The 13th Juror (37 page)

"Bring it up in the penalty-phase, I'll consider it.  I'm not a monster, Hardy."

"I
can't
bring it up.  I've just told you why."

"You can't bring it up?"  Powell went all the way back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, running his fingers through his mane the way he did.  He took a long moment, running it around different ways.  Finally he came down.  "This is pretty goddamn sleazy."

"I'm not—"

"Don’t try to lay this human-being guilt trip on me now, Hardy.  To tell the truth, it was heavy enough deciding to go capital on this, but I've played by the rules from the get-go.  I don't give a shit what spin you put on it, we're sitting here talking about circumventing the system, and as far as I'm concerned this is an unethical conversation and it's over right
now
."

Powell was up out of his desk, around it, to the door.  He pulled it open.  I'll see you in court," he said.  "Not until."

*     *     *     *     *

Hardy's first reaction was that he needed a drink.  His stomach was in knots, his breathing coming shallow.  He stayed thirsty until he got inside the door of Lou's, then abruptly decided not.  It was still early in the afternoon, and a drink or two now would end his day.  And he needed all the time he could get.

*     *     *     *     *

He was at his desk, going over his options.

Lightner's motion to introduce de facto witnesses to Jennifer's pain and suffering at the hands of her husband wasn't bad — might well garner some sympathy for her.  But as soon as Jennifer saw the way the wind was blowing there — and it wouldn't take long — she would either go berserk in the courtroom or insist on testifying that no beatings took place.

So given that, what was he going to do next Monday?  If Powell's reaction was any indication, Jennifer hadn't won many hearts in the courtroom.  Dressed in a way that separated her from the commoners, for the most part sitting without expression at the defense table, she hadn't testified on her own behalf.  Another of Freeman's questionable decisions.

*     *     *     *     *

The package arrived, messengered over from Donna Bellows.  Grateful for the distraction, Hardy opened it, little more than an envelope, depressingly thin.

There was the letter from Larry Witt to Donna Bellows.  There was a covering letter to go with the offering circular.  Finally, there was the circular itself.

Dear Donna:

I wonder if you could take a look at the enclosed.  As you will see, the YBMG is offering all doctors (we are called "providers" in the brochure) an option to buy into the new for-profit plan.  The shares are a nickel each, and the tone of both the covering letter and the brochure is very negative — there's slim to no chance that this is a worthwhile investment.

So why did they bother sending the thing out?

My concern is that the Board has only given us three weeks to exercise the option, and that they sent this circular now, over Christmas, when so many providers are either on vacation or swamped with personal business at home.

I realize that most shares any individual can buy is 368, so potentially the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40, but—

Hardy abruptly stopped reading.

Larry Witt, control freak extraordinaire, was asking his two-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer to look into a maximum exposure issue of less than twenty dollars?

He must have read it wrong, got the decimal misplaced.  He looked at the last line again.  "… the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40…"

Shaking his head, thinking what an absolute pain in the ass Larry Witt must have been, Hardy stood, stretched, and gave up for the day.  He went downstairs to watch the World Series in the conference room.  Maybe his side would
win
.

*     *     *     *     *

Frannie had her feet up on the couch, a book face down on her chest.  Her eyes were on her husband and she was trying not to nod off.

"No, listen, this is really interesting."

His wife shook her head.  "Anytime you've got to say that, it isn't."

Hardy put his paper down.  "You used to be more fun."

She raised her eyebrows.  "Let me get this straight — you're sitting in our living room on a balmy October night, you didn't taste the fantastic dinner I made, you didn't even want wine with it, and for the last ten minutes you are reading to me along from some stock proposal that isn't worth anything anyway, and
I'm
the one who used to be more fun?"

He nodded.  "A lot more.  I remember.  I know it can't be me."

Frannie swung her feet to the ground, patting her lap.  "Okay, come here."

Hardy crossed the room.  "What am I going to do, Fran?  She still won't let me use the only thing that might save her."

