The 13th Juror (14 page)

"Not much?"

Freeman shook his head.  He'd never understand lay people.  "Exactly.  Squat.  She didn't do it, she's not pleading."  He reached inside his wrinkled jacket and pulled out a cigar, jamming it into his mouth.  "I tried to tell her it doesn't matter if she did it.  I can get her off on BWS."  He shook his head again, stood and walked back to the window.

"Maybe it matters to her?"

"Well, of course."  Freeman was patting his pockets, found a pack of matches, stepped back from the window and lit up, putting the cigar into the flare.

"You know," Hardy said, "you ought to wave the cigar gently back and forth an inch above the top of the flame.  And don't inhale while you're lighting up."

Freeman glared at him through the thick blue smoke.  "But I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let her get an appeal on my misrepresentation.  If I know she's been beaten and I don't bring it up, it's reversible and I'm not letting her or anyone else pull that on me.  Hence, my son, this affidavit."

"Do you know she'd been abused?"

"Does she admit it?  No.  But it doesn't matter.  It's a defense.  It can get her off, damn it.  Or at least give her the best chance of getting off."

"It's also admitting she did it."

17

Mrs. Nancy DiStephano could not see Hardy while she was working but he could meet her afterward if he wanted, if he thought it might help Jennifer.

Since he was passing by with time to kill anyway, Hardy had dropped in at the office of curator Pico Morales in the basement of the Steinhart Aquarium and told him he was getting fat, he ought to get out more, take a walk, exercise.  Pico contended he wasn't getting fat — he was actually in good shape except for his hyper-extended stomach.  Nevertheless, he got up.

They were strolling along the paths in Golden Gate Park's Japanese Tea Garden, across the concert grounds from the aquarium, less than two hundred yards (as the crow flew) from the Little Shamrock.  There was serenity here when it wasn't crowded, and it wasn't now.  Huge koi swam lazily in the artificial streams, the water trickling and gurgling over moss-covered rocks and small waterfalls.  The still-warm sunlight came dappled through the cypresses.

Pico had been listening to Hardy talking about the ATM and didn't think it was very clear.  "So Larry Witt was alive at 9:30, right?  You know that?  What time were the shots?"

"Let's say between 9:35 and 9:40."

"And who told you about this difference between 911 times and the bank times?"

"Nobody.  I went down with Abe and—"

"So this DA — what's his name? — you're telling me he doesn't know?  What about the cops?"  Pico walked on a few steps before he noticed that Hardy had stopped.  He turned back to him.  "What?"

"I am really stupid."

Pico nodded.  "Now we're getting somewhere."

Hardy ran it down out loud to hear how it sounded.  "No, listen.  You're right, forget 911 time, Jennifer's at the bank at 9:43, right?  Larry's definitely alive at 9:30.  Take away two or three minutes for Larry to walk back upstairs, call it 9:35 or even later when he gets shot.  Jennifer is at the ATM at
9:43
, not 9:46 — eight, not eleven minutes later."

Pico was shaking his head.  "See?  All this worrying about the truth.  If the DA doesn't know about the three minutes…"

"I'm not sure the DA even knows about the stop at the ATM."

Pico spread his hands.  "Well, there you go.  You win."

"No
way
could she have made it 1.7 miles in a maximum of eight minutes, even if it's all downhill."

"I believe you," Pico said.  "Being faster than a speeding bullet myself, I could have done it, but your average bipedal human…"

*     *     *     *     *

Nancy DiStephano stood him up.

He was meeting her at five-fifteen outside the real estate office where she worked as a secretary.  The office was on Kirkham near 19
^th
Avenue and it was closed up when Hardy arrived.  He double-checked the address, the time, the cross-streets.  No Nancy.

After fifteen minutes he called it a day, debated with himself whether he should go by the Shamrock and apologize in person to Moses, decided not, got in his car and headed home.

*     *     *     *     *

"I want to meet her."

"Who?"

"You know who.  I would just like to meet her."  Frannie's red hair hung long and shiny, shimmering in the evening sun.  They were walking along Clement Street — Hardy with Vincent on his back in a pack, Rebecca running ahead, stopping at driveways, alleys and corners the way she had been taught.  Frannie caught Hardy with a sideways look.  "You said she was a person, not a case, remember?  It would just make me more comfortable.  Rebecca!"

