“You really believe that?”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know why Jennifer couldn’t cop to it. Even if the legislature doesn’t go for it, there’s a good chance a jury would walk her, and no chance she’d get the death penalty. Powell wouldn’t even ask.”
Freeman was referring, Hardy knew, to the fact that the California Assembly had recently failed to pass an amendment that would have codified battered woman syndrome as a legitimate mitigation for murder. Since the courts were often accepting it anyway, the precedent was established and it was a moot question, but the legislature’s action—or lack of it—was a definite setback for proponents of the defense. “I simply can’t understand her resistance to it.”
Hardy could go through all of Lightner’s explanations, but it all came back to Jennifer’s contention that if she admitted Larry beat her, then she had a reason to kill him that a jury might well convict on.
“But that’s just it,” Freeman continued, “they’d be just as likely—hell, more likely—to let her go!” He stood up, stretched, sat back down. “But you believe he did beat her?”
“Yes, absolutely. He was a control freak. She got out of line, he whacked her around.”
“And she really felt she couldn’t leave? She had to stay there and take it?”
“That’s the profile, David. It’s sad but it’s true. He’d track her down if she left. He’d take the kid. He’d kill her if she tried. All of the above.”
“So she killed him first. It worked with Ned—it ought to fly with Larry, right?”
Hardy shrugged. “She says not.”
“Well.” The pencil beat a tattoo on the table. “I must say, in all my years doing this, I haven’t seen too many cases this pure. I’d like to watch her play poker, see if she bluffs.”
“Maybe she’s a Vulcan.”
“What’s that mean?”
It amazed Hardy. Was it possible that David Freeman had never seen Star Trek, didn’t know that Vulcans never bluff? Looking around the apartment, he realized it was probably so. There was no sign of a television. “Never mind, David. It’s a long story. You want to keep going here?”
The tattooing stopped. “We’d better.”
From Freeman’s apartment, Hardy walked up the street a block and treated himself to lunch, alone, at the Stanford Court—he wanted an hour to think.
There had been no police report on the alleged breakin of Larry Witt’s car by Melissa Roman’s parents or anybody else. Dr. Witt hadn’t reported it, a fact which hadn’t surprised Abe Glitsky, who had explained that the populace was beginning to understand that there was no such thing as a nonviolent crime in San Francisco anymore.
There were bad things that happened, sure—like Larry’s car—but if those things didn’t physically hurt people, the police tended not to get involved. They weren’t about to break out the troops tracking down a culprit who had lifted a five-hundred-dollar CD player from a car—they didn’t have the manpower—any more than they would investigate a pine cone falling from a tree and breaking your windshield. Practically speaking it just couldn’t be a police matter. Hardy loved it—vandalism as a force majeure.
He was having salmon again. Grilled with a light wasabi glaze. A glass of Hafner Chardonnay.
He was worried about Frannie.
Something was going on with her and she wasn’t telling him about it. Maybe it was his continued involvement with Jennifer. She shouldn’t have expected that one visit was going to change anything. And obviously, going to the jail had been a trauma.
He hated to see her unhappy. Maybe he was spending too much time running around for David, looking for a plausible “other dude.” The inherent cynicism in it all was getting to him. David seemed to care almost nothing for the guilt or innocence of Jennifer, just whether he could get his client off. That was what he did for a living, he said. Was he really that cold? Was there a deeper concern behind the so-called professionalism? Hardy couldn’t tell, couldn’t really read David that well. And he suspected that that was just the way David wanted it. No black or white for Hardy in this case. Not with Jennifer, not with his colleague David, not with anything, which could wear a person down.
The waiter appeared now and asked if the food was satisfactory. Monsieur had not touched the plate. If he would like to order something else, of course . . .
Well, for today at least, Hardy decided he would not be looking for “other dudes.” The crux of the matter in court was whether proof existed that Jennifer was a battered woman. Once that was established, the question of her culpability could be debated. Providing Jennifer cooperated.
Anyway, Hardy couldn’t let Freeman shake his belief in some objective truth, in the facts. Something specific did happen, in a certain way and at a certain time. If he had any pretensions of seeing justice done, the first step was to uncover those facts.
He had Ken Lightner’s assertions. He had seen the bruises on Jennifer’s mother. He had the first wife’s, Molly’s, admission that Larry Witt had beaten her. He even had Jennifer’s acknowledgment that she and Larry had been in “a few fights.”
This was ammunition but it wasn’t a smoking gun.
Dr. Saul Heffler was one of the doctors from Ken Lightner’s list that Lightner had “accidentally” left on the bench for Hardy to find and pick up. Heffler had a practice in a one-story office building on Arguello, halfway from downtown to Hardy’s house. The doctor and the lawyer had played a serious game of phone tag during the week and it was time to put an end to that, even if it meant sitting a while in a waiting room.
The gods smiled and a parking spot opened directly in front of the address as Hardy pulled up. He took this as a good omen.
Inside, the receptionist was blessedly free of bureaucratic baggage and informed Hardy that the doctor could probably block out some time in about an hour. Would that be all right?