"I don't think you're right, about it being the only thing that can save her.  It's not just the beatings… Jennifer's life with her husband was terrible, but she didn't kill him, Dismas.  She never lied to me, not even about Ned.  She never
denied
  to me, about him.  She just didn't say she did it.  But she absolutely denied killing Larry.  She had no reason to lie to me, she
avoided
it in the case of Ned.

Hardy could think of at least one reason why Jennifer might want to lie to Frannie.  Frannie was his wife, he was Jennifer's lawyer.  It would be better if he believed she didn't kill Larry and Matt.

Frannie went on.  "This is
not
just an instinct, you know.  Or woman's intuition, although I wouldn't put that down if I were you.  You're forgetting what you proved.  Never mind if she could have done it or not, Jennifer in fact did
not
run through the Medical Center.  It did take her probably fifteen minutes to get to her bank, to five.  And
that
means she didn't kill anybody.  She had left her house.  She ran to the bank the way she told you she did.  Talking about that morning, telling me about it, she
volunteered
  the way she'd come — down Clarendon, through the Victorians, the old Haight, she talked about that, how the neighborhood calmed her down.  You don't make that stuff up."  Sometimes you do, Hardy thought.  But it wasn't a bad point.  "So what you — Dismas Hardy the person — forget the lawyer, what you've got to do if you really want to save her is to stop doubting her, stop even considering that she might be guilty."

"Frannie, they found her guilty.  That part's over."

Her fingers felt good against his scalp now.  "
I
say she did not kill Larry and her boy."

"I can't prove she didn't.  She did kill Ned—"

"That was different."

"Not so different," he said.  "Ned's dead.  Larry's dead—"

Frannie stood up and walked over to the fireplace.  She spent a minute rearranging the small herd of brass elephants that liked to graze there.  "I still say you're thinking too much like a lawyer.  You're thinking what arguments you can make."

"That's kind of my job, Fran."

She faced him.  "I'm not attacking you, Dismas.  I'm telling you she did not do it.  That's reality, not law, not what the jury found."

"It’s one reality, Fran.  Yours."

"Damn it! 
Listen
to me.  You want to argue and fight about words, you go ahead.  But there's a major thing you're forgetting."

"Oh?  What's that?"

"Sure, go ahead, get mad.  That's a real help."

Hardy was mad.  He had gotten up, found himself standing by the couch with his fists clenched.  He closed his eyes and took a breath.  "Okay, I'm sorry.  What am I forgetting?"

"If Jennifer didn't do it,
somebody else
killed them, and did it for a reason."

Hardy was shaking his head.  "I've been all through the possibilities there — by myself, with Terrell and Glitsky and Freeman and the whole known universe."

"Then you missed something."

"Except if Jennifer did do it.  How about that?"

Frannie didn't budge.  "She didn't.  I think you know it and I know I know it.  Powell got it wrong both ways."

"I don't know that."

Frannie was heading back through the dining room.  "I feel like a glass of wine.  Several.  You can join me or not, I don't care."

*     *     *     *     *

"The hit man?"

The mood had mellowed some.  It was ten-thirty and they'd finished most of a bottle of Chardonnay.  Hardy had run all the people with motives by Frannie, and finally they had arrived at Frannie's suggestion that one of these people, although armed with an alibi for his or her personal time, had hired someone to kill the family.

Hardy shook his head.  "Don't you suspect a professional hit man would bring his own weapon?  You ever hear of a hit man shooting somebody with their own gun?"

Frannie had her legs over his on the couch.  She sipped her wine.  "I don't know.  It's not exactly my area of expertise."

"Plus, how did he get in or out?"

"Maybe he just walked.  Is there a back door?  A window?  All I'm saying is it had to be someone.  Someone besides Jennifer."

"The problem is, Fran, even if I agree, this takes us back to police work.  And they didn't find anybody else.  No hit man, no nobody."

"Maybe Abe…"

Hardy shook his head.  "Abe is a good guy but he's done on this one.  Everybody's done.  It's down to me."

Frannie finished her wine.  "And you don't have a lawyer argument that's going to save Jennifer, do you?"

"No.  She won't—"

Frannie shushed him.  She knew all that, she reminded him.  "Okay, then.  There's only one option left."

"I'm listening."

"You've got to find out who killed them."

