'You said that. But if you're not going behind me…'
'No, that's not what's wrong. It's her, really, Jennifer. First I thought we… you know, we were two women… we could talk. But then she cut it off. She was about to tell me something important and then closed up, said I didn’t want to know. I began to wonder if maybe…'
'If maybe she's guilty?'
'Maybe. I couldn't handle that. Except I don't believe she killed Matt, even accidentally, or Larry. Maybe her first husband, I don't know. And if she did, I don't know whether I could handle it. If, I said. But she told me, why did I think she was fighting this thing so hard. The answer is she didn't kill them.'
'Although Larry beat and abused her?'
'Please don't cross-examine me, Dismas. She told me Larry beat her. But she also said she didn't kill him, or Matt – not by accident or mistake or any other way or for any other reason.'
Hardy looked at her, wondering if she was trying to convince herself. He certainly knew how that felt.
31
No one seemed to know where the storm came from, but rain slashed almost horizontally in gusts around Bryant Street, the temperature was in the low fifties and the gray paint on the Hall of Justice seemed a bruised and burnished blue as Hardy ran, raincoat flapping, from his parking space to the courthouse steps.
It was 12:42 when he entered the building. He knew they would be at recess, which was how he had planned it. He wasn't going directly to Villars' department anyway.
Freeman and Jennifer were having lunch in an abandoned office back behind the courtrooms.
Hardy nodded at the bailiff standing watch outside the door, then waited, getting his breathing under control from the run through the rain. He watched them through the wire-lined glass window in the door, talking, chatting really, at opposite sides of a pocked old green metal desk. He pushed open the door.
Freeman, his mouth full, raised a hand. 'Greetings. We're killing 'em, Diz. Their feet are up, I swear to God.'
Jennifer was pushing some three-bean salad around her white Styrofoam tray with a white plastic fork. He was struck again by the figure she cut – demure yet sophisticated, innocent and unattainable. It was as if she were Freeman's creation now – clay-molded by an artist.
Hardy had unbuttoned his dripping trenchcoat and now pulled a chair around backward and dropped himself over it. A gust delivered a fresh torrent of rain, slapping at the window in front of them hard enough to make everybody stop and look.
'More good news. The drought's over again.' Freeman shoveled some tubular pasta in a glutinous red sauce. He mopped his mouth with an already spotted napkin. 'Hey, Diz, listen up. I'm kicking some serious tail in there. I'm thinking about what I'm going to say in there.' He pointed back behind him to the courtroom. 'That's where I live, you hear me? You want some advice? No? I don't care, I'll give it to you anyway. You want to give good trial, that's where you'll live, too.' More milk, another swipe of napkin. 'It doesn't get in there, Diz, it doesn't count. And that's the truth. The truth is also we're winning right now.'
A long moment went by while everyone looked at one another. More rain got flung against the window. Over downtown, lightning arced into a rod on a hotel rooftop, and seconds later the crash of thunder rolled through the room.
Jennifer, kitty-corner to him, put her manicured hand over his. One part of him registered that it was cool and dry, so he thought it was odd that it seemed to burn where she touched him.
'Jennifer never admitted to Harlan Poole that Ned was beating her. In fact, she always denied it. His opinion that she was being battered is totally speculative,' Freeman said. 'He can say he and Jennifer were having an affair. He can say he had atropine in his office. Period. I filed an early 1118 yestereday after we crucified Strout. And Poole is turning into a bigger disaster than Strout.'
The 1118 is a motion for a directed verdict of acquittal, by which the judge is asked to rule that no reasonable jury could convict the defendant, that as a matter of law there isn't sufficient evidence to prove guilt. If the motion was granted, the charge would be dismissed and could never be retried.
'I'd bet Villars grants it after the recess.' Freeman's eyes seemed to glow. He put a hand on Hardy's other sleeve. 'He maybe can chew gum and walk, but I don't think Powell can run a campaign and a trial at the same time. This thing's gong south for him.'
The bailiff knocked and entered. Judge Villars was coming out of her chambers. Trial was going back into session.
Hardy sat listening as Powell tried to find some wedge to introduce Harlan Poole's testimony.
The dentist was a wreck. It was hard to imagine that this portly, balding, bespectacled, sweating man had ever been Jennifer's lover. Also, the 'low profile' that Terrell had promised him had turned out to be impossible to maintain. Like it or not, and he obviously hated it, Poole was a central figure in a capital murder trial. From his eyes, the role was playing havoc with his life.
'Dr. Poole.' Powell was recovering from another sustained objection. Freeman had jumped up as he liked to do, and Villars criticized Powell for again referring to the fact that Ned had beaten Jennifer, which they hadn't been able to establish because it was hearsay.
In his frustration, Powell was walking in circles, facing the bench, then the jury, back to the defense table, then his own table, all the way back around to Poole. 'Dr. Poole,' he said, 'you have testified that you were intimate with the defendant?'
Poole studied the ceiling, avoiding his wife in the gallery. He wiped a handkerchief across his eyebrows. 'Yes.'
'During you intimate moments did you have occasion to see the defendant naked?'
'Your Honor! Objection!'
But Powell had given this some thought. 'Your Honor, at your insistence, we have to take this testimony out of the realm of hearsay. This is not a direction I would have chosen to go, but it is relevant and it is not hearsay.'
Villars had her mask on. Eyes straight ahead, unmoving, she could have been a mannequin. 'Let's have counsel up here.'
Hardy rose along with Freeman. No one seemed to object, or even notice. They were before Villars, looking up.
Villars spoke quietly. 'I'm not sure I'm going along with the relevance, Mr. Powell. What does Mrs. Witt's nakedness have to do with the alleged killing of her husband?'
Freeman, still feeling he was on a roll, incautiously spoke right up. 'It doesn't.'
A mistake. Villars glared. 'When I want your answer or argument, Mr. Freeman, I'll address you, is that clear?' Without waiting for his response, she went back to the prosecutor. 'Mr. Powell?'
'Your Honor, it speaks to motivation. We know that her husband was beating her and that-'
'Wait a minute. Up to now all I've heard about is the insurance and an affair…'
Hardy suddenly noticed that the court reporter wasn't there. He surprised himself by speaking up. 'Excuse me, Your Honor, is this conference to go on the record?' The court reporter was supposed to take everything. Nothing in a capital case was off the record.
The judge seemed to realize for the first time that Hardy was even there. The look of surprise gave way to her usual intimidating glare, but Hardy didn't back down. 'Perhaps we could go to chambers?'
'We just got out here.' Extremely displeased, she frowned down at the three men who were waiting on her. 'What's your point, Mr. Hardy?'
'We don't have to go to chambers, Your Honor.' Powell was Mr. Conciliatory. 'I'm sure we can settle this right here.'
Villars straightened her back, drew in a quick breath. 'I'm getting pretty damn tired of asking one person a
