sipping.
'They should set up a TV camera and run this hall live.' It was David Freeman, rumpled as usual in a cheap rack suit, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. 'Probably pull a thirty share.'
Hardy gestured around them. 'You'd need a commentator to explain what's happening. Like here' – he pointed – 'it's a little ambiguous.'
Freeman considered it. 'The host is a good idea. Maybe we could have the judges rotate, like they do the calendar. 'This week on calendar we've go Marian Braun, and here in the hallway, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LIVE, IT'S JUDGE OSCAR THOMASINO!''
They started toward Department 22, the courtroom where Jennifer Witt was to be arraigned in an hour, which was all the time Freeman was going to take getting filled in on the case. No sense wasting it. 'How's it look?' he asked.
'They're talking capital.'
'Capital. Powell ought to go and stand in the witness row outside the gas chamber a few times, mellow him out a little.'
'I think Powell might like it.'
Freeman thought that was debatable. He had witnessed six executions in several states – no sane person could like it and he did not think Powell was insane. Not even close.
'Well, they've got special circumstances two ways – multiple murders and killing for profit. You know they're alleging three counts?'
'Three?'
Like Hardy, Freeman was surprised to learn of the last count against Jennifer, murdering her first husband Ned Hollis nine years earlier. 'That's digging pretty deep, wouldn't you say?'
'You better read the file.'
They got to the twelve-foot solid wood double doors that led into Judge Oscar Thomasino's courtroom, Department 22.
'That bad?'
'At least they've got a case. It's not frivolous. But she says she didn't do it.'
Freeman pushed his way through the doors. 'Well, there's a first.'
'Maybe she didn't.'
'Maybe,' Freeman agreed. 'On the other hand, maybe not.' In the high-ceilinged empty courtroom, even whispers echoed. Dismas Hardy and David Freeman sat in the last pew, a long, hard, cold bench of light-colored wood. Freeman, legs crossed, unlit cigar in his mouth, was starting to peruse the file, pulling papers and folders from Hardy's extra-wide briefcase.
'You're heartening to talk to. Anybody ever told you that?'
Freeman shrugged, scanning pages. 'My clients love me. Why? I get them off. Do I think they're guilty? Do I care? Probably – to both questions. Most of the time.'
'Most of the time you think they're guilty?'
Now Freeman looked up. 'Most of the time they are guilty, Diz. Our job's to get them off, so that's what I try to do.'
'Well,' Hardy said, 'I found myself very much wanting to believe her. She was torn up, crying, really a wreck.'
'Over her loss, or over being caught?' Freeman marked his reading place with a finger. 'I know, I know, I'm cruel and cynical. But tears fall for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is self-pity, and when someone's sitting in jail, believe me, they get to feeling very sorry for themselves. It can seriously tear a person up, I've seen it happen.' He went back to reading, turned a few pages, stopped.
'She's attractive, right?'
Hardy nodded.
'Young?'
'The file says twenty-eight.'
'Twenty-eight's young, okay. Humor me on this one.' Freeman himself was perhaps fifty-five. Hardy thought he didn't look a day over eighty. 'Okay, so she's young and attractive and crying – of course, you want to believe her. And guess what? She knows you want to believe her. Whether or not she did these horrible things to her husbands, she's aware of the effect crying has on a normal red-blooded male such as yourself. And that effect is… you want to believe her, want to make her feel better. You want more than anything to get her to stop crying, don't you?'
Freeman took the cigar from his mouth, spit out some leaf, reinserted it. 'And while we're at it,' he said, 'tell me honestly. This is my personal public-opinion poll. She do it, or not?'
'I don't know. I leaning to not.'
'None of it?'
'I don't know.'
'What part of it don't you know?'
'The boy… Matt. And if she didn't kill him, the rest of it falls apart, doesn't it?'
'You don't think she killed her kid?'
'I don't see it.'
'Why? And don't tell me you don't think she's the type.'
'Well, two reasons,' Hardy said. 'One, she didn't just deny it; I thought she seemed genuinely stunned that anybody could think she'd done it. She didn't even want to talk about it, David. I mean, she acted like it was all a weird mistake that would get cleared up. As for killing her own son, how could anybody believe that?'
'Diz, Diz. Let's just, for argument's sake, say she did it. And if she did it, it was for the insurance money. We agree here? Good. Okay. This is a high-risk position, deciding to kill somebody. People do it all the time, but people who do it for money, they're a different breed. Jennifer Witt decides in cold blood to do this deed, she's sure as hell not going to admit it. She's taken a risk – already taken it – and she's going to get the whole banana or go down in flames. Believe it. Now, what's the other reason?'
Hardy had said there were two reasons he thought Jennifer might not have done it – Freeman had given an argument refuting the first and now wanted the second. 'I just don't think she's the type?'
Freeman went back to reading. 'I charge by the hour,' he said, 'and I don't charge enough.'
Hardy accepted the reprimand in good humor. 'Take out the son Matt and the case doesn't look very strong against her.'
'We can't take out Matt. Matt was there, Diz. I wish to hell he hadn't been, but that's what we got. Powell's not going to let it go – it's what's putting our girl face-to-face with the gas chamber. It will influence a judge.'
Hardy had had this discussion before. Even if Jennifer did kill her husband Larry, and Hardy was not convinced of that, he was at least certain that Matt's death had somehow been an accident, a random, tragic wild card. But now that card, like it or not, had been dealt to them. It was their hand and they had to play it. 'I still think the right jury could walk her,' he said.
'The right jury could walk Attila the Hun. But don't count on it in this case.'
Freeman leaned forward, put an avuncular hand on Hardy's shoulder. For not the first time, Hardy marveled that Freeman was so successful and even downright likeable. As always, he needed a shave. His lips were thick and purplish. His rheumy eyes had yellowish whites, the skin around them flecked with liver spots. He was handsome as a leprous warthog, if warthogs got leprosy. 'The smart money doesn't put too much on the jury. If I go along with believing she's innocent, you know, I actually hurt her chances. You realize that?'
'How do you do that?'
Freeman looked around the empty room, making sure no one was eavesdropping. 'It's a tightrope walk. You want to convince yourself that you're defending an innocent person – that much is all right, it's part of it. But if you actually start to believe that your client is innocent, you're going to assume that the jury's going to see what you see. You'll convince yourself that they want to believe you, your interpretations of the facts.'
Hardy picked it up. 'And those arguments, because you didn't have to make them to yourself, just aren't