42

Hardy sensed that he and Walter Terrell weren't friends anymore.  He had reached him by telephone at the homicide detail before nine the next morning, and they had had a brief discussion.  After Hardy had introduced himself, saying he just had a couple of quick questions, Terrell had replied, "Why don't you take your questions to somebody who gives a shit?"  And then the inspector had hung up.

Hardy held the receiver for a long minute, until it started to beep at him.  Okay, he thought, I can take a hint.

He had a problem — nobody was going to talk to him.  Terrell was the first indication, but as he sat flipping though the interview folders and copies of police reports on his desk, he realized that he had about run out of folks who might be willing to give him the time of day, much less a substantive interview.

Tom and Phil DiStephano — forget it.  Nancy — too scared, and rightly so.  The Romans — he could go get in Cecil's face, but there was no leverage even if he had a grounded suspicion, which he didn't.  There was Sam, the gay receptionist at the Mission Hills Clinic, but that could get awkward and was still once removed from any even remotely potential suspect.

Hardy went downstairs again, watched more World Series action, drank a cup of coffee and schmoozed with Phyllis.  David Freeman was in his office this morning but had a client with him and Phyllis wouldn't interrupt, not that Hardy wanted her to.  It looked like another murder case.  By the way, he'd been working while he'd been at home — she had typed the first papers on the Witt appeal this morning.

The ever-spinning wheels of the law depressing him, Hardy went back upstairs.  He threw darts — 20, 19, 18.  The numbers falling, the clock ticking.

*     *     *     *     *

The only human being left was Ali Singh, the office manager at YBMG.  Hardy thought he'd take him out to lunch, see if there was any other avenue he hadn't explored regarding Larry Witt's work.  Maybe he had stolen another doctor's patients?  Singh's avowal that Larry had been popular with his fellow workers — on reflection — just didn't seem to be possible.  The man had been difficult with everyone, and all work environments created frictions.  At least it was worth a shot.  Not to mention that it was the only shot Hardy had.

Except that Singh no longer worked there.

"Do you have a forwarding number?"

The efficient voice said they weren't allowed to give out that information, which Hardy had somehow known was coming.

"It's very important."

The voice was sorry.  There was nothing it could do.  Hardy's karma on a negative course.

"Okay, then, how about this?  How about I give you my name and number and you call Mr. Singh and ask him if he'd like to call me back?"

"I may be able to do that," the voice said.  "I'll check."

*     *     *     *     *

Assistant District Attorney (and candidate for Attorney General) Dean Powell and his boss Chris Locke were having lunch together at a corner table fifty-two floors above San Francisco in the Carnelian Room at the top of the Bank of America Building.  Powell had asked for the lunch.

The special was Santa Barbara rock shrimp risotto, and both the attorney and his boss the DA had ordered it.  Powell had decided he wanted a half bottle of Meursault to go with it.  Locke wasn't having any until it was poured, and then he allowed himself to be talked into a glass.  They did not click their glasses together.

The upcoming election was now less than two weeks away, and Powell was leading the pack of contenders in the latest poll by four percentage points.  After a few minutes of chatter about that, Powell came to the point, filling Locke in on Hardy's visit to his office, the one he had promised not to talk about.

When he had finished, Locke said, "He's only been with Freeman how long and he's pulling this?  'Course, he's capable of doing it all on his own."

Powell nodded.  "It's pretty transparent."  He stabbed a shrimp.  "He tells me his client won't let him bring it up but nevertheless it's the truth and I'm a cretin if I don't believe him."

"Still, though, Dean, this issue has been floating around since the beginning."

"Of course.  There's little doubt the woman was hit a few times.  But it's nowhere in the record."

"Yes, it is, Dean.  At least once."

"Not with Larry.  Not with the second husband."

A bit annoyed, perhaps only impatient, Locke snapped, "I know who Larry is."  Then, "What's he doing with it?  Hardy, I mean?"

"Well, that's just it — he says Jennifer has forbidden him to bring it up in open court."

"He say why?"

Powell shrugged.  "She says it gives her a reason to have killed Larry and she didn't do it."

