“I’d think you might—out of a little human sympathy for what she’s been through—maybe, without a plea, at least drop the death penalty.”
Powell showed no surprise. Strategically, this wasn’t a bad move for Freeman—his client had been abused, perhaps raped. Freeman knew he had seen her, and Jennifer Witt was, at this moment, an object of some pity. But all this got processed in the time it took Powell to blink twice. “I have no sympathy for what she’s been through,” he said. “She’s brought it all on herself.”
“She asked for it, huh, getting raped?”
If Powell said anything like that, under any circumstances, he could forget his election chances. “That’s not what I said, David, and you know it.”
Freeman, of course, did know it. Hardy, not for the first time, was glad he was in the same corner as Freeman. The threat that he might repeat Powell’s words in some public forum—that Jennifer had asked for getting raped—might break the deadlock. Hardy half-expected Powell to cave, drop the death penalty request, and offer a plea for Murder One, maybe even with the possibility of parole. If Jennifer took that, there would be no penalty phase and Hardy would be out of a job. He waited.
But Powell didn’t get to where he was—the Senior Homicide Assistant District Attorney—by wimping out. He smiled in the face of this veiled threat. “My heart just doesn’t go out to multiple murderers, and anything that happened to her outside of this jail, or this country, well”—he spread his hands—“that’s completely out of our control.”
“I’ll be investigating what happened in Costa Rica.”
“I would, too. I’d expect you to. Let me know if I can help you. That kind of conduct is unconscionable.”
Back to posturing and politics. Hardy picked the Sports Illustrated from Freeman’s lap, opened it at random. Whatever else was going to be said here, he didn’t need to hear it.
The Yerba Buena Medical Group owned a square block of buildings that housed their professional offices half a mile from San Francisco County General Hospital.
Hardy got there a little after eleven. It shocked him—there was actually a free parking lot provided for guests, doctors and patients. Downtown, in North Beach, in Golden Gate Park, throughout San Francisco, lot parking was running four dollars an hour with a two-hour minimum. Street parking could not be found—people had been shot over twelve feet of curb space.
Following the signs through a landscaped maze of shrubbery and vine, Hardy stopped at a redwood kiosk inside of which was a glass-covered granite pedestal, the directory of offices including a you-are-here arrow. More than forty doctors practiced here. Larry Witt’s name was gone, probably long gone. It had been over six months since he had been killed—Hardy reflected that the wheels of justice had not yet turned one degree, which was about normal for half a year. And it didn’t look like things were going to speed up.
Jennifer’s flight hadn’t predisposed anyone in the Hall to do her any favors. She was in lockdown, with visiting and phone privileges drastically reduced. She said even her food was worse, if that was possible. It wasn’t necessarily on the books, but in practice Freeman and Hardy were finding out that breaking jail constituted a pretty solid waiver of a lot of your rights. Freeman had been told that “due to bureaucratic complexities” over the extradition, Jennifer couldn’t even get a preliminary trial-setting date for another week.
The good weather was continuing, and the air-conditioning in the business office felt good. Hardy found himself impressed with this whole operation. His vision of the world of HMO health care—especially here in the city—was bleak. Anonymous doctors and nurses dispensing care to people they didn’t know in perhaps antiseptic but nonpersonal surroundings.
YBMG’s reception office had light green tinted windows all around. The couches were covered with soft cushions and cheerful fabric—swirls of yellows and oranges and reds and blues. A Berber rug—not the ubiquitous yellowing tile Hardy always expected—kept it quiet as Hardy walked to the desk. He had no appointment so he would have to wait, but Mr. Singh would try to be with him shortly.
More Sports Illustrated, the same issue Powell had had in his office. Forget July 11—today, July 12, was his lucky day. He considered buying himself an extra lottery ticket.
Ali Singh had answered Hardy’s first questions competently enough, but had his tiny hands crossed on his empty desk, as though this would prevent him from tapping his fingers or twirling a pencil or otherwise betraying his nerves. Dressed in a white button-down shirt, thin brown tie, new electric sportscoat, he was nodding, acquiescent. “Of course, you see, the police have already been here. They have asked these things.”
