The 13th Juror

30

Dropped off on the seventh floor by the bailiff, then escorted by her two female guards, Jennifer Witt undressed in the open room, hanging her good clothes carefully on the wooden hangers, watching as the guards made space for them in the changing locker. She turned and faced the wall as she removed the feminine underthings that Freeman had bought for her. She slipped a runner's bra over her head, turned back around, took the proferred plastic bag from Milner – a sweet-faced, overweight redhead with a gappy smile and freckles – and dropped the articles, one at a time, into the bag.

The other guard, Montanez, sullenly held out the red jumpsuit. From out in the pods, through the building, they heard the sound of bars clanging, strident voices rising and fading. It was near to dinnertime, getting darker a little earlier, a few weeks before the end of Daylight Savings Time.

"How's it going down there?" Milner asked.

Jennifer shrugged. "Bunch of men talking a lot."

"Ain't it, though?" Montanez started moving them together toward the door to the changing room.

"The judge is a woman, though. Her name is Villars. There are a few on the jury, too."

But these considerations didn't much concern either Milner or Montanez. The two guards flanked her in the dim and ringing hallway, their belts and hardware creaking as they walked. From behind them, the lockup guard called out, "Is that Witt? She's got a visitor."

Dr. Ken Lightner had been in the courtroom for at least some period of time during each of the four days of the trial so far. Not being a lawyer, he had not been allowed into the tiny room next to the guard's station but, like Frannie, had to content himself with the more public arrangement – hard wooden chairs and telephone lines on either side of the Plexiglas.

He was already sitting there, waiting. His head was cradled wearily against the heel of his hand. When Jennifer sat down he stared at her for a long minute. Finally he reached for the telephone. "How are you holding up?"

"Nobody's hitting me anymore. Maybe they think I'm going to win." She allowed her face to crack into a brittle smile. "I'm starting to have a little faith in Mr. Freeman."

Lightner nodded. "What does he say?"

"He won't every commit to anything. He says it's a long haul. But I hear him talking to Mr. Hardy, I see the response he's getting from the jury. He seems confident."

"And how about you?"

"I miss you, Ken. I miss talking to you. Everything. The people here…" There was nothing to say about them. They lived on a different plane. She stopped herself, swallowed. "It's so different. I don't know…"

The phone nearly fell from her hand.

"What, Jen?"

She swallowed again, giving the impression of pulling back, even through the Plexiglas. "About going on."

"What about going on, Jen? You've got to go on."

Shaking her head, she became silent.

Lightner leaned forward, his face an inch from the glass. "Jennifer, listen to me. You've got to go on. You can't give up now. You're winning now, the worst may well be over."

"No, the worst isn't over. Mr. Freeman says the worst hasn't started yet…"

"He's a big help."

"He's trying. He is, Ken. I'm at least sure of that. It's not even the trial, you know, not mostly. It's everything else being so different. All these people here" – she gestured around her – "this whole place. I think sometimes I'll never get back to anything I recognize, anything I want." A tear broke from her eye and rolled down her cheek. This time she didn't wipe it away. It didn't matter if she looked weak, if she broke down in front of Ken, that's what he was for. And she was weak – they'd proved that. She didn't care about the old things anymore. "I'm so confused, Ken, I'm so confused…"

Lightner watched her, waiting for something, he couldn't say exactly what. Jennifer seemed inside herself, suffering, and he wanted to get her past this, but he didn't want to push. You let people find their own way out if they could.

"I'm still here," he said finally.

She allowed that brittle smile again. "I sometimes think you're the only reason I'm alive." A half-sob, half-laugh. "It's funny, you know. Remember when I thought if we could just get away from Larry, everything would work, everything would be better? It'd be a whole new world."

"I remember. It could still be there, Jen. We've talked about this over and over, working through the changes."

She shook herself, almost began rocking. Her head moved back and forth, a heavy weight held by a thread. "But that's just it, that's the problem. I don't believe it anymore. I don't know if I believe it anymore. The thing with Matt…" The flow of words stopped, her eyes suddenly dead, without any energy. "It would be better if it were just all over with. That'd be the end of it."

Maybe it was a test. Jennifer searched through the glass for something in his eyes, some answer. She scratched at the counter in front of her, reached her hand toward the Plexiglas, then withdrew it. "It's not going to get better, no matter what happens. I'm just the kind of person that everything beats up on… men, things, situations. I'm a loser, that's all."

