The 13th Juror (20 page)

*     *     *     *     *

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 know on top of the bannister, 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, laying long 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 starting 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 fascinating 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 in 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 Two 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!"

"I think I'll cut him off here," Susan said.  She lifted what was left of his last beer and held it on her lap.  "I still love you but you're getting close.  Jesus.  Women lie better.  It's a
compliment?
"

"Who's winning?" Hardy asked, trying to end it here, but Frannie wasn't having it.

"What about men who beat their wives, Moses?  You think you can tell just by looking at them?  You think that's not living some monstrous lie?"

Moses thought a minute.  "I think you could tell somehow, if you got to know them."

Hardy entered.  "Yeah, like if you got married to one and he beat you, then you'd know."

"This isn't funny."  Frannie turned on her husband.  "Don't make a joke of it, Dismas."

"I'm
not
making a joke out of it, Frannie.  I'm on your side here, okay?  What's your problem."

"My problem?  It's not my problem!  My brother says all women are liars and I don't accept that and that's
my
problem?"

"I didn't say all women.  I said—"

"I know what you said.  What I'm saying is this isn't
my
…
god… damn problem
."

Suddenly Frannie was on her feet, half-falling over her brother and Susan, getting to the aisle, running up out of the stands.  Hardy looked helplessly after her.  Susan got up and followed.

Moses was shaking his head.  "What did I say?"

*     *     *     *     *

It was after six when, exhausted, they finally found a parking space around the corner, unloaded the sleeping kids from the car seats and carried them — one each — a half-block to the picket fence that bordered their lawn.

Phil and Tom DiStephano were sitting on their front steps.  They stood up together, both in denim and T-shirts.

Hardy swore under his breath.  He opened the gate and stepped in front of Frannie.  "This isn't a good time, guys," he said.  Rebecca shifted, loose and gangling, in his arms, and he bolstered her up.

"You hiding behind some babies and a girl?" Phil had been drinking.  A lot.  His eyes were out of focus — he was having trouble keeping his balance.

Hardy kept his voice low.  "I'm not hiding behind anything.  How'd you find out where I live?"

"That's for you to know, asshole."  Tom, the son, had talked to his dad, got his attitude adjusted.  When Hardy had gone down with the six-pack and interviewed him last time he'd been surly but gradually somewhat cooperative.  Now — never mind the profanity — his body language said it all.  He was ready for a fight, blocking the path.

Hardy gave them both a weary, practiced smile.  "Let's move on, guys.  All the way off the property.  We're going in."

Neither man moved.  "You come over to my home and molest my wife?  You think you're getting away with that?" Phil said.

"Put down your kid, asshole."  Tom's little mantra of "asshole" was getting under Hardy's skin.  He half-turned back to where Frannie stood, as though rooted to the ground, holding Vincent.  He was about to herd them all back to the car, drive down to the Safeway on Clement and call the police.  Was about to.

"Takes a brave man to hide behind his kid," Phil said.

"You men get out of here?" Frannie's momentary shock had worn off.  She started to step around Hardy but he held out a hand, stopping her.  "We're going inside," he said.  "Follow me."

He tried to get Rebecca to stir, to put her down, have her somehow be protected behind him, but she was dead weight in his arms.  He turned back.  "I'm real impressed with a guy who beats his wife.  Takes guts.  A real man."

"You put down your kid I'll show you a real man."

"You and your son Tom here.  Two on one.  That's about your speed, isn't it, Phil?"

"What's your speed, asshole?"

Hardy squared away on Tom.  "That's for
you
to figure out."  He paused, considered, decided against anything, moving forward.  "Get out of my way.  Right now.  Anybody here gets touched you're going to wish you weren't born."

"Oooh, tough guy!"

Hardy the Vulcan nodded.  "If that's what it takes," and started walking, Frannie a step behind him.  First Phil, then Tom, stepped aside and let Frannie go by, covering her back.  With macho desperadoes like these, he knew a rock wasn't out of the question.

