The 13th Juror

8

Hardy's own crack-of-dawn was literally that. The telephone next to his bed rang at five-forty as the thinnest line of pink began to show out his bedroom window. He got it on the first ring.

"This is Walter Terrell. Wake you up? Sorry. Abe Glitsky asked me to give you a call. What can I do for you?"

Hardy heard the young voice, noting the penchant some cops had for getting to you when you weren't ready for them. He bet that Terrell wasn't really that surprised that he'd woken him up, nor sorry. Five-forty was a little early for anybody except fishermen and most folks seemed to know that. Even Hardy's kids still slept.

But he had him now, and this might be the only time, so he swung out of bed and padded into the kitchen with the phone. "I thought we might be able to get together, talk a little about Jennifer Witt."

There was a pause. Perhaps Glitsky hadn't told Terrell exactly who Hardy was. Or his relationship to Jennifer. But one thing was sure – Terrell knew Hardy wasn't with the DA's office.

"You doing her defense?" Terrell asked finally.

"Keenan counsel." Hardy was pouring leftover coffee into a mug and pushing buttons on the microwave. "Penalty phase."

"Yeah, I saw it was going capital. You guys got yourself a bitch. The case, I mean. The perp, too, actually."

Hardy bit back his automatic response of "alleged" perp. Hardy recalled when he had walked a beat – start saying "alleged" to cops about people they had arrested, pretty soon you'd find you weren't friends anymore. He wanted to keep Terrell on his side.

"Well, this perp's maybe got a decent defense, but she doesn't want to use it. I mean, it seems her husband had been beating her."

This evidently didn't change Terrell's world view. "So?"

"You knew that?"

Hardy almost thought he could hear a shrug. "Guys beat their wives, most of them don't get killed."

"What I'm saying" – Hardy pulled his coffee mug from the microwave, put in sugar, stirred – "is she could take the battered-wife defense and have a better chance of getting off, and yet she won't."

Terrell was silent. To him, these were legal shenanigans. His job was to deliver someone to the DA if there was evidence they'd committed a crime. What the DA's office did after that was not his problem. Finally he asked, "So, what did you want to see me about? I assume you've read the file."

"Sure."

Terrell kept up the slow response. "The file's the official record. I'm in it. Does it say anything about beating?"

"It said they were fighting." Hardy felt rudderless, struggling to get his brain moving.

"Well, there you go. Anything else? I got a big morning."

"Did you find anything on this hit man?"

The voice dripped scorn. "That's right, the hit man. City's crawling with them. No. I didn't mention him for the same reason I didn't mention the motorboat."

"What motorboat?"

"The one that wasn't there, just like the fucking hit man. There was a lot of things I didn't put in – space aliens, for example. If you read the report, the hit man's there in her statement. Hell, she's got to have something if it's her story somebody else did it. What's she gonna say?"

"It’s so lame you'd think-"

"No. It's just lame, all right, but that doesn't mean she didn't make it up all the same. Perps make up dumb lies every day."

"But Mrs. Witt doesn't seem dumb, does she?"

"No," Terrell agreed, "no, I don't think she's dumb. At least it aint an NHI – that's something, huh?"

NHI was shorthand for "No humans involved" – cases involving the scum of the earth – dope dealers, career criminals, sub-humans of all sorts.

Terrell was still on the line. "But you know, we sent people to a lot of doors and asked and nobody saw a thing except the FedEx truck at 9:30 and the neighbor who saw Jennifer after the shots. After the two shots."

"What about the driver of the FedEx truck?"

"This is all in the file. What about the FedEx guy? You think he's some kind of hit man took the driving job as cover for a day?"

"No, I-"

"Well, as we like to do, we checked him, too. He's been with them for a couple of years, probably still is."

"No, what I wondered is if he saw Mrs. Witt in the house when he made his delivery. What was he delivering, by the way?"

"It's the Monday after Christmas, what do you think? Probably a late Christmas present. You can ask him. Did he see Mrs. Witt? I don't know. The husband signed for whatever it was."

Hardy could keep following this road until Terrell hung up on him in about another six seconds. An overworked homicide investigator and a defense attorney was not a natural pair to begin with. But he recalled Glitsky's comment about Terrell's fondness for theories and figured it was his only shot to get the man if not on his side then away from active hostility. You never knew but when an investigator could tell you something important you couldn't otherwise discover. As Glitsky had noted, some things just didn't make the file.

Hardy began again. "One last thing if you don't mind. What clued you to the first husband?"

"Well, maybe it's 'cause, bein' a cop an' all, it's my job."

The fuse was getting critically short. Hardy had to come up with something or this guy was history. "Look, Terrell, I want to know what I need to know. I need some help, one cop to another." At the silence, Hardy continued. "I used to be a cop before I was a lawyer."