Hardy leaned forward. “I’ve reviewed everything they’ve subpoenaed, Mr. Singh—his office files, the interviews. I was wondering more about the personal things, how he got along with the other doctors, nurses, that kind of thing.”
“Well, that is . . . I don’t know. I didn’t really know Dr. Witt personally, as you say. You see, we have a lot of doctors here. They don’t work together too often. It’s not like a Kaiser operation, as you can see.”
“So you didn’t know him at all?”
“Well, of course, you see, we talked about administrative things, his help and so on. But he had his work. I have my work.” Singh raised his eyebrows, unclasped his hands for a split second, put them back together.
“But no problem?”
Singh smiled. “There are at times problems with everyone. Doctors have egos, you know. They want things one way, their way, and I have to try to standardize, so of course sometimes there is conflict. But nothing so serious.”
“With Dr. Witt?”
“I liked Dr. Witt. Occasionally we would spar over cost issues, how we did things.”
“And how would you do things? How would it affect him more than anyone else?”
“It didn’t. That was always my point. But the Group”—he gestured around, taking in the whole complex—“the Group had plans, has plans. You see, we have nice buildings here, pleasant, wouldn’t you say?”
Hardy nodded.
“And this is not by accident, you see. It is the Group’s, the Board’s, philosophy.”
“To have a nice environment?”
“Just so, you see? But this, of course—the landscaping, the furnishings, even the rent here—this takes money from the fund, and—”
“And Dr. Witt thought that that money should go to the doctors?”
Now Singh beamed at Hardy’s understanding. “Ah, you do see. Just so, it is just so.” Unclasping his hands, Singh finally sat back in his chair. “Dr. Witt liked to feel he had a say in these things, in many matters.” He waved a hand. “This is not a criticism, he was not alone in this. He had a need to know, to feel that he was somehow in charge with his business, of where the Group was going.”
This certainly comported closely with Jennifer’s analysis, with Lightner’s opinion, with the FedEx man’s report. Larry Witt had been a control freak. “So where was the Group going?”
“Is,” Singh amended. “The Group is converting to a for-profit organization. We have been not-for-profit long enough. The Board feels to compete in this health market we need to attract capital. To do that we must be . . . attractive, and sad to say, part of that is the physical setting. You would think the quality of the care is the thing, but that is not business.” Singh sighed. “It’s reality, and the members—the doctors—were asked to take a shortterm loss, no raises, that kind of thing, you see.”
Hardy saw. Times were tight everywhere, but especially in health care and especially in California. The move, on the face of it, made sense in the long term, but he also understood why there might be resistance in the short term—no raises, less money, bite the bullet, wait wait wait. From all he’d heard, waiting and deferring weren’t Larry Witt’s strong suits.
“Did Dr. Witt fight with anyone about this? Get mad, lose his temper?”
“Dr. Witt? Oh good God, no. He never lost his tem
per. You can ask anyone here—he was always courteous, always reasonable, even if he wasn’t backing down. Nothing here was to get mad about—minor differences among professionals. Dr. Witt had no enemies here. He was liked, looked up to.”
“But somebody killed him. Could he have been having an affair with a nurse, with one of the doctors’ wives . . . ?”
Singh was shaking his head, an amused look on his face. Thoroughly at ease now, he leaned forward. “It was no one here, believe me, Mr. Hardy. I think it must be his wife, you see?”
“This,” Freeman said, “is called a cover-your-ass affidavit. And this”—he lifted his other hand—“is a check for two hundred thousand dollars.”
Hardy was in his office, feet up on his desk, thinking about where he was going to mount his dartboard. He had been here in Freeman’s building for nearly five months and during that time, what with feeling he should put in some regular hours and his growing family responsibilities, he realized his dart game had gone to hell.