Her hands were shaking and she had some trouble with the door so he stepped in, turned the key and pushed it open.  Before he entered himself, he turned around.  "The next time I look out here, you guys had better be gone.  Go sleep it off before you get into real trouble."

Phil pointed a finger at him.  "You go near my wife again, Hardy…"

*     *     *     *     *

Frannie got sick — all day out in the sun, the outburst at the ballpark, the tension out front.  Hardy tended to her, ran her a cool bath and did all the kid stuff, getting them down before he tucked Frannie in.  It was still light outside.

He went to his chair in the living room, put on some classical music — was Freeman getting to him? — and started reading the paperback of
A Brief History of Time
, recommended by both Moses and Abe, separately.  Black holes, the Big Bang, String Theory, maybe even God.

But he couldn't concentrate.

Or rather he couldn't get the confrontation out of his mind.  He was racing, the adrenalin pumped and nowhere to go.  How
had
they found where he lived?  He'd given Nancy his home telephone number, a mistake.  He knew that a reverse listing, even of an unlisted number, was as close as the nearest phone-company employee, and PacBell was probably the biggest employer in the state.  Stupid.

He considered options, several illegal — going back out to Phil's house with a handgun, make the point a little more strongly that he didn't want them coming around anymore.  Go back without the gun.  Call the police, report Phil's battery of his wife?  Report tonight's disturbance and threat?  But he remembered Glitsky's words — random mischief just wasn't a crime, wasn't a police matter in San Francisco anymore.

He wondered what Phil had done — might be doing — to Nancy when he got home with his own unspent load of adrenalin.  After Tom left, then what?

He picked up the telephone and got the number for Park Station.  It might be a dead night, some red-hot young patrol person wanting to make some bones, do a little more than the minimum.  Nothing ventured… it might do a little good.

"I'm not giving a name," Hardy said, "and this is not an emergency, but you might want to send a car…"

*     *     *     *     *

At the Shamrock it wasn't dead but it was slow.  Sunday night.  The new man — Hardy's replacement — was behind the bar.  The juke was going steadily, not too loud — the Shamrock's usual mix of mostly old rock and roll and Irish folksongs.  Since the day two years before when Moses had finally removed and ceremoniously smashed the '45 of "The Unicorn" — "green alligators and long-necked geese, some hump-back camels and chimpanzees" — Hardy didn't think there was a loser in the box.

On his second Guinness, Hardy was in a game of "301" with one of the locals named Ronnie.  Ronnie was one side or the other of thirty, a piano player in a band that had the night off.  He also illustrated children's books.  Ronnie was a class act, evidently talented, certainly a match for Hardy at darts.  He also possessed a deal of gray matter.

"My problem with it," he was saying, pegging his own customs at the board, "is that I have a hard time imagining some brother or father letting their own sister, or daughter — especially daughter — get executed for a murder they committed."

"She's a long way from executed.  If she gets off the worst of it is they put her through a bad time."

"A murder trial is some serious bad time."

"Try living with these guys."

Ronnie retrieved his round — two twenties and a five — drew a line through the "182" on the chalkboard and without a pause, without even seeming to look at the board, scribbled in "137."  Even dumb dart throwers got good at subtraction — and Ronnie was a computer.

Hardy stepped to the line.  "Could be just bad luck.  They didn't know she was even going to be charged.  So now they're just waiting to see what happens."

Triple-twenty, a good start.  He took a sip of the stout.

"You know," Ronnie said, "I just thought of something — what if one of them was trying to kill her, too — I mean kill all three of them — and she just didn't happen to be home?"

Hardy stopped, his dart poised.

Ronnie was into it.  "Do you know who's the beneficiary if the whole family's wiped out at once?"  Hardy's dart sailed, a second triple-twenty.  Three in a row — a "180" round — was worth a free drink in any bar in the city.  "Give me a break," Ronnie said.  Then:  "Did he have any other family?  The husband?  Who might have inherited anything?"

"I don't know," Hardy said.  "It's a good question."

He threw the third dart, which kissed the flights of the other two but landed a millimeter above them in the "20" but outside the triple ring.

"Not a bad round," Ronnie said.

"Not bad."