 'But that's the nature of these things. Who doesn't wish they'd bought Apple when it opened, or even McDonald's?'
'But Dr. Witt complained even before the windfall.'
'Do you know that he complained? Who did he complain to? Maybe he just wanted to ask for an extension. Maybe he had a quick question. Maybe anything. I didn't know Dr. Witt personally, so I have no idea.'
This interview was taking on a sense of deja vu – Villars had had the same objections. Hardy just didn't