Lightner was sitting forward now, his hand pushing against the glass. "You're not a loser, Jen. You've been victimized. We've talked about this. It's natural to feel the way you do, with what you've been through. But you're not a loser. I wouldn't stick with you if you were a loser, if I thought there wasn't some end to this, some time when things are going to be better."

"Tell me when."

"Come on, Jen. No one knows that, exactly. But-"

"I think you'd stick with me anyway, Ken, even though I am a loser. And you know why. I've figured this out. Because I'm a challenge to you, some classic case study."

"Jesus, Jennifer, how can you say that after all-"

"Because it's true, isn't it? You don't really care, do you? I mean about me. Who could ever love somebody as messed up as I am? As soon as I do get turned around, the minute it happens, if it ever does, the challenge or puzzle or whatever I am would be over. You'd be gone, too, wouldn't you? And then where would I be? I'll tell you where – where I am now, which is nowhere. Nowhere, nothing, never coming back, oh, goddamn it all…"

She threw the phone down, pushing the chair backward, knocking it over, standing, looking around, tears falling freely now. The guard was moving up, hand on her stick.

Lightner stood, his own hand on the Plexiglas, watching. Jennifer said something to the guard, slumping. She didn't turn back to look. They moved toward the door back to the cells, and Lightner sat again in the hard chair, trying to control his own feelings.

Suddenly she was back at the glass, hands splayed against it. Crying for real now, her body half-falling, half-leaning, her weight against the partition. Shaking her head, her face set, reaching for her stick as if she might really need it, the guard was coming up behind Jennifer – who was forcing words out between the sobs.

Even if he couldn't hear clearly he knew what she was saying. It was what she always said when she hit her own bedrock, when she felt it was all on her and she had to accept it.

"I'm sorry," she was crying, over and over, trying to reach him through the glass as though he were in another dimension. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, don't be mad at me…"

And then the guard's hand was on her shoulder, pulling her backward, turning her around and back to the door.

Lightner stood there breathing deeply and thinking that Jennifer might be right. She might be hopeless, an incurable loser.

And after all he'd done for her. It hit him like an electric shock, forcing him back down into the chair – the realization that she might never, ever get herself straight. He realized he was shaking, trying to get it under control, but what he wanted was to wake her up, knock some sense into that confused, lovely head of hers.

Frannie could not believe that Hardy had made all these arrangemenets – calling Erin, Rebecca's grandmother, to see if she would mind taking the kids overnight, sending a cab to pick everybody up and drop them where they should be, making reservations at this luxurious Bed amp; breakfast.

Hardy was modest. "I'm a virtual treasure trove of surprises."

"What made you think of this? What about the trial?"

Hardy sat on a red crushed velvet settee drinking an old tawny port from a cut-crystal wine glass. "I figured we owed ourselves about four date nights, call it twelve hours minimum. The trial can live without me a day – this is primarily Freeman's phase, anyway, remember."

Frannie stood at the window, arms crossed, her hair up, taking in the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the back window of the California House, an old Victorian on Upper Divisadero Street that had been refurbished and reincarnated as a Bed amp; Breakfast. They were in the Gold Rush suite, complete with stocked bookshelves, jacuzzi, fireplace, port and sherry with crystal service and, of course, The View, which added eighty dollars to the room charge.

He had made the reservation from the Hall of Justice as soon as they had recessed for the day. Erin had told him it would be no problem to come by, get the kids, feed them their dinner. Hardy had the feeling that if Erin simply showed up with a plan there'd be less chance that Frannie would demur. A cab came to their house and picked her up at 6:15. And now here they were.

Hardy still wasn't sure Frannie was altogether thrilled with the surprise. Her arms stayed crossed. Her face was set. He didn't think it was anger – in spite of the distance she hadn't been acting as though she were mad at him. Her jaw was tight, her eyes alert and thoughtful, inward looking – as though she were bearing up under some physical pain she didn't want to burden him with.

His fear was that the pain was the result of some change, that she'd realized that she didn't want him and their life together anymore. Her eyes came to him from across some chasm. A half-smile. "Hi."

He realized he'd been holding his breath, watching her, literally afraid to breathe. If he didn't breathe, maybe the moment would stop and he wouldn't have to find out what the next one held. He put his port on the end table and let out his breath in a rush. "So how's life, Frannie?"

"How do you think?"

"I think not good. I've had a stomache ache for a month. Since you stopped smiling. I thought maybe you'd like to talk about it."