Hardy walked up to Clement Street, drank a cup of iced espresso at an outside table to ward off the postwine-for-lunch slump, then bought some earrings for Frannie from a sidewalk vendor.
He loved lower Clement Street, had loved it through its incarnations, first as a Russian enclave with piroshki and antique shops, then as an upscale—though not too upscale—Haight Street with its hippies, haze of incense, and coffeeshops, to now, a bustling Oriental bazaar with tea-smoked ducks hanging in windows and the slightly off yet somehow appealing commingled smells of cooked meat, raw seafood and garbage.
Strolling in the bright sunlight, enjoying the smells and the breeze, he bought a newly steamed pork bao and chewed it happily. There was a bright turquoise children’s kimono in a window and he went inside the tiny store, buying it for Rebecca along with a tiny silk shirt for his boy.
He’d make this up to Frannie. Things were going to change. He wasn’t sure how, but he wasn’t going to let anything—not David, Jennifer, frustration, fear or silence—get between them and keep them apart.
Three minutes after he was back inside Heffler’s office, the receptionist told him he could go right in.
Heffler’s small but well-lit office had three diplomas and about six hundred mounted fishing flies on the walls. The man was in his midfifties with a full head of pepperand-salt hair, a flat unlined face—a hint of Navajo?—over a lanky, gangling frame. He smiled easily.
Hardy explained the situation. He was, after all, working for Jennifer’s defense. He wondered if the doctor would help him verify some background. He showed Heffler Jennifer’s signed release allowing her doctor to discuss her medical history. (Hardy had told Jennifer he needed her medical records in connection with what had happened to her in Costa Rica.) He’d be glad to help, the doctor said. What did Hardy want to know? Hardy told him.
“This was four years ago? Five? I can’t say I remember her offhand. I’ll have Joanie pull the file. We keep the archives in the storeroom. Take two minutes.”
They waited, talking fishing. Heffler was leaving the next morning for a six-day wilderness
trip to Alaska, going after the huge salmon that ran up there, maybe some Arctic char. Hardy held a hand over his stomach. “Don’t say salmon to me. I think I’m hitting my limit.”
Joanie came in, handed over the file and left. Heffler opened it and flipped some pages, his face closing down. “You want to believe people. You wonder how much of this you really see.”
“You got something?”
“I don’t know what you call something. Maybe I should have seen this, suspected something. I don’t know.”
Hardy waited. Heffler read some more, then closed the file. “She was my patient for seven months, came in without a referral, said she’d just moved here from Florida. First time I saw her she had fallen down the steps in her new house.”
“The first time?”
Heffler nodded. He opened the file again. “Three months later she broke her arm skiing. She thought it was just a sprain until she got home, otherwise she would have gotten it set up at Squaw Valley.” He turned up a page, scanning. “This one,” he said, “maybe I really should have seen this one.”
“What’s that?”
“Three months after the arm—pretty regular, isn’t it?—she comes in with this fluke accident. She was cleaning out a closet and the shelf came off, loaded with stuff, slammed down against her back. Her urine had blood in it.” He wasn’t looking up. “Contusions and bruises over her kidneys, all the way across her back.” He closed the file again. “I must have asked her, I can’t imagine I didn’t.”
“And she just said no, simple as that?”
“And got herself another doctor.” He took in a deep breath, let it out as a sigh. “I’m ready for a vacation,” he said.
“You see a lot of this?”
“A lot? Some, I guess. I see some accidents. People hurt themselves. I can’t go to the police every time someone breaks their arm, comes in with a black eye. I wouldn’t have a practice left.” He picked up the file, opened it, flicked impatiently at the pages. “Here’s something.”
Stuck to the back of the folder was a yellow Post-it pad, and on it was a name and address. “I don’t know why this is here.”
He buzzed Joanie again and she came back. “Oh, that’s just my note to myself when I get a request for records.”
Heffler leaned forward, still frowning. “So this might have been the next physician this patient went to.”
Joanie was as bright and cheerful as Heffler had been before this had begun. “It might be. I’d assume so. Wouldn’t you?”
“I told her I wouldn’t treat her unless she let me inform the police. She ought to get some counseling. I saw her the one time and I knew right away.”
Hardy was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Helena Zamora’s office. Now it was closing time. A tightly strung woman about Hardy’s age, Zamora let him in but politely told him she had a dinner appointment in forty-five minutes and could spare him no more than ten. He outlined what he had learned at Dr. Heffler’s and what he was trying to find.
“She came in,” Dr. Zamora said, “with a large round bruise under one of her breasts and some cock-and-bull about tripping against a knob at the top of her banister. I got suspicious, checked her sign-in form, sent for her records. Then I called her and never heard from her again.”
She pulled her glasses up and balanced them on the top of her forehead. “Common story, too common. Does that help you?”
Hardy said it did and thanked her.
Dr. Zamora took her glasses all the way off. “She finally killed the animal that was doing this, did she?”
“She’s charged with it.”
“Good for her.”
From a phone booth in a gas station at 19th and Kirkham, Hardy called Jennifer at the jail.
