Freeman waited, silent.
'Mr. Freeman?
'I was waiting for your ruling, Your Honor.'
Villars was not amused. She had the reporter read back the previous dialogue, then said that, for the record, the objection is sustained.
Freeman nodded, then continued with Terrell. 'How many of Mr. Hollis' friends did you interview?'
'All that I could find.'
'And every single one of them confirmed hat Ned experimented with drugs, isn't that true?'
'Objection. Hearsay.'
'Sustained.'
Freeman: 'Did any of them deny that Ned experimented with drugs?'
'Objection. Hearsay.'
'Sustained.'
The old defense attorney stood for a beat. Then: 'During your exhaustive investigation into the death of Ned Hollis, did anyone ever describe Mr. Hollis' drug use as other than experimental?'
Like a weary jack-in-the-box, Powell again rose. 'Objection, Hearsay.'
Villars had had enough. 'Mr. Freeman, no matter how many different ways you ask the question, I'm going to sustain this objection every time. Please move on.'
Freeman was contrite. 'I apologize, Your Honor.' Back to Terrell with a kindly smile. 'I have no further questions.'
29
'They're shooting themselves in the foot on Ned. You notice Powell said little about it in his opening, especially, didn't even put Jennifer in the county when he died, much less the room.'
Freeman chewed on his sandwich – a thick fistful of dry Italian salami on a sourdough roll. 'Villars should have bought my 995.' This was the motion he had filed before the trial, asserting that there was not sufficient evidence in the Ned situation to convict, which Villars had denied. 'Unless they've got some big surprise, this one can't fly.'
It was the lunch recess. They had cabbed up to the office on Sutter and were sitting on benches in the small brick-and-glass enclosed garden just outside the conference room. Above them, in the aperture formed by the surrounding buildings, the sky burned a deep blue. Indian summer, San Francisco's finest season.
Hardy picked at the bread of his sandwich, threw it in the direction of some sparrows foraging in the low shrubbery.
'You with us?' Freeman asked.
'Sure.' Hardy flicked another crumb. 'Just thinking.'
'About the case?'
Hardy shrugged.
'You don't have to tell me, but are things all right with you? You doing okay? Getting enough sleep? The first days of these trials can be tough.'
Leaning forward, Hardy let out a long breath. 'I don't know what's going on at home, David. It feels like I'm losing my wife.'
'Literally?'
'I don't know. Maybe not.'
'But maybe so?'
Hardy stood up, crossed the small opening, stared at blank brick. Without turning around he said, 'Something's happened the last couple of months. I don't think it's the trial, all this preparation. I don't know what it is, but it scares me to death.'
'You ask her?'
'Couple of hundred times, one way or the other.'
'And nothing?'
Hardy shrugged, finally turned. 'Not much. Not enough. We've got this tradition where we go out on Wednesday nights. Date night. Or we had it 'til a month ago.'
The birds were chirping over the crumbs and Freeman broke off a bit of his bread and tossed it across the patio. 'Something happen a month ago?'
'I wish it had. I came home one night, thinking we were going out, and she's in a nightgown reading. She tells me I ought to go out by myself, shoot some darts. She's just tired.'
'Maybe she was tired?'
'Time was she'd be tired on a Wednesday night, we'd grab a blanket, go out to the beach, take a nap. This date night idea was something we'd decided to do, tired or not, kids or not. The marriage needed it. We need it for ourselves.'
Freeman contemplated his sandwich. 'How old are your kids?'
'Two and almost one, but it's not that.' At the skeptical look, Hardy said, 'I don't think it's that. You think it is?'
'I barely know Frannie, Diz. But she wouldn't be the first woman to decide her kids needed her more than her husband. Priorities change.'
'Well, they haven't changed with me.'
Freeman allowed himself a smile. 'Life's unfair, like JFK said. If only we could find somebody to sue.' He shifted on the bench, popped the last of his sandwich. 'Does she think you need her?'
'Come on, David. Need? Who knows need? I love her and I think she knows that.'
'I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but your kids know need. Frannie knows need.'
'Well, hell, I need her, too. I mean, we're adults, though. We've both got things we've got to do. I've got this trial. She's got the kids. What are we supposed to do? That's what date night was supposed to be for – to keep us connected.'
'It doesn't sound like you're too connected. You just said it – you've got this trial, she's got the kids.'
Hands in his pockets, Hardy found himself pacing. Arguing with David Freeman, proving his point that Frannie – perhaps – shouldn't feel what she was feeling, whatever it was, didn't alter the fact that something pretty fundamental seemed to have changed between them, some balance had shifted.
Maybe what Freeman had implied was true – that she didn't feel as though he needed her so much anymore. He had to admit he wasn't giving her much sign of it – leaving for work early, getting home late, drafting motions, doing research, following up his investigations, reviewing files on weekends.
As far as that went, he didn’t feel like she was needing him much either. She was doing her jobs, caring for the children, taking care of the home. They were, he believed, committed to each other, and that had to be one of the main ingredients of what they both called adult love.
'I'd surprise her.' Freeman had come up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Break up the routine. Maybe she's just burned out. Maybe she sees you're not there for her and she's afraid you won't be and she's pulling away.'
'But I am there. This trial's just starting. What does she expect?'
'Maybe the question is what does she need?' Freeman patted his shoulder, opening the glass door back into the conference room. 'Let's get back to court. Her Honor frowns on tardiness.'
John Strout, the coroner for the City and County of San Francisco, was already a familiar figure to Hardy and every other professional in the courtroom. An authority with a national reputation, the drawling, well-respected medical examiner had appeared at almost every trial, grand jury and preliminary hearing that involved a murder in San Francisco – perhaps once a week for the past thirteen years – and now he sat his lanky frame down in the
