"How bad?"
"Three on the arms. Standard slash, but a couple of belly whacks. Could have knicked his heart; they weren't sure last I checked. Guy lost a ton of blood. She called us, you know. After."
"You gonna charge her?"
Manion chomped his gum. "I don't know. Ask the DA. I doubt it. With what?"
"Attempted murder?"
Manion snorted. "Nah, shit, this was self-defense. You ought to see her. Son of a bitch ought to die. If he lives, anybody gets charged with anything, ought to be him."
"Sean, did you call David Freeman on this?"
"Who?"
"Never mind. Maybe she did before you got there." Hardy motioned back toward the room. "She's out, though, huh?"
Manion nodded. "Dreamland. Check her around noon."
"Can't," Hardy said. "I'm in trial."
"Lucky you." The inspector spread his hands. "Well, there you go. She'll still be here tonight. She's not going anywhere, I'll tell you that. Not today."
"That bad?"
Manion bobbed his head. "Pretty bad. But hey, she's alive. It could be worse."
Hardy knew he had caused it. If he hadn't gotten the idea in the first place, if he hadn't gone down with the subpoena, if he hadn't tried to talk Nancy into testifying… Then she and Phil had gotten into it and now they were both in the hospital.
From his lack of a night's sleep, he should have been exhausted, but when he entered the small interrogation room on the seventh floor at a little after eight, the adrenalin rush hadn't let up. He felt like he'd had a half-gallon of espresso.
Jennifer had not yet dressed for court. She was escorted in wearing her red jumpsuit. "So what's today's advice?" she began. She acted like she was losing hope in him.
He told her.
She had been standing in what had become her usual posture in that room, arms crossed leaning back against the door. Before Hardy was half done, she sat down, shell-shocked.
"Jennifer?"
"I'm here." Then: What does this mean?"
"I think it means you r mother was going to testify for you and she and your dad had a fight about it."
"But why would she risk that? She knows him…"
"How about because she loves you?"
Jennifer just stared at him, her mouth working in silence. She put her head down on her arms and began to sob.
A very unhappy Harlan Poole was back on the witness stand. The dentist appeared to have lost some fifteen pounds in the two weeks since he had been up before. This time he was not going to be relating hearsay.
Dean Powell was zeroing in. The election was around the corner and the candidate's whole rhythm was picking up. "Dr. Poole, you have said that after Jennifer's first husband died, you decided to call things off with her. Is that correct?"
Poole, sweating almost before he had begun, agreed.
"Can you tell us what happened then between you and Jennifer?"
"We… I just kind of tried to distance myself."
"Although she worked with you every day, did she not?"
Poole nodded. "She was my receptionist."
"And yet you needed to distance yourself."
"I… we stopped being intimate."
Poole seemed to be looking in all directions at once, pulling at his collar. He mumbled it out, just into the range of the audible. "I couldn't perform… it may sound strange, but I was afraid of her-"
Hardy jumped up, objecting, but was overruled. He began to argue with Villars, saying that Poole didn't answer the question of whether or not he had stopped being intimate. Villars, pointing a finger, asked Hardy if he were hard-of-hearing – she had ruled on it. He had to stop. He risked a contempt citation but worse, he risked losing the jury's respect. The former he could handle, but the latter could doom Jennifer. He sat down.
Powell, for his part, was not about to risk a mistrial repeating why Dr. Poole had been afraid, but then, of course, he didn’t have to – the hury would remember about Ned. He didn't need it anyway, as it turned out – the direction he did take was damaging enough. "So then what happened?"
"I tried to tell Jennifer it was no good, that it just wasn't working anymore, but she, uh, she…" He looked at Jennifer again.
"Take your time," Powell said.
Poole thought about how to put it. "I finally decided I'd have to break it off with her and fire her at the same time."
There was a little rush in the courtroom. Several members of the jury sat forward. So did Hardy. Once again, he hadn't heard about this one.
"And what happened then?"
"Well, she got pretty crazy…"
"How do you mean crazy? Threatening? Violent?"
"Both." He stopped and swallowed a few times. "I don't know what to say, sir. I'm sorry."
Powell was prepared. "Did she physically attack you?"
"Yes."
"With a weapon?"
"Well, some things at the office, yes."
"Sharp things? Medical instruments?"
"Yes."
"Were you hurt?"
"She scratched me pretty badly on my arms and face." He shook his head. "She was pretty crazy."
Hardy stood up again. "Your Honor, this is the second time this witness has characterized the defendant as crazy."
Villars, deadpan, addressed the jury. "Disregard the characterization," she said. "You're sustained, Mr. Hardy." She gave him a cold smile.
Powell picked it right up. "She scratched you on your arms and face?"
Hardy instinctively rose again. "Asked and answered, Your Honor."
Powell turned back to him, to the jury, arms outstretched. Villars wasted no time.
"Let the prosecutor question this witness, Mr. Hardy. You'll get your chance. Overruled."
For the third time, the jury heard that Jennifer had scratched Poole's arms and face. Powell now asked: "You've also said that the defendant threatened you. What was the nature of that threat?"
Poole swallowed and croaked it out. "She said if I didn't take her back she'd kill me."
"She'd kill you," Powell repeated.
"Yes, sir."
"Did you think she would?"
Hardy, hating to but having to – Powell was baiting him – stood to object again, but Powell graciously smiled. "I'll withdraw the question. Your witness."
Now was when the fatigue was hurting him. If Powell had found his own rhythm, Hardy felt that he had lost his, but there was nothing to do but press on.
"Dr. Poole," he began, "this attack you suffered at the hands of Jennifer Witt – was it after you broke up with her or after you fired her?"
"Well, they were… it was pretty much the same thing."
"Okay. How long had you been intimate with Mrs. Witt before that time?"
"I think about six months."
"You don't remember exactly?"
"Not exactly, no."
This was Hardy's favorite answer from a hostile witness. He thought he'd try it again. "All right. Would you please tell us what weapons she used against you – the sharp ones you mentioned earlier?"
"Well they were office instruments."
"Yes, you said that, but which ones?"
Poole frowned. "I don't remember exactly. She was throwing a lot of them."
"Oh, she was throwing things at you? You broke up with someone you had been intimate with for six months, taking advantage of your position as her employer-"
"Objection," Powell said.
"It wasn't like that…"
Hardy's voice was rising indignantly and it wasn't an act. "… and fired her at the same time, and she threw some things at you in anger. Is that the attack you're telling us about?"
Villars rapped her gavel.
"Badgering the witness, Your Honor," Powell said.