"Dean's fine," Powell said. "I assume you're here about Jennifer Witt."
Hardy nodded. "This is off the record," he repeated. "I don't want this to be construed as a pre-sentencing conference or anything formal, and I'd prefer if what we say here doesn't leave this office."
"You have my word."
Hardy would rather have heard "sure" or "okay" or anything but "you have my word," which he thought clanged with insincerity if not downright duplicity. Still, he was here and determined to press ahead.
"I wanted to talk about the death penalty."
Powell folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "All right," he said mildly. "Talk."
"I don't think it's just."
Powell waited.
"You and I both know that there are people out in the system with sheets a mile long that make Jennifer look like a den mother, and these guys are getting ten years for armed robbery with priors and serving six."
"That's true. It's one of the reasons I'm running for AG. That's got to stop. We need more jail space. We need tougher sentencing."
Hardy didn't need the campaign speech. "Dean, my point is that going capital on Jennifer Witt is going overboard."
Powell looked up at him. "A woman who's killed not one, but two husbands" – he raised a palm to stop Hardy's argument – "we don’t' have to be legalistic, Dismas. David Freeman won that one in court, sure, but since we're off the record, we know the truth about that. Let's not kid ourselves. This woman has twice plotted and killed in cold blood for money, and in this second case, also managed to kill her own son. If that isn't a death penalty case I don't know what is."
Hardy braced his foot back against the door. "Have you talked to her? One on one?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Maybe to get a handle on the fact that she's a human being."
Powell sat back. "Let me ask you one – have you tried to visualize the crime? Can you imagine the kind of person who takes out a gun and shoots her husband at point-blank range and then turns and" – Powell exploded in righteous anger – "and blows away her own child? Can you imagine that?"
"She didn't do that, it wasn't like that-"
Powell slammed his desk, coming halfway up onto his feet. "Bullshit! That's just what it was like. The jury says that's what she did. I proved it. Beyond a damned reasonable doubt." Gathering his control, he sat himself down, lowered his voice. "If you want to call such a person a human being, you're welcome to, but don’t expect any tears from me. Or any mercy, either."
There was a knock on the door and Hardy stepped aside, pulling it open. It was Art Drysdale, Hardy's old mentor, the ex-officio administrative boss of the office. "Everything all right in here? How you doin', Dismas?"
"We're fine, Art," Powell said evenly. "Everything's fine. Just a little disagreement among professionals."
Drysdale looked from one man to the other, raised a hand and closed the door again.
"You really think she did it, don’t you? You know her husband – Larry – was beating her?"
"So what? Nobody's talking battered wife here. Freeman never did."
"We should have. I should have. Jennifer wouldn't allow it but she was wrong." He almost said dead wrong. "She thought it would prejudice the jury, make them think she was suing it as an excuse." Sitting down, he gave Powell as much as he could of the short version. "I'd just like you to consider if it was self-defense."
"Bring it up in the penalty-phase, I'll consider it. I'm not a monster, Hardy."
"I can't bring it up. I've just told you why."
"You can't bring it up?" Powell went all the way back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, running his fingers through his mane the way he did. He took a long moment, running it around different ways. Finally he came down. "This is pretty goddamn sleazy."
"I'm not-"
"Don’t try to lay this human-being guilt trip on me now, Hardy. To tell the truth, it was heavy enough deciding to go capital on this, but I've played by the rules from the get-go. I don't give a shit what spin you put on it, we're sitting here talking about circumventing the system, and as far as I'm concerned this is an unethical conversation and it's over right now."
Powell was up out of his desk, around it, to the door. He pulled it open. I'll see you in court," he said. "Not until."
Hardy's first reaction was that he needed a drink. His stomach was in knots, his breathing coming shallow. He stayed thirsty until he got inside the door of Lou's, then abruptly decided not. It was still early in the afternoon, and a drink or two now would end his day. And he needed all the time he could get.
He was at his desk, going over his options.
Lightner's motion to introduce de facto witnesses to Jennifer's pain and suffering at the hands of her husband wasn't bad – might well garner some sympathy for her. But as soon as Jennifer saw the way the wind was blowing there – and it wouldn't take long – she would either go berserk in the courtroom or insist on testifying that no beatings took place.
So given that, what was he going to do next Monday? If Powell's reaction was any indication, Jennifer hadn't won many hearts in the courtroom. Dressed in a way that separated her from the commoners, for the most part sitting without expression at the defense table, she hadn't testified on her own behalf. Another of Freeman's questionable decisions.
The package arrived, messengered over from Donna Bellows. Grateful for the distraction, Hardy opened it, little more than an envelope, depressingly thin.
There was the letter from Larry Witt to Donna Bellows. There was a covering letter to go with the offering circular. Finally, there was the circular itself.
Dear Donna:
I wonder if you could take a look at the enclosed. As you will see, the YBMG is offering all doctors (we are called "providers" in the brochure) an option to buy into the new for-profit plan. The shares are a nickel each, and the tone of both the covering letter and the brochure is very negative – there's slim to no chance that this is a worthwhile investment.
So why did they bother sending the thing out?
My concern is that the Board has only given us three weeks to exercise the option, and that they sent this circular now, over Christmas, when so many providers are either on vacation or swamped with personal business at home.
I realize that most shares any individual can buy is 368, so potentially the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40, but Hardy abruptly stopped reading.
Larry Witt, control freak extraordinaire, was asking his two-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer to look into a maximum exposure issue of less than twenty dollars?
He must have read it wrong, got the decimal misplaced. He looked at the last line again. "… the greatest personal exposure to any provider in the group is only $18.40…"
Shaking his head, thinking what an absolute pain in the ass Larry Witt must have been, Hardy stood, stretched, and gave up for the day. He went downstairs to watch the World Series in the conference room. Maybe his side would win.
Frannie had her feet up on the couch, a book face down on her chest. Her eyes were on her husband and she was trying not to nod off.
"No, listen, this is really interesting."
His wife shook her head. "Anytime you've got to say that, it isn't."
Hardy put his paper down. "You used to be more fun."
She raised her eyebrows. "Let me get this straight – you're sitting in our living room on a balmy October night, you didn't taste the fantastic dinner I made, you didn't even want wine with it, and for the last ten minutes you are reading to me along from some stock proposal that isn't worth anything anyway, and I'm the one who used to be more fun?"