She turned back to The View, her face in profile to him. He saw the muscle working in her jaw. He wanted to get up, go to her, but something – perhaps the knowledge that if she pushed him away now, didn't let him gather her in and hold her, then they might not get it back, not ever – something rooted him to the chair.

The words came out mumbled and he told her he hadn't heard what she'd said. They took a minute to come again.

She turned to face him directly and met his eyes. "Secrets."

He digested the word, and as the most obvious interpretation hit him, his stomach churned. He felt his head go light, as though he were going to faint. "What secrets?" It was the only thing he could think of to say.

She stood in the same posture, facing him straight on, arms crossed. "Secrets are what you don't tell."

Hardy leaned forward in his chair. He lifted the glass of port next to him and took a drink, then put it back down. "Okay," he said.

"It's not just that," she said.

"I don’t even know what that is."

"That's right. You don't."

Hardy brought his hand up to his forehead, squeezed at his temples. "Okay, Fran, but I've go to know." His palms found their way together. Praying. "Is it another man? Can you tell me that?"

He saw her shoulders settle, her eyes close. All her body language said that some crisis had just passed. Her arms uncrossed, untangled, came to her sides. She moved toward him, kneeled in front of him.

"What are you talking about, another man? There's no other man. There couldn't be another man." She had her hands on his face, her eyes into his, searching, outlining his features with her fingertips, her arms then around his neck, pulling him to her, against her. He felt himself shaking under her. It was all the emotion he so much tried to keep in check, to control.

That was why he'd married her. Because he trusted her enough to let her see him like this, see who he really was. She was part of him, the catalyst that let him be whole again.

She rocked him, his head in her hands, holding him, feeling the waves of emotion coming out of him, surfacing.

She held him as tightly as she could.

This was her man and he needed her. If he could do this, trust her with what he'd call his weakest self, she didn't have to worry. She could lay herself out for him – her own doubts, her own failings, inadequacies. He wasn't going to leave her for them. He wasn't going to leave.

"I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

"I probably don't, but I try."

"You expect life to be perfect all the time and-"

"I don't."

She shushed him, a finger to his lips. It was full dark now, later, the bridge lit out the window, a candle by the bed.

"I didn't want to let you down," she said, "and I was just so damn sad. And it wasn't you, it was me. It was my sadness. It was Eddie, my so-called youth, everything. I guess it just caught up to me."

Hardy lay there, quiet.

"I didn't want you to know. I didn't want it to hurt you."

"I think I know life's not perfect, Frannie. God knows, I know that."

"But you want ours to be, our home life, don't you? Sometimes you even think it can be."

"Don't you? Don't you think that's something to shoot for?"

"I don't know. I thought I did. And then this, this whole thing, feeling trapped, all of it…" She shifted in the bed, moving her head from the pillow to the crook of Hardy's shoulder, her leg over his middle.

"I didn't try to trap you into this, Frannie. Into being married. I thought you were happy…"

"It wasn't you, Dismas. I can see now that it wasn't you. It was my life. All of a sudden, I don't know what it was, it all just came back at me. And then I felt so much like I'd failed – I mean, I wasn't happy and I should have been and whose fault is that?"

"I generally blame a consortium of Arab investors."

"So do I, usually, but this time it didn't work, and I couldn't tell you. It wouldn't be fair with your trial coming up and all, and then I began to resent that… that I couldn't tell you, and then I convinced myself that you wouldn't care anyway, that this was just all stupid female stuff that isn't very linear anyway and can't be-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… what is that? Stupid female stuff? We didn’t invite any stupid females to this party."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean. And linear?" He turned up on his elbow, looking down at her. "I don't know what you mean," he repeated. "Really."

Frannie closed her eyes for a breath. "I saw Jennifer."

"I know you did."

"No." She shook her head. "More than once. I snuck out. I left the kids with Erin and went and saw her."

"How many times?"

"I don't know. Three or four."

"At the jail?" He answered himself. "Of course at the jail." Hardy sat all the way up, pulling the sheet around him. Frannie put a hand on his leg.

"The first time… I guess we connected. Then I didn’t think you'd approve, or I didn't want to ask for your okay…"

"Frannie…"

"But then I talked myself into being mad that I felt like I had to clear it with you every time. That didn't seem right, that I had to ask permission."

"She's my client, Frannie." He was shaking his head, trying to fit this in somewhere.

