The 13th Juror (13 page)

16

"Why would you take a plea now?"

Freeman brought in Hardy with the questioning look.  After Jennifer's jailbreak they had both expected the DA to take an even harder line on Jennifer, and now Dean Powell had contacted Freeman and hinted at a willingness to take a plea to Murder One — no death penalty.

Powell spread his arms, expansive and at ease.  "Hell, you know, David, we're
always
ready to talk."  He pointed a finger, underscoring the point.  "You guys remember that — my door's open."

"My client says she didn't do it."  Freeman was flipping through a Sports Illustrated, barely paying attention.  Powell's office was the usual fifteen-foot-square cubicle — two metal desks, file cabinets, a window welded shut with a charming view of the new jail going up thirty feet away.

Powell's officemate, Paul Bargen, had stepped out for coffee so there would be privacy, to say nothing of room, for three people.  "If she offers to plead guilty to life without, of course I'll have to take it to the boss, but I think it's fair to say we'd take such an offer seriously.  I heard," Powell went on, "that your client recovered from her amnesia down there in Costa Rica and now wants to throw herself on the mercy of the court."

"I don't think that's it."  Hardy had originally taken the second chair in front of Bargen's desk, but one of the legs was shorter than the others and it listed uncomfortably, so now he was standing.  "I just don't think that's it."

Powell shrugged.  "I'd ask her again, just to be sure."

Freeman had stopped at an ad for a woman's swimsuit — he lifted the page toward Hardy, spoke to Powell.  "I thought you wanted a trial.  By the way, I'm voting for you."

Substantiating the rumors, Powell had recently declared his candidacy for State Attorney General, and he now broke out his toothy grin.  For a moment Hardy thought he was going to jump up and try to shake both of their hands.  "Well, that just delights the hell out of me, David, I can't tell you."  He glanced over at Hardy, who kept his arms folded, his face impassive, leaning against one of the filing cabinets.

Freeman flipped another page, seemed to be studying an editorial that had Barry Bonds in the headline.  He didn't look up.  "And you don't want a capital trial?  Seems to me it would be pretty good copy."

"That's always true, David, but frankly I don't think I need it.  To be perfectly honest, I'd rather use the time to campaign."

Hardy couldn't help noticing that Powell said "frankly" and "to be perfectly honest" in two consecutive sentences.  Powell was lying about something — he obviously didn't think the verdict for Jennifer was all that foreordained.

But Freeman wasn't showing any cards for free.  He scratched a stubbly cheek, turned a page of the magazine, sighed.  "It's up to my client."  Finally, Freeman put down his reading and made eye contact.  "What the hell did they do to her, anyway, Dean?  She claims she was raped in jail down there."

"I truly hope she wasn't, David, but she shouldn't have broken out of here.  That was her choice, her risk…"

"I'd think you might, out of a little human sympathy for what she's been through — maybe, without a plea, at least drop the death penalty."

Powell showed no surprise.  Strategically, this wasn't a bad move for Freeman — his client had been abused, perhaps raped.  Freeman knew he had seen her, and Jennifer Witt was, at this moment, an object of some pity.  But all this got processed in the time it took Powell to blink twice.  "I have no sympathy for what she's been through, he said.  "She's brought it all on herself."

"She asked for it, huh, getting raped?"

If Powell said anything like that, under any circumstances, he could forget his election chances.  "That's not what I said, David, and you know it."

Freeman, of course, did know it.  Hardy, not for the first time, was glad he was in the same corner as Freeman.  The threat that he might repeat Powell's words in some public forum — that Jennifer had asked for getting raped — might break the deadlock.  Hardy half-expected Powell to cave, drop the death penalty request, and offer a plea for Murder One, maybe even with the possibility of parole.  If Jennifer took that, there would be no penalty phase and Hardy would be out of a job.  He waited.

But Powell didn't get to where he was — the Senior Homicide Assistant District Attorney — by wimping out.  He smiled in the face of this veiled threat.  "My heart just doesn't go out to multiple murderers, and anything that happened to her outside of this jail, or this country, well" — he spread his hands — "that's completely out of our control."

"I'll be investigating what happened in Costa Rica."

