The 13th Juror

55

After the trial Hardy had built a new brick border to enclose Frannie's roses by the fence in his backyard. He had his foot on it now, looking back toward the house. Isaac Glitsky, Abe's oldest, was taking his job very seriously – he lifted the top of the barbecue, poked the turkey in the thigh with the long fork. "It's still a little pink," he said.

Abe, finally, on Thanksgiving, holding what Hardy thought was his first beer of the year, spoke patiently, gently, the voice nothing like the one he used in his police life. "Just close it up, Ike, it'll get done."

The boy did, then went to join his brothers playing with Hardy's kids up under the overhang by the house.

It was unseasonably warm, sunny, with a westerly breeze. Moses and his pregnant bride Susan were expected soon, and Frannie and Flo were inside cutting things up, setting up condiment trays, cooking side dishes.

Hardy was having what he called the traditional Thanksgiving Old Fashioned – bourbon and soda and sugar and bitters and oranges and cherries and God knew what else. He wanted to enjoy it before Moses, the purist, arrived and tried to ruin it for him. He sat on his new low wall, taking in his world.

"This works," he said. He smelled the turkey smoke, the newly mown grass. Then: "You'll never believe who called me yesterday."

Glitsky looked over at him. "Orlando Cepeda?"

Hardy shook his head.

"Michael Jordan?"

"Not a sports figure."

"I know it wasn't Clinton. I'm sure he would've mentioned it when I talked to him."

Hardy sipped his drink. "Jennifer Witt."

The warm breeze came up again for a moment. Isaac was back at the barbecue and Abe told him to leave it. "And turn that hat around, son. We've talked about that."

Isaac was wearing his Giants hat backward. His homicide-inspector father agreed that while it was probably a harmless fashion, he wasn't going to allow his son to affect even the smallest trademark of gang affiliation. No baggy clothes, Raiders jackets, turned-around baseball caps for Abe Glitsky's sons.

Isaac flipped the cap around and Abe shrugged at Hardy. "I'm turning into a conservative. It's kind of sad."

"Let's see," he said. "A conservative in San Francisco would still leave you just to the left of Lenin, right?"

The scar lightened slightly – Abe's not-quite-beaming smile. "So how's Mrs. Witt?"

"She's rich. Really rich."

"This soom. They paid?"

"They had to. She didn't do it."

The shade from the house had reached them and Glitsky moved down a bit on the brick. "I've been meaning to ask."

Hardy nodded. "There were no prints at all on the toy gun."

"And this means something?"

"To a trained investigator like yourself, I'd think so."

Glitsky gave it a minute. He actually took a sip of his beer. "It was wiped. If some kid had ever played with it, it would have had his prints on it."

"See? I knew you'd get it. Anyway, there was so much other stuff, I just missed it. Something, as they say, was nagging at me, but I couldn't get it into the picture until Lightner slipped up. It should have had some prints, some partial prints, some smudges at least."

"But why did Lightner frame Jennifer if he loved her?"

"He didn't start out to. He must have convinced himself she wouldn't get nailed for it. He was so confident he confided to me he was afraid she did it, but only to save herself from Larry."

"I hear even shrinks can get caught up in believing what they want to believe. Just like 'real' people."

"He should have stolen something," Abe said. "Made it look like a botched burglary."

"Of course, with your years of experience, that's easy for you to say. In any event, Jennifer getting arrested screwed up everything. He hoped with Larry gone, she'd eventually marry him, her rod and staff and her comforter. He said the obsession neurosis, whatever, was hers. It seems it was the other way around. He also didn't figure on Matt being home. Christmas vacation. He forgot about the boy."

"Why did he come just then?"

"I asked Jennifer the same thing. How did he know? She had called him when Larry started beating her up that morning. I suppose she blames herself for that, too. Anyway, obviously he'd been thinking about it. Jennifer at some point had told him about the gun, where it was. And now he thought with Larry gone… Anyway, Jennifer told me she called him when she ran upstairs in the middle of the fight. He told her to get out. He must have figured it was the right time, told his trusty secretary he was in conference, closed the door and walked out through the patio. It's not ten minutes to Jennifer's house from his office."

Glitsky drank again. "And Terrell gave him his alibi."

Hardy nodded. "I'm sure he'll work out fine in his new position."

Terrell's job change to the DA's office had been finalized the previous week. "Lightner's secretary said he was there all morning and that's what Terrell wanted to hear…"

"It fit his theory."

"Except now the secretary isn't so sure. Funny, huh?"

