Freeman appeared unaffected by this display, but he did stop in front of her and speak more quietly. "Jennifer, look at me, okay. Look up. All right, now listen. We are going to do our best to get you off here. That's what I do – it's my specialty, you might say. And as soon as you're found innocent you collect some five-million dollars insurance money. But if you're not found innocent… well, you don't get any of your money, insurance or secret account. Plus you could face the extreme penalty. So what's it going to be? You decide."
She swallowed hard and, for a moment, studied the table in front of her. "The only thing is, Mr. Freeman," she whispered, "isn't it true that if I retain you, I won't have enough money for bail?"
At first it didn't even register. A minute earlier Jennifer Witt had been rocked. Or seemed to have been. How her eyes were clear, her head was up.
Freeman noticed, too. This lady was nobody's fool. Now, suddenly, there was a sense of gamesmanship in the tiny room. Hardy was outside of it, but Freeman sat down and leaned toward her. "Good," he said, "good."
"Good what?" She leaned away from him in her folding chair, an elbow going over the back of it.
Freeman ignored the direct question. "If we can get bail, which you remember has been denied already. You're thinking a hundred-thousand pays the bondsman and you can get out and jump, isn't that it?"
Jennifer, still sitting back, silently met his gaze.
"You think your house is worth a million dollars? I remind you that you didn't think it was yesterday. The three-hundred-thousand in your secret account won't do it. And neither will the insurance. You'll need at least a million that's relatively liquid. And no matter who represents you and what you pay them, this is reality. Bail is a waste of time. Even if you get it, you can't pay it."
"Which means I'm here until my trial is over?"
Freeman nodded. "I'm afraid that's what it means."
Jennifer took that in, pulled herself up to the table, and crossed her hands in front of her. After a minute, surprisingly, she began to smile. It was the first smile Hardy had seen from her, and it was quite lovely. "I'm going to have to think more about this."
Hardy started to interject, but Freeman put up a restraining hand. "Fine, Jennifer, fine. Shall we just withdraw as your attorneys now?"
"No! I don't want that. Can't I just have a little more time to be sure?"
"Jennifer, a retainer is needed. The court will need to know that you're represented at all times. If it's not me, as I've told you, they'll appoint somebody, and until your personal money's gone you'll have to pay them too."
"Could I pay some say twenty-five thousand now and the rest by Monday if I decided to go ahead-?"
"As opposed to what? Not go ahead. Do you want to plead guilty? If, and it's a big if, the DA will deal, it will probably mean life without parole."
Again, Hardy couldn't read her. Her eyes were bright, alive. Scared, a brave front? Or…
"I don't know."
Now Hardy felt he had to say something. "Jennifer, pleading means you say you did it for a lesser penalty. You realize that?"
She nodded slowly.
"But you've been telling us – adamantly, as a matter of fact – that you didn't. Now which is it?"
"Diz, it doesn't matter," Freeman said. "Not now."
But Hardy had had enough of Freeman's "professionalism." He was starting to get involved in the facts, in belief or doubt, in his own motivations, and in Jennifer's personal story. He slammed the table top with a flat hand, raising his voice. "Damn it, David, it matters to me!" He went back to the client. "Now which is it, Jennifer? And whatever it is, let's stick with it."
Jennifer hung her head for a moment or two, then raised her eyes. "Maybe I don't think I can win. Wouldn't that be a good reason to plead?"
Freeman said "yes" at the same instant Hardy replied, "Not if you didn't do it."
"Well, I didn't do it."
Hardy straightened up. "All right, then."
As though they had decided it long ago, Freeman opened his briefcase and removed a piece of paper. "Okay, Jennifer, we're in business."
10
Hardy was at Lou the Greek's, finishing his coffee and calling it lunch, having long since given up hope that what he had ordered would become edible. Lou's wife was Chinese and she did the cooking – some of it delicious, all of it unique – but today's special of Sweet amp; Sour Dolmas just flat didn't sing.
In nearly two hours of discussion with Freeman and himself, Jennifer had not budged – she was innocent. They were not going to plead guilty even if they could. Which, in its own way, was good. At least it eliminated any ambiguity. Jennifer was sticking her attorneys with the classic passive, negative defense – at every turn, demonstrate the weakness of the prosecution's case; the burden of proof was on the prosecutor and Freeman's position was going to be that they had not met that burden. Period.
Except, of course, nothing was really that simple. As both Hardy and Freeman had tried to point out to Jennifer, the prosecution's case, on the face of it, was not so thin. They had physical evidence, putative motive, even eyewitnesses. This was not, they had argued, some high-handed political vendetta come home to roost. Nobody had been out to get Jennifer Witt – the evidence had persuaded the grand jury to indict her, and it well might persuade a jury to convict.
The charges involving her first husband Ned made it much worse. The evidence might be older, but the coincidence factor, if that's what it was, to say nothing of the presence of significant insurance money in both instances, would be daunting to overcome.
At the same time, though, Jennifer's position gave Freeman a strategy and Hardy a concrete direction. Given their client's demands, there was only one course, time-honored and true, that they could take. Find the holes, if not in the facts, then in the arguments interpreting them.
The fog had burned off but, lest SanFrancisco bask in sunny warmth, the wind had come up off the ocean. Hardy stood in the outside stairway four stories up the Hall of Justice, listening to it howl through the structure that one day would be the new jail just across the way.
Abe Glitsky opened the door and stepped outside. Papers swirled and dust eddied. He took it all in. "I've got a nice office not a hundred feet away. Remember?"
"Powell's in there."
Glitsky nodded. "All too true. He works in this building. Which, I might add, you don't. Exactly what are we doing here, Diz?"
"We're having a secret meeting, Abe. I wondered if you felt like taking a ride with me?"
Glitsky's hands were in the pockets of his parka. He pursed his lips and the scar through his lips burned white. "Middle of the week, middle of the day, sure. I'll just take off. Nobody'll miss me. I don't do anything anyway."
"Abe, I need you to prevent me from committing a felony, which if I do and get caught-"
Hardy stopped him. "Please, Abe, this is a critical time for my life and career. If I commit this felony, and if I get caught, I'll lose my license, get disbarred, Frannie will probably divorce me, the kids will have to live knowing their father's a criminal. Even talking about it, my life flashes before my very eyes…"
"Your very eyes." Glitsky shook his head and the wind gusted.
"Come on," Hardy said. "Won't even take an hour."
"Why do I do these things?" Glitsky asked.
"I think you've got a deep-seated need to prove yourself. I worry about it sometimes. I really do. A guy your age."
"My age is your age."
"I know, but I'm younger. I look better, too. It's funny but it's true."
Glitsky chewed his cheek. "Sad."
They were in the lobby of the Bank of America at the corner of Haight and Cole. Hardy had given Jennifer's power of attorney to the vice-president, a young black woman named Isabel Reed who did not appear to have any problem with Glitsky's age or looks. She had been checking on the ATM withdrawal on the morning of December 28 and returned with the news that the account had been accessed at 9:43 a.m., and since they were talking about times anyway, she'd be getting off at 4:30 if there was anything else they needed to talk about…