Glitsky fired the last one. It grazed the bottom of the board before sticking, again, in the wall. The inspector headed for the door, stopping when he got there. "I don't know," he said. "I think they might be broke." Then he was gone.
He was almost through the first, and had another four working days – Villars had given everyone a week off before the penalty phase was to begin. Hardy was grateful for the prep time, but the probable reason for it galled him – Powell was in the stretch run for his election and it seemed Villars was cutting him some slack.
He couldn't, of course, prove it, but that didn't make him any less suspicious.
Freeman hadn't been to the office either, which was just as well. He was sick to death of Freeman and his histrionics. He was also sick of himself, of his waffling – every chance he'd got, he'd backed off in the face of the older man's resolve and personality. Half a dozen times he should have just stood his ground. Said this was what was what and take it or leave it. But partly he'd wanted to believe that Freeman was right and would prevail. Partly because if Freeman won he wouldn't have the burden of trying to save Jennifer's life. He had wanted so badly to get out from under the responsibility that he'd convinced himself that Freeman's strategies would likely work.
He had been whipping himself over his own deficiencies. Time and again he had driven from Olympia Way down to Haight Street, trying to find a shortcut that would undermine his argument about Jennifer getting to the bank.
But through it all ran a common thread. He had believed – he had never questioned – that Jennifer had run where she said she had. At least she had run on paved streets. He had dutifully consulted his map. No, he'd convinced himself there was no flaw. Even if Jennifer had taken a slightly shorter route, as long as she stayed on the streets she could not have made it to the bank and also killed Larry.
Now he realized he had ignored UCSF medical center, about ten square blocks of campus and buildings at the base of Mount Sutro between Jennifer's home and her bank. He had seen it, of course – he knew it was there. But he had never gotten out of his car and walked through it. On the map, it looked impenetrable, a dense maze of impassable structures. The huge medical buildings gave the impression of a fortress, not a park anyone could simply stroll through. It did have a wall – why did he think it was solid, without gates? Why didn't he get out and stroll through and look?
Because he was too clever for his own good, and Freeman's and, most important, Jennifer's. All his careful calculations about time and distance and how Jennifer couldn't possibly have made it to the bank and accessed her account when she did and still get back home in time to commit the crimes didn't really signify what he had been convinced they did. He had set Freeman up for Powell's devastating rebuttal. And that, in his opinion, even more than Freeman's ego and tactical blunders, had cost them the verdict.
Hardy had always, in theory at least, considered himself more or less in the death-penalty camp. He didn't pretend it was a deterrent. What it did do, though, was eliminate the possibility that the person who was executed was going to kill another innocent citizen – either when they got out on parole, or, if they were doing life without parole, during their life behind bars.
He had favored what he called the mosquito argument – if you killed a mosquito that bit you, you at least guaranteed that that particular mosquito wasn't going to bite you again. Other mosquitos didn't have to know about it and tell each other and get deterred – if another one bit you, you killed that one too. That way, at least you had less mosquitos in the population.
But he knew Jennifer. She was not a mosquito. He understood why she had done what she had done if she had done it. And he didn't think she should get the death penalty for that.
Here, he knew, at least generally speaking, he was getting on shaky ground. Every murderer had somebody who knew him – or her. Somebody who understood that they'd had a lousy childhood or whatever it was that had made them believe it was somehow okay to kill as an expression of rage or frustration. The flip side to that, of course, was that the victims also had people who had loved them, whose lives were ruined and hearts broken. What about them?
To say nothing of the victims themselves. They didn't ask to be victims, did they? They had done nothing wrong and now they were dead, and generally that's where Hardy drew the line – the people who made innocent people dead deserved to die.
Hardy believed that at some point, adults in society had to take responsibility for what they were, for who they'd become. If as grown-ups, they'd turned into killers, they didn't deserve any breaks. Adios, you had your chance and you blew it.
It was a tragedy all around, there was no denying that. It was a tragedy that children got atrociously bad starts in life, that people turned out bad. But it was the world. It was a worse wrong, a worse tragedy, to keep giving bad people the opportunity to do truly bad things again and again.
But what about someone like Jennifer, who had two husbands who beat her? Whose life had been a living hell? Where did she fit in?
41
The next morning, as he was gathering his things, getting ready to go to the jail to see Jennifer, the telephone rang.
"Mr. Hardy? This is Donna Bellows with Goldberg Mullen amp; Roake." As soon as she said the name Hardy recognized the sultry voice. Ms. Bellows, the lawyer who had referred Jennifer to Freeman, was another lead he probably hadn't followed up enough, another unreturned call that he hadn't pursued. He said hello somewhat warily.
"I found out about the verdict over the weekend and I was out of town yesterday, but I realized I never called you back. I'm sorry. I suppose it's too late now anyway.
"It's never too late if you've got something," Hardy said. "I'm sure David Freeman's working on the appeal right now."
"Well, I don't think I have anything."
Hardy waited. Finally he said, "Whatever you do have, I'll take. I did find out that Crane amp; Crane was YBMG's law firm, although what that means about Larry Witt…"
Bellows sighed over the telephone. "That's what I found, too, where I had heard the name." Again Hardy waited. "I've had a busy few moths, and I've had two secretaries quit on me, and my files are a mess, so I came in a couple of weeks ago and tried to get some of this cleaned up. It should have been filed with Larry's stuff but it wasn't. In any event, I can't imagine it's of any importance-"
"What is it?"
"It's an offering circular. Larry had sent it around to me with some questions but I'd been on vacation over Christmas."
"Maybe that's why he called Crane – to answer the questions."
"He did call them? Directly?"
"Once. From his home, anyway."
"Well, okay, but by the time I saw it, Larry was dead. I'm afraid that between my reaction to that and my other pressing business, I just laid the circular aside. Larry's questions were moot by then anyway. But it sounds like you got your answer."
Remembering how foolish he had felt asking Jody Bachman what an LBO was. Hardy hesitated a moment but then went ahead. The way to stay ignorant was not ask questions. He admitted that he didn't really know what an offering circular was.
"It's pretty much what it says – it's a brochure outlining a stock offering. In this case, YBMG was reorganizing to change their not-for-profit status. I guess Larry had some questions, so he came to me, then when I wasn't here he went to the horse's mouth."
"He wrote the word 'no' under their phone number."