"Out of the street!"

Rebecca had dropped a toe over the curb.  She pulled it back, turned around smiling.  "Just teasing."

"That is nothing to tease about," Hardy said.  "The street is dangerous.  We hold hands crossing the street."

Rebecca knew this.  She gave her mother a conspiratorial glance and slipped her hand inside Hardy's.  "I don't think it's a good idea," he said.

"What?"

"Mommy and Daddy are talking, honey."

"We can talk about it later, Dismas."

"No, Now's fine.  We ought to be able to have a small discussion without being interrupted, don't you think?  And I don't think it's a good idea.  I don't even know if you'd be allowed to.  Or if Jennifer would want to see you."

"Who's Jennifer?"

Hardy let go of the Beck's hand.  "You can run ahead now."

"But who's Jennifer?  Do I know her?"

"Jennifer's one of Daddy's clients, sweetie."

"Doesn't she like you?"

"She doesn't know me.  I want to meet her."

"Hey."  Hardy, the referee, making hand signals.  "Time out, all right?  This is our discussion.  Beck, enough, I mean it."

"You don't have to yell at her."

Hardy was trying to keep his voice under control.  "I'm not yelling at her. I'm trying to teach her not to interrupt.  This is a useful social skill."  Vincent, suddenly startled, let out an anguished cry.

"Great," Hardy said.  "This is just great."

Rebecca, arms outreached, mouth open, broke down.  She clung to Frannie's legs, wailing.

*     *     *     *     *

"Here's an idea.  Let's give them to Moses and Susan for two weeks."  Hardy drank gin about twice a year and figured this was the night for it.  Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with two olives.

They had gotten the children down to bed.  It was still light outside, not yet eight o'clock, and still warm.  They were sitting together on the front steps, waiting for the pizza to arrive, holding hands, the door open behind them so they could hear if anyone called.  Or — more likely — cried.

"I don't think two weeks is enough."  Frannie was having a glass of white wine.  The children's crying jag had lasted nearly an hour.  "If they rally want to get the flavor."

"Moses lives close."  Hardy was running with it.  "We could visit them all the time."  He sipped at the cold gin, so smooth it almost wasn't there.

"Speaking of visits…"

Hardy shook his head.  Jennifer again.  "I don't know, Fran.  I don't see what good it would do, what the point of it is."

"It would just set my mind at ease.  That's doing some good."

"You don't really think she'd try to get at me, do you?  I mean, we went through the same thing with Andy Fowler."

"I
knew
Andy, Dismas, or at least who he was.  A judge, your ex-father-in-law.  Plus you got him off.  This woman…" she shivered, brought her glass to her lips — "all I know about her is what I've read, which is she's a money-hungry, cold-blooded, drop-dead beautiful—"

"She's not
that
pretty — she's nowhere near as pretty as you."

Frannie leaned into him, mocking the flattery.  "Well, then, she's the most photogenic not pretty woman on earth.  But what she isn't, to me, is a real person, somebody I shouldn't be afraid of, worried about."

"What if she won't see you?"

"Then she won't see me."

She was right.  If Jennifer wouldn't agree to see Frannie that would be the end of it.  The gin that almost wasn't there was telling Hardy's body that oh yes, it was, too — the evening had taken on a soft edge, a benign glow.  He told her he'd ask, see what he could do.  It was a small enough request.  If it made Frannie feel better…

How could it hurt?

*     *     *     *     *

When he had tried to contact Nancy DiStephano earlier in the day asking her to call him back for an appointment, Hardy had not known what his schedule would be like sohe had given her his home phone number as well as the one in his office.

She called at a little after nine, her voice a whisper, hoarse, nearly inaudible.  "Mr. Hardy?"  She told him where she was, would he please come and see her now?  There might not be another chance.  When he told Frannie he was going, she did not do cartwheels.

Ulloa Street was dark.

Hardy had had his one martini, switched to cranberry juice, and the earlier glow had dissipated with the warmth.  The DiStephano's house was in the 4500 block, two blocks from the cold Pacific.  He pulled up in front of the number.

She was wrapped in a jacket, wearing jeans but barefoot, sitting in the dim porch light on her stoop.  When Hardy got out of his car, she walked unsteadily down the cement walk that bisected the lawn, meeting him halfway.  She touched Hardy's sleeve, then immediately pulled her hand away as if it were burned.  "He won't hear us here.  Not that he would anyway.  Thank God he's passed out."