"Ah, the Glitsky connection?"

Hardy admitted he had walked a beat with Abe Glitsky after Vietnam and before law school. He felt a little foolish trotting out the old resume, but he knew what were likely to be buttons for police officers. Sometimes it helped to push them. "Anyway, this first husband, the guy was poisoned…"

"Ned, yeah."

"So what was that story? I mean, how'd you figure it? A gun and poison don't exactly point to the same perp."

The line of pink over downtown had widened to a blue band under low clouds. The sun broke over the Oakland hills. The coffee, old and strong, was kicking in. From the nursery in the back of the house, Vincent let out his I'm-hungry cry, and there was the soft sound of Frannie's voice settling him against her.

Hardy has missed a few words but picked it up mid-thought.

"… insurance in both cases. I just thought Ned was worth another look. Turns out it was pay dirt."

"And you think it was Jennifer?"

"That's what ties 'em. Ned was murdered. Then Larry and the kid. Her own kid. Shit, I say fry her."

Rebecca came running through the kitchen doorway in her teddy-bear nightgown, attaching herself to Hardy's leg and announcing her choice for the morning's breakfast menu – syrup, juice, applesauce, syrup, pancakes, syrup and maple syrup.

"Sorry," Hardy said into the phone, "it's the invasion of the two-year-olds But I'd like to talk about how you got this. If it's righteous… I don't know. I'd just like to find out."

Flattery, the great motivator. Terrell said Hardy could pick a good time and they'd see if they could get together.

When he hung up, he asked his daughter if she wanted syrup with her pancakes. She said yes, she did, syrup was her favorite.

It was all in the file. Although Terrell told Hardy that they had sent out lots of people to question neighbors and other witnesses, he had interviewed the driver of the Federal Express truck himself two days after Larry Witt had been killed.

Frederico Rivera was the twenty-six-year-old Hispanic male who had delivered the package to the Witt house at 9:30 a.m. on Monday, December 28. He knew it was exactly 9:30 for several reasons. First, Larry Witt had signed his name, then looked at his watch and written in the time ("very precise uptight guy") next to the time (Fred) had already written on the delivery record – so they had two people corroborating 9:30. But Fred had also been listening to Holiday Madness on KFWB where they were giving away trips to Hawaii if you were the ninth caller after they played the Solid Gold Oldie of the Day, which this day was "Two Faces Have I," by Lou Christie. And they always played the Solid Gold Oldie at 10:30 sharp. Fred remembered all this because it was only two days ago and the DJ had made a big deal about how they only had EXACTLY ONE HOUR left – so it had to be 9:30 – just as he'd gotten back to the truck, and he had been trying to figure his route so he'd be close to a pay phone at that last critical moment.

Hardy, sitting at the dining room table with his copy of the report that he'd photocopied in Freeman's office the day before, yelled in to ask Frannie if she knew who had sung "Two Faces Have I" and she said it was before her time.

It was still shy of seven o'clock.

"I'm only twenty-seven, Dismas. Nobody my age knows that stuff."

"Fred Rivera does." He told her about Lou Christie, about "Two Faces Have I," one of the great classics of the pop era. He'd have to play it for her sometime if he could find it among his ancient 45s. She said she couldn't wait. He asked her if she'd ever hear the long version and then, smiling, went back to the file.

And discovered that none of Fred's or Larry's actions had been really necessary to pinpoint the time precisely – Federal Express uses computerized vans, and after each stop the driver entered the delivery information. Terrell had checked – he might have theories, but he was also thorough – and the log-in had been at 9:31, giving Fred a minute to finish up with Larry and get back to his van.

Fred Rivera did not see Jennifer in her house at 9:30, but given his preoccupation with the Solid Gold Oldie, Hardy thought it was unlikely he would have paid much attention even if she had been parading around naked behind Larry. Well, maybe then. Hardy wondered where Matt had been.

So Fred Rivera hadn't seen anybody. Neither had he witnessed any suspicious persons walking up or down the street – again, not that he was looking.

Mrs. Florence Barbieto called the police at 9:40, a "couple of minutes" after she heard the shots. The houses on Olympia, though large, were set almost on top of one another, no more than fifteen feet between structures. She had heard shots, then looked out her window to the house next door, thought about it for a while, walked over and rang the Witt's doorbell. When there was no answer, she went back home and called the police.

Hardy thought that sounded more like five minutes than a couple. Which meant that either the shots were fired at 9:38 or three or so minutes before then. Could such a small detail make any kind of difference? Maybe. Maybe not.

The facts were beginning their slow accretion. So were the possible interpretations.