He had pegged a round of darts into the drywall and Freeman’s mouth hung slightly when he saw them there.
“I’ll patch the holes and cover it with my board.” Then, switching topics, “If I were her, I think I would have spent more in Costa Rica.”
Freeman crossed to Hardy’s open window, a view of buildings across the way and, four flights down, the after-lunch show on Sutter Street. “I think she was in a hurry when she left,” he said.
“That could have been it.”
“Also, she told me the bank wouldn’t give her more than ten grand. In cash. On no notice. So she took that and ran, figured she’d wire for the rest or something, which was a bad idea.”
“That how they found her?” Hardy asked.
Freeman nodded. “Looks like. But the good news is she’s with us all the way, no more wait-’til-Monday-and-I’ll-decide-then bullshit.”
Hardy sat up, feet to the floor, rolled his shoulders. “I don’t know. I feel pretty bad for her, David.”
Freeman turned from the window and fixed Hardy with a look. He seemed short on sympathy for Jennifer Witt. “Why don’t you go interview her again, like I did for two hours this morning?”
Hardy leaned back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head. “Tell me.”
“She won’t plead. She won’t admit her husband was beating her. She won’t talk about her escape, who helped her out—maybe get a little slack on that, at least something to deal with. But no, not our girl. She just didn’t do it. The end.”
Hardy pointed. “So what’s the affidavit?”
“This?” Freeman went to Hardy’s couch and sat down. “This is Jennifer’s signed statement that I have advised her that her best defense is BWS . . . ”
“Battered . . . ?”
“Yeah, yeah, battered woman syndrome, and that she—”
“But you don’t believe . . . ”
“Yeah, I do. Now. She’s gonna go down for the murders so I’m thinking about how to get into mitigation as early as I can. I tried to drive that home and what do I get?”
“Not much?”
Freeman shook his head. He’d never understand lay people. “Exactly. Squat. She didn’t do it, she’s not pleading.” He reached inside his wrinkled jacket and pulled out a cigar, jamming it into his mouth. “I tried to tell her it doesn’t matter if she did it. I can get her off on BWS.” He shook his head again, stood and walked back to the window.
“Maybe it matters to her?”
“Well, of course.” Freeman was patting his pockets, found a pack of matches, stepped back from the window and lit up, putting the cigar into the flare.
“You know,” Hardy said, “you ought to wave the cigar gently back and forth an inch above the top of the flame. And don’t inhale while you’re lighting up.”
Freeman glared at him through the thick blue smoke. “But I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let her get an appeal on my misrepresentation. If I know she’s been beaten and I don’t bring it up, it’s reversible and I’m not letting her or anyone else pull that on me. Hence, my son, this affidavit.”
“Do you know she’s been abused?”
“Does she admit it? No. But it doesn’t matter. It’s a defense. It can get her off, damn it. Or at least give her the best chance of getting off.”
“It’s also admitting she did it.”
17
Mrs. Nancy DiStephano could not see Hardy while she was working but he could meet her afterward if he wanted, if he thought it might help Jennifer.
Since he was passing by with time to kill anyway, Hardy had dropped in at the office of curator Pico Morales in the basement of the Steinhart Aquarium and told him he was getting fat, he ought to get out more, take a walk, exercise. Pico contended he wasn’t getting fat—he was actually in good shape except for his hyperextended stomach. Nevertheless, he got up.
They were strolling along the paths in Golden Gate Park’s Japanese Tea Garden, across the concert grounds from the aquarium, less than two hundred yards (as the crow flew) from the Little Shamrock. There was serenity here when it wasn’t crowded, and it wasn’t now. Huge koi swam lazily in the artificial streams, the water trickling and gurgling over moss-covered rocks and small waterfalls. The still-warm sunlight came dappled through the cypresses.
Pico had been listening to Hardy talking about the ATM and didn’t think it was very clear. “So Larry Witt was alive at 9:30, right? You know that? What time were the shots?”
“Let’s say between 9:35 and 9:40.”