"She's feathering her bed for the appeal."  Locke finished his short glass of wine and Powell poured him a little more, to which he did not object.

"That's how I read it, too.  She's just stonewalling, and she's smart, figuring if she admits to being beaten she's admitting to the murders."

"I don't think she killed anybody because she was being beaten," Locke said.

"Right.  She did it for the money.  Twice."  Powell looked out over the sparkling city, the view clear to Napa.  He sipped at his own wine.  "I just wanted to alert you.  I think you can expect a personal call from Mr. Hardy, calling on you to tap those reserves of sympathy for which you are so justly famous."

Locke, never able to stand Hardy, allowed himself a small smile.  He brushed his lips with his napkin.  "If it's not in the record it doesn't exist, Dean.  That's how I run my office.  Always have."

Powell was satisfied.  "Yes, sir, I know."  He nodded.  Locke held out his glass for the last drops of the Mersault, and Powell poured.

*     *     *     *     *

At least Hardy had found a couple of questions he hadn't yet asked.  It gave him a glimmer of hope.

Not that this particular question — what was in the Federal Express package and/or who sent it? — appeared to have much to do with the matter.  But it
might
.  At this point, he was considering a "might" of resounding relevance.

The files were piled in a half-circle around the periphery of his desk, in places a foot high.

The other consideration that had occurred was Phil DiStephano's co-workers.  Glitsky had told him about the redneck feel of the plumbers' workplace.  Hardy thought it was at least possible that here, from a pool of blue-collar workers, might surface a moonlighter who augmented his hourly wage by a sub-specialty in taking people out.

Again, this was the long shot to end them all… who said blue-collar workers were disposed to professional killings — and besides, plumbers were not exactly economically depressed.  But what else did he have?  If he was going on the assumption that Frannie's feelings, convictions, were accurate — which he now was — then he had to have missed
something
.

When the telephone rang now it startled him.  He had been trying to figure out a way to contact one of Phil's friends:  Hi, I think one of your co-workers might be killing people on the side.  Anybody talk about anything like that?  Unlikely.

"Hello."

"Mr. Hardy, is it?"  The welcome voice of Ali Singh, to that he was likely to know anything either.

"It's a little late," Hardy said, "but if you haven't eaten yet, I'd like to take you to lunch."

*     *     *     *     *

It was a different setting than the Carnelian Room.

The Independent Unicorn was one of those San Francisco coffee houses in the avenues that always seemed to be empty and yet had been operating in the same location for thirty-some years.  A postere next to the front door announced poetry readings on Wednesday nights, open-mike music on a few others, randomly.  The place had picture windows, but they were covered with paisley cotton sheets, keeping the room suitably dim.  There was sitar music and faint smells of patchouli and curry.  A shirtless bearded man and a long-haired thin young woman dressed in black were playing chess at the counter.

Singh waved tentatively from his table at the back.  Hardy's eyes, not yet adjusted to the light, made out the form, and he moved toward it, knocking into one of the tables on his way.  A cat meowed at Hardy's feet and jumped up to the window ledge.

Hardy studied the table, moving on.  Singh shook his hand, weakly.  The little efficiency expert seemed somehow diminished, beaten down, though he put on a brave smile.  When Hardy thanked him for the meeting, Singh said, "It is my pleasure for you to come down.  There is not, you see, much…"  His voice stopped.  He gestured around the room.

"Is this your place?" Hardy asked.  "You own it?"

A polite laugh.  "Oh, no, no."  He leaned forward, confiding.  "It is not expensive.  They let me sit in here all day sometimes. It is better than being home.  It is a place to come to, like work."

The shirtless man had put on an apron for his waiter's duties, and was at their table offering the menu.  Espresso, teas, whole grain bread products, lentil soup, brown rice, tabouli.  Hardy ordered hummous and a salad.  Singh asked if Hardy minded if he had the vegetable curry, at $4.95 the most expensive thing on the menu.  Hardy said sure, anything, lunch was on him.  Hardy, the sport.

When the waiter had gone, Hardy asked Singh what had happened to his job.  Singh smiled sadly.  "Well, the business climate, you see…" he began, then trailed off again.  He was still wearing his thin tie and his white shirt.  The sportscoat was draped over the chair behind him.  "No, it is not that.  I think it is just greed."

