'Them,' she said. She could say Larry, but not Matt. She might let people – Ned or Larry – control her up to a point, but when she moved out from that control it was on her own.
It occurred to him too that she had changed over the past year – maybe she'd decided not only that she wasn't going to take it anymore with Larry but with any other men as well. She'd just gotten assertive, cured of the submissive streak that had allowed her to accept being beaten.
If she were getting better Hardy was glad for her. Still, he thought, strategically it couldn't have come at a worse time.
What was he going to argue in front of the jury? What could he say that might influence them at least to spare her life?
Since he was in the building anyway he thought he would drop by Dean Powell's office on the third floor, see if he was putting in his time at his desk while he campaigned.
He was. Sitting alone, reading what looked to be a police report, Powell started at Hardy's knock. After the surprise, the genial candidate appeared. 'Hardy! Come on in, take a load off.' Half out of his chair, hand extended, he could afford to be gracious. After all, he had won. 'How's Freeman? Not taking it too hard, I trust. I ought to give him a call, congratulate him on a good fight.'
Hardy closed the door behind him. He leaned back against it, not moving toward the seat in front of the desk. 'Dean,' he began, 'I want to be straight with you a minute. Off the record, is that all right?'
The smile remained, but Powell's expression went a little sideways. He sat back down. 'Sure, Mr. Hardy.'
'Dismas is okay if Dean is.'
The smile flickered back. Hardy hadn't had much luck reading Powell. He couldn't really blame himself. Powell was in an unusual predicament – on the one hand he wanted votes so badly that it was almost painful to watch. On the other, the two men's relationship was adversarial. It must be awkward, Hardy thought, to feel like your adversary might wind up voting for you, to want your adversary to vote for you, even to like you.
'Dean's fine,' Powell said. 'I assume you're here about Jennifer Witt.'
Hardy nodded. 'This is off the record,' he repeated. 'I don't want this to be construed as a pre-sentencing conference or anything formal, and I'd prefer if what we say here doesn't leave this office.'
'You have my word.'
Hardy would rather have heard 'sure' or 'okay' or anything but 'you have my word,' which he thought clanged with insincerity if not downright duplicity. Still, he was here and determined to press ahead.
'I wanted to talk about the death penalty.'
Powell folded his hands in front of him on the desk. 'All right,' he said mildly. 'Talk.'
'I don't think it's just.'
Powell waited.
'You and I both know that there are people out in the system with sheets a mile long that make Jennifer look like a den mother, and these guys are getting ten years for armed robbery with priors and serving six.'
'That's true. It's one of the reasons I'm running for AG. That's got to stop. We need more jail space. We need tougher sentencing.'
Hardy didn't need the campaign speech. 'Dean, my point is that going capital on Jennifer Witt is going overboard.'
Powell looked up at him. 'A woman who's killed not one, but two husbands' – he raised a palm to stop Hardy's argument – 'we don’t' have to be legalistic, Dismas. David Freeman won that one in court, sure, but since we're off the record, we know the truth about that. Let's not kid ourselves. This woman has twice plotted and killed in cold blood for money, and in this second case, also managed to kill her own son. If that isn't a death penalty case I don't know what is.'
Hardy braced his foot back against the door. 'Have you talked to her? One on one?'
'Why would I want to do that?'
'Maybe to get a handle on the fact that she's a human being.'
Powell sat back. 'Let me ask you one – have you tried to visualize the crime? Can you imagine the kind of person who takes out a gun and shoots her husband at point-blank range and then turns and' – Powell exploded in righteous anger – 'and blows away her own child? Can you imagine that?'
'She didn't do that, it wasn't like that-'
Powell slammed his desk, coming halfway up onto his feet. 'Bullshit! That's just what it was like. The jury says that's what she did. I proved it. Beyond a damned reasonable doubt.' Gathering his control, he sat himself down, lowered his voice. 'If you want to call such a person a human being, you're welcome to, but don’t expect any tears from me. Or any mercy, either.'
There was a knock on the door and Hardy stepped aside, pulling it open. It was Art Drysdale, Hardy's old mentor, the ex-officio administrative boss of the office. 'Everything all right in here? How you doin', Dismas?'
'We're fine, Art,' Powell said evenly. 'Everything's fine. Just a little disagreement among professionals.'
Drysdale looked from one man to the other, raised a hand and closed the door again.
'You really think she did it, don’t you? You know her husband – Larry – was beating her?'
'So what? Nobody's talking battered wife here. Freeman never did.'
'We should have. I should have. Jennifer wouldn't allow it but she was wrong.' He almost said dead wrong. 'She thought it would prejudice the jury, make them think she was suing it as an excuse.' Sitting down, he gave Powell as much as he could of the short version. 'I'd just like you to consider if it was self-defense.'
'Bring it up in the penalty-phase, I'll consider it. I'm not a monster, Hardy.'
'I can't bring it up. I've just told you why.'
'You can't bring it up?' Powell went all the way back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, running his fingers through his mane the way he did. He took a long moment, running it around different ways. Finally he came down. 'This is pretty goddamn sleazy.'
'I'm not-'
'Don’t try to lay this human-being guilt trip on me now, Hardy. To tell the truth, it was heavy enough deciding to go capital on this, but I've played by the rules from the get-go. I don't give a shit what spin you put on it, we're sitting here talking about circumventing the system, and as far as I'm concerned this is an unethical conversation and it's over right now.'
Powell was up out of his desk, around it, to the door. He pulled it open. I'll see you in court,' he said. 'Not until.'
Hardy's first reaction was that he needed a drink. His stomach was in knots, his breathing coming shallow. He stayed thirsty until he got inside the door of Lou's, then abruptly decided not. It was still early in the afternoon, and a drink or two now would end his day. And he needed all the time he could get.
He was at his desk, going over his options.
Lightner's motion to introduce de facto witnesses to Jennifer's pain and suffering at the hands of her husband wasn't bad – might well garner some sympathy for her. But as soon as Jennifer saw the way the wind was blowing there – and it wouldn't take long – she would either go berserk in the courtroom or insist on testifying that no beatings took place.
So given that, what was he going to do next Monday? If Powell's reaction was any indication, Jennifer hadn't won many hearts in the courtroom. Dressed in a way that separated her from the commoners, for the most part sitting without expression at the defense table, she hadn't testified on her own behalf. Another of Freeman's questionable decisions.