"I know, I know. I should have talked with you, but it… it all seemed to fit in with the other stuff, being so depressed, feeling like I was trapped. Jennifer… well, she listened to me."

"Jennifer listened to you? Jesus." Hardy threw the sheet off and swung his legs off the bed. He walked to the window, not to see The View but because it was the only destination in the room. He stood stock still, then, without turning, whispered, "You talked to Jennifer about you and me? What's she got on us now?"

He heard her voice, small behind him. "It wasn't like that. Don't be mad at me now. Please."

He stood another minute, trying to piece it together. The images out the window – the lights on Union Street far below, the Golden Gate , the Presidio evergreens blurring the western horizon – they were piling up, falling over each other kaleidoscope fashion. Turning back, he sat again on the settee. "This was the secret?"

Frannie was at the edge of the bed. She paused, framing an answer. "All of it was a secret. It was all connected."

Hunched over, Hardy had his hands crossed in front of him, his head down.

"Dismas?" She was off the bed now, on the floor, on her knees in front of him again. He felt her hands on his legs.

"I'm not mad," he said. "Let's get that straight. I'm not mad at you and I'm glad we're talking about this. But did it occur to you that she might be using you?"

"She wasn't. I just told you it wasn't like that. At least I didn't think it was like that-"

He jumped at the difference. "You didn't think it was like that then, but you do now? You think it might have been?"

Frannie got up, grabbed the blanket and drew it around her, then sat on the edge of the bed. "No, I didn't say that." She took a deep breath and reached out again, the space between the bed and the settee. "I wish you wouldn't interrogate me. I want to talk about this, Dismas, but when we get into it like this I feel intimidated. It doesn't work, it doesn't get us anywhere."

"Where do you want us to get to, Frannie?"

"I want us to be able to talk again. I'm trying to tell you how it was."

In the candlelight her face was an amber cameo. He found he couldn't take his eyes off her. He nodded. Her arm was across the space between them, touching his leg, reaching out. He put his hand over hers.

This was not the time to argue, to tell Frannie that Jennifer might have had an agenda far removed from the one she'd led Frannie to believe. He came over next to her, pulling the blanket around both of them. "You're right," he said, kissing her, holding her against him. "I'm sorry. Talk to me."

"She told you Larry beat her?"

"Everybody has beaten her. She couldn't believe you never hit me, or Eddie never hit me. She didn't believe me, I could tell. Like the idea is completely outside her experience."

"It probably is."

They were still huddled together at the edge of the bed. "Let's not ever hit our kids, okay?" Hardy said.

"We don't."

"I know. Let's not start."

Frannie leaned into him. Muffled night sounds came up through the closed window – a truck's brakes squealing as it inched down the north Divisadero escarpment, a girl's carefree laugh from outside one of the clubs on Union.

"I still feel a little like I've abandoned her. Jennifer, I mean. I just… it got feeling wrong somehow."

"Well, I haven't abandoned her, so I guess it's still in the family, right?"

"I know, but-"

"Shh. Look. Maybe just hearing your story – some woman who doesn't get hit – maybe that'll give her hope that it's possible."

"If she believes it."

"And if she doesn't, you seeing her more isn't going to make her, is it?" He held his wife against him, breathing in her scent. The candle sputtered briefly. Hardy looked over and saw a thin rope of wax snake its way down the crystal holder, pooling on the dresser's surface. "I'm not trying to talk you out of anything, you know. If you want to see her some more, just tell me, okay? Let me know."

"I won't." She sighed. "There's some things… it's just too wrong."

"You said that. But if you're not going behind me…"

"No, that's not what's wrong. It's her, really, Jennifer. First I thought we… you know, we were two women… we could talk. But then she cut it off. She was about to tell me something important and then closed up, said I didn’t want to know. I began to wonder if maybe…"

"If maybe she's guilty?"

"Maybe. I couldn't handle that. Except I don't believe she killed Matt, even accidentally, or Larry. Maybe her first husband, I don't know. And if she did, I don't know whether I could handle it. If, I said. But she told me, why did I think she was fighting this thing so hard. The answer is she didn't kill them."

"Although Larry beat and abused her?"

"Please don't cross-examine me, Dismas. She told me Larry beat her. But she also said she didn't kill him, or Matt – not by accident or mistake or any other way or for any other reason."

Hardy looked at her, wondering if she was trying to convince herself. He certainly knew how that felt.