She rose and came around the desk, leading the way to the door, five steps ahead of the men. Powell hung back, letting Hardy come up abreast of him, then whispered. "Bullshit walks."
Hardy left the courtroom, head bowed, shoulders hunched, seeing nothing. It had fallen apart. Not only had he let down his client, he had sullied his reputation, such as it was, by misreading the fairest judge he was likely to appear before.
Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Powell in front of the television cameras. He'd get a few seconds of air time looking good, but he wasn't about to defy the gag order, not at this late date and with things going his way. Instead he was carrying on about how crime was a huge problem, all right, he had a lot of thoughts on the subject.
Hardy had had his fill of Dean Powell. He wanted to slink back to his office, but Inspector Walter Terrell suddenly was standing in his way. Mr. Theoretical. But Hardy couldn't very well condemn him for that – he himself had fallen into the same trap. Because something could have happened didn't necessarily mean that it did. Or, in any case, that it could be proved. His job, the trust he'd taken on, was to prove, not speculate. He'd lost track of the obvious.
"They sent me down to get you," Terrell said enigmatically. "There's somebody upstairs asking for you."
He stopped. It never ended. What did Jennifer want now? How did she get upstairs so soon? Then another question popped up: Why was Terrell giving him the message?
"On seven?" he asked, meaning the jail.
"No, four." The fourth floor was homicide. "We're talking to Mrs. Witt's mother. Her dad died a couple of hours ago. She wants her lawyer. Abe Glitsky told her he thought he knew where you might be."
Nancy had volunteered to come down. Homicide lieutenant Frank Batiste as well as Glitsky and Sean Manion were on hand. Nancy was not being charged with anything yet in the death of her husband. No one argued that she had killed him, but they needed her statement, even if it was self-defense.
Nancy was sitting in a yellow leatherette chair at the table in one of the interrogation rooms. Dressed up, with black eyes and a bandage across her nose, she could have passed for thirty-five, much as her daughter on a good day could pass for twenty.
Barely nodding to the assemblage, telling everyone that, first thing, he needed five minutes alone with her, Hardy entered the room and closed the door behind him.
She smiled weakly, greeting him. He saw immediately that her breathing was shallow, her color bad, too pale. "Are you all right? Should you be walking around?"
She nodded. "They let me out this morning. I'm just a little weak. I thought this would help," she said. "Anyway, if I came down here, maybe I could see Jennifer."
"We can probably arrange that. But what do these guys want?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. The inspector I saw in the hospital – Manion? – he said they weren't going to charge me with anything, and then when… when Phil…" She forced a breath. "Anyway, after Phil died the younger man came out and asked if I'd cooperate."
"If you'd cooperate? He said that?"
This wasn't adding up. Either they were going to charge her or they weren't, and either way there was no point in getting her downtown in her condition to sit in an interrogation room at the homicide detail. He also wondered about the party outside – Bariste, Glitsky, Manion, Terrell. Everybody hanging around waiting on an interview with a woman they weren't going to charge with anything?
"Have you talked to them yet?" he asked.
But before she could answer, there was a loud buzz outside, clearly audible even inside their room. They stood and Hardy opened the door. The District Attorney himself, Christopher Locke, had come in, trailed by Dean Powell and half the television cameras in America.
It was all getting clearer.
Hardy didn't look at Locke. Their feelings about each other had been aired the year before. He walked into the main room, around Locke and up to Powell. "You know, Dean, this is pretty outrageous. Not to mention insulting."
Terrell stepped forward, out of the pack, explaining to Powelclass="underline" "She asked for her attorney." Why should Terrell be explaining to Powell?
"I don't know what you're talking about," Powell said to Hardy.
"I'll tell you what I'm talking about." The room continued to backfill with camera-wielding humanity. "I'm talking about this media circus. I'm talking about using this woman's" – there was Nancy, standing by the door – "about using this woman's personal tragedy so that the jury in her daughter's trial can read about it with their coffee tomorrow morning, and not incidentally so you can be on television again just before election day."
"That's ridiculous."
"I don't think so, I think it's on the money. I think you had Terrell sitting in the wings at Shriner's in case Jennifer's father died so you could drag his wife down here in front of the cameras… Like mother, like daughter. Right?" Hardy wished California sequestered its juries.
Frank Batiste was a no-nonsense professional cop who was out-gunned by the brass here, but he was in charge in this room, his domain. He moved forward toward the press of media. "Would all of you please step outside the door now?" He was herding them, prodding. "Just back up there. Thank you." When the last camera had gone, he closed the door and turned back to the room, suppressing a smile. "I'm sure they'll wait."
Locke thought he was trying to take charge. "It's the District Attorney's decision whether or not to charge a person with a crime, not the police department's."
"Hey, I already wrote it up." Manion, DA or no DA, had done his report and he wasn't about to stand by while his professionalism was questioned. "If this wasn't self-defense, you can have my badge."
"I'm not saying it wasn't." Locke as usual, in Hardy's view, was temporizing until he saw which way the wind was blowing. "But it is my decision."
Hardy didn't dispute that, but it wasn't the issue. "Why is Dean here then, Chris? You want to explain that one?"
This drew blood, but Locke recovered quickly. "Mr. Powell is a Senior Assistant District Attorney. He's got every right to be here."
Batiste took another step forward. "No question, sir. So you've decided to charge this woman? You want us to take her upstairs and book her?" Hardy didn't know Batiste well, but suddenly he decided he admired him. There was no irony in his tone; in fact, it was punctiliously correct. He was telling the District Attorney that if he had his facts right they should proceed with the next administrative step.
He was also calling Locke's bluff.
The District Attorney stood there flat-footed. The room, even without the media, felt jammed and overheated – Locke, Batiste, Powell, Terrell, Manion, Nancy, Hardy, three other homicide guys who happened to be there when it began. Locke for the first time looked at Nancy DiStephano, who was leaning wearily against the doorjamb to the interrogation room, her arms crossed, protecting her broken ribs.
"I haven't read the arresting officer's report," Locke said. "I was under the impression…" He stopped. "After I read it, I'll make my decision."
Powell followed him out, "no commenting" all the way down the hall. In the homicide room there was a long silence. Finally Batiste spoke to Terrell. "The District Attorney's office hires its own investigators, Walt. You want to be one, go apply. I'll expedite the paperwork." He walked into his office.
Hardy walked back over to Nancy, who by now looked to be on the verge of fainting. Hardy got her to the chair, helped her down. She was panting from the exertion. Glitsky joined them. "She could have called Freeman or you. I told her you were probably closer."