She was shaking.  Hardy wondered if she were drunk.  "Who's passed out?"

"Phil, of course."  She laughed, low, nervously.  "Who do you think?  Listen, I'm sorry about tonight, our appointment."  She wasn't slurring. "I thought we might… but Phil…"

Hardy waved it off.  His eyes were adjusting — a sliver of moon gave a little light.  There was a lot of Jennifer in her face — haunted but still attractive.  It was unnerving.

She stepped in place, foot to foot, seemingly unaware of it.  "But I thought it might somehow help my girl."

"It might.  I don't know.  Are you all right?"

She leaned again in an unnatural way, gripping her side.  "Maybe we should sit down?"

Without waiting for him, she went back to the entryway.  It wasn't a full porch — more a jutting, covered portico enclosed by a low stucco wall.  She leaned up against one of the posts.

"Mrs. DiStephano?"

She held out her hand for him to be still, breathing her way through whatever pain she was enduring.  When she could handle it, she tried to straighten herself and half-turned back to him.  Her eyes were wet but seemed way beyond tears.

Summoning something — the effort was palpable — she pulled herself straight, then turned all the way to face him head-on.  Raising her head, she inhaled deeply, making her decision, and pulled open the jacket she'd been wrapped in.  Under it, she was naked.

Her body — her breasts, her ribs, her stomach — was bruised and welted in half a dozen places.  He stood transfixed, two feet away from her, feeling his body begin to pulse in anger.  Fist-sized blotches, splashes of broken capillaries, the rake of handprints over torn skin.  He stepped toward her, grabbed the sides of the jacket and gently pulled it closed around her.  Lightner had been right about Jennifer's abusive father…

She leaned back against the portico's post and let herself slump to the tiles, hugging her arms to herself.

"I told Phil, I told him it was for Jennifer, it might help Jennifer.  I wasn't sneaking out.  He said how come you didn't try to talk to
him
."

Hardy held his head in his hands.  This was twisted beyond his imagining.  "Jennifer suggested I talk to you.  If she would have said him, I would have agreed."

"I know that.  I told him that, or tried to."

"I didn't mean to put you in this."

She touched his arm again.  "No, no, it's not you.  This is just what happens."

Hardy raised his eyes.  "You should get out of this.  You've got to report this."

Nancy DiStephano shook her head.  She was still hugging herself, still moving her body to ease the shifting pains.  Her look said Hardy didn't know what he was talking about.  "Where would I go?  What would I do?"

"Go anywhere," he said.  "Do anything.  But don't live with this."

She kept shaking her head.  "But Phil would never let me.  Never.  He wouldn't even let me see you."

"You could move away."

"I've tried that, but you know, I always come back.  It's a tough world out there, Mr. Hardy.  Here at least I know somebody cares about me—"

"Someone who cares about you wouldn't do this to you."

"It's not so very often.  I understand, he's mostly afraid he'll lose me.  I tell him no but he's so jealous… I wouldn't have called you, maybe shouldn't have, but if it could help Jennifer…"

"Did Phil ever do this to her?"

"Jennifer?  No.  He wouldn't ever lay a hand on her.  I think if he did I would have left him and he knew it.  He couldn't stand me to leave him.  No, all this" — she gestured downward — "this is all between me and him.  It has nothing to do with Jennifer."

Hardy stared at the ground, at the sliver of moon — this woman defending the man who had just beaten her.  "He's so jealous…"

He tried to clear his head.  "So what now, Nancy?"

She shrugged.  "I didn't even mean for you to know about this.  It's nothing."

"Okay, it's nothing."

"You wanted to talk about Jennifer, if this hadn't happened… I suppose I shouldn't have told Phil and just snuck out to see you.  It's really my fault."

The reprise, the repetition, the denial.  "It’s really your fault.  That's it, huh?"  Was it the same for Jennifer?

Nancy nodded, apparently grateful that he seemed to understand.  "So we can forget this and just talk about what you wanted before.  Can't we just do that?"

Hardy tried.  He sucked a lungful of the now-chilled night and tried to organize himself enough to talk to her about Tom.  He couldn't.