"I would, too.  I'd expect you to.  Let me know if I can help you.  That kind of conduct is unconscionable."

Back to posturing and politics.  Hardy picked the Sports Illustrated from Freeman's lap, opened it at random.  Whatever else was going to be said here, he didn't need to hear it.

*     *     *     *     *

The Yerba Buena Medical Group owned a square block of buildings that housed their professional offices half a mile from San Francisco General Hospital.

Hardy got there a little after eleven.  It shocked him — there was actually a free parking lot provided for guests, doctors and patients.  Downtown, in North Beach, in Golden Gate Park, throughout San Francisco, lot parking was running four dollars an hour with a two-hour minimum.  Street parking could not be found — people had been shot over twelve feet of curb space.

Following the signs through a landscaped maze of shrubbery and vine, Hardy stopped at a redwood kiosk inside of which was a glass-covered granite pedestal, the directory of offices including a you-are-here arrow.  More than forty doctors practiced here.  Larry Witt's name was gone, probably long gone.  It had been over six months since he had been killed — Hardy reflected that the wheels of justice had not yet turned one degree, which was about normal for half a year.  And it didn't look like things were going to speed up.

Jennifer's flight hadn't predisposed anyone in the Hall to do her any favors.  She was in lockdown, with visiting and phone privileges drastically reduced.  She said even her food was worse, if that were possible.  It wasn't necessarily on the books, but in practice Freeman and Hardy were finding out that breaking jail constituted a pretty solid waiver of a lot of your rights.  Freeman had been told that "due to bureaucratic complexities" over the extradition, Jennifer couldn't even get a preliminary trial-setting date for another week.

The good weather was continuing, and the air conditioning in the business office felt good.  Hardy found himself impressed with this whole operation.  His vision of the world HMO health care — especially here in the city — was bleak.  Anonymous doctors and nurses dispensing care to people they didn't know in perhaps antiseptic but non-personal surroundings.

YBMG's reception office had light green tinted windows all around.  The couches were covered with soft cushions and cheerful fabric — swirls of yellows and oranges and reds and blues.  A Berber rug — not the ubiquitous yellowing tile Hardy always expected — kept it quiet as Hardy walked to the desk.  He had no appointment so he would have to wait, but Mr. Singh would try to be with him shortly.

More Sports Illustrated, the same issue Powell had had in his office.  Forget July 11 — today, July 12, was his lucky day.  He considered buying himself an extra lottery ticket.

*     *     *     *     *

Ali Singh had answered Hardy's first questions competently enough, but had his tiny hands crossed on his empty desk, as though this would prevent him from tapping his fingers or twirling a pencil or otherwise betraying his nerves.  Dressed in a white button-down shirt, thin brown tie, new electric sportscoat, he was nodding, acquiescent.  "Of course, you see, the police have already been here.  They have asked these things."

Hardy leaned forward.  "I've reviewed everything they've subpoenaed, Mr. Singh — his office files, the interviews.  I was wondering more about the personal things, how he got along with the other doctors, nurses, that kind of thing."

"Well, that is… I don't know.  I didn't really know Dr. Witt personally, as you say.  You see, we have a lot of doctors here.  They don't work together too often.  It's not like a Kaiser operation, as you can see."

"So you didn't know him at all?"

"Well, of course, you see, we talked about administrative things, his help and so on.  But he had his work.  I have my work."  Singh raised his eyebrows, unclasped his hands for a split second, put them back together.

"But no problems?"

Singh smiled.  "There are at times problems with everyone.  Doctors have egos, you know.  They want things one way, their way, and I have to try to standardize, so of course sometimes there is conflict.  But nothing so serious."

"With Dr. Witt?"

"I liked Dr. Witt.  Occasionally we would spar over cost issues, how we did things."

"And how would you do things?  How would it affect him more than anyone else?"

"It didn't.  That was always my point.  But the Group…"  He gestured around, taking in the whole complex, "the Group had plans, has
plans
.  You see, we have nice buildings here, pleasant, wouldn't you say?"

Hardy nodded.

"And this is a nice environment?"

