sky was a thick gray blanket over the steps in front of the Hall.
Hardy had his arm around his wife, who was feeling sick, her hand clutched to her stomach. She had waited in the courtroom until it had cleared, until Hardy had come out after going into the private suite with Freeman and Jennifer. Where Jennifer hadn't wanted to talk about anything.
At least not with Freeman.
She told Freeman, a smile of fury on her face, that he was lucky he had made her pay up front. If she had known he was going to lose… wasn't he supposed to be the best?
He told her it wasn't over yet, of course that was her understandable reaction. But he'd be working on the appeal. There were grounds…
Hardy had listened to part of it, then excused himself – he would talk to Jennifer later, without Freeman – and came out to Frannie. She wanted to go home.
But Freeman caught them on the steps, wanting more post mortem. He was still fighting the case. He was going to appeal. 'It came down to the three minutes…'
Hardy felt he had to say something. 'That was my fault. I thought it was a big deal.'
Freeman hit him on the arm. 'That's bullshit,' he said. 'The whole thing was my show, don't kid yourself. I mean, I should have walked the route myself. If there was any way in the world she could have got to that bank in five minutes instead of eleven it was my responsibility to have found out how. Too many eggs in that basket.' He pulled his jacket more tightly around him. 'Anyway, I can probably get a new trial. Villars should have stopped this one after she granted my 1118.'
Whistling in the dark? Hardy had a hard time imagining that Freeman wanted to go through this exercise again. He also doubted whether as a matter of law Freeman was right. But he really preferred not to get into that. Instead he said, 'Maybe you should have crossed Lightner. That's when it went south. If they were having an affair we could have made the case that he had as good a motive as she did.'
Freeman shook his head. 'If,' he said. 'And if we could prove it, and if he hadn't had an alibi, which he did. Not to mention he pretty much convinced me he just wouldn't do that. No, I'm afraid Lightner just gave Jennifer a better motive, Diz. The less the jury saw of him the better.'
Frannie finally spoke up. 'Guys, please, I'm really not feeling good, Dismas.' She looked at Freeman. 'Sorry, David, I can't handle this very well. Jennifer did not do this. How could they have found her guilty?'
A gust whipped between them, stopping what Freeman was starting to say. Reconsidering, forced to really see her expression at last, he moved closer and put an arm out, encircling them both. 'Go on home, Frannie. Get some rest. Diz, go on, you two go on home.'
In the car, Frannie was crying quietly. Hardy had the windshield wipers going in the drizzle. She held his hand in both of hers on her lap.
'You're more upset than she was.'
Frannie shook her head. 'No. She was just holding up, trying to hold herself together.'
Hardy glanced across. 'Well, she's some kind of superhuman holder-upper then.'
Nodding, Frannie said that she had to be. 'She did not kill Matt, Dismas. She didn't kill Larry, either. I still believe that.'
Hardy looked over at his wife. He squeezed both her hands, not knowing what to say.
John Lescroart
40
Before she had known that the jury would be coming in that day, Frannie had made plans for the weekend. She knew that her husband would probably want to stick around, hang out with Freeman, discuss and analyze and worry. She didn't think that would be wise.
So when they got home from picking up Rebecca and Vincent at Grandma's, although she still felt sick to her stomach, she helped Dismas pack the car and then got him in the passenger seat and drove north for ninety minutes, up to the small town of Occidental, near the Russian River.
She had rented adjoining rooms in the old Union Hotel where there was nothing to do except eat huge plates of home-style Italian food and drink in the bar and dance to country music and, in the soggy daytime, drive around some more looking at redwoods and water and playing with your children.
In spite of her own feelings, she gave Dismas until they got to San Rafael – about thirty-five minutes – to get out all of his frustrations and impressions about the trial and verdict and plans for the upcoming penalty phase.
Right now they were having a family weekend. The penalty phase would take over their lives soon enough. This was an opportunity for some quality in their lives. She had gone to some lengths to arrange it. And she was going to demand it for herself, for her children, for her man.
The rest of the world could wait until Monday.
Hardy knew it was one of the reasons he loved her. She did things like that.
His own inclination was to keep pushing and pushing until something gave, but she had taught him on a couple of occasions that sometimes it didn't hurt to back up a step and look at the direction you were pushing. A different angle of perspective might get more accomplished.
He had originally planned to go right up and talk with Jennifer, but on Monday morning, marginally refreshed from the food and simple beauty of the north coast – although he hadn't slept much – he found that sometime over the weekend he had decided to call on Ken Lightner.
Lightner had been, not exactly a thorn, but a presence since the beginning – in any event his involvement was greater than Hardy had originally suspected and he wanted to get to the bottom of it if he could. Not only that, he was considering the battered wife issue again – he felt he had to. The jury had decided that Jennifer had killed Larry and Matt, but he thought they might be persuaded that she wasn't a cold-blooded killer deserving execution if they knew how often and/or how badly she had been beaten.
It was worth a try. He didn’t have much else.
Lightner had sounded pleased, perhaps relieved, to hear from him. Maybe he felt ostracized since the allegation of the affair had come out and they hadn't wanted to bring him to the fore because his relationship with Jennifer could appear to give her one more reason to get rid of her husband.
The office was across from Stern Grove in a large mixed-use apartment complex called – cleverly – The Grove. It was a glass and brown-shingle contemporary building surrounded by trees, the parking lot on this morning half-filled with a disproportionate sprinkling of high-end German automobiles. Rent here wouldn't be cheap.
In spite of a morning sun, autumn was in the air. After he had parked, Hardy stood a minute by his car, arrested by the scents of eucalyptus and wood smoke, although where the smoke came from was a mystery. No one was supposed to burn anything outdoors anymore – it was illegal.
Lightner's office seemed to take up most of one of the back-corner modules. Hardy rang, waited, was buzzed in. He walked down a long hallway of muted color. There were six or eight non-representational framed things – works of art? – on the walls.
Lightner's bulky frame appeared in the light at the end of the hall. 'Mr. Hardy,' he said. 'Welcome.'
Hardy shook hands and was introduced to Helga, Lightner's secretary. The reception area was bigger than it had to be but still, somehow, cozy. The two couches were overstuffed. There was an easy-chair and ottoman in hot orange, yellow, blue and black, the only brightness in the office. Helga herself – she preferred, she said, Helga to Ms. Or Miss Brun – was about forty and wore no rings. She had a low black desk, the surface of which was clean except for a green felt blotter. A low shelf held a typewriter – no computer here – with what Hardy took to be a six- line business phone and intercom set up next to it. Helga asked if they would like coffee and both said they would.
