The 13th Juror

47

The kids weren't awake yet – a miracle. It was just past six and Frannie was reading the morning paper, in the middle of the story. Even though charges weren't being filed, the mother of the convicted killer had killed her husband and that was hot news. So Powell, in spite of Hardy's efforts, had achieved his goals – not only was his name and picture again on the front page, the jury would get a glimpse of how the DiStephano/Witt women solved their problems – they killed their husbands.

"They make it sound almost Biblical," Frannie said, "like some curse through the generations."

Hardy nodded wearily. In his life he had probably been more tired but he couldn't remember when. He hadn't gotten home last night until after midnight, hadn't been able to get to sleep for at least an hour after that. "I just hope the jury doesn't see it that way."

Frannie put the paper down. Something in her husband's voice… "Are you going to lose?"

"It’s a possibility." The prince of understatement.

Frannie wrestled with the awful thought. "Can I do anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know, help you in some way, any way…" She reached across the table and took his hand. "I feel real bad about this, you know. Like I've deserted Jennifer. They convicted her. What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do? I just couldn't keep on denying-"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Frannie. She's one difficult woman. She drives people away."

Frannie bit her lip, squeezed her hand. "What will happen? I mean, if you lose?"

"If Powell get elected and stays on the case, her odds on appeal go way down. He'll be the Attorney General and she's his baby. I mean, even if he wanted to, which he doesn't, it would be hard for him, politically, to do anything but keep pushing."

"This is just so wrong."

Hardy covered Frannie's hand. "It's not over yet."

He was going to have Nancy take the stand, then Jennifer.

A society reporter named Lucy Pratt was in the newsroom at the Los Angeles Times when Hardy called from Sutter Street an hour later. That early in the morning, the place was deserted and she was happy to talk to somebody about her work. A lot of people wanted to move on to hard news, but she loved being a society reporter. She loved people. She didn't like violence, world problems, all that stuff. She told Hardy that sure, she knew who Margaret Morency was. In fact, just the last weekend they had run her picture. She and her fiance had hosted a wine-and-cheese auction to benefit the San Marino library.

"For some reason," Hardy said, "I thought she was this old woman. San Marino old money, you know?"

Ms. Pratt laughed over the line. "Old money doesn't mean you're old, at least not with Margaret. I don't think she's thirty yet. I could fax you her picture. She was one of the Rose Court in 1986, you know."

Hardy thought a picture wouldn't be necessary.

"The wedding's going to be at the Huntington in December," Lucy said. "The whole town's talking about it."

Hardy doubted whether the folks, say, in South Central, were as excited about the upcoming nuptials as Lucy was, but she seemed to be a nice kid so he listened. It seemed the polite question before he said good-bye so he asked it. "Who's the fiance?"

"It's a real Cinderella story," she said. "Jody's from the west side, but down in the flats, not exactly Brentwood. But now…"

"Is that Jody Bachman, the lawyer?"

"That's the lucky man. Do you know him?"

"Sure," Hardy said. "All lawyers know each other. It's like a big fraternity."

Lucy laughed again. She sure had good manners, though he doubted she got the joke.

He left a message with Restoffer. Even with the cold he wanted time to think, so he walked across Market, a block out of his way down 5^th (you took your life in your hands on 6^th), to the Hall. He rounded up Powell and they caught Villars alone in her chambers.

In that, he was fortunate, although she was less than delighted to see them.

"I hope you've got something prepared for today, Mr. Hardy," She began. "I'm not entertaining any continuance motions. You still want to see me?"

Hardy said he did, and she turned her back to him, going back to the slingback chair where she had been reading the paper, having her morning coffee. But she didn't settle. Instead, she lowered herself onto the outside of the chair and pointed a finger. "The time for personal appeal is after the jury's decision."

Villars was referring to the orchestrated ballet that surrounded death-penalty cases in California. Even after the jury returned with a verdict of death, that was not the end of it. The defense filed an automatic motion for a new trial, on almost any grounds and without any prejudice – in other words, without a mistrial. In the jargon, the judge became the thirteenth juror.

In practice, such motions were seldom granted. If a judge, sitting as the thirteenth juror, did in fact overturn a verdict and a sentence after the time and expense of a jury trial, the DA – by exercising his right to challenge out of any courtroom – would make it hard for that person to find work. Still, Villars was tough, and Superior Court judges, it was true, could amass a great deal of power.

Hardy remained standing. Powell sat down, silent, listening. "I wanted to get a ruling on something," he said, and told her what he had discovered that morning about Jody Bachman and Margaret Morency. She didn't interrupt him. "So, Your Honor, I have a member of the YBMG Board who called off Restoffer's investigation in Los Angeles, who is also engaged to the attorney for the Group. I think the jury should hear about this."

Villars finally sat back. "How did this woman call off the police investigation?"

"She called Kelso, the supervisor. l He passed it along to the chief."

"Do you have proof of that?"

Hardy knew this was the tough sell. "Ms. Morency both contributed to Kelso's campaign and is on the YBMG Board. I know it was Kelso who called the chief after Restoffer interrogated Bachman."

Villars spoke slowly now. "That's not proof."

"The standard is less in this phase, Your Honor. I'm trying to get the jury to lingering doubt."

Villars waited for more.

Hardy gave it to her. "Your Honor, these at least are facts, not conjecture. Simpson Crane was killed with his own gun. There is a connection, the Group – okay, it's tenuous, but it's there – between these men, and a line running through Jody Bachman, and a lot of money unaccounted for. Crane's murder investigation is closed down. The fiance of the Group's attorney has access and leverage over Kelso. Let the jury see all this and maybe they'll start to wonder about it. It's not just my theory. It springs from the facts."

Villars considered another moment. "But it's a house of cards."

"May I, Your Honor?" Villars nodded and Powell stood up. "I took a hard line with you here, yesterday, Mr. Hardy, but in spite of what you may believe, I am not anxious to see anyone condemned to death. So after we adjourned last night, do you know what I did? I called down to Los Angeles and spoke to the head of homicide, who referred me to the chief of police. The homicide department is positive, unquote, that Simpson Crane was assassinated by someone paid by Machinists' Local 47 down there. It's not a closed case, although this Inspector Restoffer isn't on it anymore – it's gone federal with RICO. There is – again I quote – no suspicion that he was killed by someone with the Yerba Buena Medical Group."

"Still, they called Restoffer off." Villars was following it all closely, even taking some notes.

Powell sighed. "Evidently the inspector was a little miffed at the federal intervention. When he thought he saw a way back in – it's a high-profile case – he stepped on a few toes. He was called off because he was hassling people, because he wasn't being a good cop."

Standing up, not in her robes, the judge might have been a friendly grandmother. And her voice had no edge now. "Mr. Hardy, I've listened carefully to you, one last time. Now I'm talking to you and I hope you listen to me. All of what you say may be true as far as it toes. There may be all kinds of financial shenanigans going on down in Los Angeles, but it doesn't concern this case. And where it might appear to intersect, it still falls under coincidence. Larry Witt just wasn't involved in any of this, or if he was there's no evidence of it."

"He called Crane amp; Crane."

"About this? Did he talk to Crane himself, or Bachman? And if so, about what? Is there any telling?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardy, I really am. I can see you are trying your damnedest, as you should, but I'm not going to admit unsubstantiated theories, and that's what this is."

She was moving him with her toward the door. "And now, please excuse me. I've got two hours of brief I've got to wade through in” – she looked at her watch – "forty minutes."