The 13th Juror

36

Time-out.

Hardy had a black, cast-iron frying pan that this parents had given him before he went away to college. It was his only artifact from those long-ago days, a relic from his own lost youth. It weighed about five pounds, and its cooking surface was as smooth and black as hematite. After using it he cleaned it with salt and a wipe with a towel, although every couple of years he spent an hour rubbing it down with oil and extra-fine-grade steel wool. So far as he knew, soap had never touched it.

Frannie was reading to Rebecca before putting her down for the night. Hardy had discovered shallots and had cut up four of them and tossed them in the pan with butter and olive oil and some parsley. He took a drink of his Chardonnay and dribbled a few drops of wine into the pan. A small pot of rice was on another burner and he lifted the lid, checking it. Timing was all. He turned the heat off under the cast-iron pan. The prawns would only take two minutes and he wanted to wait until Frannie was finished with the Beck. Leaving his wine, he walked through the bedroom and into what had been his office for ten years.

Now, the walls painted light blue and surrounded with a menagerie of stenciled animals, it was a child's room. Rebecca was wearing her new turquoise silk pajamas. They were Daddy's favorites and so she wore them every night – soon he'd have to get her another pair. She sat surrounded by half a dozen of her "buddies" – a teddy bear and a rabbit and a cabbage-patch doll and some others, all with names – half on Frannie's lap on the rainbow children's loveseat, draped, enthralled by Good Dog Carl. Hardy stood in the doorway, taking it in. He came over and sat with them, and the Beck rearranged herself so as to be lying over both of her parents. Hardy put his arm over Frannie's shoulders and she leaned into him, smelling good.

He didn't particularly like it that Frannie continued talking to Jennifer, but Frannie just didn't feel right about abandoning her and she didn't want to go down to the jail, so she'd talk to her on the phone from time to time.

"She seems confident David's going to pull it out after all."

"I hope so." Hardy picked up a prawn by the tail and took a bite. "I'm getting good," he said. "These are good."

Frannie disagreed. "They aren't good, they're perfect. Anytime you feel like throwing a little something together for dinner like this, you go right ahead." Frannie had finished breast-feeding Vincent. She was having some of the wine now. "You don't sound too sure."

"Well, David does put on a good show. He was something else today. You leave that courtroom feeling like you've got your money's worth."

"But…"

"But I don't know."

Frannie put her fork down and looked across the table at him in the candlelight. "Are you really worried?"

"I'm really worried. He moved some rice around. "He had Florence Barbieto up there today for maybe six hours and proved that every time she'd said the words 'a minute – and she said them a lot – it really didn't mean a literal minute. But if this guy Alvarez, the neighbor across the street, comes on and say he saw Jennifer leaving the house within – pardon the phrase – a minute after the shots, then she was there."

"But this other woman you found. The jogger…"

"Well, sure. David will trot her out – and I am glad that I found her – and she'll say she heard the shots, or noise like shots, and stopped and started running right from the gate, but all Powell will have to do is ask her how she even knows it was the same day. She doesn't. If Alvarez sticks to his identification, that still puts Jennifer in the house, and very probably we lose." He pointed at her plate, his face softening. "Eat your shrimp, woman, it'll make you strong."

Frannie dutifully took a bite but her heart wasn't in it. "I can't believe somebody – this man, Powell – who's talked to her and seen her is so determined to put her to death. God. I mean, she's a nice person, maybe a little confused but…"

Hardy shook his head. "I don't mean to argue with you, but I don't think she's such a nice person. She's lied and she did kill at least one person" – he held up a hand – "okay, maybe she had reasons, but I don't want to go overboard on what a sweetheart Jennifer Witt is."

"Well, she sure didn't kill Larry and Matt."

"I don't think she did."

"Dismas, you know she didn’t."

"I don't know that. I hope it and it's true I can't imagine that she killed Matt, but I don't know for sure. Nothing I've found, and I've been looking, proves she didn't do any of it."

"But nothing proves she did, and that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? That's what Powell's got to prove."

Hardy nodded. "In theory."

"Well?"

"Well, in fact quite a bit seems to indicate that she did do it. That's the problem. She's got five-million dollars if she's cleared, and she's out of her abusive marriage and-"

"And Matt?"

"Sure, except that…" Except Hardy knew that there were a host of so-called human beings on the planet who were capable of killing their offspring without remorse. He really didn't believe Jennifer was one of them, but…

"I don't think that's her."

"I don't either, Fran, but it's not impossible. That's all I'm saying."

"Well, I hate it. And I hate to hear you even suggest it."

"I'm not all that fond of it myself."

They sat, across the table from one another, the food forgotten. Hardy reached out a hand and Frannie took it. "I've got a really startling idea," he said. "How about if we don't talk about Jennifer Witt or the law at all for oh, I don’t know, let's try five minutes? And if we make it, let's go for the whole night."

It wasn't easy, but later on it was sweetly worth it.