In San Francisco it is a myth that prisoners get one phone call. The common areas in the jail have pay telephones on the walls and whenever the inmates want to, they can use them. There had even been significant calling-card fraud that had been traced to both floors of the jail, a thriving black market in phone numbers and the “pins” that go with them.
“Jennifer. Hardy. I’ve got a quick question. Have you ever lived in Florida?”
There was a longish wait. “This is not a trick question, Jennifer. Have you ever lived in Florida, that’s all?”
“No, why?”
“No reason. Just checking something. Talk to you later.”
So this Friday afternoon he had caught Jennifer in five lies—the fall down the stairs, the arm broken while she skied, the shelf accident, the knob on the top of the banister, the state with Epcot and the Everglades. Lies, yes, except four of them were, apparently, to protect her husband. Sick, yes, but mitigation, at least . . .
Frannie was on top of him, lying against him, moving like a calm ocean. His arms surrounded her. The covers had been kicked onto the floor at the foot of the bed. She was wearing her new earrings and Hardy took one of them into his mouth.
“Careful,” she said.
“Careful yourself.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re going a little too fast. This will slow you down some.”
She bit into his shoulder. “I’m going to go a lot faster before I’m through.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Let go then. You’ll see.”
24
“I knew this girl in high school,” Moses said, “Rachelle Manning. We were in math together and I thought she was okay so I asked her out to some dance or something and she said sure.”
They were queued up in a long line at Candlestick Park, having already missed half an inning when the last-place Padres had scored four runs off the first-place Giants, waiting to buy two beers each for a mere four bucks a cup before they closed the stand for the day after the seventh inning.
It was the conceit of Giants’ management that people who had a beer after the seventh inning would more likely drive under the influence than those other Puritan souls who had had two beers early in the game and then stopped.
Frannie had already designated herself the driver, and Moses had had seven so far, and now was feeling every one of them. “So listen,” he continued loudly, “word gets around and guys are coming up, putting rubbers in my pockets, patting me on the back, one of the big guys, telling me they’ve done it with Rachelle in their cars and in her parents’ bed and behind the student union and under the goddamn principal’s desk on the weekend.”
The guy behind them in line tapped McGuire on the shoulder. “I did it under the stands during a basketball game once. Best sex I ever had.”
Hardy and Moses told him they thought that must have been great. They moved up a step. Hardy signaled maybe McGuire should tone it down.
“Anyway, I figured it had to be some kind of joke. I mean, Rachelle Manning is not a slut. She’s not putting out for the football team. This is a sweet young thing—nice clothes, nice family, clean hair.”
“Hair’s important.” Hardy moved closer to the beer vendor. The stands erupted with more noise, action on the field they were missing. “I was always a hair guy myself.”
“So I take her out. I’m a little nervous, thinking . . . You know what I’m thinking. We’re not out of her driveway and her hand is on me, I swear to God.”
“I loved high school. I could do high school again.”
“Turned out to be a hell of a night. I don’t think we hit the dance. If we did, I don’t remember it.”
They finally got their beers and started moving back to the stands.
“It’s a truly moving story, Mose, but was there a moral here I missed? I thought we were talking about Jennifer Witt.”
“Of course we were talking about Jennifer Witt. You’re a lawyer and she’s your case, so that’s what we talk about, and talk about, and talk about. But”—Moses drank a third of his beer—“and I reiterate, but there’s some people—and I hate to say this but women seem better at it than men—you just can’t tell anything. This is how Rachelle relates to the fas
cinating and mysterious Mrs. Witt. Looking at her back then, you would never have had a clue. Talking to her, you’d never know. I mean, I would have bet the horse that this girl was a stone virgin.”
“Maybe she was.”
Moses couldn’t help grinning. “She definitely wasn’t the next morning. I have it on the highest authority.”
“What?” Susan said. They were back to their seats, ten rows back on the first base side. Great seats.
Moses got himself seated and didn’t miss a beat. “Just talking about Jennifer Witt, about how some women lie.”
Frannie had her beer and poured some into Moses’ lap. “Oh, sorry, dear brother.” She made a show of brushing it off. “If I’m not mistaken, men lie too.”
“Okay, everybody lies at one time or another, but my point to Diz was that there are some women, and I just say women because in my own private experience I haven’t run across this in that many men, who seem to embody conflicting personality traits—I mean they seem to be two completely different people, and still they walk around and act normal and you’d never know.”
Frannie leaned over and spoke to Susan. “There’s still time. You’re not married yet. You can get out of this.”
Moses had a Ph.D. in philosophy that he liked to say he’d outgrown. He had not outgrown his love of talk, however. The words flowed, and sometimes Hardy thought he even thought about them before they came out, although this didn’t appear to be one of those times. “Frannie, I’m not saying you or Susan. Look at all the literature on it—The Three Faces of Eve, Sybil, all of them.”
“All two of them.”
“It’s well-documented. You don’t have to get so riled up about it. Women just hide things better. They’re taught to as kids. Let’s face it, if they’re liars, they’re better liars. It’s a compliment!”
The 13th Juror Page 21
