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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 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 short-term 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 temper. 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 doctor's 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 dart board. 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 around 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'd 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 hyper-extended 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…"