Or did Todd already know it? Maybe he was plain thrilled and delighted with two million against seventy-five thousand in billables. It was, Hardy realized, only his personal fantasy – unverifiable, as fantasies tended to be – that Bachman would have traded all of his fifty thousand shares against his time. Who said he would have to do that?
If those two approaches failed, maybe Restoffer…? No, not realistic – Restoffer was out of it.
It was down to Judge Villars, sitting as the thirteenth juror – down to what he could make her believe.
His own theories didn't matter. He couldn't prove them. They weren't going to do Jennifer any good. He had to go another way. He had to be lawyer and make an argument out of whole cloth if need be, even if he hated what he had to do.
But – to be fair – it wasn't whole cloth. At least he'd be starting with one truth, the one that had been denied throughout and yet had remained constant – Jennifer had been battered.
Overriding Jennifer's objections – he wouldn't even ask her again – he was going to lay it out for Villars – Jennifer's intractability, the Freeman affidavit, the defense decisions.
The irony did not escape him. He could not use anything he knew about Jody Bachman and YBMG. And what he could introduce probably had no direct bearing on what had happened in the Witt's bedroom on December 28.
The plane nosed down over the Bay. It was almost four o'clock and he was to face Villars tomorrow morning at nine-thirty.
He was down to his last dart.
"Of course, I'll do anything."
Dr. Lightner sat framed by the glass in his office. His secretary had gone home. The eucalyptus grove behind him was dark, in shadow.
"Good. I want you to tell the judge about Larry beating her."
Lightner sat forward, ramrod stiff at the proposal.
Hardy leaned forward, almost pleading now. "I know what I'm asking, Doctor, but it's really Jennifer's only hope. You've stood by her so long in all this."
But standing by someone and revealing their privileged communications were very different matters.
After a couple of seconds Lightner stood up. He turned his back to Hardy and looked out into the grove. "I can't believe it's come to this."
Hardy came up next to him. "After Larry died, when you were seeing her, she never…?"
Lightner was already shaking his head. "She wouldn't talk about it."
He felt a sudden sinking in his gut, a vertigo. For an instant he thought it was the flu again. Unbidden, the awful thought reoccurred – had she done it after all? Stop it.
Lightner walked back to the window, put an arm against the door jamb, looking out. "This is priest and confession, isn't it?"
Hardy couldn't put a lighter face on it. "Yes, it is."
"Betray the privilege. Betray her trust."
"Save her life."
Lightner turned and faced Hardy, the ruddy face pale and drawn under the beard. "What about the doctors I gave you? Couldn't they help?"
"What are they going to say? Where is there proof?" At this stage statements about her bruises and abrasions weren't enough. He needed her therapist's confirmation.
Lightner turned back toward the grove, opened the door and stepped outside. Hardy followed, and they walked a hundred feet over the duff.
"What do you think happened that morning?"
Lightner let out a long breath. There were muffled sounds of traffic on 19^th Avenue. The doctor stared through the trees. "I think it was pretty much the way she told it, except she left out the physical part."
"The physical part?"
"Larry hitting her."
"He hit her that morning?"
Lightner turned to him. "Let's say I saw the bruises the next time I saw her, which was two days later. I think he hit Matt too. I'm not saying he did, I'm saying it could have happened-"
"Matt didn't have any bruises."
Lightner shook his head, unable to get it out. "Matt's head…" he began. And Hardy saw what he meant. If Larry had struck Matt in the head, the bullet would have destroyed any sign of it. It evoked his own delirious scenario of a few nights before.
"I don't know what happened," Lightner repeated.
"What do you think happened, Doctor? This is Jennifer's life here. I've got to make Villars see it."
Lightner was trying to walk a line, trying to stay on the angel's side of privilege. "All right, this is what I believe happened."
Lightner faced him, the last low rays of the sun striking the red in his beard. Worn down by the tension, by the moral and professional dilemma, at last he appeared to have made up his mind. "She was leaving him, taking Matt with her. That was the fight. He had beaten her, badly, on Christmas Eve. She called and told me."
"And what did you do?"
"I told her to leave, to get out. She said she was afraid Larry would kill her. She told me about the gun. It was in the headboard. He would use it. I told her to take it and get out. Obviously she didn’t."
"Then what?"
"On Monday it started again." And he began to develop a scenario with chilling plausibility. Hardy could scarcely breathe as he listened. "He hits her and she says she's really going, leaving for good. She starts yelling for Matt, who is nowhere to be found. Maybe he's hiding somewhere. In any event, suddenly Larry, who's been after her, apparently decides he has had enough. He runs upstairs. Knowing what he's doing – going for the gun – Jennifer starts running up after him to get him to stop, to plead – anything. By now she is screaming, hysterical, just like that woman from next door said.
"But Larry isn't in the bedroom. And the gun is. She grabs it, hears a noise behind her, turns. There is another gun! Coming out of the bathroom door – he's gone in there. She fires. It's Matt. She had hit Matt, who had been hiding in the bathroom all this time with his new Christmas present. A toy gun from his grandparents.
"And then suddenly Larry is out, rushing her, his hands raised to strike. She fires once, point blank…" Blinking now, as though coming back to himself from a place removed, Lightner turned to Hardy. "It was over," he said. "Later she tried to cover up. But she had no choice. Larry would have killed her…"
Hardy stood a long moment. The sound of traffic was gone. The sun was down, a chill coming up off the leaves. It was a great defense, if it were true.
"That's how I believe it may have happened. Larry went upstairs for the gun. There was no premeditation. All Jennifer wanted to do was get out, get away from him. She should have done it long ago. It was self-defense, I'm convinced…"
"Will you testify to that tomorrow? If I have an affidavit for you, will you sign it?"
"To what? There's no evidence there. Even I know that."
Hardy knew it, too. But he needed Lightner there, needed his story, a story but a highly educated one, for his own ends. "Let me worry about that. My question is, can I count on you? Will you at least tell the judge what you have just told me?"
Slowly, sighing with the weight of it, Lightner nodded at last. "All right. If she'll let me."
Rebecca had missed her daddy.
He was lying on the rug in front of the fireplace snuggling with her. She hadn't let him get up, wrestling him back down to the ground, both of them laughing and talking their own language. Rebecca had given Hardy ten minutes of unsullied joy with her repertoire of kisses – rabbit kisses, nose to nose; butterfly kisses, eyelashes against Hardy's cheek; heart kisses, which Rebecca had invented herself, where she kissed her hand, held it to her heart, then pressed it to Hardy's and held it there.
It was past the children's bedtime, dark out, lights off inside, but the family was together again. The fire crackled. Vincent fell asleep and Frannie laid him down on the couch. She came down to the floor and rested her head on Hardy's stomach. Rebecca lay heavily across his chest – her breathing became regular.