"It's a case that lasts a year, maybe two. Who knows, that could be as long as any of the jobs last, Frannie. Life's uncertain."
Frannie rolled her green eyes, as if she had to be told that.
Hardy pressed on. "Mrs. Witt is worth a couple million dollars, maybe more…"
"Which the insurance company isn't going to release to her now that she's charged with the murders."
It was a point he had hoped she wouldn't raise. "Stranger things have happened." He tried a grin. "They might."
"Do me a favor, would you, Dismas? Find out? You owe us that much."
Dinner finished, both kids asleep, they were sitting across the dining room table from each other, finishing the last of their red wine with chocolate candies on the side – Frannie's latest culinary discovery that had addicted them both. A brace of nearly burned-out candles sputtered with fitful light.
Frannie sighed. "You don't want to work for anybody, do you?" She held up a hand, cutting off his response. "If you don't, that's okay, but we shouldn't talk about it as if you do."
"It's not that."
"I bet it is. You call all these people who've been interviewing you corporate rats. I think the phrase betrays a certain prejudice."
Hardy popped a chocolate, sipped some wine. "I really don't know what it is. This thing with Jennifer Witt just walked into my life this morning. What am I supposed to do? Freeman has asked me to help. He'll take over in the morning."
"But you are interested, aren't you?"
"No commitments," he said. "But yes, it's interesting. I looked at the file."
"You mean the file you couldn't get your nose out of, that you seem to have memorized?"
Hardy gave up. "Yeah, that file."
"And what if she did it?" Frannie was grabbing at straws and knew it.
Hardy sat back. "She still has the right to an attorney."
Frannie gave him a look. "What's that got to do with you?"
"I'm an attorney."
They both laughed, the tension broken a little. One of the candles gave up the ghost, a wisp of smoke rising straight in the still room.
Frannie reached a hand across the table and took her husband's. "Look. You know I'm with you. I just want you to be sure you're doing something you'll be happy with. This isn't just one case, you know. If you take this one, that's what you're going to be doing, taking cases. Maybe defending people all the time."
Hardy had once been a cop, and on two separate occasions he had worked in the District Attorney's office. Frannie was of the opinion that if anyone was born and bred to the prosecution, it was her husband. She had heard his tirades against and/or scornful dismissal of defense attorneys, the "ambulance chasers," the "pond scum who took anybody for their fee up-front.
"It doesn't have to be sleazy," Hardy said.
Frannie smiled at him. "I just wonder if that's the life you want."
"The life I want is with you."
She squeezed his hand. "You know what I mean."
He knew what she meant. It worried him some, too. But he knew if David Freeman asked him to help with Jennifer Witt, in almost any capacity, and off the top of his head he could think of several, he was going to do it. Which meant he wasn't pursuing any of his job possibilities. Which, in turn, meant…
He didn't know.
The other candle went out. "Let's leave the dishes," he said.
4
San Francisco's Hall of Justice, located near – almost under – the 101 Freeway at the corner of 7^th and Bryant, is a gray monolith of staggering impersonality. Its lower stories house various City and County departments, including police, coroner, the office of the District Attorney, and courtrooms and jury-selection waiting rooms. The jail on the sixth and seventh floors is administered by the San Francisco County Sheriff, as opposed to the City's police department. Behind the building, a new jail is slowly rising in what used to be a parking lot.
Hardy entered through the back entrance, was cleared through the metal detector and, deciding to bypass the slowest elevator in America, ascended to the third floor by the stairway and into the familiar bedlam that reigned in the wide hallway.
Aside from the usual circus, this morning's sideshow featured a convention of perhaps twenty gypsies. Uniformed policemen were remonstrating with several women about their use of a Butagas container to heat their coffee in the hallway. Hardy first wondered how they had managed to het a portable gas container through the metal detectors, then watched for a while, fascinated as he often was by the raffish melange one encountered almost daily between these institutional green walls.
It seemed to be a reasonable discussion – no one, yet, was raising any voices. But neither had the flame gone out under the coffeepot. While one woman tended to the argument, another was pouring liquid into small porcelain cups and passing it to some men, who put lumps of sugar into their mouths before they began sipping.
"They should set up a TV camera and run this hall live." It was David Freeman, rumpled as usual in a cheap rack suit, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. "Probably pull a thirty share."
Hardy gestured around them. "You'd need a commentator to explain what's happening. Like here" – he pointed – "it's a little ambiguous."
Freeman considered it. "The host is a good idea. Maybe we could have the judges rotate, like they do the calendar. 'This week on calendar we've go Marian Braun, and here in the hallway, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LIVE, IT'S JUDGE OSCAR THOMASINO!'"
They started toward Department 22, the courtroom where Jennifer Witt was to be arraigned in an hour, which was all the time Freeman was going to take getting filled in on the case. No sense wasting it. "How's it look?" he asked.
"They're talking capital."
"Capital. Powell ought to go and stand in the witness row outside the gas chamber a few times, mellow him out a little."
"I think Powell might like it."
Freeman thought that was debatable. He had witnessed six executions in several states – no sane person could like it and he did not think Powell was insane. Not even close.
"Well, they've got special circumstances two ways – multiple murders and killing for profit. You know they're alleging three counts?"
"Three?"
Like Hardy, Freeman was surprised to learn of the last count against Jennifer, murdering her first husband Ned Hollis nine years earlier. "That's digging pretty deep, wouldn't you say?"
"You better read the file."
They got to the twelve-foot solid wood double doors that led into Judge Oscar Thomasino's courtroom, Department 22.
"That bad?"
"At least they've got a case. It's not frivolous. But she says she didn't do it."
Freeman pushed his way through the doors. "Well, there's a first."
"Maybe she didn't."
"Maybe," Freeman agreed. "On the other hand, maybe not." In the high-ceilinged empty courtroom, even whispers echoed. Dismas Hardy and David Freeman sat in the last pew, a long, hard, cold bench of light-colored wood. Freeman, legs crossed, unlit cigar in his mouth, was starting to peruse the file, pulling papers and folders from Hardy's extra-wide briefcase.
"You're heartening to talk to. Anybody ever told you that?"
Freeman shrugged, scanning pages. "My clients love me. Why? I get them off. Do I think they're guilty? Do I care? Probably – to both questions. Most of the time."
"Most of the time you think they're guilty?"
Now Freeman looked up. "Most of the time they are guilty, Diz. Our job's to get them off, so that's what I try to do."
"Well," Hardy said, "I found myself very much wanting to believe her. She was torn up, crying, really a wreck."
"Over her loss, or over being caught?" Freeman marked his reading place with a finger. "I know, I know, I'm cruel and cynical. But tears fall for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is self-pity, and when someone's sitting in jail, believe me, they get to feeling very sorry for themselves. It can seriously tear a person up, I've seen it happen." He went back to reading, turned a few pages, stopped.