"Hysterical. Unprecedented. And Lightner's going down?"

"It looks like it. He gets to have his own trial, anyway."

"He should have split when they charged her."

Hardy gave him the eye. "How could he without pointing the finger directly at himself? No, he thought he had an alibi. He had to stay around to watch Jennifer's defense. He couldn't leave me alone. He had to push the battered-wife defense. It was the only way to get Jennifer off that didn't put it back on him. And if that didn't work, well, everything had been for nothing. And remember, he really was, and is obsessed with her.

"But her husband did beat her, didn't he?"

Hardy nodded. "But Jennifer was always telling the truth about that – she didn't kill him period. She might have been full of guilt and other hang-ups, but she'd be damned if she'd put up a defense for something she didn't do. Her big problem was getting people, including her lawyers, to believe her."

The back door opened and Moses McGuire started down the steps. Hardy polished off his drink, chewed the cherry and dropped the orange slice into the dirt behind him, covering it. He and Glitsky stood up.

"Ike, want to check the bird?" Abe said.

Moses was shaking hands, his Scotch in the other hand. "This is my first one. You guys ahead of me? What are you drinking, Diz?"

Hardy held up his empty glass. "Bushmills, straight up, no ice."

"My man," Moses said. Then, turning to Glitsky, "So how's the murder business? Still booming?"

On Saturday, December 11, Hardy's wash-out "other dude," Jody Bachman, and Margaret Morency exchanged vows in a ceremony at Ms. Morency's estate in San Marino. As one of the biggest society weddings of the year, the event made the "Living Section" of the Sunday Chronicle.

Over three hundred guests had been in attendance. Among the stars and celebrities listed, Hardy noted both the mayor and the police chief of Los Angeles. Frank Kelso was also there, along with a host of other supervisors, state legislators, civic leaders, philanthropists.

Jody and Margaret smiled out at Hardy from the photograph. On Jody's right was Todd Crane, his best man, managing partner of Crane amp; Crane.

The couple was planning an extended honeymoon in the South of France.

It was a small house – three bedrooms, two baths – on a cul-de-sac in Belmont, twenty-two miles south of San Francisco. The people who had lived there before had kept it up beautifully – in the backyard the grass was trimmed and green. Just off the new deck some stone benches surrounded a small fountain. On the periphery, the fence was bordered by fruit trees – two bearing oranges, a lemon, a cherry and two plums, though now in the middle of January the cherry and plum trees were bare, leafless.

Jennifer Witt had gotten up at dawn and run three miles down Ralston and back up behind the college. She had not had a cigarette since the trial. Sitting in the breakfast nook, the window open a crack, she drank coffee and ate a plain croissant from the good bakery down the street. It was an overcast day, but still, outside, she could hear the sounds of birds in the fountain.

It was the first day of the spring semester and she had showered and gotten dressed by eight. Her first class was at nine. She did not have to declare her major for two years, but she knew it was going to be psychology. She wanted, finally, to understand herself, and thought that might be a good place to start.

When she finished she put her dishes in the sink. Wrapping a sweater around her shoulders, she walked back into the house and pushed open a door.

Her mother was still sleeping. She crossed the room and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm off," she said. "You want to meet for lunch?"

Her mother had been sleeping a lot since they had moved. Now she stretched and put an arm aaround her daughter's neck. "You have lunch," Nancy said, "make some friends. Stay at school."

"What about you?"

Her mother pulled herself up. "Don't worry about me."

"But I do." Jennifer sat on the bed and her mother smoothed her daughter's hair.

"This is the best it's ever been," Nancy said. "For me, at least."

Jennifer nodded. Her hand rested on her mother's. "I know. I guess I just never wanted to get here this way."

Nancy smiled. "At least we're here. I think it's where we take it that matters now."

"I know that." She squeezed her mother's hand and stood up. "I know. It's just kind of hard."

Nancy didn't let go of her. She looked up. "Okay, how about if, just today, I come down and have lunch? One time. Get you over the hump. Get me out of the house, too. I think I'm getting ready for that. Maybe I'll even call Tom."

Jennifer thought about that. "That'd be good, Mom. I'd like that."

The last school color picture of Matt was blown-up to eight-by-ten and framed on a small table by the front door. On her way out, Jennifer stopped, as she always did. This time, she picked it up, holding it in front of her. A gap-toothed Matt smiled at her. She kissed the glass.

Putting the frame back in it's place, she opened the door, took in a deep breath and walked out into the morning.