"Greed?"

"No, that is not fair, not right.  I suppose it is just business, but I am… I was with the Group for seven years and I thought…"  He shrugged.

"What happened?"

"Well, the restructure, yes?  The bottom line."  Singh drank from his water glass, no ice.  "I did not see this coming.  It is my fault.  I should have known.  This is how profit is made — you trim the fat."  He laughed.  "I never saw myself as the fat, though.  You see?  I thought I was valuable, providing a service.  Now, of course, I see."

Hardy, having read the offering circular three times, was by now familiar with the facts:  The Yerba Buena Medical Group had been in the process of changing its status from non-profit to for-profit, for well over a year — the HMO needed to attract capital if it expected to compete for patients, and it couldn't attract capital if it didn't make a profit.

"So they just let you go?"

Singh shrugged.  "Somebody else could do it more cheaply.  Maybe not so well, I don't know.  But I was staff, not a doctor, so…"  Another shrug, the conclusion obvious.  "In any case, how do I help you?  You did not come to talk about me."

Hardy sat back on his chair.  "That’s all right, Mr. Singh.  I don't mind hearing about you.  You might have heard that Dr. Witt's wife was gound guilty of killing hi…"

"No, I did not.  I do not follow the news since… his wife…?"

"She's my client.  I'm trying to keep her from being getting sentenced to death."

"I do not believe in that.  I think execution by the State is just another form of murder."

"Then you might want to help me?"

"If I can.  But as I told you, Dr. Witt was respected."

The food arrived, slightly  more appetizing than its description.  Hardy broke off some pita and dipped it in his hummous.  Singh ate hungrily, beginning almost before the food was on the table.

"You also said that you and Dr. Witt had some problems over how money got spent."

"But that was the Board, their decisions.  It never came to anything.  Dr. Witt did what he did in his office, what he wanted.  I think he wanted more say, more control, in how the plan worked, in the decision-making."  Singh stopped eating for a second, a smile on his face.  "What he would do now, I don't know."

"What do you mean, now?"

"Now there is no Ali Singh to discuss it with.  Now, with the takeover."

"You mean the change to for-profit?"

Singh shook his head.  "No, Mr. Hardy.  That was last March.  I had not bought in… almost no one did, but I think Dr. Witt, he would have arguments over this."

Hardy stopped the pretense of eating.  He felt a tingling at the back of his neck.  "I'm afraid you've lost me.  I thought we were talking about the company going for profit."

"Yes, it did that."

Hardy waited.

"And then — this is separate, you see?  Later, this summer, the Group was bought."

"Who bought it?"

Singh had finished his curry.  He pushed his plate aside.  "These are the people who let me go.  The insurance people — PacRim.  They paid $40 million in cash."

Hardy pushed his own plate away.  "$40 million."

Singh was going on.  "When it filed with the State for the status change — the fee is to pay the State for your worth — it came to $535,000 dollars.  That was the Group's net worth.  The offer of $40 million was a great surprise, you see?  No one thought the Group had that kind of value."

Somebody did, Hardy thought.  No business suddenly discovered its value had increased from $500,000 to $40 million in less than six months.

Yet the offering circular had described YBMG's financial future in the most conservative terms.  No sale was contemplated — publicly — last Christmas.  There had been no potential buyers and the market had been scoured at the time.  The circular had been clear on that.  The members shouldn't expect any windfall profit; it probably wasn't even worth the members' time to buy the nickel shares.  They'd never be worth any more than that.

The tingling sensation was spreading.

"If I had been a member, I would have bought," Singh said.  "Not many members bought but I would have.  And everything now would be different."

"The members did all right?" Hardy asked.  "The ones who bought in?"

Singh, the accountant, knew the figures.  He couldn't help smiling bleakly in admiration.  "They offered forty-nine percent to the members, the doctors.  That's 140,000 shares at five cents a share.  How much you could buy depended on how long you had been with the Group.  The most — for any one individual, you see — was 368 shares, which would be a total investment of $18.40."