“And who told you about this difference between 911 times and the bank times?”
“Nobody. I went down with Abe and—”
“So this DA—what’s his name?—you’re telling me he doesn’t know? What about the cops?” Pico walked on a few steps before he noticed that Hardy had stopped. He turned back to him. “What?”
“I am really stupid.”
Pico nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Hardy ran it down out loud to hear how it sounded. “No, listen. You’re right, forget 911 time, Jennifer’s at the bank at 9:43, right? Larry’s definitely alive at 9:30. Take away two or three minutes for Larry to walk back upstairs, call it 9:35 or even later when he gets shot. Jennifer is at the ATM at 9:43, not 9:46—eight, not eleven minutes later.”
Pico was shaking his head. “See? All this worrying about the truth. If the DA doesn’t know about the three minutes . . . ”
“I’m not sure the DA even knows about the stop at the ATM.”
Pico spread his hands. “Well, there you go. You win.”
“No way could she have made it 1.7 miles in a maximum of eight minutes, even if it’s all downhill.”
“I believe you,” Pico said. “Being faster than a speeding bullet myself, I could have done it, but your average bipedal human . . . ”
Nancy DiStephano stood him up.
He was meeting her at five-fifteen outside the real estate office where she worked as a secretary. The office was on Kirkham near 19th Avenue and it was closed up when Hardy arrived. He double-checked the address, the time, the cross-streets. No Nancy.
After fifteen minutes he called it a day, debated with himself whether he should go by the Shamrock and apologize in person to Moses, decided not, got in his car and headed home.
“I want to meet her.”
“Who?”
“You know who. I would just like to meet her.” Frannie’s red hair hung long and shiny, shimmering in the evening sun. They were walking along Clement Street—Hardy with Vincent on his back in a pack, Rebecca running ahead, stopping at driveways, alleys and corners the way she had been taught. Frannie caught Hardy with a sideways look. “You said she was a person, not a case, remember? It would just make me more comfortable. Rebecca!”
“Out of the street!”
Rebecca had dropped a toe over the curb. She pulled it back, turned around smiling. “Just teasing.”
“That is nothing to tease about,” Hardy said. “The street is dan
gerous. We hold hands crossing the street.”
Rebecca knew this. She gave her mother a conspiratorial glance and slipped her tiny hand inside Hardy’s. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said.
“What?”
“Mommy and Daddy are talking, honey.”
“We can talk about it later, Dismas.”
“No. Now’s fine. We ought to be able to have a small discussion without being interrupted, don’t you think? And I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t even know if you’d be allowed to. Or if Jennifer would want to see you.”
“Who’s Jennifer?”
Hardy let go of the Beck’s hand. “You can run ahead now.”
“But who’s Jennifer? Do I know her?”
“Jennifer’s one of Daddy’s clients, sweetie.”
“Doesn’t she like you?”
“She doesn’t know me. I want to meet her.”
“Hey.” Hardy, the referee, making hand signals. “Time out, all right? This is our discussion. Beck, enough, I mean it.”
“You don’t have to yell at her.”
Hardy was trying to keep his voice under control. “I’m not yelling at her. I’m trying to teach her not to interrupt. This is a useful social skill.” Vincent, suddenly startled, let out an anguished cry.
“Great,” Hardy said. “This is just great.”
Rebecca, arms outreached, mouth open, broke down. She clung to Frannie’s legs, wailing.
“Here’s an idea. Let’s give them to Moses and Susan for two weeks.” Hardy drank gin about twice a year and figured this was the night for it. Bombay Sapphire on the rocks with two olives.
They had gotten the children down to bed. It was still light outside, not yet eight o’clock, and still warm. They were sitting together on the front steps, waiting for the pizza to arrive, holding hands, the door open behind them so they could hear if anyone called. Or—more likely—cried.
“I don’t think two weeks is enough.” Frannie was having a glass of white wine. The children’s crying jag had lasted nearly an hour. “If they really want to get the flavor.”
The 13th Juror Page 15