"Just so, you see?  But this, of course — the landscaping, the furnishings, even the rent here — this takes money from the fund, and—"

"And Dr. Witt thought that
that
money should go to the doctors?"

Now Singh beamed at Hardy's understanding.  "Ah, you do see.  Just so, it is just so."  Unclasping his hands, Singh finally sat back in his chair.  "Dr. Witt liked to feel he had a say in these things, in many matters."  He waved a hand.  "This is not a criticism, he was not alone in this.  He had a need to know, to feel that he was somehow in charge with his business, of where the Group was going."

This certainly comported closely with Jennifer's analysis, with Lightner's opinion, with the FedEx man's report.  Larry Witt had been a control freak.  "So where was the Group going?"

"Is," Singh amended.  "The Group is converting to a for-profit organization.  We have not-for-profit long enough.  The Board feels to compete in this health market we need to attract capital.  To do that we must be… attractive, and sad to say, part of that is the physical setting.  You would think the quality of the care is the thing, but that is not business."  Singh sighed.  "It’s reality, and the members — the doctors — were asked to take a short-term loss, no raises, that kind of thing, you see."

Hardy saw.  Times were tight everywhere, but especially in health care and especially in California.  The move, on the face of it, made sense in the long term, but he also understood why there might be resistance in the short term — no raises, less money, bite the bullet, wait wait wait.  From all he'd heard, waiting and deferring weren't Larry Witt's strong suits.

"Did Dr. Witt fight with anyone about this?  Get mad, lose his temper?"

"Dr. Witt?  Oh good God, no.  He never lost his temper.  You can ask anyone here — he was always courteous, always reasonable, even if he wasn't backing down.  Nothing here was to get mad about — minor differences among professionals.  Dr. Witt had no enemies here.  He was liked, looked up to."

"But somebody killed him.  Could he have been having an affair with a nurse, with one of the doctor's wives…?"

Singh was shaking his head, an amused look on his face.  Thoroughly at ease now, he leaned forward.  "It was no one here, believe me, Mr. Hardy.  I think it must be his wife, you see?"

*     *     *     *     *

"This," Freeman said, "is called a cover-your-ass affidavit.  And this", he lifted his other hand, "is a check for two hundred thousand dollars."

Hardy was in his office, feet up on his desk, thinking about where he was going to mount his dart board.  He had been here in Freeman's building for nearly five months and during that time, what with feeling he should put in some regular hours and his growing family responsibilities, he realized his dart game had gone to hell.

He had pegged a round of darts into the drywall and Freeman's mouth hung slightly when he saw them there.

"I'll patch the holes and cover it with my board."  Then, switching topics, "If I were her, I think I would have spent more in Costa Rica."

Freeman crossed to Hardy's open window, a view of buildings across the way and, four flights down, the after-lunch show on Sutter Street.  "I think she was in a hurry when she left," he said.

"That could have been it."

"Also, she told me the bank wouldn't give her more than ten grand.  In cash.  On no notice.  So she took that and ran, figured she'd wire for the rest or something, which was a bad idea."

"That how they found her?" Hardy asked.

Freeman nodded.  "Looks like.  But the good news is she's with us all the way, no more wait-'til-Monday-and-I'll-decide-then bullshit."

Hardy sat up, feet to the floor, rolled his shoulders.  "I don't know.  I feel pretty bad for her, David."

Freeman turned from the window and fixed Hardy with a look.  He seemed short on sympathy for Jennifer Witt.  "Why don't you go interview her again, like I did for two hours this morning?"

Hardy leaned back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head.  "Tell me."

"She won't plead.  She won't admit her husband was beating her.  She won't talk about her escape, who helped her out — maybe get a little slack on that, at least something to deal with.  But no, not our girl.  She just didn't do it.  The end."

Hardy pointed.  "So what's the affidavit?"

"This?"  Freeman went around to Hardy's couch and sat down.  "This is Jennifer's signed statement that I have advised her that her best defense is BWS…"

"Battered…?"

"Yeah, yeah, battered-woman syndrome, and that she—"

"But you don't believe…"

"Yeah, I do.  Now.  She's gonna go down for the murders so I'm thinking about how to get into mitigation as early as I can.  I tried to drive that home and what do I get?"